Cat's Cradle

Demetrius’s eyes sparkled with a sharpness that suggested both amusement and appraisal. For a moment, he seemed to withdraw inward, one gloved hand smoothing the intricate pattern on his desk as though it held some unseen wisdom. The tension in the room thickened as he shifted from the calculated poise of a ruler to something … less conventional.

Oh, Tiberius, dear Tiberius, he began, leaning forward, his golden eyes brightening like smoldering embers. So astute. Yes, yes – the power that certain rituals, certain—taboo arts, shall we say?—might have over a creature connected to the Archon of the Imperium. His voice dipped, halfway between a murmur and a stage whisper, both amused and deadly serious, as if he himself were only half-present. But do you know, these dear little cats, he gave a pointed glance at Little Mal, they tend to bring out the ... *unusual* in people.

He grinned, a strange, sidelong grin that hinted at his faraway thoughts.

Have you ever considered, Magister, that power is often like these cats—both fiercely independent and utterly dependent on how you feed it? Consider the catnappers. Infiltrators who think they’ve come close to … what? To me? To the heartbeat of this place? He clapped his hands, the echo bouncing off the cold marble walls. A paltry imitation of proximity, don’t you think? But proximity is not power, and fear is not strength.

Demetrius paused, seeming to shake off his own musings with a careless wave. He straightened, meeting Tiberius’s gaze with the intense clarity of a man who’d said more than he intended. He leaned back, fingertips pressed together. And yet, to risk their lives for so absurd a mission, he remarked, the question does beg itself, doesn’t it?

@Tiberius Umbra