The last few days were, as some would say, quiet for Lord Roman Ravenwood. To most, it would seem he simply wanted to stay out of the public eye since the rumors being spread about what happened between Violet Damien and himself. Those rumors, however, were dwarfed by the accusation of witchcraft against the Queen by her son at the very same banquet.

This did nothing to soothe the rage he felt in his very bones. He was harsh, cruel—crueler than he needed to be—to protect a woman he had feelings for, a woman that likely didn’t want anything to do with him. So Roman did what he always did when he wanted to run away from his feelings: he got lost in his work. As the gods would have it, he had plenty of work.

Their teams were getting more and more information regarding the comings and goings of the Black Rose Trading Company. Through trailing, eavesdropping, and secretly inspecting shipping documents of other businesses that worked with them, they were able to start seeing the patterns: patterns of which shipments were regular and which were not.

Specifically, they noted four shipments—one coming into the city and three leaving—that were not usual occurrences. The fact they were moving on Drunkards’ Day raised even more suspicion among his leadership that these shipments may be something more nefarious, given the lax attitude of local law enforcement in the area during these times.

With this in mind, Roman’s leadership decided that they would intercept these shipments while they were still outside the city. Doing this midday would never be his first choice, but orders were orders. As he had been shown time and time again, orders would have to be carried out. The plan was simple, though it had its own nuances.

At least they had a day to plan and set up. Four teams would hit each caravan simultaneously, with emphasis on a quick bandit-style ambush. To put pressure on the Damien household, they would be dressed in crudely made uniforms that looked similar to the Iron Wolves. The leadership decided that it may be worth it to play that game with the rumor being spread of Cassius being injured by something recently.

Roman did not dare speak his objections to that plan. Quick and clean, sure, but during daylight and to poke at a family he knew were technically his enemies now? None of it sat right with him, but he was under a magnifying glass now, with his loyalty to the mission and his oath being in question. He was well aware of the positioning and care he would need to take to play this off.

They had stashes near where the teams had decided to ambush the caravans. Smoke bombs, flash bombs, and non-lethal weapons were authorized and preferred, with the use of lethal force only to be used in an emergency. What Eric stressed the most was being quick, grabbing everything of value and what looked like could be important, then vanishing into the forest moving away from town.

These details circulated in Roman’s mind while he waited for the shipment to come down the path. Roman found his mind couldn’t stay on task and constantly wandered back to Violet, the look of pain, how he broke her. He didn’t deserve her; he shouldn’t get close to people like that when all he can do is only repay their love and kindness with pain and misery. Several names and faces flashed through his mind: Alexander Deacon, Calbert Damien, and his father among them.

“That’s right, brother.” A sly, quiet voice flowed through his mind. “You don’t deserve her; you will only end up hurting her, or worse, having to kill her. You were never good at relationships anyway. All of yours are just fake imitations of—”

Roman’s head twisted sharply to his left. “Shut up, you don’t know a damn thing!” he said in a harsh whisper.

The voice continued, venom laced in every word. “But I do, brother. I see everything you do, I hear it, smell it, feeeeel it.” The voice slithered like a snake through his head and concentration. “I can see how they look at you with their fake smiles, their knives aimed at your back when you turn away. You shouldn’t trust them.”

“I said shut up.” he spoke again through clenched teeth.

“Sir?” the bush next to him spoke. Clearly the man hiding next to him had heard, and his voice sounded concerned.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Roman retorted.

The man shifted uncomfortably but went back to his task of watching the road.

Roman could feel the satisfaction from the other presence in his mind. Normally its words were barely above a whisper, but certain happenings had given it strength and weakened its seals. Again, the voice surged in his mind, making him remember a face he didn’t want to see right now: a memory of dancing in a field of summer flowers, laughter, and someone who was just out of arm’s reach.

“Sir,” the soldier snatched him away from the memory: “The cart.”

Sure enough, two carts could be seen just down the road. They were moving, but not quickly enough to signal trouble. The wagons were simple, and even from here, the symbol of the Black Rose Trading Company could be seen. There looked to be two men per cart. Nothing that stood out so far.

Roman gave a quick whistle of a certain bird, and on cue, one of their men stumbled out of the bushes into the road, looking drunk and reeking of old ale. Tripping into the path of the carts, then trying to stand. The place they chose was a spot in the road that narrowed due to a hill, forcing the carts to either run the man over or wait till he moved out of the way.

