Oso

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

_{Location — The Open Road / Convenience Store / Home Interacting With — N/A}

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The road curved in a way that always felt never ending. Something about that stretch of miles before home, the anticipation that built as one drew closer and closer to the place they know best. Even the dread that likes to creep in the older you get, knowing where you’re headed is the only real place you’ve ever known despite how vast the world really is.

Boone rode with that curve, leaning into the turns as the highway cut through the hills, the bike steady beneath him, familiar as his own heartbeat. The engine’s vibration traveled up through his boots, into his bones. Wind tore at the hair that hung beneath his helmet and the air smelled green and wet, pine-heavy and always a little cold even in the warmer seasons.

Out here, between towns, the land didn’t belong to anyone. There were barely any fences or watching eyes. Just trees stacked thick on either side of the road, branches knitting together overhead in places where the sun barely made it through the canopy. Shadows flashed and broke across the asphalt, light and dark chasing one another endlessly. There was something poetic about that; fitting even.

He let his thoughts go loose, let the noise swallow them all whole. This was the only place it ever happened like that. Miles from town, miles from people who knew his name, his face, his history. Out here, he was just another rider on a winding stretch of road. No expectations, no weight, and no ghosts from a damaged home. Just freedom.

A sign rose up ahead, dull green and weathered, the paint chipped at the corners.

PINES HOLLER 4 MILES

Boone didn’t slow down as he passed the sign, but something in him did hesitate. There was a piece of him that did so every single time he reached this point.

The hills began to open up, trees thinning as the road straightened. Countryside homes appeared few and far between at first. Then in clusters with mailboxes leaning crooked at the edge of driveways. That last stretch of miles came and went too fast, and he shouldn’t have been surprised because it always did.

Boone rolled his shoulders, jaw tightening as he took a deep breath. Another sign waited for him just past a bend.

WELCOME TO PINES HOLLER

Home sweet home

The gas station sat just inside town limits, lights buzzing faintly even during the daylight. Boone eased off the throttle and coasted in, killing the engine once he was parked. The sudden quiet rang in his ears, but he was used to that. He swung his leg over the sportster and headed inside.

The bell above the door chimed and the fluorescent lights washed over him. His MC cut sat heavy on his shoulders, leather creased from wear, patches worn soft with a few years’ worth of time. The rings he wore flashed on his fingers as he grabbed a paper cup and filled it with coffee that smelled burnt and metallic. He didn’t bother tasting it yet since really it was just to buy him time.

Someone else was inside. A man paying for gas, whose eyes flicked toward Boone with a healthy dose of suspicion. Boone leaned back against a cooler and waited, patient as he finally sipped the terrible cup of coffee. The man left a minute later, bell chiming again as the door shut behind him.

The silence settled in that convenience store as Boone walked to the front.

Ms. Stella stood behind the counter, hands folded tight, knuckles pale. Her eyes lifted to him, worry already there, something that started setting in the moment he walked in that door.

“Boone,” she said with fear in that voice. “Did you… were you able to get it?”

He nodded once, his heavy eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. But it took some digging.”

Her shoulders sagged just a little. “Is it going to be hard to find again?”

“Probably,” he said honestly. “I’ll keep looking, but I can’t promise it’ll always be there.”

She swallowed, fingers tightening together. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do if it isn’t.”

Boone didn’t answer right away. He set the coffee down and reached into the inner pocket of his cut. The movement was careful, almost gentle. He pulled out a small plastic bag and laid it on the counter between them.

The label was clinical, with hard to pronounce prescription names, side effects, and more information than is honestly necessary… But one word stood out among the rest.

Leukemia.

Ms. Stella’s breath caught sharp in her chest.

Boone met her eyes once more. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I’ve known you and your husband since I was a boy.” His fingers rested near the bag, close but not touching. “I’ll keep trying until I figure something out. The club will too. We aren’t gonna leave y’all high and dry. We got you, Ms. Stella.”

Her hand came down over his, warm but still shaking. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispered. Then, softer still, “Who would’ve thought a bunch of outlaws would be the ones looking out for us. I swear, half of you boys and girls are really angels.”

A faint smile tugged at Boone’s mouth as he slid a twenty across the counter. “For the coffee, ma’am. And put what’s left on pump three for me, if you don’t mind.” He picked up his coffee, pausing for a moment. “Oh… And please tell the old man I said to hang in there.”

“I will,” she said, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “Be safe, Boone.”

He nodded and turned for the door.

The bell chimed as he stepped back outside, the noise of town creeping in around him again. The hills were still there, somewhere beyond the road, waiting… But home had him now.

Shady Hills came up slow, the road narrowing as the trailer park opened out in front of him. Gravel crunched under his tires as he turned in, headlights washing over aluminum siding and chain link fences, yard junk half-hidden by weeds and trashy ass decorations. Lot numbers slipped by one at a time.

When he rolled up to Lot #9, the first thing he noticed was the dark… The porch light was out.

Boone cut the engine and sat there for a second, helmet still on, eyes lifting to the neighboring trailers. Every one of them was dark too. No glow through thin curtains. No flicker of television light. He let out a breath through his nose. Figures.

He swung off the bike and had barely gotten both boots on the ground when Banjo came barreling around from behind the trailer, nails skittering across the dirt, ears flapping as he ran. The long lead dragged behind him, clinking softly against his collar.

“Hey,” Boone said, the word soft and with a bit of real joy.

He crouched just in time to get a face full of dog, Banjo’s whole body wagging as Boone laughed under his breath and gave his little buddy the scratches he’d been waiting for. He unclipped the lead and Banjo took off in a tight circle, spinning himself dizzy before racing toward the front door and back again like Boone might forget where he lived.

“Alright, alright,” Boone muttered, pushing to his feet. “I’m comin’.”

Inside, the trailer was a little dark and smelled faintly like oil, dog, and old whiskey.

The couch sat exactly where he’d left it, cushions torn and chewed beyond saving. A small card table stood crooked near the kitchenette, pretending to be some kind of dining room that it never could be. Three bottles rested there. Two were empty, one of which was tipped on its side. The last one was still about half full of nice…cheap…whiskey, a cup sitting nearby from last night’s use.

Boone didn’t waste time with the cup.

He grabbed the bottle instead, popped the cap, and took a long swig. He savored the burn for a bit and then swallowed before taking in a long, deep breath with closed eyes.

