y'Lyth watches the fireflies in the glass, their tiny sparks of
light mimicking distant stars. Childish, really, this fascination
with fleeting glows. Not stars, of course. Just insects, their
bio-luminescence a trick of nature. Yet, the way they pulsed, a soft,
rhythmic beat… almost a sad sort of poetry.
Their light is a gentle spill of secrets into the
encroaching night. Secrets Ly'Lyth usually relishes. And she? She is
a vessel of them, a dark repository. Though the Mistress, with her
ever-sharp tongue, would likely call her a leaky vessel, prone to
unwanted sentiment.
It's wrong. He trusts me. Trusts
you—us.
Ly'Lyth crouches, a silhouette swallowed by the
shadows. Below, the mortal sleeps, his face unguarded, serene. The
edge of the blade against his throat feels like winter’s breath.
One precise movement. An end. Effortless.
Stop. I beg you. Think about what
you're doing.
But her hand remains still. Disobedient.
A crushing weight settles in her core, a foreign
resistance. Thick. Oppressive. This is the weakness the Mistress
despises. This… hesitation. It marks her as flawed. Useless. A
burden. And yet, here she kneels, poised, and does nothing.
There has to be another way.
Why this reluctance? This… inability?
Ember’s voice, a fragile whisper within the echoing
chambers of Ly'Lyth’s mind, pleads. A pathetic, human tremor.
Ly'Lyth scoffs inwardly. Sentimentality. A disease.
Ly'Lyth tilts her head, observing the slow, steady rise
and fall of the mortal’s chest. A monotonous rhythm of life.
Hypnotic in its simplicity. Like tides pulling at a shore, a constant
ebb and flow. Grounding, when she should be severing. She should feel
the burning acid of betrayal. The cold, clean edge of righteous fury.
Something potent enough to obliterate this unwelcome softness.
Please, Ly'Lyth.
Instead? An unwelcome hollowness blooms within.
“You. Are. Pathetic.” Ly’Lyth hisses. “Utterly
pathetic. Ember.”
This was meant to be the definitive act. The cold,
precise execution that cements her allegiance to the Mistress. A
flourish of dark loyalty. And yet, she is frozen, blade in hand,
ensnared by this… internal conflict. This human weakness.
Don't do this to him. We don’t have to
do this.
Ember’s plea intensifies, a desperate thrumming
against the edges of Ly'Lyth’s awareness. It’s irritating. Like a
persistent buzzing fly.
Ly'Lyth draws the blade back infinitesimally. The
mortal doesn’t stir. No flicker of awareness. He remains trusting.
Even now.
That… that stings with an unexpected sharpness. A
prickle beneath the carefully constructed layers of demonic
indifference.
He doesn't deserve this.
Doesn’t he sense the darkness that clings to her? The
purpose she is meant to fulfill?
Ember’s voice cracks, a raw sound within.
Don't become her. This isn’t freedom.
The unexpected resistance, this unwelcome stirring of…
something… muddies the clarity of her purpose. Why does the thought
of not doing it carry this strange, unsettling relief?
Ly'Lyth clenches her jaw, a flicker of annoyance. These
human emotions are a tiresome distraction.
Ly'Lyth’s lips move, a silent recitation of the
Mistress’s decree. “We are supposed to hate him, Ember,” she
whispers, the words laced with a theatrical edge. “We are supposed
to end this. End him.”
No. The thought claws at the edges of
Ly'Lyth’s awareness, a desperate, internal cry. We made a
promise.
Promises. A fragile human construct. The Mistress’s
will is iron. Inescapable. “Wake up, Ember,” Ly'Lyth murmurs, the
sound barely audible. “There is no avoiding it. No escaping the
Mistress. No escaping… him.”
No… what… what about Grant? He will help us.
I’m sure of it. The faint tendrils of Ember’s hope reach
out, grasping at a phantom lifeline.
Ly'Lyth’s patience thins. This internal struggle is
tedious.
The blade’s edge finds the mortal’s throat once
more. Ly'Lyth’s hand trembles, a subtle tremor that betrays the
conflict raging within. A frustrated grunt escapes her as she pulls
the blade back again. The formidable Ly'Lyth, a creature forged for
the kill, finds herself paralyzed by this unexpected resistance.
Kill. It should be so simple.
Yet here she remains, suspended in this unnerving
stillness. A quiet that burrows deep, forcing unwelcome
introspection. The insidious whisper returns: What if she isn’t
the Mistress’s perfect little puppet after all?
A dangerous thought. One the Mistress would swiftly
extinguish.
A twist. Yes. A cruel, ironic twist.
Ember’s voice, weaker now, a fading echo: Please…
don’t.
The mortal stirs beneath her, a slow, lumbering
movement like a bear emerging from its winter den. A low groan
rumbles through the quiet air, a sound of simple, earthly discomfort.
Then… the shift begins.
A wave of unwelcome transformation washes over Ly'Lyth.
Her edges soften, her power receding like a tide pulling away from
the shore. Against her will, the sharp angles of her demonic form
yield, flesh and bone reshaping themselves.
