princess

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Alibeth’s Trial

Ignis 10th Morning

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It began in the hours when Sorian was still dark, when the streets were empty enough for sound to travel without interruption. The bells started before sunrise.

In the lower ward, ash still clung to doorframes. Some marks were neat, carefully smeared with fingertips. Others were uneven, dragged across wood in haste. It was not subtle that certain districts bore more ash than others. It was not subtle that the households with the least influence were the ones most publicly “corrected.”

Lanterns hung at crossroads where they had been placed the night before. Their glass glowed faintly even in the gray morning. Wardens had instructed families this week in the early mornings to keep a lamp burning so Zivitas could “see who does not hide.” The phrase was written to sound like faith.

Confession stations had been erected in many areas of the city and left behind their evidence. Names had been written into registers under the language of mercy, but with the mechanics of surveillance. Some people had gone willingly because they believed confession would shield them. Others had gone because refusing would be remembered. That difference mattered less than the fact that the registers existed.

Broadsheets had been posted everywhere, then replaced by cleaner copies before dawn, stamped with Church seals so no one could argue the words were rumor rather than doctrine:

Protocol of Distance.
Confession is mercy.
Rumor is a vector.

The city did not need to be told what those lines meant. It had heard versions of them before. It had inherited the shape of them from the Dark Period, from plague decades, from the era when fear and holiness had fused into the same public reflex. Even those born long after the Witch Hunts began had grown up with stories of marked doors and sanctioned removals.

By midmorning, the temple of the Tenfold Light and its attached Hall of Imperis were surrounded.

Two rings formed outside exactly the way they had been described in the Privy Council Chamber. The outer ring belonged to the Crown. Enforcers blocked streets, checked summonses, redirected carriages, and made a performance of removing coverings from faces. Scarves were lowered. Hoods were pulled back. Veils were lifted just enough for identification. The stated reason was public safety. The effect was a public reminder that anonymity itself was now suspect.

Inside that, the inner ring belonged to the Church.

Lantern Wardens moved through the courtyard with staffs topped by glass lamps and tokens of authority pinned to their sashes. They walked in disciplined lines and spoke quietly, almost gently, as if the rules were a form of care rather than control.

Stand here.
Keep distance.
Hands visible.
Voices low.
No hoods.
No masks.
No congregating.

A hymn began when the crowd grew restless, not because anyone believed the song would cleanse them, but because singing kept mouths busy and made dissent harder to organize.

People joined in partly from faith and partly because refusal was now legible. The Wardens watched who sang and who did not. The Church clerked the city the same way it clerked paper: with attention to patterns.

When the great doors finally opened, the Hall of Imperis did not welcome anyone.

The air inside was cold. Gaslamps burned along the walls, their light dulled by incense, incense the Church insisted upon whenever it wanted a space to feel doctrinal rather than political. Clerks stood everywhere. The bureaucracy was visible by design.

The Synod bench rose at the far end of the hall, elevated and severe. Below it sat the Crown bench, placed slightly lower, close enough that no one could mistake the monarchy’s presence, but positioned so the Church’s hierarchy remained visually dominant.

King Edin Danrose sat where the entire hall could see him. He wore Caesonian colors and enough finery to ensure no one forgot he was the axis of the state. His crown was set perfectly. He watched the movement of faces. He watched the Church’s section the way a man watches a knife that is being held too close to his throat. The tribunal had been locked on Ignis 3, but that did not mean he enjoyed the shape of it now.

He did not enjoy the way the Church’s machinery could make a king look like a guest in his own crisis. But he did enjoy that the city was looking where he wanted it to look.

Edin’s gaze shifted briefly toward Alexander Deacon, seated where a royal advisor should sit, unobtrusive and perfectly placed.

Prince Auguste sat with the stillness of a legalist. He did not share his father’s appetite for spectacle. Though he did share his father’s understanding that stability was built by systems. That was the problem: the system was now pointed at their own blood, and Auguste could not unsee the precedent being established.

Prince Wulfric entered without flourish, but the hall registered him anyway. He acknowledged all with the respect optics required, then his father with the exact amount of courtesy needed to avoid scandal. Wulfric’s eyes passed the empty space where a queen would normally sit.

He did not let his face react. He did not give the Church a moment it could turn into doctrine. Inside, he carried anger that had nowhere safe to go. He understood the logic of the tribunal. He also understood what it was doing.

Princess Anastasia was brought in after the opening procedures had already begun, dressed in all white and her hair tied back neatly. She was escorted, guided into place without being allowed to speak to anyone beyond her handler. Anastasia’s hands then folded neatly in her lap because she forced them to. Her eyes kept drifting, despite herself, toward the accused platform.

At the tenth bell inside the hall, the Synod entered.

High Justicar Marrowe walked with the pace of a man who did not need to hurry. “This court convenes under Imperis,” Marrowe said, his tone flat. “We gather for discernment, not entertainment.”

Then the accused was brought in.

Chains hung from her wrists. An iron band circled her throat, heavy enough to force everyone to notice it. Her dress was plain, stripped of royal luxury. Her head was veiled.

No one touched her barehanded.

Alibeth stopped on the accused platform and lifted her chin.

A veiled woman stepped forward with the Oath Book of Imperis in her gloved hands. “Before Imperis,” she said, “you will speak only what is true.” And Alibeth quietly swore on it.

