The lilt of a Caesonian fiddle drifted across the firing range, its swaying, merry tune dancing over a rhythm set by a Viserjantan bamboo flute’s calm and steady breaths. Hailing from lands that were, quite literally, a vast ocean apart, the two instruments made for an unconventional—strange, even—pair, but by no means a poor one, as far as Sjan-dehk was concerned. He thought their interwoven voices and tones to be rather pleasing, in fact; perfect for a late afternoon spent resting beneath the shade of a tree.

A contented sigh left his lips, and he shifted slightly to find a more comfortable way to rest his neck against the snaking root he was trying to use as a pillow. He found none, and after giving up and resigning himself to live with this mild discomfort, he adjusted his hat—placing it more squarely over his face—and gave the music his fullest attention.

It surprised him, really, just how well fiddle and flute complemented each other. The former flew freely, with the wildness of a recently uncaged bird, as it flitted about this way and that. And yet, it never wandered too far from the flute’s rhythm, always returning to it whenever its liveliness teetered on the edge of tipping into chaos. By contrast, the latter flowed with the tranquility of an undisturbed, unhurried river, its few flourishes never quite matching its partner’s energy. Not once did it fall into monotony, however—the fiddle was more than willing to pull the flute along, coaxing it into brighter, more spirited refrains and passages.

Their duet was by no means perfect—Sjan-dehk counted at least a half-dozen starts and stops in the past few minutes alone—but it still mingled well with the surrounding sounds. It twirled with the soft murmurs of a passing breeze and answered the rising chirr of stirring crickets; eased the quiet rustle of shaking leaves and masked the faint whispers of conversation, and–

Dull thumps. Sharp cracks. The strident reports of muskets and rifles rang out in a scattered chorus, easily cutting through every other sound at the firing range.

And yes, even the din of gunfire.

Sjan-dehk neither blinked nor flinched; he hadn’t when the earlier volleys rang out, either. Such things had long since stopped startling him. To his ears, these discordant calls of firelocks may as well be the beats of drums—albeit erratic ones—accompanying the music.

He inhaled deeply, his nose filling with the fresh, earthy scents of damp soil and sun-kissed grass—as well as stale sweat, courtesy of his hat—and exhaled in a long breath that tapered into another sigh, this time a wistful one. Everything felt so familiar, and yet at the same time, not. In style, all was new. The melody and one-half of the duet was unmistakably Caesonian. The insects and their noises, also Caesonian. Even the air itself carried a markedly foreign taste that Sjan-dehk couldn’t quite describe.

And yet, in substance…

Another wistful sigh, another deep breath.

In substance, it was all too familiar. His mind was cast back to…Well, not good times—only the mad would think of war as a good time—but bright moments during a dark period. Moments when he, then naught but a new and inexperienced captain, could rest in the company of friends between battles. He could picture it all vividly. Tehn-sai drilling his crew at a makeshift range, their chatter punctuated by gunshots; Asahn-jehn playing a tune on his battered flute, accompanied not by a fiddler, but by Sajehmai strumming her beloved zither. And in the midst of it all, their ever-diligent commodore, Nashra, caught between planning their next actions and writing her poems.

“Five set forth; only one return’d. ‘Tis been some while since thou thought of them, lost Jafin child.”

Annoyance, rather than disquiet, knitted Sjan-dehk’s brows together. It was that voice again—the ethereal, echoing whispers of a woman—the one that’d been disturbing his sleep for just under two weeks, and now his waking hours as well. Had he the mental fortitude, he might’ve responded to it. But three-and-a-quarter days of non-stop work—administrative work, mind—had left him too tired to even bother. It wasn’t as if the voice had ever engaged him in an actual conversation, anyway. Not even in his sleep.

But annoyed as he was, he had to admit that the voice had a point. He hadn’t thought much about his past comrades in not just weeks, but months. Between handling the Kokinshuun Incident and preparing for the Far West Expedition, he’d been kept busy after the War’s end, long before he came to Caesonia. And now that he was here, things had only gotten worse. Learning a new language, dealing with foreign dignitaries, and coming to terms with local ways offered plenty of distractions, and left little time for reminiscing.

Those four—those lost friends of his—would’ve understood, of course. They’d all been soldiers, and knew that duty always came first. Sjan-dehk could hear Nashra in his head, telling him to focus on his tasks, and Tehn-sai calling him an idiot for wasting time thinking about them. Even so, he felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart. He should do something for them soon. It was the very least he could do.

The quiet crunch of grass under approaching footsteps, along with a half-hummed, half-sung song, pulled him from his thoughts.

“...Hands tae ta mast; hol’ fast an’ hol’ together…”

Now that was a voice Sjan-dehk could put a name to. Such a thick accent was as distinct as it was difficult for him to understand, and could only belong to one man—Cynric, Recompense’s red-haired captain. With a hummed tune on his lips, he sauntered over and set himself down beside Sjan-dehk with a grunt.

“Ye awake, Cap’n?” he asked.

“No,” Sjan-dehk replied drily.

Cynric chuckled. “Well, ‘tis about time, aye. Ye’ve been out fer feckin’ hours, pal.”

Hours? That immediately caught Sjan-dehk’s attention. He pushed his hat off of his face, quickly regretting it when the sun’s glare, filtering through the tree’s canopy, stung his eyes. A gasp, half out of surprise and half out of pain, escaped him. He raised a hand to block the harsh light and blinked away the fuzzy shapes and stars floating across his vision.

“What is the time?” Sjan-dehk asked, the soreness in his eyes slowly fading.

“Just intae evenin’,” Cynric replied.

Only then did he finally notice the sunlight’s golden hues, the sky turning purple behind the leaves, and the wispy clouds streaked with pink and orange. He shot upright, his joints protesting with creaks and his back chiming in with a dull ache. The straps of his lamellar cuirass had left his shoulders sore, and the arm he’d wrapped his rifle’s sling around didn’t fare much better. He huffed and shook his head. A quick rest was all he’d wanted, and instead he’d ended up idling until the day’s colours changed and his body turned stiff.

“Long day, huh?” Cynric asked, casting a sideways glance and a grin at him. “Cannae say I’ve e’er seen a man nod off sae fast, aye I cannae.”

It was more of a long quarter of a day, and a very, very long preceding three days. “Yes,” Sjan-dehk replied simply. “Very long. Very tiring.”

Cynric nodded. “Ah, just some o’ those days, aye? Cannae say I’ve ‘ad it any different from ye. Fixin’ up ol’ Recompense’s been feckin’ draggin’ on, aye it has. Dae’n get me wrang, pal, all this privateerin’ business suits me just fine an’ like, but ‘avin’ tae patch ‘oles every time I pull intae ‘arbour’s a feckin’ hassle.”

Sjan-dehk stifled a yawn as he tried to rub the stiffness from his neck. “You need help? I can send some of my crew.” Though his words were aimed at Cynric, his attention stayed on the half-dozen men standing on the firing line—all from his ship, Sada Kurau. They’d only just discharged another volley, gunsmoke curling from their rifles’ muzzles and drifting above their heads. Sjan-dehk took a moment to examine their targets with discerning eyes before concluding that yes, they were all performing to expectations, both his and the Commonwealth Navy’s.

“Ah, cheers, Cap’n, but there’s nae need fer that,” Cynric replied quickly. “‘Tis nae me askin’ fer help, dae’n get me wrang. I’m just bein’ a whiny wee shite; that’s aw’ there is tae it.”

“Okay,” Sjan-dehk said with a curt nod. “So you need me for what?”

Cynric chuckled and shook his head. “Always straigh’ down tae business wi’ ye, aye?” Before he could go on any further, another scattering of gunshots snatched his attention. He turned toward the firing line, now occupied by several of his crew. Frustration flickered across his well-worn, yet still boyish features, and he clicked his tongue. “Oi!” His shout pulled several pairs of eyes to him. “Daley, what’d ta’ feckin’ sun dae tae ye, tae make ye wan’ tae feckin’ shoot it? Fix yer feckin’ aim ‘fore I get Svante tae fix it fer ye!”

He huffed, leaned back on his palms, and glanced at Sjan-dehk. “Yer offer tae send some o’ yer fellas o’er tae me still on ta’ table, Cap’n?” he asked, his tone not entirely serious, but not quite in jest, either. “‘Cause I might wan’ tae borrow a few now, tae whip my fellas intae shape. What’d ye e’en dae tae get yer lads tae ‘ave that sort o’ skill, anyway?”

“We fought in war,” Sjan-dehk replied bluntly.

“Ah, right.”

An awkward silence settled between them. For a moment, the two men simply watched Cynric’s crew take their turns on the firing line, and listened to the fiddle and flute’s meandering duet. It didn’t take long for the atmosphere to become too heavy for Sjan-dehk’s liking—he was already fidgeting by the fourth volley, and by the fifth, he was itching to just do something to change the mood. And so, he spoke up.

“Your people,” he began, clearing his throat. “They are better at shooting now, yes? Compared to when we started, I mean.”

Cynric gave a wry smirk. “Well, if yer comparin’ tae that absolute shiteshow, then yer right, though I reckon they’d ‘ave tae try real feckin’ hard tae find a way tae get worse.” He chuckled, then jerked a thumb over a shoulder, towards a corner of the range. “An’ my fellas ‘ave yers tae thank. Yer people gave heaps o’ help, aye they did.” Then, he paused, his quiet laughs trailing away and his smile disappearing. He snapped his fingers, as if he’d only just recalled something.

“Ah, feck me, I almost forgot,” he said. “Ye keen fer a drink, Cap’n? Some o’ my fellas and yers are thinkin’ o’ findin’ a tavern after this an’ ‘avin’ a few pints. Y’know, tae end ta’ day on a ‘appy note, an’ aw’. Thought I’d ask if ye wan’ tae come along wi’ us.”

Sjan-dehk’s first thought was to decline. He was tired—as his unintended, extended rest had proven—and the idea of making the night any longer than it needed to be wasn’t an appealing one. All he wanted was a quick return to Sada Kurau and an early reunion with his cot.

But then his gaze drifted to where Cynric’s thumb had earlier pointed.

There, a small group of people had gathered—some Cynric's, some his. They’d stacked their muskets and rifles in neat piles, and done the same with swords, helmets, and all manner of other equipment. Most sat on the grass, while a few lay sprawled on it, their eyes following passing clouds. Amongst them, Sjan-dehk noticed several familiar faces—Iyen, his closest friend, playing cards with a few others; and Yehn-tai, Sada Kurau’s best shot, breathing life into a well-used flute. The fiddler, one of Cynric’s men, wasn’t far from the latter, his bow gliding across his instrument’s strings with practiced grace.

A smile, small and wistful, pulled on Sjan-dehk’s lips. Memories of old friends surfaced once more, and his mind drifted to thoughts of Asahn-jehn and Sajehmai, of how they would’ve loved this music. He could see them joining Yehn-tai and the fiddler with their own instruments. Or rather, Sajehmai would join first—she’d always been the more outgoing between the two—and Asahn-jehn would’ve followed after her.

“‘Tis been some while since thou thought of them, lost Jafin child.”

The voice returned, speaking the same words, and in the same ethereal tone. But this time, it didn’t feel as annoying as before. Rather, it seemed almost gentle—a reminder, rather than a taunt. Sjan-dehk still didn’t reply to it, but neither did he dismiss it entirely. He couldn’t, not when it was right. Perhaps it was just trying to help him remember them in its own way. Perhaps it was telling him that now was as good a time as any to do something—anything—to do right by them.

“Okay, I will go,” Sjan-dehk said, looking at Cynric. “One drink. Maybe two.”

Or maybe even four.

They hadn’t walked far from the firing range when the sound of raised voices reached Sjan-dehk’s ears.

He paid it little heed at first. After all, arguments were to cities as creaks were to ships—nothing more than ambient noise. Harmless and easily ignored until, of course, they stopped being so. But as they continued down the bustling street—weaving through the evening crowd and passing well-stocking shops, makeshift stalls under awnings, and lively cafes—one of the voices started to sound familiar. A little too familiar.

The louder, gruffer voice was undoubtedly that of a Caesonian man. Traces of a brogue not unlike Cynric’s coloured his speech, though nowhere near as prominently. Not that it mattered; frayed nerves, pure anger, and sheer volume turned most of his words into a muddled roar. Sjan-dehk wasn’t particularly interested in what he had to say, anyway. It was the other voice, the one the man was trying to yell into submission, that had drawn his notice.

Higher-pitched, insistent yet light, and clearly belonging to a young girl, that other voice carried the tell-tale signs of a Viserjantan trying to speak Caesonian. Namely, it sounded like Sjan-dehk—with awkward starts, misused words, sudden stops, and mispronunciations—whenever he tried his hand at the language, albeit with markedly less fluency. He’d heard that exact same sing-song cadence enough times on Sada Kurau’s decks that he’d recognise it anywhere, regardless of language. It could only belong to one person. Still, he hoped against hope that his suspicions were wrong.

Turning the next corner, however, quickly proved just how not wrong they were. If anything, he hadn’t been suspicious enough.

Just a little further up ahead, and clustered in front of the closed doors and dark windows of a tavern, were four youths, all of them distinctly Viserjantan—their teak-toned complexions, their night-dark hair, and their styles of clothing were dead giveaways. Two of them—two girls—were strangers to Sjan-dehk; they had to be from Sudah’s crew, he thought. The others, however, he knew. There was Yasawen, with his hair pulled into a tail high atop his head, wearing his usual flowing, pale-grey, and impractical robes. The boy seemed to be trying to defuse the situation, to no avail.

And standing right beside him was the person causing the situation in the first place, and also the owner of the voice that’d caught Sjan-dehk’s attention—Inshahri. Her hair, gathered into two long tails, swished and swayed as she confronted the four Caesonian men blocking the tavern’s entrance. Though she was easily half the size of any of them, she still matched them shout for shout, and even seemed to be wearing them down with her relentless energy.

“Huh,” was all Cynric said at first. He tilted his chin towards the scene. “Those yer people, Cap’n?”

Sjan-dehk clenched his jaw. It seemed rest would have to wait. “Yes,” he replied. “They are. Some.”

He looked to his left, at Iyen. The Sudhrayarn seemed more amused than anything else, and met his gaze with a little grin. Her eyes turned to the scene, then back to him, and she shrugged. Sjan-dehk merely kept his half-tired, half-vexed expression. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “I’ll deal with Yasa and Shahri, but I need someone from Sudah to handle the other two.”

“Me?” Iyen asked with mock surprise, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh my, Captain, I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone with actual rank and authority. I’m just one of Lady Adiyan’s personal guards.”

“And that alone gives you more authority than I’ll ever have over anyone from Sudah,” Sjan-dehk retorted, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. Iyen chuckled quietly, but nodded and said nothing more. He took one step forward, then abruptly stopped when he remembered that he still had ten or so fully-armed men from Sada Kurau’s Seaborne company following him. Frustrated as he was with the two youths, he didn’t want to give them any more of a scare than was absolutely necessary.

