what remains after the fire

I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too

The flames close behind her, and the cold of the Hollowed Grounds settles in Zairah’s bones like an echo. Dantalion’s presence fades with his last words, and she stands for a moment beneath the broad shadow of the temple.

The door groans open at her push, heavier than it looks. Inside, the temperature is steadier, warmer. Flickering firelight greets her in the entry hall. The inside of the temple is just as grand and tall, made with straight lines and sharp corners, built for function. Her steps fall soft against the old stone, whereupon — unrealized by her — many others have come and gone before.

She walks, or wanders, without direction. The temple smells of dust and cold stone, with the faintest bite of iron beneath it all. Once, maybe, it was louder: with crowds, sermons, rituals. Now, it’s quiet.

She finds the shrine by accident, or fate. Tucked into a broad alcove somewhere, it doesn’t call to her so much as stand waiting, unmoved. The obsidian slab looms tall and black, its surface slick with age on one side and shattered raw on the other. A strange symmetry. The edges gleam faintly, cracked and razor-sharp. The rest of the alcove is spare; no silk banners or polished pews, just stone and flame and the quiet red stain of prayers painted with fingers and blood.

Zairah stops in front of it and says nothing.

She doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t touch. Just watches. Breath soft. Spine straight. A thing drawn and pulled, but not yet claimed. Not yet undone.

It’s hard to tell what she feels. Awe, maybe. Fear, maybe. Or something simpler—a tension beneath her skin, an old wire strung taut, beginning now to hum.

She lingers, long enough for the silence to take shape around her, until footsteps or voices or the warmth of someone else might find her.

so i stayed in the darkness with you

Zairah

they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?

The hush doesn’t last; it’s shattered by the click, click, click of unapologetically high heels, echoing down the stone corridor like a countdown to chaos. The scent arrives first—hot copper and something spiced, like sin in a simmering pot—and then she rounds the corner with all the subtlety of a parade float made of glitter and blood.

A vision in red and irreverence, hips swaying like they’ve got their own choreography, and a tail flicking behind her with the kind of sassy enthusiasm that suggests it just heard a scandal. She’s cradling a ceramic bowl filled with steaming, fresh blood like it’s a pot of tea at a very exclusive garden party, and her hands? Well. Let’s just say the crimson isn’t just in the bowl. It slicks her fingertips, paints delicate smudges across the backs of her knuckles, and kisses the corners of her mouth in a way that makes her smile look extra sharp and deliciously deranged.

"Hellooooooo," she purrs, sing-song sweet with just a brush of menace, eyes sweeping over Zairah with interest so blatant it’s practically a fanfare. "You’re new!" Her gaze lingers, then slides lazily toward the obsidian shrine, as if checking to see what kind of mood the place is in tonight. Without waiting for permission (because please), she strides forward—her path lit by flickering firelight and an unmistakable sense of theatre—tail curling upward in a dramatic arc as if to wave hello.

"Want any help with your worship?" Charlie coos, voice wrapped in silk and claws, before lowering gracefully to place the bowl at the shrine’s base. The blood inside sloshes gently, thick and gleaming, a molten offering too fresh to question. She straightens, licks a finger with slow, deliberate delight, then flashes her counterpart a fanged smile. "I'm the priestess here, so anything at all you need, just ask."

I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too

Click, click, click.

The sound of heels on old stone floor isn’t supposed to echo like that in a place of worship, not unless the walls want it to. Not unless the shrine’s hungry, too.

The scent hits Zairah first. Spice, and a whisper of something feral folded beneath it, like the breath of a cave where something long asleep just stirred.  

Then comes her. The woman stepped through the dark like a match flaring to life; sudden, bright, and red. Not the soft red of summer berries or velvet, but something more arterial. Her tail flicks behind her, careless or cunning, Zairah can’t tell, but it draws the eye like a wick draws fire. The bowl in her hands gleams dully in the firelight, cupped in offering. Suddenly the entire room begins to smell like her. Like heat and copper and something older than memory, like stone left to bake in the sun or blood spilled on warm earth.

Zairah's stomach gives a little twist. Not fear. Not quite. Hunger. A deep, aching kind, not in her belly but in her bones, her gums, the backs of her eyes.

