Oso

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Cassius & Charlotte

_{Ignis 5th - ~3am}

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Lover’s Lake had been the closest thing to peace Cassius had found since arriving in this cursed city. He had thought such peace awaited him at the taverns and brothels that littered its streets, but not even the pleasures he had always enjoyed felt the same here. Nothing felt the same here.


So instead, he found himself seeking something that he had often previously avoided… Silence. A place where the wind breezed through the trees and the steady pull of a fishing line asked nothing of him beyond patience. He had spent most of the day there with mud on his boots and the lake at his feet, a rod in hand and doing his damnedest to forget it all for a bloody while. But of course, his thoughts often had a way of drifting in the quiet moments, and so his resistance was as futile as it was anything else. And every path, every thought, every synapse led back to her... To Charlotte.

It was always her as of late. Nothing had infected his mind the way she had. Not his guilt, not his mistakes or his arrogance nor his desires. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and given just how much he had experienced in his 27 years of life, that said a lot.


He had tried, in recent days, to call it what it was not. A passing fixation, perhaps just misplaced tenderness. Bad timing wrapped in a pretty face and a pair of tragic, melancholy eyes. Yet none of those explanations held for long, not when he thought of the way she looked that day lying in the grass, and not when he remembered the sound of her voice that night when he took her on the date of a lifetime… And not when every attempt to leave her be seemed only to return him to her in some form or another, whether by chance or by whatever cruel sense of humor the gods had chosen to develop at his expense. He was haunted by her presence even when she was nowhere to be found.


The pathways of his thoughts then took a detour to the other woman who had been haunting him; Kira Mapenzi. The woman that had left him in a puddle of his own blood only days ago.


He had buried that old friend in his mind. He had watched her die… Or so he thought. And now, she had returned not just as a memory of one of his greatest failings, but as a blade burying into him and tearing open a wound deeper than the three in his side. The ghost he had mourned had become a living torment, and in Sorian of all damned places, where he had come seeking distance from the weight of his mercenary past, she had been waiting to bring her vengeance to his doorstep.


The very thought of that doorstep shifted his thoughts again. This time to his family. To the Damiens. His father, Liliane, his sisters….. Cassius still had not decided if the generosity of them opening their doors to him felt more like grace or strategy. Unfortunately, it was probably some fucked up blend of the two. That was the worst part if he was being entirely honest to himself. A man who made a living off of reading others to finish any and every job placed in front of him, yet he felt unequipped to piece together this particular puzzle. It made gratitude difficult. Not impossible, but oh so much more difficult than he could have expected.


The sound of fish jumping brought his thoughts back to the present. They had been biting well enough that afternoon to spare him from drowning entirely in his own head. By the time the sun had begun to sink and the sky dimmed to bruised gold, he had enough of them slung together to justify the hours spent out there, and so he had made his way back toward the Damien family cabin, which greeted him with even more stillness. Cassius had cleaned the fish on the porch, cooked them over the modest kitchen flame with a little butter and whatever seasoning had been left behind, and eaten at the small table with his sleeves rolled and the windows cracked so the evening air could move through the room.


Over time, that wind had begun to rise. Not all at once, but in increments, each gust a little sharper than the last. The trees stirred first, then bent, and somewhere in the deepening dark the first low growl of thunder rolled across the lake. Cassius had glanced up from his plate then, listening, and by the time he had swallowed the last bite the storm had already begun to gather itself in earnest and rain came hard.


It struck the roof in sheets and lashed the windows in sudden bursts, and lightning began to flicker across the water in crooked veins of silver-white. The whole world outside the cabin turned black over the course of just a short while as the storm fully picked up.


There would be no heading back into town tonight. So Cassius banked the fire, locked the door, and decided to stay. He tried to sleep. Gods, he did. He stripped down to shirt and trousers, laid out atop the bed with one arm flung over the side, and listened to the storm while his own mind, as often was the case, proved to be his greatest enemy. And even when he did drift off, the darkness behind his eyes was not empty for long as the dreams came. He saw the banquet hall again. He heard the music, smelled the perfume, tasted her kiss that lingered on his lips that night.


Then his mind went backwards in time to earlier that night. To Milo St. Claire. The artist had looked him dead in the eyes and called him the Scourge of Eisenholm. Now in the dream, just like he had been that night, his mind was transferred to the fire that consumed timber and flesh alike. The screams. The smoke. The impossible responsibility of making a choice that ruined parts of him that may never heal… A choice that no one in the world but him had to live with. He had come to Sorian in part because he thought he could outrun that name here.
Perhaps he thought he could stand beside his father, take this strange new place in this strange new family, and let the old horrors of mercenary life rot where they belonged.


Instead, he was beginning to understand that he had not escaped war at all. He had merely stepped into another one. A particularly loud crack of thunder pulled him from the dream as his eyes opened to the darkness of the room. Cassius sat up with a curse and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.


Cassius rose, relit the fire, and fed it until the hearth breathed warm gold into the room once more. Then he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey as he looked out the window. He stood there a long while, broad shoulders braced against a window frame, watching rain slash across the lake in silver streaks whenever lightning lit up the world enough to reveal it. The water had gone black, restless and heaving beneath the sky, and every time the light came it seemed to show the landscape in pieces only.


Then one flash came and something in the middle distance snagged at him. Was that…a person?


Cassius narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the glass. For a second he thought it might have been driftwood caught wrong in the waves, or one of the storm-bent branches rolling in the dark water, or simply his own tired mind playing tricks on him. He might have let himself believe that if not for the second flash.


This time there was no mistaking it. There was a woman out there in the water, and she was struggling. She was fighting for her life.


Cassius was moving before the thought had fully formed and he was out of the room in three strides, wrenching the door open so hard it slammed against the wall, cold rain and terrible wind crashing into him all at once as he ran as fast as he could for shore.


Another flash revealed another glimpse of movement as he hit the shoreline at full speed and did not pause long enough to think about the water before charging straight into it.


Gods was it cold. Freezing, even. It hit his knees, his thighs, his waist, then his chest, and he drove forward through all of it until the lake took his weight from him and he started to swim with all of his might. Cassius struck out hard into the black water, each stroke a battle against the current and cold and the sheer madness of doing this in the middle of a pitch black storm in the middle of the gods' forsaken night.


For a few terrible seconds, he lost her. The lake was too wide, the rain too heavy, and the quick bursts of lightning gave him only broken fragments to work from. He turned, treading water hard, scanning, listening for any signs of life among the storm. Then he heard it, the sound of a desperate struggle. Cassius angled toward it immediately, teeth clenched against the cold. Another flash lit the lake and there, just ahead, he saw the shape of an arm striking wildly at the surface before disappearing again into the dark. He lunged the last few feet, and his lucky hands caught fabric first, then an arm slick and freezing beneath his grip. The body before him jolted at the contact, but there was no choice here. Cassius wrapped both arms around her, one braced under her shoulders, the other locked around her middle to keep her head above the surface as she struggled.


The swim back was even worse than getting to her. With every kick as he swam desperately for shore, the lake seemed to drag at them, to pull them sideways, down, anywhere but shore, and the weight in his arms was no dead thing but a living, panicked being that made the work harder and more perilous. Cassius forced his body through it all on fury and instinct, breath coming harsh and raw, shoulders burning, muscles beginning to scream from the cold. More than once a wave slapped over them both and he nearly lost his grip. More than once he thought the dark had swallowed all sense of direction and that he might be hauling them in circles toward death.


Then his knee struck stone and he crawled them both to shore.


He staggered up on numb legs, nearly collapsing from the relief of it, and dragged them both through the shallows until he could get purchase enough to lift more than pull. Wet sand and scattered rock dug cruelly into his knees as he lowered her down at last upon the narrow stretch of shoreline, both of them gasping, the storm still battering down around them without mercy.


For several seconds, Cassius could do nothing but breathe.


His whole body stung with cold. Water poured from his hair and clothes. His lungs felt flayed raw from effort and freezing air. One hand braced in the stones beside her while the other hovered half uselessly at her shoulder as he tried to offer what assurance was possible in such a grave moment.


Lightning flashed again, and in that bright instant, he finally saw the face of the drowning woman.


Cassius froze.


For a heartbeat the whole storm seemed to fall away from him, every other thought torn clean out of his head by the sheer, impossible absurdity of what the night had placed in his arms. Wet black hair clung to her skin. Her mouth was parted as she gasped her ragged breaths. Her nightgown was soaked through, pale fabric plastered to shaking limbs, and strapped tight against her was something wrapped and held close even now as though some desperate part of her had refused to let it go.


How could it be her? Why, of all people, would Charlotte Vikena’s terrified face be staring back at him here and now as she was moments from death.


His chest rose and fell once, hard as his rising heartbeat forced him to regain his senses. Then he leaned over her, rain streaking from his brow to his jaw, storm-gray eyes wide with shock and terror of his own.


Charlotte flinched hard the moment arms had closed around her—She could feel the hold around her torso, but in that instant her mind refused to process that this was a rescue; all it could process was restraint and a familiar sense of helplessness. And she couldn’t see. Her vision was a blur of darkness and movement. Distress contorted her features as her mind cruelly conjured the sight of a bright light above the surface of the water, shapes hovering above her, their bodies reduced to silhouettes. Her mouth opened on a panicked breath, but it came out as a choked sound instead.

“Charlotte?” He asked, panting and afraid.

Her head jerked weakly, her eyes unfocused. “N-no-” she spluttered, coughing hard. “Don’t-please-”

“Hey…hey, you’re safe now Lottie. It’s okay, it’s all going to be okay.” He managed through heavy breaths. “It’s Cassius.”

After another cough, she blinked hard as if that would force her vision to work properly. Her gaze flicked past him, pupils darting about in search of the bright light her mind insisted was hovering above her. But she only saw a smeared mess of darkness, rain and moonlight.

Her vision snapped back to him again and his features began to take shape before her.

Her hands twitched against his sleeves as she stared up at him, trembling and slowly registering her surroundings. She swallowed and when she finally managed to speak her voice was quiet as she met his gray eyes.

“How do we keep ending up back here?”

His head shook slowly as a relieved, but mischievous smile began to form across his lips.

“Honestly… your guess is as good as mine, princess.” His words were laced with levity, and yet they still carried a natural concern as he spoke. “But I’m just glad I saw you. I… I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t.” The humor in his expression faded a bit, replaced by the haunting reality of what could have been if he hadn’t been standing in that window when the flash of lightning revealed the person in the lake to him.

Charlotte stared up at him for a long moment, rain stinging her eyes. But as her vision cleared the smallest amount she caught a view of him that made the storm somehow seem distant. The moonlight broke through the storm clouds in a pale spill over them that framed his face and shoulders, turning the water on his skin to silver. She held on to that sight, blinking hard, letting it pull her back into herself one breath at a time.

Only once she truly understood the moment did she speak, leading with pride that had arrived like a reflex. “...Nothing,” she said finally, trying to push herself up as if she could prove herself with the movement, only to wobble immediately when her arm refused to cooperate. Her jaw tightened yet she lifted her chin anyway, stubborn to the bone. “I had it handled.”

Despite himself… Cassius scoffed with a bit of laughter.

“If your goal was to drown, perhaps I would agree. Otherwise, you most certainly, did not have anything “handled”, love.”

Watching as she wobbled, Cas reached to offer her a little assistance, only for her own stubbornness to pull through for her in the end. He remained close and looked her over for any obvious injuries as she pulled herself together. Besides a few scrapes, she was fine.