Well, he didn’t want to scare Yasawen, at least. He doubted Inshahri would care.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Sergeant Dahsahn,” he called out. “Keep the men here.”

Dahsahn—a man whose face managed to look youthful, grizzled, fresh, and worn all at once—gave a nod in response. “You got it, Captain,” he said and offered a brief salute, his right fist over his chest.

Sjan-dehk turned to Cynric. “Please wait. I must handle this. Apologies.”

“Ah, nae worries, Cap’n,” Cynric replied. “We all ‘ave our own troublesome fellas, aye we dae. Dae’n worry about me. Ye can take yer time. I know that’s what I’d wan’tae dae.”

Only then did Sjan-dehk make his way towards the tavern, Iyen keeping pace beside him. As the two drew closer, he noticed the small crowd that’d gathered—curious onlookers standing in a loose semicircle, each peeking over one another’s shoulders whilst keeping their distance. Ignoring the guarded looks and muted whispers directed at them, Sjan-dehk pushed his way through the small audience. His ears caught parts of the altercation, and not long after that, he could see it for himself.

“Once again, you daft bitch, we’re fuckin’ closed! Closed! Fuck off!” It was clear from the Caesonian man’s voice that this wasn’t the first time he’d said such a thing. He was a rather large man, thickly-built, and with an imposing face dominated by a heavy brow.

“No, no, no, you lie!” Inshahri’s response was quick, almost as if she’d been through this exchange several times and knew on instinct just what to say. She shook her head, her hair flying about wildly. “You lie! I can feel magic. Magic! Inside! So not closed!”

Behind her, Yasawen stood ill-at-ease, nervousness painted all over him, from his face, to the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Inshahri, stop,” he pleaded. “Just let it go. There’s people watching us and we’re not even supposed to be ashore! The Captain’s going to hear about this and then we’re going to get into a lot of trouble!”

That was when Sjan-dehk cleared his throat. “So you do know you’re in the wrong,” he said drily. “That’s a good start, but it also makes me wonder what made you choose to go against my orders to begin with.”

Yasawen yelped, a short, sharp cry that mixed fear and surprise in equal measure. Beyond that, however, he gave no response—he just stood frozen, unable to even turn and look at Sjan-dehk. Instead, it was one of the girls from Sudah who spoke up. Redness tinted her cheeks, and her round eyes darted left, then up, then right, then down—at everything but him. She ran her fingers along the looped braids on either side of her head as she spoke.

“O-Oh, Captain! I-I mean, sir—No, I mean, my lord—”

“How many more ranks are you going to give me?” Sjan-dehk interrupted, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he’d intended. The girl recoiled visibly. He sighed. “Captain or Sjan-dehk will do. Who’re you?”

The girl nodded. “O-Okay, Captain Sjan-dehk,” she said. “My, um, my name is—”

She was interrupted once more, this time by Iyen. The Sudhrayarn’s wide grin made her look as if she was a cat toying with its prey. “You’re Hasehnya, aren’t you? Yasawen’s senior.” A look of surprise spread over the girl’s face, but then she nodded, her feet trying to rub holes into the ground. Iyen’s gaze didn’t linger on her, and she turned to the other girl from Sudah.

“And you must be Tehwasang,” she concluded.

As with Hasehnya, surprise coloured Tehwasang’s features—clearly, neither of them had expected Iyen to recognise them—but she recovered much faster than her friend. “That’s me,” she said, her voice brimming with exuberance, almost as if she was proud to be caught. Black ink lined her upturned eyes, flowing from the corners like little wings. Unlike Hasehnya, she allowed her long hair to flow freely. “But you can just call me Tehwa, Captain Sjan-dehk, and…” She turned to Iyen, head cocked slightly. “...Guard Iyen?”

Iyen ignored her, folding her arms and looking sideways at Sjan-dehk. “Arcanists, both of them.”

Four arcanists. Ashore. Making a scene in front of a tavern for all of Caesonia to see. Sjan-dehk wanted to scream, but he settled for rubbing the bridge of his nose and breathing in deeply. This evening was turning out to be quite a mess. And worse than that, a mess he now had to clean up.

He turned his steely gaze on Yasawen, then Inshahri. “So,” he began, addressing the boy. “An explanation would be nice.”

At last, Yasawen looked at him. Or at least, he tried to—his nervous eyes wandered everywhere before he decided to just stare at the dirt between his feet. “It…It was Shahri’s idea,” he mumbled. Sjan-dehk huffed, and he carried on, his voice jumping a few pitches higher. “S–Sorry, Captain! S–Shahri just wanted a night ashore before…Before the new rule went into force. I–I tried to stop her, I really did! But she got away, and so I–I followed her to make sure she didn’t get herself into trouble…” He glanced at Inshahri, who seemed far too engrossed with her argument to pay Sjan-dehk any heed. “Not too much trouble, I–I mean.”

Sjan-dehk shifted his attention to Hasehnya and Tehwasang. “And the two of you? Same reason?”

“What?” Hasehnya looked genuinely shocked, her voice suddenly loud. The redness in her face deepened as she continued. “I–We–I mean, Tehwa and I didn’t know anything about that! W-We had permission from Captain Kaizahn to stay ashore until sunset! A-And we were going to return, really! But we ran into Shahri at the pier and she said she had your permission to stay out a-and said we could join her, so…So we did.”

Tehwasang covered her mouth with a hand and giggled. “And you actually believed that?”

It took no small amount of willpower for Sjan-dehk to resist the urge to beckon Dahsahn and his men over, and have them haul these wayward arcanists back to their ships.

For almost every waking hour of the past three days, he’d had to endure endless meetings and mountains of paperwork. Ploughing through them had been an agonising affair, but he’d kept the bulk of his grumbles to himself. After all, there’d been a very good reason for his efforts. Although his report on the banquet had been brief, it’d still caused a stir within Viserjantan leadership. News of an active witch-hunt—one ruthless enough to persecute even the Caesonian Queen—demanded action.

And—his personal misgivings aside—Sjan-dehk had to give credit to everyone else who’d been part of the discussions for taking swift action. They’d come to a majority consensus during their very first meeting, on the very first day—all arcanists were to be confined to ships until a better solution could be found. Then, in true Commonwealth fashion, the remaining two days had been dedicated to drafting, reviewing, critiquing, and inevitably re-drafting the regulations to ensure that every possible loophole had been closed.

Unfortunately, none of that accounted for someone like Inshahri. Sjan-dehk and the rest of the Viserjantan leaders could’ve spent a full month refining and revising the regulations, and Inshahri would’ve still ignored them as easily as she breathed.

But irritated as Sjan-dehk was with her, he couldn’t bring himself to feel properly angry. Being confined to a ship was considered a punishment by sailors—Jafin ones included. And while being trapped aboard a ship like Sudah, which had been built with comfort in mind, might be bearable, being limited to the four decks of a frigate like Sada Kurau must’ve been like torture for youths like Inshahri and Yasawen. Neither had even served aboard a warship before, as far as Sjan-dehk knew.

And so, when he finally called out to Inshahri, his voice didn’t have as much of a bite as he’d planned, and instead carried more of an older brother’s sternness. “Inshahri.”

Rather than her, it was the Caesonian man with whom she was arguing who answered him. A pair of pale, bluish-green eyes glared at him from over Inshahri’s shoulder. “Oi, this bitch belong to you? Get her out of here before I decide to stop playin’ nice.”

Sjan-dehk bristled. “You will not speak of her that way,” he said, jaw set and eyes narrowed. “And I am not speaking to you. You will wait.”

Inshahri spun around, relief in her smile and hope in her eyes. “Captain!” The joy in her voice almost made Sjan-dehk feel bad about having to discipline her later. She stepped closer and looked up at him. “Please, you have to help me! There’s bad magic in there! Really, really bad magic!” She jabbed a finger toward the tavern, then glared at the Caesonians standing in front of the door. “I can hear it! It’s terrible, terrible music and we have to do something! Please, explain it to them!”

Sjan-dehk met her gaze with one brow raised. “Inshahri, you’re not even supposed to be here,” he started, voice dry and words measured. “What makes you think I’m going to help you?”

Genuine distress came over Inshahri’s face, and she tugged at his sleeve. “Please, Captain! I-I, um I know I did wrong, but please just help me? I promise I won’t do anything like this again! And I’ll accept whatever punishment you want to give!”

The right thing to do, Sjan-dehk knew, was to ignore her pleas, apologise to the Caesonians, and drag her back to Sada Kurau—by force, if need be. But there was something about her insistence, about the hint of desperation running under it, that gave him pause. Inshahri had never been the type to confront obstacles like this, and though she’d asked him for things and favours before, she’d never begged for them. Perhaps there really was something worth looking into here.

“Fine,” he said. Inshahri let out a little cheer. “But only this once, alright?”

Sjan-dehk shifted his attention to the Caesonian man, his face hardening into the visage of a battle-tested captain. “She says there is something wrong here—”

“And I’m sayin’ she’s a fuckin’ idiot.” The man didn’t let him finish. “Tavern’s closed. That’s it. Fuck off.”

“Do not interrupt me,” Sjan-dehk said. He folded his arms. “If it is closed, then just let her see. Maybe open the door for a while. Let her look through a window. Then she will know it is closed, and then it will be easy for me to take her away. That is simple, yes?”

“No fuckin’ chance.” The man’s reply came without hesitation. “Get her out of my sight now, or things’ll get real messy real fuckin’ quick.”

“Why no?” Sjan-dehk asked. “You have something to hide?”

Beside him, Inshahri nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes! Hiding! They are hiding some…Something.”

“Shut your fuckin’ gobs, both of you,” the man snapped. He shot Inshahri a dirty look. “Especially you, you mad bitch. You want to accuse us of witchcraft? Witch-fuckin’-craft? Then either get some fuckin’ proof get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay!” Inshahri said. “I get proof!”

Before Sjan-dehk could stop her, she darted forward. The man shouted, a sound halfway between a growl and a roar. His hand reached for a wooden handle jutting out from his belt. It could’ve been part of a knife; it could’ve been part of a truncheon—it wouldn’t have mattered to Sjan-dehk either way. He only knew that he had to act. “Yasa!” he shouted for the boy even as he grabbed Inshahri’s shoulder and pulled her back, pushing her towards Sada Kurau’s other arcanist. “Take her!”

Yasawen yelled something in response, but his words were lost amidst the panicked clamour of the crowd, the cold hiss of steel against leather, and the clatter of approaching footsteps. Sjan-dehk paid little heed to all those sounds, and drove his fist into the man’s face. It struck his nose with a wet, sickening crunch. The man staggered back several steps, a pained scream bursting from his lips. Sjan-dehk gave him no time to recover and closed the distance with practiced ease. Fabric rustled as he landed an open-palmed strike to the man’s jaw, followed by an elbow to his temple.

“Fuck you—” The man managed to growl despite the blood pouring from his ruined nose. Sjan-dehk didn’t reply, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smirk as he planted a foot on the man’s chest with enough force to send him sprawling. The man hit the cobblestones hard, the air rushing from his lungs in a wheeze.

Even so, he retained enough of his senses to draw his weapon—a knife with a wicked, serrated blade. His tenacity was impressive, Sjan-dehk had to admit, but not his speed. Before the blade’s point could clear its sheath, Sjan-dehk had already pulled his pistol out and levelled its muzzle at the man’s head.

“Do not try,” he said flatly.

As the gentle notes of the piano drifted through the air, the Pasta Oasis came alive. Lanterns cast a golden glow over tables draped in elegant navy blue or cream cloths. The scent of rich sauce mingled with fresh basil and roasted garlic, wrapping the occupants in a tantalizing warmth. Laughter and clinking cutlery rose and fell with the music, creating a lively cacophony beneath the chandelier’s shimmering lights. As the two Camilia offspring and their loyal knight stepped inside, the brilliant blue of the pool came into view, along with towering tropical plants.

Though Ambrose walked at their side as the obvious shield, he was not the royals’ only protection tonight. Two Varian Protectors in dark, tailored coats lingered near the main doors, posing as ordinary gentlemen waiting on a table, eyes tracking the events of the room.

Another guard occupied a small table on the upper balcony, his untouched glass of wine giving him an excuse enough to sit and watch the pool floor below. Outside, a final man kept to the lamplit street by the carriages as he monitored anyone who loitered too long near the entrance. To most patrons, they were just part of the crowd; to Ambrose, they were a well-placed net ready to draw tight at the first sign of trouble.

As for the trio themselves, their status ensured they were almost immediately ushered to a table. A well-dressed waiter approached at once, offering a polite bow before he began to take their drink orders. In the meantime, he poured water into crystal glasses and provided them with a basket of fresh-baked bread.

Askel gave the waiter a polite nod of silent appreciation and then looked at his two dinner companions. "I must say, it is nice to share a meal with you two once again. Shame that Marnie and Lucian could not attend, but I cannot complain; the company of you both is enough to fill my heart," he said with a warm smile to his sister and their solemn companion and protector.

His gaze trailed the restaurant, a scene of plenty that not many were privileged to witness; an excess of food and fineries as far as the eyes could see. A soft chuckled puffed past his lips. "Though I have to admit, I find myself feeling rather out of place. Such decadence was not afforded to me during my journey nor were such protections. Why, you'd think I was a prince after all!"

He certainly looked the part, handsomely dressed in a black dinner wear, a stiffly starched white dress shirt, and for a splash of color a deep blue ascot around his neck that contrasted with that fiery head of hair.

Syvlia could not contain her excitement leading up to the restaurant, it was her choice after all. The novelty of having a pool in the middle of the establishment had shoved aside all other options. She bounced on the front of her feet even as they walked, often tapping Askel’s arms when something fun or interesting captured her attention while bombarding Ambrose with a myriad of her often obvious observations.

She clung onto Askel’s arm as they entered Pasta Oasis, her bouncing a near constant and only her grip on his firm arm holding her from speeding off. A bright smile matched her wide, open eyes as they finally moved and were struck with the mix of fantastic sights and delicious smell. Her gaze then quickly shifted to the pool with a few people already swimming in it. The bright smile on her lips twisted deviously as her bouncing ominously stopped.

Sylvia dropped her hold on Askel’s arm and kicked off her jeweled sandals in a quick motion as she made a quick surge to move forward. The firm hand on her shoulder was almost enough to cause her feet to slip out from under her, luckily the grip was strong and she was rather light. Sylvia turned her head slowly with her best charming smile at Ambrose yet the brief squeeze on her shoulder and scowl on his face told her his answer. ”Fine~” She pouted for just a moment and let her body relax. It was worth a shot.

She picked up her discarded sandals after Ambrose let go of her and followed the waiter to their table. Sylvia stood next to her chair and glanced at Ambrose once again with a sweeter, less plotting smile than earlier. It turned into a pleased, somewhat proud smirk as he pulled out the chair for her and then pushed her back in after she sat down, her hands landing on her lap as she adopted a properly dignified posture. The giggle that followed shortly after didn’t let the image last for long.