Running his hands through his hair, he crossed the room and pulled the blinds open, letting a bit more pale natural light spill into the room. Banjo followed him everywhere, nails clicking, tail thumping against cabinets. Boone opened one and pulled out the bag of dog treats, tossing one down. Banjo snapped it up like it might escape, but didn’t eat it yet. Instead he just carried it in his mouth as he waited for his human.

From the same cabinet, Boone grabbed a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli and pulled open the top. He dug a plastic fork out of a drawer and walked over, dropping down onto the worn out couch and started to eat straight from the can, forearms resting on his thighs, boots still on.

He pulled his phone out with his free hand and scrolled. Post after post about the outage. Complaints, jokes, people cursing the utility company. The usual shit.

So it wasn’t just them. Seemed like the whole damn town was down at the moment.

Then a post caught his eye.

Come on down to Huskers! We got the generator going strong and enough cold beer to last all day. Or, until the ice melts… But either way, we’re waiting for you fine folks to come on by.

Boone glanced sideways at his buddy. Banjo had finally started eating his treat now that he was curled up against him on the couch, chin resting against Boone’s thigh, eyes half-lidded and content as the little guy chewed.

“Well,” Boone said quietly, nudging him with his knee. “What do you think...”

Banjo thumped his tail once.

Boone smirked, phone sliding back into his pocket. “Wanna hit the bar with me?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

TIME: Evening
LOCATION: The Pasta Oasis
MENTIONS: @HylianRose Lucian | @Princess Marina

Part 2

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?”

Askel rolled his eyes at his sister's insinuation that he only cared about eating the simplest yet sustaining pasta dish on the menu. What was placed in front of him was a pasta topped with duck and crumbled bits of foie gras that was beginning to melt and meld into the red sauce and cheese. "Actually, I got the pasta with the duck confit. You know, the Kimoons have the most incredible way of cooking duck. They-"

Ambrose eyed the waiter with caution as the food was presented in front of Prince and Princess Camilia. The food looked incredible, and smelled even better. Despite his discipline, Ambrose’s stomach could not help but growl as his senses were captivated by the scents and heavenly appeal of such meals. He buried his wants, as one in his position often does.

“You know I didn’t order anything. I never do when I’m working. I’ll have a meal after I get you back to your quarters safely.”

The prince looked up at his fellow knight as if he heard the earth's mantle rumble straight from the man's gut. "Ambrose, if you didn't have anything to eat then you should have said so before we left! We would have given you time to nourish yourself. You know better than to be on guard duty in a restaurant on an empty stomach." It was strange to be the one to lecture Ambrose; he was the one who would lecture him on preparedness for all of the years he was a squire.

Sylvia had made an overly done look of shock at his choice, preparing to express her deepest surprise Askel had an interest in something other than swordplay. He was spared her genius rebuttal when Ambrose’s stomach interrupted them. Well practiced tears came to the corners of Sylvia’s eyes as she turned in her chair fully to look at Ambrose ”But…but…I got you the pasta with short rib…” She said pitifully and as if on cue the dish arrived at a vacant spot on the table between her and Askel.

”Please? I got it just for you.” Sylvia stared up at Ambrose with wide eyes as she absentmindedly picked up a large amount of her pasta with a fork and shoved it into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out just a bit, chewing slowly as she tried to keep up the sad puppy look.

Ambrose let his eyes travel down to the floor as he considered their words. Much to the chagrin of his stomach, he ultimately knew what he needed to do.

“As adorable as you two are, and though I do appreciate the concern… This is not up for debate. I will take the food you ordered me to go, and I promise to eat as soon as the obligation I have been charged with is complete.” For the first time since entering the decadence of the Pasta Oasis, Ambrose’s hint of a smirk shifted into the truest form of his smile. “But don’t worry, Princess…and as your brother knows all too well, a missed meal here and there is part of the gig. I’ll be fine, and better for it as long as I know you’re safe.”

His eyes fell to the ground once more, the smile slipping back into the frustration he often wore so well. “I’ve already failed your father today once by not realizing that Princess Marina was up to her usual shenanigans. I had hoped the conversation her and I had on the way into Sorian would ensure at least a little bit of compliance from your sister… I was wrong. It seems my trust was misplaced. That is all the more reason why I must uphold my oath here and now.”

The prince gave their knight a look of understanding for the role he carried his shoulders was a heavy one. "If she really did decide to sneak off instead of turning in for the night, then I'll talk to her myself. You've already done enough, Ambrose; going hungry while we eat is punishment enough." Askel twirled his fork, gathering a bit of the confit duck, sauce, and pasta before taking a reasonable mouthful and gave his sister a look to tell her to give up. Ambrose was certainly not going to budge no matter how many crocodile tears she shed.
”I suppose if you eat it later that will be acceptable enough.” Sylvia let out a small sigh as she quickly lost her pitiful look and then beamed a smile at the loyal knight. ”We appreciate you, Ambrose. I get to enjoy everything I do because I know you are always there to protect me.” Sylvia was under no delusions about herself when it came to physical combat. She was likely the weakest amidst her siblings. The image of a warrior she was not.

Ambrose nodded in return to them both, and what he kindly did not say out loud is just how right the young princess truly was. But he thought it, and my oh my did he smile on the inside thinking about how many antics, shenanigans, pranks, and all the tomfoolery he had put up with to ensure that this sweet and gentle soul could be safe.

”You should not worry anyway.” Syvlia kept the wide smile she had but something shifted in her eyes. It was all she could do to hold back the sinister giggle she let out when schemes began to float in her mind. ”I will make sure Marnie receives the proper punishment for deceiving you…” Her gaze shifted to her plate and she mumbled ”....and for not bringing me along.”

The Briar Knight let a real smile tug at his mouth as he just barely overheard the young woman’s mumbles. He looked then to Askel and watched as the young prince, who was becoming one hell of a knight in his own regard, enjoyed his pasta. Of course, out of his own satisfaction he would never say such a thing outright. Ambrose wouldn’t want the man who had become like a little brother to him to grow too terribly big a head. It was already big enough in its present state. The thought forced him to fight back a laugh as he turned to the other patrons of this unnecessarily ostentatious restaurant.