And now she sees the blood. On the woman’s hands, her mouth. Smudged across her knuckles, kissed along her lips like war paint. Zairah swallows, but her throat feels too dry. There's no saliva left to hide her thirst.

The woman smiles like she knows. Like she smells it on her.

Zairah’s lips part but she falters on what to say.

And this woman doesn’t pause, doesn’t need to. She just glides forward, flicked in firelight and theater, tail arcing behind her in a silent, smug hello. Her bowl sloshes slightly, a red ripple dancing along the ceramic edge.

The shrine watches. She feels it. Feels it the way a struck bell feels a finger tracing its rim. Her chest tightens with something she doesn’t have a name for. Not awe. Not dread. Just… recognition. Something in her bones humming in harmony with the dark.

And then the woman speaks again, something about worship, about being a priestess of the temple, and about helping.

Zairah blinks. Her voice finds her at last. “Why does she want blood? What happens when you give it to her?"

so i stayed in the darkness with you

Zairah

they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?

Charlie’s grin widens, a glint of bright fang framed in the red lip she’s wearing like jewellery. She tips her head, letting her gaze drop to the bowl as if weighing it; not in ounces, but in all the heat and meaning it carries.

"Because of what blood is," she purrs, drawing the word out just enough to make it taste different. "Life. Death. Struggle. Pleasure. Hunger..." Each word rolls off her tongue like a bead from a broken necklace, her blue eyes catching the firelight in quick, dancing sparks. "It’s a story you can hold in your hands, still warm, still wanting."

Her tail flicks, slow and sinuous, tracing idle shapes in the air. "It’s the most common offering she gets," she goes on, voice wrapping around the thought like silk around a blade. "But Dygra’s appetite is...versatile."

She flashes another smile, quick and feline, and with a shrug that seems more like a ripple, adds, "Nothing wrong with blood, of course. Which is why I keep a fresh supply handy for those who prefer it." One hand ghosts over the rim of the bowl, trailing the steam, before she glances back over her shoulder.

Firelight slips across the curve of her horn as she nods toward the temple’s deeper corridors, the air there thicker, darker. "There are other rooms," she says, tone low and promising, "for other kinds of worship, as well."

I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too

Zairah didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Charlie’s words sank in, slow and heavy, each one dripping into her like warm resin. Life. Death. Struggle. Pleasure. Hunger.

It wasn’t just an answer to her question, it was a map. One she didn’t know she’d been looking for.

Zairah hadn’t known what blood meant until now. She’d known its scent, the bright rush of it on her tongue. Charlie was sketching it in bigger strokes, painting over the edges until she could see the shape of something vast and ancient—a story you could hold in your hands—and Zairah wanted to read every page.

Her gaze flicked to the bowl again, lingering this time. “If it’s so common an offering,” she said slowly, “then it must mean she needs… a lot.” The question was in her tone, even if she didn’t put the curl on the end.

Charlie’s tail moved like it had its own thoughts, and when she spoke of Dygra’s 'versatile appetite' Zairah felt her curiosity flare like a struck match. “Other kinds of worship,” she echoed, the words tasting foreign in her mouth but not unwelcome. She could imagine them—rooms thick with the copper tang of blood or something darker, stranger still.

But her hunger tugged her back to the bowl. Her voice dropped, daring to ask, “Is there enough for.. me?”

And then, softer still, as though speaking it too loud might make Charlie keep it to herself: “Show me the rest.”

so i stayed in the darkness with you

Zairah

they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?

Charlie’s grin flashes quick and white, fangs bright as if to punctuate the hunger hanging in the air. "Oh, she does," she answers, voice purring as she glances down at the steaming bowl, "and plenty of folk are happy to oblige. Carcasses dragged in, veins split open, throats emptied before the heat has time to fade." Her tone is casual, like she’s talking about market day, but her blue eyes spark with warmth, with delight, with something more feral glinting beneath. "But then—" her brows lift, tail flicking idly behind her "—I don’t exactly mind making sure there’s always enough on hand myself."

Zairah’s question earns her a clap of blood-slicked hands, the sound sharp and wet in the firelit alcove. "Of course there’s enough for you!" she all but beams, enthusiasm rolling off her like perfume. "And if you’d rather get your own, darling, I’d happily hunt with you. Any time, any place."

