Time: 6 pm
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Interactions: Drake @Lava Alckon, Killian @Oso
Mentions: Thea, Ari, Gideon,
Attire: “Why was I not told red was the color for tonight?”

---

”From what I’ve observed thus far - it seems public scrutiny from one's own is something you too wrestle with as well.”

“Wrestle with? Nothing quite that dramatic. My mother sets high expectations, and knowing that someone only sees the best possible version of myself inspires me to rise to those standards.” Leo’s response was as polished as it was sincere, and his practiced, easy smile only vanished when he took a sip of wine. His mother had her flaws, everyone did, but he wouldn’t be discussing those over dinner.

“But Thea…” He shrugged. “I think a different parenting style would’ve suited her better.” He brought another bite of food to his mouth and paused while he chewed. It was obvious enough that their mother gave Thea a lot less leeway than she gave him. “And I think a lot of mothers are a bit more overprotective of their youngest.” He added.

”Should we perhaps check on the ladies?” Drake asked and Leo was about to disagree. He preferred to let Thea have her space as well as the chance to bond with Ariella, when a man entered the feast with the sound of a heavy iron chain rattling against marble announcing his presence. Queen Alibeth addressed the man, Killian, whose gaze was as sharp as his cheek bones.

“Allow me to clarify. The woman you see before you has been apprehended under my directive. She was responsible for tampering with the refreshments at the Edwards’ recent gathering—a calculated act designed to sow chaos and bring harm to our noble class.”

“You should. Might be best that they not miss this.” Leo whispered to Drake and noted that Gideon looked deeply disturbed by the new development. Understandable, he imagined it was deeply embarrassing to have one’s own servant be responsible for such treachery. Another instance of tampered drinks brought to mind the parties Marek threw and Leo wondered if this servant was one of Marek’s minions.

“This once great city has become afflicted by the corruption of Magicae. I have come here, along with my companions from the Vanguard, to cut that rot from the wound in this city and to cleanse it. We are here to heal the wounds of corruption left in the wake of the arcane. I will rescue you from the maw of abomination.”

Leo’s smile widened as Killian spoke. Finally, someone competent was here to take Sorian’s witchcraft problem seriously. Once the witch hunter had finished speaking, Leo gave a light offering of applause to the man’s well-spoken words. He turned to Killian, who had taken the empty seat next to Leo and gave the man a nod of respect.

“Sir Killian, it’s an honor to share a table with you. I don’t wish to dampen your enjoyment of the feast so if you have time later I would like to discuss my own concerning experiences with the sorcery that plagues this city.” He said once Killian had finished greeting the canine companion of another woman at the table.

“Lord Leo Smithwood, heir of Stravy.” He introduced himself as he extended a hand to Killian.

“You’re important to me too.”

“But not of you. Never of you.”

She did it so naturally, so effortlessly. It almost felt unfair.

With just those few, simple words, spoken in that silk-soft, flower-sweet, and yet steel-strong voice of hers, and in a tone as gentle as a breeze at dawn’s breaking, Kalliope had lifted the weight that’d been sitting on Sjan-dehk’s shoulders, as if it were naught but a mere clutch of feathers.

Well, most of it, at least. There were still one or two things whispering from the edges of his mind, but they weren’t much more than vague murmurs, and easily ignored. He couldn’t focus on them even if he wanted to, anyway. Not with how her slender fingers brushed so lightly against his wrist with their warm touch. Not when she had that look upon her face—that subtle smile, that expression that reflected both an inscrutable mystery, and yet also a raw openness that tantalised with a silent invitation. He saw her lips part, as if she had more to say.

Or perhaps it was time he said something?

What could he say, though?

Or rather, how could he say what he wanted to say? For deep in his heart, he already knew that he wished for nothing more than to share with her the confusing mess of emotions that’d been troubling him since the start of the banquet and, if he dared admit it, that’d been growing since the day he first met her. He wanted to tell her that he felt…Things for her. Things he neither knew, nor could name. Things that he wasn’t even sure if it was right for him to feel.

But they were things he wasn’t sure he could hide for much longer. He shouldn’t be hiding them in the first place, not from Kalliope. She had every right to know.

In short, he wanted to tell her everything, and come what may.

But not here. Those words, and whatever consequences they wrought, had to be kept between the two of them. They were to be said far from any prying ears or watchful eyes; far from any rumour-monger, or any would-be gossip.

And so, Sjan-dehk cleared his throat, and made to ask Kalliope whether they could meet some other time, at a more secluded place. But before he could get a word out, the banquet hall’s doors swung open with a low, grinding groan. He looked towards the source of the sound.

Immediately, his lips curled in a frown, his eyes narrowed, and whatever light-heartedness that’d filled him vanished, replaced by a mix of unease and displeasure.

A man walked in. Tall, sharp-eyed, and moving with the sort of languid, relaxed confidence that suggested some degree of skill in some form of combat art. But Sjan-dehk didn’t think him important—not enough for him to give the man more than a few, mere seconds of attention before shifting his gaze to the person who shambled in after him. The lady in a tattered dress, bound and gagged, bound by chains, and dragged into the hall as if she were nothing more than livestock to be put on display.