Subsequently, she looked at the Synod bench without flinching. “Proceed,” Alibeth said simply.

Outside the hall, the courtyard crowd waited, singing when directed. Inside, the first witnesses were brought in, one at a time, escorted to the lectern, sworn, spoken, removed immediately.

A woman named Elspeth Crane spoke first, shaking with fear, her voice breaking on details, her mind snagging on images rather than sequence. She described an attack in the streets, panic spreading through taverns, the feeling that something unnatural was moving under ordinary life. The specifics did not matter as much as the tone. The tone was what the Church needed.

Father Mathieu translated her fear into doctrine with practiced gentleness. “Fear is not shameful,” Cresson told her softly. “Fear is the body recognizing threat. And a realm must learn to recognize threat before it becomes collapse.”

Then Duke Laurent Petit was called. Laurent placed a hand over the symbol of Zivitas at his collar, posture reverent.

“Your Majesty. High Justicar. Fathers and sisters of the Synod,” Laurent began, and his voice carried easily without needing to push. “I witnessed the reveal at the banquet.”

“Caesonia’s legitimacy rests on purity,” Laurent said after a pause. “The people obey because they believe the Crown was chosen. They endure hardship because they believe their endurance has divine meaning. When the street believes the Crown hides contamination, the realm becomes ungovernable without terror.”

Laurent’s gaze moved toward Alibeth, and the shift was careful. “Magic is not merely danger,” Laurent continued. “It is a moral philosophy that belongs to the underworld’s principles: deception, pride, self-interest that consumes community. It flatters the mortal ego into thinking it may rewrite what the Gods have written.”

He looked then, briefly, toward Edin. “The Danrose line is revered as chosen,” Laurent said. “And that belief must be preserved.”
Laurent concluded without flourish. “Mercy can be cruelty when it allows rot to remain,” he said quietly. “And correction can be mercy when it prevents wider collapse.” He returned to his seat, expression unchanged. He did not look satisfied.

Wulfric rose when it was his turn. “This is not a domestic scandal,” Wulfric said, gaze fixed on his mother. “It is structural. If the Crown is permitted to be stained, then everyone is permitted. If the Queen may treat heresy as a private tool, then the street will treat it as precedent.”

“I will not ask for spectacle,” he said. “But the kingdom will not accept a conclusion that looks evasive. A clean story will be enforced whether we want it or not. I would rather that story be controlled than improvised by the crowd.”

Auguste rose after, and his tone was different. “If you execute her publicly,” Auguste said, “you satisfy the congregation. But you also announce that Danrose blood can be cut away. That invites questions you will not be able to control and danger to my siblings.” The soft prince’s gaze grew sharp. “That is not something I will ever accept.”

Then Alibeth spoke. When she lifted her head, it was not defiance meant to impress the crowd outside. “Erase me,” Alibeth said simply. “And you keep what remains.”

Alibeth let the pause exist.

“I will not insult Imperis by pretending I am blameless,” she continued, and the phrasing was careful. “I used magic once. A minor alteration of color. ”Her gaze flicked, briefly, toward Wulfric. “I did it so my son would understand what he is inheriting,” she said evenly. “Not as a temptation. As a warning. In decades of marriage and governance, it was the first spell I have cast in years. I do not regret it, because ignorance is how evil breeds.”

“My father is a witch hunter,” Alibeth went on, eliciting gasps from the crowd. “I was raised under the same premise you claim for yourselves: magic is not a toy, not a badge, not a philosophy. It is a hazard that is only handled in dire circumstance, under containment, with consequence understood.”

Her chin lifted. “Your hunters do not pretend the world can be purified by refusing to name what exists,” she said. “I did the same while acknowledging that contradiction lies within these actions.”

She turned her focus back to Marrowe.“You can preach purity until your throat bleeds,” she said, “but it will not stop rot that has learned to wear manners.”

“If you execute me,” she continued, “you give the city closure. Then you blind yourselves.” Her chin lifted and her eyes flashed with intensity.

“I am the custodian of the archive you are actually trying to seize,” Alibeth said. “Shipping manifests tied to false charities. Rental records tied to storage sites. Ledger notations that appear harmless until you know how the symbols are nested. Names that mean nothing until they are cross-referenced against guild rosters, apothecary purchases, receipts, printer orders, and the routes that move ‘donations’ through the city.”

She let the list exist long enough for the Synod to feel the scope. “You know this because you have already begun to learn it,” she added. “You have glimpsed fragments. You have not touched the structure.”

It was only now did she look toward Edin. “And since we are in a hall that claims truth,” she said, “I will not varnish the obvious. The King did not build that structure. ”

“I did,” she said simply. “I have been the one handling the magical threat in this kingdom for years. I have been the one containing what your doctrines cannot contain with sermons. I have been the one preventing bodies.”

Then she delivered the line that turned her from condemned woman to logistical problem. “This is not a bargain made in defiance,” she said, her eyes steady on Marrowe. “It is a chain-of-custody problem.” Her voice sharpened. “If you want the archive to remain lawful, it must remain intelligible. Records without the mind that built them become superstition. And superstition is exactly what Imperis claims to correct.”

Hawthorne’s pen stilled again, as if the archivist could not help but respect the phrasing. And Alibeth did not waste the opening. “If you keep me,” she continued, “you do not need to trust me. You only need to control me.”