“If you repeat that to anyone,” Charlotte said, voice hoarse but stern, “I will deny it with such conviction that even you will start to question reality.”

“No worries, Lottie… Your messy little secret is safe with me.” Cassius bantered before letting the conversation take a slightly more serious turn. “But look, you are shivering and if you stay wet out here in the cold too long things can get dangerous. Allow me to get you inside so you can warm up. My family’s cabin is only a short walk away and there’s fire, and dry clothes, and you will be safe there.”

She tensed and hesitated. There were a million and one reasons not to agree to that.

Yet she found herself nodding all the same.

Cassius sensed the trepidation and lowered himself to meet her gaze at eye level. The expression on his face was nothing but genuine, those storm-gray eyes of his carrying a kindness in them that stood true. With the curls of his soaked hair falling into his face, he looked softer to her than ever before.

“I promise, the only thing on my mind is making sure you are safe and sound. You have nothing to worry about.”

With that, the two were off and Cassius led Charlotte carefully back up the path toward his dwelling. In the dark of night it was difficult to see the structure until it was close enough to touch, and before long he was opening the door and welcoming her into the cabin where the two of them were met with the respite of the fire.

The cabin itself was not as ostentatious as one might have expected of something used by the Damiens, but it was warm and more than comfortable, and Cas welcomed such comfort after such a freezing cold plunge. He could not imagine how Charlotte was feeling about now, given that she was lighter than him and had been in the frigid waters far longer.

“Please, make yourself at home, Lottie. I think there are some clothes in the other room that had been set aside for Violet or Lily. I imagine they will suit you just fine for the night. Allow me to go grab them.”

Charlotte ended up near the fire more by stubbornness than anything, lowering herself onto a nearby chair with slow, careful movements that made her exhaustion impossible to hide. Her teeth chattered hard enough to hurt, and her hands trembled despite every attempt to steady them. Wet dark hair clung to her neck as she swallowed against the burn in her throat.

She fixed her gaze on the flames and the way they climbed over the bricks, as if staring at the fire could somehow make it more effective. Her fingers curled tight around the oilcloth-wrapped book in her lap as she shivered, lips still faintly blue in the firelight.

Cassius noticed the way she gripped the item, but his focus was elsewhere for the time being. He grabbed a fur from the back of the nearby couch and draped it over her to help with her chill. As he moved around to sit beside her next to the flames, he reached up to brush the wet hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear with one gentle motion.

“This will do for now, but getting into dry clothes would truly make a world of difference.” His eyes traveled to the soaked gown she wore, the way it clung to her and revealed sight of the flesh beneath caused his heartbeat to rise as though he had never seen the female form before. Doing his best impression of a gentleman, Cassius tore his eyes away from Charlotte’s body and brought them up to meet hers as they gazed into the fire. The woman had a way of making the debonair man he had become feel more like a nervous child without even trying, and that was far from the only effect her presence had on him.

“Give me a moment to warm my bones as well, and I can get some tea brewing for the both of us. Is there anything else you need, Lottie? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Charlotte had been about to nod as she met his gaze. Dry clothes sounded like heaven right now after all. But before she could agree to such a notion, she found herself watching those eyes of his, watching as they lingered just a little too long on her body. She didn’t speak, her heart racing in her chest in frantic bursts that had nothing to do with the cold. Her lips parted slightly before she could stop them… and before she could stop her thoughts. Her gaze held on his for a second, and then she drew the fur closer around her shoulders.

“N-nothing that needs fussing,” Charlotte managed finally. Her eyes flicked back to the fire, then returned to him with a pointed softness that was still guarded. “Just… Please don’t look at me like that,” she said quietly, pulling the fur tighter as if she wanted to hide inside it. “I’ve already suffered enough.” Those last words were barely audible.

“Apologies.” Cassius stated equally as quiet, and he meant it. Truly, he did, but he also saw the look in her eyes. He also witnessed the way her body reacted to his gaze; the way it made her feel before she had a chance to censor herself. They both felt it, and though the apology had come from his heart, his eyes did not match the tone. Something in the way she reacted only made those eyes of his hungrier.

Despite his mind’s protest, his gaze stayed locked on hers for a time, until he finally found the strength to once again force it away.

Cassius swallowed as he looked towards the quaint little kitchen, trying to fill his mind with thoughts of anything else but the images that her body’s reaction conjured in him.

“How about that tea?” He choked out, standing to move towards the kettle.

“Sounds swell.” Charlotte replied rather hastily, her eyes back on the dancing flames.

“Good.” Cassius said as he moved into the other room and toward a wardrobe. Then he yanked it open, and fumbled about until he plucked out a nightgown. Upon return, he tossed it toward her without looking at her directly. “Put that on before you freeze yourself.”

Charlotte caught it against her chest, her cheeks already warming. She slowly shifted on her palms with the intent to rise and change, then paused mid-motion.“ Ummm.. Please turn around.”

His brow lifted. “I am a gentleman.”

“Cassius.”

“Turning.” He obeyed at once, facing away with his hands lifted in surrender.

Behind him, there came the rustle of fabric that went on for perhaps longer than expected, followed by a frustrated breath. Charlotte managed the first sleeve, but when she tried to get her arm through the other one, her elbow buckled, her fingers slipping uselessly in the fabric as her exhaustion won the battle.

“...Lottie?”

“I am fine,” she lied breathlessly, and secretly mortified.

He turned just enough to look at the floor instead of her. “I’m coming over. I won’t look.”

“You had better not.”

“On what remains of my honor.”

He stepped behind her, keeping his eyes fixed over her shoulder as he took the loose fabric from her trembling hands. His fingers brushed her waist as he helped pull the gown properly into place, and the contact sent a shiver through them both. For one dangerous second, his hand lingered there, while his warm breath tickled the side of her neck.

Neither of them spoke.

Then Cassius swallowed hard and finally said, “There.” His hand fell away, though not as quickly as it should have. “Decent enough to survive tea.”

Once she was settled, Cassius finally gave himself permission to remember that he was still soaked through as well. He disappeared only long enough to drag on dry trousers and a loose shirt from the wardrobe, returning with damp curls, bare feet, and a gentle smile as made his way into the kitchen.

And for a time, there was silence as Cassius prepared the tea. He could not help but smile in frustration at himself for his own weakness. Never had he felt such lack of control, such desire for one single thing. He was a man who sought it all, who wanted everything, who did as he pleased as often as his life allowed. But here, tonight, it wasn’t everything he wanted…

Just then, the kettle sang and Cassius poured them each a cup, grabbed the cream and sugar from the table, and returned to her with warmth in hand. He passed her the cup he had prepared her, and took a long, slow sip of his own.

“So…” He said coyly. “Do I get to know why in the hells you were out there…doing whatever the fuck it was you were trying to do, or must I just use my imagination?”

“If you are hoping for a sensible explanation,” Charlotte began quietly, not quite looking at him, “I am afraid I cannot offer you one that will make you feel satisfied.”

She swallowed once, throat still raw, then continued. “I could not sleep,” she admitted carefully, “Every time I closed my eyes, it was dreadful, and I went looking for air.”

Charlotte then hesitated, frustration flickering across her face like she was angry at herself for not having a better answer. “Somewhere between my door and the lake, I stopped thinking like a person with sense,” Charlotte told him. “I do not know why I went there. I only know that once I was standing at the waterline, it felt impossible to turn back.”

Her gaze finally shifted to him, as if she was asking him not to make her say it twice. “And I am aware that sounds mad,” she added, “But it is the truth.”

“Well… In my experience, it is often the case that the truth is one form of madness or another.” He replied without condemnation. “I do not wish to lecture you, I am not here to judge you, Lottie, but all the same I must express how dangerous it was to end up in that water. It was reckless, and this is not the first time I have watched you act in such a way. If there is more to this story…” Cassius let his eyes dip to the thing wrapped in cloth that she clutched so tightly in her hands. “If there is more to that, and you need someone to listen. I am here.”

“You’re right,” Charlotte admitted quietly, and there was no attempt to sound clever about it. “It was reckless.” She chewed the inside of her cheek as she tried to decide if there was anything more she wanted to tell him, just as he had offered. Perhaps she could even go with a safer option, but the truth arrived first. “It probably doesn’t matter much… not to say I’m ungrateful for your rescue,” she added quickly, voice thinning, “it’s just… I presume I’m on borrowed time anyway.”

Her words, heavy as they were, made his eyes fall to the floor. A cocktail of thoughts and emotions passed through him, summoning words of encouragement that he wanted to offer, any form of reassurance that he could muster, but like with her… it was his truth that came out first.

“Love, we’re all on borrowed time. That doesn’t make you special.” His eyes lifted to meet hers again as he finished his words.

Charlotte’s mouth parted as if she might argue, but instead she pushed the details deeper in the dirt. “I beg your pardon,” she huffed softly, “I was assured from birth that I am the most special creation in Veirmont. My papa said so, and he was never wrong about anything in his own mind.” She then took a long sip of her tea as if that could mend her somehow. After a pause, she asked, “So why are you out here anyway?”

And there it was, the cause and effect of his long learned… and even longer practiced defense mechanisms.

He had spoken the truth, but it was the wrong piece of the truth. All his words did was push away, and he could see it as clear as anything. He sighed at her response, not with frustration towards her but with disappointment in himself. What he had not shown her, what he did know how to show at all, was just how shattered he had been the moment he realized it was her in that water. She had no idea what seeing her there that close to death had done to him. Charlotte could not know the effect her recklessness had on him… Because he had no idea how to show her.

Decades of deflection, of holding it all together despite the circumstances in front of him had prepared him to be strong, but nothing in his life had prepared him for Charlotte or his feelings for her that were beginning to consume him. This wasn’t the first time she had broken the man who had always seemed unbreakable, and never once had she even tried to. But he had been broken by the sight of her struggling for her life all the same.

Cassius ignored her question, and his expression did not soften to her humor. Instead, his eyes held the fear of a child as his gaze was locked onto her. He placed his tea down and finally let the words slip that he tried his best to hold at bay.

“Charlotte… I… You… terrify me.” He said with absolute honesty. “This recklessness… It scares me.”

Charlotte’s gaze did not leave her tea as she watched the small rings ripple across the amber surface. She tightened her grip on the cup as his words truly reached her.

The first thing she saw was her mother’s face, so clearly twisted into terror that it made her stomach turn. She watched her lips move, yet heard nothing. Somehow that made it worse. The imagery itself felt so far away that she could not tell if it had crawled up from the recesses of memory, or if she had invented it just to punish herself, but she still knew the words without needing to hear them.

You’re a monster.

Either way, she knew in her bones that Cassius was not the first person she had frightened.

But this was for a different reason. He was not frightened of her the way her mother had been, and as her brows knit and blurry fragments surfaced of a frightened young blonde, she realized he was not afraid of her the way Princess Anastasia Danrose had been either. Her mother and Anastasia had looked at her the same way her grandfather had once looked upon a young Walter in that church, like she was something that could ruin them.

But when Charlotte finally raised her gaze and met the gray eyes of the man who had plagued her dreams, she knew before she had even registered all his words that this was different. The look in his eyes was too familiar, the kind she saw late at night when she caught herself in the mirror, trying not to fall apart…

…And afraid to lose someone again.

And deep down, perhaps the exhausted girl understood exactly what that meant. But all the same, all she could muster was the same old question: “Why?”