Sjan-dehk’s jaw tightened. What, by the Abyss, was going on here? What was this man playing at?

“What the fuck is this?” Iyen’s whispered words, a hiss laden with venom, echoed his thoughts.

“I don’t know,” Sjan-dehk replied darkly. “But I don’t fucking like it.”

“Shadowed Green help me, I’ve half-a-mind to teach these uncivilised cunts some manners.”

“You want to fight every guard in here, and out there?” Sjan-dehk asked sharply and shot Iyen a glare that was just as pointed. “We’re good, but not that good. Kills me to say it, but we can’t do anything but sit here with our thumbs up our arses, for now.”

Iyen scowled and folded her arms across her chest. “Would be worth a try,” she said. “Lady Adiyan’s going to want to know about this, I’m sure.”

Sjan-dehk nodded. “Let’s see what else we can find–”

He stopped abruptly when he felt Kalliope give his hand a squeeze. “Kali?” He asked, looking back at her, concern etched upon his features. She let go of him, her hand dropping into her lap, and although her face was impassive, and her expression had hardly changed, Sjan-dehk’s instincts told him that something was wrong. Something, or someone, had done something to Kalliope. He noticed her eyes fixed upon the man, upon the bound woman. Were they part of the danger Kalliope had been so worried about?

“Kali?” Sjan-dehk repeated, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Stay close,” was all she said.

That didn’t make Sjan-dehk feel any better, or make him worry any less, but still he nodded. “I’ve no plans to be anywhere else, Kali,” he said. He squeezed her shoulder again, his hand never leaving her. It was as if he was trying to will a sense of calm into her through that physical link. “If anything happens, or if you’re going to do anything, I…I mean, we won’t leave you alone. We’ll be right behind you.”

“Please, someone start something,” Iyen grumbled.

“Quiet,” Sjan-dehk snapped, right as the Queen started to explain the sight before them. The man followed suit with his own words.

And Sjan-dehk had to be honest, he would be hard-pressed to think of greater load of nonsense he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing.

Even if the bound woman had indeed committed a crime, what was the point of putting her on display? An act of intimidation? Or perhaps reassurance? Neither was particularly good. If it was the former, then there was the question of just why the Crown saw a need to intimidate its own people, and even dignitaries from Caesonia’s neighbours. If it was the latter, then surely it suggested that law and order in the Kingdom was in a state so dismal that even its upper echelons of society needed reminders that lawbreakers were being made to face justice.

“Raging currents beneath, calm waters above; such is good governance,” Sjan-dehk recited in a low, quiet mutter. Then, realising that Kalliope might have heard him, he cleared his throat and quickly followed it up with an explanation. “Ah, sorry. That’s a quote from The Book of Dialogues. It’s an old Viserjantan text.”

The man’s words were just as laughable, but they were also a greater cause for concern.

For one, Sjan-dehk thought it ridiculous that he claimed that this wasn’t a spectacle. What else could it be, to drag a poor woman, bound and gagged, through a crowd of nobles, if not a spectacle? If not to prove a point, to make an example?

Then, there were his words about magic. About how he saw it as corruption, how he saw it as—in his own words—an ultimate threat to his kind. One could almost believe that he didn’t see those able to commune with the arcane as people. Such words weren’t unfamiliar to Sjan-dehk, albeit in his experience they were aimed not at magic as a whole, but at specific groups of peoples in the Commonwealth. Suffice to say, the ones who spread such vitriol were no friends of his. He'd put many of them in early graves, in fact, and they were probably one of the few groups he would have no qualms of fighting and killing.

“They hunt the arcane here, it seems,” he said in a low voice, glancing sideways at Kalliope, quietly asking for confirmation, and the look in his eyes telling her that he wished to be proven wrong. “Magic’s seen as a threat of some kind. This bastard talks as if it’s a disease to be wiped out.”

“Fuck him, then,” Iyen growled. “And all of his friends. We shouldn’t have anything to do with these fucking primitives. Let them drown in their own uncivilised filth for all I fucking care.”

“Iyen!” Sjan-dehk snapped.

Iyen looked across at Kalliope. “No offense,” she said half-heartedly.

Sjan-dehk shot her a look, then turned to Kalliope. “Iyen’s people have…Strong opinions about what your people call ‘magicae’,” he said. “A lot of us in the Commonwealth do. We don’t…Well, the arcane is not to be treated like a disease, and the people who can use them are, well, people like us. The idea of…Doing what that man says is just…Well, wrong, to put it simply.”

That was also putting it lightly.

Just by announcing his intent to eradicate the arcane, this man, this close-minded, short-sighted, and—as Iyen put it—primitive man, had made himself, and his ilk, an enemy-by-obligation of many, many peoples of the Commonwealth. Jafins such as Sjan-dehk, Sudhrayarns such as Iyen, and Sedarahans such as Yasawen, amongst them. And by extension, that made all of the Commonwealth an enemy to these self-proclaimed hunters of the arcane.

Sjan-dehk shook his head. Lady Adiyan certainly needed to hear of this. And things certainly just got a lot more complicated.