”I agree, Askie!~ I feel like a proper princess with my two valiant knights!” She exclaimed cheerfully, the unique extravagance of the venue not even within the orbit of her thoughts. This place is amazing! We have to bring Marnie and Lulu next time! That would be so fun.” Syvlia let out what was more a snicker than a giggle at the last part.

”I don’t know, brother.~ I think I saw quite a few pretty girls looking your way when we entered. Maybe a few of them would want to go swimming with you. I can point them out if you’d like.” Sylvia offered in the same tone that often led to grease spread around the castle halls. She let the words hang for a moment before giggling again, her whole body turning towards Ambrose ”And you, my dashing knight, shall have whatever you want on the menu! It is a treat from your favorite princess!” She titled her head up a little with a confident grin.

Ambrose was quiet, as he had been for some time on the way to this strange restaurant. This was a new city, a new Kingdom, but the same task. All that mattered was keeping the Camilia heirs safe. But how, he wondered, was he meant to keep those who refused to comply safe? This question came often, haunting him as an unending source of frustration. That very sentiment was obvious on his face; the expression he wore made his irritation quite clear.

The man was rather grumpy, after all… Grumpy but vigilant. Always vigilant. Always ready to fulfill the orders of his king.

As such, Ambrose wore his formal attire. It was comprised of tailored dark layers beneath a polished cuirass of deep blackened steel with warm bronze detailing. His arming sword hung plainly visible at his hip; it was not his full Briarknight armor, nor the iconic greatsword that he was most known for, but there was enough protection to do his duty without drawing unnecessary attention. The kit was practical, stylish, and most importantly… fit for the occasion.

Once Sylvia was back in her seat and settled, Ambrose listened to her conversation with Askel, to whom he gave a gracious nod before turning his bronze gaze back to the girl.

“It is true, Your Grace…” Ambrose exclaimed, his voice laced with dry sarcasm. “You are my favorite Princess, because you are here, where you are meant to be. Unlike your sister.” The sigh that followed was nothing but the release of pure, never-ending exasperation. “Speaking of Princess Marina… Where is she, and why is she not here to meet us as I was led to believe?”

"My apologies Ambrose, it slipped my mind. Marnie decided to retire to her guest quarters for the night as she found the journey quite tiring." Askel explained, his smile apologetic for he knew the worry that always went through his fellow knight's head. Ambrose scowled as Askel’s smile then turned wry and the younger knight said, "The only trouble that you're dealing with tonight is the one sitting in front of us." He shot his dear little sister with a look of annoyance that only an older brother could give to their ever-precocious younger sibling.

"Seriously, what is with you Sylvie? Ever since I returned home you have done nothing but parade me around to every able-bodied woman that you know; your friends, your friends of friends, and Gods know who else. Those poor ladies must be sick to death of the sight of me by now!" Askel exclaimed with an exasperated chuckle of someone that he had been pulled around by his sister's well-intentioned schemes.

Sylvia’s grin turned a bit more smug at Ambrose’s admission and nodded along with such a natural conclusion. The expression fell some as he mentioned Marnie, a mix of longing and annoyance at the absence of her closest sister. She took the moment Ambrose and Askel talked to take a sip of her water, dipping the edge of the crystal glass against her lips in a show of refined elegance that showcased the royal demeanor she could express if she only chose to. Displays like it were just another way she teases others. Strangers would think her to be refined as her lineage suggested, while those close would know she was just making a point.

She set her glass down with that faux noble smile as Askel’s attention shifted to her. ”It is quite simple, my dear Askel…” Sylvia had begun with the same tone of voice she adopted for public appearance that dropped quickly as she continued, her dainty hands making a tap rather than a thud as she slammed them on the table with no real force behind them.

”...It is a royal crime that my daring and charming brother does not have a beloved! Every Knight needs a fair maiden! These are the rules!” Passion erupted in her eyes that bore a fierceness rarely seen in the free-spirited princess. ”Besides, there is now a fresh…” She raised a hand to her mouth to hide her wide smirk and giggle, glancing over at the center of the restaurant and back at Askel. ”...pool of lovely women who would love a princely knight to take them away.”

The way her hand trembled a little showed how much she was struggling to hold back her laughter. Her eyes glanced over at Ambrose, ever seeking the faintest sign of amusement from the broody knight. ”You have to agree, right Ambrose? A dashing knight whisking his princess away on a ride through the meadow….” What had started as a strong question faded into wistful mumbling as her gaze shifted to the window.

“Whatever you say, Princess.” Ambrose answered dryly, posture unchanged as Sylvie’s thoughts wandered off into the familiar depths of her imagination. He did not follow her there.

His thoughts shifted instead, unhurried, settling back on the other princess he was sworn to protect…and then, inevitably, to the man across from him. As his gaze returned to Askel, measured and unreadable, Ambrose considered his words. Perhaps the young knight believed his sister when she claimed she would retire early. Perhaps he didn’t.

Ambrose, of course, did not. It was never that simple with this family.

A quiet sigh left him, more habit than frustration at this point… and with it, he set Marina aside for later reckoning. His voice returned to Sylvie, calm and even, though his eyes never left his former squire.

“Though I’d argue what your brother really needs is less galivanting,” he added, the faintest curve of a smirk touching his mouth, “and more training.”

Following his sister's line of sight, his eyes fell upon the pool that sat smacked in the middle of the restaurant. He squinted at her, seeing that she could barely hold herself together from her own amusement and could only roll his eyes at Sylvia's antics.

"Nothing screams romance more than the smell of chlorine, cheese, and beef." Sarcasm dripped from his lips before the prince reached out and grabbed one of the slices of freshly baked bread and ripped a piece off, carefully dipping it in some of the provided olive oil that sat in a pristine dipping bowl. He silenced himself with the piece of well dredged bread as Ambrose made his stance quite clear on what Askel should be doing with his time instead.

Finally seeing some signs of life from the man, Askel returned Ambrose's smirk. "Ambrose, don't threaten me with a good time. I'm not one to boast, but I think I could give you some trouble." There it was, his love for competition that lit up his eyes. The prince knew that Ambrose was likely still the better warrior, but it had been years since they last crossed blades; anything was possible.

A chuckled rumbled from his throat and he said, "Besides, who would be so crass to pick up women during a family outing?"

His gaze fell upon his sister who wistfully looked out the window for her future knight to come and whisk her away. If Askel had a gold piece every time that she had that look, he would've had enough to fund his very own kingdom. A playful grin played upon his lips. "Woe to the man that pursues you and has to compete with the ideal in your head."

Syvlia adopted a cute pout as she crossed her arms at Ambrose’s rigid dismissal and Askel’s sarcasm, letting a soft huff of annoyance at them both. She really had her work cut out for her between the two regimented knights. The princess disguised her brief discontentment by following Askel’s lead and angrily stuffed her cheeks with some buttered bread. His eagerness to accept Ambrose’s offer was nearly enough to make her cry out in exasperation.

”You know, Askie, you won’t have room for dessert if you fill up with excuses!” Syvlia waved the butter knife she had used toward him, a playful scowl on her face that quickly faded. She set it down and made a point of correcting her posture in her seat. ”And Ambrose, Askie has been far more successful in his training than his gallivanting so I must disagree.” Her voice holding the poise that she so often discarded, a mock look of offense on her face.

The mock look directed at Ambrose shifted into an honest one as her gaze and head snapped towards Askel, her mouth slightly agape and a light blush on her cheeks. ”W-what is that supposed to mean? I think my requirements are perfectly reasonable!” She protested as she crossed her arms, turning her head slightly in a true pout this time.

Ambrose simply rolled his eyes at the duo, but could not hide the slight growth of the faint little smirk he wore so handsomely. He had not taken a seat between the two, instead he stood vigil by the table, as was his role as protector. The royal knight was not here for bread, pasta, nor the pool. He was here to keep the others safe. Yet, despite his best efforts, that had never stopped him from being pulled into their conversations before. For now, however, he remained silent so that the brother could answer the sister’s query.

Askel could only chuckle at his little sister's indignation. She could tease him all she wanted, but all it took to get a rise out of her was a well-placed jab. Somehow, he got the feeling that he was going to be paying for this later in the form of cake. "Standards are good to have, healthy even." Askel explained. "I have them, Ambrose has them, and I am sure anyone with any self-respect would have them. The problem arises when suitors climb the tallest mountain only to find that they need to reach sky."

His smile softened with brotherly affection for Sylvia. At the end of the day, he was just a concerned older brother worried for his little sister. "I'm not saying you should accept any man that shows the tiniest passing interest in you; they'd have to answer to me then. What I am saying is that good men are flawed and if you focus only on them then you'll never see the greater picture. In fact, if you find someone that seems perfect then I would be wary of them the most." He motioned towards their knight towering over them.

"I mean, take Ambrose for example. He's grumpy on the best of days, so stoic that his face cracks whenever he smiles the slightest, and he refuses to sit with us even when standing draws more attention. Save for his handsome face, you'd write him off, no?" Ambrose glared daggers at him, and Askel stifled a laugh with a quickly disguised clearing of his throat, he quickly followed up, "But if you saw the parts that made up the whole, well, you'd find that he's probably the most eligible bachelor in Varian." The prince gave their ever statuesque guardian an apologetic grin for making him the butt of a joke for the moment. It was times like these he was glad that he was no longer Ambrose's squire for he knew what kind of punishment would have awaited him.

Sylvia had begun to open her mouth to passionately object, but the smile Askel had offered disarmed her instinctual reaction. She had a tendency to go a little…overboard and she hadn’t spared the image of her ideal partner that treatment. Her gaze looked towards Ambrose as Askel spoke of him, lightly nodding along with each of her brother’s assessments. There was a light that sparked in her eyes as she glanced between the two. Sylvia’s nodding turned fervent, a knowing smile washing away the thoughtful mood she had been in listening to Askel. ”I understand you, brother. I understand completely.” There was a wicked glint in the corners of her eyes as they flicked between her older brother and their protector.

”I should just send any men who come bother me to you or Ambrose! Those who don’t die can be put on a list!” Sylvia tiled her head up slightly with a prideful smile, planting her hands on her hips confident of her decision. Her siblings were simply the best. That much was certain to the young princess. Therefore, if potential suitors could defeat either Askel or Ambrose, who had trained Askel, then they would be fit to pursue her! A smug smirk replaced her previous smile as her eyes had closed, picturing the sight of a mountain of defeated suitors beaten under the two knights next to her.

“Well first off, it’s good to know that you think I’m handsome… Askie”. Ambrose announced in jest, using Askel’s pet name in a way he knew the young knight would hate. That same slight curl of a grin that formed with his joke shifted into pure stoicism as he addressed Sylvie’s plan. “I guess that means you’ll never find a proper suitor.” He said plainly, with no emotion behind the words. Simple facts from a man confident in his, and his trainee’s competence. The sureness of his words, along with the pure neutrality of his expression when speaking them could have turned a man’s blood cold.

Askel maintained a blank smile while he slowly blinked after hearing his sister's grand idea on how to decide her suitors. This had taken a turn that he had not expected. The prince was ready to open his mouth, but Ambrose had beat him to the punch. He shot his senior knight a glare back at him though before he could protest, the stoic confidently stated that they would just kill all of her suitors with that unreadable expression on his face.

Askel looked at devilish duo and with a bemused laugh said, "Were you two always this terrifying or did this come about while I was gone?" He really did not want to know the answer to that. "Anyway, I have to agree with Ambrose; you'd just end up as an old spinstress. Mother and father would be most displeased if the reason you never married was because of us." Askel grinned mischievously and playfully threw his hands up. "Who knows, maybe we’ll lose on purpose to a man with a valiant heart, but the head of an ass. Now that would make for an interesting family portrait."

She had simply clasped her hands together, tilted her head, and gave the most innocent smile she could give at his question. ”It would seem that my dreams of a valiant hero coming to save me from two horrible demons just won’t be realized….” She said dreamily back to the two knights, or demons, as she pictured strong heroes fighting one after the other for her hand. Her brows furrowed, breaking her pure expression to glare at Askel. ”You do that and I’ll send a certain someone a very passionate and romantic letter. I still know your handwriting, dear Askie.” She let out an annoyed hmpf that lasted an entire second as she glanced over her shoulder.

”Oh, perfect. Our food is about to arrive! All this love talk has really given me an appetite.” Sylvia said cheerfully with an eager look as if the entire previous conversation had been entirely scrubbed from her current mood. The truffle butter pasta ribbons with black truffle shavings were placed in front of her. It had been at the top of the menu and looked very good so that had been enough for her. ”Oh, what did you two get? Hold on, let me guess, you BOTH got the pasta with short rib?”

The man’s eyes widened as they swept over Sjan-dehk, as if seeing the swords, pistols and armour on the Viserjantan’s person for the first time. He dropped the knife, its blade clanging against stone. “Okay, okay, wait, I—” His words came quickly, like a torrent surging through a broken dam.

“Let me warn you, for the first time and last time,” Sjan-dehk went on. “Inshahri is part of my crew. To obey me is her duty. To protect her is mine. Hurt her, and I will hurt you.”

“Alright, alright, I’m not—”

“Now,” Sjan-dehk interrupted him again. “She says there is magic in there. I believe her. Explain. Now.”

“What fuckin’ magic?” The man’s voice grew loud, but without its earlier bluster and edge, it sounded more like a desperate wail than a threatening roar. “I’ve been tellin’ your girl all fuckin’ evenin’ since she and her pals got here, there’s no. Fuckin’. Magic! Nobody’s mad enough to try that shit in this fuckin’ city! Might be she heard somethin’, or thought she saw somethin’, I don’t fuckin’ know. But I fuckin’ swear to you, there’s no fuckin’ magic! The tavern’s just closed, and that’s the truth!”


Once again, that womanly whisper came unbidden to Sjan-dehk’s mind. Were it not for the tense situation, he would’ve smirked. For once, it’d spoken plainly, and had said words he could agree with. The man was clearly hiding something—everything he’d done so far betrayed that fact. Proving it, however, would be far easier said than done. Sjan-dehk knew Inshahri wasn’t the sort to go around picking fights. He knew of her ability to sense arcane energy. The Caesonians didn’t. To them, she was just a strange girl accusing these men of a grave crime.

“The boys and I just want to make an honest livin’, that’s all,” the man went on. His eyes shifted toward the crowd every few words. “We never intended to cause any trouble, never! The boss paid us good money to keep people away, and that’s what we did! We sure as fuck didn’t plan on fightin’ foreigners, gettin’ beaten up, or havin’ fuckin’ guns pointed in our faces!”

Sjan-dehk clicked his tongue and grimaced. He couldn’t understand the crowd’s murmurs, but his instincts told him that its sympathies were with the Caesonian men. The man seemed to know it as well—there was a shine in his eyes, and a ghost of a smile on his lips when he looked at Sjan-dehk.

“Ye’re still stickin’ wi’ that gobshite o’ a story? Cannae say I’m nae impressed wi’ yer determination.”

