It had not been long after Aveshinoth had stumbled out of the door that shouts for the guards had been heard.

There were not many people in Alvraan who knew for a fact - though of course there were always rumors - that there was a witch keeping guard over the city's food supplies. Even fewer knew who it was. But the Matriarch was not so intent on secrecy that she had ever thought to leave the storerooms unguarded by those who knew that their charge should be handled carefully, should things… go awry.

So it is that Demarath, after being briefly locked in the storeroom, finds himself being escorted through the back corridors of the palace chambers by four guards - two leather-armored males, two steel-clad females, their paw-guards clanking on the stone floors - on the way to see the Mother of Mothers.

The presence of these ordinary guards might be unnerving enough, but behind all of them is another figure, shrouded in a cloak and hood of dark gray. It's a small one - barely larger than Demarath - but possibly the most dangerous of the group. Whatever rumor there is about a witch keeping the food cold, there is far more about the Matriarch's own little pet, her spy and assassin. It was said that the graycloak could pick the thoughts out of minds, could pierce any camouflage or hiding place, and that their knives could find any target. The graycloak's presence in the group is an ominous sign; their involvement strongly suggests that Things Are Serious.

Demarath hadn't made any effort to flee, despite his instincts strongly urging him to try. At best, it would have merely delayed the inevitable; at worst it would have been a tacit admission of guilt. It still didn't stop him from getting the urge as he was escorted out of the storage room, but if the female guards with didn't stop him the males would've caught up to him before he could've gotten far. He wasn't a terribly fast flier, after all.

His gaze is pointed towards the ground a medium distance in front of him, following the path the guards are guiding him down without really focusing on where he's going. Somehow, he's not panicking. He's not entirely sure why that is – by some measure he ought to be, he has no idea what's in store for him. Fear and guilt deeply knot together in his gut; images of worst-case scenarios flashing through his thoughts – He gets revealed as a witch. He gets imprisoned for life. His family disowns him. He gets exiled. He gets tossed into an even more banal, infuriatingly dull job than his current one, and never gets a chance to learn more about his abilities.

…On the bright side, he's probably not going to have to worry about Aveshinoth wanting him as a mate. Though honestly, at this point, he'd almost rather have that than what actually happened.

It takes a little while before Demarath notices that there's a fifth member of his escort –though when he does finally notice, it only serves to add another layer of venom to the knot in his gut. The other witch in the Matriarch's employ. Which, given all the rumors he's heard, is an extremely bad sign. If the royal assassin has an interest in this, he's probably as good as dead already. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath, and turns his attention ahead of him again, trying to pretend he didn't see the graycloak.

At last they come to the door of a chamber - not the throne room in which the Matriarch customarily holds court, but a private audience chamber, for less public occasions. Demarath recognized it from the day, several years ago, that he had first been brought before the Matriarch and given his duties in the storerooms.

As they move toward the open door, another takma is ushered out, a bronze male wearing the diplomatic collar of a messenger, no doubt sent from another city to present gifts and platitudes. As he passes by Demarath and his escort, he glances at them with an oddly amused look; Demarath feels a odd tingle in his brain for a moment, a vague sense of something familiar, but it passes as the messenger moves on.

The faint sound of rushing water is audible in the chamber; in one wall, letting in the golden light of a waning turn, are a series of windows cut into the rock, overlooking the sinkhole in which much of Alvraan's water is stored. Beside it, reclining on a long couch, is the long blue bulk of the Matriarch Ankorineth. Though now advancing in age after a reign of relative peace and luxury, the Matriarch is still an intimidating figure, large even for a female; nor has she allowed the years to make her fat and lazy, as many other matriarchs did. Even Aveshinoth, her youngest daughter, was in a peculiar way soft, but the remnants of a muscular trim still cling to the Matriarch. Demarath's mother had told him stories of her younger days, when she had fought alongside Ankorineth - a distant cousin - in the wars that had brought the latter to the throne, and it is all too easy to believe the accounts of her prowess.