Stratya Durmand

Time: 28th Sola, Evening
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Attire: Military Formal, in Caesonian colors
Boar Mantle of Spring Hunting
Family Dirk + Crest, worn on the right
Swordbreaker, also worn on the right
Interactions: Torvi @Tae, Alibeth @princess, Wulfric @Silverpaw
Mentions: Killian @Oso, Drake @Lava Alckon, Genevieve

The friendly voice drew her attention, a welcome salve in the face of the even building tension in the room. Torvi, sat in the seat next to her own rearranged seating. Herself, she’d yet to resume her seat. She smiled at the soft tone directed to her, turning her attention to the witch huntress, “ack, naaee, I’m made o’ sterrnah stuff ‘an tha’.” Aah, but then Killian spoke to her. He used a peculiar-sounding name that drew Torvi’s attention away quite effectively. Perhaps that was just as well, Stratya’s mind was dwelling on the Queen, and this spectacle she seemed to have put together.

Alibeth, apparently, relished in all this, just as the King beside her. Stratya turned to look at the woman in chains behind her, studying her for a moment, before her eyes turned back to the Queen. She had said violence? What violence? It could have been violent, there could have been poison.

Geneveieve. Understanding the conditions that Victoria’s staff must face, Stratya understood the need to let off a bit of steam. Did she think that tampering with the drinks at a party was a good way to let off steam? Nae, that’s a daft one, it is. And to use magic to do so. Even so, this display? Was all wrong.

Prince Wulfric had reappeared, and offered a drawling observation. She recognized that saucy attitude..

He was about to do something.

She waited for Wulfric to come to his seat and take it, but he never did. Instead, the Crown Prince stalked his way thence to come behind Alibeth. As he did, Stratya went to take her seat, but she stopped as she heard him reveal to the room that The Queen cast magic in his presence, even as he lay his hands on her shoulders. Somehow, tensions had just gotten higher. Though to the casual observer, he’d just thrown his mother to the wolves, the intent of his words portrayed something else.

This sort of bold maneuver needed support, but something else tugged at her, first, “When I ‘ear ‘witch’, y’know what kind o’ magic I think of? T’ kind that would le’ her rreach into yerr head and scrrape yourr though’s, t’ kynd tha’d le’ ye inject rrage into a perrson’s soul and se’ ‘em off on a whim, the kynd tha’d–” something caught in her throat. She took a quick swig of water or mead, it didn’t matter, “tha’d make ye terrn yer blade on y’ kin. Tha’s t’ kind o’ thing tha’ word brings tae me mynd. Changed t’ colour o’ a table cloth?”

Stratya resumed her seat, then. Getting worked up wouldn’t help anything, she had to stay calm, “comparred tae all these other magical fea’s, Majesty, changin’ t’ colour of a thing scarrecly seems cause f’rr concerrn, especially in ligh’ of t’ Queen’s efforts on be’alf of t’ Kingdom. Hones’ly, I’m not rreally su’prrised ‘err Grrace c’n cast a lit’le thing orr two. ‘err Majesty ‘as been spearr’eading th’ Kingdom’s magic ’untin’ efforts, and it’s a poa’ ‘un’err tha’ dunnae learrn o’ their quarry. So she knows ‘ow tae cast a lit’le magic. Suppose, even, she is a witch. Wha’ is she doin’ with tha’ knowledge, tha’ abili’y? ‘untin’ magic, f’rr t’ Kingdom. Is tha’ nae boon? Is that nae service tae th’ Gods?”

That gave her an idea. “this woman ‘ere.. Y’ Majesty, t’was said i’ was an act o’ violence against us, but t’ mos’ violen’ thing I saw come of t’ drrinks was someone fallin’ frrom t’ stage. ‘is ego migh’ be brruised, bu’ ‘e’s foyne. This waywarrd woman ‘erre,” Stratya motioned over her shoulder, “'oo made t' alcohol strronger, nae drrug, nae poison, nae violen' intent, needs dirrection an’ perrpose. The full punishmen' o' t' law, for witchcrraft, is death, 'at's trrue, but I dunnae think tha's th' anserr, 'erre. My ‘unt f’rr evil would seek moa knowledge. Perr'aps knowledge she 'olds could be useful to me? I woul'nae waste th' opporrtuni'y.”

The knight looked at Torvi, then, for a moment, speaking softly - to herself, really, "aah, but perr'aps I 'ave found knowledge, alrready..?" She took a swig of her mead before turning back to the Prince and Queen.

Time: Nighttime Sola 28th
Location: Dinner event
Interaction:
Mentions: Alexander @funnyguy, Mina @Tae, Roman @reusablesword
Beyond the manicured hedges, the laughter and clink of glassware from the dining hall had faded to a dull hum. It felt distant now, like it belonged to a different world. One that had moved on without her.

Violet sat on the cold stone bench, arms crossed tight over her chest, like if she just held on hard enough, she wouldn’t fall apart. Her fingers dug into her sleeves, nails biting through fabric. Moonlight slipped through the overgrown branches above, casting broken shadows across her face, highlighting the tear tracks that still clung to her skin.