“I did not embrace deceit, pride, or appetite,” she added, and now her argument braided directly into the Primitus frame. “I did not kneel to the Underworld’s principles. I acted under necessity and containment.”

Alibeth stayed upright in her chains. “If you execute me,” she finished, voice calm enough to be terrifying, “you will spend the next year chasing ghosts with sermons and pyres while the living threat reorganizes under your blind spot.”

Her eyes held Marrowe’s.

A ripple of reaction tried to move through the gallery. Marrowe spoke again, and his voice remained the same: cold certainty framed as doctrine. “This court has heard what it must,” Marrowe said.

“Alibeth Danrose,” Marrowe pronounced, “you are guilty.”

Hawthorne lifted the seal and brought it down on vellum. “By sealed decree,” Hawthorne said, his tone administrative. “Alibeth Danrose’s time on Eromora will cease today.”

Marrowe’s gaze lifted, and his voice carried toward the hall’s doors, toward the steps outside, toward the crowd. He continued without softness. “The taint will be removed from the realm.”

“Caesonia will endure,” Edin said as he rose, loud enough to be repeated. “Order will endure.”

“Mother…” Anastasia whispered as tears fell from her eyes. This time, however, there was no outburst from the princess.

As the hall began to empty under controlled routes, Alibeth remained upright in chains.

---

Two Hours Later

The Execution

The courtyard did not feel like an open-air square anymore. It felt like a chamber with its roof torn off, every street funneled toward the temple steps.

Lantern Wardens stood in a inner ring, their lanterns held high as if light itself was a blade. Beyond them, the crown’s enforcers made a harder perimeter, checking faces, hands, hoods, pulling people back the moment they leaned too far forward. Broadsheets had been pasted along the posts again, the ink still sharp enough to smell when the wind shifted.

Incense drifted in thick veils, sweet at first and then sour, settling on tongues and throats until everyone’s breath tasted like a church.

Up on the cathedral balcony, behind a gauze screen, the royal silhouettes held still. Enough to remind the crowd who owned the day, not enough to invite anyone to measure their faces for doubt.

King Edin stood like a statue carved from fatigue and authority.

“Begin,” he said, and the word traveled even without volume, the way command does when the city has been trained to hear it.

The bell answered. Then a second toll that settled into bones and stayed there.

Below, a man stepped onto the platform at the base of the steps. “You are not here to witness cruelty,” he told them. “You are here to witness correction. The realm survives by order, and order survives by purity.”

The platform cleared. Ash Marshal Voss moved first, signaling with minimal gestures. The Lantern Wardens’ chant started low.

Then the condemned emerged. She was wrapped in a veil so dark it swallowed the afternoon light. Her hands were bound. Two attendants guided her with gloved hands that never quite touched her skin, as if the air around her was already sick. At first, she was just a shape under cloth.

Then the wind betrayed her. A strand of hair slipped loose from beneath the veil and caught the lantern glow as she stepped forward. Brown. Another lock followed, and the crowd reacted to it like blood in water. People leaned in, desperate for any proof that the figure was real, that the story they’d been told had a body.

The attendants did not tuck it back. They let it hang there, visible, swaying with each careful step. A terrible little mercy for the crowd: something to latch onto.

On the balcony above, Princess Anastasia made a sound that was far too human for court.

It started as an inhale, then broke into a strangled cry as she surged forward against the gauze, hands clutching at the screen like she could tear through it by will alone. “Mother!”

The word was loud enough to slip through the chanting. Heads tilted. Faces turned. The crowd’s attention jumped like a sparked fuse.

Someone near the front murmured, “That’s her,” and the murmur spread, delighted and horrified at once. The condemned’s brown hair swayed again as if answering them.

Anastasia’s next sound wasn’t a word. She slammed her palms against the railing, shoulders shaking, then tried to push past the guards posted near the balcony entrance. They caught her immediately. She fought them in panicked, undignified bursts, gasping and sobbing.“Let me go! Let me go—please—PLEASE!”

A hand closed on her arm from behind tightly, firm and unyielding. “Enough.” Anastasia froze, staring at her father. Tears streaked down her face in bright, humiliating lines.

“You can’t—You can’t do this,” she choked, voice splintering. “Not her. Not—”

“If you scream again, you will make them hunger for it,” Edin said quietly. “You will feed them.”

Anastasia’s lips trembled. When she looked down again, the condemned was being guided to the center of the platform.

Wulfric’s silhouette did not move. But the tension in him was visible anyway, held in the set of his shoulders, in the rigid angle of his jaw. Auguste stood slightly behind and to the side, gaze fixed not on the condemned but on the Church’s mechanism: the Wardens’ formation, the Ash Marshal’s hand signals.

The pyre waited at the platform’s center.
The condemned stood at the edge of the pyre, veil shifting with her breathing. The brown hair hung loose now, visible down her shoulder. The attendants guided her up onto the pyre’s platform.

Anastasia’s hands flew to her mouth. She made a broken sound behind her fingers, eyes wide, wild, fixed on that swaying brown hair.
The Canon Advocate read the proclamation. Then an attendant stepped forward with a lantern. The flame inside it was small and almost polite. He lowered it to the resin bundle at the base of the pyre.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the pitch caught with a wet, greedy sound.
Flame surged fast, brighter than it had any right to be in daylight, crawling up the resin-soaked timber in hungry tongues. Heat rolled outward in a sudden wave, pushing sweat to foreheads and forcing people to blink hard against the sting of smoke.

