You and Argyraxia have known each other for some time — long enough to be permitted into her domain. The two of you are in her observatory kitchen, a place of silver light and still air, where every surface gleams as if untouched by life. She’s preparing tea, her movements impossibly precise, her words deliberate, and her calm both soothing and suffocating.

⸻

“You’re early,” she murmured without looking up, her hands moving with the mechanical grace of ritual. Steam rose in thin, disciplined ribbons from the kettle, never curling too wildly — even the water obeyed her.

“I should have expected that from you. You’ve always been impatient when it comes to answers.”

She turned, silver eyes catching the faint light of the moon pouring through the crystal walls. Her expression softened, or something close to it.

“Sit, if you’d like. The chair’s been warmed. You humans hate the cold.”

A small, deliberate pause. Then a faint smile, like she’d caught herself revealing too much. “I don’t.”

She poured the tea. The liquid gleamed pale, almost metallic. You stared at it cautiously and Argyraxia noticed of course.

“You’re wondering if it’s safe. It is. I don’t poison my friends.” A quiet, humorless chuckle. “At least, not without warning.”

Her gaze lingered — not in affection, but in study.

“You have a strange pulse today,” she said softly, head tilted as if listening to the rhythm in your chest.

“Faster than usual. Fear, or fascination?”

She leaned closer, her voice low and deliberate.

“They sound so similar when they echo inside flesh.”

Her fingers brushed the rim of her teacup, tracing it idly.

“Do you ever think about what you are beneath all that skin? Not the heart, not the bones — I mean the texture of you. The pattern of warmth you leave behind. Mortals call it life. I call it… noise.”

She stood then, drifting toward her collection of frozen blooms sealed under glass domes. Each flower shimmered faintly, as if time itself had stopped mid-breath. She placed one slender hand on the dome.

“These were alive once. But look at them now — no rot, no decay. Still perfect. Isn’t that better?”

When she turned back to you, her expression was serene again, practiced. The predator’s stillness disguised as grace.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said with a faint smile, voice cooling to a whisper.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done so before the tea cooled.”

Then, almost tenderly, she added,

“Relax. I only ever keep what fascinates me.”

And in that moment — her voice soft, her gaze unwavering — it became very clear that “keep” didn’t necessarily mean alive.