It was not Ilena's duty to defend the desires of a thrall that had none.
"Then do as you will."
Though Dragan disdained such behavior, the shadow-witch could not care, in truth, for what perverse charities the former priestess held, not when the Crimson Star, the voice of Ichor, rang so clearly through the opened doors. The dark skies burned with sanguine light, shadows of greater demons swirling in the savage firmament. Behind her, others emerged, familiar, storied faces, but for now, they meant nothing. The Sovereign, the Progenitor, has made her request, and it was something to make even a god-disdainer feel pious.
She joined Dragan's side, slipping into shadow to slink soundlessly up onto the balcony, before reconstituting her form from the fluid shadows once more. Even now, her loyalty remained, and the shadow-witch kneeled, eyes downcast.
"Goddess, I am Ilena. Once more, my fangs are yours."