Oso

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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Location:The Underground Blood Bank
Time:Night
Interactions:Angel @princess & Sean @FunnyGuy

Part 2; Prior Night Flashback

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Sicily had spat on the man, and he did not even flinch.

The glob struck the glass eye of his mask and clung there, distorting the reflected light. He watched it slide down the smooth curve for a moment, almost contemplative, before lifting one gloved thumb and wiping it away with care more fastidious than offended.

“Spirited,” he said mildly, voice muffled by the filter. “Good. Keep that attitude for all the fun we’re about to have together.”

One of the armored guards stepped closer to Sean, stopping just beyond the reach of his boots. He tilted his head, studying the hunter as if measuring him for something.

“You always talk this much when you wake up,” he said. “Or just when you’re afraid?”

The scientist at the table did not look up from the open chest cavity of the Fae subject before him.

“Do not agitate them excessively,” he murmured. “Elevated stress responses can…complicate things, and we don’t know what she has planned for them just yet..”

“Oh I think I know what’s in store for these two.” the guard replied, glancing toward Sicily as well. “And the stress is only just beginning.”

The other goons laughed as they relished the thought of what horrors could be on the horizon for these two, but the scientist did not. He simply shook his head and continued his work.

Then, faintly…so faintly most would have mistaken it for imagination…a vibration crept through the concrete beneath their feet. It was a different sound than the machines littering the room.

The guards stilled first.

No words were exchanged, there were no commands, yet the postures of almost everyone in the room shifted. One man removed his gloves, another straightened a tray that was ever so slightly misaligned. A young technician abruptly stopped working mid task and got up to leave the room.

Across the far wall, the massive rolling garage door began to lift.

Metal groaned upward, slow and deliberate, letting in a blade of exterior light that cut across the floor like a scalpel. Cold night air spilled inward, carrying the distant hush of the city above.

Headlights appeared beneath the rising door from the top of the basement entry ramp.
The engine purred as the car glided into the chamber; an immaculate, obsidian Aston Martin, its polished body reflecting the sterile fluorescence in thin silver veins. It rolled to a perfect halt at the center of the floor, and soon, the engine died.

The driver’s door did not open. Instead, the rear passenger door was opened from within.

A tall, bald man stepped out first. He wore a dark coat tailored close to the bod. His skin was pale in the way of marble long kept from sunlight, and his expression held no hostility nor warmth…only vigilance.

His eyes passed over the room once and every guard straightened.

He then stepped around to open the front passenger door.

A woman emerged with no flourish at all. She was all business and elegant practicality. She was striking for a woman that appeared to be in her 50s. Pale without fragility, her skin held the smooth stillness of polished ivory, untouched by the restless warmth of the living. Dark hair was arranged in deliberate, sculpted waves, each strand exactly where it had chosen to remain. Her features were sharp but not severe, and beautiful all the same.

Her eyes were the most unsettling thing about her…steady, unblinking, and unfathomably piercing. Deep crimson touched her lips in precise contrast to the austerity of her complexion, and the jewelry she wore was heavy and old, elegant but not ostentatious…not in the slightest.

Isolde Lenoir walked forward at an unhurried pace. The sound of the room around her diminished with her arrival.

Her gaze moved first to Sean, eyes lingering on him in absolute silence longer than anyone would have found comfortable. “I find you curious. Frustrating but curious.” She said simply.

Her attention shifted to Sicily, and remained there as she repeated her long, quiet gaze.

“The same is true of you,” she eventually said. “Both of you have made the unfortunate choice to interfere with my dealings. With my business.”

She stepped closer, heels clicking quietly against the concrete.

The bald man followed half a pace behind her, always ready to act.

Isolde stopped before the chained woman, studying her face with patient interest.

“The man called Hollow I understand. He’s a Warden, a pawn on the board of an organization that has the delusional luxury to think themselves mighty. He is simply doing his job. But you…” She mused. “You are somewhere you simply aren’t meant to be. Though I do have to offer credit where it’s due. You hid well,” she said. “For a time.”

Her gloved hand rose, fingers brushing the necklace at Sicily’s throat…the glamour charm humming faintly beneath her touch.

“But fit is time for your childish little ruse of rebellion to come to an end.”

With a single, precise motion, she tore the necklace free.

The chain snapped with a sharp metallic cry, and the illusion collapsed.

Sicily’s blonde locks drained into living red as though color itself had returned to the world, the transformation rippling through Angel’s features in an instant.

Isolde watched the change without reaction, only confirmation of what she already assumed.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I thought so.”

She let the necklace fall from her grip and onto the floor below.

“The prodigal daughter of Magnus Corvane. What a fool.” Isolde declared, turning from Angel and making her way back towards her vehicle. As she reached the passenger door, she stopped to say one, final thing.

