12-06-2024, 09:14 PM
The Ascendancy trusting Ryker? The thought hit him like a bad punchline. He actually chuckled under his breath at the absurdity of it, shaking his head as though Nox had just claimed the moon was made of cheese. Trust was a currency the Ascendancy rarely spent on anyone, let alone a tool like him. But he neither confirmed nor denied Nox’s inference. What would be the point? It wasn’t as if Nox seemed particularly invested in the truth of that statement either.
Instead, Ryker shifted his attention to the dizzying display that followed, his dark eyes narrowing as they tracked every thread, every twist, every motion of Nox’s hands. Whatever else he might think about the guy—his cocky grin, his swagger, the bizarre theatrics—there was no denying Nox was a master of his craft. Ryker wasn’t one to be easily impressed, but this? This was something else.
He crossed his arms over his chest, standing like a statue carved from impatience and scrutiny, but his mind worked furiously behind his calm exterior. He watched as Nox demonstrated the intricacies of the inverted weaves, breaking them down step by step. Backwards and invisible. Subtle and dangerous. It wasn’t just a skill—it was an art. And one that could, apparently, go catastrophically wrong if you weren’t careful.
It was almost funny, in a way. He’d spent years perfecting control, refining every thread of his channeling to the razor edge of utility, but this? This was a whole different kind of precision. And it explained the sweat still dripping from Nox’s hair. Whatever Nox had been doing before Ryker walked in had clearly taken its toll, even if he hid it behind that smirk of his.
Ryker could see the need for practice, could see the risk. But what really struck him was the challenge. The part of him that hated losing, the part that refused to accept any limitation, stirred restlessly at the thought of mastering something so complicated.
Of course, it wasn’t as if he could try it right now. That would mean revealing more than he wanted to—his knife, his limitations, and the tethered relationship he had with the weaves themselves. The knife sat heavy in his pocket, its weight a reminder of what he couldn’t do without it. That was a truth he wasn’t ready to share, not yet.
“Interesting,” was all he said aloud, his tone deliberately neutral. He made sure to keep his expression as flat as possible, giving nothing away.
But of course, Ryker couldn’t help himself for long. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he added, “I can see why you’re sweating like a sinner in church, though. I think I burned calories just watching you. What’s next? An interpretive dance number where you conjure dinner and drinks?”
He smirked faintly, the dry humor offsetting the tension in the air, but his focus remained sharp. He stepped closer to the hanging weaves, examining them like a jeweler appraising a rare diamond. His eyes flicked between the floating light and the inverted water, his fingers itching to reach out but stopping just shy. He wouldn’t let himself appear too curious, though inside he was cataloging every detail with the precision of a field operative.
“And this whole ‘don’t finish the backwards weave or you’ll blow yourself up’ bit? Makes me wonder what your trial-and-error process looked like.” He quirked an eyebrow at Nox. “Do I even want to know how many times you almost turned yourself into a cautionary tale?”
He stepped back from the weaves and folded his arms again, leaning against the edge of the wall as he let the silence hang for a beat. Then, his tone softened—just slightly—as he added, “I’ll give you this much: that’s some seriously impressive work. Pain in the ass to learn, I’m sure, but still... not bad.
Instead, Ryker shifted his attention to the dizzying display that followed, his dark eyes narrowing as they tracked every thread, every twist, every motion of Nox’s hands. Whatever else he might think about the guy—his cocky grin, his swagger, the bizarre theatrics—there was no denying Nox was a master of his craft. Ryker wasn’t one to be easily impressed, but this? This was something else.
He crossed his arms over his chest, standing like a statue carved from impatience and scrutiny, but his mind worked furiously behind his calm exterior. He watched as Nox demonstrated the intricacies of the inverted weaves, breaking them down step by step. Backwards and invisible. Subtle and dangerous. It wasn’t just a skill—it was an art. And one that could, apparently, go catastrophically wrong if you weren’t careful.
It was almost funny, in a way. He’d spent years perfecting control, refining every thread of his channeling to the razor edge of utility, but this? This was a whole different kind of precision. And it explained the sweat still dripping from Nox’s hair. Whatever Nox had been doing before Ryker walked in had clearly taken its toll, even if he hid it behind that smirk of his.
Ryker could see the need for practice, could see the risk. But what really struck him was the challenge. The part of him that hated losing, the part that refused to accept any limitation, stirred restlessly at the thought of mastering something so complicated.
Of course, it wasn’t as if he could try it right now. That would mean revealing more than he wanted to—his knife, his limitations, and the tethered relationship he had with the weaves themselves. The knife sat heavy in his pocket, its weight a reminder of what he couldn’t do without it. That was a truth he wasn’t ready to share, not yet.
“Interesting,” was all he said aloud, his tone deliberately neutral. He made sure to keep his expression as flat as possible, giving nothing away.
But of course, Ryker couldn’t help himself for long. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he added, “I can see why you’re sweating like a sinner in church, though. I think I burned calories just watching you. What’s next? An interpretive dance number where you conjure dinner and drinks?”
He smirked faintly, the dry humor offsetting the tension in the air, but his focus remained sharp. He stepped closer to the hanging weaves, examining them like a jeweler appraising a rare diamond. His eyes flicked between the floating light and the inverted water, his fingers itching to reach out but stopping just shy. He wouldn’t let himself appear too curious, though inside he was cataloging every detail with the precision of a field operative.
“And this whole ‘don’t finish the backwards weave or you’ll blow yourself up’ bit? Makes me wonder what your trial-and-error process looked like.” He quirked an eyebrow at Nox. “Do I even want to know how many times you almost turned yourself into a cautionary tale?”
He stepped back from the weaves and folded his arms again, leaning against the edge of the wall as he let the silence hang for a beat. Then, his tone softened—just slightly—as he added, “I’ll give you this much: that’s some seriously impressive work. Pain in the ass to learn, I’m sure, but still... not bad.