Cynric’s playful lilt sliced through the tension with ease. Sjan-dehk glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, Dahsahn’s men had two of the other Caesonian thugs held at gunpoint. Inshahri was with Yasawen, along with the other two arcanists, hiding behind Iyen. At their feet was the third thug, his body still as the stones it laid upon, and a bloodied rock by his head. The crowd had grown to a thronging mass, but Cynric’s crew did a fine job of holding it at bay.

And through it all, Recompense’s captain strolled over, his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket and a nonchalant air about it.

He stopped beside Sjan-dehk. “Sorry, Cap’n,” he said. “I thought things were’nae gae’n yer way, so I came o’er wi’ our fellas. Hope ye dae’n mind.”

“No, not at all,” Sjan-dehk replied. He tilted his head towards the man. “You were saying something?”

“Aye, I was,” Cynric said. He turned to the man on the ground, fixing him with a look that was both amused and disappointed. “Y’know, folks like ye used tae put actual effort intae their lies, aye they did. Used tae be that ye’d ‘ave tae be a wee bit clever tae dae this kind ‘o work.” He chuckled and shook his head. Then, he gestured to the tavern. “Come now, use yer ‘ead, aye? There’s nae a tavernkeeper who’d close their doors on an evenin’ as busy as this, aye there’s nae. Ta’ whole feckin’ place could be on feckin’ fire, and ye man would still be servin’ brews frae ta’ ash heap.”

The thug bared his teeth. “You shut your—”

“Nae, I dae’n think I will, pal,” Cynric cut in, an impish smile growing on his face. “‘Cause e’en if ta’ keeper was awa’, they would’nae spend good money hirin’ folks tae jus’ stand at ta’ door tellin’ people tae feck off, would they?” He shifted his attention to the crowd. “I dae’n know about ye lot, but all ta’ tavern’s I’ve been tae jus’ lock ta’ doors an’ ‘ang a sign tellin’ folks tae try their luck some other day when they’re closed. Any o’ you e’er seen one that hires fellas tae chase folks awa’?”

More murmurs rippled through the crowd, but nobody gave Cynric an answer.

“I thought nae,” Cynric said. He walked over to the man, kicked the knife away, and squatted beside him, a confident air about him, and a look that made it clear that he knew he’d won. “So, ye still thinkin’ o’ stickin’ tae yer story, or are ye ready tae tell ta’ truth?”

The man’s eyes nervously flicked over to Sjan-dehk, then returned to Cynric.

“I mean, we can aw’ways break a few fingers tae get started, if ye prefer. It’d match ye nose pret’y nicely, if ye dae’n mind me sayin’. Personally though, I’d jus’ talk an’ save e’erybody ta’ trouble…” He trailed off and made a show of slowly reaching for the man’s hand. “But if a bit ‘o pain’s what’ll make ye talk, then I’m nae gae’n let that stop wee ol’ me, aye I’m nae.”

“Okay, I’ll talk!” The man almost shrieked as he pulled his hand back.

Cynric chuckled and stood back up. “That’s a good lad,” he said before beckoning Sjan-dehk over. “Looks like ye man’s ready tae sing.”

“Thank you,” Sjan-dehk replied. Then, he turned to the man. “Explain everything. Now.”

“I–I really don’t know much, and that’s the truth,” the man said. His eyes widened when he saw Cynric sigh and crack his knuckles. “Wait, wait! That doesn’t mean I don’t know anythin’! The boys and I were hired by another gang to stand guard out here!”

“Another gang?” Sjan-dehk’s eyes narrowed. “How many are there? Do they have magic?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t count,” the man replied. “Maybe twelve? Fourteen? But they’ve got a witch, that’s for fuckin’ sure. I never liked that bitch, honest.”

“The one you call…Witch.” The word left a poor taste in Sjan-dehk’s mouth. It’d been a long time since any Viserjantan arcanist had been labelled with such an insulting term. “You know what she can do? You know what she is doing right now?”

The man shook his head. “T-They never told me the whole plan, so no, I don’t,” the man said. Displeasure flashed across Sjan-dehk’s face, and he quickly added, “B-But they did tell me that she’ll keep people from lookin’ in and lookin’ out. Cut the tavern off from the world, that’s what they said! T-That’s why they needed the boys and I to keep people away. Otherwise it might break the illusion, that’s what I was told!”

“And they do this…Why?” Sjan-dehk asked.

“They’re…” The man trailed off and averted his gaze. “They’re robbing the place.”

Cynric gave a short laugh. “Feck me, usin’ magic fer a robbery? That’s a wee bit much, aye? An’ what’s ta’ cut they promised ye and ye lads fer ye troubles?”

“They said…Twenty percent, I think? Split among the four of us.”

Cynric guffawed. “Twenty? Ye’d be lucky tae see five, pal.” The man stared at him, confused. With a shake of his head, Cynric sighed and went on. “Think about it fer a moment, pal. Twenty fer standin’ aroun’ dae’n feck aw’? That’s a feckin’ lie if I e’er saw one. An’ ye said it yersel’, ye lot were ‘ired, ye’re nae wi’ ‘em frae ta’ beginnin’. Tae those inside dae’n ta’ robbin’, ye’re jus’ feckin’ tools. If ye think they’d gee’s tools a whole twenty percent cut, then ye’re a feckin’ idiot.”

The thug opened his mouth to protest, but Cynric cut him off. “If ye’re nae tools, then ye’d nae be out here gettin’ feckin’ thrashed, aye? Ye’d be in there wi’ ‘em, dae’n the actual robbin’ and hirin’ other idiots tae be punchin’ bags fer my pal an’ ‘is people.”

“It’s good money…”

“Money ye’re ne’er gae’n see, pal,” Cynric said. “Look, let me spell it out fer ye. Frae here on out, only one o’ two things’ll ‘appen. One, ta’ robbery goes ‘aff wi’out a hitch. Ye’ll gae tae meet yer bosses, an’ ye know what they’re gae’n dae? They’re gae’n tell ye that ye’re nae gettin’ yer twenty, ye’re gettin’ five. What’re ye an’ ye pals gaen’ dae about it? They’ve got a feckin’ witch an’ all ye’ve got is four lads sharin’ a knife. Ye’ll be turned intae feckin’ paste if ye try tae argue.”

“Two,” he went on. “Ta’ lot o’ ye get caught. Considerin’ ta’ crowd we’ve got ‘ere, ye really think ta’ ye pals are gae’n walk out o’ there wi’out anyone noticin’? Sooner or later, they’ll get caught, an’ ye’ll be caught wi’ ‘em, I promise ye. Dae’n feckin’ forget, ye’re nae jus’ scrappin’ or robbin’, pal. Ye’re workin’ wi’ a witch, an’ we aw’ know what ‘appens tae those who work wi’ witches, aye?”

The man gulped. “T-They…”

“Burn wi’ ta’ witches, aye,” Cynric finished for him. “Or they get ta’ drop. Either way, ye’ll nae ‘ave much o’ a life left.”

Colour drained from the thug’s face. The gathered crowd’s unease was palpable.

“I’ll gee’s ye a chance now,” Cynric said. “Take ye pals an’ feck off.”

He turned around and looked at Sjan-dehk. “Ye’re fine wi’ that, Cap’n?”

Sjan-dehk nodded. As unpleasant as he found these thugs, and as much as he wanted to hand them over to the authorities, they weren’t his main concern anymore. The rogue arcanist inside was. The faster these thugs made themselves scarce, the better. “Yes, that is fine. They can go.”

The man gulped, and for a while, the only parts of him that moved were his eyes as they flickered between Cynric and Sjan-dehk, as if he expected this to be a trick. Only when Sjan-dehk tilted his pistol up, pointing its muzzle away from him, did he scramble to his feet. His knife lay forgotten as he shouted for his fellows, his words hurried and—thanks to his ruined nose—garbled. The two held by Dahsahn’s men backed away from the rifles, slowly and carefully at first, then with quicker, hastier steps when they were sure that those blackened muzzles wouldn’t follow them.

With that, the three of them rushed over to their unconscious friend. After a bit of squabbling, they carried him together and retreated down the street. The crowd parted as the group shouldered their way through.

Sjan-dehk and Cynric watched them until they disappeared from view. “So, uh,” the latter started, stopping to clear his throat. “Ye’ve, ah, ye’ve got fellas who can dae magic?”

That got Sjan-dehk’s attention right away, and he snapped his head around to look at him. Unease settled in his stomach, and he tightened his grip on his pistol.

“I saw ye lad send a rock intae a man’s ‘ead,” Cynric continued, nodding first toward Yasawen, then to the rock on the ground, still dark with blood. “I’ve seen plenty o’ weird shite in my time, but a feckin’ rock takin’ fligh’ an’ feckin’ a man up? That’s new tae me, aye.”

A thousand thoughts flooded Sjan-dehk’s mind at once. His jaw tightened. Cynric had been friendly to him and his crew so far, but he was still a Caesonian. Did he share his people’s opinion on magic? Or perhaps this was his way of warning that Yasawen had been seen, and not just by him? Was Yasawen—and other arcanists, for that matter—now in danger? There were too many questions, too many uncertainties floating in Sjan-dehk’s mind, and far, far too many things he didn’t know.

But he could find one thing out now, at least. “Yes,” he said, steel in his voice. “Is that a problem?”

“Nae, nae,” Cynric replied quickly, his hands raised in front of him. “‘Tis ta’ opposite, actually, aye. Cannae say I’m fond o’ witch-hunts mysel’, an’ ‘tis aw’ways grand tae meet someone o’ ta’ same mind.”

Sjan-dehk relaxed slightly. “Is that so?”

Cynric nodded. “Aye. Nae aw’ o’ us like ta’ crown’s big ideas, y’know?”

That would have to be assurance enough—for now. Sjan-dehk supposed that had Cynric meant any harm, he could’ve simply kept quiet about Yasawen and waited until a later time to report the boy’s actions to the city guard. That he’d taken the trouble to sound a warning had to count for something. Sjan-dehk returned his pistol to his holster. “Later,” he said. “We will talk more later.”

“Aye, we should,” Cynric replied. He turned to the tavern, his hands resting on his hips. “We’ve got one big fecker o’ a mess tae deal wi’ first, aye? Ye’ve a plan, Cap’n?”

That was a very good question. Sjan-dehk wished he had a good answer.

The sensible thing to do—the smart thing to do—would be to simply turn around and walk away. He’d only intervened because Inshahri had been in trouble, after all. Now that the thugs had been dealt with and she was safe, he hadn’t any reason to involve himself any further. Caesonian criminals preying on Caesonians in their own taverns was unfortunate—sad, almost—but it was something for Caesonian authorities to deal with. Not him. Not any Viserjantan.


That whispering voice slipped between Sjan-dehk’s thoughts again, its question soft and gentle, yet edged with admonishment. Its words stung, but try as he might, he couldn’t deny its truth. His gaze turned toward the tavern, at its windows that—as he only now realised—were far too dark. Whatever magic Inshahri had sensed had to be powerful, and had to be extracting a terrible price from those trapped inside. Knowing all this, how could he ignore their plight? To do so would be wrong. Immoral, even.

He drew in a deep breath. No, he had to act. There wasn’t any other option.

But resolve alone didn’t—couldn’t—change reality. Charging into a building under an arcanist’s spell was a terrible idea, more often than not. The magic had to be dispelled first, and while that was a straightforward enough task—Yasawen was trained in counter-arcane arts—-keeping it hidden from the prying eyes of the crowd would be nigh-on impossible. If Cynric could notice a stone flying under the influence of magic, then surely someone would witness a whole building being cleansed.

Sjan-dehk grimaced. The risks he’d be asking the Viserjantan arcanists to take wouldn’t be small, and that wasn’t even considering the official reprimands and other punishments that’d be waiting for them—himself included—once they returned to their ships. This would, after all, be a direct violation of orders.

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to worry about such things. “All sails and all speed,” was what his former commanding officer, Nashra, would’ve said. And of course, she’d always follow it up with, “We’ll do what’s right, right now, and deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

A mirthless chuckle left his lips. “Let’s go, then,” he said beneath his breath.

“Cap’n, ye still wi’ me?” It was Cynric.

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk replied. “Sorry. I was thinking. We must act. But first, I will speak with my people.”

A grin curled Cynric’s lips, and he nodded. “Aye, ‘tis what I was thinkin’, mysel’. I’ll ‘ave a chat wi’ my fellas too, but I’ll kick ta’ feckin’ doors on me ane if I ‘ave tae. I’m after a feckin’ drink, and nobody’s gae’n get in my feckin’ way o’ gettin’ one.”

With that, he turned and walked to his crew. Sjan-dehk did the same, marching over to where Iyen and the arcanists were gathered. “Dahsahn, Yehn-tai,” he called out along the way. He didn’t need to say anything else—the two men answered with shouts of acknowledgement and quickly fell in behind him.

Iyen greeted him with a small, knowing smile as he approached, as if she already knew exactly how things were going to play out. She leaned against a streetlamp, with one hand resting on the pistol at her hip, the other idly tracing the rope coiled across her body. “So,” she said breezily, dragging out the word. “What do you have in mind, Sjan-dehk?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he fixed his attention on Inshahri. “Shahri.”

The girl immediately stopped brushing dirt from her skirts and turned to him, her eyes expectant.

“Tell me again,” he went on. “How bad is the magic in there?”

“Very bad, Captain.” She stole a nervous glance at the tavern, her hands tightly gripping the fabric around her waist. “It sounds…It sounds messy—I mean, dangerous. Very, very dangerous. And it can hurt people too! It already has, and still is!”

Sjan-dehk frowned. “So it’s not just…Shrouding the building? It’s not just isolating it?” He paused, trying to think of a better word for what he wanted to say, but finding only the official Commonwealth designation for the spells he had in mind. “It’s, ah, not a defensive spell?”

Inshahri shook her head. “No, no, it’s not defensive! It can do more than that, but…But I think only to those inside?” Her face fell, and genuine distress crumpled her features. “Sorry, Captain. The magic’s powerful, and really, really loud. I can’t tell anything more than that.”

“That’s alright, Shahri,” Sjan-dehk said, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We never really know our opponents until we face them, anyway. You’ve done well enough.”

Iyen’s smile turned into a playful grin, and she pushed herself away from the streetlamp. “Oh my, Captain, you’re calling them opponents already?” Amusement dripped from her words. “Sounds like you’ve come to a decision.”

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk replied. “But I’m not—”

“You can count me in,” she said, as if he hadn’t said anything.

Sjan-dehk blinked. “Iyen, I haven’t even asked yet.”

“You still think you need to ask me? Oh, you wound me, Captain.” Were it not for the mischief on her face, and had Sjan-dehk not known her as well as he did, he might’ve believed that she was actually upset. The giggle that flowed from her lips did plenty to give her away as well. “Did you really think I’d return to Sudah and let you have all the fun?”

She shook her head. “Not. A. Chance, Sjan-dehk.”