The condemned flinched, and though it was small but it was enough to make the crowd react. A gasp rippled through them like a thrill. The brown hair caught the flame first.

It happened so quickly it felt unreal. One instant it was a loose strand glinting in lantern light. The next it was a bright, vicious flare, the hair shrinking, blackening, curling into itself. The smell hit immediately.

Anastasia let out a sound that was half scream and half sob. “STOP! PLEASE—STOP!” The guards tightened around her. She fought them again, clawing at sleeves, trying to wrench free. Her voice cracked as she screamed down into the courtyard, words tumbling over each other with no dignity left in them. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry—Mama, please—”

Edin did not look at her. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the platform like he could force the city to obey by staring hard enough.

Below, the fire climbed. The veil began to burn in patches, the fabric shrinking and tightening. The condemned’s shoulders jerked as the heat swallowed the space around her. A muffled cry came from beneath the cloth.

The Lantern Wardens raised their chant again, louder now, a wall of sound meant to smother anything human in the moment.

The condemned staggered, knees bending under the shifting structure as the wood began to give. The pitch-fed flames wrapped upward, turning the veil into a collapsing, burning shroud. Heat distortion made the air shimmer around her, blurring outlines, turning her into a moving silhouette of flame and cloth.

Her scream changed as the smoke thickened. It became harsher, strangled, and then broke into coughing, desperate bursts. Each breath sounded like it scraped.

Anastasia was sobbing openly now, face blotched and wet, shaking so hard her jewelry rattled.

Below, the pyre collapsed inward with a groan of timber. The condemned lurched, then dropped out of clear sight behind the highest surge of flame. The smell grew worse as the fire did its work, thick and clinging, a scent that sat in the back of the throat and refused to leave. People covered their noses, but didn’t look away.

“Primitus sees,” he declared. “Imperis records. Aquena washes. Zivitas restores.”
The bell rang again.

One toll for the end.
One toll for the ash.

The crowd began to move, flowing outward in controlled lines, the way a city moves when it has been taught that obedience is virtue. Broadsheets were already being handed into their hands like absolution.

THE TAINT IS REMOVED.
THE DYNASTY ENDURES.
PURITY IS RESTORED.

On the balcony, Anastasia sagged in the guards’ grip, trembling, her face buried in her hands as if she could hide from what she had just watched. Auguste moved to hug his sister close.

Alibeth was gone.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening of Ignis 5
Location: Edwards Estate

The dining room wore Victoria’s taste like a crown. Every corner was gilded with gold, and tall windows darkened by the night beyond. It was a lot to take in for anyone, especially one not used to her taste.

Gideon Edwards waited at the head of a table that looked fit for a royal procession rather than a family meal yet the food itself was modest in comparison, the sort of comfort he preferred when he had any say: a roast carved, buttery vegetables, bread still steaming beneath a cloth, and a baked dish set to the side that smelled richly of cheese. He stood in a dark, well-tailored evening coat, smoothing his cuff once too often.

When he turned and noticed Sir Nikolai had finally arrived, Gideon’s expression brightened into ease.

“Sir Nikolai,” he said, offering his hand with gratitude that didn’t feel performative. “I’m so glad you arrived safely… I won’t pretend this is a light commission, but I am sincerely relieved to have you in my household. My staff is arranging your chamber as we speak—everything you require will be seen to, and if anything is missing, you need only say so.”

It would become clear to Nikolai that the man loved to talk veryquickly as he hadn’t even let the man first reply before he continued. However, Nik was fairly accustomed to shows of wealth, his grandfather loved to flaunt it, but the Edwards estate was truly something else entirely. From first glance, it seemed to put his own family’s obsession with wealth and power to shame. He had to relax his expression once he noticed his host. His face shifted very quickly from mild disappointment to a welcoming smile. He put on his best charismatic smile and walked over to Gideon, his steps as sure as his confidence.

The outfit he’d chosen had been intentional too. Strong but flexible dark brown leather, form fitted and well-worn. The fabric went down to his wrists, hiding the scratches he’d been getting in his sleep. He looked down to earth and practical with a sword strapped to his side. He left the sword at the side of the door, all while feeling the weight of the small dagger he had hidden on his person. The weight of it kept him feeling grounded, stable. The dagger in his boot helped too.

”Duke Edwards! A pleasure, sir.” He replied, matching Gideon’s cadence. He reached his hand out to shake his, the gesture entirely performative.
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk tonight; however, I’ll be plain with you while it’s just us two: my daughter has a habit of walking where she shouldn’t, alone when she ought not. After what happened—after the… incident in the tavern last night—I will not gamble on luck or appearances. You have full authority to keep her within sight when she is outside these walls, and if she attempts to dismiss you, I expect you to follow anyway. If trouble finds her, I want you between it and her. Always send word to me immediately, no matter the hour.” Gideon’s smile held, but the weight behind his glassy eyes revealed how worried he truly was for that girl.

He then eased his breath out; it was a needed release—as if saying all this aloud turned his fear into something more manageable. “Ariella should be down shortly,” he informed him. “As a fair warning, she’s… independent, and she dislikes feeling managed.” Gideon glanced toward the stairs, listening for approaching steps, then returned his attention to Nikolai with a small, apologetic chuckle. “And for the sake of clarity, my wife is out this evening with friends. Tonight, it will be just the three of us.”