“Because what happens if I’m not there to follow you into the next burning building, or pull you out of the freezing waves? My father tells me to stay away from you… You ask me to leave you alone… But what if I do? Where would all of this lead you?” His hands moved to brush his fingers through the wet curls that were now falling into his face. Those same hands were shaking as they returned to his side.

Charlotte did not answer him. Her lashes fluttered once as if she were trying to clear the sting from her eyes, but the wetness clung anyway. She kept staring, her mouth parted, the tremble in betraying her answer.

“Does no one else see this? Do your friends not see the negligence you have for yourself? Is no one else paying attention to whatever it is that you are carrying behind those eyes, Charlotte?” He paused just long enough to steady his breathing as it was beginning to slip out of control. “Is there no one that knows what you are dealing with? I don’t know what’s under that cloth, but the way you held onto it for dear life tells me that it’s something you were willing to die for. What is it, Charlotte? What has you so willing to throw away your own life?” A quivering hand rose once more and found its rest upon her cheek.

Her lashes trembled as she shut her eyes and leaned into his hand, focusing on the heat for a moment, but even the press of his skin could not stop the subtle movement of his fingers against her cheek. It was not her shaking she felt. It was his.

“I…” Her lips pressed together as her expression threatened to fall apart, as if she were going to fall into his grasp and cry. Maybe she even wanted to. But she didn’t. She opened her eyes instead, and after a hard swallow, she told him simply, “I’m a witchblood.”

She dug her fingers into her knees. She pulled herself backward a touch, her cheek leaving the warmth of his skin. “And they know I am,” Charlotte added, her voice quieter now. She didn’t bother elaborating who; surely Cassius was well aware of the kingdom’s latest antics.

Her gaze then drifted away, afraid he would look at her with fear in that other way. “And if they don’t claim my life first, then the Black Rose will,” she continued, jaw setting as she forced the words through. “Even Alexander Deacon himself didn’t sugarcoat their current feelings about me.” She hadn’t been afraid of losing her life, not since the night of the tavern, but saying it out loud made holding herself together all the more difficult.

Charlotte nodded once as she repeated, “Borrowed time, Cassius… It’s the only time I have to make sure those I care about are safe.” Her fingers trailed over the wrapped book at her side, not offering it, only anchoring herself to the fact it was still there. “Perhaps I am reckless,” she finished, and her eyes flicked back to him, stubborn to the bone even now. “But forgive me if I would rather die trying.”

A few seconds passed between them as Cassius simply listened to her words, eyes darting from place to place as he processed the revelations and truths she laid bare before him. Just when the seconds began to feel like eternity, he responded.

“Is that all?” Cas asked with a forced semblance of humor; an offer of levity to lighten the weight he knew she must be feeling. The thumb that caressed her face stroked her cheek gently as he continued. “Good thing I already planned to kill Alexander Deacon and burn the Black Rose to the ground.” He declared simply but full of conviction.

“Cassius.” The pitched protest that left her lips had been a breath away from shrill.

“And once that problem is solved, we find a way to deal with the Hunters. Oh, and since we’re sharing… The Iron Wolves will be coming for me as well. They…well, let’s just say they aren’t pleased with the way I exited the organization. And of course, there’s my old pal Kira. I’m not sure if it’s connected, but she’s definitely looking for some kind of vengeance against yours truly.”

Finally, his eyes softened once more as he leaned closer and lowered his voice to a quiet hum. “There… You’ve shown me yours, and I’ve shown you mine in return. We’re complicit, guilty by association even. That means there’s no reason you shouldn’t let me help you. That’s all I ask of you, Charlotte… You don’t have to like me, you don’t even have to trust me, but please… don’t force me to watch you go through this alone.”

“Kira–The woman from the auction–.” Charlotte blinked rapidly as the information overwhelmed her, stacking much too fast to sort through quickly. Her teeth caught her lower lip as if that might steady her, and her eyes lingered on his, searching him as if she could find more context somewhere.

Slowly, her gaze softened, and her brows lifted. “You want… to help me?” She asked hesitantly, the surprise vivid in her tone. “... Have you lost your mind?” The voice that left Charlotte’s lips was small, despite the fact that the question had slipped out without her permission.

“I’ve lost a lot more than my mind, princess…” Cassius admitted with a broken smile. “But yes, I want to help you. And why not? Someone has to.”

Her hand instinctively lifted to settle upon the back of his, the very one that was laid upon her own cheek. Something about that smile had pulled at her heartstrings before she could process why she had even touched him… And something about it had also made her feel terrified to ask what he had meant. So instead, she asked a different question. “ … But then why did you take me to a club affiliated with the Black Rose? …Did you know?”

His eyes told the entire story, one piece at a time. First the confusion, then the shame, finally… Regret.

“No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Charlotte. The man who runs that club, his name is Luca… He and I have history. I thought I could trust him, and I was wrong. I should have known better, I should never have taken you there.” His eyes actually fell away from hers in contrition. “I just wanted that night to be special. I wanted it to be perfect, for you.”

“Oh…Very well.” She said softly, her shoulders slumping as she grew quiet. Her eyes averted his as a smile pulled at the corners of her lips. “... I’m sorry too… That I scratched you… I was hallucinating, and I saw, well, someone else. ”

“No… You don’t need to apologize for that. I, um, I knew it wasn’t really you. I didn’t blame you, I just… I didn’t understand why it hurt me the way it did. Not the wounds, I’ve had worse many times over, but something about it hurt in a way that I wasn’t prepared for. And let’s be honest, Lottie… I probably deserved it all things considered.”

“No, you did not.” Her reply came quickly and with certainty.

Though his instincts fought for him to break his eyes away from her gaze, his heart would not let them. Shame coursed through his entire being as he felt the full weight of all the decisions that haunted him. It was too much, all at once, for anyone to truly bear. Yet he endured. He always, somehow, endured.

“How I wish that were true.” Cassius confessed.

However, he did not give time to linger on his words. Instead, he kept the conversation moving forward.

“But enough about me, love. You still haven’t answered my question.” Cas reminded, only now letting his eyes slip from her gaze so that they can land upon the wrapped item she coveted. “Feel free to tell me to go fuck myself if you aren’t going to tell me what that is, but I am more than a little curious and though I do have a guess… I’d rather hear it from you.”

Her gaze softened as she stared at him, her hand hovering by his face still. Then, she shifted closer until her shoulder brushed his. It was not flirtation so much as instinct in the way she couldn’t help but be tender toward something wounded. She hesitantly but slowly rested her head on his arm as if the contact alone would communicate a quiet refusal to let him fight alone.

Then Charlotte drew in a breath before finally speaking, “I think it’s a magic book.” she admitted. “ I… It’s not like I departed my home in the middle of the night to hunt for it... “ Her eyes drifted once again to the book, and this time she picked it up and placed it on her lap, her palms flattening the cloth over the top. “More so, it felt as if resisting was impossible, “ she continued, voice almost apologetic, “I followed a voice I heard calling my name across the lake.”

After a pause, she added softly, “...I don’t think I want to open it yet.”

Cassius, despite how much that all was to take in, did not hesitate to respond.

“Magic books…Voices in your head leading you to strange places… Lottie, this is not a safe path you tread.” His hand, which had rested upon her cheek, moved to cradle her back as she rested her head against him. He paused just long enough for his next words to carry the weight intended for them. “If you ask me, which you haven’t, but still… I think you should burn it. Never open it, destroy it, leave the ashes behind, and walk away from this while you’re still standing on the ledge instead of taking the plunge and praying for a soft landing.” Slowly, his hand rose to stroke the back of her hair as he continued. “Fucking with magic, getting wrapped up in powers that were not meant to be comprehended… It never ends well. I promise you.”

Her shoulders slumped again; there was no way to sugar coat it, and she was too tired to pretend there was. So she told him the honest truth. “... I am well aware of how it may end for me.” And though such a notion frightened her, nothing was scarier than the other option, standing by and doing nothing while everyone she loved got dragged under. Cassius was a strong, skilled mercenary; a master of his craft. Meanwhile, no one expected Charlotte Vikena to hold her own. Even she didn’t.

A dozen rebuttals came to mind as Cassius lifted her chin to look at her, as did the logic and experience of a man who had lived a life of war. Even to one who had spent his years gallivanting, chasing glory and pleasures across the world, the price she spoke of was simply too high. There were so many options in front of them that did not require her to ever turn a single page of that book. He could train her in his art of protection. She, as one of the wealthiest women in the known world, could hire an army to fight her battles for her. Cassius had connections, ways of getting her and her family out of danger, but so much of that was made null and void by what was so clearly laid behind her eyes: Charlotte Vikena would do whatever needed to be done to protect the ones she loved, no matter the cost. What he saw in her eyes was a truth worth a thousand words; indisputable and unyielding despite how he wished it were not true.

To Charlotte, her own life was ancillary to the others she deemed worthy of her protection. He could tell she did not see the worth in herself, nor would she be able to put her own bleeding heart down long enough to run from this. And though he respected the hell out of her convictions… he feared them even more. But, instead of arguing… Instead of pushing his logic down her throat to futilely prove that there must be another way, all Cassius found himself capable of doing in that moment was the closest thing to begging he had perhaps ever done in his entire life.

“I don’t think you understand…” The words came out somber, with a shakiness that this time had nothing to do with the cold. “If all of this leads to that end… Do you not realize what it would do to those you are trying to protect? To those you love and that love you back. Do you not see how it would destroy them…how it would… destroy me?” The last words from his mouth were not part of his plan, but they may have also been the truest words Cassius had ever spoken.

His words repeated in Charlotte’s head only moments after he said them… over and over.

_{...how it would… destroy me…}

Her heart raced harder and harder the more she heard it. She stared at him for a long time, wondering if she had misheard him… But she was certain she had not.

Charlotte’s fingers tightened around her teacup. She watched the little rings skitter across the amber surface faster and faster with the tremor in her hand. So the first thing she did was set down the teacup on the side table as carefully as she could, and she returned to his position close to him, laying her head back the way she had.

“Cassius…” She heard herself say. It came out softer than she had initially intended and she swallowed. “I–” She swallowed hard, her leg bouncing with the motion of her foot. “I would never want to hurt anyone, least of all you… Truly, I’d never.” Those words were as sincere as could be. The very idea of hurting him was making her drown in anticipatory guilt. Her lashes fluttered as she tried to keep herself steady. “I simply… I never thought anyone would miss me in a way that mattered.”

Cassius’s hand flexed at her back, his eyes fixed on the fire as she spoke, but Charlotte felt what her words did to him in the change of the air between them.

The admission had made her eyes sting with tears. Charlotte had meant to stop there, but the dam had broken. “...Every time I do nothing, something keeps happening anyway,” she said, voice thinning quickly with every word.

“My friends get threatened, targeted, attacked—” Her jaw tightened. “I’ve thought of hiring people, but it feels like trying to fight something you cannot even point to. I don’t know where they are. I don’t know where to send anyone. I don’t even know if I’d be sending men to their deaths for the sake of my own panic.” Her voice grew shakier as she spoke. “Even Wulfric himself knows next to nothing. We’re trying to pull threads through audits and records because that is all we have.” Her eyes flicked back to him, glossy with the effort of not falling apart, but that look was enough to make him feel as though he might crumble then and there. “I have felt so completely helpless, Cassius…”

She then rose from her seat, pacing with her own anxious energy, “When a woman threw a knife at Lorenzo’s head, I did nothing,” she blurted, the words tumbling out as if they had been trapped behind her teeth. “When he disappears every night to Primitus knows where, I do nothing. When Kazumin found his garden desecrated with dolls of everyone he loves—guess what? I did nothing.” The hot tears started then, and she felt humiliated as they streamed down her cheeks, but there was no stopping them.