Sjan-dehk couldn’t help but chuckle and give her a grin of his own. Iyen was right, of course—he shouldn’t have expected her to do anything less than jumping head-first into the mess with him. Danger and trouble had always been something they faced—and often found—together. This wouldn’t be any different. “Thank you, Iyen,” he said. “I owe you one.”

“And you’d better remember that,” Iyen replied in a sing-song voice.

Dahsahn cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said, pressing a fist to his chest and bowing his head to both Sjan-dehk and Iyen. “But there’s a hostile arcanist in there casting a spell we don’t know much about. You can’t be serious—” He caught himself and swallowed. “I mean, with all respect, Captain, trying to push into a building like that with just the two of you is…Tactically unwise. That's my opinion, of course.”

Sjan-dehk opened his mouth—half to agree, half to ask the arcanists for help—but Yasawen spoke first.

“I–I can dispel the magic,” he said.

“You?” Hasehnya exclaimed, her eyes wide in surprise. Yasawen’s cheeks reddened, and he looked at the ground between his feet. “Oh, no, no, I—That’s not what I meant! S–Sorry Yasa! I, um, I know you’ve been studying hard and you’ve definitely gotten better! I–I mean, everyone knows how hard you work!”

She ran her fingers over her braids and hurried on. “But we, um, we don’t know much about the spell. And that’s not your fault, Shahri! Y-You told us that it’s powerful and that’s good enough! I–It’s just when spells are that strong, we need strong counter-spells, you know? And, um, you’re a really good healer, Yasa! So much better than me, really! B–But dispelling is different, you know? A–And I’m a little better at that. I can use the stronger counter-spells.”

Yasawen sighed. He nodded once, still not looking up. “I…I understand, senior Hasehnya.”

Hasehnya cast an apologetic look at Yasawen before turning to Sjan-dehk. She breathed in deeply. “I’ll do the dispelling, C–Captain.”

Sjan-dehk didn’t reply immediately. For a moment, all he did was look between the two arcanists, his brow furrowed in bafflement. He wasn’t quite sure he understood what he’d just heard. Were they bickering over who got to volunteer for a task that would have them break regulations? One that would undoubtedly land them in no small amount of trouble?

“You two…” He spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to someone who didn’t understand Viserjantan. “You two do realise what you’re signing up for, right? You’ll need to use your abilities, and that means breaking regulations. That means getting into a lot of trouble. You understand that, right?”

Yasawen lifted his head just enough to meet Sjan-dehk’s gaze. “Yes, Captain,” he said. “I understand.” He swallowed. “But it can’t be helped, right? Shahri reacted really strongly to that magic, and–and it’s the first time I’ve seen her like that, so it has to be really, really bad. I–I know we’re not allowed to use our abilities, but if…If people are being hurt, we have to help. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes!” Inshahri almost squealed as she slipped her arms around Yasawen’s shoulders and pulled him into a quick hug. “Yasa, you know me so well! I wouldn’t make so much noise about this, otherwise!”

Beside her, Tehwasang laughed quietly before separating her from a crimson-cheeked Yasawen. “And we, as good seniors—” she glanced at Hasehnya “—can’t just let our juniors run off on their own, can we? We have to do our proper duties and watch over them.” She giggled and winked at Sjan-dehk. “And if we end up getting into trouble…I’m sure we can think of something.”

“I’m not your junior, though,” Inshahri piped up.

“You’re younger than me,” Tehwasang said with a smirk. “That makes you junior enough.”

Hasehnya’s nervous eyes flitted between her fellow arcanists. “I–I agree,” she said with a nod. “It’s just like the stories we read. W-We have to do what’s right. And besides, I…” She trailed off, shaking her head and drawing a deep breath to steady herself. In as firm a tone as she could manage, she continued, “I won’t let junior Yasawen do this alone! If he goes, I have to go too. It’s my duty as his senior!”

Tehwasang giggled and clapped her hands. Redness spread across Hasehnya’s cheeks. In a softer voice, one closer to a murmur, she added, “S–So if, um, Captain Sjan-dehk needs me to dispel the magic, I will.”

Once again, Sjan-dehk couldn’t find the words to reply. All he could do was look at them with astonishment written all over his face. These four arcanists were mere youths—Yasawen and Inshahri were only fifteen, and the other two couldn’t be much older. And yet, they were prepared to use their abilities to save people belonging to a land that would sentence them to death for doing so. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know that—it was Sjan-dehk that’d insisted on mentioning the Caesonian penalties for magic in the new regulations.

And still, none of them had hesitated. Not even for a moment.

Sjan-dehk let out a long breath. “Alright then,” he said, giving them a single nod. “I appreciate the help and you have my thanks. But we’ll do this properly and safely. That means staying close, following orders, and above all, no playing the hero. I won’t hesitate to personally throw you back onto Sada Kurau if any of you dare to get hurt. Understood?”

The four of them answered with nods and acknowledgements.

“You should listen to the Captain,” Yehn-tai chimed in. The sniper had been silent this entire time, but now he looked around with a smile on his perpetually tired face, and a whistled tune on his lips. “Leave being a hero to those of us in uniform, eh?”

Sjan-dehk looked at him. “I suppose that means you’re in, too?”

“You know what they say, Captain,” Yehn-tai replied. “Sada Kurau follows her Captain…”

“…And so does her crew.” Dahsahn finished the saying. He stood to attention and saluted Sjan-dehk. “My section and I are ready for your tasking, Captain. Just say the word.”

Sjan-dehk swept his gaze over the assembled Viserjantans—the arcanists clustered together; Iyen leaning against the streetlamp once more; Yehn-tai with his rifle resting on his shoulder; Dahsahn standing ramrod straight and stock-still. It wasn’t a sizable force, but it certainly was a formidable one. With the exception of the four youths, everyone here was a veteran of countless battles. Sjan-dehk felt a familiar grin creep onto his face—the sort of grin he had whenever a fight was imminent.

He forced it away. It was time to plan.

“Sergeant,” he called to Dahsahn. “You’ll take your section and circle around the back of the tavern. There has to be a rear entrance of some kind. Find it, secure it, and don’t let anyone in or out once we make our way inside. If you hear fighting, breach and join the fray. Understood?”

“You got it, Captain,” Dahsahn replied. “Do you want me to move the men out now?”

Sjan-dehk nodded. “Yes. Go now.”

“As you command.” Dahsahn snapped to a salute and hurried away, commands already flying from his lips as he returned to his section.

“Yehn-tai.” Sjan-dehk turned to the sniper. “Take your spotter and find somewhere up high. You’ll be doing a lot of moving, I’m afraid. First, find a spot to watch over Dahsahn’s section. Once they’re in position, find another position where you can overlook the front of the tavern. Give us a signal when you’re ready. That’s when I’ll have Hasehnya start casting. You’ll keep an eye on her. If you see anyone approach her with bad intentions…”

“I’ll drop them,” Yehn-tai finished. Then, he frowned. “There’s a lot of people here though, Captain. I’ll keep an eye on all of them as best I can, but if I start shooting anyone who looks unfriendly, I’m going to make a lot of corpses.”

Sjan-dehk chewed on his lip. “I’ll talk to our Caesonian friends, see if they can help us control the crowd or get rid of it. For now, stick to those orders. Move.”

“Will do, Captain,” Yehn-tai said. He yawned, hefted his rifle, and jogged away.

Iyen hummed and tapped a finger on her chin. “So…Dahsahn and his section are watching the back door, Yehn-tai’s keeping an eye on the front.” She looked at Sjan-dehk, her lips pouted childishly. “I hope you’ve got something for me, Sjan-dehk. Otherwise…” Her pout changed into an impish smile. “I’ll be upset.”

Sjan-dehk rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Iyen. You can have the second floor to yourself. If things get loud, sweep it, clear it, and make sure we don’t have any surprises coming from above.”

“If?” Iyen frowned. “Sounds like I could just be sitting on my arse doing nothing.”

“Don’t worry,” Sjan-dehk repeated. “I’ve a feeling that things will get violent even if we try to be peaceful.”

“I’ll take your word for it, then,” Iyen said and started walking away. “Don’t leave me waiting too long!”

With all the veterans settled, Sjan-dehk could finally address the arcanists. “Hasehnya,” he called, his tone a touch gentler than before. “Do you need anything for your spell?”

“Oh, I–I don’t need anything, Captain!” Hasehnya blurted out. She turned to the tavern, her head tilted as if studying it. “Um, m–maybe I need some space? I–I should look for a few spots and–and see which works, to be safe…But–But if there’s no time I–I don’t need to do that, really!”

“No, no,” Sjan-dehk replied. “I’d rather you be as safe as you can.” He looked at the other three arcanists, one by one. “Tehwasang, Yasawen, Inshahri, help her with what she needs. Also, Tehwasang, take care of Hasehnya after she’s done casting.”

“That’s what I do best, Captain,” Tehwasang said with a grin. “And you can just call me Tehwa.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Sjan-dehk replied before turning to Yasawen and Inshahri. “I’ll need you two with me when I go into the tavern.” Looks of surprise spread over their faces, although Inshahri’s seemed more eager, while Yasawen’s had an uncertain, apprehensive tint to it. “Even after the spell’s gone, we still have an arcanist to deal with, and I’m sure they’ll try casting again as soon as they get a chance. Inshahri, you’ll have to find them before that happens. Think you can do it?”

“Yes, yes!” Inshahri nodded. “If I’m inside, I’ll know who it is for sure!”

“Good.” Sjan-dehk shifted his attention to Yasawen. “Once Inshahri finds the arcanist, you’ll silence them. I don’t need you to do anything big. Just make sure they can’t cast anything. Can you do that?”

“I–I’ll–” Yasawen started. Then, he drew in a steadying breath and nodded. “Yes, Captain. Of course.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Sjan-dehk gave him a clap on the shoulder before addressing the arcanists as a group. “Alright, I think I’ve said enough. All of you have your duties, so get to it. I’ve got things to discuss with our Caesonian friends, but I won’t be far. If you run into any trouble, just give me a shout. Understood?”

The four of them nodded—Inshahri and Tehwasang more enthusiastically than the other two—and replied with a chorus of acknowledgements. Moving as a group, they hurried to their tasks. Sjan-dehk kept an eye on them for a while longer, partly to make sure that they were doing as they’d been told, and partly to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts after issuing so many orders in rapid succession.

He counted ten heartbeats. Then, he went to find Cynric.

Recompense’s captain hadn’t strayed far from where they’d interrogated the thug. He was standing by the edge of the crowd, his arms folded as he conversed with a handful of his crew. An overly-curious onlooker tried to force his way through, and was quickly turned back by an expletive-laced shout from Cynric. Then, as if nothing had happened, the red-haired captain returned to his conversation.

“Captain,” Sjan-dehk called out as he drew closer.

“Aye.” Cynric turned around. “Ah, I s’pose ye’re done talkin’ wi’ yer fellas?”

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk replied.

He gave Cynric a brief outline of the plan—not because of secrecy, but because his Caesonian still wasn’t good enough to allow him to be any more detailed. Even so, Cynric listened attentively, his brow knotted in concentration and hand rubbing his chin. “Well, feck me,” he said once Sjan-dehk finished. “That’s nae jus’ a plan, that’s a whole feckin’ operation. I like it. But ‘avin’ yer…What d’ye call ‘em? Arcanists, was it?”

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk confirmed. “We do not use words like witch. It is…Not good.”

“Arcanists,” Cynric repeated. “‘Tis a fine word. I’ve tae start usin’ it more, aye I dae. Anyway, if ye’re gae’n tae ‘ave ye arcanist start castin’ ou’ ‘ere in ta’ open, then I’ll ‘ave my fellas watch ta’ crowd. Maybe e’en get some o’ ‘em tae feck off. I’ve tae admit, though, I’m nae sure we can get rid o’ it entirely, but there’ll be nae as many eyes watchin’, at least.”

“Yes, that is also my concern.” Sjan-dehk glanced at the crowd. Although it’d thinned a little—he supposed most had only been interested in the confrontation with the thugs—there were still a fair number of people loitering around. “As long as they stay away from the arcanist, and they do not harm her.”

“Oh, dae’n ye worry about that, Cap’n,” Cynric said, his lips curled into a confident grin. “We’ll make feckin’ sure o’ that, aye. What we ough’tae worry about though…” He tilted his chin towards the tavern. “Ye ‘ave a plan on ‘ow ye wan’tae go in? I know I said somethin’ about kickin’ ta’ door down, but ‘twas just a figure o’ speech, aye it was. Those fellas inside’re gae’n be feckin’ nervous once we feck wi’ their spell. We charge in like feckin’ madman, an’ they’re gae’n start stabbin’ an’ shootin’, I reckon.”

“Yes, that is likely.” Sjan-dehk placed his hands on his hips and chewed on his lip. “I think it will be better if we go in peacefully. Like we want to talk.”

Cynric nodded slowly. “Aye, that migh’ work. Wi’ou’ their magic, they migh’ be more willin’ tae negotiate.”

“Yes. That will also give my arcanists time to find theirs. They will stop them from casting.”

“Aye, we’ll ‘ave tae take ‘em ou’ first, that’s fer feckin’ sure.” Cynric rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Then, he turned to Sjan-dehk. “‘Ow about I take ta’ lead when we gae in, Cap’n? I’ll dae ta’ talkin’ an’ be enough o’ a gobby shite tae keep ‘em lookin’ at me. Yer fellas can dae what they need, an’ e’en if we feck up, an’ it aw’ goes tits-up, I reckon it’ll be distraction enough fer yer other fellas tae take ‘em by surprise.”

Sjan-dehk had no disagreement there. “Thank you,” he said. “That would be good.”

The breathy trill of a bamboo flute put an end to their discussions. To an untrained ear, it might’ve sounded like nothing more than a simple song—interweaved with the evening noise, and yet still able to cut through it all. But Sjan-dehk knew better. It was Yehn-tai’s signal that everyone was in position.

color:ffce00
-In the streets of Hartworth, Caesonia-

A slender figure, dressed in drabby, rough-hewn clothing with a cloak that covers him from head to lower calf walks slowly through the street. Another figure, dressed in similarly drabby clothing, follows a few paces behind.

"How much for this?" The slender figure said, picking up an apple and perusing the other various edible items in the stall.

"One copper for one. Three copper for five..." The stall-tender said absentmindedly. not paying the slender figure much attention at all.

Normally, the slender figure would have said something about the lack of respect. But. Given light to recent events, he simply does not care anymore. There isn't much in the world that he truly cares about. The events of that evening still replaying in his mind, like a old wound that just would not stop causing pain...

"Just the one, I think. Thank you, friend." The slender figure said meekly, dropping one piece of copper on the table and taking one apple before turning away from the stall, continuing to walk through the busy market. The second figure walked past the stall and purchased one apple for himself as well, offering the stall-tender a courteous nod.

The slender figure mindlessly wandered the market for a time, taking small bites of the apple from time to time. The sweet, crisp, apple did it's best to wash away the bitter taste that lingered, though he has not had anything physically bitter to eat in a long time. The taste never seems to fade.

