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The cottage burned a angry red like a heart ripped beating from a still warm chest, the flames writhing, coiling, licking the night with tongues of molten orange. Smoke curled and hissed like serpents, carrying the taste of fear and cooked flesh straight to her serrated teeth. Every scream that spilled from within was a note strummed on invisible strings, high, raw, perfect. Each soul trapped inside sang only for her, their terror the sweetest symphony.
From the shadows, Sister Mercy watched, her green skin glistening like dew on poison leaves, her white hair plastered to her skull. Beneath her foot, a man trembled, a twitching puppet, soaked in his own terror. She let her fingers graze his chin, hot breath carrying the scent of carrion.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Her voice was silk and venom. “Freedom from your family’s shackles? Did I not provide?”
He whimpered, no answer forming.
Her laughter broke loose, ragged, ugly, a sound that would haunt the sane. She leaned down, pressing her lips to his ear. “No?” The question was a knife, and when he flinched, she broke his fingers one by one, each snap a chord, each cry a verse in the song of his submission.
“Well… didn’t I?” She straightened, letting him bow before her, letting him kiss her bare, bloodied feet. “Now bow… thank me for my benevolence, pawn. Go into the world and live… until I call. Until payment is due.”
A snap of her fingers, and her court fell into line, moving as if pulled by strings only she could see. Astarion, pale as moonlight, his gaze molten, his loyalty a blade in her hand. Minthara, poised, dangerous, an obedient shadow of ambition. Karlach, forge heart beating to her rhythm, ready to strike, to break, to build. Shadowheart, lost and searching, her faith long tethered to Mercy’s will. Each one an extension of her power, limbs of her divine fey-born intent.
The flames danced now with faces, contorted in ecstasy and agony, reaching toward her. The smoke whispered, curling around her like serpents of green and silver, begging to be let loose. Every ember was alive, every crackle a whisper of promise or threat. She could feel the souls inside the cottage twisting, turning, writhing, playing themselves into her dominion.
The night was hers, the fire her instrument, the screams her choir. She moved through it all, a goddess of ruin in a crown of rot and bone. And the world would pay her due, in blood, in fear, in delight. Everything had a price. Everything was hers.