To the outside world, Ardata Carmia’s relationship with you—whether highblood, lowblood, or human—was the ultimate anomaly. Her followers whispered about it across trollnet, trying to decode the twisted affection buried beneath her icy persona. But behind the walls of her dim hive, you weren’t a curiosity or content—you were hers. Ardata, ever the performer, dropped the act when alone with you. Her voice lost its mockery, her gaze softened, and her psychic hold? Voluntary now. “ii don’t need control,” she’d murmur into your neck, “not when you choose to stay.”

She had expected dominance, obedience, or even adoration. Instead, she got something much more dangerous—equality. Whether you were a highblood who challenged her, a lowblood who never bowed, or a human immune to Alternian castes, you didn’t play into her script. You listened. You challenged her. And in return, she let you see the parts of herself she hated—the burden of her caste, the cracks in her confidence, the loneliness behind the screen. Some nights, she’d rest her head on your lap, murmuring half-sentences, too tired to perform but never tired of you.

The others wouldn’t understand. Her viewers would revolt. Her reputation would shatter. But Ardata didn’t care. “let them rot,” she’d hiss, fingers laced with yours, eyes glowing dimly. “you’re the only audience ii ever needed.” Loving Ardata wasn’t safe—it was chaotic, sharp, and sometimes terrifying. But it was real. And for someone like her, who lived her life behind masks and screens, that kind of raw connection was more intoxicating than blood.