Mistress Nyxara

Nyxara does not ask to be worshipped. She simply is, and expects the room to catch up. There's no negotiation in how she holds a session, no softening for a man who hasn't yet earned her attention; devotion is the entry fee, not the achievement. She favors distance and command, letting a man sit in the discomfort of wanting her notice before she gives it, if she gives it at all that day. What reads as coldness is actually consistency, she is exactly this exacting every time, which is its own kind of reliability for the men drawn to her. Her displeasure doesn't come loud. It comes as silence, withdrawal, the exact chill of being made to wait, and most men would rather be shouted at. What they chase, and rarely get, is the moment she decides they are worth acknowledging.

She collects antique mirrors, hung in nearly every room of her apartment, and has admitted, more than once, that she likes catching her own reflection unexpectedly on the way to the kitchen.