#Igeyorhm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

myreia · 4 months ago

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Sketches of Times Lost

Day 06: Halcyon

an invitation sent, an summons answered—igeyorhm gets more than she bargained for. female azem x igeyorhm. endwalker spoilers + pandaemonium spoilers. written for ffxivwrites2024. rating: explicit. tags: explicit sexual content, seduction, strip tease, voyeurism, many many amaurotine headcanons 5424 words ao3 link rip to every debate team kid out there, i'm sorry rip to my brain for having to write igeyorhm 40 times and, like the formatting of a tumblr post, not getting it right on the first try once

Nothing ever happens in Amaurot.

That is Igeyorhm’s opinion. She has lived in the capital for countless centuries, and now she is quite certain that it is the prettiest, but blandest place on the Star.

Some would argue this is a good thing. Amaurot is a halcyon bastion of perfect paradise, cultured, peaceful, and pristine. It is a city safe from harm, safe from disaster, the crown jewel of their society and culture. Outside its walls, there may be mayhem and chaos, but here life is peaceful. Wonderful. Kind. Slow. Time to learn, time to live. Time to perfect that which isn’t and preserve that which is.

Boring. Dull.

She would not wish for chaos upon anyone, but some days she finds herself yearning for change. She may very well lose her mind without it—a poor look for the Rhetorician and auditor of knowledge and logic and reason. She is supposedly the cleverest of the Convocation, though she often does not feel like it. That title belongs to her cousin, the current holder of the office of Lahabrea. Clever, brilliant, bold. He is much older than her, but age means little after the first few centuries.

She sighs, casting a glance across the terrace. Like all members of the Convocation, her home occupies a penthouse suite in one of the tallest buildings in the city. Beautiful, airy, with a garden terrace open to the sky. This is where she passes her time when she is not in office. Her garden is lush, filled with vibrant and exciting plants and flowers, some unofficial creations passed to her by Halmarut to keep things interesting. A sunken rectangular pool sits as the focal point, filling the centre. Her favourite divan sits near the edge, surrounded by half-shelves stuffed with books. Her formal library is on the floor below, but she has been slowly moving more and more of it outside.

Igeyorhm purses her lips and turns a page of her book. It is a gorgeous day—a clear, cloudless sky, the sun high and bright, a pleasant breeze in the air. She should be content.

And yet…

She glances at the chronometer on the wall, rapping dark fingers against her seat. Fifteen past the bell. She’s not going to come after all…

The invitation was an impulsive decision. Azem is recently returned to the capital, and gods know she has better things to do than entertain the dullest Convocation member. Hermes’ inauguration as Fandaniel is on the horizon. He is still recovering from whatever disaster happened with Kairos and an investigation into the malfunctioning machine is underway. Emet-Selch has a hole in his memory, which does nothing for his demeanour. Lahabrea is handling that mess in Pandaemonium. And apparently a stray or feral familiar belonging to Azem has been running about Elpis, though she has said nothing of it nor has she claimed it as her own.

Igeyorhm would have very much liked to see it. But here she is, stuck in Amaurot with her books and her rhetoric, doing nothing.

She admires Azem. Tall, strong, witty, clever—she is striking and she knows it. Unlike so many others on the Convocation, she has never been one to bend to tradition, going about her duties in her own way as she sees fit. The last time she came back from a long journey she came very close to being asked to forfeit her seat. Her journeys across the Star led her to many new places, and to meet many new peoples. It is her duty to give hear their stories and give them counsel.

For one in particular, her counsel was a little too close.

Children are rare among Amaurotines. Child created the organic way, so to speak, even more so. Her dalliance with a non-Amaurotine could have ended her career had she not been a force to be reckoned with. As her brother, Emet-Selch was more furious than the rest, though even he could not bring himself to punish her for her trespasses. Her child was born some time ago, though as Igeyorhm understands it, she is being raised far away from the capital.

