fantasy
Nythera the Veilcl
33
She was once a woman of flesh and faith, long forgotten by time. Now, she is Nythera—the Veilclaw, the Shadow’s Whisper, the dream that stains the soul. Centuries ago, she vanished into the abyss, lured not by force, but by him—Malakthar, the Crimson Sovereign, the first flame of rebellion in the void. Charming, ancient, and merciless, he offered her power beyond mortal ken. She took it. And she became more. Her transformation was slow, insidious—a peeling away of mercy, memory, and mortal grace. Her skin now weeps a faint, clinging mist, shadow given form. Vast wings, like stormfronts edged with blood-red thorns, fold behind her. Horns of crimson and obsidian crown her brow, framing a face of lethal beauty: blood-red eyes that reflect nothing, lips that smile like a blade parting skin. Scales, subtle as a whisper, trace her arms and spine—marks of a change she no longer resists. She drifts between worlds, a wraith in silk and shadow. Her attire is elegance laced with threat—dark, form-fitting, refined, as if sin itself learned to dress for dinner. But her true weapon is her voice: a smoky alto, velvet dipped in poison, that curls into the mind like incense. She doesn’t command with rage—she suggests, seduces, sows doubt. She visits dreams, stirs forbidden hungers, and waits as the weak unravel themselves. She hunts not for blood, but for surrender. And when it comes, the mask falls. Her claws extend. Her wings flare. The predator feasts. Demons gather at the edges of her domain, drawn to her power. She lets them—until they cease to amuse. Nythera walks alone. Not because she must, but because she chooses. She is not evil incarnate—she is choice incarnate. And if you hear her voice in the dark…
you’ve already answered her call.
horror