Each of them was enjoying their meal, taking a dip in the pool, and otherwise going about their dealings as they saw fit. It had been interesting to see Sorian thus far; being his first time to the city in many years, but this time his meaning here was everything to him. These princes and princesses…as frustrating as they were noble…were his purpose now, in the void his sister left behind. All he truly wished was to do right by her, to make her proud, to protect her chosen family. If that meant he had to skip a meal, hunt down an ornery princess who always seemed to buck the authority of others, or even spill blood in the name of Camilia… He would do anything and everything he had to in order to keep them safe. On his honor, by his hand, now and forever. He was their knight.

FIGHTING SPIRIT PRO-WRESTLING

I've waited my whole life for this xD
I'll start work on a sheet tomorrow.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening Location: Castle Throne Room

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Edin Danrose sat as though the throne had grown heavier overnight. The carved armrests ended in lions with bared teeth, gilded manes worn dull by generations of royal palms; they held his hands without comfort. Drunkard’s Day, and for the first time in living memory, the King of Caesonia had not dulled himself into ease.

No woman. No food. No indulgent grin.
Instead, there was only the clean, unflattering sobriety of consequence.

The great hall had been cleared as much as it ever could be. Even the musicians had been sent away.

Two guards stood flanking the throne. There was unease in their stance; paranoia even.

A runner arrived in a desperate hurry and bowed to his king despite his heavy breaths. “Your Majesty,” he managed between huffs, “trouble in the lower ward. Tough Tavern.”

Edin’s eyes narrowed.“Details, boy,” he demanded. “Tell me everything. What kind of trouble, and who is responsible?”

The runner swallowed. “Witnesses report violence, my king. They say the patrons include Lord Roman Ravenwood, Lord Drake Edwards, Lady Ariella Edwards, Lady Charlotte Vikena, and more present… The tavern was overtaken—we believe those named are hostages, your Majesty.” The nervous runner got as much out as he could before needing another gasp of air. The King’s glare demanded the rest, so he forced himself to continue. “Apparently it’s bandits or brigands, sire. At least one arcanist is confirmed, but there could be more."

Edin did not stand, though his eyes moved about as he pondered a course of action. “Seal the lane,” he ordered.“Two rings.”

The runner blinked, then nodded quickly.

“The first ring keeps the crowd back,” Edin continued, the words coming clean and certain now. “The second ring keeps anyone from fleeing. No one enters that cordon without my mark. No one leaves it without being searched—hands, sleeves, boots, satchels. Weapons seized. Masks removed. I want faces.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Edin’s gaze flicked to one of the palace guards. “You. Make haste to the infirmary ward. Surgeons, bandages, cots, have them gather whatever they can. Tell them it is royal command and they must not delay.”

The guard bowed and went at once. Edin’s orders did not slow.

“Send the Royal Guard to reinforce the Watch,” he said. “I want them armed and torches bright. I want the streets to see discipline and steel, not panic. I want them to feel the Crown has arrived, that the night will not belong to criminals.”

Another guard shifted, already preparing to leave.

Edin leaned forward, just enough. “Someone shall bring me a status report every half hour,” he said. “Hostages. Casualties. Any noble injuries. Any sign of coordinated intent. If someone is using magic in my streets, I want to know who before the sun changes the color of the sky.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“I want the bastards in one piece.” Edin added, colder now, “They are taken alive if possible. Bound. Gagged. Hooded. Kept separate. I want answers, not corpses that cannot speak… Any arcanist involved is restrained first and questioned second. No bargains. No ‘misunderstandings.’”

The runner’s throat bobbed. “Understood, Majesty.”

The king snapped his fingers as more staff entered the room. He pointed at a woman at random. “Send word to the Primitus clergy,” Edin said. He looked to another. “Send riders. Find our lead hunters Kilian and Trovee… Torvis… Whatever the hells the woman’s name is. Tell them there is sorcery in the lower ward. I want them there to ensure this savagery is handled.”

The guard bowed and moved.

Edin settled back into the throne, expression composed, as if this were already finished and all that remained was to decide how the city would remember it.

Then he spoke again to the runner for the last time, quiet and absolute.

“Tell them this,” Edin said. “Caesonia does not belong to bandits. It does not belong to witches. It belongs to me.” The king spat the words with every ounce of vile venom he possessed. His orders were given, pieces already in motion, and his will would be done. The expression left on his face was not that of the indulgent and gratuitous man he had come to be known, it was the look of a sleeping beast awoken. This was the scowl of a man backed into a corner, carrying the legacy of the Danrose bloodline on his back. A man who would crush anyone and anything to keep his throne. This was Caesonia’s king unchained, undistracted, and out for the blood of his enemies.

Japanese Pro-Wrestling RP (E-Fed Style)

You definitely have my attention.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Part 4

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

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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.

Reign of the Usurper

^{#CD7F32 ....|..... outfit ............... ............... Arriving At The Black Citadel}

The Valley of Kings was a furnace of gold and greenery, a jarring contrast to the jagged, salt-stained geometry of the Spire. It didn't just feel warm; it felt invasive, the humid air crawling over skin like a physical weight, smelling of overripe jasmine, damp earth, and the faint, sickly-sweet scent of blooming rot. The Bray column moved down the King’s Fist...a line of hard, weather-beaten men and women out of place in a world of soft silk and sun-drenched gardens. Behind Kaladan, the household guards and the few loyal followers remaining trailed in a disciplined line, their bronze armor catching the light. It was armor forged for utility, duller and heavier than the polished finery of the South, bearing the dents and scores of a history written in blood and naval prowess. Each clatter of a hoof against stone felt like a countdown toward an inevitable collision.

Ahead, the Black Citadel loomed, a gargantuan monument to vanity and paranoia. It wasn't just a castle; it was a scar on Mount Briar, a monstrous obsidian spike driven into the earth with the force of an ancient god's wrath. This heavy place of importance was their destination whether they liked it or not.

Maelen pulled her horse alongside Kal, the beast tossing its head and lathering at the bit in the stagnant heat. She adjusted her cloak, her movements sharp and restless. The bronze pin at her shoulder...the kraken of House Bray...glinted with a dull, metallic sheen that seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it, mirroring the grim resolve of its wearer.

"You know," she said, her voice dripping with that familiar, dry sarcasm that usually signaled she was about to tell him he was being a fool...the only way she knew how to show she was worried. "We could have saved three days and a hell of a lot of sweat if we’d stayed with the ships. The fleet’s already docked, Kal. They’re probably drinking cold ale and laughing at us while we bake out here on the road like idiots."

