princess

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Prince Wulfric, Duke Laurent Petit, Duchess Antoinette Petit, Duke Gideon Edwards, Duke Lorenzo Vikena & Lady Charlotte Vikena

9am on Sola 29, the Day after the Banquet

The crown prince had sent out invitations embossed with the royal seal, each letter bearing his signature. The recipients of the official summons were the dukes, the duchesses, and in the case of the Vikena family also the lady of the house, Charlotte. He had arranged for this meeting in advance, so all guests were expected to arrive on the 29th of Sola at 9 AM sharp. One of the castle’s drawing rooms had been rearranged for the occasion. Wulfric sat on the central settee, adorned in a suit of Caesonian colours. Three pairs of chairs were set around him in a semicircle, the end tables between them carrying a selection of refreshments suitable for the morning. Key servants had been informed who to expect, and would lead the visitors here.

The prince greeted each guest with a brief, “Good morning.” With a sweeping gesture, he welcomed them to their seats, and indicated that the beverages and finger food were freely available. When all were gathered, he gave a sharp nod, marking the start of their conference. “Welcome, all.” He did not raise his voice, but it carried through the room, silencing any lingering chatter. “We are gathered today to discuss key developments in our territories. By the king’s consent, I shall preside over these proceedings. As is customary, we will address your individual reports. However, before that, a matter of utmost urgency demands our attention.” His wintry gaze passed from one to the other, resting on each delegate in turn. “Magic,” he stated.

“It is an active force in our kingdom. This truth first became apparent to me the day after the banquet…” For those unaware, he summarized how nobles had been lured to an after-party only to return in horrendous states, and – as it became apparent in the following morning – with disturbing gaps in their memories. “Since then, I have learned the host was Marek Delronzo, leader of the Black Rose. I suspect he is involved in organized crime, as well. That said,” he lifted a cautionary hand, “the investigation remains on-going. As such, I encourage you to examine Black Rose activity in your duchies.” His father would disapprove, hence he had not worded it as an order. Even so, increased vigilance might dissuade them from doing business with Delronzo’s merchants, which would be a setback for his syndicate.

“Moving forward, we will endeavour to uncover and eradicate the corruption within Caesonia,” he inclined his head at Duke Petit. “We must not surrender to fear. For if we do, surely the people will suffer as they did during the Dark Period. We must be resolute, and proceed with prudence and precision.” Rising, he faced them squarely. “In the wake of yesterday’s revelation, doubt will flourish. People will begin to see threats, real or imagined.” His next words, though measured, rang with conviction. “We must be the ones who guide them. We must know who we pursue, and why.” His voice drew them in, and his gaze held them captive.

“The existence of magic lies in the gods’ hands. But the fate of our people rests in ours.” He placed a hand on his chest. “As one of the chosen, I bear a duty to each of you. I seek justice, not hysteria. Let truth and reason guide us, not panic or superstition.” He punctuated his statement with a sweeping glance across the room.

“There are those who abuse power to enslave others, to rob them of their memories, to inflict grievous harm on them. To strip them of their personhood, their dignity, their very sense of self. These malefactors believe themselves invincible. It is they we must expose. They we must subdue.” He let his words settle, like ripples fading after a stone’s cast.

“I implore you, should you have questions, voice them now.” Only then did he retake his seat.

Duke Laurent Petit rose from his seat and cleared his throat. His robe was modest: a blue coat trimmed with silver thread, the sigil of Zivitas embroidered at his collar. His hands folded calmly over his chest as he addressed the room.

“Your Highness,” he began quietly, “this is indeed a matter of weight. Magic, memory theft, the shattering of one’s will…I believe the gods allow evil to surface so the righteous may act. You received a signal. And we must respond with vigilance”

He glanced heavenward for a long pause, staring at the chandelier above as if it was providing him further information. Finally, Laurent returned his gaze to the prince, “The criminals must be found. The Black Rose unraveled, root and stem. I will do my part. And if darkness hides in Montague, it will be brought into the light.” He bowed his head respectfully and returned to his seat. “And may we all remember… sometimes the fish do not bite because the water knows we are not ready.”

Duke Petit’s eyes were back on the ceiling, voice softening into reverent awe.
“For the river speaks in riddles, and the lake holds mirrors to our souls. When the hook returns empty, it is not always failure…It is the divine whisper, saying: ‘Not yet, my child. Not with those hands. Not with that heart. Even the trout waits for prophecy. The carp will not come to the line of a liar. And no catfish shall surface to feed a man consumed by pride. So let us pray not just for the catching… but for the cleansing. For hearts still and true. For a bait of truth. And may the divine waters deem us finally worthy to fish once more in peace.” He bowed his head, lips moving silently now in prayer.

“I appreciate your dedication, Duke Petit,” Wulfric offered. He might have said something else, but the man was already off in his own world. Perhaps he should have mentioned fishing to reel in his attention…Oh, and now he was affected by those puns, too.

Meanwhile, Laurent’s wife, Duchess Antoinette Petit had clasped her hands politely the entire time, her gloved hands twitching ever so slightly with each fish-related metaphor. When he returned to his seat in solemn silence, she stood after a beat. Her dress was a cream color with blue floral embroidery. She adjusted her white lace shawl, cleared her throat, and gave a small, cheerful smile to the room. “Erm… Bonjour, everyone!” she chirped, her accent unmistakable.

“I—ah—just wished to say how deeply I agree with my husband, of course.” She gestured gracefully to Laurent, who nodded solemnly without looking up from his prayerful reverie. “Also… I brought cookies.” She held up a wrapped tin from beside her seat.

“Zey are lemon poppy seed.” Her tone was sweet, albeit too enthusiastic for the atmosphere. “If anyone feels the weight of all zis and needs a small comfort… I have many.”

“Thank you, Duchess Petit.” The prince’s gaze lingered on her for a beat. He had heard she was a positive woman, seeking change – that was the side of her he hoped to witness.

“Of course, Prince Wulfric. Anything I can do to help, please inform me.”

Duke Gideon Edwards had smiled politely at Antoinette in greeting. Then, he suddenly rose from his seat as well, his gaze immediately meeting Wulfric’s. “Your Highness,” he began, “I commend your resolve. To confront these truths with reason rather than fear is the mark of a true leader.” He carried himself with his usual dignity, though there was a passionate fire in his eyes that Wulfric would not miss as their gazes met.

“I have ordered investigations before within Soralia’s borders. As did my father before me. Duke Walter Vikena and I once tried to stem the spread of crime, but it moves like a weed through stone, slipping between every crack. Still, I will renew my efforts.”

“Auguste and I have had a similar experience. We must be thorough,” he commented.

He placed a hand over his chest and bowed. “You have my allegiance, Prince Wulfric. I stand beside you as an ally for the sake of Caesonia’s future.”

The crown prince offered a solid nod, a spark of interesting flashing in his eyes. The pledge of allegiance was curious, and he wondered if the duke meant it the way he thought he might.

Gideon lifted his gaze once more, voice earnest. “My only request: If possible, I would appreciate a debriefing document regarding what your investigation has uncovered thus far. For clarity’s sake, and so I may act with full understanding… Additionally, I will prepare documentation of my own. I will also extend that documentation to the Dukes of Vermillion and Montague, should they find it of use. We are strongest when we are informed together.”

“Certainly,” Wulfric agreed. “I will forward to you and your fellow dukes the key findings. We should indeed keep each other informed. I only caution you all to ensure the uncompromised transferral of vital documents,” he warned. “In the spirit of sharing, there is one discovery you may find of use: My agents have informed me that the Black Rose uses their design in subtle ways to mark suspect shipments or locations. The symbol of their enterprise may be hidden in plain sight, or concealed amongst seemingly innocuous decor, for example.”

“Understood. I will keep that in mind.”

There was no time passed between Gideon’s last word uttered and the rough sound of Duke Lorenzo Vikena’s seat sliding sharply against the carpet as he stood up next. His eyes were bloodshot with deep bags beneath them and his expression read uncharacteristically intense. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Prince Wulfric.” He gave a slight bow. “This meeting… I find it to be quite important to all of us. Sorian… Sorian is our center. Our base, and we must ensure it remains safe, especially with so many of our youth participating in Courting Season.” He gave a few nods as he scanned over the group. “I can't say I know much about magic and the madness that's associated with it but…” Lorenzo glanced down at Charlotte. It was brief, yet it wiped away much of his reluctance.

“With the utmost respect, I say this. There’s a lack of initiative and a lack of urgency concerning the issues we're placed with. I’ve heard rumor and gossip in my years of service of Veirmont being far better than the capital but this season has exposed just how wide of gap there is between my home and this place burdened by crime and now magic? It's… It's quite insulting for us dukes… and duchess–” Lorenzo gave an apologetic bow to Duchess Antoinette. I just find it strange that you say this when problems seem to be sprouting like weeds beneath the feet of you and Duke Gideon. And that's not even the worst of it, I’m afraid.” Lorenzo gulped, refraining from making direct eye contact with the prince.

“Indeed, Duke Vikena, we must act, hence this meeting,” Wulfric pointed out mildly even as Lorenzo used the chance to try and compete, full of a false sense of importance. He was almost like Edin in that regard, except in the duke’s case, he was likely fueled by a lacking self-worth he felt driven to compensate for. “However, I would not trust rumours. After all, the rumours I have heard is that the whole Vermillion region has such a laissez-faire management, it is far easier to ‘get away with more’, even acts which would be frowned upon or penalized elsewhere,” he drawled. “Thankfully, I know not to make deductions based on hearsay,” he smiled, all polite flair despite the undercurrent to his words. “It is exactly when we believe all is well when we are most likely to miss problems. Now, you claim to have uncovered something you term ‘the worst’, so what is it? Go on, do tell.”

“Well…” Lorenzo let out a low defeated sigh. He did not very much enjoy speaking to Wulfric as it felt like offering to hand feed a hound you weren't familiar with. Reluctance to hear his sharp bark or to be wounded by his bite was nigh absolute. “You spoke of knowing about this whole ordeal about a week ago… After the royal banquet, I really wish to forget about um… Where was I? Yes, about the magic.” Another gulp followed by the deepest of breaths. “I am grateful you have come to us with this now, but this information would have been much more useful earlier. Duke Gideon might have caught on to his servant much sooner. Instead… No, it is not my place to say. That is all, your majesty.” Lorenzo sat back down ungracefully, nearly missing his seat, and having to catch himself by quickly grabbing the chair with one of his hands.

Charlotte instinctively placed a gentle hand upon Lorenzo’s arm to assist in steadying him. She offered him a tender, reassuring smile, her eyes meeting his in silent encouragement. Then she withdrew, folding her hands politely back in her lap. She had been seated beside him in a simple navy-blue dress, her hair swept into a modest bun.

Laurent slowly raised his head, finally breaking his silence from prayer. “Duke Vikena…” he began, eyes narrowing just slightly as if peering through smoke to discern truth from illusion. “You speak of Veirmont as if it's immune to corruption, untouched by the chaos of the capital. And yet…The moment your boots touched these floors… the Sultan of Alidasht fell.”