Another day, another sunset. During the pointless meandering, the second figure was stopped by a courier, somehow making out how the figure is. The courier handed the figure an envelop, embroidered with a noble wax seal. The figure took a look, knowing that it could be and opened it before offering the courier the same courteous nod as he did the stall-tender. Taking a look a the content of the envelop, he offered a small sigh. They have to attend. It's expected of them, after all.

Walking up a spiral staircase, the second figure followed the slender figure, brushing past several sheets of lace and satin serving as dividers. When the pair reached the top, the slender figure made his way to a pile of pillows on the floor and curled up amongst them, looking nothing like who he was born to be...

"Shahzade. We have to attend. We have been invited...Please...' The second figure let his hood fall back, revealing a handsome young man, small marks of sand and weariness upon his cheeks.

"No. No we don't. I don't want to...' The slender figure replied, his tone soft and weak but not stemming from fatigue. It was something deeper.

"Shahzadi Rayna is said to be attending... I'm sure she would love to see her older brother..."

"Heh... I wonder if Father knows she is all the way here..."

"Only one way to find out, Shahzade."

"Still I don't want to. Go for me. Tell her I died. I don't care.

"Now we both know that simply would not work. Nor is it proper, Shahzade...

"Eh. Whatever. Father doesn't expect me to make a match and ascend the Sun Throne anyways. I'm always the failure. The Prince-That-Should-Not-Be. Heh..."

"Wh-...? Ok. That's it. MUNIR IBN RAIF AL KADIR. The second figure said in a loud, stern and forceful voice. One that roused the man that is currently still on the floor. "YOU GET YOURSELF TOGETHER DAMMIT. STOP SULKING. THIS ISN'T YOU. NO SON OF ALIDASHT IS ALLOWED TO SELF-DESTRUCT. WAKE THE FUCK UP. FORTIFY YOURSELF!"

The man previously curled up amongst pillows has now scrambled and sat up. In the process, the hood that covered his head had fallen, revealing another handsome man. His features spoke of a soft grace, with and edge behind it. Like an ornate dagger, one that is as pleasing on the eyes as it is deadly when used.

"GET YOURSELF TOGETHER. I WILL ARRANGE FOR YOU TO MEET SHAHZADI RAYNA.... uhum. Excuse me. Before we have to attend the ball. Now. I will go have some clothing, fitting for a ball, made for you. Don't do anything else stupid in the mean time.

The man on the floor nodded sheepishly. The second figure offer a small smile and a deep bow before excusing himself...

He nodded to Cynric. “It is time.”

“Aye,” Cynric replied. “I’ll get my fellas intae position. Dae what ye ‘ave tae, Cap’n. We’ll ‘andle ta’ crowd.”

With that, he strode off, barking commands and pointing to the crowd. His crew quickly spread out, most of them formed a loose line in front of the mass of onlookers, while others threaded through it, easily slipping between elbows and bumping shoulders as if they’d always been there. Cynric had no intention of merely holding the crowd back, it seemed—he wanted to control it.

That suited Sjan-dehk just fine. The lower the chance of a bystander getting involved, the better.

He found Hasehnya standing a fair distance away from the tavern—roughly halfway between its doors and the crowd. The girl’s nerves were clearly frayed, and badly so. She trembled from head to toe, her sleeves and skirts swaying like curtains caught in a breeze, and her shoulders shuddering with every breath. Quiet murmurs, vague and half-swallowed, tumbled from her lips. And although the three other arcanists fussed over her—offering encouragement, clearing the ground of rubbish—she barely seemed to notice.

“Hasehnya,” Sjan-dehk called, his voice gentle.

She didn’t react.

“Hasehnya,” he tried again, firmer this time, and set a careful hand on her shoulder.

“Ah!” The girl cried out, flinching hard enough to almost stumble—and to give Sjan-dehk a little shock. She snapped her head around to face him, looking as if she’d just been pulled out of a nightmare. “I–I’m so, so sorry, Captain! I–I didn’t know you were—”

Sjan-dehk cleared his throat as he collected himself. “It’s alright, Hasehnya,” he said. “Are you ready?”

The colour drained from her face, but she nodded. “Y–Yes, Captain! I–I’ll do my best!”

Sjan-dehk regarded her for a moment. Then, he gave her a warm smile. “I’m sure you will. No matter what happens, I know you’d have given it your all.” Hasehnya’s mouth opened, but Sjan-dehk cut her off before she could get a word out. “You’re already going well beyond what’s expected of you just by being here, so if things don’t go according to plan, don’t worry about it. We’ll find another way, or make one.”

She swallowed hard. Sjan-dehk reached out and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, similar to what he’d do were it his sister who was in such a state. “To borrow Yehn-tai’s words,” he said, a confident grin on his lips. “Leave being a hero, and leave the difficult work to those of us in uniform. You just do what you can.”

Hasehnya drew in a deep breath.

“O–Okay, Captain,” she said, a steadier gaze in her eyes. “I’m ready.”

Sjan-dehk gave her a smile. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He beckoned the three other arcanists to follow him. “Let’s give her some space,” he said and led them to a spot that was far away enough to not get in Hasehnya’s way, but still close enough for him to intervene if the situation called for it.

Hasehnya faced the tavern.

Her legs trembled, as did her arms. The weight of the crowd’s gaze—curious, anxious, scared, suspicious, and all others in-between—pressed in on all sides. She felt their eyes on her hands; felt them cutting holes through her clothes and into her back. Heavier still was the responsibility sitting on her shoulders. It turned her body to lead, rooted her in place, and threatened to crush her.

Still, she raised her hands, as she’d done so many times before during practice.

She closed her eyes. This was all it was. Just another round of practice. The eyes, the leers, the gazes, all of them didn’t belong to foreign people of a foreign land. No, they were simply those of her seniors, and of her master. The weight on her shoulders wasn’t that of responsibility. It was simply the stress that naturally came with being assessed.

That was all this was. Just an assessment. One she couldn’t fail.

“Our Great Elders of Sedaran,” she whispered, the words barely leaving her lips. “Grant me guidance.”

Her thumbs and forefingers came together, forming a rough rectangle before her eyes, framing the tavern, confining it neatly within them. Hasehnya squeezed her eyes shut and focused on that little space. Arcane energy answered—slowly at first, like a drizzle, and then suddenly, pouring like torrential rain. Between her fingers, the air stirred and swirled. Pale currents danced, and merged, and folded in on themselves.

“O Great Forebears,” she intoned.

Her eyes snapped open. “Hear now the words of a daughter of the Hallowed Isles.”

She pushed her hands forward, and pulled them apart.

The rippling air followed her movements, its rough lines stretching and straightening, until it expanded into something akin to a grey-tinted pane of glass. Slowly, tentatively, Hasehnya lowered her hands. The pane remained floating where it was. “Formless is the arcane,” she recited, reaching out to tap two fingers upon the ethereal glass.

“And disciplined is that hand that shapes it.” Ripples radiated from her fingertips. In their wakes, geometric sigils traced themselves onto the pane. Angles, shapes, and interlocking forms glowed and thrummed with power. Behind them, the image of the tavern shifted. It warped, and bent, and folded, for a moment turning into a mockery of itself. Then, as quickly as it’d started, the image stabilised. The tavern was still the same building of red brick and dark wood, but now darkness seeped from it. Black tendrils trailed from windows, doors, and every slender crevice and little crack.

Hasehnya slowly pulled her hand back. The tendrils quavered. “Hear me,” she said, her voice rising. “Hear me, formless ones, for thou’rt not chained to the hand that cast thee!”

The tendrils started to turn, their wispy tails pointing towards Hasehnya and the pane.

She thrust her hand forward, then jerked it back. “Thou’rt unbound!”

A gust burst from the pane and surged towards the tavern. The tendrils danced in the wind, but turned stiff when the same gust receded, as if they were fighting it. Hasehnya clenched her jaw. The pressure started to burn her arm, but she pushed. And pushed. And kept pushing.

And then, the tendrils turned limp. They oozed, dark and oily, from the tavern, and were immediately swept up by the wind, and dragged screaming into the pane. The sigils flared, and then dimmed as their intricate lines were flooded with darkness. Cracks spider-webbed across the pane. The black energy forced its way through small fractures, turning them into fissures filled by a gaping emptiness.

“And thou’rt claimed!” Strain thinned Hasehnya’s voice, but she held on.

The pane creaked and groaned.

“And by mine right,” she yelled through gritted teeth. Her knees started to shake. Her mind felt like it would soon shatter entirely. But she refused to give in. Not now. Not when she was so close to succeeding. She drew in a hissed breath. “I command thee–”

She slammed a palm onto the pane.

“Fracture!”

The pane exploded.

A thousand shards of blackened glass flew in every direction. The air itself screamed. Panicked cries and shocked gasps echoed from the crowd. Hasehnya, with great effort, turned her hand towards herself, and clenched it into a fist. The shards stopped, frozen mid-flight. They shuddered, turned, and surged towards her. They didn’t pierce her, but rather dissipated on impact, their black energy absorbed into her body.

Pain lanced through Hasehnya as this strange, foreign arcane energy surged through her. A strangled cry burst from her throat, and soon turned into a scream. She staggered, but forced herself to stay on her feet until every last scrap of magic had been drawn into her. Every moment felt like an eternity. She felt herself flag, felt her body beg her to stop before she broke.

Then, all went silent.

Her head swam. Her vision blurred. She swayed, like a puppet cut from its strings.

And finally, she allowed herself to fall.

Sjan-dehk raced forward, his boots thumping and squeaking against the cobblestones, catching her just in time. “Easy, easy,” he said as he carefully lowered her to the ground. His brow creased in concern, and he swept his eyes over her, searching for even the slightest hints of an injury. When he found none, he did so again—after that spectacle, he didn’t believe that Hasehnya could’ve been left unscathed.

“C–Captain Sjan-dehk, I–” Hasehnya’s voice was weak.

“If you’d told me that was what’d happen,” he cut in. “I’d never have agreed to your plan.”

She shook her head. “N–No, I–”

“We could’ve dealt with the arcanists with force—”

“No, that’s not it!” Hasehnya blurted out, and rolled out of his arms. She fell onto her hands and knees, her back heaving as she retched several times. Spittle sprayed from her lips, some of it too dark, too oily to be saliva. She pressed a hand to her chest. Her eyes squeezed shut in pain. Just as Sjan-dehk was about to call for help, she spat out a black, formless mass. It dissipated into mist before it struck the ground, hissing away into nothingness.

“S–Sorry, Captain!” Hasehnya said between pants. “I–I tried to tell you, but I–I have to expel the energy in me, o–otherwise it’ll be bad. F–For me, I mean! N–No one else would get hurt.”

“Are you hurt, then?” Sjan-dehk asked. “Other than the…Energy thing, of course.”

“Just my eye,” Hasehnya replied hesitantly, and faced him with just as much hesitation. Her left eye was a solid black orb, as if it’d been cast from volcanic ash. In place of her pupil and iris, were glowing concentric circles, much like the sigils she’d conjured earlier.

“By the Mother,” Sjan-dehk breathed. He leaned in to take a closer look. “That doesn’t look good.”

“I–It’s just temporary blindness! It’s nothing, r–really! It doesn’t–It doesn’t even hurt!”

He baulked at her words. “I don’t care if it’s temporary or not. Blindness isn’t nothing!”

“A–Arcane energy can’t be destroyed, Captain. It–It can only be transformed.” Yasawen’s voice came from behind. Sjan-dehk looked over his shoulder. The three arcanists approached, their expressions concerned and worried, but not surprised. “If–If I’m not wrong, senior Hasehnya, um…I guess you could say she took the magic from its caster? Or maybe saying she freed it would be better…” He seemed to fall into thought for a moment, but then shook his head. “B–But anyway! The energy has to go somewhere, s–so she let it go into her.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure he fully understood everything, but he caught just enough of it to know Hasehnya had just paid a great cost to break the spell. “And this happens every time you do this sort of thing?”

Hasehnya pushed herself up onto her knees and shook her head. “N–No. U-Usually we have talismans or something w–we can direct the energy into, but I–I didn’t think I’d have to dispel something that strong, so I–I didn’t bring any with me when I left Sudah. It–It’s my fault, really! I’ll be fine, d–don’t worry! It’ll go away on its own.”

She looked up at Inshahri. “And, um, Shahri…?”

Inshahri closed her eyes and held a hand to her ear, her body leaning towards the tavern. A tune hummed in her throat. Then, she giggled. “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed. “It’s better now. Quiet. You did it!”

Hasehnya smiled weakly. “That's…That’s good.”

“More than good,” Sjan-dehk said. He patted her shoulder and stood up. “I’d say you did fantastic. We’ll all have an easier time now, thanks to you.”

A blush crept over Hasehnya’s cheeks. “O–Oh! Thank you, Captain…Captain Sjan-dehk.”

“Oi, Cap’n!” Cynric’s brogue, paired with the thumps of his hurried footfalls, caught Sjan-dehk’s attention in an instant. The mirth that usually coloured his words was gone, replaced by alarm and concern. And as he came to a stop in front of the arcanists, Sjan-dehk could see those emotions drawing his face tight. “‘Twas some feck—” he started, but quickly stopped himself when he noticed the youths.

He cleared his throat. “What I meant was, ‘twas some impressive magic, aye. But ye’ve also caught plenty o’ eyes, and not aw’ o’ ‘em are friendly, nae. Ta’ crowd’s gettin’ feck—I mean, they’re in gettin’ riled up righ’ an’ proper. My fellas’re keepin’ em back fer now, but that’ll nae last, if ye ask me. Yer arcanists should start makin’ themsel’s scarce, right quick.”

Only now did Sjan-dehk finally remember the mass of onlookers. They had pressed closer—only by a few steps, but that was enough to be cause for worry. Suspicious eyes glared at Hasehnya. Furious shouts cut through the air. Cynric’s crew stood in their way, some with outstretched hands and demanding peace, but most simply met fire with fire, and barked threats of violence. The few who’d threaded themselves through the crowd darted through the shifting mass, pulling the most belligerent away where they could.

But despite the efforts of Cynric’s crew, there were simply too few of them. One spark—one person whose hatred was infectious enough to push their fellows into action—and the crowd would overrun them through sheer force of numbers.

Sjan-dehk placed himself in front of the arcanists. “Don’t worry,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he kept his gaze on the crowd. “We’ve got a plan, so we’ll follow it. Tehwasang, get Hasehnya standing. Yasawen and Inshahri, the two of you help her.”

“You got it, Captain,” Tehwasang replied, her voice losing some of its earlier lightness. She knelt, took one of Hasehnya’s arms, and draped it over her shoulders. Yasawen did the same on the other side. Between the two of them, they managed to slowly bring Hasehnya to her feet.

“Someone ‘as tae keep an eye on ‘em while we’re inside,” Cynric said. Before Sjan-dehk could get a word in, he turned and shouted, “Oi, Daley! Get yersel’ o’er here right now!”