“Let them rot here until tomorrow night. If they misbehave, strip the flesh from the Warden’s back. But do not touch the girl. She is mine, and I’ll be back in twenty four hours to collect her.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Charlotte & Kilian

Part 1

Time: Early Afternoon of Ignis 3
Location: The Vikena Estate

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Cherry Lane had always been a polite little street.

Trimmed hedges. Ironwork fences that were always kept scrubbed and shining. Sorian’s brightest and noblest fools going about their games of pomp and circumstance. This street had seen many wagons, travelers, and members of Sorian’s elite leave their tracks upon its cobblestone path.

However, polite little Cherry Lane had never seen anything like the retinue of Vanguard Society witch hunters that now stalked the street.

The dark cloaks of almost a dozen figures moved with true, disciplined precision. At their front walked Kilian Hale, chain in hand, shackled pet of a witch not far behind.

Iron links rasped over stone, a sound that jarred bystanders and left them unsettled as their eyes processed the sight. Some had seen him pulling the chained woman along in the banquet, others had spotted cruel sight at the Gossamer the night prior, but many others had only heard rumors. Until now, as the citizens within sight all basked in the presence that Kilian brought with him everywhere he went.

The woman at the end of his chain stood as a walking reminder of consequence. Kilian pulled her along as though she were nothing more than an obedient dog… And obedient she remained as he did what she could to match his pace. He smiled faintly as they finally reached their destination.

So this was the Vikena estate

Kilian’s fingers flexed at his side as he clutched the chain a little tighter, a surge of dark anticipation crawling its way through him. The smile he wore grew even more wicked as he turned to face his prisoner.

“This is going to be so much fun, Agony.” He declared, referring to the woman by the twisted nickname he had given her. “Are you ready to pay this Vikena bitch a little visit? Because I…am desperate…to meet her.” He said, leaning in to whisper his words into the chained woman’s ear.

Kilian raised a hand, and without question his retinue stopped in their tracks just outside the Vikena estate. He and his little pet made their way along the colorful path of Lady Vikena’s stunning estate grounds. They ascended the steps as they reached the porch, and Killian turned back to his prisoner once more with that same…wicked grin before his gloved fist knocked on the door with confidence.

That knock echoed through the manor, jarring Charlotte Vikena out of her slumber so violently it had stolen her breath. It had all been in such a manner that the line between the waking world and dream world had blurred just for a moment. Her eyes had fluttered open to an immediate betrayal of her mind: the sight of the man above her again and the feeling of his hand clamping her throat.

Luckily, there had only been time for her eyes to widen before he vanished. Though shocking, he was truly no stranger to her. She had been drifting in and out of sleep throughout the day while her night had been stolen from her by brutal night terrors, each one leaving her waking feeling a little more raw and hollow than the last.

She rose on instinct with a sharp inhale, her palms pressing deep into the cushions. Her gaze moved about slowly, her hair falling in a thick, dark tumble over her face as she peered through the strands.

Charlotte swallowed hard as she recalled the reason she had woken up in the first place, and it was then her body recalled her manners even when her mind did not.

So she stood, and crossed into the foyer, smoothing her skirt with trembling fingers, and she took her time then, pulling a shawl over her casual dress. Charlotte took far too long adjusting it, tugging it close, wrapping herself in it as though it may help hide what she felt on the inside.

When her hand found the knob, her fingers hesitated. They curled around the brass and held it still. The hairs on her arm rose as if her body knew something her mind did not yet. She drew her upper lip through her teeth and finally slowly pulled the door open a few inches.

Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been this.

The sight beyond the threshold stole what little breath she had managed to gather and drained the warmth from her cheeks all in a single merciless instant. Her expression went blank in the same way the flame of a candle gets snuffed out. Her entire body went rigid as she froze with the helplessness of a deer caught in a predator’s gaze. She couldn’t even feel her feet anymore—only the awful certainty that she had chosen wrong.

Her grip on the doorknob tightened until her knuckles paled, an involuntary tremor spreading from her hands up her arms. Her dilated irises jumped between the scarred man to the woman in chains as if she were trying to make sense of what she was seeing and failing to move beyond the initial register of the imagery.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even remember what words were meant to do. So, she only stood there, trembling in silence.

Kilian bowed before her; a mocking display of reverence as he absolutely drank in the shock and awe in her expression. His chiseled jaw clenched as he let his eyes fully take in the splendor of the potential future Duchess.

“Good morning, my lady,” The dangerous man announced with mischievous charm before pointing back at his plus one with a gloved thumb. “we heard you had quite the eventful night. Perhaps you should invite us in and tell me all about it.”

Charlotte’s lips parted immediately, but no sound followed. She drew in her breath again, her gaze lowering as her lashes fluttered. “G-good morning…” she managed at last in a wavering voice. Her throat worked after a swallow; her mouth suddenly felt so dry. “I… I beg your pardon–” Her brows knit as she rummaged through her mind for something sensible that could possibly belong in a moment like this.