Kaladan didn't look at her. His focus was fixed on a crisp, red apple he’d plucked from a roadside orchard a mile back. He took a slow, deliberate bite, the crunch echoing in the quiet spaces between the horses' hooves. He chewed slowly, leaning back in the saddle with a nonchalance that he knew irritated her...a mask of casual ease to hide the fraying wires of his nerves and the phantom screams that still haunted his sleep.

"Has it really been so bad, Maelen?" he asked, his voice low, roughened by the road and the dust of travel. Then responded before she could even answer. "I had dealings in King’s Gate. Business that needed to be put to rest."

She pulled her reins tighter, narrowing her eyes as she searched his face for the truth he always tried to bury. "Dealings? You dragged us all the way there just to spend half an hour in a back-alley hovel while we sat on our hands. What could possibly be in King's Gate that’s more important than arriving at the Citadel with the others? We're already the 'Bastard House' of the Ninefold, we don't need 'tardy' added to the list of our flaws."

The grin he gave her was the one she remembered from simpler days...the handsome, reckless flash of teeth that usually preceded a disaster or a legendary tavern brawl. It was the smile of youth. But as he looked at her, the mask slipped. The last year had been a thresher, a bloody engine that had ground that man into dust, and what was left of him was harder, heavier, and far more sharpened than the youth that existed in years prior. The grin died, replaced by a hollow, solemn expression that had become his true face since the day the smoke rose over Brineheart and the salt turned red.

"I had to do one last favor for Rodric," he said, the name of his dead brother hanging in the heat like a cold ghost. "There was someone in the Gate he loved. They needed to know how much he cared for them. The man needed closure, Maelen. I couldn't leave him wondering if my brother died loving him or not. Rodric was a lot of things, but his honor mattered most to him. So, I honored him by giving his journal to his lover. That way they never have to question how he truly felt."

He took another bite of the apple, somehow this bite was less sweet on his tongue.

"Besides," he added, looking out over the rolling hills of the valley, where the greenery seemed to suffocate the stone. "It’s been too long since I walked the Fist. I needed to get a feel for the land again...to hear the rhythm of the South. I…I also just needed a little more time.”

Rook moved up on his other side, his presence as steady and unyielding as a coastal cliff. The Captain of the Guard checked the line of the vanguard with a single, sweeping glance, his eyes never stopping their restless scan of the ridgeline for shadows and threats. Rook was a man of few words and even fewer smiles, a living shield who had traded his soul for the safety of the Bray lineage.

"Men are holding steady, my Lord," Rook reported, his tone clinical, stripped of everything but the mission. “Equipment is clean, even if the horses are flagging. Our group isn’t as grand as it once was, but overall things look good." He paused, his gaze shifting to the obsidian towers of the Black Citadel. "Are you truly ready for this, Kal? To play Lord in the Court? To bow and scrape and play the games these people love oh so much? Sounds like my personal hell."

Kaladan looked at his oldest friend, his vanguard, the man who had pulled him out of more fires than he could count. He didn't lie to him. He couldn't.

"No," he said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "I’m not. Not at all if I’m being honest. I’m out of practice with the lies and the pleasantries and the small talk. Gods…that fucking small talk." He tossed the apple core into the dry brush, watching it disappear into the weeds. "But it doesn't matter what I'm ready for anymore. Every drop of blood we have left...everything that remains of the Brays...rests on what happens inside those black walls. I don't have the luxury of being the fuck-up I hoped I could be. That man died with the others."

Rook let out a short, harsh laugh...the sound of a man who knew exactly how much trouble they were in and had decided he liked the odds anyway. Maelen shook her head, but the sarcasm had drained from her face, replaced by a fierce, protective warmth. She reached over, her hand landing on Kal’s shoulder, her touch a firm reminder that he wasn't carrying the weight alone.

Kaladan didn't think. He just moved, driven by a sudden, desperate need for the only pillars he had left. He reached out and pulled Maelen into a sudden, tight hug, ignoring the clatter of their stirrups and the protest of their horses. With his other hand, he gripped Rook’s shoulder and hauled him in too. For a heartbeat, the three of them were a knot of bronze and wool and shared pain. They weren't a Lord and his officers; they were three orphans of a massacre, holding onto each other for the last time as old friends before they had to step into the den of snakes and become something more. They felt the weight of it then...the silent expectations of the ghosts they carried, the crushing gravity of the Citadel, and the terrifying realization that they were the last line of defense for a legacy that was currently bleeding out.

Rook was the first to pull away, and he did it abruptly. He had always been like that. Fiercely present, fiercely loyal, and strangely easy to spook when the sentiment got too close to the surface. The embrace had been too much, too human perhaps, and instinctively he’d retreated like he always did. Kal noticed but said nothing on the matter.

Kaladan kept his hand on Maelen’s shoulder as she lingered, her eyes searching his for a trace of the boy he used to be.

"I need you for this," Kal whispered, loud enough for both of them to hear, his voice cracking just a fraction. "Both of you. I’ll never be able to pull this off without you."

The moment hung there, beautiful and fragile, until the shadow of the mountain finally swallowed them, plunging the road into a sudden, artificial twilight. The air grew ten degrees colder in an instant, the humidity replaced by the chill of stone.

"And if we find them, Kal?" Rook asked, his voice returning to that lethal, quiet edge of a soldier. "If we find the cunts responsible for the murders... if they're sitting right there in that ballroom, preening in their silks and drinking the King's wine while everyone we loved is gone?"

Kaladan looked at the Black Citadel, his eyes turning to shards of ice, his pupils dilating until the blue was almost gone. The nonchalance he held on the road...it was all gone, replaced by a raw, angry hunger that made the air around him feel thick enough to cut.

"If we find them," he said. "We kill them. Every last one. No exceptions, no mercy, no bullshit. We’ll burn their names out of the history books and salt the ground where they stood just like they tried to do to us. But we have to be smart. We need to be perfect. We play their games, we dance their dances, and we smile at their jokes until I earn the title I need. But I’m not just here for titles and a wife. That much I promise you. We are the Spire, Rook. We don't forget, and we sure as hell don't forgive."

He spurred his horse forward, the bronze of his armor catching one last, defiant ray of the dying sun as the gates of the Citadel began to groan open.

"Let's go meet the King. It’s time they remembered why they used to fear the salt and the cold."

^{interactions ....|.... Mae & Rook............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|....none}

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: It’s hard to tell in the dank, dark castle dungeons
Location: Her Prison Cell
Attire: Prison Rags

---

The dungeon did not change for her just because she had stepped backward in time.