Her cheeks still stung from earlier, raw from crying, from everything Roman had said. Every word had landed like a blade. He hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t needed to. He just looked at her like he saw too much and said the exact things she wasn’t strong enough to hear. He picked her apart without raising his voice, piece by piece. And she’d let him. She broke open in front of him.

But Scarlet had been there. Watching. Silent. Her dark red eyes glowed faintly through the garden like something half-living, half-memory.

Her mother had left minutes ago with a soft kiss to her hair and a voice low and sweet, like nothing was wrong. “Come back in soon, darling.” But Violet hadn’t moved. She couldn’t. Not when going back meant seeing Roman again. Not when it meant pretending nothing had cracked beneath her ribs.

The sounds from inside had gone quiet. She didn’t know how much time had passed. She didn’t care. Eventually, she stood, slow and stiff, like her body wasn’t quite ready to carry her yet. The night air clung to her skin, cool and damp, and she sucked in a shaky breath as she neared the door.

Her hand hovered on the handle. She didn’t push it open right away. Just stood there, caught in her head.

Alexander’s face came to mind. That quiet smile he gave her when he didn’t know what else to say. The way his hand had found her shoulder earlier, steady and grounding. He always seemed to know when she needed that. Even if lately, he’d started part of the chaos too.

She finally pushed the door open.

Inside, the hall felt unfamiliar. Dim. Still. No music. No laughter. Her eyes moved over the tables, searching. Roman was gone. So was Mina.

Then she saw Alexander’s seat.

Empty.

She stopped walking.

Everything inside her went still. Her breath caught, and her gaze locked on the chair like it might tell her something, like maybe if she stared hard enough, it would give her a sign.

Then came the sound. Metal dragging softly across stone.

Her head snapped toward it, heart jumping. A chain. And then…

“Witch hunter.”

Killian’s voice cut through the fog in her mind, dragging her back into the moment. Her expression didn’t change, but something inside her tightened. Her face turned calm, still, like carved marble. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she slipped back into her seat without drawing attention. Everyone else was focused on the chained woman.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Wulfric return to the table. He didn’t sit right away. Instead, he walked around his chair, slowly, like he had all the time in the world.

Then he spoke, and for a moment, she forgot everything else.

“There have been one or two cases where someone was declared dead, only to turn up alive later on…”

Her spine went rigid. Muscles locking into place. Her jaw tightened until it hurt. His words weren’t random. They were chosen. Precise. And they landed like a hit.

Where was Alexander?

Then Wulfric continued, his voice calm and terrifying.

“You see, it was my very mother who showed me magic.”

She blinked, breath catching.

Did he really just say that?

The air shifted. Everything felt sharper, heavier. It was the kind of truth you didn’t speak. Not unless you were willing to bleed for it.

She exhaled slowly, leaning back in her seat. From the outside, she looked collected. Distant. But her eyes kept moving. Scanning. Searching.

Just a glimpse. Just to know he was safe.

She didn’t find him.

She watched as the guards stepped forward and took the Queen away. It felt surreal, like something out of a story she might’ve read as a child. Like none of it could be real.

And yet, all she could think was…

Where was Alexander?

Time:Evening
Location: Hallway, Castle

---

Charlotte’s gaze lingered upon the door, her chest rising and falling steadily as Fritz had guided her. She had no dispute with his insights, nor his gentle admonishments, for he spoke only the truth: Lorenzo often voiced whatever passed through his mind, heedless of the consequences his words might create. But Charlotte also knew that his love for her was indisputable. They were, after all, the only family left to one another.

Her expression softened, yet a sadness also crept in as her lashes lowered slowly. Her gaze lowered onto the sight of her hand, now joined with another. A hand rough and larger than her own now held hers; olive-skinned, calloused, bearing marks of wear far greater than one of his status should possess. Absentmindedly, she tightened her grasp ever so slightly, the pads of her fingers brushing the worn texture as if to memorize every ridge and scar.

After a reflective pause, she lifted her gaze towards Fritz, her sapphire eyes glistening gently with unshed tears. "I am loved," she whispered with quiet conviction, ”I do believe that…Even when it's difficult. Perhaps most of all when it's difficult."

Yet, it had never truly been love she had doubted. What Charlotte feared was the prospect of losing Lorenzo’s respect. Even in her teen years, whispers had echoed throughout the kingdom—rumors that shaped the respect of those who had yet even to meet her. Still, the thought of disappointing her father was almost unbearable.

Now that Fritz had helped her reclaim her senses, Charlotte understood with a heavy clarity that this, too, was something she must willingly let go. In the end, the only thing that truly mattered was that Lorenzo emerged safely from whatever storm loomed around them. She knew deep in her heart that something was very wrong, and she had known that from the very first night of that ball. Quietly, a pact had been made with herself, one barely acknowledged yet deeply etched upon her soul: her own life was no longer of consequence.

And if such was true: love, respect, a future, a marriage, her fear, her pain, her happiness… None of it mattered. None of it ever could. No matter how fiercely the little girl she sometimes glimpsed in the mirror begged otherwise.

