The Deep Levels
NOX
The passage below narrows more than it should, the walls closing in as the air shifts from polished quiet to something older, heavier, the kind of place never meant to be seen.
Nox moves through it without hesitation, Brinette's posture held just well enough to pass at a glance, though there is nothing in her that belongs to this place or the girl she wears.
Larkin keeps half a step behind her, careful with his footing, careful with the distance between them, as though proximity itself carries consequence.
Beyond them, set back along the far wall, the human cells sit in a line of iron doors and narrow slats, shadows moving within them in ways that suggest fear more than resistance.
"These are those who have done unforgivable crimes in Veynar," Larkin says, his voice low.
Nox nods once, her attention already moving past the explanation, taking in the Morraks as they move, the way their bodies respond to the presence of something new, something that does not belong and yet does not retreat.
One of them breaks from the others and lunges toward her, wings beating hard enough to send a rush of air through the chamber as it closes the distance.
She does not step back.
"There, there," she says, her tone softening just enough to meet it, her hand lifting as though greeting something familiar rather than dangerous.
The creature slows.
The shift is immediate and unnatural in its ease, its body lowering as it reaches her, the sharp tension draining out of it as it presses close, the sound it makes changing into something lower and almost pleased, its head dipping as though seeking contact.
Nox's fingers brush along its neck, light and unafraid.
"All of you," she says, without raising her voice. "Bow."
The chamber goes quiet.
One by one, then all at once, the Morraks lower themselves, wings folding in, bodies dropping toward the stone in a motion that carries none of their earlier frenzy, as though the command finds something in them that was already there.
Larkin exhales, the sound quiet but impossible to miss. "You can control them—"
Another one breaks formation.
It lunges from the side, faster than the first, its movement sharper and less willing to yield.
Nox turns just enough to meet it, her hand snapping out to catch and redirect, the force of it thrown aside with a motion that is clean and efficient, the creature striking the ground and skidding before righting itself.
She watches it, something faintly amused moving across her face.
"Some of them," she says.
The creature does not approach again.
She turns back to the rest, taking in the bowed forms, the barely contained violence held in place by nothing more than her presence. A smile touches her mouth, slow and unhurried.
"What a naughty king," she murmurs, her voice carrying just enough to reach Larkin without disturbing the room. "Keeping such a delicious den of secrets hidden away."
“But,” she says lightly. “If Sevrin’s Morraks are this easy to control in Veynar, perhaps his hold over Morrath is not as strong as we thought.”
Larkin swallows, his attention moving between her and the creatures that remain lowered around them. “Are all feeders then, able to control Morraks? Create them, even?”
“No.” Nox’s smile does not reach her eyes. “Only the dangerous ones.”
The silence stretches. Then Larkin clears his throat. “We heard the Vaelor ship Teorin was on was destroyed. An explosion of some sort. Then it disappeared.”
Nox goes very still. "Where is he?" she asks.
"I do not know—"
Her hand closes around his throat before the sentence finishes, lifting him just enough that his feet lose their full contact with the ground, his breath cutting off as her grip tightens.
"Do not give me information unless you have the ability to be thorough," she says, her voice even and controlled. “You imbecile."
She releases him.
He drops hard, catching himself on his hands, coughing as he pulls air back into his lungs.
"I require his location immediately," she continues, as though nothing has interrupted her. A pause. “Be careful, Larkin.” The phrase sounds more threat than warning.
Larkin nods, still bent forward, his voice rough when it returns. "Yes."
Nox turns and moves back toward the corridor, the Morraks remaining where they are, bowed and silent, as she leaves them behind.
The air changes as she ascends, the weight of the Deep Levels giving way to the controlled quiet above. By the time she reaches the corridor outside her chambers, Brinette's posture is restored, her movements measured and appropriate to the role she wears.
A servant girl rushes toward her, breathless, her face bright with urgency and something softer beneath it, more eager.
"Lady Brinette," she says quickly, "any word from the Princess?"
This princess.
The thought moves through Nox with quiet irritation. Was this Asharin born a servant, or had she simply learned to behave like one that the help here is so infatuated with her?
Nox pauses, then reaches, directing her intunar inward. The girl opens without resistance, and Nox takes all of it in: desperation, worry, a constant gnawing need to be useful, to be seen, to matter in ways she has never been allowed to define for herself.
Pathetic.
"In the kitchens," the girl continues, unaware, "they say the King will only dine alone since she left—"
Nox's hand closes around her arm and pulls her through the doorway before she can process it, the door shutting behind them with a finality that cuts off the corridor entirely.
A brief struggle. A sound that does not fully form. Then silence. By the time Nox steps back, the girl is barely upright, her weight already giving. Nox studies her a moment. Then reaches for her throat. The change comes fast. Wrong in the way these things always are.
When it ends the thing before her goes still, waiting.
Her fingers tremble once, barely noticeable, gone before it can mean anything. "Find him," Nox says quietly.
It launches. The window shatters outward as it disappears into the dark, the echo of its shriek fading as it rises.
Nox remains where she is. He will be found. He must be.