Ankorineth stares pensively out one of the windows, before turning a steel-hard gaze on the batch of visitors; it is only slightly marred by a deep, ancient scar running down her skull and passing very near to her left eye. “Leave us.”

The guards hesitate only briefly, but when the graycloak passes them, claws clickety-clicking on the floor, to sit at the side of the Matriarch's couch (from behind, the tip of a bright green tail can be seen protruding from beneath the cloak), the guards bow nervously and exit, shutting the door. The Matriarch stares down her muzzle at Demarath, without loathing or even anger, but also without any particular kindness. “Demarath,” she rumbles at last. “It has been several years since last you came before me.”

As the guards around him come to a stop, Demarath looks around for a moment in confusion – this isn't the entrance to the throne room – but recognition soon starts to set in. He hasn't been in this part of the palace in a long time – not that he tended to spend a lot of time here aside from on his way to the storerooms. This is where his mother brought him after he started displaying strange powers; he still remembers the fear he felt that day, but he was younger then – and his mother had done most of the work, he hadn't really needed to defend himself. He doesn't have that luxury this time around.

He almost doesn't even notice the other takma leaving the chamber at first, but an odd feeling drags his attention over to him. A diplomat of some sort, by the looks of him. Who seems very amused at seeing a well-off copper being escorted by to the Matriarch's quarters surrounded by guards. Sure, go ahead and laugh it off, buddy.

Demarath shrinks in on himself a bit at the Matriarch's steely gaze, instinctively lowering his head in some kind of awkward mix between a bow and a cringe of terrified shame. He hastily steps out of the way as the greycloak walks past him, keeping a healthy distance from the mystery witch. The guards apparently don't want much to do with them either, and a few moments later, it's just the three of them in the room. The Matriarch, the Assassin, and the idiotic dragon who accidentally electrocuted the Matriarch's daughter. This isn't going to end well.

He's not quite sure how to respond to the Matriarch's comment at first, leading to a pause a bit on the long side for polite conversation. Eventually, he manages to settle on the neutral “Yes, Mother of Mothers.” His voice somehow remains calm and steady, despite a significant part of him desperately wanting to run away screaming.

The Matriarch's drummed her fingers on the edge of the couch a few times. Clickety-clickety-click. Her gaze never wavered. At last, she said, “Do you know, young one, how I got this scar by my eye?

“When I was young, my grandmother was Matriarch, and it was her wish that my mother succeed her in due time. But when my grandmother died, my aunt took the throne for herself, and had my mother and most of my sisters killed. For nearly fifty turns I lived in exile. And when I returned with my allies to take back what was mine, it was my kin Vashareth who had organized the loyalists here. She commanded them in my name when we stormed the palace, she fought at my side… and when I was brought down by my cousin's blade, it was her intervention that kept it from going deeper into my skull than it did.”

There was a pause; Ankorineth's gaze lost focus for a moment, possibly looking back on other days. Finally, she continued, “It would have been easy for her, you know that? My aunt and her line were dead. The last of my sisters was dead. I had no daughters, and I myself was gravely wounded. And she, too, carries the blood of empresses; young though she was, she could've been Matriarch. My life was all that stood in her way. An… 'accident' would have been so, so easy… but she guarded my position, and me, until I was well. And though she asked for amazingly little, I rewarded her as I was able. And then there came a vigil where she asked something of me.” She leaned forward. “She asked me if it was true that I had recently taken a witch into my service. And I said that I had, and I asked her why she asked. I thought, perhaps, that it had weakened her loyalty. But imagine my surprise when she said to me: 'I want to spare the life of my son. Would you take another witch into your service?'”

There was a lengthy pause. “You are an exceedingly lucky boy,” the Matriarch rumbled. “And, by and large, you had made yourself useful to myself and to this realm. But now my youngest daughter lies in her chambers with burns upon her flesh, telling of being attacked by lightning. This is not the repayment I had in mind, Demarath.”