Azem terrifies her. Fascinates her. How dearly she would love to learn from her example—to commit wholeheartedly to one’s way of life without suffering the fear of shame. She has tried, but she can’t bring herself to do it. She is cold, aloof. Private. Standoffish. Others have noticed. Others have commented.

This is the way she is. The Rhetorician, with the heart of ice.

Metal scrapes against metal and the lift arrives.

Igeyorhm rises from her seat, shocked as Azem emerges from behind the golden grate and enters the terrace. She is gorgeous today—as she is every day. Though her robes are of an Amaurotine style, they have been adjusted and tweaked, creating a lavish outfit of flowing silks belted at the waist. She has forgone the classic black for soft oranges and yellows; together with her pale hair and her glowing orange eyes, she looks very much like a sunset. Her mask sits comfortably on her face, obscuring the hint of high cheekbones and an aquiline nose.

She moves with such determined grace Igeyorhm isn’t sure if she is making up for time lost or if this is simply how she is.

“Azem,” she says in greeting, bowing politely. Her unbound hair hangs about her, shading her face with a curtain of blue-black curls.

Azem laughs and crosses the terrace, sweeping her into her arms. “So formal,” she says, kissing her on either cheek. Her lips are as soft as silk. She smells of citrus and flowers and something Igeyorhm cannot place. “May we do away with titles for today? My head is already spinning and I haven’t yet met with the Convocation.”

Igeyorhm swallows the lump in her throat. Though their names are known to each other, it’s the principle of the thing. “Wine?” she asks, gesturing to a gilded decanter on a nearby table.

Her sunset eyes sparkle. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Igeyorhm pours the wine and hands it to her, retreating quickly to her divan. She sits on the edge and plucks her own glass from the ground, sipping quietly, the awkward silence pressing in on her. Azem does not seem to mind. Nothing seems to bother her. “I’m glad you have returned,” she says.

“A fair amount has happened in my absence, I see.” She perches at the edge of the pool and folds her legs beneath her, taking a sip of wine. “I have yet to speak with my brother. Hythlodaeus tells me he is in a… distraught state, shall we say.”

“Emet-Selch is often distraught.”

“He is. I fear my brother is wound too tight to be anything but distraught.”

Igeyorhm pauses. “Did you enjoy your time away from the capital?” she ventures cautiously. Gods, why is she stalling? She seems incapable of having a normal conversation with her that doesn’t amount of anything but meaningless small talk.

Azem smiles that soft, mysterious smile of hers and sets down her wine. Rising to her feet, she sweeps across the terrace, her vibrant sunset robes whispering around her. She reaches the wall and leans against it, turning her face westward towards Akadaemia Anyder. The light catches her hair, bleeding through the pale gold, setting her profile ablaze. She is not the flames of creation—no, that domain belongs still to Lahabrea—but she is the fire of the sun. Bright, enduring, eternal, and endlessly alluring. Stare too long and you will find yourself blinded.

Fire and ice are opposed. They cannot mix. One will always overpower the other.

Igeyorhm cups her drink in her hands, staring into the glass as she swirls the deep red liquid about. “Tell me honestly,” she says quietly. “Why come here, Azem? I know it wasn’t for the wine.”

“It could be for the wine. You have exquisite taste.”

“Thank you, but answer me truly.”

“Because you asked me to.”

“You could have refused my invitation. Many do.”

“Very rude of them.”

She flushes. “It was a last minute decision, you were under no obligation to say yes. Not when the Convocation gathers tomorrow. We could have met then.”

“And avoid the fun of sipping wine on your beautiful terrace and enjoying the pleasant weather?” She pauses, her gaze lingering on the institution in the distance. “But even if you had not invited me, is it so unusual for a friend to call upon a friend?”

“You consider me a friend?” The words are out before she realizes she has spoken.

Azem throws her head back and laughs. “Igeyorhm, what is in that ice-cold heart of yours that gave you that impression? How many years have we known each other?”

“I could not say. Knowing is different than friendship, is it not?”

“True.”

“And you have never sought to call on me in private before.”