Then, with an almost pained breath, he added: “Even in Cayan, we heard of it…It seems to me that wherever we walk, Duke Vikena, we bring ourselves with us.”

Then he looked up again toward the ceiling, as if seeking divine permission to continue. “Let us be careful when naming the weeds in another’s garden.”

“Let us not turn this into a self-righteous scolding battle. The past matters not. We are all here now.” Gideon suggested firmly. “We face a threat that endangers every corner of this kingdom. And I, for one, care less about who was late to the fire. Only that we all have buckets in hand.”

“Gentlemen, if I may. I understand that it is improper for me to chime in, but please allow me zis once to voice my agreement with Duke Edwards.” Antoinette gave a small nod to Wulfric. “Prince Wulfric reminded us of something vital today… that zere are people suffering..” Laurent exhaled softly, his eyes briefly closing as he gave the faintest shake of his head.

“It is encouraging that you are so forward-looking,” he acknowledged the three who had spoken up in his defense. And because it clearly needed to be said, he turned to Laurent’s wife. “Duchess Antoinette, I invited you so you may be heard. As such, it is quite proper for you to speak. How senseless would it be if the people with good ideas remained silent?” He was aware women were silenced by the pressures of society, but that was one of the many things he aimed to change. “The same holds true for you, Lady Charlotte. I invited you because we are lacking an acting Duchess Vikena, and you are the closest person to that position,” his gaze travelled to her as she regarded him with a grateful nod, then shifted to her father.

“Duke Vikena, you raised an honest inquiry, and I thank you for that. It is the very question many must be asking: ‘Why now?’” He let that linger before answering.

What the others failed to realize was that doubt was the most dangerous when suppressed. It was better to face difficult questions head-on. Refusal to do so only strengthened whatever narrative one’s opponents were spinning.

“Until the queen’s revelation, I believed magic to be little more than a legend. It was my mother who showed me otherwise. She warned me of its dangers. She suspected its use in the after-party incident. She was the one who hired the Varian witch hunters now operating under our banner. Without her, we would have had no tools, no knowledge, no strategy to deal with magic-using criminals.” The concepts of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ were not so black and white as many believed.

“So, yes, I hesitated. I asked myself: What does it mean that a witch seeks to eradicate magic?” Perhaps some of them would begin to ask the same.

“But then, I watched her parade that servant in chains, all glee and no contrition. She had not yet taken action against the Black Rose. She showed no sign that she would ever admit to what she was. She may be my mother, and she may have acted with the kingdom’s best interest at heart…” He closed his eyes, and took a bracing inhale, allowing a rare moment of vulnerability to slip through. “But I knew then what had to be done.” There was only cold and clear resolve when he faced them again.

“I speak now because we finally have the means to act. We know the Black Rose is suspect. We have Varian witch hunters in our employ. The next step must be to seek Caesonian experts; witch hunters born and bred in our lands. If any of you know of such individuals, I urge you to bring them forward. We will need them.” It would be wise to learn from these mage hunters – wiser still to watch for zealots among them.

“Oh, mon pauvre prince…” Antoinette’s voice quivered with sorrow. “I cannot imagine the weight that decision placed upon your heart. You were so brave to act, and braver still to share this with us. Please, know you are not alone. We are here for you. I am here for you.”

Lorenzo had been nodding along to Wulfric's words as the show of humility truly reached him, reminding him that the crowned prince was still just a young man. A young man who was preparing and positioning himself to be the highest power in the land. As much as he wanted to snap at Laurent for his comments, Lorenzo’s desire to aid Wulfric was far greater.

“I will send word to the counts of Vermillion, so we may leave no stone unturned in the search for these experts… And…” Lorenzo was reluctant to say but he nodded, giving himself a jolt of confidence. “And I am willing to undergo any training needed to hunt this scourge!” Lorenzo took a heavy breath before continuing, his brief fire now fizzled. “However, it– It does pain me to go against the Black Rose for what they've provided economically to Vermillion. It's not just investments in this company but they are so interwoven in the sectors of trade and employment, especially in the Vermillion ports. Are we sure it is the organization as a whole that's suspected to be behind this?”

Charlotte’s gaze followed Lorenzo to his last word; the moment his voice fell silent, hers rose in its place. “Your Highness… my lords.” Her voice was steady despite a faint undercurrent of exhaustion. “If the Black Rose has spread this far, it did not thrive in the shadows alone. Ledgers were signed, shipping manifests stamped, warehouse receipts filed… Each harmless on its own, yet together they draft a map.”

“May I suggest a sealed, thirty-day audit? During that brief window, every harbour-master and estate steward could provide us duplicate records, protected by amnesty...”

She met Prince Wulfric’s gaze. “If even Duke Vikena dealt with them in good faith, he is unlikely to be alone. Each of us should also audit our own affairs. What appears benign in one territory may complete a pattern in another.”

Laurent’s eyes regarded Charlotte with a faint, solemn nod, but his gaze swiveled quickly to Wulfric instead. “Your Highness, if you seek Caesonian witch hunters, you must seek the Church… “ He sighed and shook his head. “ I must urge caution. These witch hunters from Varian… They are not of our land. They do not fish from our rivers. They do not pray in our churches.” He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped in emphasis.

“The clergy have preserved our kingdom’s memory long before any western sword was raised in our defense. It was they who rooted out sorcery once before. They who built the sanctums of St. Primitus, where no cursed flame may burn.”

He then turned sharply to Lorenzo. “To claim virtue while profiting from poison… that is not ignorance. That is indulgence.” His eyes then flicked, just briefly, to Gideon, who had leaned toward Lady Charlotte, whispering something that drew a faint smile from her. Laurent’s voice faltered for half a breath as his cold, unblinking stare met the Soralian Duke’s calm gaze.

Finally, to Wulfric once more: “Foreign blades cannot cleanse Caesonian sins. If you wish holy fire, ask the altar.”

Antoinette’s hands clasped gently as she decided to speak up after her husband, eyes wide with feeling. “First I must say… Your Highness, I… I do thank you for letting us speak. Truly, it means more than you know, mon prince.”

Her gaze drifted to Charlotte with warmth and pride. “Lady Charlotte makes a fine point! Oui, there may be a trail in the paperwork as we collect it over the next month. I’m no investigator, but… perhaps it can be followed.” She smiled softly at her, “Ah, notre petite mademoiselle.”

She next looked toward her husband with a gentle disposition, “My husband is right that the Church has done much in our past, but respectfully… they have not yet stopped this.” She did her best to avoid Laurent’s eyes as she heard his soft gasp. “We cannot rely on prayer alone. Not this time. If the Varians bring light into our shadows, then let them.”

Her eyes found Lorenzo next, kind and without judgment. “And Duke Vikena… mon cher, how could any of us know what these companies do in secret? You may hold receipts, names, anything that could help.” She gave him a sweet smile and assured him by reaching over and giving him a good hand squeeze, “That does not make you guilty, it makes you an asset.”

Finally, she returned to Wulfric, voice hopeful. “If we all bring what little we can find, perhaps the whole truth will come together.” Her hands pressed together, eyes shimmering with hope. “Pour le bien du royaume... for the good of the kingdom. And perhaps, enfin, for a little peace.”

“We will have to earn that peace,” Wulfric declared. “You have all offered worthwhile suggestions,” he commended. “Gathering evidence is sensible, as is conducting an audit. But do not expect every transaction to be recorded. Beware that even amongst those documented, innocuous words may mask illicit activities. That is the way of criminals,” he pointed out.

“I urge each of you to task trusted agents with infiltrating key points of commerce: the docks, markets, cargo vessels, warehouses, inns…From the marginalized to the nobility, I suspect many have been lured in by the promise of a good deal. Our task is to discern who among them are the victims…and who are the perpetrators.” His voice lowered to a hiss on the last word. Meanwhile, Duke Petit and Duke Edwards were both quick to nod their agreement.

“For every person who dealt with Black Rose in good faith, there are others – corrupt, profiteering from suffering, and weakening our people for personal gain.” He let that truth settle before continuing.

“Duchess Antoinette, I too question how it is that the church has failed to expose this issue. I will seek their guidance and insight, but I believe we need cooperation. Cohesion between Varian witch hunters, any Caesonian hunters we can find, and our local law enforcement.”

He paused long enough that his next words landed with weight. “No matter who they are or what skills they possess, they must operate within the bounds of law. We cannot allow the hunters to act like cultists chasing their next thrill. This is not a crusade. We can no more expect to excise magic than we can root out death. Our mission is to contain those who abuse power, and we must carry it with discipline, not blind zealotry.” He was making his stance clearer as well as testing the waters.

“Let us each do our part. Send me weekly reports on your findings, and alert me immediately in the case of an emergency. We will achieve the greatest effect with a pincer attack: an official investigation in tandem with a discreet, underground effort. Let us aim for a comprehensive review by the end of Ignis.”

“Youn- Prince Wulfric! I have a particular question…” Lorenzo cleared his throat unnecessarily due to nervousness. “...for a friend, of course. One of my friends— he orders a particular brand of goods from the Black Rose Trading Company in bulk and he also has made very healthy investments in the company as well… Would he be made to stop his dealings if he holds an official political position? Would he be investigated differently?” Lorenzo's forehead creased with concern.

Wulfric arched an eyebrow. The classical ‘this is about a friend’, was it? “If the transactions are legal, there is no issue. We are seeking to uncover illicit merchandise, dealings, and methods. As for investments…Consider that the Black Rose may use what it earns above board for criminal activity without the investor’s awareness.”

“Oh good! I… I think this will be good for him. Thank you, your majesty.” Lorenzo beamed before remembering one other thing on his mind. “Also… um, how should I phrase this? Um… Last night opened our eyes that magic use is not favored by one particular class of people. From servants to the Queen. Anyone can be a culprit. Even here at this very meeting.” He looked across everyone in attendance for a beat before continuing. “I believe if there is a way, we should check for magic use amongst us, as well as Duchess Edwards who has not attended. We need to ensure we aren't feeding our plans to those who might want to get around them. Can these witch hunters detect such a thing?”
“I expect they can, and were not merely sitting idly at the banquet.” But did anyone consider by what means detecting magic was accomplished?

“My wife and I will gladly be checked..” Laurent informed Lorenzo, then looked to Wulfric rather rapidly after such, “Your Highness… I understand the need for order. But magic is not merely dangerous: it is profane.” He folded his hands, eyes steady. “It is a corruption of the soul. It can summon fires with a thought, flay the mind from within, strip away a man’s free will as easily as breath from a dying body…”

He inclined his head respectfully toward Wulfric, eyes solemn. “You aim to proceed with reason, and avoid mass hysteria. That is noble, truly. Though I do hope that you are not suggesting mercy… Mercy in this case… may be a cruelty in disguise. Once a soul binds itself to magic, it begins to unravel. Slowly, yes, but inevitably. They may still speak like us, smile like us… but what lies beneath becomes less and less human. If magic was to become common use once more, Eromora would fall to ruin.”
“Mercy is not in my interest. Transgressors will be hunted,” is all he said to that. He did not know exactly what Duke Petit’s fear was based on. How would magic become common in a climate like theirs?