The iron at her throat remained cold, and the chain at her wrist still had its own language—every small shift of her hands answered by a metallic murmur.

But Alibeth’s eyes were no longer on her children.

For a long moment, she simply looked past them, and that familiar distance returned to her face. When she spoke again, it was not to the cell, or the gallows waiting above, but to the thirteen-year-old girl she had once been.

—

FLASHBACK

Eikavaat had smelled like money.

Not coins, more like wax and perfume. Bread that wasn’t stretched thin with sawdust. Even the mud looked different, packed down by carriage wheels that belonged to people who never walked anywhere unless they wished to be seen doing it.

Alibeth remembered the road first, as if her mind could not help cataloguing evidence. Curtains on wagons, cloth swaying over the windows. A boy no older than she was, but clean, holding reins. It had been the first time she understood, in a single, clear moment, that there were entire lives lived without hunger as a constant companion.

Her father did not let them stare for long.

He moved through the streets with that same stride he brought into their room when he returned from months of absence—shoulders squared, eyes scanning through each and every shadow. He held Polina close, but not tenderly; more like an object he could not afford to misplace. Alibeth walked on his other side, matching his pace without being told, because she had learned early that falling behind meant being forgotten.

They reached the apothecary in the late afternoon.

Behind the counter, glass jars caught the sun, and dried herbs hung in bundles. There were drawers with labels in script with names that sounded strange to thirteen-year-old Alibeth.

Alibeth watched her father speak to the man there. She watched the apothecary’s mouth form a line when he saw the state of their clothes. Watched his eyes flick once to the grime beneath Polina’s nails, then away as if it might stain him to look too long. Watched the shape of refusal form before the words ever left his tongue.

Alibeth did not remember the exact words they shared. She remembered what mattered: the small shake of the man’s head, the way his hand never reached for the medicine, the moment he glanced toward the back room.

And then she watched her father turn away as if it had been his choice.

And Alibeth’s stomach had gone cold with it because their mother was dying and they had no medicine for her.

They followed him back into the street, Polina silent, Alibeth silent, the world around them continuing with ease—women laughing with parcels in their arms, a man tipping his hat as if the day itself were something pleasant.

Her father paused at the corner of an alley and looked down at them. “You will not repeat what happened in there,” he said.

Polina nodded quickly, desperate to obey, but Alibeth did not nod. She simply looked at him and waited, because she already knew what came next. The man’s gaze sharpened. “Do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” Alibeth said, because she did.

Then he had them continue walking through Eikavaat until they stopped beside a narrow lane between two shops. “Wait here,” he ordered.

Polina’s fingers had twitched, wanting to hold his sleeve, but she did not dare. She stood with her chin lifted, trying so hard to be brave that it made her look even younger, and the girls watched him walk away.

But he did not return. Minutes passed. Then more as the sun slid lower and the street grew colder.

Polina began to tremble, not with fear at first, but with exhaustion. Hunger lived in her bones at this point.

Alibeth took stock, because that was what she did when panic threatened to loosen her grip on the world. She counted exits. She marked where the guards on the main road stood. She listened to the cadence of footsteps, separating the heavy ones from the light. She watched men’s eyes, and she watched women’s hands, because either could decide to harm you.
Then she looked at Polina. “We are not going home without medicine,” she said quietly.

Polina’s lashes fluttered. “Father—”

“He is gone,” Alibeth answered, and even then, there was no accusation in it. It was the same tone she used when she told a sibling the bread was gone, or the water had frozen, or the baby had stopped moving.

Polina swallowed. “What do we do?”

Alibeth’s gaze lifted to the far end of the street, where the Baron’s house stood behind iron fencing. They had passed it earlier, and she remembered it because Polina had stared at the windows the way starving people stare at food.

“We borrow,” Alibeth said. “We take what we need.”

Polina’s eyes widened. “That’s stealing.”

“Our mother is dying,” she said again. “You may call it whatever word makes you comfortable.”

Polina’s mouth opened, then closed, and then she nodded.

---

They approached the Baron’s property, the fence there was iron and tall. The lock, though, was what really mattered.

Polina’s fingers shook as she produced the hairpin she had stolen from an older girl weeks ago, a thing taken in an alley after a fight. She held it as if it might burn her. “I can’t,” Polina whispered.

So Alibeth took it from her without comment.

She crouched, back to the hedge, and set her shoulder against the gate to steady it. That steadiness had not been born from calm; it had been forged by necessity. One had learned very quickly that shaking hands kills people afterall.

She slid the pin into the lock and listened. Not with her ears alone—but with her fingertips, with the tension in the metal, and then came the faint click. Polina exhaled. Alibeth pushed the gate open just enough for them to slip through.

They did not run. They moved with the careful patience of children who had learned to be invisible to survive.

Inside the yard, the world became unnaturally quiet. Gravel crunched beneath their boots, and Alibeth paused, waiting for a shout, for the bark of a dog, for the thud of footsteps.

Nothing.

The Baron’s house rose ahead of them. It was not a fortress, nor a castle, yet still vast enough to make them feel small.

Polina reached for Alibeth’s sleeve, grip tight. “You said this wasn’t dramatic,” Polina whispered, voice thin with panic.

Alibeth glanced down at her. “It isn’t,” she said. “Stop making it dramatic.”

And then she went to the servant’s door, and the latch there was simpler. Alibeth worked it open with the same pin, and the door sighed inward.

Warmth hit her face first. And then she saw it.

Beauty.

The real kind. The kind that made her stomach twist because it wasn’t meant to be shared. Rugs thick and woven with beautiful designs, walls hung with exquisite paintings, hallways lined with brass candleholders. This was a place of wealth and indulgence.

Alibeth felt something unpleasant rise in her chest. It was not awe, but rather resentment.

Polina stared openly, eyes reflecting the candlelight.

“Do not touch anything you do not intend to take,” Alibeth murmured. “You leave fingerprints, you leave stories.”

Polina swallowed and nodded too hard.

They moved room by room, not wandering but searching—Alibeth’s mind mapping out the space as they went. Bedrooms meant jewelry. Inside the grand bedroom the two girls had stuffed their pockets with small bracelets and rings. Kitchens meant food, but food would not stop the blood in a cough. There were servants inside anyway, so the girls could not indulge in any spare nourishment. The study meant papers, ledgers, locked drawers—places where medicine might be hidden for convenience, for a noble’s sudden discomfort.