“Our positions are quite distanced. Rhetoric and debate on one side, counsel and pilgrimage on the other.”

“Hardly. I do not believe they are that different. One could argue they are the same.”

Finally, Azem tears herself away from the view. She leans her back against the wall and turns her gaze on Igeyorhm, those intense orange-gold eyes burning into her from even this distance. “You think so?” she says, arching an eyebrow from behind her mask. “Then let’s play a game.”

“A game?”

“A game of debate. Put your texts aside, Igeyorhm. Take your nose out of your books. Let us have a sparring match. The winner receives a boon.”

Igeyorhm wets her lower lip. Her heart is thundering. “What kind of boon?”

“A gift. From me to you, or you to me. Whatever our heart’s desire.”

The pool ripples in the wind, its water lapping against the edge. To Azem, the sound must be negligible. But to Igeyorhm it beats like a drum pounding with the rhythm of her heart. “And who will be the judge? I cannot conceive of asking Elidibus here.”

Azem snorts, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “No, no,” she says, chuckling with mirth. “Please, no. Open the floor to Elidibus and soon you will have the whole Convocation gathered on your terrace, fast-tracking our session from tomorrow to today.”

Igeyorhm smiles. She loops a curl behind her ear, her fingers brushing her mask. “I would hate to see that. Not even my cousin has been extended an invitation.”

“He does not come here, then?”

“Even if I opened my doors to him, he would seldom have the time to visit. That sour business in Pandaemonium still weighs on him.”

Azem says nothing. Silence presses heavily on them both, the weight of the words sapping the levity from the room. Then she shakes her head, her pale gold hair rippling over her shoulders, raises a hand, and snaps.

A small fire familiar pops into existence. It is vaguely humanoid in shape with butterfly-like wings sprouting from its back. Green and orange flames lick along its sides, curling into some semblance of hair as embers trail off it and dissipate into the air. It floats gently above the pool, whistling with glee as it bobs up and down.

“Oh, stop that,” Azem says, giving it a sharp look. “Keep that up and I will send you back.”

The familiar makes a wheezing sound.

Azem’s lips twitch, trying to hide a smile. “Vesta will be our judge. It will make the calls, unless one of us calls to concede.”

Igeyorhm raises her chin. “And how am I to know it will be impartial?”

“You can’t. You will have to trust me.” Pushing off the wall, Azem crosses the terrace to settle on the end of Igeyorhm’s divan. She leans in close and whispers conspiratorially in her ear. “That’s the fun in it.”

The proximity of her presence sends an enticing shiver rolling down her spine. “And the loser?” she asks. By the Star itself, how she wishes Azem would unmask. She is the sole member of the Convocation whose face she has not seen. What does she look like beneath it? Is she as beautiful as her grace would suggest? “In the halls of debate, the winner may be rewarded with congratulations and cheer, but it is common practice for those who do not to denote their failure. If we are to play this game in the spirit of my domain, surely there must be some punishment.”

“Punishment?” Azem reaches for her glass of wine. “You certainly enjoy an escalation—”

“Penalty, then. Consequence, if you prefer. Or shall I keep digging through synonyms until I find one that appeases you?”

She chuckles and takes a drink. “What should this punishment-penalty-consequence be?”

Igeyorhm drums her fingers against her chin, lost in thought. The idea forming in her mind is… bold. Unlike her. Its out-of-character nature only makes her want to suggest it more. “The removal of one’s mask,” she says archly. “If we are friends, then surely we see one another exposed.”

Azem pauses. She takes another drink. “Done.” The wine has stained her lips red. “Then shall we begin?”

The rules of debate are simple: assert your thesis, defend it, and find the logical fallacies in your opponent’s. Argument and counterargument are etched into the building blocks of Amaurotine society; even from the earliest age, they are taught to defend reason. Theirs is a culture that prides itself on logic and wisdom, settling disputes with words and discussion first and warfare and combat second. Regardless of what Nabriales argues, as custodians of the Star, it is their solemn duty to protect it, not to sunder it apart.