He shook his head faintly, with a rare flicker of fear. “I beg you: permit the hunters to do what must be done. Not out of hatred, nor vengeance. But because those who tread the path of sorcery cannot turn back. The longer they live, the more dangerous they become… to others and to themselves.”

“There is a reason the old grimoires were burned. A reason the sanctums of St. Primitus were built where no cursed flame could flicker. This is not superstition. It is memory.”

“Magic… it unsettles me, truly,” Antoinette murmured, hands folded neatly. “Not only for what it does, but for what it makes people believe zey are entitled to become.”

She turned her gaze to Wulfric, eyes sincere. “If left unchecked, what would stop zem from overthrowing us all? Non—witchcraft must never again take root in common life.” Her expression softened and she sighed. “Though… sometimes I wonder,” she added gently, “if we catch it early enough, before they’ve lost themselves entirely, might there still be hope for zome? ” She shook her head faintly, as if unsure. “Let the hunters work under your preferred guidelines,and though it hurts my heart, without mercy for those already too far gone.”

From beneath his lashes, Gideon’s gaze quietly found Charlotte’s while Lady Petit had been mid-speech. Charlotte caught it only by chance, and she blinked, uncertain of the reason. Then, her fingers drifted near her amulet unconsciously. When she tapped it, testing, Gideon gave the faintest nod, so slight it might have been imagined, timed precisely when no other eyes were watching. Her stomach clenched.

Gideon finally spoke, his voice thoughtful but firm. “I agree with Prince Wulfric… There is wisdom in what’s been said… but let us not forget: fear spreads faster than fact, and burns far more indiscriminately.” His gaze passed briefly to Wulfric, then around the room. “Once word reaches the streets—and it will—they will cry for blood. And not just the Queen’s. Mercy for the corrupted may be unwise… but if we allow paranoia to dictate our path, we risk condemning the innocent. And that would be its own kind of evil.”

Laurent’s voice cut in, steeled with conviction. “And that, Duke Edwards, is precisely why the hunters exist.” His eyes were unwavering as they met Gideon’s. “To distinguish the corrupted from the wrongfully accused.”

“If these few hunters are all we can rely on, then that is all the more reason to hold them to the highest standards. Where will we end up if they behave little better than would-be slavers?” He shook his head. “I do not tolerate disorderly conduct. Those who oversee the actions of others must never be exempt from oversight. The hunters must be exemplary,” he stressed. After a beat, he added, “Ideally, they should impart their knowledge, so we may begin training a proper force.”

“Agreed.” Lorenzo nodded to Wulfric before turning to Laurent, finally prepared to clap back at him. He’d been waiting for this moment. “Duke Laurent, we can't have foreigners policing our people. You must think of the confidence the people have in us. It's already embarrassing enough that we need the Varian Kingdom to clean up our messes. Using them to discern the criminals while he build up our own domestic authority against these spell-slingers is a perfect plan, Prince Wulfric. This matter needs a firm hand, yes, but that hand must be ours… for it is the Gods that guide them. The same gods that have chosen our Prince Wulfric, the Witch Catcher.” Lorenzo made a fist with his right hand to convey his conviction.

After wrapping up the strategic discussion, the meeting closed with a brief overview of the duchies’ current state: largely positive, with most regions reporting steady or improved economic trends.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Gideon Flashback

FLASHBACK

Walter Vikena • Willow Vikena • Gideon Edwards

Location: The Montauppe Mansion Ballroom — Once the Petits' estate, now under Damien ownership

Time: Evening • Autumn, 1709

The ballroom glistened like something out of a dream. Crystal chandeliers scattered the glimmer of gowns across marble floors, and the air smelled of perfume and buzzed with the hum of string instruments. It was an evening meant for elegance.

Naturally, that meant Walter Vikena strolled in as though the night were already about him.

His entrance was a performance: chin lifted, hair swept into a stylish mess, and that ridiculous grin on full display. He looked ready to give a speech or start a scandal, or perhaps both. With a bounce on his heels, he came to a stop beside Gideon Edwards.

Young Gideon Edwards was the picture of propriety. His red hair was neat, his cuffs perfect, and his posture straight as a board. But his gaze swept the room with faint suspicion, as if expecting trouble. Then pretty little Willow hovered between them, a vision in pink, her hazel eyes wide with nervous excitement. Her fingers twisted together, and she whispered something about how “pretty everything looks,” as if afraid to disturb the enchantment.

Walter, of course, had no such restraint.

“There they are!” Walter declared loudly and suddenly, throwing his arms wide. “The sacrificial lambs of tonight’s affections. I give it ten minutes before one of them tries to faint near me just for the excuse of being caught in my arms.”

Gideon sighed the sigh of a man who had known Walter too long and not long enough, adjusting his cuffs. “Walter, for the love of the gods, must you announce your delusions aloud?”

“They’re only delusions if I’m wrong.” Walter winked, then grinned wider. “And I never am.”

Gideon glanced over and to his horror, there was indeed a small group of girls near the orchestra, stealing glances at Walter with obvious curiosity. He leaned in and muttered under his breath, “One day, someone’s going to slap you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Giddy.” Walter’s smirk turned downright wicked, and he bumped Gideon’s shoulder with his own. “You’re getting me all excited before we’ve even found a place to sit...”

Rolling his eyes, Gideon quickly averted his gaze and decided to pivot the conversation. His gaze caught on a particularly severe man glowering in their direction. “Remind me again why Duke Gabriel Petit always seems to have just swallowed an entire lemon?”

Walter barked a laugh. “Because he has to introduce his son Laurent to ladies without mentioning that his only hobby is talking about fish.”

Willow let out a soft gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “Walter! That’s not very kind!”

“Kindness?” Walter spun dramatically toward her, hand to his chest. “I am so kind, dear sister. I’m rescuing an entire generation of women from conversations about trout.”

Gideon sighed, shaking his head, though the corners of his lips twitched. “At least Laurent's quieter than his father. Gabriel once spent an entire hour lecturing me about how Primitus disapproves of dancing too exuberantly. ”

"Primitus probably disapproves of fun in general," Walter retorted cheerfully, his eyes alight with mischief. "I think the Petit’s ideal ball would consist of sitting silently in a circle, reciting prayers, and glaring at anyone who dares breathe too loudly."

Willow’s giggle escaped like a burst of bubbles, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh no, that’s just true!”

"I know. Isn't it delightful?" He winked charmingly, nudging Gideon again but with his elbow this time. "But enough about sour old men and their fish-obsessed sons. Willow, weren’t you looking for someone tonight?"

Willow’s eyes lit up instantly, the blush on her cheeks deepening. She smoothed the fabric of her dress, her voice soft yet filled with anticipation. “Lord Desmond Wood. He promised me a dance tonight.”

Her brother immediately sucked in a loud gasp, as if she’d just confessed to falling in love with a street thug. Then, slowly, dramatically, he turned toward Gideon with the look of a man who’d just watched someone lick the floor. “Desmond Wood?” he repeated, like the name physically offended him. “You mean Captain Rakehell himself? The man collects women like taxes?”

Gideon tilted his head, lips twitching. “Come now, he’s not that bad. ”

“Gideon, respectfully, he’s a bastard. I can see it on his stupid face.”

“You two are being ridiculous!” Willow protested with a giggle, though her ears were turning pink. “He’s sweet and thoughtful!”

“The only ‘thoughtful’ thing about him is how hard he thinks before saying absolutely nothing.”

Gideon gave Walter a sidelong glance, amused. “You’re jealous your precious twin sister might spend more time with him than you.”

“Of course I’m jealous! I’m emotionally unstable! And if Desmond so much as brushes a fingertip against her hand, I swear on all that is holy, I will set his cravat on fire and blame it on Lord Laurent Petit.”

“Goodness, Walter,” Willow laughed breathlessly, cheeks flushed from giggles. “You must have had your fill of libations before even arriving. I’m going to have my dance, and that’s the final word on that... I’ll see you gentlemen later.”

She twirled off with a dreamy little skip, eyes locked on her mark. Walter watched her go, expression dripping with theatrical grief. “And you’re too lovely for that sentient breadstick,” he called after her, wagging a finger as if he could scold her back over. “I’ll fake a seizure! I swear I will!”

She didn’t look back, already halfway to Desmond Wood, who was leaning against a column like a man very aware of his own bone structure.

Walter squinted like he’d just spotted a cockroach.

He turned to Gideon with an accusatory jab of his elbow. “Well then, who are you going to dance with, carrot?”

Gideon blinked, already reaching into his coat. “I’m afraid I don’t have adoring maidens trailing after me like ducklings,” he said dryly. “I suppose I’ll just find a table for us and begin that book I brought.”

Walter stared, stunned. “You brought a book to a ball?”

“It’s a gripping work on maritime navigation, actually—”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Walter grabbed his wrist before Gideon could escape. “You are not going to sulk in a corner with your textbook. If no one's asked you to dance, then congratulations, you're dancing with me.”

Gideon blinked rapidly. “Wait. What? But—but—Walter, we can’t—”

“Too late! You’ve already been swept off your feet!” Walter spun him halfway onto the floor before Gideon could form another excuse, ignoring the scandalized looks they were receiving.

Gideon stumbled slightly, laughing, but mortified, as Walter tugged him further into the center of the floor. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Walter murmured, barely audible beneath the waltz’s rise. His lips parted slightly as if he might say more, his eyes softening as they searched Gideon’s expression.

Gideon froze just enough to be noticed. His brow knit, lips parted in turn, and for half a heartbeat, neither of them moved. A breath caught between questions neither dared to ask.

Then Walter spun them suddenly, breaking the moment, “ Come now, dance with me like you’re not plotting to escape from my arms for once.”

They careened slightly off-beat from the rest of the ballroom, nearly colliding with a horrified Lord Laurent Petit, who fled like a startled fawn. Gideon let out a genuine laugh as Walter twirled him again.

“You’re going to throw out my back, you madman—”

“Then I’ll carry you,” Walter chirped. “Heads up, Gideon, I’m dipping you now!”

“Don’t you dare—!”

But it was too late, Walter leaned him back dramatically, far too low, earning a scandalized gasp from a passing lady and a stifled snort from a nearby servant. Gideon flailed upright with a grin he couldn’t suppress. The music swelled, and the two of them gave up trying to follow anyone else’s rhythm, moving in ridiculous tandem.

“You’re lucky I’m spry, Vikena,” Gideon muttered through a breathless laugh. “Anyone else would’ve thrown you across the room by now.”

“You’d miss me terribly if I shattered against the punch bowl, and died a tragic, sticky death.” Walter shot back with a grin, “but what a legacy I’d leave. Here lies Walter Vikena — too beautiful for this world so he drowned in some non-alcoholic bullshit excuse for punch.”