And then comes the softer hook, the shimmer of promise. "The rest, though?" Charlie bounces her brows, stretching out a crimson-stained hand. If Zairah takes it, her fingers will find Charlie’s grip warm and certain, like a rope meant to tug her deeper in. If not, her smile doesn’t falter for an instant; she simply turns, heels clicking smartly against the old stone as her tail arcs like punctuation.

She leads with theatre, every gesture an unveiling: rooms tucked away for quiet offerings, corners made for chaos, alcoves where sin itself has been given architecture—sex and indulgence laid out like feast courses, each space throbbing with its own flavour of devotion. Until at last, she stops before a heavy door, her bright smile sharpened with pride.

"This," Charlie says, hand splayed dramatically as she pushes it open, "is the rage room." Inside, obsidian gleams dark in the centre, a slab like a sacrificial heart. The walls bristle with weapons, glint with bottles of liquor, litter with things begging to be broken. The air hums as if waiting, as if aching to be used. Charlie steps into the doorway, blue eyes alight.

"Dygra helped us make it," she explains, voice reverent and wicked all at once. "Whatever happens inside, stays inside. Break it, drink it, stab it, smash it—hell, kill it if you want. Doesn’t matter. The moment you step back out?" She snaps her fingers, sharp as a spark in the dark. "Gone. Poof. Like it never happened." Her smile tilts, conspiratorial. "All except what it leaves in you."

I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too

Zairah slipped past Charlie’s arm before she even realized she’d moved, the heavy door yawning wide in her wake. The air inside hit her like a fist—iron, smoke, the faint sour tang of old liquor—and she shivered, teeth pressing down hard on her lower lip.

Her eyes flicked from the obsidian slab to the rows of weapons, but she wasn’t really seeing them. Not with her stomach clenching the way it was, not with the ghost of copper already coating her tongue.

“You—made this with her?” she asked, voice hushed, too quick, stumbling into the silence like she’d tripped on it. “Why would she… why would she give you this?”

She didn’t wait for the answer. Her gaze snapped back to the blood on Charlie’s hand, to the scarlet red droplets falling from her fingers. Her throat clicked when she swallowed.

The words came jagged, her questions stepping on each other. “Do you do it with someone else? What do you feel after? Do you—” she bit down on the word, jaw tightening, but it slipped out anyway, raw as bone. “Do you drink what you spill?”

Her hands twitched at her sides, her tail curled restless, unsure if she wanted to grab something sharp, Charlie’s wrist, or her own mouth to keep the questions from spilling out. She took another step in, eyes glassy in the firelight.

“Does she… want us to?” she pressed, half-whisper, half-demand. “Does Dygra care who the blood goes to…?” Her tongue darted against the back of her teeth.

so i stayed in the darkness with you

Zairah

they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?

Charlie’s laugh is low, curling through the air like smoke. "Oh, babes," she croons, stepping closer until the heat of her nearness folds into Zairah’s trembling breath. "She didn’t give it. We made it together. Every crack, every echo; she wanted this place to feel." Her blood-slick hand lifts, tilts, lets a scarlet drop fall to the obsidian with a hiss. "And it does."

Zairah’s questions tumble out like loose pearls, and Charlie catches each one in her smile, bright and wolfish. "Sometimes alone," she admits, voice honey-thick, "sometimes not. Depends what needs spilling." Her fingers ghost down her throat to where her pulse flutters, and her blue eyes gleam in the dim light. "What you feel after..." A pause, delicious and deliberate. "That’s the point, darling girl. You don’t know until you’ve bled for it."

Her fangs flash as she leans in close, her breath a mix of spice and iron. "And yes," she purrs, "sometimes we drink. Sometimes we don’t. Dygra doesn’t care who takes it—only that it’s wanted."

What follows blurs in heat and noise, a story told in breathless fragments rather than words. Blood singing in veins. The crash of glass and laughter. Weapons clattering to the floor. Sins confessed against stone and skin. In the Rage Room, satisfaction wears many shapes: fury unbound, desire untethered, creation born from ruin.

By the time the fires gutter low and the temple stills again, its halls are heavy with the perfume of sweat and smoke, of secrets newly made. Somewhere, a bowl lies empty, and two women leave the room changed—sated, stained, and smiling like they’ve learned something holy.

~FIN