“Oi!” the lead driver shouted and began to slow down. “Get out of the way, ye mangy dog.”

The drunk simply rambled on, approaching the carriages until they stopped. He was uneasy on his feet, swaying back and forth with over-exaggerated movements. “’Ey, you seen any barely-dressed girlies runnin’ around ’ere?” He was able to get close enough to the carriage to pat the horses on the head.

“We got a delivery ta make, out of the way.” The two drivers were bickering about who would get off to deal with the drunk when they heard the crack of branches breaking and two trees falling at the same time—one in front and one behind. It spooked the horses, but they had nowhere to go.

The carts were quickly surrounded. All four men surrendered with arms raised. Roman’s men, dressed in poorly made Iron Wolves’ uniforms, quickly descended on the carts with practiced efficiency. Crates and kegs were tossed and searched, carts stripped apart, documents checked. With all their effort, nothing was found for what they were looking for.

What they did find was that this shipment was late due to a stomach bug from the driver’s son in the rear cart. The shipment was for the celebration: alcohol, food, and shop supplies. Their information was off, but Roman wasn’t believing it.

He had the four men bound and gagged on the side of the road while they watched what could very well have been their livelihoods being broken apart on the road. They didn’t have much time left before someone would inevitably interrupt them.

“They are lying to you,” a whisper of the voice echoed in his mind.

Roman approached the oldest of the four and ungagged him. “What do you know about the Black Rose? What are you hiding?! We checked the wagons, we checked the barrels. We even tore up the floorboards. There's nothing. I know you're hiding something.” He pulled the smallest of the four out and onto the ground. "See your son? Nice kid. Looks a lot like you. I'm going to start with him. You tell me what I want before the knife touches his throat, or I keep going until you're the last one left to watch."

The fear and shock in the man’s eyes told Roman the man didn’t know a thing… but that voice, that insufferable voice, slammed into his skull like a block of ice. The only thought Roman could muster was: They are hiding something. The man's fear was a lie, a performance. It had to be.

“You... you have to believe me! We're just carrying ale and food to the celebration! Ask me about the weight, ask me about the seals—that's all I know!" The man was begging, with tears of helplessness in a situation he could not control overwhelming him. “Please. Look at him. He's a child! If I knew anything, anything at all, about what you're looking for, I would tell you. You can take my life right now, just let them go!”

In his right mind, Roman would have believed him; he would have stopped himself far before this point. Yet that urge, that voice, that presence pushed and kept pushing. “Kill the boy,” a straightforward order to his subordinate standing next to him. Only now did he see that his men had stopped and were looking at Roman with concern and fear in others.

“Sir? We were ordered not to kill unless it was necessary.” The words were stammered out but firm.

“Are you questioning my order?” A faint yellow shine rested in his angry eyes. The carriage drivers all frozen in fear and crying.

“Yes, Sir,” the soldier repeated, his voice clear despite the tremor. He shifted his stance, his hand resting over the grip of a loaded crossbow. The defiance was quiet, but unmistakable.

The rage-filled glare Roman gave the other man resembled that of some kind of demon, and the yellow that burned in his eyes did not go unnoticed. Several of the men even took a step back, ready to run rather than fight what threatened to come next.

His eyes flickered back to the bound man, who was trying to get between Roman and his son. “I believe you,” were the only words he spoke. His hand moved—not a lunge, but a quick, surgical blur. The father's throat opened, then the son's, then the two others, all in a matter of heartbeats. The thin blade dripped red, an unnecessary, terrible punctuation mark.

“Take anything valuable. Burn the rest.” His glare stayed on the man that dared to defy his orders, only turning to leave once the other man had looked away. The yellow faded from his eyes.

“See, brother, I knew you could do it. Don’t you feel so much better now that you got your hands bloody again? Doesn’t it remind you of that village, the one that—” The voice was quickly cut off again with a few harsh words.

Roman didn’t walk; he stumbled. He clawed his way into the thicket, collapsing out of sight of his men. He retched, tears burning tracks down his face for what he had just allowed to happen. He had let the voice take over... again.

The journey back to the city took some time, moving in a soldierly fashion toward the southern city, away from the capital. They changed out of and burned their disguises, then headed back in along the main road. It was well-practiced and well-executed. Still, no one spoke, no one laughed—just quiet stares at one another and quick glances back at Roman.