They found the study by accident, because Polina brushed too close to a panel and the wall shifted under her hand. She froze. Slowly, she pressed again. The wood gave, as if acknowledging it had been touched.

Alibeth stepped in close, eyes narrowing. She ran her fingertips along the seam. There was a latch disguised in the carved molding.

Of course there was. Rich people loved secrets. They just hated being caught having them.

Alibeth lifted it, and the panel loosened and swung inward, revealing a narrow corridor behind the bookshelves.

Polina’s breath quickened. “We shouldn’t—”

Alibeth cut her a look so Polina stopped.

Alibeth took a candle from the sconce and stepped through first, because that was her role.

The corridor smelled like dust and old paper. The air was cooler here. Sound was dampened, swallowed by the walls.

They followed it to a door at the end. And the room beyond was a library, but not like the ones her father sometimes dragged them past in the city—public places where the poor could stare at books they would never touch. But his was private and personal. Shelves climbed the walls, heavy with volumes. A red rug lay over the floor. A desk sat near the far window with ink and quills arranged like ornaments.

And there—almost hidden behind the desk, on a low pedestal—was the book.

It did not gleam like treasure. It did not look expensive at first glance. Its cover was dark, plain, worn at the corners as if it had been handled often and not gently. It could have been any old volume… except for the emblem stamped into its front.

The emblem was faintly luminous, and the air around it felt… wrong.

Polina took one involuntary step forward and Alibeth’s hand snapped out and caught her wrist.

“Do not,” Alibeth said quietly, and there was something about her voice that made it sound as if it did not belong to a child. It sounded too much like their father.

Polina stared at the book, mesmerized. “It’s—”

“Quiet,” Alibeth warned, but she could not stop her own gaze from returning to it. Alibeth felt it too.

There was a tingling that started in her palm as if her body recognized something her mind could not name. Alibeth approached, and she reached out. Polina made a small sound of protest, but did not stop her. Her fingers hovered a breath away from the cover—close enough that the tingling became a hum up her wrist, into the bone. The emblem’s faint glow seemed to throb in response.

And then Alibeth touched it and the sensation was immediate. It was less a feeling and more a presence—like placing your hand on a door and realizing, too late, that something on the other side has been waiting.

Alibeth swallowed.

Polina whispered her name, terrified, but Alibeth did not answer. She lifted the book from the pedestal, and it was heavier than it should have been.

Her mind moved quickly. They did not have time to open it. They did not have time to be curious.

She wrapped it in cloth stripped from the edge of the desk runner, and shoved it into Polina’s hands.

Polina blinked at it as if it might bite. “Under your skirt,” Alibeth murmured.

She obeyed, awkwardly, clutching the bundle close and tucking it beneath the fabric with trembling hands. She looked ridiculous, like a child trying to hide stolen bread.

They slipped back the way they came, moving through the house with their breaths held.

On the walk home, Polina kept leaning toward Alibeth, whispering through clenched teeth as if the book could hear her thoughts.

“It’s warm,” Polina breathed. “Ali—do you feel it? It’s warm.”

Alibeth stared straight ahead, jaw tight. She felt it was all right. She felt it like a fever under her skin.

And even then, even as dread began to take its first root, she told herself the only thing that mattered was that this could be sold for medicine. They had something.

And later, when Polina unwrapped the cloth in the light of their room, their siblings gathered the way starving children gather around a pot of soup—shoulders pressed together, eyes too big. Not because they understood what it was, but because it was new. Because for once, they had stolen something that felt like it belonged to a different world.

Alibeth looked down at the book in her sister’s hands. She did not yet understand what they had taken.

The book did not announce itself as evil.

In the first hour, it did nothing at all. It let their mother cough in the corner without offering an answer. It let the baby wail until the sound turned thin. It let the room keep smelling like the sweet rot of too many bodies in too little air.

And still, the children circled it.

She did not like the way the book pulled attention from the room’s real emergencies—water, heat, mother. She did not like the way Polina’s fingers kept brushing the cloth as if soothing it would make it forgive them for stealing it. She did not like, most of all, that she herself kept glancing at it between tasks, as if the object had somehow become a new member of the household and required monitoring.

They waited until their mother fell asleep.

Alibeth made the older siblings lie down, because a room full of children awake at night is a room full of mistakes. She sent one to fetch water, another to keep the baby quiet with a finger dipped in broth.

Only then did she and Polina sit by the candle.

The flame made the walls ripple like something underwater.

Polina unwrapped the cloth with reverence that irritated Alibeth on principle.

“Open it,” Polina whispered.

Alibeth didn’t. She stared at the cover as if staring long enough would reveal the mechanism inside, the same way locks did.

Alibeth turned the cover with two fingers.

The first page was not written like any book she had ever read. There were symbols—some like letters, some like drawings, some like eccentric, angry scratches. The ink was dense and dark. When she leaned closer, the lines seemed to shift at the edge of her vision, not moving exactly, but refusing to sit still in the mind.

Polina made a small sound. Awe, or hunger. It was hard to tell the difference between the children.

“This is for witches,” Polina breathed.

Alibeth traced a symbol with her eyes.

Polina looked down again and began to read, because that was what she did when the world presented something dangerous: she tried to understand it before it understood her.

The words were not words, not truly. They were instructions. There were margins filled with notes in a different script, tight and sharp, as if someone had been arguing with the book.
Polina leaned closer, shoulder brushing Alibeth’s.

“We could fix her,” Polina whispered, and nodded toward their mother’s shape in the corner.

Alibeth didn’t answer. Not because she disagreed—because she did not like the way Polina said it. She turned another page.

There were warnings too, though Alibeth did not understand them at first as warnings—phrases like cost, tithe, balance.

Polina plucked a hair from her head and then plucked a feather from their pillow and held it over the page like she had seen scribes do in the market.

Their youngest sister, the one with too-big eyes, had crept close again, drawn by the candle. The other children giggled in the dark, trying not to wake their mother.

Polina lowered the feather as if it were a ritual. She read aloud—stumbling over words at first, then finding a rhythm, more earnest.

And then the feather lifted.

It rose a finger’s breadth above the page, quivering like a startled thing.

For a moment, none of them moved. Not even the baby.

Then the room exploded into muffled laughter, hands clapped over mouths, shoulders shaking. One of the sickly boys—who hadn’t smiled in days—let out a sound that was so close to joy that Alibeth felt something tighten behind her ribs.