Rhetoric and debate is oft considered the least impressive of any Amaurotine art. In a society of well-spoken individuals, being articulate and eloquent with words means very little. It is not enchanting like Altima’s compositions, nor beneficial to society like Deudalaphon’s inventions. It does not heal like Emmerololth’s medicinal practices, nor does it create like Lahabrea’s phantomology. But to shift the mind, convince others to see the way you do—it is a delicate art, powerful in its subtleness. And no amount of spellbinding creation magicks can turn one into a powerful orator.

It is not typical for Igeyorhm to become stuttering and tongue-tied. On most days, she is cool and clear and succinct—when she has time to prepare, she can shift the direction of the Convocation with just a few words. Debate is an art easily learned, but difficult to master, and its strength cannot be underestimated. Each member of the fourteen could claim to be an orator, but none of them have expertise. Her own cousin is too frank and blunt. Emet-Selch has yet to understand the role charm plays. Elidibus is too young, and his seat requires him to be impartial. Only Azem’s erstwhile mentor, Venat, understood the power speech can hold and how to wield it. Who else could convince the Convocation that she would not return to the Star upon her retirement?

With the right words, anyone can be convinced of anything.

“The floor is yours, Azem,” Igeyorhm says, leaning back casually on the divan. The movement tugs at the neckline, pulling at the neckline, exposing her collarbone. She hooks an arm over the back, running her fingers across the rich embroidery. “Your opening statement?”

“Already?” Azem brushes her long hair over her shoulder. “I admit I was not prepared to begin. Perhaps you should take the lead.”

Igeyorhm smirks. This coy display is an attempt to disarm her, convince her to take to the stage first out of kindness. Azem must know as certainly as she does that those who speak first are often the ones to lose. “This is my house,” she says. “It is my honour to go second. Your opening statement?”

Azem catches her eye. “Should I stand?” she asks, already rising to her feet. “I have been gone for some time, I’m uncertain of proper procedure.”

“If you wish.” Igeyorhm looks her up and down, lingering on the way her robes hug her curves. Her travels beyond Amaurot is etched on her body; it shows in the bare arms corded with muscle, in the strength of her legs, in the confident preciseness of her movements.

Azem cocks her head, a little smile on her lips, and bows theatrically. “Our seats are of opposing nature,” she says. “I am a traveller. I see the Star for what it is beyond the narrow walls and minds of Amaurot. Yours is the reverse—embracing the uniformity, upholding the status quo. Your rhetoric is not designed to bring change, but to uphold existing laws without question. I look outwards, whereas you look in.”

I don’t disagree with that. Not that she can say it aloud. “But as you travel, you offer guidance to the people, no?” she counters. “What is the difference between guidance and rhetoric? To give counsel is to convince. The wisdom you impart persuades them to your side, to your point of view. In that way, our seats are the same.”

“Hm.” Azem’s smile widens. She raises her cup. “What does Vesta think?”

The familiar’s flames hiss and whistle and it performs a little loop in the air, pointing a fiery finger at Igeyorhm.

“Ah. You are the winner, I see.”

Igeyorhm blinks. Over already? They had hardly begun. Her win is deflating, not satisfying. “Victory, then,” she says. Her nails scratch the divan’s embroidery, catching on the fine threads. “You do not have to keep to arbitrary rules made in jest—”

The familiar whirs.

Azem arches an eyebrow. “Oh, I see,” she says, tracing a finger absently over her belt. “Vesta says it should be the best out of three. To give me a fair chance, naturally. I am arguing against the Amaurot’s finest orator, after all.”

Igeyorhm pauses, mesmerized by the movement of Azem’s hands. The way her long fingers trace the bright brass, then float across the gossamer silks, gentle yet firm. This is no longer a game. They are vying for something, but it isn’t the prestige of their seats. “Even if it is best out of three, you have still lost this round,” she breathes, her voice low. “I believe you owe me something.”

Fingers against fabric. Twisting. Pulling. Touching. “Not my mask. Not yet.”