Nikolai listened as Gideon spoke, keeping his hands clasped at his back as he looked around. He kept the same relaxed smile on his face, but inside he was absolutely cringing.

It was clear to him that the girl must be strong-willed considering her father felt the need to word-vomit all this information before she had come down. He kept his smile, nodding at points he felt he should nod. ”Of course, sir.” He replied with another nod.

Damn pampered Princess…

He would never admit his jealousy or how much he wished he’d had a father like Gideon.
Independent, huh? You don’t say…

Nik chuckled lightly at Gideon’s words. ”I won’t let that stop me from keeping her safety a top priority, sir.” He promised, giving him a practiced smile. He nodded at the comment about his wife, curious where that had come from but grateful for the information nonetheless.

His gaze shifted to the stairs as he heard footsteps, his curiosity for whom he’d be guarding very much real.

“That is precisely what I hoped to hear, Sir Nikolai,” Gideon replied and gave him a satisfied nod. “You have my thanks.”

Ariella paused at the top of the staircase, fingers curled around the banister as if it were the only solid thing in the house.

The light below was too bright. Not painfully so but just enough to press behind her eyes, a deep, bruised pressure that made her blink and steady her breathing. She waited a moment before moving, letting the brief wash of dizziness pass. Pushing through it would only make it worse. She knew that now.

She took the first step down.

Her body felt heavy, each movement delayed as though she were wading through thick water. By the third step, she could feel the faint tremor in her hands again, subtle but persistent, especially when she tried to adjust her grip. Annoying. Unavoidable. She loosened her fingers, forcing them to behave, and continued.

Halfway down, the noise from below reached her all at once. She could hear voices, the crackle of the hearth, the soft echo of footsteps in another room. Too much. Her senses bristled, light and sound pressing in until she focused on the rhythm of her steps instead. One. Then another.

Her head throbbed when she moved too quickly. Not sharp like it had been after the tavern, but deep and heavy, like a bruise she kept pressing by accident. She slowed again, lips parting as she breathed through it.

You’re fine, she told herself.

The fog was the worst part. Thoughts arrived a heartbeat late, drifting in and out like they weren’t quite hers. She rehearsed what she meant to say when she reached the bottom but lost it halfway through, her mind going blank in an irritating, hollow way. Her jaw tightened. She started over.

By the time her foot touched the final step, her stomach gave a soft, unpleasant roll. Tea and bread would have helped. She made a mental note to find some after, if she remembered.

She straightened, smoothing her dress with hands that weren’t entirely steady, and lifted her chin. The motion sent a brief spike of pain behind her eyes, sharp enough to warn her not to try anything clever. Magic lingered at the edge of her awareness, tempting and dangerous. Even brushing against it made the world tilt.

So she didn’t.

Ariella stood there instead, holding herself together by sheer restraint. She drew a slow breath, steadying the hollow weakness in her limbs, and stepped forward to greet the evening as though nothing in her bones felt tired, as though her thoughts weren’t moving just a fraction too slowly.

If she focused, if she stayed still enough, she could pass for whole.

The echo of her bare feet hitting the marble floors bounced through the lobby with careful and deliberate steps as her hands attempted to steady her balance with each movement. Finally arriving in the dining room, a rather poorly looking woman appeared.

Adorned with her fire-red hair, Ari’s eyes were dark as if she hadn’t slept for days. Thanks to her maids, her appearance was at least passable, but her eyes gave it away.

” Good afternoon, father.” Her voice broke into a soft-spoken greeting as if she had just woken up.

Gideon’s attention snapped toward the sound of bare feet against marble before Ariella even appeared. The moment she did, his expression changed so quickly it betrayed him. The easy charm drained into a paternal of concern. “Ariella—” he said at once, his voice gentle. His gaze searched her face, taking in the darkened hollows beneath her eyes, the sluggishness she tried to disguise, and the fragility behind her posture. The sleepiness in her voice could be because she had just woken up for a nap—but what explained the rest?

“Sit down, my darling… Please.” He moved to pull out her chair himself, hovering perhaps too close. “Good evening,” he returned,lightly correcting her, and then he gestured toward the darkened windows.

“...Have you… eaten today, sweetheart?” He hesitantly asked, still wearing a tender smile.

Ari shuffled towards the chair, sitting down slowly as a breath of relief escaped her. Shaking her head wearily before smiling softly.

” No, not yet, but this all smells amazing.” Her stomach slightly turned at the scent, but her father was right; she did need to eat something. Her eyes glanced up at the guest before looking back to her father ” I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had a guest.”

Nikolai had been keeping himself quiet at the exchange. Another brief flare of jealousy spiked as he watched the two. There was also a small part of him that was absolutely pissed that she hadn’t even acknowledged his existence yet. He knew he was normally the sort that commanded at least some sort of attention when he entered a room. But to be so totally invisible to this little girl? When he was finally acknowledged by the girl, he smiled gently.

”Good evening, Ms. Edwards.” He greeted her, as warmly as he could manage. ”If that’s the case,” He started, in reference to her hunger, ”Why don’t we skip introductions for now and head straight to the food? I don’t mind being introduced once she’s had a little time to get something on her stomach.”

Nik’s tone was warm, a practiced cadence, but his words were absolutely meant more for the Duke than his daughter.

“Ah, yes, very well then,” Gideon agreed , then inclined his head toward the table. “Please, let us not allow it to cool. I find matters settle more easily when taken alongside good food.”