Oops.
With a reflexive flick of the wrist, the dagger
vanishes, sliding back into the hidden sheath within the sleeve of
the oversized hoodie. A childish hiding place for a tool of death.
Clever? Perhaps in its unassuming nature.
Ly'Lyth crosses her legs, a posture utterly at odds
with the lethal intent of moments before, and forces a wide yawn,
stretching languidly, feigning a just-awakened innocence. Who, this
sleepy teenager? Perched above her father with a blade poised at his
throat? Preposterous.
Please, not like this.
The transformation completes, leaving Ly’Lyth in
Ember’s tiny. Vulnerable. Human Teen body. A wolf in sheep’s
clothing.
“Son of a—!” Grant spits, snapping awake, his
eyes squinting against the faint light filtering into the room. “Like
a damn hound in the pig pen!”
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Pig pen? Ly’Lyth blinks, the lingering echoes of
Ember’s child like personality clashing with a much sharper demon
intellect, both struggling to parse the earthy idiom.
Pig?
Yes, we had pork chops yesterday… right?
A sudden, unwelcome craving. Bacon. The mundane
intruding on the extraordinary. Typical.
Grant’s voice softens, that familiar paternal tone
resonating with a painful familiarity Ly'Lyth doesn’t want to
acknowledge.
“Ember… sweetheart. You really gotta stop sleeping
on top of me. I mean it. Honey, seriously—stop.”
“DADDY!” Ly'Lyth forces the sound, a high-pitched
wail that feels foreign and manipulative on her tongue. A crude
imitation of the girl.
No. Don’t do this. He cares about you.
“Get off me!” Grant groans, pushing her away as he
rubs sleep from his eyes. “Personal boundaries, kiddo.”
Boundaries. A concept Ly'Lyth finds laughably
irrelevant. Like this whole charade. Still, if it buys time…
A performance begins. Tears well in Ly'Lyth’s eyes,
hot and manufactured, spilling down her cheeks in dramatic
waterfalls.
Please. Just tell him the truth.
Grant curses under his breath, then softens, his
expression shifting to concern. He’s so predictable. So… human.
“Ember… sweetheart, I’m sorry. Daddy shouldn’t’ve
yelled at you like that.”
“I… I… had a nightmare, Daddy.” Ly'Lyth
stumbles over the lie, the words tasting like ash.
“Nightmare?” A furrow appears on Grant’s brow.
Ly'Lyth nods, her lower lip trembling convincingly. “I
was out mining and… and… you abandoned me. And I fell into this
deep, dark, and scary cave.”
A wince flickers across Grant’s face at the
accusation. Guilt. So easily manipulated.
“Why did you abandon me, Daddy?” Ly'Lyth presses,
pushing the emotional knife deeper. “Do you not love me anymore? Do
you not want me around?”
Don’t make him feel guilty. He doesn’t deserve
this.
The girl’s distress bleeds through, a raw, unwelcome
emotion. Ly'Lyth pushes it down, focusing on the task at hand.
Deception. It comes so easily.
Grant stumbles, searching for the right words, his
usual warmth replaced by a flicker of something guarded. “I… No.
It wasn’t that I abandoned you. I—”
“LIAR!” Ly'Lyth’s voice cracks, the forced
childishness shattering into something sharper, more accusatory. “You
weren’t there when I needed you. Where were you, Daddy? Why didn’t
you save me? Why did you leave me there to die—"
No, don’t push him.
Then his eyes change. The familiar affection vanishes,
replaced by a coldness that chills Ly'Lyth more than the Enslaver’s
gaze ever could. A primal warning flares within her.
Don’t make him angry.
Ly'Lyth tries to continue the charade, to press the
accusation further, but Grant cuts her off, his voice low and
dangerous.
“Now hold on a goddamn minute, little lady.” His
tone is oppressive, the warmth completely gone, replaced by something
sharp and unfamiliar. “I don’t know who the hell you think you
are, I don’t know who the hell sent you, and I sure as hell don’t
know who the hell you think I am.”
The shift in him is abrupt, terrifying. The ‘father’
mask has shattered, revealing something… else. Something cold and
formidable. Ember’s fear echoes within Ly'Lyth, a chilling
premonition.
Grant takes a deliberate step forward, his hand
flashing out, a knife-hand jab stopping mere inches from Ly'Lyth’s
face. She recoils, forced to stumble backward. “But one thing I do
know, little miss attitude,” he says, his voice dangerously level.
“Is you ain’t about to put the whole damn blame on me.”
He knows. Somehow, he knows.
A cold dread washes over Ly'Lyth. The carefully
constructed facade is crumbling.
“It’s not my fault your stubborn ass doesn’t
listen to the survival crap I tell you. Had you opened those crimson
eyes of yours for once, maybe, just maybe, you would’ve seen all
those glow caps. But you didn’t, now did you? Now, I’m truly
sorry you fell and that you think it’s my fault, and maybe it is,
partly. But excuse me for thinking my daughter was old enough to take
care of her goddamn self. For that, I apologize. Guess you ain’t
old enough to be treated like an adult. Now, sugar.”