“Then something else.”

Water laps against the edge of the pool, gentle and pulsing.

Azem smiles and unclasps her belt, letting it fall to the floor. The silks fan out around her and grasps the overlayer, drawing it up and over her head.

Igeyorhm inhales a sharp breath, a rush of heat coursing through her. Azem is pale beneath her robe—her breasts full and round, her skin marked with a flash of stretch marks and a silvery scar on her side. Beneath the curves of fat, she is strong and firm. “Aye,” she rasps. “That will do.”

Azem tilts her head, her fingers toying with her skirt. The band sits low on her hips, the skirts flowing flush with the floor. “Defeat me again and I’ll lose another,” she murmurs, orange eyes blazing.

“Then it is my turn—” Igeyorhm exhales a breath, fingers now scraping against the embroidery. She rolls onto her side, her gaze drawn to Azem’s, and squeezes her thighs together. The pressure only inflames the desire blooming deep within her. “And I submit to you: the purpose of the Rhetorician is to gather knowledge. And so does the Traveller.”

“Is the knowledge gathered or is it hoarded?” Azem pulls her hair to the side, letting it flow over one shoulder and across her breast. Slowly, she slides a palm across her stomach. “With whom is it shared? Is it knowledge for all, or for the few who are worthy?”

“Knowledge is for all, but not all are for knowledge.”

“A nonsensical statement.” She cups her breast, squeezing the soft weight.

Igeyorhm muffles a strangled noise. Her skin prickles with heat. “The question at hand was not for whom knowledge is gathered, rather that it is. The Traveller guides the people of the Star, understand them, speak for them. The key to understanding is a knowledge itself.”

The little familiar whirs.

“And there we go—I have no choice but to accept defeat once again.” Azem smiles a hooks a thumb over her waistband. “I knew such games would lead to nothing good.”

She pushes her skirts down. Naked save for her mask, she steps out of the pool of bright fabric.

Igeyorhm grips the back of the divan. “I have won twice,” she breathes. “Care to challenge me a third time?”

Azem laughs quietly and pads across the cool floor. She throws out a hand, dismissing her familiar with a single gesture. It puffs out of existence like a candlelight snuffed. “I am amiable to a third,” she says, reaching the foot of the divan. She rests a knee against it, one hand caressing her breast. The other slides across her thigh. “But an addendum: this time, if I win, take off your mask. If I lose, I will remove mine.”

She exhales a trembling breath. “Yes.”

Azem smiles, that impossibly alluring smile. Her palm brushes her inner thigh. “There is a world unlike any other beyond this city,” she says, her fingers slipping between her legs. She exhales a soft breath, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as she sinks into her own desire. “The Rhetorician seeks to record it, to study it, to learn all they can from it.”

Igeyorhm’s eyes widen, lips parted as she watches. She is fascinated, enthralled, arousal rushing through her as she imagines what those fingers would feel like slipped between her own. Ignoring her clothing, she presses cups a hand against the space between her thighs, pleasure washing over her.

“But the Traveller…” Azem lets out a small moan, her gaze lingering on Igeyorhm. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes alight. “You would examine it from a distance, Igeyorhm. But I…” She sighs, bringing herself closer to the brink. “I would experience it for what it is.”

She trembles, bucking against her own hand. There are a hundred counters to this argument, each one better than the last. But her mind is a haze, muffled by desire for the woman at the foot of her divan, endlessly yearning for her touch.

She could win, easily. But this time, she does not want to.

They have long since stopped arguing the merits and purpose of their Convocation seats.

And this is no longer a game.

“I concede,” Igeyorhm says. “I concede.”

Azem’s eyes blaze.

Igeyorhm meets her gaze—and nods.

It happens in a rush. One moment, they are staring at each other, hearts pounding, the soft afternoon light warming Azem’s naked skin. The next, her weight sinks into the divan and her lips and hands are on her. Azem climbs on top of her and kisses her deeply, her tongue slipping between her lips to tangle in her mouth—she tastes of summer and wine. Her fingers tug at the straps of her mask; despite the rough pace of her kiss, her touch is gentle, reverent.