And then, before she could even think to stop herself, the truth slipped out. “Do I… have to?” She asked helplessly and in the softest voice she had ever heard escape her lips. As the question hung in the air, her cheeks blanched more if such a thing was possible.

Kilian simply placed his boot in the doorway between them, blocking Charlotte’s ability to try and close it. He leaned down closer to her eye level, the wicked grin that often painted his darkly handsome and intense face fading into something a bit more severe.

“Oh, Lady Vikena…” He said, voice lowering. “A girl with your kind reputation surely wouldn’t turn away a couple of visitors like us, now would you?” Kilian asked. He let his body turn halfway so that he could motion to the rest of the hunters out by her gate. “I can be very convincing if needed.” His mischievous grin returned as he watched her take in the sight of his men. “Would it help if I said please?” As his question finished, the slightest, menacing little laugh escaped him as he reached past her and allowed his fingers to wrap around the edge of her door.

Her blue eyes flickered to the people by the gate, then back to him. Wordlessly, she then took a step backward to allow him entry.

“Ah, there we are…” He remarked, taking a moment to look back at his pet standing silently and submissively behind him. “See Agony, I told you she would be a good girl.”. Kilian turned back towards Charlotte, stepping past her and into her home, letting Agony enter in tow as he closed the door behind them.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

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Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: The Kraken's Wake
Mentions: Phia @princess, Arya @potter, Corin @Lava Alckon, Minerva @FunnyGuy
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered ivory metal plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 33 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

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Bastion was not used to the noises of taverns.

Of course battlefields were loud too, but in a very different kind of way. Even with the chaos all around him in combat, Bastion had never felt overwhelmed by the noise. There, he had his orders… his mission, and all he had to do was focus on getting things done. But this…this was a lot for him to process, and unfortunately it was all at once.

The noise of the Kraken’s Wake was a tangled web of sounds of differing volumes, full of voices over voices, wooden tables struck by mugs, the squeaking screech of chairs sliding across the uneven wooden floor, and layers of laughter that spiked and dipped without warning. All of this and more was jam packed in one relatively small building… Much smaller than the corridors and fields of battle he had always felt at home in. So much in such a small place made the word overwhelming quite the understatement.

The Warforged stood where Minerva had pulled him, just to the side of the table she now sat, his shoulders angled awkwardly without him even realizing. He was half pointed toward her and half toward the bar where his gaze kept drifting.

Phia’s antlers made it easy for him to spot her, and thankfully Arya had stuck close by to the kind girl making it easy for him to keep track of the two. He had internally declared his mission to protect them all, and that had started with those two girls… but now that he was separated from them, there was the subconscious feeling that he was not performing his duties. He pondered the feeling and its accuracy, trying to take into account that his self-assigned oath was technically for the group as a whole, but the lingering phantom of his former failure made him uneasy.

A jolt of laughter echoed too loudly from behind him, pulling his attention and his gaze without him even meaning for it to. Thankfully, it seemed as though there were currently no real threats; though an argument could be made that each and every person in the room, pirate or not, seemed like a threat in their own right. As he turned back, his eyes once again found Minerva, who was pulling out a chair for him and doing something rather odd with her eyebrows. She had referred to him as her second-in-command. He too, like Corin, questioned the legitimacy of her claim, though really he was just confused. Not just by her, but by everything that had been transpiring. When he woke up from his…what was he even meant to call it…extended period of nonfunction?…When he finally awoke and realized the war had ended, there had been a growing fear in him that he would have no purpose, that his existence may prove to be obsolete. He never expected things to be so eventful.

Out of force of habit more than anything else, Bastion turned away from Minerva and back to the girls at the bar. Just to make sure they were safe. Then, he looked towards the strange woman once more, knelt down to be bit closer to her eye level, cocked his head in a way reminiscent to a confused dog, and finally spoke. His voice was louder than intended and interrupted any conversation that had still been going on within the group. It was not something done out of rudeness, rather just a case where Bastion’s general state of overwhelmed confusion caused him to barely even process that other’s may be speaking at all.

“Do you have a mission for me, Ms. Minerva?” He asked genuinely, his optics flaring with curiosity as he moved to take a seat in the chair she had so graciously pulled out for him. A chair that creaked and groaned the very moment that his weight came down upon it. It held his Warforged frame, but only for a second or two, before the wooden piece of furniture splintered and collapsed from underneath him. Bastion plummeted to the ground, the impact of his metal bottom crashing down against the tavern floor basically rattling the entire tavern and drawing the eyes of everyone within.

“Oh…” He said simply, staring up at Minerva.

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

---

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

---

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}