“More like, ‘Here lies Walter, tripped on his own ego.’”

Walter nearly tripped as if to prove the point. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll bring you down with me, carrot.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Never. You’re my crunchy orange boy.”

“I have a title, you know.”

“So does my pet goat.”

“What title could a goat possibly have?"

“King Fred.”

They were still laughing, cheeks flushed, when the quartet in the corner let their bows fall into a gentler rhythm. The footwork of those around them yielded to something slower, something that made the chandeliers seem to glow a little warmer.

The two boys' movements slowed, softening into a gentle rhythm as Gideon dipped Walter this time.

One of Walter’s hands remained on Gideon’s sleeve. The other hovered, hesitating, not quite falling away from Gideon’s waist. His grin faded as their eyes locked, and suddenly, the air between them changed.

Their breath mingled in the close space.

Gideon’s blue eyes held questions, and Walter’s gaze was still. For once, neither filled the silence.

Instead, his hand lifted, brushing ever so gently along Gideon’s back, soothing in its tenderness. As if his fingertips could say what he wouldn’t. Then, slowly, like instinct, his knuckles ghosted up to the edge of Gideon’s jawline… barely touching the curve of his cheek.

The world around them dimmed, and in that moment, nothing else existed, just them, and a question neither had dared to answer: what if?

Then Walter blinked.

His gaze shifted over Gideon’s shoulder, and everything changed.

“...Gideon,” he murmured.

Gideon followed his gaze and saw Willow standing stiffly in the middle of the dance floor. Her smile was brittle. Her hand rested on Desmond Wood’s, but her eyes looked lost.

Walter’s mouth twitched, then flattened. It was obvious to anyone looking that she was absolutely crushed.

Desmond was dancing with her, but his posture leaned away. His hand, though technically proper, gripped hers without tenderness. And worse… He was laughing. Not with her.

His head tilted toward another girl who stood nearby, giggling into her glove.

Walter’s fingers curled into a fist.

“Walter,” Gideon warned, sensing the shift in his breathing.

But the warning came too late.

Walter stepped back from Gideon and with long, intense strides, he stalked across the floor, cutting through swirling couples. The moment he reached Desmond, he didn’t wait for politeness.

He shoved between the pair, nearly knocking the man back a step. “Is this your idea of a dance, Wood?” Walter snapped, “Looking at every other woman in the room like you're at a livestock auction?”

Willow startled, eyes wide. “Walter, stop—”

Desmond’s easy smirk faltered for only a heartbeat. Then, with the confidence of someone used to getting away with things, he stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “It’s called having charm, Vikena. You’d know nothing about it.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Walter barked a cold laugh. “I forgot charm now includes stringing along sweet girls for your evil desires.”

“And I forgot you were still suckling at your sister’s skirts like a jealous puppy. " Desmond sneered. “Relax. No one’s interested in a simpering bitch like her.” He leaned in slightly, his smirk widening. “Why don’t you run back to Edwards, since clearly no woman here wants to dance with you?”

Gideon was already halfway across the floor, threading through the crowd, panic flashing in his eyes. “Walter, don’t—”

“Say that again,” Walter growled, stepping close enough their chests nearly touched. “Say one more word about her.”

Desmond leaned in with an amused glint in his eye. “You mean the girl who’s practically begging for my affection? Tell me, which one of you two is going to cry first when I leave her for someone with a working brain?”

The quarrel had caught the attention of those nearby at this point, and a few onlookers gasped as Walter’s fist moved fast. The sound of his knuckles colliding with Desmond’s jaw cracked like a whip through the air. He staggered back, but he didn’t fall. He reeled back, eyes wild, and then lunged forward with a snarl, punching Walter back square in the cheek.

Walter’s head jerked, his body twisting from the blow, but he didn’t fall either. Instead, he grinned.

Gideon grabbed Walter’s shoulders, trying to pull him back. “Enough! You’re going to get yourself arrested—”

Willow pushed her way between them, shoving at Desmond’s chest with tears in her eyes. “Stop it! Both of you! This is insane!”

Walter snarled over Gideon’s shoulder, trying to shrug him off. “He doesn’t get to walk away from treating my sister like that!”

“Your sister’s not made of glass,” Desmond snapped, rubbing his bruised jaw. “But I suppose she is easy to break.”

“Get out of my sight!” Willow shouted, voice cracking as her eyes welled with furious tears.

The music had stopped. All eyes were on them.

Duke Percival Vikena stood frozen, eyes narrowed in disapproval. His jaw was clenched so tightly a vein throbbed in his temple, arms folded across his chest, while his wife Duchess Cordelia Vikena was pale as ivory and trembling behind her fan. She stared at her son with a haunted look, her rosary clenched so tightly the beads bit into her skin.

Closer to the spectacle, Duke Adam Edwards arched one amused brow, his glass of brandy paused midair. He let out a slow, thoughtful breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in wry amusement as he commented, “Do try not to bleed on the Petit’s carpet beneath your feet, Lord Vikena. It’s imported.”

And from across the room, a voice boomed:

“Enough!”

Duke Gabriel Petit stood at the top of the ballroom stairs, his rigid frame shaking with barely contained outrage. His greying hair looked freshly fluffed, as if the stress itself had ruffled him.

“This is a sacred celebration and you choose to treat it like a back alley tavern brawl?” His eyes blazed as they swept across the trio and landed, predictably, on Walter.

“Lord Vikena. Lord Edwards. Lady Vikena. You have defiled the sanctity of this night. Go outside and get some air.”

“But—” Willow began, but Gabriel’s hand shot up.

Walter wiped the blood from his lip with a wicked grin and gave Desmond a final glance. “Your fly’s open, by the way.

Gideon grabbed him by the arm before he could make things worse. Walter didn’t resist. His shoulders were tense, but he let himself be dragged away. Willow followed beside them as the three were escorted toward the back entrance. However, in no way was Walter silent during this transition.

Walter twisted his arm just enough to hurl one final declaration over his shoulder,: “Everyone saw it! I was the righteous blade of justice, and you are pure greasy villainry, Desmond Wood!”

He threw his free arm wide, as if addressing an invisible jury. “History will vindicate me!”

Gideon groaned aloud, half-dragging him toward the exit, but Walter paused mid-stride, threw his head back, and blew a kiss toward the cluster of girls by the orchestra, who were watching in stunned silence.

“Ladies…” he purred, giving them a wink. “I regret only that I could not defend your honor as well. Perhaps next time, hmm?”

A few of them actually giggled.

Walter gave one final, sweeping bow, then straightened as both Gideon and Willow shoved him outside.

The doors opened with a heavy groan, and cold night air rushed in to meet them. As the grand doors shut behind them, and the three found themselves in the gardens, Walter informed them, “Mark my words, I’ll be a legend by morning. They’ll write sonnets about me.”

Gideon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “More like they’ll write restraining orders.”

Behind the Petit estate lay a meticulously curated garden. Cobblestone paths twisted through rose-covered trellises. Towering hedges were trimmed with the obsessive precision of a noble gardener. In the center, a marble fountain shaped like an angelic maiden poured water from an urn into a pool, its trickle echoing through the stillness of the air. Wisteria draped from pergolas and fireflies begin to blink in and out of the shadows.

“Walter… how much did you drink before we even arrived?” Willow asked, “You’re going to get yourself seriously hurt one day. Or worse…Locked up. You know how Papa and Mama are… They’re already at their limit with you.”

Something behind his eyes twitched. He looked ahead toward the garden path, jaw tightening slightly before his usual smirk returned. “Darling Willow,” he said smoothly, “I had precisely the amount of wine required to dance like a god and punch a rake in the face.” He turned to her with his usual demonic grin, “And if that’s a crime, then let me be guilty forevermore.”

Gideon’s voice was dry, but the worry behind it was real as he chimed in. “It’s not the wine I’m worried about. It’s you throwing yourself headfirst into trouble like you’re desperate to win a medal for it.”

The three of them moved forward and came to a stop at the marble fountain where Willow sank onto the edge. Her eyes lifted toward Walter, brow creased. “You scared me,” she admitted quietly. “You always do when you get like this.”

Walter stood frozen for a breath. The confidence drained just slightly from his face, but it was quickly masked again by bravado. He approached the fountain, his boots crunching over gravel, and offered a bow. “I live to both alarm and delight. A tragic flaw, I’m told.”

“Walter,” Gideon cut in more firmly this time, “she’s not joking. You didn’t think. You just saw red like you always do, and I know you’re smarter than this.”

“No, no—what I saw was Willow,” Walter snapped back, suddenly serious, “With tears in her eyes and that bastard looking smug about it. That’s all I needed to see.”

Silence followed, save for the soft trickle of the fountain and the occasional chirp of crickets in the hedges.

He turned away, running a hand down his face and into his hair, his fingers shaking faintly. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “I’m always fine.”

Gideon stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Walter’s shoulder. His voice was low and kind. “No, you’re not. But you don’t have to be. Not with us.” His expression softened, and he said more lowly, “Never with me.”

Walter said nothing. Instead, he looked up toward the sky, exhaled a deep breath, and finally his shoulders sagged. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he turned toward the garden path and declared, “Well. Let’s go vandalize something. I need to feel something other than overwhelming rejection from society.”

Willow let out a small laugh despite herself while Gideon just shook his head. “Walter…”

And with that, Walter strode off a few paces ahead, arms thrown dramatically into the air as he went on about the incoming sonnets again, and his sister’s gaze lingered ahead as he stalked through the wisteria like a wounded lion.

Gideon watched her quietly before offering his hand. She accepted it, and he helped her up from the fountain’s edge with ease. As she took his arm, he glanced at her sidelong, noting the faint tremble in her breath. Her gaze had gone distant despite the smile she kept on her face.

“He’s a mess,” she whispered.

Gideon smiled gently, the expression filled with affection. “Indeed. But he’s our mess.”

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips just grazing her cheek. His voice dropped to something softer. “You don’t have to smile for us, you know.”

Willow blinked, startled by the directness. “You were hurt tonight,” he continued. “And not just by fists. You trusted someone, and he made a fool of that trust in front of half the nobility.” He paused, looking down at her the way he had his own sister many times over. “That doesn’t make you silly, Willow. It makes him small.”

Willow’s lips parted slightly, her eyes beginning to sting again. “I know what it looks like when you’re pretending not to cry.” He smiled faintly. “My sister did the same thing. Same wobble in the chin.”

Her hand tightened slightly on his sleeve. “I should have known better.”

“No.” His voice was firm but kind. “He should have been better.”

Meanwhile, Walter had drifted several steps ahead, the dramatic fire in his stride cooling into a casual swagger, until it wasn't. His smile faded. Something in the distance made him slow, one foot faltering slightly as if the air itself had thickened.

His brow furrowed, and his head tilted with a curiosity that revealed his instinctual unease. The wisteria parted around him like curtains, revealing a figure standing just beyond the nearest hedge.

A man? No—Two.

