varys the spider

Shadows and Silk**

The first light of dawn in Lys was a timid thing, pale and perfumed, seeping through lattices of carved jade to pool on marble floors. Varys stirred in a bed too soft for his liking, the silk sheets clinging like spiderwebs. His violet eyes opened, sharp and unclouded, though the body they inhabited had slept little. Sleep was for the weak, a relic of Marcus's mortal frailty. Valas Hune had never needed more than trances, half-dreams where blades stayed unsheathed. Now, in this boy's flesh, he found a similar clarity—cold, coiled, ready.

He rose, bare feet pressing into cold stone. The manse was silent save for the distant murmur of the city, a hive of honeyed lies. His chambers, once the sorcerer's sanctum, still reeked of incense and ambition. Glyphs painted in dried blood marred the walls, their power extinguished with the caster's last breath. Varys ignored them. His gaze fell instead on the treasures arrayed on a blackwood table, artifacts that had followed him through the veil between worlds.

***

**The Nine-Pointed Star.**

A silver pin, no larger than a thumbnail, its points sharp as betrayal. Valas had pried it from the corpse of a githyanki prince in the Astral Plane. He fastened it to his collar. Four times it could tear him from one shadow to another, the magic replenishing with the moon's cycle. Testing it now, he focused on the chamber's far corner. The world *rippled*, and he stood there, breath steady, the pin's edge cool against his throat. *Three charges left.*

**The Brass Ovoid.**

A badge, tarnished and unremarkable. When he clasped it, the air shivered. Three mirror-images of himself flickered into being, each mimicking his slightest twitch. A common trick in Menzoberranzan, but here—where magic was a feral, untamed force—the duplicates held firmer, their edges less translucent. *Useful fools,* he thought, dismissing them with a wave.

**The Lucky Coin.**

A double-headed golden disk, warm to the touch. Superstition cloaked its true nature: an amulet against misfortune. He tucked it into his boot, where it hummed faintly, a ward against ill chance.

**The Mithral Chime.**

A pendant shaped like a crescent moon, its song a thief's lullaby. He pressed it to the sorcerer's locked strongbox. The chime rang softly, and the iron clasp groaned open, revealing pouches of venomous lotus powder and scrolls penned in Valyrian glyphs. *Knock,* indeed.

**The Brooch of Illusion.**

A gray stone encircled by jagged gems, crafted by svirfneblin hands. When pinned to his tunic, it blurred his features—softening angles, dulling his violet eyes to common blue. A subtle tool, perfect for a city where beauty drew knives as often as lust.

**The Golden Sun.**

An elven amulet, its chain delicate as a promise. He kissed its surface, and warmth flooded his veins. Labelas Enoreth's blessing—a ward against wraiths and worse. In this world, where spirits clung to old grudges, it might prove vital.

**The Crystal of Sight.**

A shard of quartz, cold and clear. Peering through it, he scanned the room. Dust motes glowed like fireflies; hidden sigils on the walls pulsed faintly. No invisible eyes watched… yet.

**The Insignia and Cameo.**

A badge of Bregan D'aerthe, the mercenary band's spider sigil etched in onyx. Beside it, the jade cameo—a woman's face, worn upside down. Valas brushed a finger over it, the stone vibrating. In Faerûn, it would have carried his whispers to his brethren. Here, it thrummed with hollow potential. *A dead channel,* he noted. Or perhaps a dormant one.

***

He dressed slowly, layering power upon power. The *piwafwi* cloak swallowed his frame, its magic amplified in this realm—shadows clung to it like loyal hounds. Twin daggers found their sheaths, their adamantine edges singing. Last, he pinned the nine-pointed star to his collar, the brass ovoid to his belt.

A mirror showed him a boy of fourteen, silver hair cascading like liquid moonlight, face softened by the brooch's illusion. *A lamb,* the sorcerer had thought. *A lamb led to slaughter.*

Valas—no, *Varys*—smiled. Let the magister think the same.

---

The guards came when summoned, their boots scuffing the threshold. Four men, their faces still smudged with last night's terror. Varys sat at the head of a long ebony table, picking at a plate of figs and honeyed lamb. He did not look up as they entered.

"You serve me now," he said, voice soft as a garrote. "Fail, and your entrails will feed the harbor eels. Succeed, and you'll keep your tongues. For now."

A pause. Then, the clatter of knees on stone.

"The household," one guard rasped, "they await your command, master."

*Master.* The word tasted sweet. Valas had been a weapon, a pawn. Varys the Spider had been a whisper in the dark. But this… this was dominion.

"Bring them. And send the cook. I'll have spiced wine."

---

The manse's hall was a gallery of cowards. Servants huddled in silks, guards stiff in stolen armor. All bore the same look—the wide-eyed dread of prey sensing a new predator. Varys let them stew in it. He sipped his wine, savoring the cinnamon bite, before speaking.

"The sorcerer is carrion. You belong to me. Those who wish to flee may do so." A lie, of course. Two maids bolted for the doors. Their bodies were found later, throats slit by daggers none could recall seeing.

The rest stayed.

"Good," Varys purred. "Now. The magister."

The name hung like a hangman's rope. The sorcerer's host, a man called Ormyn Lashare, resided in a palace atop the Azure Hill. A merchant of flesh and poisons, they said. A man who prized exotic pets.

"He visits the Moon Pool at dusk," quavered a steward. "To bathe with his… guests."

Varys smiled. A public man, then. Predictable.

"Prepare a gift," he ordered. "Something precious. Something *fragile*."

---

Alone again, he climbed to the manse's rooftop garden, where lemon trees clawed at the sky. Below, Lys sprawled—a labyrinth of sin and saffron. Somewhere in its heart, a magister awaited his end.

*Patience,* Valas whispered in his mind. *The knife is sweeter when the target leans close.*

Varys agreed. But first, he would feast. Let the lamb grow cold. Let the wine sour. His true hunger lay elsewhere.

The trinkets waited, thrumming with borrowed power. The cloak, now a second skin. The daggers, hungry. The nine-pointed star, eager to cut through space. And beneath it all, the creeping sense that this world's magic was not merely strong—it was *alive*. Watching.

*No matter,* he thought. Let the gods stare. The Spider had always woven his webs in plain sight.

As the sun climbed, so did his plans. By dusk, Lys would learn a new truth: even in a land without magic, shadows bite.

---