Kitana: Fallen Kingdom by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Kitana-Fallen-Kingdom-1279861428#image-1

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Whispers in the Ivory Halls

The scent of moldering silk and ozone clung to the air as Kitana's boots sank into the palace carpets, threads unraveling like decaying nerves. Moonlight cut through fractured stained glass, painting shivering rainbows across overturned banquet tables. This had once been her mother's solarium - now the claw marks scoring the mother-of-pearl walls told a different tale. She adjusted the translucent gauze of her shimmersilk gown, the fabric designed to catch light and distract from the war fan blades stitched into its seams. Tonight, she played the desperate heiress returning to claim her inheritance. Tonight, the moths would come to the flame.

"Pray, remove your travel cloak, gentle flower." The voice echoed with polished resonance, yet beneath it hummed the vibration of a whetstone on steel. From the shadowed archway emerged a figure that parodied courtly grace - waist cinched impossibly tight, brocade jacket straining over hunched shoulders. Its face remained politely averted as custom demanded, one three-fingered hand extended. The fingers ended in chitinous points polished to a courtier’s shine.

Kitana offered a gloved hand, forcing herself not to recoil when its clammy touch brushed her knuckles. "Your hospitality honors me, Lord...?"

The figure executed a perfect bow, neck bending at an unnatural angle. "Silverscale, custodian of this regrettably diminished estate." When it lifted its chin, moonlight caught the vertical slit-pupils darting behind carved ivory veneer. "We preserve decorum despite recent... renovations." Its smile showed porcelain caps fitted over serrated bone.

"Renovations?" Kitana glided past him, trailing fingers along a mural depicting Edenian harvest dances. Her nail caught on a fresh gouge where dancers now sported crude horns. "I heard my childhood home was reclaimed by nature. Not... new tenants."

Silverscale emitted a clicking chuckle. "Nature adapts. We simply honor tradition." He gestured toward the banquet hall where figures swayed in broken rhythm. "The minuet requires partners."

Within the crumbling ballroom, chandeliers hung askew, crystals dripping condensation like sweat. Couples rotated with stiff-backed precision beneath them - ball-gowns draped over asymmetrical torsos, dress uniforms stretched across hunched spines. They moved with rigid synchronization, heads tilting at identical angles. When the viols scraped into dissonance, Kitana glimpsed the joining of hands: her partner’s split-knuckled fingers encircled her waist, palm blades retracted but grazing her spine through the silk.

"Tell me of the gardens," Kitana murmured, leaning impossibly close as the dance demanded. "I recall night orchids blooming where the moon pools once shone."

Her partner’s mandibles clicked beneath a lace cravat. "Frost claimed the orchids." His breath smelled of wet iron. "New blossoms thrive now. Crimson, with thorns that bless the skin." His head rotated 180 degrees as they turned, milky eyes locking onto hers. "Strange, your fragrance... familiar as severed veins."

As the dance ended, Silverscale materialized bearing tarnished goblets. "Our cordial, distilled from Eclipse Peaches." The liquid swirled, viscous and purple-black. "A vintage you'll find... singularly transformative."

Kitana swirled her untouched cup. "Transformation requires surrender. I prefer clarity." She raised her voice, ensuring it carried. "Kneel."

Every figure froze. Bones audibly reknitted within corsets and tailcoats. Silverscale’s polished veneer cracked at the corners. "I beg pardon?"

"Tradition demands petitioners kneel before Edenian royalty." Kitana’s fan snapped open, silver ribs catching the moonlight. "Did your research omit that etiquette?"

Silence pooled like blood. Then Silverscale folded forward, joints popping, a creaking marionette bow. Across the ballroom, dancers collapsed into crouches with painful awkwardness. Groans escaped through gritted teethcaps.

"Better." Kitana circled the kneeling figure like a sculptor appraising flawed marble. "But posture requires correction. Place your palms flat."

Silverscale’s breathing quickened into rattling gusts as his knuckles pressed the tiles. Retracted blades slithered impatiently beneath skin. "The... floor is filthy... beneath our hands..."

"All foundations grow soiled without care. Palms flat." Her boot tapped his wrist.

As claw-tips t
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