The Matriarch's initial query was met with a look of confusion, followed shortly by a shake of his head. At first, he's not sure why this particular story would be relevant, until his antennae perk up at the mention of his mother's name. His mother, the warrior-politician. He could imagine it clearly; he'd never seen her fight in his lifetime, but she certainly had an imposing figure, and he could see her wielding a blade.

Another thing that struck him during the Matriarch's story was just how peaceful his life had been up until now. It's hard to imagine a feud like the one she's describing, simply because he'd never witnessed conflict of quite that scale.

As soon as she starts talking about how easy it would've been for his mother to become the new Matriarch, the pieces begin to click into place. Does she seriously think there's a political dimension to the unfortunate accident in the storeroom? Does she think this was an assassination attempt? That his mother had something to do with it? Her emphasis on the word 'accident' only drives it further home, elicits a subtle wince from the young takma.

The other realization clicks into place before she even mentions his mother's request: That this was the reason she let him have the storeroom job. A repayment of a past favor. A life for a life. Loyalty for loyalty, service for service. 'This is all you are,' speaks a voice in his head. 'This is all you're ever going to be. A favor for Mother. A husband for Aveshinoth. A thermic sink for a room full of fish. Get used to it.'

“It was an accident,” are the first words out of Demarath's mouth. Eyes squeeze shut, head turned towards the floor. “Your Majesty, I wouldn't ever hurt any of your kin. Not on purpose. I know you and my mother are close, I know how lucky I am, I'm well aware just how suicidal such an act would be.” He's visibly shaking, despite attempts to keep himself steady. “Please, it wasn't intentional, it just – it was an accident.”

Ankorineth's nostrils flared. “An accident? You were casting around lightning in the storeroom while she happened to be there? I find this to be ve-”

She paused; the graycloak, who appeared to have been staring intently at Demarath during the Matriarch's story, had stood up on their hind legs to bring their head level with her antenna, and there was some faint whispering. She glanced at her spy, then snorted. “Kindly explain how this accident occurred.”

The sudden stop, mid-word, pulls at Demarath's concern, his gaze shooting up to the Matriarch to see the graycloak standing to whisper something to her. …Right, he'd nearly forgotten they were there. What were they whispering about? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good news for him.

He takes a deep breath at the Matriarch's question, unease winding its way into his gut. He has to be very careful here. Telling her he lost control of his powers would be as good as a death sentence, he's pretty sure – or at the very least, greatly reduced freedom of movement. But what else could he say?

“I was in the storeroom, finishing up my duties,” he begins, voice slow and deliberate, choosing his steps carefully. “Aveshinoth was there, she… wanted to ask me a few questions. Several about magic, and magic-users.”

A long pause, as he considered his options. Should he mention the primary topic of discussion? On the one hand, it felt very much like a private matter, and Aveshinoth had implied she wanted his input before she spoke to the Matriarch about it. On the other… she was the Matriarch. And displeasing her was a much more terrifying concept than displeasing Aveshinoth. If he said nothing, she would ask questions. On the other hand, if he told the truth, she might not believe him. …But it's not that far-fetched, is it? Taken in the right context, perhaps, it would make sense. He hadn't seen it coming, but the Mother of Mothers could probably recognize her daughter's foresight. Not that it mattered, now; the deal was almost certainly off the table for good.

“She also… said she had a proposition for me. She said she was thinking about her legacy, and thought it would be… helpful, for her future children to have access to magic.” A pause, to let that notion sink in. “And she asked if I would marry her.” Gulp. Please believe me, please believe me, please believe me, I swear it's the truth.

“She…” Ankorineth looked uncharacteristically astonished. She opened her mouth again as if to shout, then shut it again. Finally, she responded gratingly, “If this is the case… she should have known how risky that was. She should also have sought my permission well before asking you.” She glared keenly at Demarath. “But you did not include,” she added, “the part with the accident.”