The three of them seated themselves, the clink of cutlery and the warmth of the room filling the space where conversation had not yet found its footing. Gideon ate little, though he made a point of encouraging the others, his attention drifting more than once to Ariella to ensure she was managing the evening.

As the meal drew toward its end, he cleared his throat and said, “Ariella, my dear,” he said gently, turning his gaze to her before inclining his head toward their guest, “allow me to make proper introductions. This is Sir Nikolai Dragos Berova, who has very kindly agreed to lend his vigilance to our household.”

Ariella sat poised at the dinner table, her posture graceful despite the lingering weight in her limbs. The soft glow of candlelight caught in her emerald gaze as she lifted her eyes to the gentleman across from her. He was tall, dark-haired, and undeniably handsome by society’s standards. A man sculpted for admiration. Yet it was the way he carried himself, relaxed but deliberate, that drew her closer attention. A charmer, she decided, and likely well aware of it.

She offered a polite smile as she inclined her head slightly from her seat, fingers resting lightly against the edge of her plate.

“I apologise, Sir Berova, for not being my normal self this morn—”
She paused, catching herself with a soft breath and a faint shake of her head.
“—evening. I am feeling a bit under the weather.”

Her gaze drifted briefly toward her father at the head of the table, searching his expression for reassurance before returning to Sir Berova. There was a subtle tightening around her eyes as the meaning of his presence began to settle in.

“Vigilance to our household?” Ariella repeated, the question gentle but edged with curiosity. She shifted slightly in her chair, smoothing her skirts as if to ground herself.
“So… you will be staying with us then?”

Her attention returned fully to the gentleman, studying him.

“I imagine you might also be partaking in this year’s courting season then.” Oblivious as to why they would need his presence other than the courting season itself.

Nikolai kept the same polite smile on his face as she spoke. It was clear to him why her father wanted protection for her. She wasn’t all there right now to begin with. Maybe she’s just airheaded and doesn’t want to admit it, he thought dryly to himself. Regardless, he was here for a job and he would do it well. As well as a skirt-chaser of his nature could, anyway.

”No apologies needed, Lady Edwards.” He returned politely, his tone even. He paused at her questions and a realization dawned on him. He hadn’t told her yet. Had he really saved this moment for when he was being introduced to her for the first time? He had sudden empathy for her. She must feel so blind-sided by this, he thought to himself. Perhaps the most selfless thought he’d had all day.

He turned from her to the Duke and back again, as if waiting to see if the Duke would help dig him out of this hole the Duke had seemingly thrown him into. Help me, you damned fool, he thought bitterly.

Gideon offered Nikolai a brief, apologetic glance before turning fully to his daughter. “With the Queen’s condition weighing so heavily upon the city,” he began, “the people of Sorian have grown rather… unsettled. Fear makes tempers quick and judgment poor, and it has rendered the streets far less forgiving than they once were.”

He paused, as though choosing each word with her in mind.“Add to that the activity of the hunters, and—” his mouth tightened into a line,“—the regrettable incident at the tavern last evening, and I find myself unwilling to trust circumstance with your safety.”

His tone softened, once again paternal. “Sir Nikolai’s primary charge will be to keep watch over you when you are beyond these walls. Not to confine you, nor to command you—but to ensure that, should danger arise, it does not reach you first.”

Ariella listened in silence as her father spoke, her expression carefully composed. Yet beneath the calm exterior, something bristled. Anger. Frustrations. Fear…Her fingers curled slightly against the linen of her napkin, knuckles whitening before she consciously loosened them again. Protection. Watchfulness. All reasonable words for some, until they brushed too closely against confinement.

She lifted her gaze, emerald eyes steady now, clearer than they had been moments before. When she spoke, her tone was polite, but unmistakably firm.

“I understand your concern, Father.”

A pause.Measured, intentional.

“Truly, I do.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Sir Nikolai before returning to her father, chin lifting just a fraction. Here we go… Nik thought dryly as he waited for the little lady to continue. His face kept the same measured expression as before.

“But I would be remiss if I did not say this plainly.”

Her fingers smoothed her skirts again, not from nerves this time, but resolve.

“I will not be escorted as though I am a prisoner in my own life.”

“If Sir Nikolai’s role is to walk beside me when I choose to leave these walls, then I will have to accept it.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly.

“If it is his purpose to decide when or where I may do so… then we will have an issue.”

She turned her attention fully to Nikolai now, studying him not as a potential suitor, but as a variable in her freedom. An enemy

“I value my independence, Sir Berova.”

A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. Nikolai resisted the incredibly strong desire to roll his eyes at her.

“You will find I am cooperative when it's respected and exceedingly difficult when it's not.”

Only then did she lean back slightly in her chair, shoulders still relaxed, voice softer but no less resolute.

“I will not be caged by fear, father, I’d rather die at the hands of someone being free than being paraded around in a cage.”

Despite himself, Nik respected her bravado. He respected her willingness to at least try to fight the hand she was being dealt. It was far more than he had ever done. His letter back to his grandfather had been another measured calculation. Appease him for long enough and he would eventually die. And then Nik wouldn’t need to deal with him or get his hands dirty. He tried not to think about how deep a cut it was that his grandfather saw him more as a pawn than anything.