“When Lord Edwards was burned with a fire poker over and over, and I couldn’t do a damned thing but watch, I did nothing again.” Her voice cracked, and she turned her face away as if that could hide it. “Even when my head was slammed into a table, when a man tried to choke me, when Alexander Deacon—” Her breath caught on his name, anger and fear written all over her face. Meanwhile the mere mention of Alexander Deacon’s name had made Cassius’s body tense. But it wasn't until she finished the statement that his gaze had suddenly darkened. “—when he nearly made me kiss him with some sick sort of mind magic, I still did nothing to protect even myself.”

The hysterics finally faltered into a tone of pure exhaustion. “So I do what I can with what I have, and what I have is… not enough.” It was at that moment she found the nerve to look at him. “I have felt hopeless since I saw my mother’s body on the grass,” she confessed sincerely. “And if I am honest… I think I felt it long before that.” Her arms fell to her sides; she wanted to sit back at his side and feel the stroke of his fingers in her hair again, yet she felt nervous about what he thought of her after the insane rambling session she had just put him through. “ I’m… I’m sorry… I know this is all…” She embedded her fingers in her hair as her face practically crashed into her hands. “I will try not to use the book unless I need to.” She finally mumbled into her palms.

“Lottie…” Her name left his lips in a voice so hoarse it sounded wrecked on his tongue.

Cassius could not fix all her problems with a blade. There was no throat in front of him to cut, no door to break down, no single enemy he could drag into the light and make answer for what had been done to her. It was not that kind of battle, nor that type of war she was fighting.

… But every word she confessed was important. The details, each and every one, were important. Details…specifics…they could dig through it all later. What mattered most in that moment, what was more important than anything else, was the raw, vulnerable, terrified girl that above all else needed help. As Charlotte buried her head in her hands, he finally broke.

He rose full of purpose and crossed the space between them, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her into him with desperation as he held her with every ounce of protective care that coursed through his veins. He held her as though if he did not she would fall apart piece by piece; his arms… his NEED for her to be okay acting as the threads that may stitch her together once more and hold her steady.

“I’m sorry…” Was all he could manage at first. “I’m so sorry, Lottie. I won’t let anything like that happen again. I’ll help you... I’ll do anything.” He kissed the top of her head with trembling lips, glad that she had declared not to open the book.

Charlotte buried her face in his chest and wrapped her arms around him just as tightly, as if holding him harder could make the moment last. No words came to mind, so she focused on the thudding of his heart. The room around them shifted in her mind’s eye, and for a moment they were back in the Damien ballroom, his arms around her the very same way.

Despite everything she had accused him of the other night, the only memories she could attribute to Cassius were the ones where he made her feel safe. They hadn’t known each other long in the grand scheme of things, but it might as well have been forever—he broke down her walls with such ease that she could not reach any other conclusion.

Maybe Calbert had been the one trying to separate them, but in the end, she knew it was the way Cassius made her feel that truly kept her running from him… and inevitably, it was also what kept her coming back here, back into his arms.

And even if Charlotte knew this wasn’t sensible, even if he cared about her so much that her death would destroy him, even if this night was all they could have—tonight she couldn’t—wouldn’t—bring herself to leave his arms.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Grand Ballroom
Time: Evening
Interactions: Count Calbert Damien
Mentions: Lady Charlotte Vikena @princess
Outfit: Bro Be Looking SO DAMN GOOD oh maw gawd

---

The herald’s voice carried cleanly across the ballroom, rising above the music just enough to bend the attention of the room toward the entrance, and one by one the Damiens were announced.

For a brief moment, it felt as though the whole of the grand hall turned to look at them at once. The Damiens had arrived with all the pomp and circumstance you would expect from a family of their stature, and at the center of that spectacle, Cassius found himself walking with a confidence that came far too easily for a man who still, in his quieter moments, felt like an intruder in this world.

He often wondered if maybe that was the cruel little joke of it all. He did not belong here. Not really. Not in silk-draped halls under painted ceilings, not beneath chandeliers and royal eyes, not among men who wielded reputation like weapons of war and women taught from birth how to smile without ever showing their teeth. He had spent too much of his life in mud and blood and smoke to mistake himself for one of them. Yet when the room looked, he knew exactly how to carry it.

Cassius moved at his father’s side like he had been born to this all along, broad-shouldered and proud. Black wrapped him from throat to boot in sharp, tailored lines that only made the breadth of his shoulders and the hard-earned strength in his frame more striking, while silver embroidery climbed across his chest and sleeves in elegant, aristocratic patterns that caught the light whenever he moved.

A dark cloak fell from his shoulders in heavy folds, trimmed in pale fur that softened the ensemble. Gold fastenings gleamed at his shoulders and belt, a chain draped at his hip, and black gloves covered his hands with the same handsome refinement as the rest of him. The coat sat close through the torso, the fine fabric unable to hide the fact that there was a soldier’s body beneath it rather than a noble’s softness. And to top it all off… the scar over his eye, that storm-dark hair streaked in silver, and the sharp smile of a rogue that he wore so damn well only accentuated the presence he effortlessly carried with him.

The center of attention had always suited him, for better or for worse. Whether on a battlefield or in a tavern… there was something in him that knew how to draw the eye and keep it, how to wear arrogance just loosely enough to be irritatingly charming. Still, by the time the family had advanced far enough into the ballroom to satisfy decorum and appearances alike, he found himself wanting one thing more than any dance, any conversation, any manufactured pleasantry under this painted night sky that adorned the ceiling.

A well-earned, delicious, stiff drink. After the execution earlier and all the bullshit surely to come. He knew it was what he needed most.

With a quiet word excusing himself from the orbit of his family, Cassius drifted toward the refreshments, already reaching for a glass before he had fully stopped. The crystal caught the light as he lifted it, amber liquid within gleaming rich and warm, and he took the first sip like a man greeting an old friend. Gods was it good.

His shoulders eased by a fraction as the burn settled in his chest, and for a moment he simply stood there with one hand curled around the glass, letting the music swell around him while the ballroom spun on in all its glittering excess. Then, without needing to look, he felt the presence at his side.

“You do wear it well.” His father offered with a sly grin.

Cassius glanced sideways, watching his father arrive beside him as the man prepared himself a drink of his own; his long, luscious, and always voluminous hair falling to one shoulder like an artist's rendition of what a god might look like walking among mere mortals. Every inch the Count of Montauppe, composed and distinguished in a way that made half the men in the room look like boys playing dress-up, there was no visible strain in him, no crack in the polished exterior, only that measured calm of his and the sort of presence that never needed to demand attention because it had long ago grown accustomed to receiving it. They were not alike in every way, but yet they were unmistakably father and son. Both in appearance and in mystique.

“The drink?” Cassius bantered, swirling the liquor in his glass before taking another sip. “I’ll agree with you there, father.”

A quiet huff of amusement left Calbert through his nose as the man continued.

“Not the drink.” His father’s gaze drifted over the ballroom before returning to him. “All of this.”

Cassius let the words sit between them for a moment. Around them, servants glided by with trays of delicacies and nobility continued their little ritual of being seen seeing one another, but here, at the edge of the drinks table, the moment narrowed down into something smaller that somehow felt like the two of them were all alone.

“You make it sound as though I’ve passed some test.”

“Would you rather I say you have exceeded expectation?”

That earned the faintest twitch of a grin from Cassius despite himself. He turned his glass in his hand and shook his head once.

“I suppose I should be flattered you had expectations at all.”

Calbert regarded him for a beat, the sort of look only fathers could give when they were deciding how much truth the moment could bear.

“Cassius.” His voice softened, not weak or uncertain, merely stripped of some of its usual performance. “You are my son. Of course I had expectations. The pleasant surprise has been in how often you surpass them.”

There it was. That realness…that thing that made all of this more complicated. It would have been easier, perhaps, if Calbert had been cold from the beginning, if he had treated Cassius like a stain on his bloodline, an inconvenience, a secret returned to embarrass him. Cassius had known men like that, had prepared for one… But the full package of what he got in Calbert was something that he had never been prepared to face.

Instead of coldness, Calbert had opened the door with a father’s love.

Imperfect, and not without complication, but he had met him with dignity all the same, and there were nights Cassius hated how much that meant to him. He stared out over the ballroom rather than at his father. “You’ve been better to me than most men would have been.”

“Most men are not me.”

The answer came so smoothly, so simply, that Cassius almost laughed. It was vain, of course. Completely self-assured. It was the exact kind of thing he would have said in such a moment, but yet still… it was somehow entirely Calbert of him.

But most of all, it was not untrue.

“No,” Cassius murmured. “They are not.”

A silence settled then, though it was not empty. Calbert let it breathe, which Cassius noticed. The Count never wasted silence. He used it, shaped it, let a man fill it with his own thoughts until the conversation had already advanced without either of them saying a word. Cassius had learned that much about him quickly. Thankfully he had always been a fast learner in regards to people.

When Calbert finally spoke again, his tone remained calm, though the undercurrent had changed.

“I heard you were seen with her again.” The Count addressed.

Cassius closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow exhale, his jaw already tightening before he could help it. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve been seen with countless “hers”…in quite a number of compromising situations in my life.” Cas quipped.

“Charlotte Vikena.”

The name hit him somewhere low and irritated, somewhere already bruised from too many thoughts that Cassius had no interest in examining tonight. He tipped the rest of the liquor back and set the empty glass aside before reaching for another with a restraint that felt noble enough to deserve applause.

“You do have a remarkable talent for knowing my every move.”

“And you,” Calbert replied, “have a remarkable talent for finding yourself near that girl each time I begin to believe the matter settled.”

Cassius took a slower drink from the new glass, more to buy himself a second than because he needed it.

“There is nothing to settle.”

Calbert’s expression did not sharpen, but something in his gaze did. “You continue to insist that, yes.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Is it?”

Cassius turned then, meeting his father fully at last. “What exactly is it you want from me here, Father?” he asked, the word still strange enough in his mouth that it carried a weight of its own. “An oath? A confession? Or would you simply prefer I start avoiding half of Sorian to ensure I have not been in the presence of any man or woman who could have possibly breathed the same air as Lady Vikena?”

For another man, that might have been insolence enough to sour the whole exchange. For Calbert, it only drew a small, almost rueful breath.

“I want,” he said carefully, “for the son I have only just been gifted to understand that caution is not the same thing as cruelty, and concern is not the same thing as control, no matter how often you may choose to interpret it that way.”

Cassius’s eyes narrowed slightly. There it was too, the other half of him, the one that could make affection sound so perilously close to strategy. The business man. The one that had dealings with the Black Rose. The one that smiled at noble tables and shook hands in the shadows with scum like Alexander Deacon.

“And I want,” Cassius returned, voice quieter now, “for the father I’ve only just met to understand that some of us spent enough of our lives being ordered about by men with too much power and too little conscience that we no longer bow to anyone whose concern feels all too similar to a game of chess.”