One stood upright, wrapped in a black cloak that pooled around his boots. The other was hunched over, half-dragged, half-stumbling, a thick iron chain looped around his neck and clutched tight in the tall figure’s hand. The chained man was gaunt, dirty, bruised, his mouth gagged, his feet bare and bloodied from being pulled across stone.

The taller figure moved with eerie calm.

None of them ever forgot the sound of that steady grind of chain links and the slow scraping of boots on the cobblestone.

Walter’s breath caught in his throat. “...Don’t like that.” he muttered.

Behind him, footsteps crunched gently on gravel. Willow and Gideon had caught up, and their chatter was silenced the moment they saw the look on Walter’s face.

“What is it—” Willow began softly, but her voice trailed off as she followed his gaze.

Gideon grabbed her arm and ushered her to crouch low behind the hedges alongside them. All three dropped into a kneel in the shadows.

The trio watched in frozen silence.

The man moved with purpose, but no urgency. His hood was drawn low, casting his face in shadow, but they could see his mouth as he spoke quietly to the chained man. The words were inaudible, but his tone had the lulling cruelty of someone speaking to a dog they meant to drown.

He gave a sharp tug on the chain, forcing the prisoner to collapse to his knees with a sickening thud. His gaunt form swayed like a leaf in the wind, blood dripping down from his chin where his lip had split open, and a dark stain bloomed on the back of his tunic.

“He’s branded.” Walter breathed, the words dry on his tongue, as if even speaking them left a bitter taste behind.

Willow’s breath hitched audibly. She pressed a hand to her mouth, her other hand instinctively gripping Gideon’s sleeve.

The cloaked man raised a gloved hand, and out of the shadow stepped a second figure. A woman, face obscured by a half-mask, with crimson gloves. From her back hung a sleek, angular weapon, its shaft etched with glyphs that shimmered faintly with violet sigils.

She approached with such mechanical movements it was as if she weren’t truly human at all, and from her hip she withdrew what looked like a needle.

She crouched beside the chained man, who began to squirm, eyes rolling in desperation. She didn’t speak. She simply inserted the needle just below his ribcage and began to inject him with something, something none of them could name.

The reaction was instant. His body arched violently, muscles seizing, veins in his neck bulging. A horrible sound, like a choking gasp strangled in cloth, echoed as he writhed. Then she withdrew it… only to insert it again, lower this time, closer to the stomach.

Walter surged halfway to his feet.

Gideon wrapped an arm around his middle and dragged him back down hard. “Walter—stop.”

“We cannot let this happen,” Walter hissed. His voice cracked as he spoke, and his chest heaved. “We can’t just sit here—”

“I know. I know. But if you move, he’s going to see you.” Gideon tightened his hold and reached for Walter’s hand, gripping it firmly. When he glanced up to meet his eyes, he froze, startled at the sight. Silent tears had begun to trail down Walter’s cheeks.

Meanwhile, Willow had gone pale. Her hand trembled visibly on Gideon’s arm, her knuckles white.

The woman pulled a second tool from her belt, a long knife of some sort. She murmured something to the man on the ground, then dragged the blade across his shoulder in a clean slice. Then the pain hit. He bucked again, slamming his head back into the cobblestones with a dull crack.

Willow turned away, pressing her forehead to Gideon’s sleeve, muffling a soft, broken sound while Walter’s hand had curled into a trembling fist over his knee, his entire body wound tight like a spring.

The male finally knelt. “You will tell me where she is. Or I will make you remember it from your marrow.”

Gideon stared ahead in quiet horror. His voice dropped to a whisper so low only the twins could hear. “We have to go. Now. If he sees us—”

His whisper barely left his lips before the hunter’s head twitched.

Not toward the prisoner. Toward them.

The masked woman froze mid-motion as her head turned as well, slowly like a predator scenting something on the wind.

Walter’s stomach dropped. “He saw us.” He didn’t need to say more.

Gideon grabbed Willow’s wrist in one hand, Walter’s coat in the other. “Run.”

They bolted.

Their feet tore over the cobblestones, down the garden path, and past the wisteria-strewn arches. Branches whipped at their faces as they crashed into the forest beyond the estate, the sounds of the garden swallowed by thorns and bark and their own thundering hearts.

Willow’s gown caught on roots, but Walter reached back and pulled her forward without a word. Gideon stayed behind them, scanning the trees, making sure nothing followed.

They didn’t stop running.

Not even when their lungs began to burn. Only when the light of the estate was gone and the world was swallowed in darkness did their legs give out beneath them.

They collapsed in the crook of a hill, beneath a canopy, gasping as if they had been drowning.

Walter fell to his knees, his coat soaked, his hands clutching the wet earth. His breath hitched and stuttered in his throat, and when he finally managed words, they came as a hoarse whisper:

“My father wasn’t lying.”

His wide eyes met Gideon’s, glassy with disbelief.

“They hunt us.” Walter swallowed before continuing. “People like me and Willow...Monsters like me...” His voice broke entirely. “Like animals.”

Willow dropped beside him, her knees folding under her, arms wrapping tightly around herself as tears fell down her cheeks. She curled inward like she could make herself vanish.

Gideon knelt between them, drenched in sweat, still gasping from the sprint. He reached out instinctively, placing a steadying hand on each of their backs.

“You’re safe now. They didn’t follow. You’re safe. You’re safe…”

He was staring beyond the trees, into the swaying dark. His lips moved without sound at first, until memory pushed words forward:

“We don’t belong to them. But they’ll break us until we do.”

Willow’s voice came next, cracked and aching. “They’re here… In Caesonia.” Her arms tightened around herself as she looked up, devastated. “I always thought they might come for us, with the way Papa would talk—but I thought we had more time…”

“They’ve always been here.”

Gideon’s brow furrowed, heart pounding for a different reason now,.

“Who…” he asked, his voice low, afraid of the answer. “Who are they?”

The twins turned to him, slowly. Their expressions were hollow now, eyes rimmed in red.

And though the wind rustled the trees, and fireflies blinked like dying stars, for a long moment…

They never did manage to answer him that night.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🌸 Race: Half-Elf 🌸
🦋 Class: Druidic Mystic 🦋
🍄 Location: The Bathroom🍄
🍃 Interactions: Menzai@Samreaper B🍃
🌼 Equipment: 🌼

Full Equipment List

✦ Druidic Staff
✦ Stone-Carved Dagger
✦ Poison-Tipped Blowgun Darts
✦ Her amulet
✦ Satchel
✦ Flint & dried tinder moss
✦ Waterskin
✦ Dried Medicinal Herbs
✦ Bag of pretty trinkets, marbles and rocks
✦ Sharpening river stone
✦ Oruna tribal moon bracelet

🪷 Attire: Outfit 🪷

Attire

✦ Antler Headdress – Elegant branching antlers wrapped in vines and blooming wild roses and other flowers, dangling with purple crystal teardrops.
✦ Thick Magenta Hair – Flowing in long, heavy waves with many braids, tiny beads and blossoms braided throughout.
✦ Forest Bralette – A natural fabric top adorned with layered leaves, hide, flowers, and shimmering gem accents across the bust.
✦ Arm Jewelry – Vine-wrapped armlets and bracelets studded with glistening stones in violet and turquoise hues.
✦ Green Cloaklet – A light green cloak clasped with a gem like amber—crafted from flora and fauna
✦ Layered Skirt – Flowing petal-draped skirt with high side slits, woven from cloth and flower petals
✦ Waist Adornments – A golden vine belt holding a satchels, feathers, and a charm pouch of herbs and trinkets.
✦ Leg Jewelry – Beaded anklets and thigh cords with gemstone charms
✦ Nature Tattoos & Paint – Faint tribal markings or nature-inspired body paint peek beneath her outfit

🪞 Gold Balance: 55 🪞
🌸 Injuries:

Injuries

🗡 Deep Stab Wound – Inner Forearm:
Took a dagger meant for her chest directly into her forearm. Blade embedded deep, slicing muscle and likely grazing bone.

Symptoms: Intense bleeding, nerve pain, compromised grip strength, nearly unusable arm.

💥 Dagger Hilt Nerve Strike – Same Arm:
Liana delivered a blunt-force strike to the same wounded arm, targeting the nerve center.

Effect: Caused violent spasms, a surge of white-hot pain, and temporary loss of staff control.

👢 Abdominal Kick #1:
Delivered early in the fight, knocking the wind from her lungs and sending her back into a fall.

Injury: Minor bruising and impact trauma; no time to recover before escalation.

💥 Blunt-Force Trauma – Abdomen (Round Two):
After wounding Liana with her claws, Phia was struck again by a full-force kick, this time with devastating intent.

Result: Cracked ribs upon impact, severe internal pain, and possible bruised organs.

💔 Mirror Slam – Back & Head Trauma:
Her body was hurled into a mirror, causing glass to shatter around her.

Likely Effects: Lacerations, mild to moderate concussion, whiplash, and shock.

💣 Face Slam x3 – Wood Frame:
Liana repeatedly smashed Phia’s head into the shattered wood behind her.

Injuries: Scalp bleeding, split lip, bruising across face and brow, potential concussion symptoms worsened.

💀 General Condition:
Phia was left semi-conscious, bleeding from multiple points, her breath labored, body trembling, and suffering from a mix of nerve trauma, internal bruising, broken ribs, and likely concussion.

🌸

The shadows fled from her vision as the blue sky above greeted her. Phia’s breath hitched, chest rising as the strange cold warmth of the magic faded from her limbs. Her ribs no longer screamed. Her blood no longer burned. But it wasn’t the pain that made her freeze.

It was him.

Menzai was right beside her, close enough to touch.

Her eyes flared wide, and a gasp escaped her lips."Menzai…?" she whispered, then louder: “Menzai!!” She scrambled across the bar top. She launched herself forward with the recklessness only someone born of instinct and emotion could possess, tackling Menzai in a clumsy embrace. Her arms flung around his neck, and her face buried into his shoulders.

"I thought you were gone!" she cried.

She pulled back only enough to stare at his face, touching it with both hands like she needed to feel it to believe it was real. Her fingers smeared dried blood across his cheek, but she was smiling. "I'm glad you're not dead." she informed him, then pressed her forehead against his, eyes squeezed shut.

Then the Stormrider groaned beneath her. Her fingers tightened reflexively around Menzai’s arm, gripping it fiercely as a voice filled the air.

She blinked, bewildered, trying to spot the source. Her gaze snapped around in confusion as if the ship itself had come alive and was speaking in a man’s voice.

“How…?” she whispered, half to herself, half to Menzai.

Then her gaze darted around, the sound of fearful murmurs and tense movements echoing around her. They were praying to their Gods, that much she could garner.

She swiftly moved Menzai closer as her instincts flared, pulling him to the other side of the bar with her. Phia pulled him along until she’d wedged them into the nearest corner where the bar’s sturdy wall curved inward like a protective shell, her muscles protesting even as her will pushed beyond exhaustion.

The ship began its plunge, wrenching violently downward. Phia clenched her jaw, gripping Menzai tighter. Around them, chaos exploded: the screech of metal against rock, the violent shuddering of the deck beneath them, and the gut-wrenching sensation of plummeting toward the unknown.