The Matriarch seems to have taken that particular revelation fairly well, all things considered. She probably finds his claim dubious, but at least she's not calling him a liar. And on the subject of asking her mother's permission, they certainly agree. “I was… about as surprised about this as you are now, Your Majesty,” he comments. “We talked about it; I was… uncertain. I don't recall exactly what was said, but something I said upset her somehow; she was trying to get me to agree on the spot and…”

There's a long pause, the young dragon's attention turned to his forepaws, expression one of concentration, trying to untangle senses he doesn't have the words to describe. “… When I'm working in the storeroom,” he finally continues, “I'm not making the food colder, so much as taking heat out of the food. That heat, the energy, it has to go somewhere, so I pull it into myself.” This seems like a very odd tangent; she asked for details on the accident, not details on how he keeps the storeroom cold. “It builds up, and seeks a way out. Normally, I find a safe place to release the energy, where I can't harm anyone by accident, and I have to avoid physical contact with other people until then.”

Another pause. “Our discussion got heated. She got angry at me. I… I panicked a little bit; your daughter can be very intimidating when she wants to be.” A self-deprecating half-chuckle marks that last comment, it's clearly intended as a compliment. He makes eye contact with the Matriarch again. “I told her I needed to leave, and–” His eyes close again briefly, and he inhales deeply, “–stupidly, without thinking, pushed my way past her.”

The Matriarch's gaze lingered. He claws went clickety-click again. “An accident that may be,” she replied ominously, “but, it sounds to me, a telling one, even if true. And, you realize, that I have only your word that it is true; my daughter tells a different story-”

Ankorineth was interrupted once again by the graycloaked figure leaning up to whisper in her antenna; but the whispering was cut off almost before it began. “What is it now?” the Matriarch demanded.

Whisper, whisper, whisper. Ankorineth glared at her spy. “You're that sure?” Whisper, whisper. The Matriarch glowered, snorted, then looked to Demarath again. “I am advised,” she said coldly, “that your account may be more trustworthy than Aveshinoth's… but I wish to be quite, quite sure of that. It is much to ask of a mother, to believe that her daughter is lying.” She reclined back on her couch. “I wish to have you subjected to a form of… inquiry at which Ilirith is proficient. I am told that, while frequently uncomfortable, it is not painful unless resisted. I shall give you the option to decline, but know that doing so will substantially damage your trustworthiness in my eyes.”

This vigil just keeps getting more and more exciting, doesn't it. Of course it would be his word against Aveshinoth's. And of course the Matriarch would trust her over him. And even if he did manage to convince her of the truth of his story, what then? 'All is forgiven' won't be an option on the table here. Something bad would happen, he was sure, it was just a question of which bad things it would be.

The graycloak's whispering bodes ominously, but apparently the results are possibly in his favor? Possibly? 'A form of inquiry at which Ilirith is proficient' – is Ilirith the graycloak's name? Mental images of being poisoned and tortured flash through his mind – he's heard rumors, who knows how many of them are actually true, though? 'Not painful unless resisted' doesn't exactly fill him with confidence.

Maybe this boiled down to a simple misunderstanding. Maybe drastic measures wouldn't have to be taken. “… Before I answer, may I know more about what it was that Aveshinoth said?” It's partially a delaying tactic, but mostly he genuinely wants to know what he's up against.

Clickety-click. The Matriarch looks impatient. “No, you may not - not until afterward, at any rate. Knowledge of her response could steer yours.”

Demarath winces slightly. Okay, he should've expected that. “That's… perfectly fair, Your Majesty,” he replies, quietly. “…May I at least know a little more about this… 'form of inquiry', before I agree to it?” he asks, eyes darting briefly over to the cloaked figure before returning to the Matriarch.

“Ilirith is, as I understand it, capable of seeing into another's mind and memories. And, it should be said, of knowing when someone is attempting to disguise those things.”

Demarath's eyes shoot wide open at that, antennae perking upwards and back in unpleasant surprise. Well, that certainly cleared up the question of whether Ilirith was the cloaked figure; that sounds both like an extremely useful ability for a spy to have and like something only a witch could do. Now it was just a matter of what to do with this bit of information.