The music swelled somewhere behind them as a longer pause stretched between the two men this time. Laughter rang out from another cluster of nobles. Somewhere farther off, crystal chimed against crystal. Calbert did not flinch at the bluntness of his son’s words. If anything, his eyes softened.

“You think I do not hear the accusation tucked inside that.”

Cassius looked away first, which annoyed him immediately. “You only hear what you want.”

His father turned his own glass slowly between elegant fingers, studying the liquor as though it contained something worth examination. When he spoke again, the arrogance was gone from him, or at least banked low enough to be almost invisible.

“You are not wrong to question such things.” He glanced at Cassius then. “Nor are you wrong to resent the fact that you arrived in my life already old enough to need to.”

That landed harder than Cassius wanted it to. Because in some ways, that was the shape of it, wasn’t it. Not boy and father. Not really. They had skipped the easy years, the years when trust might have been built. They had met instead as men, both fully made in their own ways, both already carrying too much of the world on their shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Cassius admitted before he could stop himself, his voice low enough that it almost disappeared beneath the music. “With any of it. This family… this name…you.”

Calbert was quiet a long moment, and when he answered, there was something unexpectedly bare in it.

“Neither do I, entirely.”

That made Cassius look at him again. Calbert Damien, Count of Montauppe, smooth-tongued master of rooms, admitting uncertainty in the middle of a grand ballroom when otherwise he glowed like a dream.

“But I know I would rather try and fail than not try at all.” His mouth curved faintly, though there was no mockery in it. “And I know that whatever suspicion you may carry toward me, whatever grievances may yet bloom between us, none of that changes what you are.”

His gaze held steady on Cassius.

“My son.”

It was possessive, and paternal. It was, in its own way, deeply sincere. And it was so very Calbert that Cassius once again almost did laugh then, only the sound died before it reached his mouth.

For a moment, neither of them said anything at all. Then Calbert lifted his glass for a toast between them and them alone. His voice, when it came, was smooth again, but not empty of feeling.

“Tonight and forevermore, as family.”

Cassius looked at the raised glass, then at his father’s face, and found there the same impossible feelings he had been grappling with since stepping into this man’s orbit. Affection, mistrust, the understanding of the darkness of the man before him and wondering where its depths end. And somewhere, deep down with Cassius… the yearning to be understood equally by this man. By his father.

His jaw clenched.

Still, he lifted his own glass and touched it gently to Calbert’s. He did not say anything in return, but the gesture was enough as the crystal chimed softly between them, delicate as anything in that ballroom, and Cassius drank with all the mixed emotions in the world sitting bitter in his chest and burning at the back of his throat harsher than any liquor ever could.

And just like that, Calbert parted from his son and re-entered the mob of noble faces surrounding them. It was where the man belonged. As his father disappeared into the crowd, Cassius turned back to face the table once more. All at once, all the while, he somehow felt closer to the man than he ever had… and yet even though his face did not show it, even surrounded by dozens of people having the time of their lives, he felt more alone than ever before.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening of Ignis 10
Location: Danrose Castle
Mentions: Marina @princess, Lucian @HylianRose

“But first and foremost, I am here for Lucy, so I am rather interested in making certain the women of this court have not pulled every last shining red lock from his head.”

Ambrose’s gaze followed the line of Marina’s fan as she surveyed the ballroom. There was no missing the prince once one knew where to look. Lucian stood across the room in a knot of nobles and candlelight, all polished poise and irritatingly princely composure, his auburn hair made him stand out like a sore thumb.

His jaw set almost imperceptibly as his eyes settled on Lucian. Whoever the prince had been speaking to moments ago was no longer holding his attention, carried off instead by the natural ebb and flow of the ballroom, leaving him standing momentarily alone between conversations. How convenient.

The tension that always bubbled between the Knight and the Prince he was sworn to protect was something that Ambrose’s face struggled to hide. This moment was no exception. The man’s vigilant expression shifted into more of a scowl as he realized that soon the two would be forced to interact. Still, Marina had made her target known, and above any personal issues he may have with the Prince… His honor, and duty came first. The woman simply wished to see her brother, and that, at least, Ambrose understood without difficulty.

“There he is.” His voice dropped low for her ears alone, dry as old parchment. “And thankfully for you, your brother appears to be mostly in one piece.” His gaze shifted back to the princess as he spoke, and he allowed the scowl to soften into a look of sarcasm that she would surely recognize. “This way, princess…” He said as he moved to part the crowd and make way so a sister could be reunited with her brother after a long, trying day.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

GM Post: Onward to Princes & Thrones

---

The evening turns to night, and the night drags on as tankards get emptied, then filled back up repeatedly. Conversation comes and goes. Sometimes you’re part of it, sometimes you’re just nearby, sharing space. It’s different now…not comfortable exactly, but not quite as distant either. You’re not strangers anymore, at least not quite.

There are small moments between you that stick. A laugh that goes on a beat longer than expected. Someone holding eye contact, then not looking away right away. Silences that don’t need filling. Whatever this is, this group dynamic, it’s starting to take shape.

But like all things, eventually the night gives out. Rooms get claimed and doors shut behind you as you find your way to rest after such a strange fucking day. But of course, the tavern keeps going without you.

But even among the group, not everyone turns in. Bastion settles in the hallway outside Phia’s door, back against the worn wood, as still as if he’s part of the building itself. And as the rest of you sleep, he doesn’t move from that spot…he just stays right there, keeping watch over you all.

Morning arrives whether anyone’s ready for it or not. Downstairs, the air is thick with stale ale and salt. The crowd’s thinner now, with people recovering more than living. It’s not empty, this place is NEVER empty, but the energy’s different.

And they are already there. All three of them.

Beckett stands in the middle, relaxed but alert while he sweettalks the barmaid that came in as Grelda’s relief. Rory’s beside him, restless, one hand near her blade and the other on a nice thick piece of bread as she takes a frustrated bite. And Gnarly… Well, Gnarly is staring into a steaming cup of black coffee like it’s the depths of the deepest, darkest parts of the very sea itself. All the lights are on, but no one is home as that massive hunk of a handsome Orc is somewhere else entirely in his mind’s eye.

Beckett notices you coming and gives a faint, knowing smile. “Well,” he says, easy and controlled. “There you are… The Prince is expecting you.”

And without delay, they get straight to it.

You’re led out into Port Verge as the three begin escorting you once again. The streets here don’t make much sense…too narrow in some places, opening up without warning in others. Buildings lean into each other, patched together from whatever was available: driftwood, scavenged stone, pieces that look stolen more than found. The air carries salt, smoke, and something metallic underneath it all. And the people notice you, just like they day before. Maybe there are a few less stares overall, but not a one of you are looked at like you belong there. If anything, there is an odd expectation in most of the onlookers' eyes…

As though they all know something you don’t.

Then you see it.

Seadragon Keep. In all of its ramshackle, but somehow still ominous glory. It looks like something that refused to collapse and then got rebuilt by people who didn’t care how it looked, only that it held. Old stone reinforced with ship hulls, jagged planks hammered into place, towers lashed together with rope and iron. Flags whip in the wind…mismatched, worn, but unapologetically present. Cannons are positioned wherever they fit. Oh, and of course there’s the occasional skull or other odd decorations set into gaps between stones or wherever the pirates preferred their morose little messages of threat.

Guards line the entrance. Real guards, armed to the teeth and with looks that could kill on their own. As you approach, their focus shifts to you, but as they see the trio accompanying you, they let you pass. The gates open slowly, the sound deep and heavy, like the place itself is waking up.

Inside, it’s no cleaner, no more refined…just bigger. The structure changes as you move through it. Stone turns to wood, wood to iron, pieces of ships worked into walls and ceilings wherever they were needed. Nothing matches, but everything holds. People move with purpose. Some glance your way, but most inside don’t seem to care at all. Either way, they know you’re here. You’re led upward, deeper in, until two massive, intricate but makeshift doors open.

Before you lies the throne room.

The space is wide, built from the original bones of the fortress and reinforced over time with thick beams and the massive rib bones of some kind of giant creature. Light cuts in through high, broken, stained-glass windows, falling in sharp angles across the room in colorful, kaleidoscopic patterns.

At the far end sits the throne. Pieces of wreckage, iron, carved stone, all forced together into something solid and intentional. It’s rough, jagged, and completely unmistakable.

And seated upon it is not the aged, burly prince of pirates that perhaps you were expecting. Instead, a figure much younger, at least in appearance, looms atop the throne. His skin holds a deep, ocean-blue hue, not flat but shifting subtly in the fractured light, like sunlight filtering through restless water. It catches the colors spilling in from the shattered stained-glass above… reds, golds, greens… and they ripple faintly across him, alive in a way that makes it hard to tell where the light ends and he begins.

His hair falls in dark dreadlocks, some bound loosely with bits of cord and tarnished metal, others left to fall free around his face and shoulders. And then there are the scars. They do not ruin his face, instead they define it...giving his young appearance more of an edge than one would expect. Thin lines and deeper cuts, old and earned, carved across flesh. One catches the light just right when he shifts… a pale streak against blue skin, sharp enough to draw the eye.

A long, weather-worn coat hangs from his shoulders, rich in color but frayed at the edges, embroidered in gold that has seen salt, blood, and too many storms. Beneath it, layered fabrics of deep reds and off-whites, open at the chest just enough to reveal cords of muscle and a few more scars that disappear beneath cloth and story alike. Jewelry rests at his throat and wrists… not gaudy, but deliberate. Each piece chosen. Each piece kept.

Nothing about him is accidental.

One hand rests lazily against the arm of the throne, fingers tapping once… twice… slow and thoughtful. The other grips the hilt of a blade planted casually beside him, as if it has always belonged there… as if it’s part of the throne itself.

He leans forward, taking in the sight of you all as his eyes move across the group. Beckett, Rory, and Gnarly back out of the room and close the doors behind them. You realize you are entirely alone with this Prince in a room that feels far too vast and empty with so few souls inside.

Finally, he speaks.

“I am not sure what misfortune led to your arrival on my island.”

He begins, his voice is not deep but it is smooth, and oddly it holds some kind of light resonance that is reminiscent of the sound of waves crashing against shore.

“But know this now and accept it as truth. While you are here in the domain of Prince Ravic Dane, you stand as property of the Seadragons. For I am him, and everything around you belongs to me. If you wish to live, I suggest you make the choice to find peace with such a fact.”

The young Prince continues, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands come together underneath his chin.

“Let’s keep it simple and begin with introductions. I wish for each of you to stand before me and tell me who you think you are.”

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

_{Location — His truck / The bad place Interacting With — N/A}

────────────────────────────

The hum of the ’88 Ford’s engine purred to life with a bit of a stutter. The truck wasn’t as vital as it once was, but Boone did what he could to keep it going. He much preferred his bike, but sometimes an extra seat, like the one Banjo currently occupied, was required.

Banjo shifted beside him, nails clicking softly against the worn floorboard before settling in on the seat. His tail thumped lazily against the leather, excited for the opportunity to go along for the ride.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they pulled out, and Banjo wasted no time shoving his head out the window, ears flattening back as the wind rushed past. His tongue lolled out, tail wagging even faster. They barely made it past the bend when his phone buzzed.

Boone’s brow furrowed with curiosity as he reached for it, glancing down at the screen. The glow lit his face faintly, washing him in pale blue as he looked at the notification. It was a message…from Ms. Stella, which was odd because she historically struggled with using her phone to do anything other than make calls. What was even stranger was the contents of the message. It was just an address followed by one word: Help.