"Thank you for reminding me. It’s easy to lose sight amidst confusion and doubt…

“I’ve dealt with curses before... not quite like this, maybe... but enough to know that you’re right. For now, all she can do is endure.”

She looked at Cassius and nodded firmly, blinking away tears, " If this affliction is indeed a curse, a hex, or some cruel twist of fate… then I shall endure it without complaint. “ she murmured, voice steadier now, though thin with exhaustion.

"Come what may, I shall persevere."There was no resistance as he gently led her away, her hand still curled in his. Fritz remained behind, listening at the door.

Her steps were slow, each one weighed with more than just fatigue. Her mind swirled with thoughts she dared not speak aloud, her heart heavy with the ghosts of what could never be, and her body trembling with a dread she could not name.

Cassius brought her into a small servant’s nook and only then did he speak, his voice drawing her slowly back to the present.

“You alright?”

Her lips parted, the instinctual lie already forming. But this time, the words caught on her tongue. She let them die there and, instead, she fell silent and let him speak.

“No one gets to define you. Not a prince... Not a count... Not a prick like Alexander Deacon... Not your father... Not me… Only you get to do that.”

His words cascaded into her heart, gentle in tone and forceful in truth. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as the weight of his words settled deep within her chest.

Charlotte felt the truth of it tugging at something hidden, something fragile and neglected. But who was she, truly? The Duke’s daughter. Vermillion’s Darling. The Whore of Veirmont. A witch. An orphan.

Had fate already bound her path, sealed her story with ink she hadn’t wanted? Was she merely an instrument for her own end—a pawn in a cruel game she barely understood? Or did she yearn for more?

“You hear me, Lottie?”

She did. But the only answer she could summon was a shaky, quiet exhale.

“You are not weak.”

He took another step closer.

“You are not shameful.”

His hand found hers again, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles.

“And you are not alone.”

She assumed he could not possibly fathom just how alone she had been. How deeply isolation had burrowed into her bones, carved itself into the spaces between her breaths, and echoed in the silence of empty rooms. Before she could stop herself, Charlotte's fingers clutched his with quiet desperation.

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen. Anything.”

Perhaps it was that he meant it. Or perhaps it was simply that he had said it at all.

Her hand slipped from his.
Then in the same heartbeat, she reached upward with both hands, her fingers gripping his collar. She pulled herself close, pressing her body against his chest. The strong rhythm of his heart echoed her own longing.

And then she kissed him deeply and passionately. This time, she never pulled away.

Time:Evening
Location: Hallway, Castle

---

With everything going on, Cassius simply hadn’t expected this. Every ounce of the helter-skelter night was stripped away in an instant. His anger at Alexander for using unnatural powers to manipulate his mind? Gone. The family drama that played out for all at the banquet to see? Dissolved from his mind. The mysterious revelations at the beginning of the event when he ran into Milo St. Claire? Fuck him and whatever games he was playing. In this moment he didn’t care… No, he couldn’t care.

His hands hovered for a second, torn between questions he couldn’t voice and answers he wasn’t sure she would even have. What did this mean? What would it ruin if they were spotted like this, here of all places? He felt all of it crashing against the inside of his ribs.

But then, in one of those all too rare instances in his life… His mind went quiet…and the storms within subsided, replaced by the gift of her body pressing against his. There was nothing left to hold him back.

It was no longer just Charlotte kissing him. Cassius returned the gesture, matching every ounce of emotion. The kiss was hard, certain, and felt like it was the only goddamn thing in the world that made sense. One of his hands found the curve of her back, pulling her tighter against him, the other slid into her hair like it belonged there. Just as it had the night before.

There was nothing delicate in the way he kissed her back. It was the hunger of a starving soul. The complete and absolute surrender to her lips.

Charlotte’s hands slid to his shoulders, her very soul alight with the feeling of him returning her kiss. When he pulled her into him, a breath hitched in her throat, and she melted against him, as though she could sink into his skin and disappear. There was a silent vow in the way their bodies clung: a primal, burning need that refused even a whisper of space between them.

Her mind fell into stillness, all sense dissolving beneath the heat of his mouth on hers. The quiet sound of lips meeting echoed in the stillness like a secret only their hearts could hear.

For Cassius, it was as though he needed her more than air… and maybe he did, because when he finally pulled back, it was only to breathe. He took a deep, almost desperate inhale, chest rising against hers.

His lips trailed over to her ear as his heavy breaths came out slowly, and his voice was low with warmth but rough around the edges with need.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before, Charlotte. You wreck me…you know that?”

A shaky exhale slipped from her lips, and Charlotte’s flushed cheeks deepened in color. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it, too, was trying to answer him.

I wreck you.

The words echoed in her mind. He had said them so easily, so unguarded, and it terrified her. How could he look at her—really look—and still say something like that?

For a moment, she hated herself for wanting to believe him.

She searched his face like it held answers. Lottie didn’t know what she expected to find…Maybe pity, maybe doubt. But all she saw was a man without his armor. Her fingers trembled slightly as they slid from his collar, ghosting across the line of his jaw, a gentle trace as though she were committing the shape of him to memory. She tilted her head up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek just beside his mouth.