A dark-eyed young man jogged over, sweat sheening his skin and matting his mop of sand-brown hair. He gripped the handle of a knife sheathed at his hip with such force that his knuckles were white. “What d’you need me for, Cap’n?” he asked.

“I want ye tae get these two—” Cynric pointed to Hasehnya and Tehwasang “—o’er tae ‘Leida, quick as ye can. Tell ‘er, frae me, that she’s tae keep ‘em safe by any way she can, ye understand? If anyone tries tae be funny, get rid o’ ‘em. I dae’n care if she ‘as tae bribe, or threaten, or batter, or e’en kill, these two lassies cannae be ‘armed in any way.” He paused, fixing Daley with a serious gaze. “They’re like our wee Tommy, and so we’ll treat ‘em like that sour shite.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Daley replied with a nod. “Anythin’ else, Cap’n?”

“Just one,” Cynric said. “Tell ‘Leida also that if things get too tricky, she’s tae get these lassies out an’ back tae either their ship or Recompense, whichever’s easier. Talk tae our ol’ regulars and use their routes if ye ‘ave tae, an’ tell ‘em Cyn’s callin’ in one o’ the ‘undreds o’ favours they owe me if they gee’s trouble.”

“Aye, Captain.” Daley turned to the two arcanists and gestured for them to follow him.

Hasehnya gave Sjan-dehk an uncertain look. “Go with them,” Sjan-dehk said, giving her and Tehwasang a reassuring smile. “It’s alright. They can be trusted.”

“O–Okay,” she replied, her voice small. “If–If you say so, Captain Sjan-dehk.”

Cynric gave Daley a nod, and the young man hurried away with Tehwasang and Hasehnya in tow.

“Thank you,” Sjan-dehk said to Recompense’s captain. “You did not have to.”

“Nae, I did,” Cynric replied, his voice a shade darker than what Sjan-dehk had expected. “Caesonia’s nae a safe place fer anyone wi’ magic in their blood. An’ they’re jus’ wee lassies, aye? They dae’n seem a day o’er twenty tae me. I cannae jus’ leave ‘em tae fend fer themsel’s, nae if I can ‘elp it.”

Sjan-dehk simply looked at him for a moment. Then, he smiled. “You are a good person, Captain.”

Cynric chuckled. “Oh, I ‘ppreciate it, Cap’n, but I think ye’ll find plenty who’d disagree, aye ye will.”

A grin tugged on Sjan-dehk’s mouth. “Is that so? You seem to have many secrets.”

“You could say that.” Cynric returned the grin. Then, he jerked his head towards the tavern. “But we’ll ‘ave tae talk about ‘em some other time, eh? Maybe when ye tell me about yer arcanists an’ whatnot. Fer now, we ough’tae take care ‘o business, I reckon. We’ve left ‘em waitin’ long enough.”

“Yes, we have,” Sjan-dehk agreed.

He turned to Yasawen and Inshahri. “We’re going in now. Stay close, stay behind us, and you’ll be fine.”

“You got it, Captain!” Inshahri replied excitedly. Yasawen simply nodded, nervousness clear on his face.

The four of them marched over to the tavern’s doors. Along the way, Sjan-dehk and Cynric went over their arms—making sure hammers were cocked, and swords were loose in their sheaths. Sjan-dehk righted his hat, pulling it just a touch lower to shadow his eyes. He tightened the straps of his lamellar cuirass, making sure it sat snugly over his body. Cynric, for his part, simply straightened his coat’s collars and adjusted his sheaths and holsters.

They stopped just before the threshold.

“It is your show, Captain,” Sjan-dehk said.

Cynric chuckled. “Aye, it sure is. Time fer Cyn tae show ye 'ow tae be a proper gobby shite."

He shoved the doors—hard enough to make hinges squeak and rattle locks, but not so hard as to seem threatening. His every move was filled with confidence, as if certain that nothing in the tavern could hurt him, as he stepped into the tavern. The sight of the carnage gave him pause, but only for a moment. Blood and gore wasn't anything new to him, after all. But to see a severed head, a bound man used as a pin cushion, and others held at gunpoint, knifepoint—and many other points—was still interesting. "Good evenin'," Cynric said with a smirk. "You city folk sure know 'ow tae 'ave a proper craic, aye?"

Sjan-dehk followed him into the tavern, keen eyes taking in every detail, every position of every person. His gaze lingered on Kalliope a moment longer than the rest, and his jaw tightened. His palms tingled; the pistols at his belt suddenly felt very attractive. Still, he forced himself to remain calm. There would be time for vengeance later. For now, he just had to let Cynric continue.

"Now, my mates and I 'eard that this place wen' under new management," the Recompense's captain continued. "So I thought I'd come by an' see 'ow you're runnin' things. Cannae say I'm impressed, tae be feckin' honest. We jus' walked through a shiteheap-an'-a-'alf, and 'tis what greets us? An' nae e'en a brew as an apology? 'Tis a feckin' travesty, aye it is. The lot o' ye 'ad bet'er start dae'n somethin' tae make it worth aw' our feckin' trouble, otherwise I'll be pissed, an' not in ta' good way, aye."

Time: Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Interactions: @princess Charlotte/Felix/Yuka, @Lava Alckon Drake, @Tpartywithzombi Ariella, @CitrusArms Stratya, @samreaper Kazu & @Tae Kalliope
Mentions:
Aesthetic: ♞ Hair ♞ Outfit with hood

---

Olivia raced off the rafters once the others had acted. She hopped down and somersaulted back onto the balcony floor. Olivia raced to her feet and found the chair empty where she thought she might have seen Felix. Half the bandits were dead or rushing out, yet Marius remained. Thanks to Stratya, there was a bullet that had gone through his brain. Still, life clung to him like wet clothing after a torrential downpour. Olivia moved with ease and ignored the cacophony of noise behind her. Dangerous calm overwhelmed her and she could feel herself shaking like a leaf. That night raced through her mind over and over, like a song stuck on repeat.



”No, please! I won’t come back! Please let me go!”

Helplessness rushed through her veins, as the image of her pale, sickly old self returned to her mind’s eye–scraggly blonde hair falling out, sunken hazel eyes, skin pale as snow, her nose, staring up at the visage of Maelan and Marius, trembling uncontrollably…

”Please stop!”

Loud, rambunctious laughter echoed throughout the home. Before she could move, she was frozen in place and her hands tied behind her back...

”I-I... I want to go home! I won’t come back, I promise! You… You can have the food!

Desperation crept into her voice; tufts of blonde hair spilled all over the floor, mixing with red dots…

I’m so hungry; please leave me alone!

Laughter from the two mixed with screams echoed throughout the home like a distorted symphony… Spells, spells she recognized, were utilized. Agony and terror blinded her....

”That hurts, please stop!”

Pain swept through her and discomfort; she was desperately trying to cast a spell, but was unable to make a peep. Fire surrounded her greedily, causing her only extreme terror and desperation. Her clothes were ripped and torn off of her, leaving her barely clothed. Taunts of being called "little rabbit," only added salt to the wound.

”LEAVE-”

The laughter became ugly as did the pain, and Persephone laid there limply, strung up on a pole. A puddle of red laid around her mixed with matches. Persephone’s clothes were ruffled and reeked of ash. If she had died, she wouldn’t have known–reality was hell and hell had swallowed her whole. How long it lasted, she didn’t know, days turned into nights and night into days, time became a false construct– until finally, she was released, dazed, confused, and numbed, freezing and utterly humiliated...

Terrified bargoers were the least of her concern. Nothing else mattered. Olivia could only see red, and around her, a red and black cloud seemed to follow her until she stood in front of Marius. She stared at him seizing on the floor and tilted her head to one side. Maelan’s head, dismembered by Kalliope, lay nearby. It was a shame she was gone, but at least she was no longer able to haunt their reality; only their memories. Liv slowly pulled the knife out of her pocket and knelt in front of him. She grabbed a tuft of his head and forced him to look at her until he was capable. She knew he couldn’t understand her much, but the vengeance was pulsing through her veins.

”You might not remember or recognize me,” she spoke softly, only audible for them. ”But I remember you clearly, Marius.” She paused then added, ”The starving, burned, and terrified little rabbit you snagged lived to tell the tale. Sometimes, the past comes back to haunt you.”

She stood up now and grinned malevolently with glee. ”Let’s see how you like it.” She thought for a moment and then stretched her hand out as black tendrils began forming around her, curling around her like vines, beckoning her to call to them.

”Acu Ferro Ignis.” Pain surged through Olivia, but it was worse for Marius. For him, he would feel a thousand tiny needles piercing his skin. His garbled screams were heart-wrenching, but not for Olivia. His screams came out as music to her ears. She watched him coldly and twirled the knife in her hands. There was a glint in his eyes as he laughed as well within his screams. After listening to it and relishing it, she took the knife and stabbed him in the heart. His screams lingered briefly until it became silent.

Olivia watched him lay there pitifully and kicked him furiously in the head. Rage burned through her as tears consumed her vision. She punched him over and over, not caring that he was unable to feel it or react. Darkness consumed her as she beat him to a pulp.

Finally, she pulled back, sliding to her knees and staring at her bloody, dark tendrilled hands in horror, in the puddle of blood oozing out from him.

As her heart sank and her eyes returned to green, she whispered, ”Kazumin....”

In her peripheral vision, she turned and saw Kalliope faint. Then, she looked up to see two masked people behind her and her blood ran cold, colder than she already felt, and before she could react, they were gone.

Time: Evening
Location: Tough Tavern
Attire: Outfit, Amulet
Interaction: @Tae Kalliope @Apex Sunburn Your fellas outside

---

Charlotte couldn't believe she had actually stabbed that man in the arm–that awful man that would haunt her nightmares.

Her knees and palms were scraped raw on the boards from scrambling away. Her throat still burned where the steel had scratched it, enough to sting with every swallow. She clapped a hand to her neck anyway, fingers coming away trembling, and she stared at the drops of blood splattered on her palm. With a shudder, she then looked back up with a frantic, darting gaze.

The room was too loud and too bright.

It was hard to focus on one single thing occurring, but somehow her eyes found Kalliope, behind the bar, as two individuals in black came up from behind her.

“Ka—” T he name tried to leave her lips once and broke apart.

Charlotte forced herself upright on shaking arms, dragging her skirt out from under her. She saw it in fragments first. Then the needle pricked at her neck and Kalliope’s limbs went heavy. Charlotte’s stomach dropped as if the floor had vanished beneath her.

She had barely heard her scream for Sjan-dehk over her own, “KALLIOPE!”

Lottie subsequently shoved herself forward onto her feet, stumbling as her ankle caught on a toppled stool. She tried to run and discovered she could only scramble in a frantic, stumbling manner over spilled drink and broken glass.

Someone slammed into her shoulder and she nearly went down again, catching herself on the edge of a table and jolting pain up her wrist. “No—no, no—” she gasped, squeezing through the chaos toward the other side of the bar, toward the kitchen, toward the place Kalliope had been dragged.

The kitchen door was already swinging, and through the gap she saw only darkness.

Charlotte threw herself at it anyway, palms smearing on the wood as she shoved it open and staggered into the corridor. The lights were out and she couldn't quite make out any silhouettes in the room. However, she saw the outline of another door to the outside: a moonlit rectangle in the darkness. “Kalliope!” she called again. She pushed past the threshold and burst out into the night.

Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: The Damien Estate

---

Liliane was the first to recover her breath. Her smile blossomed slowly as if nothing in the room had shifted at all. Behind her, servants glided in with the next course, the clatter of silver momentarily swallowed by the vibe Marek had carried in with him.

Calbert’s smile held. He did not ask why the man had come unannounced. “Marek Delronzo,” He greeted, voice rich and warm. “We are fortunate to have you grace our table. Allow me to formally introduce my children.” He extended a hand toward each in turn, “My daughter, Lady Violet Damien…My son Cassius, Sorian's newest Lord and bachelor.”

His gaze subsequently fell on Violet, meeting a pair of deep red eyes looking back at him. “Mr. Delronzo is the head of operations of the Black Rose Trading Company.”

A smile graced her lips in a practiced manner as she offered him a slight bow of her head. ” It’s an honor, Lord Delronzo. I have only heard tales of your great deeds; it's a pleasure to put a face to the name. Just the man she was looking for…

“Let’s not forget the precious Crystal and the venerable Countess Liliane Damien.” Alexander was quick to undermine his friendly rival. He had to in the midst of this surprise. These two, who had just walked in, were not supposed to be there. He remained poised and neutral, anticipating that they were only here to aid him.

“I can always count on Alexander to be extra thorough.” Lianna had beamed with a pleasant smile. “Especially with women.” Alexander’s eye shifted sharply toward his wife with that added comment.

“Of course. Thank you, Alexander.”

Her eyes drifted to Alexander with an unhurried, knowing sweep. There it was, the smallest of cracks in his veneer, the slip in his carefully curated narrative. Lianna’s tone had not been the tone of a woman merely teasing her husband.

It had been a warning.

Violet’s smile thinned, so subtly it could have been a trick of the candlelight, but the shift was there. A soft pull at the corner of her lips, the kind that signaled thought more than warmth.

Of course, Alexander hadn’t mentioned his lovely wife would be joining him tonight.
Or Marek Delronzo, for that matter. Her gaze lowered briefly to the table.

Two empty places. No plates, no glasses, no cutlery. It was not an oversight.

An unexpected arrival.

” You must forgive our staff, I don’t believe we were expecting you, but we can rectify that immediately. Please, take a place at the table where you feel most comfortable.” Violet gestured to a member of the staff as they quickly began to prepare new table settings for the unexpected guests.

” You’re just in time, the second course has only just arrived.”

Marek’s gaze did not brighten the way a courteous man’s ought to. It simply rested upon her, unblinking.

“And I,” he murmured at last, voice oddly resonant, “have awaited our meeting for quite some time...”

He raised his chin and smiled—the kind of smile that gave another chills. “Lady Violet Damien.” He let the words linger as he spoke them, as if tasting them.

Cassius tried to listen to the words around him, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had washed over his form. It was something about the way the man moved. Cassius knew that walk. He knew that type of confidence all too well… And the depth in the man’s eyes was even more telling. Even more chilling. Cas’s jaw tightened as his fingers stilled against the table, his beloved wine forgotten in an instant.

There was something old about this man; older than he appeared, and ancient in its own way. He wondered if the man revealed as Marek Delronzo was the same as Alexander and Violet. Was he another vampire in some kind of sick coven? If so, he was their leader. Cassius could tell without doubt, without ponderance. This man was authority incarnate. Head of Operations he had been called. Bullshit. Cassius knew what the Black Rose really was, and this Marek Delronzo wasn’t just the head of a trading company… No, this man was the Don of one of the world’s most dangerous syndicates. To finally see the head of such a legendary serpent there before him felt like an honor as much as it did a curse. Cassius allowed his patented smirk to cross his face. The pleasantry was forced, and he knew damn well their new guest would clock it, but what other move did he have?