Boone’s hand tightened around the phone as something cold settled low in his gut. He looked at it again like maybe it would change, like maybe there’d be more to it the second time, but there wasn’t, and it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

Banjo huffed happily into the wind, oblivious to the dread that began to grow in his human’s chest, and Boone let out a slow breath through his nose as his thumb hovered for a moment over the phone. He thought about the bar, about the power being out… about minding his own business for once. But he had never been particularly good at that, and if something really was wrong with Ms. Stella and she needed his help, he’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t try.

So, he turned the wheel.

The truck lurched slightly as he accelerated, the sudden motion pulling them in the opposite direction. Boone shook his head faintly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he settled back into the drive.

The road stretched longer than it should have. By the time the house came into view, the sky had dimmed into that heavy gray that came with the outage, and the place itself sat in complete stillness. No lights or movement, just quiet.

Boone slowed as he approached, eyes scanning the house and the yard as he pulled to a stop. It looked normal enough at first glance. A regular place on a regular street, though maybe abandoned for some time. Across the way, kids played like nothing was wrong, laughter carrying faintly through the air as a ball bounced against pavement.

He killed the engine.

Banjo turned toward him, head tilting with that same puzzled curiosity, like he could sense something had shifted but didn’t understand what. Boone reached over, scratching behind his ears for a moment. The gesture was just as much about comforting himself as it was for the dog.

“Stay,” he said softly. Banjo’s tail wagged, but he did what he was told. Boone leaned back in, turning the AC up just a touch before rolling the windows up enough to keep the dog from jumping out. Then he stepped out, the truck door creaking faintly as he pushed it open.

He paused for a moment as a thought came into his mind. Turning back to the truck, he leaned in and opened the glove box. His hand wrapped around the grip of the pistol tucked inside, the familiar weight settling into his palm as his thumb brushed along the edge. For a moment, he just stood there, considering it. Then his eyes flicked across the street to those kids playing in the yard.

Boone held onto the gun for another second before letting it go, the decision settling quietly as he closed the glove box with a soft click. All he could think about was something going wrong and one of those innocent kids paying the price, something he wasn’t willing to manifest.

The walk up to the front door felt louder than it should have, gravel shifting beneath his boots and the old porch creaking faintly under his weight. A faded sign hung near the door, its edges worn and peeling from time.

It read: Knock around back.

Boone frowned slightly but reached for the handle anyway, but of course it was locked.

He sighed again, tension settling into his shoulders as he glanced back toward the truck. Banjo was watching him, head tilted, ears perked as if waiting for some kind of cue.

Boone gave a small shake of his head.

“Yeah… I know, buddy.” He whispered. “This is a terrible idea.”

Then he turned and made his way around the side of the house, his pace slowing with each step as that feeling in his gut grew heavier. The backyard came into view, and with it the back door… which, of course, was eerily cracked open and dark as black on the inside.

Boone stopped about fifteen feet away, his posture tightening slightly as he took it in.

“Ms. Stella?” he called out, his voice carrying just enough to fill the space.

Nothing answered him. He swallowed, pulling his phone out again and checking the message, confirming what he already knew. The address was right. He hadn’t made some kind of mistake or pulled up to the wrong place. This was it. He considered his options for a few seconds that felt like minutes, but soon, his thumb hit the call button.

He raised the phone to his ear, listening as it rang… and then his chest tightened when he realized the sound wasn’t just in his ear. The phone was ringing inside the house. He hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Ms. Stella?”

He called again, louder now, concern threading into his voice.

Still, there was no response.

The hesitation didn’t disappear, but it shifted, buried beneath a growing urgency. He stepped forward out of the instinctive need to move, pushed the door all the way open as he reached it, and crossed the threshold.

And the fuckers hit him before he had a chance to react.

Hands came from both sides, slamming into him with practiced force as his arms were wrenched back and his balance thrown forward. Boone fought immediately, twisting and driving his shoulder, trying to break free on instinct alone, but the grip on him was tight and controlled.

A fist cracked across his face, snapping his head to the side as pain flared sharp through his nose. Another followed, catching him in the eye and flashing white across his vision. The third strike drove into his stomach, folding him in on himself as the air left his lungs in a broken, strangled gasp. For a moment, everything tilted. Darkness edged in at the corners of his vision, threatening to pull him under, but he forced it back, refusing to give them that much. His breathing came in ragged, shallow pulls as he struggled to stay upright, held in place by the man on either side of him.

He lifted his head slowly, blinking through blood and blurry vision, and when his eyes focused enough to make out the figure in front of him, recognition hit.

The man smiled.

“Hi there, Booney boy…”

Boone swallowed, his voice rough and thin when it finally came.

“Where is she… what did you do with her…”

The man chuckled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small flip phone and holding it up between them. “Oh, the old bitch is at home with her husband. She’s fine,” he said casually. “Bet she’s looking for this right about now.” He laughed, the sound sharp and mocking as Boone’s gaze fixed on the phone. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Boone.”

The man stepped forward, grabbing Boone’s face hard, fingers digging into his jaw as he forced him to look up.

“You think just ‘cause you’re one of the dogs that you can take our business?”

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering just enough to carry something more dangerous in its tone “Did you think Pope wasn’t gonna find out you were dealing in his town?”

Boone struggled slightly against the grip, but he said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say. The knee came fast, driving into his stomach and knocking what little breath he’d managed to recover right back out of him. His body folded, and before he could recover, the man yanked him free from the hold, gripping the back of his head.

Then he slammed him down.

The side of Boone’s head smashed against the table with a sick, dull sound, and the world dropped out from under him as his body hit the floor. A broken, involuntary noise dragged from his chest as he tried to pull air back in, his lungs refusing to cooperate for a few agonizing seconds.

Boots stepped into view, stopping just in front of him as he lay there, struggling to breathe.

“Pope watches everything, boy,” the second man said, his tone calm and measured. “And no one can save you from the consequences if you keep meddling in his business. Not your club. Not your cop daddy. No one.”

There was a pause, and then a sharp snap echoed in the room. Boone’s gaze shifted just enough to see the first man break the flip phone clean in half before tossing it down onto his chest.

“Consider this your one and only warning,” he said with a grin. “You’re lucky you even get this, because Pope isn’t big on second chances.”

Their footsteps moved away, the sound of the door following shortly after, and then there was nothing but silence.

Boone lay there on the floor, his breathing slowly finding its way back to him in uneven pulls as the pain settled in where adrenaline began to fade. His chest rose and fell, each breath a little steadier than the last, though it still burned.

Somewhere outside, muffled through the walls and distance, Banjo barked. After a moment, Boone rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as the room spun just a little less than it had before. The world felt distant and muted as his chest rose, fell, and rose again. And when his eyes settled, there was nothing in them. No anger. No fear. Not even grief. Just emptiness.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

@Remram Nolan
@Lava Alckon Drake

Gideon had remained where he stood while the brothers exchanged their remarks. Nolan’s teasing earned the faintest softening at the edge of his mouth. Soft and subtle as the smile was, it carried with it an air of pride towards his sons. As soon as there was an opening, he addressed his heir.

“Drake,” he said simply, inclining his head in greeting as his eyes passed over the young man in a brief but unmistakably thorough inspection. He did not make a spectacle of the gesture, but the loving assessment was there all the same.

“It is good to see you on your feet, son.” His gaze shifted back between the two of them for a moment longer, watching the easy exchange that had already begun. Whatever weight the day had placed upon him, the sight of them together eased some small part of it.

“Stay close to one another tonight,” he added quietly, his voice low enough that it would not travel beyond their small circle. “These gatherings have a habit of becoming less pleasant the longer they last. Especially lately. If you need me, I will not be far.”

Across the ballroom, a pause opened in a conversation near the center of the crowd. Victoria Edwards stood among a cluster of nobles, her posture as poised and deliberate as ever. For the briefest moment she looked toward Gideon. It was not a wave, nor a gesture that anyone unfamiliar with her would recognize. She simply held his gaze a fraction longer than courtesy required, her eyes sharpening with quiet expectation. To anyone else it would have meant nothing, but to Gideon, it was an unmistakable beckoning of his presence… One he would do well to answer.

His attention returned to the boys.

“I would stay a moment longer with you, my sons, but I fear this is not the time for your father to hover. Plus, it seems your mother requires me,” he said calmly, allowing a knowing chuckle to escape him.

He rested a hand briefly on each of their shoulders, a gesture both reassuring and grounding in intention.

“Enjoy the evening, if you can manage it. I know recent days have been trying, but us Edwards have built a tradition of perseverance. And remember… I am so, very proud of you both.”

With that he stepped away, the dark sweep of his cloak shifting behind him as he moved through the ballroom crowd toward Victoria, leaving the brothers to their conversation beneath the music and chandelier light.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: The Kraken's Wake, on the floor, surrounded by fragments of wooden chair
Mentions: Phia @princess
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: 36 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

---

For a moment the Warforged simply stood where Corin had placed him, large hands hanging at his sides as his arcane lenses adjusted to the shifting light of the room. The laughter that had filled the air only seconds earlier had already begun to dissolve back into the usual tavern noise.

As Phia moved towards him, his optics settled, the faint blue glow within them softening as they focused. She had moved quickly, weaving through the crowded tavern floor without hesitation until she stood before him.

“Bastion?”

The sound of his name seemed to anchor him fully back in the present. His head tilted slightly, studying her face as he clocked the concern in both her voice and expression.

“Are you hurt?”

The Warforged glanced down briefly at the shattered remains of the chair scattered around his feet. The fall had not really damaged him in any significant way. At least, not enough to cause any kind of malfunctions. However, parts of him were still in disrepair from the battle in the sky and the crashing of the airship. He looked to the wound on his shoulder that still had the slightest bit of his alchemical fluid leaking from it.

Then his gaze lifted back to her.

“I am… operational.” His voice carried its usual calm mechanical cadence, though it was quieter than before. After a moment he added, with mild analytical certainty…

“The chair appears to have suffered the greater damage.”

His head tilted again slightly, a small motion that resembled curiosity. For several seconds Bastion simply looked at her. Then, as though remembering something important, he asked in return,

“And you…are you unharmed, Phia?”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: The Kraken's Wake, on the floor, surrounded by fragments of wooden chair
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.

---

As the tavern erupted in laughter, as Bastion sat there on the floor looking up at Minerva… what the others didn’t see was where the seconds in between transported the Warforged in the memory palace of his mind.

The breaking of the chair and crashing of his form upon the ground teleported his thoughts to another impact. The thud of his armored frame smashing against the tavern floor was barely a sound at all compared to the memory of his body careening into the rain-slick valley and colliding against the ground below. Rocks and stone fragmented upon impact with a force that would have left a crater if only the ground had been dirt.

Alchemical fluid leaked from Bastion’s multiple wounds. The pearlescent amethyst liquid pooled beneath him as his very lifeforce… the closest thing a Warforged had to blood… continued to spill from him like tapped tree sap from an overgrown maple. The heavy drops of rain pattered against his metal as the blue light of his arcane lens eyes flickered and dimmed second to second. He was in bad shape. The intensity of magical feedback and structural stress from the damage he had taken was unlike the traditional pain that typical mortals felt, yet the discomfort of it was torture all the same.