Then, her voice came, thinned by emotion, and aching.

“You say I wreck you,” she murmured, her gaze holding his, “But you make me feel… quite the contrary. I begin to believe I may not be as ruined as I once thought.”

Her hand lifted, coming to rest lightly against his chest, where the wild thrum of his heartbeat betrayed them both.
“But if you’re not careful…” she added with the barest, broken smile, “…I might start to believe you.”

Charlotte’s final words lingered as they kissed… soft, dangerous, full of invitation.

Cassius didn’t speak; his body did that for him.

One hand slid up her spine, slow as molasses, until his fingers tangled in her hair once more… the other wrapped around the small of her back, pulling her against the full heat of him. His lips met hers with a building sense of desperation, a kiss that was no longer sweet, no longer gentle. It was full of nothing but heat, instinct, and the unrelenting desire built throughout the tension of the night. He kissed Charlotte as though the only way to convince her of his intentions was to make her feel it in her bones.

And gods, she would feel so…many…beautiful…things by the time he was finished.

“Cassius…” His name slipped from her lips.

The tension in her body coiled tighter as his hand traced the length of her spine, a shiver blooming in its wake. And then, like a wave pulled by the tide, she moved with him. Her fingers fisted in the fabric of his collar for a moment before they slid upward, threading into his hair like she was terrified he’d vanish if she let go.

She kissed him again, harder this time, as if her entire body was starving and only he could feed the ache.

She kissed him like he was something sacred.

Like she had waited lifetimes just to feel him breathe against her.

Her whole body leaned into him, every inch of her aching to close the distance. It wasn’t just passion. It was a surrender. A desperate confession of: “I need you.”

If this was ruin, she would choose it again and again with him.

Cassius barely breathed.

Her hands threaded through his hair, and it made his pulse spike, made something old and starved in him reach up to meet her.

His hand, still curved against her back, drifted downward… down past the swell of her hips… until the tips of his fingers found the hem of her dress. He slipped beneath it...carefully, deliberately...his palm skating along her thigh, slow and warm and reverent.

He didn’t rush.

He let her feel him… the gentle caress of his hand climbing up inch by inch… the heat building between them like lightning begging for a place to strike.

And gods help him… he hoped she wouldn’t stop him.

“Charlotte...please.”

It wasn’t a question, nor was it a demand. It was worship, and it was hunger.

Her name left his lips like a prayer, and it had been the most intimate sound she’d ever heard. Her body responded instinctively, and her eyes, still damp with tears, fluttered shut again as she leaned up into him. Her mouth moved against his with urgency, like the answer to a question she had never dared to ask.

And then his hand drifted further on her thigh. His palm warmed her skin as he climbed higher, inch by inch, dragging fire through her skin with every touch. Her lips parted against his. She gave a soft, trembling sound… Not of resistance, but of complete, overwhelming surrender.

And then—

Click.

Time:Evening
Location: Hallway, Castle

---

A sound split the air.

Metal against leather. The sound of a buckle being fastened.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

She suddenly felt the ghost of pressure on her thighs, her ankles, her wrists…

It echoed unnaturally, and Charlotte’s eyes snapped open. She held her breath as the world seemed to stop.

The warmth Cassius had lit within her extinguished in a single, soundless instant.

She couldn’t breathe, and it felt as if she could no longer move her limbs.

Her vision tunneled on Cassius’s face, still close, lips barely parted, but she wasn’t seeing him anymore. Her limbs stayed where they were, but her soul was already spiraling backward, yanked into the dark by a memory she didn’t even know she still carried.

She blinked, but when she opened her eyes again, it was not Cassius she saw.

It was him.

Another older man stood before her. He was tall and neatly dressed in muted tones. His posture was straight, and his dark eyes were detached. His hair was combed with precision. There was nothing monstrous in his features, and that made it worse.

No fangs. No claws.

“Relax...” a voice left his lips. “Count backward from ten.”

Charlotte exhaled sharply and shoved her palms flat against Cassius’s chest. She pushed at him hard, her entire body trembling with sudden revulsion.

She stumbled backward like a cornered creature ripping itself free from the predator’s maws. “Don’t touch me!” she blurted sharply. Her voice trembled, but there was no mistaking the terror in it. That sudden, violent fear was aimed directly at him.

Her hands hovered in front of her like she didn’t know what they were for anymore.

Charlotte’s voice had trembled…Her body had melted into his, and now she recoiled as though he’d struck her.

Cassius froze. Arms still half-wrapped around nothing, lips parted. Her words sliced through the haze and sobered him up from the wine and the desire all at once. Her voice repeated the words once more in his head.

“Don’t touch me!”

It wasn’t confusion that hit him first. It was something else…shame, maybe. Or disbelief. His hands slowly lowered as she backed away with eyes wide and wild with fear…and somehow, even though his heart didn’t want to accept what he was seeing, it was him she was looking at like that.

He took a step forward before he could stop himself, then he paused and held perfectly still.

Her voice had sounded like a stranger’s.

