The scent of spiced wine and burning incense hung thick in the air. A thousand lanterns flickered across the oasis city of Vel'Shaan, their glow stretching golden fingers over the revelers that moved through its winding streets. Somewhere among them, a Ryxxyl watched, unseen yet ever-present, wrapped in the silk of shadows and secrets.
She lounged in a curtained alcove at the edge of the bazaar, her perch chosen not for comfort but for the vantage it provided. Layers of vibrant, flowing fabrics cascaded over her shoulders, a river of golds, ambers, and sapphire blues that shimmered in the torchlight. Jewelry chimed softly with every lazy movement—a collection of silver chains, delicate rings, and a single emerald pendant resting against her collarbone, a whisper of wealth meant to catch wandering eyes.
And oh, how they wandered.
Across the courtyard, a nobleman, deep in his cups and drunk on his own self-importance, counted his winnings with a grin so smug it could have been a death warrant. He had been at the tables for hours, reveling in a streak of fortune so improbable that only a fool would fail to question it. But fortune was not always a fickle thing—it could be tilted, guided by the unseen hands of those who knew how to play the game.
The Ryxxyl smiled.
She traced the rim of her goblet, watching the nobleman as one might watch a caged bird that had not yet noticed the door was open. He did not see her, not truly. He saw the idea of her, a vision crafted for his desires—a woman whose smirk hinted at mischief, whose laughter promised indulgence, whose eyes, strange and golden, held the weight of something more.
"Another round?" she purred, lifting a fresh decanter of his own liquor, pouring deep into his empty cup before he could answer.
He hesitated—just for a fraction of a moment, a flicker of something primal and wary stirring beneath the haze of arrogance. But the Ryxxyl was patient. She leaned in, her fingers brushing the rim of his cup, close enough that he could smell the faintest trace of lotus oil and myrrh on her skin.
The nobleman exhaled. Smiled. Took a sip.
Ah, there it was.
Caution was a thing of the past.
The dice clattered across the table again, another game, another bet, and just like before, fortune leaned its weight upon her side. He never even noticed her hand at the scales. He would not notice anything until the morning.
By sunrise, he would wake in an empty bed, his purse lighter, his mind filled with vivid, half-remembered dreams of a woman whose name he would never recall. But the Ryxxyl?
She would already be gone.
Slipping into the streets of Vel’Shaan, where the night was still young and the air still carried whispers of possibility. The city pulsed with life—gold changed hands in secret alleys, silk-clad performers danced upon rooftops, and shadowed figures slipped between the narrow sandstone streets, chasing fortune or fleeing debt.
It was a city of masks, of revelry and consequence, of temptation and danger in equal measure. A city where the strong ruled not through might, but through wit.
And that was why the Ryxxyl thrived.
They did not conquer like the Tyrants of the Iron Sands. They did not build empires of steel and war machines. They conquered with whispers. With laughter. With hands that never needed to take what could be given freely.
A game of dice. A game of cards. A game of glances in a crowded room, where the right smile could unlock a hundred doors.
And they always won.
Because the rules never applied to them.
Would you play the game?
Would you risk losing?
The Ryxxyl would love to see you try.