With every jolt, every slam against her battered body, Phia refused to loosen her grip. Her breath came ragged, but her hold remained unbreakable.

When the Stormrider finally crashed violently into the shore, Phia screamed defiantly against the roaring destruction, holding fast as the impact thundered through her bones. The collision rattled her entire frame, but she never yielded, never let go.

Then it was all still.

Slowly, Phia lifted her head, blinking through tears of relief and burning eyes. Her body ached again as she coughed harshly, but immediately her attention returned to the figure still pressed protectively against her chest.

"Menzai?" she murmured, voice trembling as she gently touched his face again. Seeing him breathe, feeling the warmth of life still steady in his body, Phia exhaled a shuddering sigh.

Captain Cindralis’s voice echoed faintly in the aftermath, drawing her attention back to the grim reality. Phia forced herself to stand, legs shaking beneath her. She turned toward the coastline ahead, and a smile slowly formed on her lips.

“We’ve made it to a new land,” Phia breathed, her voice tinged with awe as if crash-landing in a battered heap was simply the beginning of a grand adventure. She reached for the amulet at her neck, whispering her thanks to the spirits of the sky.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Eclipse • Time: Dusk

Interactions:N/A • Mentions: @AuthenticTomb Volfango @Tae Lys

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The world had reduced itself down to color, beat, and heat.

The song had a certain way of reverberating around her, bouncing off the walls and pressing deeper into her bones. She tilted her head back as the lyrics spilled freely from her lips. She moved without restraint as the tempo climbed higher and higher.

She was perhaps two—no, maybe three drinks in? It hardly mattered. Cocktail after cocktail had sweetened her tongue, loosened her limbs, and Angel felt genuinely, gloriously alive. Well, for a dead girl, anyway.

The music pulsed, throbbing through her body as she bounced around the dance floor into the music's peak. She surrendered completely to it as it pulsed, coaxing laughter from her chest as she spun and danced across the floor. Her hands raised to the strobing lights.

But if Angel had learned anything from her time outside the Black Spire, it was that predators came in more forms than she'd ever imagined, especially in places like this.

So she wasn’t particularly surprised when bold hands found her waist from behind. Glancing over her shoulder with amused curiosity, Angel arched a brow at the intruder. He was young, confident, sporting a cocky grin that probably worked wonders on simpler prey. She'd noticed him watching her long before he'd gathered the nerve to try his luck.

“You look lonely, beautiful,” he murmured, leaning in closer as if sharing a secret.

She laughed softly, a wicked spark dancing beneath heavy lashes. “Lonely?” she echoed sweetly, turning slowly to drape her arms around his shoulders. Her hips swayed forward, lips brushing tantalizingly close to his. Her voice dipped to a whisper as she added, “The only lonely thing here is gonna be your hand if you don’t move it off my ass in about three seconds.” Her smile never wavered, but her gaze pierced him with dangerous intensity.

He chuckled, unfazed, though he raised both hands in mock surrender, stepping back just enough to respect her warning. "Alright, alright," he replied smoothly, eyes lingering on hers with playful defiance. "I'll be patient. I do fancy myself a fiesty girl after all."

She laughed again, genuinely amused at his audacity. "Yeah, well, I like me fiesty too." Then she spun away, dismissing him with a teasing glance over her shoulder. Angel didn’t bother watching him go. She'd already spun back around and lost herself in the music once more.

Yet, as she danced, the feeling of being watched prickled her skin once again. Angel lifted her gaze and let it wander. Through the haze, she found two pairs of eyes fixed upon her. Angel’s smirk faltered for half a second before she recovered, rolling her eyes skyward.

One belonged to the long-haired pretty boy Lys had been getting to know very, very well. And the other had been Lys.

And she had caught that look on Lys's face.

And just like that, the air felt too hot.

She didn’t stop dancing, but Angel did tilt her head ever so slightly, letting a curtain of golden hair fall forward like a shield.

There's no way she recognizes me. Nope. We're not doing that, universe.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Duke Gideon Edwards

Time: Evening
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Interaction/Mention: @TpartywithZombi Ariella @Lava Alckon Drake @Helo Leo @CitrusArms Stratya

---

Gideon was as rigid as stone, his body unmoving while the world tilted sideways around him. The voice of the Queen confirmed what he had suspected.

And he felt a slow, cold sinking feeling in his chest...Like watching a ship take on too much water on its deck and knowing there was no stopping it.

The satisfaction in her eyes, the undercurrent of triumph… It told him everything.

And Edin.

Gideon didn’t even look in his direction. He didn’t have to. The sound of the king’s laughter alone was enough to make bile rise in the back of his throat. The duke sat there, surrounded by candlelight and silver, and wondered how a man could witness a woman being dragged into a hall in chains and still laugh.

And Alibeth had let him play his role perfectly. He was the jester in a play he didn’t understand, and Alibeth the playwright, who knew her audience would cheer no matter what actor she set on fire.

But what gripped Gideon the most wasn’t the Queen’s speech or the King’s idiocy—it was that chain. That sound. That echo. He could still hear it scraping across the stone walkway of his memory, could still feel the branch digging into his spine, Walter’s hand clutching his, Willow’s shallow breath beside him. The shadow of the hunter rising through the hedge. The weight of knowing they couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t save...

To Gideon's dismay, the man sat right by them, and Lord Smithwood was rather quick to start up a conversation. However, the words they shared were drowned out. In their place was Genevieve's voice.

He remembered speaking to her not long ago—barely more than a passing conversation, a moment near the gardens where she’d offered him a cup of tea and asked, so gently, if Drake and Ariella were well. Her voice had only held softness.

A softness that now twisted in his gut.

And now she was in chains just a few feet from him, her feet bare against the marble, her eyes searching the room in blind terror while he sat in silence among those who applauded her ruin. The sickness rose hot in his throat, bitter and shameful.

What would he think of me right now?

And then Wulfric spoke.

His words cut cleaner than any blade, revealing rot that no one wanted named aloud. And as the Prince laid his mother bare before the court, the room shifted again, and as Wulfric’s hand settled so easily on Alibeth’s shoulder, Gideon's eyes remained locked on the boy, because that was what Wulfric was to him until this moment: a boy who had once looked up at him from far below once upon a time. But who stood there now, casting the Queen into her grave with nothing more than words, was someone else entirely.

Gideon’s eyes shifted subtly toward Captain Stratya Durmand as her voice broke through the tension. He felt his throat tighten when she spoke of the Queen changing a tablecloth as if that paltry spell justified none of this spectacle. And when she dared to say the woman in chains might hold knowledge worth saving, might be something other than a threat to be extinguished, something fragile inside Gideon stirred. It had been so long since anyone in that room had said anything that sounded like mercy.

He didn’t trust hope, not anymore—but he felt something dangerously close to it flicker in his chest as he looked at Stratya and thought: Perhaps the world has not lost all its good yet.

Nonetheless, Edin's mind was made up. His pulse hammered as he watched the queen’s dignity fade, and the banquet’s false warmth drain away. As Edin demanded the arrest of his wife and spoke of the future, Gideon could not help the storm of dread twisting in his chest.

Not for Alibeth alone, but for what her absence meant. If she had truly cast magic, had truly risked everything to do so, then there had to be a reason… and that reason chilled him more than the spell itself. Alibeth had always been the leash around Edin’s neck, the one that tempered the king’s madness without the rest of the kingdom knowing.

But now? With her removed, Edin would be unleashed.

A tyrant crowned by holy law and fed by fear.

The mere thought made Gideon’s throat tighten. He stared down at his knuckles, white from how hard he gripped the edge of the table.

The embers of grief and rebellion burned bright in his eyes as Gideon rose to his feet, Duke Petit's voice pouring into the dining hall in the background. He seemed deep in thought, and it was unclear whether Duke Edwards had heard much of what Petit had said.

However, it wasn't long before Gideon's gaze lowered, and he found that his precious offspring had returned and were lingering in the doorway. Relief should have met him. But it didn’t. Not when he saw her hand, trembling, clutching Drake’s sleeve like it was the only anchor she had left.

Her eyes were wide, searching, and for a breathless instant, Gideon could see the child in her again, terrified of a world she could no longer trust.

The view of it spelled out one terrible truth: Ariella understood now. She understood what kind of game they were playing and how easily pieces could be swept off the board. But she was braver than he had even taught her to be. Braver than he wanted her to have to be.

Gideon approached them all slowly. Whatever storm had passed through him moments ago was carefully tucked away, replaced now by a warmth meant only for his children. He came to a stop beside them, eyes flicking first to Drake with quiet gratitude, then settling on Ariella.

"My dove." he said, voice hushed like a lullaby meant to soothe. Gideon reached out gently, brushing a hand against her back, a reassuring pressure that said more than words.

Then, with an easy smile, he spoke to them both. “Are you two ready to go home? I'm rather convinced your mother has been sitting in the carriage this entire time—likely reciting a list of things I did wrong tonight.” A trace of humor softened the words, but his eyes never left Ariella’s face. They spoke a quieter truth: You’re safe. I’m here.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Castle Dining Hall
Mention: @Silverpaw @Apex Sunburn@Tae@CitrusArms

---

Hafiz had intended to keep his eyes forward. To watch the stranger, to interpret the shifting currents of the hall.

But movement at the edge of his vision stole his attention:Kalliope, leaning in toward that man, her expression softened.

The way she looked at him, touched him, spoke low in confidence...

He turned his gaze back to the center of the hall with the calm of a practiced diplomat, but his mind lingered.

And yet, even as the chain rattled and the hall descended into tension, a small part of Hafiz’s mind remained distracted by the taste of something he rarely admitted to feeling: envy.

Hafiz’s expression remained still, but a glint flickered behind his eyes as Kilian spoke. There was power in the man’s voice, certainly, a kind of raw conviction that draped over the court.

He did not flinch at talk of infection or reckoning; such language was familiar to him. But what caught in his mind was how easily this outsider commanded the moment. It was not the Queen's throne that had become the center of gravity—it was this man and his chain.

Hafiz’s gaze had moved the moment Wulfric entered the hall, but it was his words that truly caught his interest. The moment Wulfric stepped behind Alibeth, Hafiz lifted his brows. The crown prince had just peeled away the illusion of unity between monarch and enforcer, torn down the theater mask Alibeth had so carefully applied to Kilian. It was well executed, and Hafiz, in spite of himself, could not help but admire the cruelty.

It seems Caesonia has an abundance of iron. Chains, tongues, and wills alike. Yet even iron breaks when stretched thin. And if the monarchy cannot agree on what defines the enemy, how is the court meant to distinguish witch from Queen?

Hafiz sat motionless, yet behind his stillness burned a quiet, burning awe. Edin had just hacked off his own limb with a rusted axe and called it divine justice. Their disgrace of a Queen was cast aside, the Church appeased, the witch hunters praised.

Hafiz nearly smiled. Nearly.