She was trembling, her gaze so harsh and revulsed towards him. Her hands… they hovered like she was afraid of him. As though he would ever hurt her.

Gods, it felt so personal.

Cassius blinked hard, as though trying to knock loose whatever the hell had just shifted between them. He took another step… slower this time. Quieter.

His voice came soft and low in a more earnest tone that he rarely used.
“Lottie…”

He reached for her gently, both hands raised. Not to hold her or to grab. Just to touch her face, to ground her…to let her know she was okay. That she could be safe with him.

His fingers were just inches away from her cheek.

“It’s me…” he murmured. “You’re okay. I swear, you’re okay. We can just talk…I’m sorry if I was moving too fast.”

Charlotte stared at the figure before her, but the face kept shifting before her eyes. The hallway darkened around them as if the shadows wanted to drown her. The lights overhead sputtered erratically, emitting a dull buzz that crawled inside her head.

She felt leather digging into her wrists, tightening relentlessly. She jerked, but her limbs stayed frozen. Panic rose in her throat.

A voice then echoed down the corridor, distant at first, then unbearably close:

“Charlotte.”

The same face came into focus again: older and expressionless. “Charlotte,” he repeated. The calm command in his voice made every muscle in her body seize up. “You know how this goes.”

Her lips parted, trembling, but no sound came. She wanted to scream, but no words left her throat. Charlotte's vision blurred with tears as he pressed the cold prongs firmly against her temples. A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, growing steadily louder. She felt impending dread.

“You’re delusional, Charlotte.” he whispered, almost affectionately,“ You’re very sick. Don’t resist.” He tilted his head slightly, curiosity sparking coldly in those lifeless eyes. He turned a dial slowly, a faint humming sound rising.

“How badly does it hurt?” His voice was gentle, almost kind. “One to ten.”

Agony sliced through her, ripping mercilessly into her skull, searing through her bones like heated blades. Her vision went white and fractured violently; she heard a ragged, primal scream echoing somewhere, only dimly realizing it was her own.

“TEN! … TEN!” Her voice cracked, shrill and desperate, as her body contorted violently against the unseen restraints. Her spine arched sharply, limbs jerking with wild, uncontrollable convulsions.

“Good.” His voice was satisfied. “That’s good, Charlotte.”

The lights above her shattered into strobe bursts in time with her agony. The electricity surged again, blinding her. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, every muscle locked tight, her limbs thrashing helplessly against restraints that wouldn’t give.

“STOP! PLEASE, STOP!”

In a final surge of terror and desperation, she fought violently against the restraints, clawing, thrashing wildly to escape the unrelenting torment.

Then the vision shattered, reality crashing back into place as her fingernails suddenly found soft skin. She felt resistance and heard a startled sound that didn’t match her nightmare.

Cassius staggered back from her, his hand flying up to his face, fingertips coming away red, streaked with blood from where her nails had carved deep, panicked scratches across his cheek.

She was no longer restrained, but staring wide-eyed into Cassius’s shocked, wounded face.

Her stomach churned violently, nausea rising as a strangled sound of disbelief escaped her lips.

“I–... Cassius—”

Her eyes filled with tears. Her hands hovered, trembling, and streaked with red. She had hurt him… and the realization was almost too heavy. Panic clawed at her throat again, but now for an entirely different reason.

She fumbled desperately with the small purse slung over her shoulder, her fingers shaking uncontrollably. “Please, wait…I know I have something…" Her voice was small as she fumbled with the clasp, unable to steady her frantic, useless hands.

Her limbs felt distant. Her mind felt untethered. She didn’t know who he was—that man—or where she had gone just now, but it hadn’t been a dream. It had felt real. Too real. And now all that remained was the crushing weight of fatigue.

Cassius staggered back, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sting of her nails was nothing...he’d taken worse blows ten times over...but the look in her eyes?

That broke him.

She wasn’t here, not really…not with him. At least not like she had been moments ago.

And yet his blood now ran down her fingertips like she’d been clawing to defend her life from him.

His jaw clenched as his hand hovered just shy of the wound. He could feel it... warm, wet, the sting spreading like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. The pain was real…too real. And so was the echo of her words.

“Don’t touch me!”

Her voice replayed again in his mind’s eye.

He stared at her, raw with disbelief. She fumbled for her bag, trembling and panicked, her emotions crumbling before him in real time.

Cassius stood still, blood warm on his cheek, and for a moment, he didn’t breathe or move or understand how they had gotten here.

He watched her scramble with shaking hands, her voice cracking as she tried to explain, to fix it, to backpedal through panic and tears... but it was already too late. The look in her eyes was burned into him now.

That fear. That recoil…The sound in her throat as she spoke. It made him feel every bit the monster she had treated him to be; the one his own secrets made him fear he could not overcome.

He lowered his hand slowly, eyes falling to the red streaks across his palm. The cuts stung, but not nearly as much as the cold that seeped into his chest out of instinct… brick by brick… wall by wall… all the places he had let her in now closing up fast.

He took a step back, just one, like distance might dull the sting.

Then he laughed, quiet, bitter. Not because it was funny, but because it was the only thing keeping the rest of him from unraveling.

