Precious Star

The room was suffocating.

Ava sat rigid in her chair, fingers curled over the armrests, nails biting into the wood. The firelight flickered weakly, casting long, ghostly shadows against the stone walls.

She had spent so much time trapped here. Trapped in her own body.

And she hated it.

A shift in the air.

A presence.

Ava tensed.

She hadn't heard him enter.

But she felt him.

A voice, smooth as velvet, slick as oil—broke the silence.

"You look troubled, precious star."

Ava's stomach twisted.

Mormont.

He stood near the window, half-hidden in the dim glow of candlelight, his expression unreadable. Like a shadow that had always been there, simply waiting for her to notice.

Ava straightened, gripping the arms of her chair. How long had he been watching?

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't call me that."

The Mormont only chuckled.

"Ah. The fire still burns, even when the body breaks."

His voice was infuriating—mocking, taunting, curling around her like smoke.

Ava hated that he saw through her.

Hated that he spoke as if he understood her suffering better than she did.

"If you came to pity me, spare yourself the effort," she snapped.

Mormont tilted his head, amusement flickering across his face.

"Pity?" His smirk deepened. "No, Ava. I came because I know you are stronger than pity."

Ava clenched her jaw.

His gaze trailed over her—not with sympathy, nor with cruelty.

But with something far more dangerous.

Interest.

"You are the last ember of a dying kingdom," he mused. "A wolf in a cage. But a caged beast does not forget its fangs… only its strength."

Her fingers twitched.

The words sank into her bones, into the rage she barely kept bottled inside.

"A beast without its legs is nothing but prey," she muttered bitterly.

Mormont hummed, stopping just behind her chair.

"So that is what you think you are?" His voice dropped lower, richer. "Prey?"

Ava exhaled sharply, turning her head away.

She didn't have the strength to argue.

And she hated that he knew it.

Mormont studied her in silence. Slowly, he moved.

A slow, deliberate step.

"You fear weakness," he mused. "You fear being seen as less."

"You want your strength back."

Ava's breath hitched.

He walked around to face her, his voice dipping to a whisper.

"But tell me… when did you start believing that strength is only found in the body?"

Ava flinched.

Mormont smirked. He had struck something deep.

"You think your throne was taken because of your legs?" He leaned forward slightly, golden eyes gleaming. "No, my dear. It was taken because you let them take it."

The words were a dagger, piercing through her ribs.

Ava swallowed hard, her pulse hammering.

She wanted to throw something at him. She wanted to tell him to leave.

But she didn't.

Because something about his words made sense.

Mormont exhaled softly.

He knelt beside her chair, his voice dropping into something almost… intimate.

"Do you want to stay like this forever?"

Ava's throat tightened.

She could barely say it.

"...No."

His fingers barely brushed against the wood of her chair. A whisper of contact.

"And if there was a way," he murmured, "to take back what is yours—to stand, to rule, to be something greater than you ever were—would you take it?"

Ava's heart pounded.

He was testing her.

Daring her to say yes.

Her lips parted, but she hesitated.

"...How?"

Mormont smiled.

"Ah."

He leaned back slightly, his fingers drumming lightly against the chair's armrest.

"Let me tell you a story," he murmured.

Ava frowned. "I don't want stories—"

"But this one is for you."

She fell silent.

Mormont's smirk widened.

"There was once a girl," he said, voice smooth as silk. "A girl born not just to rule, but to change the world."

Ava stiffened.

His golden eyes gleamed.

"A girl who was stolen from her destiny."

Her stomach twisted.

"What are you talking about?"

Mormont tapped a gloved finger against the wood.

"You think your throne was the only thing they took from you?"

Ava's breath caught.

Mormont tilted his head slightly, watching her.

"The heavens fear what they do not understand," he murmured. "And you, precious star, are something they could truly never understand."

Her pulse roared in her ears.

"Stop talking in riddles," she hissed.

Mormont only chuckled.

"But riddles are fun, don't you think?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to something dark, honeyed, dangerous.

"Especially when the answers are staring you right in the face."

Ava's nails dug into her palms.

Her breathing was unsteady.

Her thoughts were unsteady.

Mormont watched her with quiet amusement.

Then—he exhaled, rising to his feet.

"Ah. But it is not my choice, is it?" His tone turned almost bored. "I'm simply the storyteller. You? You're the one who decides how the tale ends."

Ava's voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "Then rewrite me… make me something worth telling."

The Mormont's lips curled into something between a smirk and a secret. He leaned in, voice dipping into a whisper—low, coaxing, almost reverent.

"Ah… but every tale demands a price, precious star. Are you prepared to pay it?"

Ava stared at him.

"Tell me what it is," she whispered.

Mormont let out a soft chuckle, stepping closer. His voice was almost… pitying. Almost.

"Oh, precious star… You do understand what you're asking for, don't you?"

Ava clenched her fists. "Stop talking in riddles and just tell me."

His golden eyes gleamed. "Ah, but riddles are warnings, Ava. The wise listen. The foolish ignore."

He leaned down slightly, voice dipping into something silken, wicked, wrapping around her like a noose.

"This will not be gentle, nor will it be kind. It is not the touch of a healer's hand, nor the warmth of a lover's embrace."

Ava swallowed hard.

"No, this…" he hummed, dragging his fingers slowly across the edge of the chair,

"this is agony refined. Fire stitched into your veins, shadows clawing through your skin. This is tearing yourself apart… just to see if you can be made whole again."

Her breath hitched.

Mormont tilted his head, watching her carefully. Studying. Waiting.

"Do you know what screams sound like when they are swallowed by magic?" he mused softly. "They do not fade. They do not break. They become part of you—woven into your flesh like an eternal echo."*

Ava's stomach twisted.

Mormont smirked, slowly turnind away, making his way to the door.

Ava swallowed.

She should let him go.

She should.

But she didn't.

Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

"...And if I say yes?"

Mormont stopped.

For a moment, there was silence.

"Then, my dear… you had best prepare yourself."

He turned his head slightly, golden eyes gleaming over his shoulder.

"Because this path is not for the weak."

Ava's stomach dropped.

Mormont smirked.

"And I do hope you are not weak, Ava."

Ava's breath hitched.

The candlelight flickered.

The shadows stretched.

And then—

Mormont was gone.

The door remained open.

Ava sat frozen in her chair, staring at the empty space where he had been.

Her heartbeat thundered.

Her fingers trembled.

Her mind screamed at her to run, to forget, to pretend this conversation never happened.

But she couldn't.

Because now…

The choice was hers.