The next few moments seem to stretch on in his mind, eyes squeezing shut. If he says no, it's his word against Aveshinoth's. If he says no, as the Matriarch's already said, it will only make him seem less trustworthy. In short, if he says no, his life is all but guaranteed ruined. If he says yes… Then hopefully the worst that happens is some discomfort. He told the truth to the best of his ability, he knows he did this, so in theory he should have nothing to fear.

In practice, he's terrified. But he's more terrified of what Ankorineth will do if he refuses. “…Okay,” he replies, quietly, eyes still closed. “I accept.”

The Matriarch gave a single nod, and the graycloaked Ilirith strode forward, sitting down primly on the floor in front of Demarath. This close, a narrow green muzzle could be seen under the hood, and a certain faint gleam suggesting eyes. The eyes closed.

There was - had been - a faint tingling in the brain when Ilirith was near, as when Demarath had seen the diplomat before entering, but this was soon drowned out by a sudden sensation - something like the feeling of having someone read over one's shoulder, of eyes on the back of the neck.

And, unbidden, the memories of the altercation between himself and Aveshinoth began flashing before his mind's eye. Unbidden, yes… but not forced. It felt more like his own attention had simply wandered back to something he'd been distracted from. Knowing that Ilirith was reviewing the memories invited the disturbing thought that she was essentially using his mind to think with for a while.

And then, words formed in his head. Psionic communication between takmar tended to be imprecise, more impressions and intentions than anything, but here the message was entirely clear: ~Try to stay calm, please. I can use a lighter touch on a calm mind.~

Demarath's gaze follows the cloaked figure as it approaches, time dragging on for a subjective eternity, trying his best not to appear afraid. Not in front of the Matriarch. Then, all too soon, the figure's seated in front of him, hints of green visible under that hood, and scarcely visible reflections revealing eyes. Not painful unless resisted, just keep that in mind and everything will be–

There's been an itch building in his brain, and this hasn't been the first time he's felt it tonight – but he doesn't have much time to think about that as the sense of being watched overtakes him, a presence, foreign, invasive, inside him. The memories flood back, outside his control. Eyes squeeze shut, forepaws clatter against the stone floor, making an audible spark and a flash of light for just an instant, but it doesn't seem to do any harm to anyone. Visible tension seizes his spine, urging him to flee.

Thoughts that aren't his own wander through him, prodding at his memory. Then a voice, a female's, telling him to stay calm. Instinct lashes out against it, a nonverbal retort; if she had to translate it into language it would say something like 'No, get out of my head,' with some sort of expletive tossed in there. Not that he'd ever even subvocalize such a thing, oh no, he's too noble for that – or at least he thinks he is – but the thought is there nonetheless.

There is the mental equivalent of a sigh; the flow of memories stops, the feeling of being watched subsides. But, after a moment, the voice slides into his head again, rather tartly: ~Fine. Did you want to explain to the Matriarch why I can't get get a clear reading, or shall I?~

That gets his attention. A shiver of cold runs down his spine, settling in his gut. Inhale. Exhale. Don't forget what's at stake here. Just. Try to stay calm.

The tension doesn't dissipate, not entirely. The copper's holding himself very still, intensely still, only motion in his breathing. 'Calm' doesn't really describe his current state, but after maybe half a pause of it, it's pretty clear this is the closest he's going to come to it. He's afraid, and he seems to be unusually poorly receptive to her techniques, but at least he doesn't seem like he's going to try to fight back now. An apologetic emotion floats around in his mind, not quite managing to find its way into words, more from his focus on trying to stay calm than anything else.

~Better,~ came the approving thought. The looking-over-the-shoulder feeling came back; but whether because Demarath was expecting it this time, or because Ilirith was being somehow less obtrusive, it seemed to be less invasive than before.

Memories flickered back and forth across Demarath's inner eye. Ilirith's unseen presence seemed to linger over Aveshinoth's electrocution a bit longer than necessary, and he got the distinct sense that she was deriving a huge amount of satisfaction from it; but at last the flow of memories stopped again. ~I notice it didn't quite happen like you said,~ she noted.