This was no longer mere court drama. This was bloodletting, a quiet civil war beginning.

Alibeth, dethroned and disgraced. Wulfric, questionable. Edin, scrambling to salvage control while unknowingly inviting others to sink their fangs deeper into Caesonia’s throat.

And the nobles? Reeling, uncertain, ripe for influence.

However, on the other hand, Hafiz supposed that now was no longer the time to voice his concerns over the dog-stealing knight. The woman’s crime, however egregious in Hafiz’s personal estimation, would have to wait their turn. A pity, really.

With a smooth smile, he rose from his seat, offered a shallow bow in the direction of the King, and took his leave.

Let the court gnash its teeth and pray to whatever gods it still believes in. I’ll offer no such prayers.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Castle Dining Hall
Time: Evening
Mention: @Oso Cassius @Tpartywithzombi Violet

---

Scraping, like chains dragged across stone.

At first, he dismissed it as an illusion of the moment; after all, the night had already unraveled into chaos. But then came the second scrape, slower, heavier... His eyes lifted from his glass, the sharpness behind them returning.

The doors did not slam open, nor did any herald shout. Instead, silence fell by the force of presence alone. A man entered, tall and shrouded in black. He moved with a stillness that did not demand attention but consumed it. Each step brought a chain clinking behind him, the kind used to bind beasts.

Calbert watched intently, his expression unreadable. The chain stretched further until its end revealed a woman on its end. She was not a stranger to him. He recognized the servant, vaguely, from the gathering for Lord Drake Edwards.

And yet, it was not the display itself that held Calbert’s gaze, but the precision with which it was executed.

Calbert sat still, his gloved fingers resting lightly on the tablecloth. He offered no reaction, not publicly.

The chain was a symbol. The woman, a piece.

There was more to this than theater. It came ever so clear as the Killian had been addressed. The King and Queen were attempting, however belated, to seize control of Caesonia’s long-ignored mage crisis.

Calbert’s gaze remained still, but inwardly, his mind turned to Violet. Then the prince spoke up and tore him from his thoughts once more. He remained motionless as Wulfric’s words hung in the air.

Gasps and murmurs had swept the hall. Nobles shuffled in their seats. They looked to Alibeth, to Edin, then back to Wulfric, each mind racing to compute the implications of a Prince’s confession that the Queen had wielded magic herself.

Alibeth, regal even in disgrace, did not resist as the guards closed in. She rose and departed with her dignity intact, though the silence she left behind was suffocating.

Calbert watched her go.

If he harbored any opinion, it did not show on his face.

Duke Laurent’s babbling had reached his ears like the incessant hum of a fly in his ear. He fully ignored it. Calbert’s attention had already shifted more purposefully. His eyes landed on his wife, then slid to Violet, expression unreadable.

Finally, he murmured: “I suppose we’d best find Cassius.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Charlotte & Cassius

Part 3

Time:Evening
Location: Hallway, Castle

---

A sound split the air.

Metal against leather. The sound of a buckle being fastened.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

She suddenly felt the ghost of pressure on her thighs, her ankles, her wrists…

It echoed unnaturally, and Charlotte’s eyes snapped open. She held her breath as the world seemed to stop.

The warmth Cassius had lit within her extinguished in a single, soundless instant.

She couldn’t breathe, and it felt as if she could no longer move her limbs.

Her vision tunneled on Cassius’s face, still close, lips barely parted, but she wasn’t seeing him anymore. Her limbs stayed where they were, but her soul was already spiraling backward, yanked into the dark by a memory she didn’t even know she still carried.

She blinked, but when she opened her eyes again, it was not Cassius she saw.

It was him.

Another older man stood before her. He was tall and neatly dressed in muted tones. His posture was straight, and his dark eyes were detached. His hair was combed with precision. There was nothing monstrous in his features, and that made it worse.

No fangs. No claws.

“Relax...” a voice left his lips. “Count backward from ten.”

Charlotte exhaled sharply and shoved her palms flat against Cassius’s chest. She pushed at him hard, her entire body trembling with sudden revulsion.

She stumbled backward like a cornered creature ripping itself free from the predator’s maws. “Don’t touch me!” she blurted sharply. Her voice trembled, but there was no mistaking the terror in it. That sudden, violent fear was aimed directly at him.

Her hands hovered in front of her like she didn’t know what they were for anymore.

Charlotte’s voice had trembled…Her body had melted into his, and now she recoiled as though he’d struck her.

Cassius froze. Arms still half-wrapped around nothing, lips parted. Her words sliced through the haze and sobered him up from the wine and the desire all at once. Her voice repeated the words once more in his head.

“Don’t touch me!”

It wasn’t confusion that hit him first. It was something else…shame, maybe. Or disbelief. His hands slowly lowered as she backed away with eyes wide and wild with fear…and somehow, even though his heart didn’t want to accept what he was seeing, it was him she was looking at like that.

He took a step forward before he could stop himself, then he paused and held perfectly still.

Her voice had sounded like a stranger’s.

She was trembling, her gaze so harsh and revulsed towards him. Her hands… they hovered like she was afraid of him. As though he would ever hurt her.

Gods, it felt so personal.

Cassius blinked hard, as though trying to knock loose whatever the hell had just shifted between them. He took another step… slower this time. Quieter.

His voice came soft and low in a more earnest tone that he rarely used.
“Lottie…”

He reached for her gently, both hands raised. Not to hold her or to grab. Just to touch her face, to ground her…to let her know she was okay. That she could be safe with him.

His fingers were just inches away from her cheek.

“It’s me…” he murmured. “You’re okay. I swear, you’re okay. We can just talk…I’m sorry if I was moving too fast.”

Charlotte stared at the figure before her, but the face kept shifting before her eyes. The hallway darkened around them as if the shadows wanted to drown her. The lights overhead sputtered erratically, emitting a dull buzz that crawled inside her head.

She felt leather digging into her wrists, tightening relentlessly. She jerked, but her limbs stayed frozen. Panic rose in her throat.

A voice then echoed down the corridor, distant at first, then unbearably close:

“Charlotte.”

The same face came into focus again: older and expressionless. “Charlotte,” he repeated. The calm command in his voice made every muscle in her body seize up. “You know how this goes.”

Her lips parted, trembling, but no sound came. She wanted to scream, but no words left her throat. Charlotte's vision blurred with tears as he pressed the cold prongs firmly against her temples. A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, growing steadily louder. She felt impending dread.

“You’re delusional, Charlotte.” he whispered, almost affectionately,“ You’re very sick. Don’t resist.” He tilted his head slightly, curiosity sparking coldly in those lifeless eyes. He turned a dial slowly, a faint humming sound rising.

“How badly does it hurt?” His voice was gentle, almost kind. “One to ten.”

Agony sliced through her, ripping mercilessly into her skull, searing through her bones like heated blades. Her vision went white and fractured violently; she heard a ragged, primal scream echoing somewhere, only dimly realizing it was her own.

“TEN! … TEN!” Her voice cracked, shrill and desperate, as her body contorted violently against the unseen restraints. Her spine arched sharply, limbs jerking with wild, uncontrollable convulsions.

“Good.” His voice was satisfied. “That’s good, Charlotte.”

The lights above her shattered into strobe bursts in time with her agony. The electricity surged again, blinding her. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, every muscle locked tight, her limbs thrashing helplessly against restraints that wouldn’t give.

“STOP! PLEASE, STOP!”

In a final surge of terror and desperation, she fought violently against the restraints, clawing, thrashing wildly to escape the unrelenting torment.

Then the vision shattered, reality crashing back into place as her fingernails suddenly found soft skin. She felt resistance and heard a startled sound that didn’t match her nightmare.

Cassius staggered back from her, his hand flying up to his face, fingertips coming away red, streaked with blood from where her nails had carved deep, panicked scratches across his cheek.

She was no longer restrained, but staring wide-eyed into Cassius’s shocked, wounded face.

Her stomach churned violently, nausea rising as a strangled sound of disbelief escaped her lips.

“I–... Cassius—”

Her eyes filled with tears. Her hands hovered, trembling, and streaked with red. She had hurt him… and the realization was almost too heavy. Panic clawed at her throat again, but now for an entirely different reason.

She fumbled desperately with the small purse slung over her shoulder, her fingers shaking uncontrollably. “Please, wait…I know I have something…" Her voice was small as she fumbled with the clasp, unable to steady her frantic, useless hands.

Her limbs felt distant. Her mind felt untethered. She didn’t know who he was—that man—or where she had gone just now, but it hadn’t been a dream. It had felt real. Too real. And now all that remained was the crushing weight of fatigue.

Cassius staggered back, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sting of her nails was nothing...he’d taken worse blows ten times over...but the look in her eyes?

That broke him.

She wasn’t here, not really…not with him. At least not like she had been moments ago.

And yet his blood now ran down her fingertips like she’d been clawing to defend her life from him.

His jaw clenched as his hand hovered just shy of the wound. He could feel it... warm, wet, the sting spreading like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. The pain was real…too real. And so was the echo of her words.

“Don’t touch me!”

Her voice replayed again in his mind’s eye.

He stared at her, raw with disbelief. She fumbled for her bag, trembling and panicked, her emotions crumbling before him in real time.

Cassius stood still, blood warm on his cheek, and for a moment, he didn’t breathe or move or understand how they had gotten here.

He watched her scramble with shaking hands, her voice cracking as she tried to explain, to fix it, to backpedal through panic and tears... but it was already too late. The look in her eyes was burned into him now.

That fear. That recoil…The sound in her throat as she spoke. It made him feel every bit the monster she had treated him to be; the one his own secrets made him fear he could not overcome.

He lowered his hand slowly, eyes falling to the red streaks across his palm. The cuts stung, but not nearly as much as the cold that seeped into his chest out of instinct… brick by brick… wall by wall… all the places he had let her in now closing up fast.

He took a step back, just one, like distance might dull the sting.

Then he laughed, quiet, bitter. Not because it was funny, but because it was the only thing keeping the rest of him from unraveling.

His voice came rough. Detached. The armor was already slipping back on.

“No… no, it’s fine. Really.” He nodded to himself, not to her. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

His gaze met hers, but there was something unreadable in it now. Something retreating.

“You know, Lottie…my father told me everything I needed to know about you.” The words tasted like venom, but his tone stayed smooth. “Guess I was just the fool who thought maybe... maybe you were different. Maybe you could actually…”

He didn’t finish his words. Instead, he looked away, jaw tight, and exhaled once through his nose.

“That’s on me.”

And then, without another word, Cassius turned and walked away.

Every bone in his body fought to turn back, but the pride he wore so well like armor forced his steps ever forward. Away from the girl who had just wounded him so. His steps were not just carrying him away from the hurt she caused, but also the damage he knew his own words would inflict upon her in return.

Charlotte’s gaze snapped upward at the bitter sound of his laughter, and the look upon his face was enough to fracture her heart long before his words ever touched her ears. Her pulse quickened with panic, her mind frantically searching for the right words, but before she could form them, his voice cut through her hope:

“You know, Lottie…my father told me everything I needed to know about you.”