“As my sister says, Mr. Delronzo, you’ve made your entrance at the perfect time. Thank you for gracing my family with your presence.”

Cassius stood, leaned across the table, and offered his hand to Marek.

“In truth, I feel honored to have you join us. I can’t imagine that a man with such a busy schedule often attends such events.”

Marek looked at the offered hand as though it were not a greeting, but a specimen placed on a table for his inspection. His gaze moved slowly: first Cassius’s fingers, then the line of his wrist, then the pulse-point at his throat. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet Cassius’s. Then, finally, Marek extended his hand and took Cassius’s hand in his grasp, palm to palm, as any gentleman might…But Marek’s grip was steady in a way no mortal hand ever was. It wasn’t tight nor crushing, but something about it was absolute. His thumb pressed once lightly against the inside of Cassius’s wrist, feeling his pulse.

He then smiled at the younger man. “Lord Damien,” Marek said. “How prompt.” He released Cassius’s hand as if concluding a contract. His eyes darted about as he took in the sight of the servants setting down silver platters of meats and other fineries. They were slow, hesitant, as if suddenly clattering the items in their hands would cause them to lose their heads.

Roasted pheasant arrived on a platter lined with citrus, its skin brushed with honey until it shone. Venison followed, sliced thick, bathing in a berry reduction so dark it looked like spilled ink. A tureen of pumpkin soup was placed near Liliane with a swirl of cream. Crystal dishes came next: carrots glazed with butter; green beans dressed in lemon and oil; potatoes whipped so smooth they held their shape like silk. And then the wine: decanters that caught the light and held it. A servant poured with a steady hand. The servants then withdrew in silence once their job was complete.

With a contemplative hum, Marek turned his head back to Violet, and the room seemed to follow his attention without meaning to.

“Where is her blood?”

Violet's eyes snapped to Marek, her chest tightened as the breath seemed to leave her lungs.

Calbert’s fork stilled mid-motion; the faintest pause in his breath betrayed that the question had struck exactly where it was meant to. “Excuse me?” Calbert could not hide his feelings from his cadence this time. “You forget yourself, Mr. Delronzo.”

Marek’s expression did not shift. If anything, a faint amusement touched the corners of his mouth. It was an indulgent look. “Do I?” he replied mildly. “It is astonishing how frequently men accuse others of amnesia when what they truly fear is acknowledgment.”

His gaze slid toward Violet again, meeting her crimson eyes. “You host a tableau of abundance,” Marek continued, his tone polite, “and you expect your cursed daughter to admire the brushstrokes.”

“My daughter’s needs,” Calbert replied tersely, “are addressed privately. Not exhibited at my table for… theatrics.”

“Theatrics,” Marek echoed, as if turning the word over and finding it insufficient. “No, Count Damien. Necessity.” He leaned back as though the point were self-evident. “You may drape the matter in discretion,” he said, voice like silk, “but discretion does not transmute physiology. It merely delays consequence.”

The realization left Violet momentarily speechless. She knew that she should be furious. Her father clearly was. Everyone likely expected her to be. But beneath the initial shock, anger never quite arrived. Instead, something unfamiliar stirred in its place. Not comfort. Not relief, but recognition.

Her gaze flicked to her father, then back to Marek, and for the briefest instant, she understood the divide laid bare before her: concealment versus acknowledgment. Shame versus truth. And she found, to her own quiet alarm, that she did not entirely resent the latter.

Then came a small, strangled sound, and Marek followed Calbert’s gaze to the youngest daughter, the ill one.

Crystal was staring wide-eyed, trying to make sense of the conversation as though it were a language she’d never been taught. Then her face drained of its color, and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. She looked from Violet to her father, and then to her mother, silently pleading for someone to tell her this was a joke.

Violet turned at once, the tension in her shoulders easing as she reached across the table. Her hand found her sister’s warm and trembling hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze, grounding, steady.

“It’s alright,” Violet said softly, her voice meant only for Crystal now. She offered her a smile, real and reassuring, unburdened by ceremony. “Truly. There’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Her thumb brushed lightly against Crystal’s knuckles, a silent promise.

“I’m fine,” she added, meeting her sister’s wide eyes with calm certainty.

“Pardon me,” Marek said smoothly as he took in her demeanor. “I was under the impression everyone at this table was already acquainted with Lady Violet’s… predicament.”

“Mr. Delronzo…” Alexander cleared his throat as he drew attention amongst silence while addressing the most powerful man in the room. “This dinner is not the time or place for her yearnings. Right now, she practices patience and poise so that she might demonstrate the same in front of her peers in public.” Alexander kindly argued before stealing a glance at Violet.

“Yearnings, hmm?” Marek repeated with the slightest head tilt.

“And here I had so foolishly assumed that Lady Violet could speak for herself at this table, but yet all I hear are three men speaking for her. Very interesting.” Cassius' words summoned a quick scowl from Alexander, that was so sharp, the man might as well have told him to “shut his fucking mouth.”

“I am in accordance with my son. We shall let Violet decide what she needs and speak it for herself.” Calbert promptly agreed.

“My defense of Lady Violet does not silence her—she is welcome to speak her truth..”

“The food smells lovely tonight.” Lianna’s hand reached beside her, finding Alexander's arm quite easily. “Let’s not spoil it with this… talk” She grimaced at the idea of discussing Violet’s desire to drink blood, but in truth, it was all part of the theatrics. Lianna only wished she could see Violet fizzle and writhe like a slug sprinkled by grains of salt.

Calbert’s brow lifted, but he regarded her politely all the same: “Please help yourself, Ms. Deacon... My apologies for the choice in discussion.”

To Violet, Lianna’s sweetness was too polished, too carefully placed. The hand on Alexander’s arm. The delicate grimace. Violet had lived long enough in this house to recognize cruelty when it wore perfume.

She did not rise to it.

Instead, Violet drew in a slow breath, letting it settle her before she turned her head just enough to acknowledge Lianna’s presence. Her expression remained composed, but something in her eyes cooled, almost darkened.

“The food does smell wonderful, almost as good as it looks.” Violet agreed quietly. Her tone was mild, almost pleasant. “The kitchen has outdone itself.”

She reached for her glass, fingers steady, and took a measured sip before continuing.

“And you’re right,” she added, meeting Lianna’s gaze at last. “There is little point in lingering on topics that make others… uncomfortable.”

“But discomfort,” Violet went on, her voice still soft, “is not the same as impropriety. And silence has never made anything less true.”

“Hm,” Lianna replied, the vagueness of it difficult to read. Acknowledgment, dismissal, interest, feigned interest, or perhaps an attempt to pretend she grasped what was said? It was hard to tell with that faint smile and those glossy eyes peering back.

Her gaze lingered for just a second longer before Violet looked away, her attention returning to Crystal, her hand still resting protectively over her sister’s. “I do appreciate your concern and consideration for me, Mr. Delronzo.” Her eyes glanced to look at him with a warm smile, to which he returned with a seemingly genuine smile of his own.

“As do I, sister. I can’t imagine a downside to having the concern or consideration of a man as renowned as our esteemed guest.” The sarcasm from Cassius was subtle but not entirely hidden. Those that he wanted to perceive certainly would, and the rest… Well, it wasn’t important if they caught on or not.

He looked around the table with a smile, taking in each person again, one by one. His gaze lingered on that of Calbert with an air of disappointment. Then, his eyes found Crystal last among the table as he offered his most reassuring nod and grin before turning his attention back to the man in the room with the most presence. A dark presence at that. Meeting Marek’s eyes felt like a combat maneuver; something that held risk each and every time, but he did it anyway.

“While the topic of discussion is on you, Mr. Delronzo, I am curious. Since I’m the newest member of this family and obviously rather uninformed about all the Damien’s dealings… What exactly is your relationship with my father?”

Marek’s smile was rather saccharine as he bestowed his attention on Cassius, however, it was Liliane who cleared her throat and spoke up first. An attempt to regain decorum in hopes to shift the topic of conversation away from less tense matters. “For the sake of clarity, my daughter has never been deprived of what she requires. Her needs are anticipated, attended to, and met within the walls of this estate. “ Her smile warmed as she held his gaze.

“Your concern is… thoughtful,” she continued, inclining her head just enough to acknowledge him, “and of course, appreciated. But rest assured, Violet has never lacked for anything under our roof.”

“How reassuring, Lady Damien.” Marek murmured. He raised his head as he looked down at her the way a scholar would regard a page of a book filled with inaccuracies.“ Yet do not mistake provision for permission, Lady Damien. To feed her in secrecy is to instruct her that her survival is an indecency. That what keeps her alive must be hidden like contraband.” His gaze drifted unhurriedly toward Violet, as though acknowledging a truth the room had spent years avoiding.

“At this table,” Marek said softly, “you and your husband indulge abundance without apology.” His eyes lifted at last slowly, “Why, then, must she dine only in the shadows in the comfort of her own home?” Alexander glanced his way, confused by what the man’s objective could be. What he said sounded more ridiculous than something Duke Vikena might spout! With a noticeable exhale, he returned to spoon-feeding his wife who looked much too delightful in her indulgence. Was it the thick tension or the tender meats?

Marek’s gaze slid to Cassius next, “Now let’s return to that excellent question of yours…”

The man leaned in his seat, the irises of his eyes darkening as they bore into Cassius, as if seeking to look into his very soul just for a moment, “ Well Cassius, quite simply, I work for him.”

Calbert had just lifted his glass to his lips, and the bit of wine he had consumed immediately went down the wrong way. He coughed once involuntarily as he brought a hand to his mouth. Cassius noticed.

A single drop darkened the linen beside the Count’s plate.

“That is probably the best way to describe the year-long relationship.” Alexander piped in to agree, granting little room for doubt.

Cassius shifted back in his seat more comfortably, a suave grin painted his expression as he let Marek’s words and Alexander’s comment hang in the air for the slightest moment.

“Interesting. He spoke simply, clearly amused. The way Marek’s presence alone held such an antediluvian and uncanny effluence unsettled him, but he knew better than to show those cards. “And, if I may… What kind of work does a man, who runs an empire of his own, do for a Count like my father? Investments? Trade deals? Perhaps something more…off the books?”

Even beneath the candlelight’s warmth, nothing seemed to soften about Marek Delronzo’s face. He regarded Cassius as though measuring what kind of calamity the title had merely disguised.

“Off the books?” Marek echoed, faintly amused. “My work is to ensure your father’s intentions survive contact with the world.”

His eyes slid briefly to the linen by Calbert’s plate.

He returned to Cassius, his tone courteous. “Learn the difference between power and its theatre, Lord Damien. Secure your own interdiction—before you are given one.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed as he allowed a grin to soften his face. His gaze did not leave that of Marek.

“Mr. Delronzo,” Calbert interjected evenly, “my son doesn’t require tutoring at my table. If you have counsel, you may address it to me.”

Then, with the same calm, he gestured toward the food. “Now, before it cools.”

Violet’s gaze lowered to the table then, to the spread laid out in careful abundance. The dishes were rich, thoughtfully prepared. And yet, none of it stirred anything in her.

Not hunger. Not want.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to blood. Warm, alive, and necessary. The ache followed close behind, familiar and patient. It had been some time since she had truly enjoyed anything at all. She could feel that familiar voice calling to her, trying to shake it from her mind.

She reached for the serving spoon anyway, out of habit more than desire, drawing a modest portion onto her plate. The motions were practiced, graceful, convincing enough for anyone who cared to look no closer than etiquette required.

Instead of lifting her fork, Violet’s fingers curled around the stem of her wineglass.

She brought it to her lips, savoring the taste as though it were something more than it was; letting the sharpness linger, grounding her. Marek had unintentionally reminded her of the one thing she was trying to push away again. Since Lord Fritz, she hadn’t found anyone to fall in his stead, making her situation not as convenient as her family painted.

The expression on her face seemed to drift as her eyes glossed over in deep thought at the glass resting against her bottom lip. Her crimson eyes glancing over to Alexander, holding her gaze on him for a beat longer than appropriate. And, just like they always had, his eyes caught hers as if he had felt her gaze from across the table. From where he sat, she appeared stuck, like a carriage’s wheels rolling into thick, slowly drying mud. He flashed a grin her way, an attempt to ease her mind that might have been at its limit.

“I think a much lighter subject is due for this table.” Alexander commented with a pleasant smile after a few moments of silent eating. He placed his utensils down and leaned in Cassius’ direction, putting every ounce of his attention on the man. “You’ve asked your questions. Now, I believe it’s my turn, and I’d like to start with the most curious of us at this table.” The attack was warm and friendly. “You must tell me how the courtship between you and Lady Vikena is going? I mean, her father might be a lunatic, but Charlotte is…” He made an uneasy face. “Plain is probably the best word, which probably makes it that much easier for you, being a Damien. You could probably do better, but the Duke of Vermillion’s daughter that everyone overlooks might be a great choice in the longterm. I might be lucky enough to see a Duke Damien in my time.”

Cassius finally allowed his gaze to slip away from Marek as Alexander addressed him. The man’s comment about Charlotte was an obvious barb meant to stir the coals within him. He did not give Alexander the satisfaction of a response outside of the slightest scoff of a chuckle escaped him.

Marek’s fingers stilled against his glass, the smile at his mouth thinning as though something inelegant had just been spoken aloud.

“Does it not have a nice ring to it? Duke Damien,” Lianna repeated with a thin smile.

“It’s the D’s, I think.” Alexander nodded to his wife.

“Yes, the D’s. It’s quite nice.”

Calbert shifted back in his chair, the wood giving the faintest sound beneath him. He had been about to speak up, but his wife beat him to the punch. Lily had smiled suddenly, folding her arms on the table. “My, my,” Countess Damien said pleasantly, folding her arms atop the table. “I have indeed noticed the way Cassius looks at Lady Vikena.”

Her smile did not falter.“Which makes it rather interesting that you should raise the subject at all, Mr. Deacon—considering how frequently your own name has been whispered alongside hers of late.”She tilted her head, as if recalling the details. “The art gallery, in particular, seems to have inspired quite a bit of discussion.”

Her eyes met his, bright and curious. “Rumors, of course. But care to enlighten us anyway?”

The ironclad grip Cas had formed on his composure slipped ever so marginally as he listened to Lily’s insinuations. His grin all but fell away; the eyes that had been calculatedly softened by that smile hardened as they broke from Alexander and moved instead to his plate of food. The thought of a vile thing like Alexander alone with Charlotte began to heat his blood.

Though curiosity festered within him like a nagging wound, he dared not wait to hear any revelations. It was time for him to remove himself from the moment.

“Please…continue on with such fascinating conversation, however I must excuse myself for the moment. I fear the holiday’s sporting has finally caught up to me. I’m in need of a bit of fresh air.” Cassius spun the narrative with charm, though inside his blood was not far from reaching its boiling point. He did not wait for permission or response as he walked away from the table in the direction of the front door.