An Abyssari sacrifice, this time.
A matched set. Balance in a place that so sorely needed a foundation built upon deeper meaning.
And it was poetic, really. That the bones of a Thalassari scout had become Kore's throne. Now, from her gift, he would build his own seat from the remains of an Abyssari ancient.
"Everything you are," he whispered, petting her as she dozed in his arms, "everything you give, I shall return."
Stirring, a tiny sound bubble between her lips. Something soft. Feminine. Unaware of the significance of what she'd done, for his sweet Siren had shifted her focus toward what mattered and left the rest to him.
Humming low in his throat, Nyxarion left the reef to its macabre work.
Sweeping through the antechamber, he reclaimed what his father had tried to corrupt and settled in the calcified throne. Kore draped across his lap, her back pressed to his chest.
“Exhausted," he tsked, claws combing through silky hair. "Pretty thing, working so hard for me," he mused, grinning as his palms cupped the swell of her breasts.
“’M…” she hummed, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Hungry. I’m… I’m hungry.”
“Of course you are,” he agreed, and reached for the pouch of sun clams Thalos had brought. Three remaining. Iridescent shells gleaming in silent mockery.
Sliding his claw between the shells, breaking the seam with the tip of his claw, Nyx pried them apart. Hooked that tender flesh on the tip of one claw and set it to her lips. “Open,” he purred, tilting her head back. “Eat, little Queen.”
Obedient, she’d grown pliant in exhaustion. Docile in a way that made his heart stutter.
It was the violence.
The contrast between this tiny pregnant creature carrying his spawn, and the vengeful Siren who’d cast his father out. The disparity between the meek hum of gratitude when he slipped savory flesh between her lips, watching her throat work around a swallow, and the flash of violet light still staining his every blink with the violence of her temper.
The stench of burnt scales yet lingering at the back of his throat, while the Raskoril stripped the fat from her victim.
Intoxicating.
Feeding her slowly, savoring each dainty bob of her elegant throat, Nyxarion watched her settle. The color returning to dance between her scales. Gold chasing indigo. Refusing to miss an instant until she cuddled deeper into his heat.
The Covenant of Twin Venoms.
There was a certain type of ring to it. The poetry he’d been hunting. A sense of prophecy, for both venoms lived in her. Unity between enemies, joined in a womb incubating the future.
His spines flicked.
Thalos would demand concessions, of course. Territory. Access. Rights before the courts of Caelith Mare.
But Nyxarion had his own demands.
Kore’s safety, of course—that the Hollow Court not only validate her, but acknowledge the child belonged to the Deep, first.
Vorynthar would be granted legal status, recognized as both sovereign and independent from Threnakar. The new seat of power over all Abyssari.
And Caelith Mare would replace the Accord with the Covenant.
Aslaw.
His people would have the chance to flourish. After all this time. Because one glorious, perfect Siren willed it so.
Kore's fingers traced idle patterns against his forearm, her touch light and absent. Eyes closed. Content. Her belly full of surface delicacies, veins flooded with both courts.
“Sleep,” he crooned, tucking her tighter to his chest. Lips brushing at her temple.
It claimed her between breaths. The tension leeched from her limbs as she went boneless against him. As he watched, and didn’t miss a moment.