Roman kept his cloak hood on, distantly locked away in his own shame. The laughing voice taunted him, just out of reach. What was wrong with him? He hadn't lost control in over three years, and he’d been here for less than a month and nearly lost it. It must have been Violet. It must have been his orders…

“This land is cursed,” he whispered to himself.

It was nearing dusk when they finally arrived back at the warehouse. It was expected; their target had been the furthest out. Some of the men exchanged hollow laughs and fake smiles from both sides, a silent acknowledgment that issues existed for everyone.

Inside, the building was a hub of activity, mostly the white, silver, and bronze smiths trying to finish up the day for the ongoing celebrations rampant in the street. The back room, however, was encased in silence, even if he knew why. In the silent bubble stood Erik and Sylvi, talking to his second-in-command, Demitiri. His subordinate, who had rightfully questioned him earlier, was enthusiastic with his arm movements in whatever conversation they were having.

Erik locked eyes with Roman and spoke a few unheard words as Roman approached the edge of the sound bubble. The artifact isolated all sound from coming and going. With a sigh, Roman stepped through the threshold.

The atmosphere shifted instantly, changing from the hustle outside to the stern, commanding presence that filled the room. Roman had said he oversaw this operation, and for most purposes he did, but Erik? No, Erik answered to one man, and it was not Roman. He was the eyes and ears of Roman's father while out on deployment. Nothing spoken ever remained just between them. Erik was always watching, always judging, waiting for missteps like today.

“I expect everythin' to be where it should be in your report, Demitiri. You're dismissed, now.” Erik’s thick Irish accent did little to hide the anger in his voice. It wasn’t just anger Roman could pick up; disappointment and annoyance were there, too.

Demitiri glared at Roman as he left but didn’t say a word.

“Care to explain yourself, young lord?” Erik stood up straight with his arms crossed. “Demitri explained the finer details, but I want to know why you thought my orders were only a suggestion, aye? Or maybe you just think you're above 'em, eh?”

Roman couldn’t look Erik in the eye; he could barely lift them high enough to acknowledge Astri’s arrival. “He’s in my head again. Pushing, gnawing, laughing… in a moment of weakness he… he took control and…”

He didn’t get to finish.

“A moment of weakness? Ah, come on,” Erik said through closed teeth. “How d'you expect me to believe that, and not that it was some kind of way for you to try and get back at us for the other night, huh?” Erik raised his arm and motioned for four guards to move into the bubble around Roman. “Let’s just see for ourselves if you're tellin' the truth, lad. Restrain him.”

The guards moved with drilled precision to disarm and pin Roman into a position on his knees in but a few moments. It made it easier that he wasn't resisting.

Astri approached, taking a moment to unbutton Roman's shirt and expose his chest, then began chanting whispers of magic. Roman grimaced and clenched his teeth at the feeling. Slowly, lines began to appear across his chest as if being pulled to the surface. Lines became letters, became runes, became words. Eight runic chains crisscrossed from a circular pattern in his chest. Five of them looked to be missing runes; they appeared shattered, with only three remaining intact.

Erik tightened his jaw and ground his teeth in thought. “Hmm three left, so. Looks like you were tellin' the truth.” Erik sat down and began writing. “We'll have to send for the specialist to try and mend his bonds, then.”

With a flick of his wrist, the guards left. Astri was left catching her breath before eventually going back to her other duties. The look she gave Roman was one of worry and apology.

Roman stood and began buttoning up his shirt. At least that process never hurt, but it was always uncomfortable. He tried to turn and leave; a strong drink was what he wanted right now, something he could waste the night away with.

“Where d'you think you’re off to, lad? Didn't sound like you were dismissed.” His words had venom in them, a quiet enjoyment suddenly sprang into him as Roman froze. “Roman Ravenwood, you are hereby ordered to be a coward. You will not intervene to aid another, you will not try to save anyone else who do not call Varian home. You will only protect yourself if someone tries to kill you, and you will run.” He could see the near horror in Roman’s face; he wouldn’t let the boy get off with no repercussions.

“You are ordered to drink and be merry, but not to get drunk. You will spend the evening at the… Tough Tavern. That’ll teach you a lesson, now.” Erik’s smile could have frightened anyone with how vicious it was. “Do you understand these orders as they’re bein' given to you?”

“Yes, sir,” was all the reply Roman could muster.

“You're dismissed.”