Nik stayed rather quiet as he waited for Gideon’s response. It wasn’t quite his place yet to respond to her tantrums. Lord knows, however, how much he wanted to. She sounded naive and, worst of all, stupid. Accept it, embrace it, use it. If she knew how to do that, she’d be much better off.

Gideon did not flinch at her tone, though his expression fell apart as she proclaimed she’d rather die. He stared at her with a heavy sadness, wishing he could be a shield he could place between her and the world. “You are not a prisoner in this house, Ariella,” he said, gently, doing little this time to conceal the emotions from his face, “And I will not have you treated like one.”

He let that settle before continuing, “Sir Nikolai is not here to decide your life for you. He is here because there are villains outside these walls who will try to decide it for you, if given the chance.” His brows furrowed, restrained anger kept behind manners. “None of this is because you have done wrong.”

Nik glanced from Gideon to Ariella, wondering how she would take what he was saying. It sounded grounded and reasonable to him, he could only hope the girl was reasonable too.

There was a pause, and then Gideon gave his daughter a gentle, reassuring smile. “So this is what will be true: you will choose where you go. You will choose what you do. All within reason. And he will walk beside you—near enough to reach you, far enough that you do not feel paraded.” Gideon’s eyes flicked briefly to Nikolai with the kind of glance that carried instruction. The knight offered Gideon a small nod in understanding, trying not to let his annoyance show. “He answers to me, and his charge is protection—not governance.”

He looked back at Ariella. “But hear me, my dear: if danger shows its face, pride is not permitted to outrank your life. If Sir Nikolai must pull you back from the edge of something vicious, he will do so—and you may be furious with me afterward, in the comfort of your own home, with all your freedom intact. Let us call it what it is: a temporary inconvenience in exchange for your continued existence.”

Nik’s jaw clenched momentarily as he killed a laugh that threatened to bubble up his throat and kill his composure. What a fucking line… He thought to himself. He cleared his throat as quietly as he could manage, trying to maintain his calm and charming appearance. His mind filled with thoughts of the look on her face if he did drag her out of a bad situation.

Ariella’s jaw set as the meaning finally settled in.

All within reason.
All within his control.

The words echoed like iron bars disguised as silk. No matter how gently they were spoken, no matter how carefully they were dressed, the truth remained the same. The decision had already been made. Her consent was an illusion, granted only so long as it aligned with her father’s will.

A cage, neatly wrapped in pretty words.

Her gaze lowered, not in defeat, but in the quiet, burning realization that fighting this would only tighten the strings. Her father held them. And this stranger was simply another extension of that control, meant to follow her shadow into every corner of her life.

When she spoke again, her voice was steady. Too steady.

“I understand,” she said. Not I agree, or I accept. Just understanding.

Her fingers curled slowly at her sides, nails pressing into her palms as she grounded herself.“I won’t apologise for what I did,” she continued, lifting her eyes once more. “I would make the same choice again. Every time.”

Drake’s face flickered in her mind. Blood, fear, the weight of knowing that if she hadn’t acted, the cost would have been far worse.

“If protecting my brother is a crime,” she said quietly, “then this is a punishment I'll accept…sorry”she corrected herself ”...a temporary inconvenience in exchange for my continued existence.” she echoed, clearly unhappy.

“I would never ask you to apologize for protecting your brother,” Gideon clarified with a concerned look. “And I’m not trying to punish you.”

Sweetheart, he literally just said you hadn’t done anything wrong, Nik thought to himself, his gaze now fixed on the idiotic girl in front of him. Was she picking and choosing what she heard? If anything, this should delight her if whatever she’d done had been to protect her brother. Who wouldn’t want more protection? How’s she to know he wouldn’t just join her side instead of pulling her back? Of course if hunters were coming after her…

He took in a breath that was sharper than he had meant to and released it quietly, evenly. He was going to have his work cut out for him, wasn’t he? He was beginning to understand why his grandfather hadn’t elaborated on his assignment here. Just another gilded cage to try and test his only heir. Perfect. Lovely. Thanks Gramps. Fuck you.

Even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Nikolai kept an even face, looking from Ariella and back to Gideon. It still wasn’t quite his place to speak up. If it were just him and her, though.

Ari glanced at the knight, his face betraying him as he sat silent. Frankly she didn't care what he thought, he was just as bad as her father but he got paid to be so.

”Well speak up..”, she snapped, “clearly you have a lot to say about my situation too, your smug expression gives it away.”

He turned his gaze to the girl, a brow raised as she spoke to him. So now she chose to acknowledge him. He tried to keep his expression even keeled. As he listened to her.

He smiled brightly as she finished, a smile she could likely tell was not genuine.

"Lady Edwards, I look forward to serving you." He replied deliberately. She would not get a rise of of him, certainly not with her father present. He'd never hear the end of it with his grandfather.

Great…he's spineless.

Sighing heavily Ariella leaned back in her chair. She had to admit defeat, there simply was no winning this battle.

Gideon suddenly rose from his seat. “…Why don’t I leave you two to get to know each other? “ He offered, and before either could protest he was already half-way through the archway. “I’ll be over in the drawing room… You two play nice now; I’ll have the servants bring in a course of dessert.”

Nik let out a breath as the Duke left. His gaze glanced to Ariella as he waited for the old man to be further out of earshot. Once he was sure he was, Nikolai relaxed. He leaned back against the seat, let his legs spread out a bit more, and watched the girl carefully. Now that he had a chance to say whatever he wanted, he found himself at a loss for words.