Polina stared at the feather as though it had chosen her personally.

”Again,” she whispered.

Alibeth should have closed the book then.

She should have wrapped it, hidden it, buried it beneath floorboards, done what their father would have done: remove the threat before it grew teeth.

But their mother coughed in her sleep, wet and red, and the sound of it made all logic feel… smaller. In the face of that cough, the feather’s trembling lift became more than a trick. It became an argument.

So Alibeth let Polina turn the page.

They did not begin with fire. They began with things that felt like mercy.

A pebble that rolled across the table on command. A thread that mended itself when Polina’s fingers traced a symbol above it. A bruise on a child’s knee that faded to yellow, then nothing, when a whispered line of script was spoken with enough belief.

Each success made the next attempt feel less like a risk and more like entitlement.

They practiced in stolen minutes—between errands, between hunger, between their mother’s fits. They did it in the hush of early mornings when the street was empty, and in the late evenings when the house was full of bodies sleeping.

Polina started carrying the book tucked beneath her dress the way some girls carried prayer beads. She refused to leave it behind even when they went to fetch water.

Alibeth watched her sister’s devotion harden.

At first, Polina was generous with it. She used the little tricks to amuse their siblings, to buy laughter the way other children bought sweets. She made the feather dance and the youngest squeal. She made a coin spin on its edge and the boys gasp. She made their mother’s blanket warm for a few minutes and called it a miracle, eyes bright with triumph.

Polina soon stopped laughing when the feather lifted. She stopped clapping a hand over her mouth to keep quiet. She began to scowl at the book when it did not give her what she wanted quickly enough, as if the book were an insolent servant.

Alibeth noticed it in small ways first, because she noticed everything.

Polina stopped sharing the book without being asked. When a sibling reached for it with dirty hands, she slapped their fingers away hard enough to make them yelp. When the youngest begged her to “make the feather fly,” Polina snapped at her to stop whining.

“This is not for you,” Polina hissed one night when one of their brothers tried to peer at the pages. “You can’t even read.”

He shrank back, stung.

“Then teach him,” Alibeth argued quietly.

Polina’s eyes flicked up. For a second there was something in them that made Alibeth’s skin prickle. “Why?” Polina whispered. “So he can ruin it?”

Alibeth stared at her sister across the candle. “Because he is family,” Alibeth said.

Polina’s mouth curled as if the word tasted naïve. ”Family doesn’t save you,” she murmured.

It was the first time Polina said something that sounded as though it had not originated in her own mind.

After that, the change sped up.

Polina began to stay awake when the rest slept, hunched over the pages, shoulders drawn tight as if she were guarding the book from theft. Alibeth would wake in the night and see the faint light under the door, hear Polina’s whispering. Sometimes there was a second sound beneath it, so faint Alibeth wasn’t sure she had heard it at all: a low, almost-laugh in the back of Polina’s throat, as if she were answering someone.

Polina’s temper shortened the more exhausted she became. She snapped at their siblings for breathing too loud, for stepping too close, for asking questions. She began to hoard food more openly, not out of hunger but out of control—breaking bread into portions and refusing to budge when a smaller child cried.

When Alibeth confronted her, Polina’s eyes went strange with indignation.

“You think I’m cruel?” Polina whispered. “I’m trying to fix it. I’m trying to fix everything.”

Her voice shook, not with guilt, but with fury that the world had dared remain broken.

Alibeth held her gaze. “Then you do not get to break us in the process.. Are you ready to heal mama yet or not?”

“Not yet,” Polina stared at her sister as if she were the one who didn’t understand.

And somewhere in those weeks, the book stopped feeling like an object and more like another member of the family.

The air around it grew heavier when it lay open. Children who had once giggled now hesitated at the doorway, peering in as if the room belonged to someone else. Polina began to crave bigger proofs.

The feather wasn’t enough. The coin wasn’t enough. Mending threads became boring. Healing bruises became beneath her. She turned pages faster, skipping warnings, ignoring the careful marginal notes, hunting for anything that promised more.

One afternoon, she drew a circle on the floor with charcoal and commanded the younger siblings to stand back.

Alibeth watched from the doorway, arms crossed, posture already braced for consequences.

Polina spoke a line of script that tasted bitter in the air.

The room went cold.

Their youngest sister whimpered.

Polina didn’t look at her. Polina stared at the circle with glittering intensity, hands outstretched, fingers trembling—not with fear, but with need.

The charcoal line began to glow faintly.

The candle flame bent toward it.

And then a cupboard across the room rattled, violently, as if struck from inside.

A pot toppled. A cup cracked. The baby began to scream.

Polina’s face lit up as if she was almsot fevered.

“There,” she breathed. “There—do you see?”

Alibeth stepped forward and snapped, “Stop.”

Polina didn’t.

The cupboard door burst open.

Not outward, not as if pushed by a draft, but as if yanked by an unseen hand. The wooden hinge shrieked. The sound set teeth on edge. The room’s shadows seemed to stretch toward the circle.

Their siblings backed away in a huddle, eyes wide with that old, animal terror that children get when the world stops behaving the way it’s supposed to.

Polina laughed and it wasn’t like the bright laugh from the first feather.

Alibeth crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Polina’s wrist.

Polina flinched as if the touch offended her.

“You are going to wake Mother,” Alibeth hissed.

Polina’s gaze snapped to hers.

For a moment, Alibeth saw something raw behind Polina’s eyes—a flicker of the girl she knew, terrified and exhausted and desperate.

Then it vanished.

Polina leaned in close, voice low, venomously intimate. ”Mother is dying anyway.”

The words hit Alibeth like a slap, not because they were false, but because Polina said them.

Alibeth tightened her grip until Polina hissed through her teeth.

“Close it,” Alibeth ordered.

Polina’s lips parted.

For a second, Alibeth thought she might obey.

Instead, Polina whispered something else—something that wasn’t on the page Alibeth had seen.

The cold deepened.

The charcoal circle flared brighter.

And Alibeth felt, very distinctly, the sensation of being watched—like eyes in the dark pressing against the inside of her skull, patient and curious.

Polina’s pupils dilated until the amber of her eyes seemed swallowed.

She smiled at Alibeth with a softness that did not belong on a child’s face.

“You don’t feel it?” Polina murmured. ”It’s listening.”