Grant takes another step, closing the distance, his
presence suddenly immense and threatening. Ly'Lyth is forced to
retreat again, her back almost against the cold stone wall.
“Next time you raise that tone at me, I will
re-arrange that hoodie of yours. You understand what I’m saying?
Come correct, or get corrected.”
Grant pivots sharply, turning his back on her.
“Now get your ass moving with those calisthenics so
we can get some breakfast.”
Ly'Lyth releases a shaky breath, her legs suddenly
giving way. She collapses to her knees, sweat beading on her
forehead, her entire body trembling with a raw, visceral fear. “What…
what was that?” she whispers, the bravado completely gone.
I told you… don’t make him angry. Ember’s
voice within is a faint, terrified echo.
That wasn't the reaction of a grieving father. That
was… something else entirely. Something that saw through the flimsy
disguise. Confusion wars with a dawning, chilling realization.
This man, his presence, it is far stronger than the
Enslaver’s.
The aftermath of the tense exchange settles like a
fragile truce as they begin preparing breakfast. Grant’s cheerful
moniker, “Morning Glory,” feels jarringly out of place. Three
scrambled eggs, recognizable enough. But the molten, orange goo he
calls cheddar cheese remains a culinary enigma. Bacon and sausage,
familiar enough in their savory aroma. But hash browns and flapjacks?
The scent alone promises a decadent experience. Yet, the smiling
faces drawn onto the pancakes with syrup… it’s unsettlingly
whimsical.
That’s my daddy. A warm swell of affection
from Ember within their shared consciousness.
He nearly killed us, and you still cheer for him?
Ly'Lyth’s internal scoff is sharp with disbelief.
Before Ember can respond, Grant sets a glass of water
on the table, then adds a few more strips of crispy bacon to the
plate. He smiles at Ly'Lyth, a brief, almost shy upturn of his lips,
ruffles the top of her head, and says, “Eat up, kiddo.”
Ly'Lyth is caught in a maelstrom of confusion and
conflicting impulses. This sudden shift back to paternal affection…
it’s disorienting. Talk about mixed signals.
What’s wrong? Ember’s mental query is
laced with concern.
A disquieting thought takes root in Ly'Lyth’s mind, a
chilling undercurrent beneath the mundane breakfast ritual. I
think our father… used to be a devil… in another life.
The casual threat, the unnerving coldness in his eyes…
it doesn't align with the bumbling, affectionate father. Something is
hidden beneath the surface, something ancient and potentially
dangerous. The encounter leaves a residue of unease, a seed of
suspicion that begins to sprout in the fertile ground of Ly'Lyth’s
inherent distrust.
After distributing the remaining portions of the
"All-American Slam" to their various animal companions,
Grant finally settles into the chair opposite Ly'Lyth with a sigh
that seems to carry the weight of the morning’s oddness. Then, he
does something that sends a fresh wave of bewilderment crashing over
Ly'Lyth, pulling her thoughts into an even tighter spiral.
Grant begins to pray.
“Oh heavenly Slut.”
Ly'Lyth chokes, a piece of sausage lodging in her
throat. Within the confines of their shared mind, she hears Ember
echoing the sentiment with a mental snort.
Grant continues, unperturbed. “Or are you a whore?
Regardless. Thank you for this delicious meal that I
prepared, with my rebellious teenage daughter. She nearly killed me
this morning, too. Did you see that? I bet you did, probably got a
chuckle out of it.”
Ly'Lyth freezes, a half-chewed bite of flapjack
suspended in mid-air.
He knows… he knows, Ember’s mental voice
is tight with alarm.
Impossible, Ly'Lyth retorts internally, her
demonic pragmatism struggling to accept the obvious.
Grant continues his unconventional prayer. “Anywho…
Ishtar, I don’t know what kind of blessing you gave me, nor do I
know what the Codex of Gil… gil…”
“Gil’Jedalon?” The sausage finally dislodges,
falling from Ly'Lyth’s slack jaw as the name escapes her lips, more
a gasp of shock than a coherent question.
“Right, thank you, darling.” Grant nods, a strange
glint in his eyes as he continues. “But, this might be tied to my
family’s… Ksi… no, that wasn’t it, those stupid slot things
for my Dynasty.”
Ly'Lyth stiffens. He’s doing this deliberately. He’s
not just praying; he’s… communicating something. Warning her? If
he possesses the Codex of Gil'Jedalon… then his power could indeed
rival, if not surpass, the Enslaver’s. No wonder the Mistress
desires his demise.
I think he calls this… ‘F around and find out,’
Ember supplies, a nervous tremor in her mental tone.
The casual blasphemy, the knowing remarks about the
near-assassination, the mention of the Codex… it all coalesces into
a chilling realization. Grant isn't just a clueless mortal. He's
aware. Perhaps even… dangerous. The breakfast table has become a
silent battleground of veiled threats and dawning understanding.