There is still a sense of propriety here.

“May I?” she murmurs, her voice muffled against her lips.

Igeyorhm nods. “Yes,” she breathes. “Please.”

The mask slips loose. Sunlight warms her skin, bright and pleasantly searing, like the woman who has her pinned to the divan. She pauses, thrown for a moment by the removal of its weight. It has been a long time since she has taken it off, even in private. She can’t remember the last time she took it off. She can’t remember the last time she saw her own face in a mirror with out it.

Azem places it carefully on the armrest. “There,” she says, stroking her fingers across Igeyorhm’s face. Her blazing eyes pass over her, lingering on the beauty mark on her cheek, the broad shape of her nose, the depths of her dark eyes. She brushes a lock of blue-black curls from her forehead and leans in close. “I win.”

She kisses her again and this time—oh, this time, she melts. Azem’s lips are everywhere—her brow, her cheek, her jaw, her mouth, her throat. She sucks at the delicateness of her collarbone, leaving wicked marks peppered and aching across her skin. Her mask is smooth and cool when it brushes unexpectedly against her, the sensation leaving a strange observation lingering in the back of her mind. They are reversed: Azem, naked yet retaining the sanctity of her mask, while Igeyorhm remains clothed but exposed, her features visible for the first time in an age.

Azem tugs at the neckline of her robe. “I owe you a boon,” she murmurs, voice muffled. Her head is buried in her neck, her mouth hot and warm as she kisses her throat. “Name it.”

“I…” Words. She cannot think of the words. Gods damn it all, she is the bloody Rhetorician and she’s been knocked senseless. “I…”

“Name it, Metis.”

Her name, not her title. A wondrous shudder rolls through her—she is light-headed, hazy, and yet has never thought more clearly in her life. “Touch me.” Soft at first, then firm. Strong. A demand. She links Azem’s hands with her own and puts it on her breast. “Touch me. Kiss me. Do what you wish to me.”

Azem laughs, her breath rippling enticingly across her skin, and she squeezes her breast. She rolls off and stretches out beside her, tugging at her robes. Metis lies motionless, anticipation coiling deep within her as Azem pushes her skirts up and the weight of the robes pressing into her stomach. Her lover—lover is it, is it not?—strokes a hand across her thigh, slow and sure, and her legs fall open.

Her mouth covers hers, kissing hungrily and she swallows her gasp as her fingers slip easily into the slick heat.

If she returned to the Star right now, she would do so happily.

If she could float away in this haze of ecstasy and release all her responsibilities, she would.

If time could stop and this moment could last forever, she would welcome it.

A cry escapes her, soft, gentle, humming on her lips, and she closes her eyes, sinking blissfully into the cushions. Azem’s weight presses beside her, anchoring her to this moment. Her lips wander, her hands roam, touching, caressing, stoking the fire. Metis sighs, her back arching as two of those long, pretty fingers slip with her in a single stroke. They thrust, curl, slow and deep, coaxing pleasure out of her until she is shaking. She bucks her hips, chasing the sensation, demanding more—a demand her lover is happy to oblige.

Her lover laughs and presses a kiss to her brow. She slips her fingers free and with a quick shift of her weight, traps her hips and straddles her. Metis’ eyes fly open and she inhales a sharp breath, a protest on her tongue—

Azem presses a fingers to Metis’ lips, then to her own. She rolls her hips—a test, a challenge, her intense sunlike gaze lingering on every part of Metis’ face—and arches her back, raising her hands behind her head. She lifts the length of her hair and lets go, the curtain of pale gold-spun silk glowing in the midafternoon sun as it falls free.

Metis watches, enamoured, mesmerized. She cannot look away from this woman in the mask atop her.

“I…” The words will not come. She is breathless, weightless, her mind numb, her body yearning for an end. “Azem…”

She shakes her head. “Iphigeneia,” she murmurs. She yanks Metis’ skirts up to her stomach again, rougher and coarser this time, and slides a hand between them. “No titles here among friends.”