Flashes of what happened before he had been kicked from the ledge played over and over in his mind as his cognitive arcana tried to process what had happened, and what to do now. The image of young Tirian screaming….begging for his aid played on repeat in his mind’s eye. He had been unable to reach the boy. The forces of opposition were simply too much for any one being to manage. He had tried his best, he had slain countless in his attempt…even those of his own kind that stood in his way. Though none of the details mattered, his intention did not matter, his skill did not matter, his years of service did not matter, his years of learning what it felt like to know friendship did not matter.

_{He had failed.}
He Had Failed.

HE. HAD. FAILED.

“Oh…” He said with sorrowful understanding as he stared up at the endless rain that fell above and the 200ft stretch of depth between him and the little boy that had become his purpose.

The sound of his own voice snapped him back to reality, as that one…. simple word escaped him both in his memory and his present. He came to just in time to see Minerva yelling at the other patrons for laughing at him.

Why, he wondered. She seemed so insulted on his behalf. Bastion’s head cocked to one side like that of a confused dog as he pondered in that instant, but even that thought was brought to an abrupt end as he was impressively hoisted from the ground and back onto his feet by his old comrade, Sir Talmor.

”Alright big guy remember us normal people use chairs that can’t take all that metal you call an ass. Maybe kneel near the table for now? But take it easy, Big Red.” The Gem Knight instructed. Bastion nodded compliantly but remained quiet.

The sounds of the others talking drifted out into a numb resonance in the background as he looked at each of them, one by one taking in the sight of the people he had met since boarding the airship that had changed everything. Finally, his eyes fell onto Arya and then Phia in the distance. His thoughts turned back to Tirian, the hue of his dark magenta hair was not dissimilar to that of Phia’s… Though the girl’s was lighter, prettier. He reflected on his failure then, on what he found when he climbed that 200ft back up the side of the ravine. His arcane core felt like it was sinking down into his stomach.

Would he fail them too?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Stratya, Kazumin, Cassius, Olivia & Charlotte

Part 3

Time: Ignis 2 Evening
Location: On the way to the Vikena’s Sorian Estate

_{Mention: Violet @Tpartywithzombi Alexander @FunnyGuy}

---

After the two had left, Cassius, Lottie and Stratya were left in the den.

Charlotte was still sitting where she’d been left on the couch, shoulders subtly curled inward as if she could make herself smaller. Her hands rested in her lap, pale and trembling, fingers laced too tightly together.

The healing had helped—there was no denying that. The sharp ache had dulled into a bearable inconvenience, and she felt more anchored to the moment. Still, it wasn’t yet easy to keep both feet in reality when her mind kept snapping back to that tavern.

Cassius was glad to see that Olivia’s spell had done its job. The word relief was not strong enough to describe how it felt to see the sight of Charlotte’s wounds closed and no longer bleeding, though the blood that had already stained her face still lingered.

He walked over to her, the supplies he and Kazumin had gathered in his grasp, and knelt down in front of her where she sat on the couch. Their gaze met now that he was down to her eye level, and just like every other time she had looked at him…the storm of the bastard’s mind calmed and he felt something stir behind his chest.

The moment he lowered himself, Lottie’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. She hadn’t forgotten, despite the chaos, that she wasn’t supposed to be near him.

But she still leaned forward, as if her body had already chosen before her logic could argue. Her pupils were still blown, too dark for the warm den light, and when she blinked it was slow. She looked like a girl who’d been forced to grow up in the span of one night without any say in it.

“Here, let me help you.” Cas said, gently raising the wet washcloth to her as he softly began to wipe the blood from her hairline and down her face where it had dripped.

She flinched on instinct at the first brush near her skin. Her shoulders jumped, then she caught herself, ashamed of the reaction, and forced her body to be still. He worked delicately, with a touch that was more tender than a man like him should be able to perform. The warmth of it made her chest ache in a way she didn’t know how to describe. Her lips parted with the intention to say something, but the words died on her tongue.

Soon, the blood, sweat, and tears that stained her beautiful face were washed away. “You look…perfect” Cassius spoke aloud, though it was not intentional. That thought had been meant to remain just that, a thought. The sound of his own words caught him off guard, his eyes meeting hers once more.

A soft inhale followed his words, and Lottie could only stare at him, her eyes searching his as they held each other’s gaze, her lashes still clumped together where tears had dried.

“Uh…” He scrambled to find words to cover what he had just said; some way to disguise it all or pivot or…anything that might help. He found none. Instead he did something he had not done since he was a child; he looked away with a little bit of embarrassment and a healthy dash of self-punishment. And yet, even as he turned from Lottie’s gaze, he could not help but smirk at his own mishap.

And she, too, smiled softly, her gaze refusing to leave him even as he looked away. Maybe she was too weary to retreat into herself the way she usually did, too exhausted for the nervous little panic that always made her look anywhere but at him. So instead, she stayed. She watched him, as if watching could keep him there.

Barely a second later, the man recovered best he could and turned to the knight captain. “Captain Durmand… I hope the little witch’s magic worked wonders on you as well. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Watching Cassius dote on Charlotte and almost, almost compliment her was cute and everything, but Stratya’s mind kept wandering back to how she’d failed. One man died. One man was maimed. And one woman, who’s plight continued even as she sat thinking, was kidnapped. And here she was, resting. She was in shape enough she could possibly fight again, yet-

He caught the captain looking at her left hand. “Mm?” Her gaze turned to him with a start, her hand coming in to tuck against her body. Her eyes firmed with resolve as she eyed him, “yes, ac’ually.” Captain Durmand recognized another combatant when she saw one. A knock at the door interrupted her, and she moved to stand, bearing caution in her voice, “I will answerr.”

---

Roman was beginning to feel much better now that the second healing potion had taken effect. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his men had spread out around the estate—he counted seven of them. Apparently, word of the events at the tavern had traveled fast; reinforcements had arrived, ordered to pose as drunken merchants and sailors enjoying the night air.

At least they had brought what he asked for: the flasks and the music box.

His attention returned to the obstacle before him: the large, ornate doors of the Vikena estate. With a hurried motion, he rapped his knuckles against the wood a few times. He immediately stepped back, tucking himself against the frame and pulling his hood up to obscure his face.

After a quick peek outside, Stratya Durmand opened the door, “oh, thank t’ Gods, it’s only you.” She looked around behind him, quickly, “come in.” She stepped aside to let him in and shut the door herself, scanning the exterior quickly as she did.

It came out with a sigh, “we ‘ave a guest.” She sounded tired. Deeply tired, not from lack of sleep. Alas, now was not the time to be tired. Her stubborn vigilance spotted the music box he carried. Yes, of course.

Lottie rose and stepped to where she could see through the archway into the foyer. Her posture relaxed, her shoulders dropping as she recognized Roman’s face. A soft smile painted her features. “Oh thank goodness. Roman, please come in, darling.” She folded her arms tightly around herself. “Close the door quickly now and both of you come into the den.”

A pleasant smile hid the emotions he crushed down in his mind. His thoughts raced with what he could and couldn’t do to free himself from his bond and one day return to… her. They were just more voices to silence. Right now, he needed to think clearly. He needed to tell them the truth, so that maybe one day he could be free.

He nodded at Stratya, pulling back his hood and stepping quickly inside. Clutching the case in his hand, he walked toward the den with a questioning look. “Guest?”
Who could they have picked up on the way here? The list of possibilities vanished the moment he stepped into the room. His eyes locked with Cassius, and he froze. Cas met his gaze with a slow, rhythmic blink of pure confidence.

Surprise quickly turned to confusion, and then to a glare. His free hand instinctively moved to the hidden blade at his waist. His eyes scanned the man, flicked to Charlotte for a brief moment, then snapped back to Cassius.

“Why is the son of Calbert here?”

He hadn’t seen the man since the dinner, and his voice was sharp with accusation. Did Calbert know already? Did he send his son to infiltrate their group? It was paranoia, and Roman knew it, but he couldn't stop the thought.

Cassius stepped towards the mountain of a man… a hollow, cynical laugh escaping him. It was a defiant sound, a reaction to being labeled as simply somebody’s son when the man before him clearly knew who he was. That much was clear from their very public and less than ideal interaction the other night. Lord Ravenwood didn’t just know Cassius Vael as the recently revealed son of a Count, no… Roman knew of his reputation from the life the man had recently left behind.

His eyes were locked on the new arrival as he began to speak.

“I could ask the same thing about Violet Damien’s abuser.” Cas said with unshakeable poise.

At first, Stratya wondered why Roman had phrased it so. The son of Calbert, not… Lord Vael or The Bastard or some such. No, he named Calbert. Had there been purpose to that, or was it just a jab at Lord Damien, not naming him directly?

They were about to start at each other, an irritated growl escaped Stratya’s throat before she spoke sternly, “I will not hearr bickering at this tyme. Therre is a woman ou’ therre sufferrin’ ferr ourr lack o’ prrowess, and I will hearr nowt but how tae save herr. Lady Kalliope fough’ brravely, you will not disrrespect herr current perril wit’ infigh’ing.”

She turned to Cassius then, whose demeanor had shifted suddenly at the mention of Kalliope. “Lorr’ Damian, ye asked if y’ could do anythin’ ferr me, an’ I said yes. I need yerr swordarrm, and I rregre’ tae say thah’ I nae ken ourr foe. I underrstahnd if ye rrefuse.”

Lottie’s breath caught, and her gaze darted between the three of them. Finally, she took a small step forward and positioned herself between Cassius and Roman. Her gaze flicked once to Roman’s hand at his waist before returning to his face, soft and pleading. “Roman… please,” she said quietly, voice still a little rough around the edges. “I know why you’d think it, truly I do—but he was just helping us get back home.” She let her eyes drift to Cassius and her expression twisted with concern for his statement.

It’s hard to imagine Roman hurting Violet, let alone anyone… But I remember that banquet quarrel.

Nonetheless, Stratya’s words struck deep. Charlotte gave a weary shake of her head as if forcing the panic and the pride in the room to settle, and she turned to Cassius with resolve. “Stratya’s right. Kalliope was taken, and I won’t allow anything else to be placed above that. We cannot fail her again.” Her fingers tightened together at her waist. “While we’re all here, we should make a plan tonight.” Cassius took in her words, eyes darting about as he processed things.

Roman's hand dropped from his waist, not to draw a weapon, but to push the white handkerchief deeper into his pocket until the embroidered 'V' on the corner slipped from view. His eyes darted toward Stratya, but he didn’t truly relax until Charlotte stepped between the two men.
Only then did his gaze soften. His stance shifted from a defensive crouch to something more neutral. He did not trust Cassius—not because of his reputation, but because of the name he now carried.

Her voice softened on the next part, her guilt becoming audible. “And tomorrow… we find Sjan-dehk. If anyone might know why someone would want her—if there’s a reason, or a trail—we need it.” It didn’t take long for her brows to knit and for another important topic to wander into her mind. “ Oh… And Cassius… If you don’t mind me, dear… Who was that man that came out of your estate?”

Lottie’s final question had jolted Cassius out of his mind, where he was already busy putting some semblance of a plan together with what limited information he had, and brought him back to reality. He met her eyes once more, and the visage of the man she spoke of appeared in his memory.

“That was Marek Delronzo, head of the Black Rose…but we can discuss him at a later time.” He said, shifting focus back to the revelation that had just been dropped on him.

Charlotte’s eyes darkened as her pupils widened. She subsequently angled her body the other way as she instinctively covered her mouth.

