In the early evening light, the lone figure opened the front door of the manor home. In a neutral white gown of soft flowing material, she walked into the lobby area and was greeted by a manservant. It was always the same; the tastes not changing from breed to breed. A love of beautiful artistry, opulence, affluence, the trappings of ego and authority.

Sometimes, not so different from humanity.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware any guests were expected." The manservant bowed, courteous. "Please, come this way. I will inform him you are here."

Wordless, she followed him to the left, through a set of double doors into a grand drawing room. The manservant closed them behind her, bowed again, then vanished out a side door.

For two minutes there was silence, then the double doors at the opposite end of the room opened. Through it came four retainers, body-armour clad, automatic rifles in hand, who split into pairs and moved to either side. Then was a stately figure; lean, handsome, hazel eyes, aquiline nose, short sandy-brown hair. He wore black slacks, a white dress shirt, loafers and a lavish embroidered evening robe, red and black with a cream trim, open at the front.

As soon as he stepped over the threshold, the same manservant swiftly drew the doors closed behind, leaving them alone in the room.

"I do not recognise you." The man did not approach further, but stood front and centre between his honour guard. She did not move, either. "Guests cannot find me without invitation, so you must have another purpose. Identify yourself."

"You are Silas Callahan?" She was soft-spoken, emotion strangely absent from the words. "Elder and sire of the Fourth House of the Conclave?"

His eyes narrowed, his head tilting back as he pinned her with an arrogant glare. "If you have business with me, state your name and show your affiliation. An inability to comply means you will be leaving," he gestured to his retainers and their weaponry, "one way or another."

She smiled.

"The assassins failed their task, Silas."

His eyes went wide.

"Shiba!"

In unison, the retainers raised their weapons, no signal needed. Before they could so much as orient their guns on her, she lifted her hands from where they were demurely clasped. In a one-two flick of the wrist from both left and right, a twisting flurry of blue light launched from her fingers, the dual mess of shifting lines shooting at the aggressors. Both pairs were struck by it, sent flying into the walls, all four slumping unconscious to the floor.

At the same time he was reaching out his right hand, to a candle sconce on the wall. The little fire of the lit candle leaped to his palm, in a second growing to the size of a basketball, and then he thrust his arm out, a torrent pouring forth as if it were a flamethrower. In defence, her left hand rose to block it, the tirade barely shielded as his elemental fury fought with the shield of her will.

"Then I will finish it!"

The inborn magical power of his heritage was potent and he did not let up, yet neither did she wither. He pushed harder, stronger, the intensity and his anger heightening, and her hand was forced back closer to her body. Then, in a repudiation that was horrifying with its ease, she focused. The neutral white of her gown, her hair, her eyes; it deepened, darkened, shifted along the spectrum, everything turning blue. With a single push of the hand, fingers splayed, the flame went out, an invisible frigid strike extinguishing it all the way to his very fingertips.

"No!" He shouted. "You come to your DOOM!"

With both hands, he summoned fire again from two more of the candle sconces, beginning the assault anew. With twice as much wielded, twice as much concentration, he drew upon his power and put it forth into attack. The Lady Shiba began to advance, her hand still out in a bulwark of defence. His rage and disbelief grew and grew, the flames an incinerating salvo, yet she continued closer and closer, until, as she was about to reach him, there was a second push and ...

... it went out, along with all the candles in the room.

The air temperature lowered, a chilling ambience falling upon them.

"Your true name is Silarion."

His eyes dilated in horror at her words, his hands dropping to his sides.

"You- ... you broke them." He rasped. "You are no elder!"

"I will break you." Calmly, she reached the same hand out and gripped his face, jaw to temple, cheek to ear. "Relinquish your mind."

"Nnnnnggh." He grunted, the muscles of his jaw and neck taut, his limbs motionless. "I am n-not ... so weak."

She did not reply.

"N-never! Nngh! I ... reject you!"

"Serve my intentions." Her eyes glowed, and the pressure only grew. "Submit."

"I will not." Blood began to trickle from his nose, dripping over his lips. His voice wavered, the coarse scratchiness accentuating. "Your priestess is- ... is ours. The time c-comes. When he ret-" He stopped a second, more blood dribbling out the corner of his mouth, drops of it oozing from the edges of the eyes. "-returns ... he will destroy you."

"If you will not yield," she whispered, "then you must die."

With a final jerk, he stopped moving. Red was now flowing freely in thickening rivulets, and Silarion went lax, falling out of her grasp and onto the floor.

Dead.

Curious, the Lady Shiba turned her hand over, watching the droplets follow the contours of her skin, inscrutable and unmoved. One was finished with, but there were others left. There was no reason to stop now.

She had work to do.