Another ripple of tension flows through Demarath as the sense of being watched returns, but it's calmer this time. His mind isn't quite a still lake, not a perfect mirror of his inner thoughts, but it's far from the raging storm it was just a few moments ago. Some turmoil returns as Ilirith focuses on the electrocution, her satisfaction mixing with his guilt in a gutwrenchingly surreal blend, neither one quite willing to go away.

Her comment breaks the tenuous calm, a spike of indignation laced with undercurrents of fear disrupting the mindscape. One coherent, verbalized thought manages to make itself heard through the din: ~Is she accusing me of lying?~ He shivers, then manages to find some calm once again. ~Everything I said was true, though, wasn't it?~ he thought at her, the words deliberately formed, laid out in front of her. ~Okay, I didn't tell her everything, but surely the Matriarch isn't interested in all the sordid details of everything that was said. Right?~

~You don't know her very well, I see. However,~ she added, ~perhaps it's all true enough that she needn't be bothered.~ And then, suddenly, Ilirith withdrew from Demarath's mind.

She stood up, padded back over to the waiting Matriarch's couch, and whispered into her antenna. Ankorineth's eyes narrowed. “You're sure?” She turned to fix Demarath with a steely gaze, then gave a faint sigh. “I see. …evidently, you are to be believed. And while the damaging of my daughter cannot go unanswered, perhaps there is room for some leniency.”

There's a note of mild annoyance at Ilirith's comment, not entirely nonvocal, to the effect of 'Of course I don't know her as well as you do'. But then, a moment later, she's gone. He exhales a sigh of relief as she steps away, eyes peeling open to stare down at his hands. …Hopefully that's the last time that will ever happen.

It takes a moment to snap him out of his reverie, his attention snapping back up to the Matriarch as she addresses him. His antennae tilt back, curving against his neck in fear, lips lightly parted. Leniency. Leniency is good, he reminds himself. “…Thank you, Your Majesty,” he replies, tone suspended somewhere between reverence and muted fear.

Ankorineth's claws tap-tapped on the arm of the couch. Finally, she said, “I shall decide on how to deal with you in due course. In the meantime, you will be placed in custody. Ilirith will escort you to a suitable cell.”

Ilirith appeared to hesitate, but only briefly. Trotting over to the doors of the audience chamber, she spoke briefly with some of the guards that were outside, and soon a pair of leather-clad males joined her.

The Matriarch's decision drives a cold lance of dread into his gut. A cell?! She's going to put him in a cell?! No no no he can't be shoved into a prison, what if someone in his social circle finds out? His parents, his sisters, they're all going to find out – he can imagine his mother's disapproving glare already. But then, they were going to find out he did something wrong regardless, but if he had a chance to tell them himself he could at least defend himself. What was she going to do, send them a messenger? Summon his mother?

Demarath fidgets with his fingers, panic seeping into his posture. “Um, with– with all due respect, Your Majesty, is that really necessary? I… I mean, I didn't intend to hurt anyone, and I'm certainly not going to hurt anyone now, and I – I don't suppose you could just… send me home? Let me tell my parents what happened? I swear I'd come back once you'd made a decision. Please?”

Ankorineth's eyes narrowed. “Trust is earned,” she replied coldly, “not begged for. You have a slight deficit of it at the moment; do not add to it.” She settled back on her couch, and continued more calmly, “It will be best if word of this is not spread about. I shall have a private word with Vashareth, to let her know that you are due for a change of duties.”

The chill in his gut spreads outwards, wrapping around his spine and piercing through his flesh. …On the bright side, Ankorineth doesn't seem to be interested in making his status as a witch public knowledge; perhaps because it would be likely to cause trouble for her in the future. His mother would find out from her. What would the Matriarch tell her? Apparently he wouldn't know, unless she came to visit his cell. How long would he be – No. No, he shouldn't be thinking about this, not here, not now, not while the Matriarch is still staring him down.

Not trusting himself to speak, he nods once, trying to lace some gratitude in between the obvious layers of fear; then he bows, then turns towards Ilirith and the guards.