And in that moment, Alibeth understood with a clarity that made her throat go dry: this was no longer a game they could put down.

Something had gotten its claws into Polina—something bad.

Behind them, their mother coughed in her sleep.

Polina didn’t even flinch at the sound anymore.

She only looked back at the book, and the look on her face was not wonder anymore.

It was possession.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

TIME: Evening
LOCATION: The Pasta Oasis
MENTIONS: @HylianRose Lucian | @Princess Marina

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?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

TIME: Evening
LOCATION: The Gossamer

Lucian listened intently, interested in Torvi’s story. The idea of being left alone like that in the cold when young left a cold feeling in the back of his chest. He couldn’t even imagine what he would have done in that situation. He couldn't imagine his mother even allowing it. It gave him a small pause to reflect on how comfortable his upbringing had truly been.

Regardless of his own feelings, he turned to look at Kilian as he was given the floor to speak. He nodded along as Kilian started, already feeling all too strongly about it. Would he have worded it the same way? Probably not, but he still agreed. He listened to Kilian’s choice words about the queen and king, blinking in mild confusion. Sure, Kings and Queen had their issues, as all people do, but from his stance, what Kilian was beginning to discuss could be grounds for war for someone of his station. He had to play this carefully.

Lucian watched Kilian slide a file over to him. Tentatively, he reached for it and opened it to read while he listened. It already had his blood boiling. Once again an image flashed of that figure behind his wife and he couldn’t help but overlap this person with them. The anger seeped through him like a poison, thick and low. This was the kind of person who had taken his life away. It took no small amount of effort to remind himself who this person was. A Prince. As much as he agreed, wanting to punish him, he knew doing so publicly would be more than just risky for him. It could constitute an act of war if he wasn’t cautious. Still, Lucian was tired of sitting and waiting. Inaction had killed his wife and he would not allow it to continue.

”What’s the plan then? I agree that the stability of the throne needs to be considered at all times. Unrest will only lead to more chaos and violence. There is no need to give them a martyr or a cause to rally behind.” Lucian asked, looking from Torvi to Kilian. ”How do we plan on bringing him to justice without causing more strife for the kingdom’s people?”

Torvi leaned forward, her gold-embroidered sleeves shimmering as she spoke with the cold precision of a huntress.

"The plan for Callum must be delicate. As you say, ve cannot risk a martyr. However, rot is... unique," she began. "He has abandoned his usual vays, acting as a pompous prince, but his aura tells the truth. It is red, the color of pain and destruction, vith edges bleeding black vith corruption. It pulses erratically, but the most critical part is it is obscured by smoke. Smoke suggests possession, or something hidden vithin him. A Prince who loses control of such power creates a crater vhere a city used to be."

She paused, her expression darkening as she brought up the second name.

"Then there is Lady Violet Damien. She vas gone for a time and has returned... changed. She is deathly pale, her eyes now a vicked red. Her aura is buried under a thick fog that renders it almost unreadable. It is a catastrophic marker. One theory ve hafe is she may hafe been turned, though ve lack the proof to move just yet."

Torvi’s golden eyes remained steady, but she turned slightly toward Kilian, her posture tightening.

"Howefer, I can confirm there is at least one vampire on the loose in this city. I found a body last night, discarded in the shadows. The killer vas clever. They gutted the man to make it look like a simple mugging gone vrong or revenge on someone. But there vas no mess, Kilian. Not nearly enough blood on the clothes for such a vound. The man vas drained dry before the blade ever touched him."

She looked back to Lucian, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "To avoid the strife you fear, I beliefe ve must isolate these targets and verify the corruption behind closed doors. Once ve hafe filled you in on the others, ve can discuss how to lure a Prince into the dark vhere a monster can be dealt vith vithout the vorld ever seeing a body."

“Torvi and I are of one mind on this matter, and that leads me to our third and final member of the dossier.” Kilian explained as he reached forward and turned the page of the file he had presented Prince Lucian to its final pages. “Lady Charlotte Vikena, future Duchess, witchblood abomination. This one is especially curious to me.” He admitted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Her aura indicates dormant powers. Not only is she clearly from an arcane bloodline, but there is something more there. I can feel it. She has the potential to be a real threat, and I have decided to manage this one personally. Soon, I will be making a house call to the Vikena estate. It is time Lady Vikena and I get acquainted.” A sick smile crossed his already intense face as he relished in the thought of their meeting. “This will be our first move, and once I have dealt with…”

Kilian’s words came to a sudden halt as the attention of the table was pulled elsewhere. A groan, long and ungodly loud, came from one of the nearest tables across the room. Kilian’s eyes locked onto the culprit, his head tilting like that of a confused dog as he took in the sight of them. His jaw fell open, confusion sweeping over him as the strange…person…at the table twirled their obviously fake mustache insanely and awkwardly lifted a pair of opera binoculars to their eyes…pointed directly towards Kilian and his guests.

“Is…Is that a fucking woman in a mustache?” Were the only words he could manage as his brain fully malfunctioned at the absurdity he was witnessing

He listened quietly. He could feel his gut wrenching and churning at what he was hearing. Fear washed over him like a cold breeze. If what they were saying was true, then there were far more evils in this world than he knew. Far more. And they were far up the chain, people he couldn’t touch without consequence. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t nobles or royalty. He also didn’t want to consider what the term ‘turned’ meant.

His gaze shifted to Kilian as he spoke of visiting Lady Charlotte before shifting back down to the girl at his feet. He wouldn’t.. Right? But if she was… He could feel a headache coming on. He wasn’t sure why he expected this to be black and white but it was rather muddied, wasn’t it?

Lucian’s brow raised as Kilian trailed off. He turned his head behind him and spotted her. Lucian went through emotions quickly. First shock, as his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped a little. Then, it shifted into something angrier, brows furrowed and hands gripping the seat a little too tightly. He might just kill her.

Lucian turned back quickly, a look of frustration on his face as his lips pressed together in a tight frown. ”Please… just ignore her.” He spoke quietly. ”I’ll… be right back.” He added after a short pause and got up from his chair.

He made the relatively short walk over to her table and sat down, an unimpressed look on his face. ”Good evening sir. We couldn’t help but to see that you have been watching us rather closely. Can I help you?” He asked aloud, blinking expectantly at her.

”Because if you don’t say no and walk away, I think I might just have a heart attack right here.” He whispered angrily as he leaned in closer to her. ”What are you doing here Marina?”