“I need you all to tell me everything about this situation with Kalliope. As much as you can remember.” Cas’s gaze flicked over to Stratya. “I’ll help you find her. I’ll do anything and everything in my power to bring her back safe.”

Stratya gave a firm nod, “I thank you.” Lord Cassius and Lady Kalliope knew each other, then? Interesting, but irrelevant.

A servant emerged from the hallway leading to the carriage stage. “Captain Durmand, your carriage has arrived.”

Stratya inhaled sharply through her nose, “aye, fynally! Show them in.” She turned to the group again, “Th’ man thah’ took us rround t’ guarrd, Gale, and my lieutena’, Clea’well, will need tae hearr all this. You c’n trrust them.”

New faces and people he didn’t trust. This seemed to be the common theme for the evening. Could he tell them everything? Would they even want to hear it?

They would have to. The subtle scent of Violet’s perfume reminded him of his promise. It didn’t matter if they didn’t want to hear it; he needed allies, he needed friends, and sometimes trust isn’t earned—it's given.

He clutched the crate in his hands tighter, his gaze drifting from the two new faces he recognized. When they first arrived, he had placed tails on them, realizing now that they had done the same with most of the people here. No matter. They had a job to do. He had a job to do.

He paused for a moment, straightening his posture as he looked at Cassius. “My apologies.” His words were sincere. With a sigh, he continued, “There will always be orders I can't say no to.” His eye contact broke from Cassius halfway through the comment. It wasn’t shame, just a sadness he couldn’t quite place.

He stepped fully into the den. He set the crate on a table but kept the music box in his hand. The information he was gathering just from being here was answering some questions while raising others.

“I do have some information—mostly about how everything is setting itself into place—but not necessarily about where Kalliope might be.” He looked to Cassius then Charlotte and over to Stratya and her men, “I trust Charlotte’s and Stratya’s judgment, so I suppose I will trust the rest of you.” He began to twist a small tab on the side of the music box.

“I will warn you.” His gaze shifted across the many faces around the room. “What I have to say is considered a Varian state secret. It could get you or me killed for spreading it. If you do not wish to hear this, simply step out of the bubble.”

Stratya eyebrows shot up, “we c’n spare my men thah’ parr’, I think.” She glanced at the two now standing by her and inclined her head, directing them to step back.

Roman did not elaborate or explain what the bubble was; he simply finished twisting the knob. The box itself was ornate but not eye-catching; it was simple enough to sit on a shelf in a study without drawing attention. It was just an intricately carved wooden and silver box with a small raised edge on the top.

He pressed his thumb onto the edge and whispered, “Þögnin er lífsins tónlist.”

The music box began to play as he lifted his thumb, leaving a bloody print behind. The melody was enchanting and slow, yet it seemed to drown out all sound from outside the room, leaving only the quiet music and the breaths of the people within.

Charlotte remained where she stood, a look of concern painted on her features. Cassius watched from her side, his expression full of curiosity and skepticism.

He waited for Stratya’s men to step away, then turned his back to them. “I would like to state, first off, that no one outside of my chain of command and my men knows this information.” His arm itched where the blood bond fought to silence him. He knew its effects were muted by the spells he had cast earlier, but that wouldn’t last for long.

“A proper introduction, then.” He shifted into a posture suited for a soldier standing at rest in the presence of other military personnel. His voice flattened into a monotone, matter-of-fact cadence, dropping whatever mask he had been wearing. Intensity and resolve loomed in his gaze, backed by a hint of something angry—or perhaps hungry.

“I am Lord Roman Ravenwood, Lord Commander of the 187th Varian Expeditionary Forces, Leviathan Battalion.” He paused, letting his gaze drift slowly between them. He had just confessed to heading a foreign military operation within an allied kingdom.

Lottie’s lips parted with her shock. Cas’s lips curved as the pieces settled into place. Stratya’s eyebrows raised. “Oh. Thah’ kynda sta’e secrre’.”

“My mission is to seek out and destroy the criminal syndicate that has spread its corruption into Varian and Alidasht. We tracked it to this Kingdom—to this city.” He shifted his weight, rubbing his left arm. ”This syndicate is responsible for the trafficking of magical and non-magical persons. This includes sex trafficking, slavery, and fighting pits that include children. Smuggling illegal drugs and potions, black market magic items, political assassinations, bribery, murder... I could list their crimes all night.”

He grimaced, pulling up his sleeve to check the red, raised runes that spiraled up his arm. The discomfort was evident in his voice. “The information we have gathered since arriving has led us to form several theories that are now proving to be true. One is that the Black Rose Trading Company is acting as a front for this syndicate. We have evidence of several high-ranking noble families that use or cooperate with them.”

He had to pause and sit down as pain began to radiate up his left arm and into his chest. “One of those high-ranking noble families is yours.” His gaze fixed on Cassius. “We also suspect that the King may either be helping them or turning a blind eye to it.”

Charlotte’s gaze lowered as she absorbed the weight of his words. Her mind wandered back to that little card she had found in her purse. She wrapped her arms around herself as she let her eyes slide toward Cassius with the intention of watching his reaction. It was not as though the last part was truly new information… and yet her heart still seemed to trip over itself all the same. Cas’s reaction was all but naught. His expression remained controlled and unphased.

“I am also pursuing the Black Rose.” She admitted quietly. “I have reason to believe they are pursuing me in return, and if that is to be my misfortune… then I shall at least make it useful.”

She thought about the banquet quarrel: how Roman apparently had struck Violet. Charlotte could understand necessity. She could even understand provocation, if it meant coaxing the truth from a man like Calbert Damien. But she could not quite understand why Violet had been made the price of it, and it disturbed her. It was a subject she meant to raise with Roman when the moment was right. She had no wish to villanize or accuse anyone, not after the night she had.

As she spoke, Cassius let his eyes shift to her, remembering the conversations they had on the matter…understanding the potential implications of it all. The scars that were still healing on his abdomen burned as he thought about the reality of such a force pursuing her. What they could be capable of doing if she was left unprotected.

Charlotte raised her gaze finally and said simply, “Very well, Lord Commander. It’s nice to meet you properly. “ She tapped her fingers against her arm and added, “Perhaps we ought to spend what remains of this hour on the matter that cannot be delayed—how we shall bring Kalliope home. The Black Rose may have its due… but not at the cost of her life. We will return to it when the time is right.”

Stratya’s gaze shifted from Roman to Charlotte as each spoke in turn of the Black Rose. They were both pursuing them? “This is nae t’ firrst tyme I’ve ‘earrd the Black Rrose mentioned underr suspicion. Prrince ‘ulfrric, ‘imself, seems tae suspect as much. Even o’ t’ King.” This was a problem beyond borders, they all suffered for this evil seeping from Sorian.

The captain frowned and narrowed her eyes at the memory, “an’ theirr leaderr saw us, wounded an’ bloody, stumblin’ back ‘erre..” She fought back a swear, “nothin’ doin’ ‘bout it now. Kalliope comes firrst.” She gave Charlotte a nod. The fact she suspected the Black Rose to be after her was concerning, as well.

Finally, Cassius spoke.

“Lord Ravenwood…The Lord Commander…Whatever this man wishes to be called, he is correct about the Black Rose. They are monsters, and their crimes in Varian alone are worth the extermination of the entire organization in my book.” He stopped, eyes lowering as he pondered his next words, all the while Charlotte continued to watch him. “I know that my…newly acquired family is involved with them. I wasn’t sure how deep it went in until tonight when Marek Delronzo arrived at our dinner table.”

A long exhale escaped him before he continued. “But everything you’re saying means that my family has targets on their backs. And…and I’m not sure what to do with that information. I would give almost anything to watch the Black Rose burn, but I don’t know the circumstances around my family’s involvement, and I certainly won’t watch them burn with it.”

“...Perhaps it is only fair that nothing further be done concerning your family until we have the chance for a second, proper conversation—one in which we may sift through the details with due care.” Charlotte offered, stepping back into the role of mediator preemptively.

“And if you would be willing to learn more on your family’s behalf, and then share what you discover with us, I imagine Lord Ravenwood and Commander Durmand would not object to delaying matters a few days more.”

He watched them closely, analyzing every glance, every look, every word. He was trying to read them—trying to convince himself he hadn’t just gotten himself killed. He didn’t see betrayal. Cassius was skeptical, certainly, but that was part of the job; it was how he operated. But when Charlotte admitted to investigating the Black Rose as well, Roman's eyebrow shot up. More pieces were falling into place.
As he pondered their words, he noticed something else. He wasn’t entirely sure at first, but then he caught the way Cassius looked at Charlotte. It was familiar—painfully so. It was the same way he looked at Violet. The sudden pang in his chest forced him to sit down, though he continued to listen.

“I will steer our investigations away from your family. As of now, we are focusing on my upcoming trial and on Alexander Deacon.” His brow furrowed as his thoughts drifted to where they might have taken Kalliope.

The four of them remained in the den long after the hour had grown late, their voices lowering as the house around them settled into silence. They spoke at length about how to bring Kalliope home, weighing every possibility until there was little left to examine without new information. Eventually, fatigue pressed too heavily on even the most stubborn among them. Stratya and Roman withdrew to separate guest chambers to wash the blood from their skin and claim what rest they could.

Cassius took his leave soon after, though he did not truly go far. For several hours he remained beyond the estate walls, keeping watch until he was certain no further danger lingered near the Vikena grounds. Only when the night had deepened into stillness did he finally allow himself to return home and surrender to rest.

Charlotte, however, did not follow the others to bed.

She lingered in the corridor outside her stepfather’s bedroom, knocking gently at first, then with a little more insistence when no answer came. The house gave her only silence in return. It was the same silence she had grown accustomed to in the late hours, and yet it never felt familiar. After several moments, she pressed her forehead briefly to the wood, as if listening for something that might change her mind.

With an exhale that trembled more than she intended, she slid down until she was seated against the door. Her blood-stained skirts pooled around her as she drew her knees close and wrapped her arms around them. The effort she had spent holding herself together throughout the evening began to loosen and tears spilled from her hollow gaze.

Delilah appeared not long after, dressed in her nightclothes, her blonde hair still mussed from sleep and falling loosely. She took in the sight without surprise and lowered herself softly to the floor beside Charlotte.

“He’s not home again, is he?” Lottie asked quietly after a moment.

“…I don’t think so.” Delilah replied.

There was nothing more to add. The answer was one they both understood.

So they remained there together, shoulder to shoulder against the closed door, saying little as the minutes stretched and folded into one another. An hour passed, perhaps longer, before Charlotte finally stirred and gathered what composure she could.

She made her way to her own chambers and laid down, but sleep did not come easily. When it did, it drew her into the monstrous clutches of night terrors.

The tavern returned in flashes—shouting, blood, everything. She woke more than once with her heart racing and her throat tight, the darkness of her room offering no comfort.

At last, unable to endure another hour alone with it, she slipped from her bed and crossed the hall. She knocked softly at Kazumin and Olivia’s guestroom door, waiting only long enough to be admitted before stepping inside. Without ceremony and without apology, she climbed beneath the covers beside them in the dim light of early morning and reached for their hands.

Only then, with her friends anchoring her on either side, did her breathing begin to slow enough for true rest to take her.

Recollections: Moon (Off-Urban Fantasy/Horror)

@EtherealThorn Yo I just saw this RP like 2 minutes after seeing your last message in the BtV server saying you were sad to see it go, and I was about to send you the link to this but then boom there you were lol.