A sob choked its way into her throat, and her trembling hand reached toward him as if to grasp the rapidly unraveling threads. But he was already turning away, leaving her outstretched fingers to touch only empty air.

“No…” she whispered, her voice quivering and faint, “You don’t mean that. Cassius—please… you cannot mean that.”

But he was too far gone, the hallway swallowing her words as surely as it swallowed him. The agony tore through her chest, unbearable in its intensity, a suffocating wave of grief she knew she’d never outrun. He had seen her…truly seen her…and yet he still believed what the rest of them did. What Calbert believed.

The truth settled upon her: she had lost him.

With a shuddering breath, Charlotte’s trembling hand lost its grip on her purse, scattering its contents across the floor. Fighting through blurred vision, she sank to her knees, hands shaking violently as she hastily began retrieving the scattered items until her gaze fell upon something that stopped her heart altogether.

Fingers trembling, Charlotte lifted the card into the dim light. It was a crimson business card with Luca D’Arcy’s name on it. It was from the club he had taken her to. Her breath hitched sharply, and her eyes widened in disbelieving horror.

A familiar insignia stared mockingly back at her: The Black Rose.

An icy fury surged within her painfully as she swiftly rose to her feet. “Perhaps,” she began, her voice trembling and edged with hurt, yet clear enough to reach him now, “perhaps you are exactly what I thought you were!”

She advanced toward him, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her voice cracked, though it grew louder and sharper, propelled by the pain he’d inflicted.

“You come here tonight, all sincerity and devotion, yet you wasted not a moment in that banquet to flirt shamelessly with Kalliope! Did you think me blind? Wasn’t it her bed you warmed mere nights ago?” Her heart thundered, her chest aching as she fought to speak past the sobs threatening to break her voice entirely. “Tell me, Cassius—which one of us was the fool? Which one of us was your second choice?”

She halted abruptly, thrusting the card forward in accusation, trembling hands nearly dropping it again as her voice rose to a grief stricken crescendo:

“You scoundrel! You liar!” she cried bitterly. “You took me to the Black Rose, all the while professing your heartfelt concern for my wellbeing? It was all fake, wasn’t it? You were their spy all along, weren’t you?”

Charlotte’s voice softened suddenly, breaking under the weight of her devastation, thick with despair and humiliation. “Do not dare paint me as the villain in this tragedy, Cassius Damien,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice now barely audible through her tears. “When I was nothing more to you than a plaything!”

She stared at him for a lingering moment, the tears endlessly cascading silently down her flushed cheeks. But when she spoke again, the tremor was gone, replaced instead by clarity. “Of course you believe your father “ She began softly. Her chin lifted, eyes blazing as she took another step toward him, defiant despite the tremble of pain still etched upon her features.

“Because you’re exactly like him.”

Cassius didn’t stop walking, nor did he turn or flinch or give her the satisfaction of seeing the way her words landed.

Because if he turned around now, if he saw her face, if he let himself believe for even a second that the girl standing behind him was the same one who had kissed him like he was actually fucking worth something to her… he’d fall apart right there in the hallway. His pride, which now had taken full control, would never have allowed such a thing.

So, he just kept going…each step growing louder than the last, drowning out the voices in his head that begged him to turn around and stop this madness. To change the narrative unfolding around them.

But she had already made her choice.

And if this was how she wanted to remember him, if this was the story Lottie would tell herself to make sense of it all, then fine. Let it be ugly. Let it all be his fault. Let it hurt. He was used to being the villain of other people’s stories.

His voice, when it came, was just loud enough to carry to her ears, but cold enough that even if he had turned to scream it would not have had the same impact.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

He didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t pause to see if she reacted…He just kept walking, jaw tight, blood still dripping down his cheek.

“Good to know what you really think of me, after everything.” He took a sharp and bitter breath. “Glad I figured it out before I wasted any more of my time.”

And then he disappeared around the corner, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind… and the wreckage of everything they could have been. The ruins of the version of himself he’d almost dared to become…for her.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Thea's Party Info

Thea Smithwood’s Birthday Bash

A night at sea, lit by lanterns, laced in sugar, soaked in charm.

@JJ Doe@Tae@Helo@CitrusArms@Lava Alckon@ReusableSword

---

Location: A gorgeous two-masted yacht funded by Princess Anastasia herself, floating just off the shores of Sorian

Time: Late evening of the 28th
Dress Code: Sunset elegance with a sea breeze twist — bright florals, flowy silks, sapphire accessories encouraged!

Aboard the Ship...

The Deck: Draped in fluttering golden banners, teal streamers, and lush burnt orange florals, the deck glows under string lanterns and flickering candles.

Sweet Table:
An opulent buffet of:
• Lemon tarts with candied zest
• Burnt orange velvet cupcakes with teal frosting and sugar pearls
• Cream-dipped strawberries in honeyed glaze
• Triple-chocolate brownies with gold-dusted tops
• A tall layered cake in gradient hues of her favorite palette, adorned with edible teal blooms

Bar Corner:
An elegant walnut bar with cut-crystal decanters and a backlit shelf featuring:
• Sparkling pear wine
• Rose-infused gin
• Blood orange whiskey sours
• Sweet honey mead
• Teal-hued tropical rum cocktails garnished with sugared pineapple & mint
A second "Happy Birthday Thea" banner hangs over the archway near the bar.

🎶 Inside the Cabin...

Lounge Area:
• Forest green and mustard gold tufted couches
• Satin pillows and an antique rug with Thea’s color palette
• A soft-glow chandelier reflecting over candlelit tables with games, trinkets, and sweets
• An open corner for gifts and hand-written compliments to be added to "Thea’s Book of Love" — a secret surprise she’ll open at the night’s end

Entertainment:
A trio plays fiddle, lute, and flute — cheerful waltzes and romantic serenades

Dance Floor:
Polished wood, with a front-row view of the sea through glass-paneled windows

📍 Directory

• Top Deck: Views, sweets, bar, lounge tables
• Interior Lounge: Cozy seating, music, dancing, compliment station
• Gift Drop: Back table near the flower arrangements
• Compliment Station: A corner with fine paper, fountain pens, and prompts to write Thea something from the heart 💌

Compliment Station

• 🌙 Pillow Lounge Nook Tucked at the back of the deck beneath a velvet canopy, this dreamy lounge space is layered with teal velvet floor cushions, mustard gold pillows, and burnt orange throws. There is also hookah set for everyone to enjoy.

Pillow Lounge Nook

•Pool There is a small pool available so bring your swimsuits!

Pool

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Charlotte & Cassius

Part 1

Time:Evening
Location: Hallway, Castle

_{Mention:@FunnyGuy Lorenzo @JJ Doe Fritz}

---

Charlotte’s gaze lingered upon the door, her chest rising and falling steadily as Fritz had guided her. She had no dispute with his insights, nor his gentle admonishments, for he spoke only the truth: Lorenzo often voiced whatever passed through his mind, heedless of the consequences his words might create. But Charlotte also knew that his love for her was indisputable. They were, after all, the only family left to one another.

Her expression softened, yet a sadness also crept in as her lashes lowered slowly. Her gaze lowered onto the sight of her hand, now joined with another. A hand rough and larger than her own now held hers; olive-skinned, calloused, bearing marks of wear far greater than one of his status should possess. Absentmindedly, she tightened her grasp ever so slightly, the pads of her fingers brushing the worn texture as if to memorize every ridge and scar.

After a reflective pause, she lifted her gaze towards Fritz, her sapphire eyes glistening gently with unshed tears. "I am loved," she whispered with quiet conviction, ”I do believe that…Even when it's difficult. Perhaps most of all when it's difficult."

Yet, it had never truly been love she had doubted. What Charlotte feared was the prospect of losing Lorenzo’s respect. Even in her teen years, whispers had echoed throughout the kingdom—rumors that shaped the respect of those who had yet even to meet her. Still, the thought of disappointing her father was almost unbearable.

Now that Fritz had helped her reclaim her senses, Charlotte understood with a heavy clarity that this, too, was something she must willingly let go. In the end, the only thing that truly mattered was that Lorenzo emerged safely from whatever storm loomed around them. She knew deep in her heart that something was very wrong, and she had known that from the very first night of that ball. Quietly, a pact had been made with herself, one barely acknowledged yet deeply etched upon her soul: her own life was no longer of consequence.

And if such was true: love, respect, a future, a marriage, her fear, her pain, her happiness… None of it mattered. None of it ever could. No matter how fiercely the little girl she sometimes glimpsed in the mirror begged otherwise.

"Thank you for reminding me. It’s easy to lose sight amidst confusion and doubt…

“I’ve dealt with curses before... not quite like this, maybe... but enough to know that you’re right. For now, all she can do is endure.”

She looked at Cassius and nodded firmly, blinking away tears, " If this affliction is indeed a curse, a hex, or some cruel twist of fate… then I shall endure it without complaint. “ she murmured, voice steadier now, though thin with exhaustion.

"Come what may, I shall persevere."There was no resistance as he gently led her away, her hand still curled in his. Fritz remained behind, listening at the door.

Her steps were slow, each one weighed with more than just fatigue. Her mind swirled with thoughts she dared not speak aloud, her heart heavy with the ghosts of what could never be, and her body trembling with a dread she could not name.

Cassius brought her into a small servant’s nook and only then did he speak, his voice drawing her slowly back to the present.

“You alright?”

Her lips parted, the instinctual lie already forming. But this time, the words caught on her tongue. She let them die there and, instead, she fell silent and let him speak.

“No one gets to define you. Not a prince... Not a count... Not a prick like Alexander Deacon... Not your father... Not me… Only you get to do that.”

His words cascaded into her heart, gentle in tone and forceful in truth. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as the weight of his words settled deep within her chest.

Charlotte felt the truth of it tugging at something hidden, something fragile and neglected. But who was she, truly? The Duke’s daughter. Vermillion’s Darling. The Whore of Veirmont. A witch. An orphan.

Had fate already bound her path, sealed her story with ink she hadn’t wanted? Was she merely an instrument for her own end—a pawn in a cruel game she barely understood? Or did she yearn for more?

“You hear me, Lottie?”

She did. But the only answer she could summon was a shaky, quiet exhale.

“You are not weak.”

He took another step closer.

“You are not shameful.”

His hand found hers again, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles.

“And you are not alone.”

She assumed he could not possibly fathom just how alone she had been. How deeply isolation had burrowed into her bones, carved itself into the spaces between her breaths, and echoed in the silence of empty rooms. Before she could stop herself, Charlotte's fingers clutched his with quiet desperation.

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen. Anything.”

Perhaps it was that he meant it. Or perhaps it was simply that he had said it at all.

Her hand slipped from his.
Then in the same heartbeat, she reached upward with both hands, her fingers gripping his collar. She pulled herself close, pressing her body against his chest. The strong rhythm of his heart echoed her own longing.

And then she kissed him deeply and passionately. This time, she never pulled away.