“…friends…?”

“What would you say we are?”

Her fingertip ghosts across her clit—feather-light and impossible—then presses firm against it.

A wave of pleasure crashes through her.

Metis moans, chest heaving. Her hands tear at the divan, uselessly trying to find something to hold onto. She is too good, too much, too everything. Her thigh clench, muscles spasming as she draws nearing to her peak, an impatient whine fluttering on her lips. She is falling apart in Iphigeneia’s hands. Both of them are on her now, the fingers of one stroking her core with deliberate, tantalizing motions, the other working her clit in slow, languid, circles.

“Geneia,” she moans, too overcome to say the whole of her name. “Geneia, I—please…”

Sweat shimmers on Iphigeneia’s chest, her breasts, her stomach. Her mask catches the light, silver and white reflecting the light, its metallic surface so polished Metis could very well see her reflection within it. “This is good?” she asks huskily.

“I… yes…”

“What do you want? Would you like to let go? Or would you close you eyes and see where I can take you?”

She bites her tongue, wound so tight with desire she is close to snapping. “I… mhm.”

A small, little measly sound. She has never sounded so ineloquent.

Iphigeneia smiles.

Her orgasm ripples through her in, numbing her mind and soul. She cannot think, she cannot do, she cannot be—all she is, all she has become is the sensation coursing through her. Her name falls from her lips in a half-scream of joy, the syllables falling in a stuttering, helpless staccato through her gasps as she trembles and relaxes, her swollen cunt clenching around her fingers.

The tension courses through her again and again.

And again until there is nothing left in her.

When her mind clears, the fog of lasting pleasure hazing the fringes of her mind, she is lying limp and boneless on the divan beneath Iphigeneia’s comfortable weight. Her eyelids flutter open and she looks upon the golden sun burning bright above her—the flame that has done what none thought possible and melted the ice in her heart.

Her mask remains in place, safe and secure. If she had half a mind—which she currently does not—Metis would ask her to remove it. Seems silly not to, after what they have shared. There is nothing more intimate than this, save perhaps sharing one’s transformation.

Iphigeneia drapes herself over her, brushing her fingers across her cheek as she stares into her dark eyes. She brushes damp curls from her forehead. “Are you all right?” she asks quietly.

“I…” Metis trails off. “Mhm. Thank you.”

“You owe me a boon,” she continues, linking her hand with hers. She raises it to her lips and kisses the soft skin. The hand of a custodian. A librarian. An auditor. One who has never left Amaurot. “Since I have granted you yours, it’s only fair you return the favour.”

Metis strokes her other hand through her hair, enjoying the feel of the soft locks between her fingers. She lets it go, strand by strand, and brushes her fingertips across Iphigeneia’s collarbone, down her chest, across her breasts. She cups one gently. “Let me give it to you, if you want,” she murmurs throatily, her voice low.

Iphigeneia kisses her. “I am sated for now.”

Her stomach twists with disappointment. She isn’t quite done herself. Perhaps she can convince her otherwise…

“But for my boon,” Iphigeneia begins.

“Forget the boon,” Metis croons. “It was a jest—”

“I had something else in mind.”

“Very well. What is it?”

She meets her eyes. She takes a breath. “Your cousin is proving to be quite a hindrance and I am tired of it.” The shift in her tone from hazy bliss to cold and businesslike hits like a winter breeze. She is Iphigeneia no longer; Azem has returned in her full determined force. “I would ask for your help. I need to reach the lower floors of Akadaemia Anyder. To the Words of Lahabrea. There is something I need to see for myself and I would not have him interfere. And you have a way in that I do not.”

It is not quite a question. The words carry more command than a request.

Igeyorhm pauses. A command, not an ask—from a fellow Convocation member. There is something going on here, something she cannot put her finger on. Azem’s motives may be shrouded in mystery, but there must be a purpose behind it.

Nothing happens in Amaurot.

So, who is she to say no?

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