His voice came rough. Detached. The armor was already slipping back on.

“No… no, it’s fine. Really.” He nodded to himself, not to her. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

His gaze met hers, but there was something unreadable in it now. Something retreating.

“You know, Lottie…my father told me everything I needed to know about you.” The words tasted like venom, but his tone stayed smooth. “Guess I was just the fool who thought maybe... maybe you were different. Maybe you could actually…”

He didn’t finish his words. Instead, he looked away, jaw tight, and exhaled once through his nose.

“That’s on me.”

And then, without another word, Cassius turned and walked away.

Every bone in his body fought to turn back, but the pride he wore so well like armor forced his steps ever forward. Away from the girl who had just wounded him so. His steps were not just carrying him away from the hurt she caused, but also the damage he knew his own words would inflict upon her in return.

Charlotte’s gaze snapped upward at the bitter sound of his laughter, and the look upon his face was enough to fracture her heart long before his words ever touched her ears. Her pulse quickened with panic, her mind frantically searching for the right words, but before she could form them, his voice cut through her hope:

“You know, Lottie…my father told me everything I needed to know about you.”

A sob choked its way into her throat, and her trembling hand reached toward him as if to grasp the rapidly unraveling threads. But he was already turning away, leaving her outstretched fingers to touch only empty air.

“No…” she whispered, her voice quivering and faint, “You don’t mean that. Cassius—please… you cannot mean that.”

But he was too far gone, the hallway swallowing her words as surely as it swallowed him. The agony tore through her chest, unbearable in its intensity, a suffocating wave of grief she knew she’d never outrun. He had seen her…truly seen her…and yet he still believed what the rest of them did. What Calbert believed.

The truth settled upon her: she had lost him.

With a shuddering breath, Charlotte’s trembling hand lost its grip on her purse, scattering its contents across the floor. Fighting through blurred vision, she sank to her knees, hands shaking violently as she hastily began retrieving the scattered items until her gaze fell upon something that stopped her heart altogether.

Fingers trembling, Charlotte lifted the card into the dim light. It was a crimson business card with Lucian D’Arcy’s name on it. It was from the club he had taken her to. Her breath hitched sharply, and her eyes widened in disbelieving horror.

A familiar insignia stared mockingly back at her: The Black Rose.

An icy fury surged within her painfully as she swiftly rose to her feet. “Perhaps,” she began, her voice trembling and edged with hurt, yet clear enough to reach him now, “perhaps you are exactly what I thought you were!”

She advanced toward him, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her voice cracked, though it grew louder and sharper, propelled by the pain he’d inflicted.

“You come here tonight, all sincerity and devotion, yet you wasted not a moment in that banquet to flirt shamelessly with Kalliope! Did you think me blind? Wasn’t it her bed you warmed mere nights ago?” Her heart thundered, her chest aching as she fought to speak past the sobs threatening to break her voice entirely. “Tell me, Cassius—which one of us was the fool? Which one of us was your second choice?”

She halted abruptly, thrusting the card forward in accusation, trembling hands nearly dropping it again as her voice rose to a grief stricken crescendo:

“You scoundrel! You liar!” she cried bitterly. “You took me to the Black Rose, all the while professing your heartfelt concern for my wellbeing? It was all fake, wasn’t it? You were their spy all along, weren’t you?”

Charlotte’s voice softened suddenly, breaking under the weight of her devastation, thick with despair and humiliation. “Do not dare paint me as the villain in this tragedy, Cassius Damien,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice now barely audible through her tears. “When I was nothing more to you than a plaything!”

She stared at him for a lingering moment, the tears endlessly cascading silently down her flushed cheeks. But when she spoke again, the tremor was gone, replaced instead by clarity. “Of course you believe your father “ She began softly. Her chin lifted, eyes blazing as she took another step toward him, defiant despite the tremble of pain still etched upon her features.

“Because you’re exactly like him.”

Cassius didn’t stop walking, nor did he turn or flinch or give her the satisfaction of seeing the way her words landed.

Because if he turned around now, if he saw her face, if he let himself believe for even a second that the girl standing behind him was the same one who had kissed him like he was actually fucking worth something to her… he’d fall apart right there in the hallway. His pride, which now had taken full control, would never have allowed such a thing.

So, he just kept going…each step growing louder than the last, drowning out the voices in his head that begged him to turn around and stop this madness. To change the narrative unfolding around them.

But she had already made her choice.

And if this was how she wanted to remember him, if this was the story Lottie would tell herself to make sense of it all, then fine. Let it be ugly. Let it all be his fault. Let it hurt. He was used to being the villain of other people’s stories.

His voice, when it came, was just loud enough to carry to her ears, but cold enough that even if he had turned to scream it would not have had the same impact.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

He didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t pause to see if she reacted…He just kept walking, jaw tight, blood still dripping down his cheek.

“Good to know what you really think of me, after everything.” He took a sharp and bitter breath. “Glad I figured it out before I wasted any more of my time.”

And then he disappeared around the corner, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind… and the wreckage of everything they could have been. The ruins of the version of himself he’d almost dared to become…for her.