”Look, let me level with you, sweetheart.” He started, ”This is as much a cage for me as it is for you. I think we could potentially come to an agreement to scratch each other’s backs.”

Nik shifted a bit, rolling his shoulder blades calmly. ”I’ll keep my distance so you won’t even know I’m there. And I won’t step in unless absolutely necessary. In return…” He explained, his voice low and quiet, ”You tell daddy dearest over there how wonderfully I protect you.” He pointed towards where Gideon had left with a head tilt.

”Do we have a deal?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Lucian & Lottie

Time: Ignis 5 Afternoon
Location: Petal & Perk Café — window table
______________________________________________

At the table by the window, Charlotte sat perched on a cushioned stool in the Petal & Perk café. Golden afternoon light poured in ribbons through the doorway and through the panes of the window. The light illuminated the melancholic young woman, whose chin was propped up in her palm in a manner that almost suggested her head was too heavy to keep upright otherwise. She had been staring through dark lashes at the bundle of roses set in the glass vase at her table, as if they were the only thing in the room safe to set her gaze upon. Half of her hair was drawn back with a delicate lace ribbon, whilst the rest spilled over her shoulders in waves.

Her dress was adorned with white lace that was rather pretty despite the sorrow in her expression. The bodice was modest and high at the throat, detailed with tiny buttons. The skirt fell in light layers, not quite grand, but undeniably feminine. The bruising on her neck was mostly swallowed by the high collar and barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking for it, but she felt it every time she swallowed. The fabric tugged, and the reminder slid down her spine. Her free hand cupped around her untouched tea, fingers curled around the cup for the heat.

Charlotte had initially told Delilah she had been only coming here to purchase some seeds for the estate gardeners, and it was true, technically. Yet deep down, she knew she’d come for a respite from it all. She needed to be away from home for a moment, where Delilah’s hovering tenderness had turned her own helplessness into something impossible to ignore. Though she knew Delilah had meant well, somehow that had only made it worse.

People drifted past her as if she weren’t really there. And in a way… She truly wasn’t.

Nothing around her had been registering. Inside, she was still in that tavern. And she was still exhausted in that particular way sleep never seemed to help.

---

Lucian knew that his sisters would flourish in a place they stepped foot into. It was in their nature and in their blood. He wasn’t sure there were many places that they couldn’t find a place to belong in. But still, he knew being far from home couldn’t be easy and he wanted to make sure that they had something that would remind them of home in their rooms.

Which was precisely why the young crown prince was making his way to the local florist. He’d asked around where to buy flowers and had the address scrawled on a tiny ripped piece of paper. He’d dressed modestly so as not to attract attention to himself and his fiery red hair which was pulled into a neat low ponytail to keep it out of his face as he had ridden into town. He looked like a rich prince in commoner’s clothes, which was admittedly amusing to see.

When he finally arrived, he slipped the ripped piece of paper into his breast pocket and stepped inside. It was a delightful little cafe, which he hadn’t been expecting. He smiled, walking through the room towards the counter where a woman stood.

He greeted her with a soft smile and placed an order for two small bouquets of red roses. The woman raised a brow at him and he swiftly mentioned that they were for his sisters, lest she think that he was buying roses for two women. She laughed and went back to start the order for him.

While he waited, Lucian turned to look at the decor, admiring the flowers. His gaze passed over the occupants as well. A young man with a cup of tea, a young blonde woman admiring flowers she had been given by the man across from her, a woman with a pretty lace ribbon in her hair, a man who-

Wait.

Lucian whipped his head back to the woman with the ribbon in her hair, his heart skipping a few beats. It sank to the floor as she turned her head to look behind him. It wasn’t her. His expression dropped and melancholy washed over him like a tidal wave. His gaze remained on her for a few minutes, watching her expressions, before he pulled away.

A second later, however, he found himself watching her again, unable to shake the feeling in his chest. She looked… upset. He saw Sophia overlap her for a brief moment and he felt the urge to know why she was so sad.

Charlotte felt it before she located the source of it—the weight of someone’s eyes on her. Her eyes slid up, at last, with reluctance, until she found the sight of a man with his red hair tied back. It was no fleeting glance; he was watching her with a focused, steady gaze as if the moment he looked away she might disappear. She blinked once, her head tilting slightly as she sifted through her mind to try to decide why he felt familiar, and whether she even knew him at all. Nonetheless, the attention made her feel a little awkward, so she offered him a little wave finally, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Lucian’s eyes went wide as he made eye contact with the woman. He stood for a moment, like a deer in headlights, a little unsure of what he should do. He swallowed and took the few strides it would take to close the gap between them.

”I am so sorry.” He spoke, bowing just a bit towards her. ”I-” He stuttered, his mind racing with what he should say, how he should approach this. ”You look like someone I know, but it was incredibly rude of me to stare. I would understand if you were upset with me..”

Charlotte’s hand tightened around her tea cup then eased. Her expression softened and as did her tense shoulders. “Oh–no,” she said hastily, her voice warm with reassurance. It was as if the very idea of him thinking that he may have offended her pained her. “It’s quite alright. Truly.”

She studied him openly now—and curiously. “ I—…” Her eyes drifted to his hair and the line of his profile before returning to his eyes. “I also thought you looked a little familiar as well actually. A self-conscious breath escaped her that sounded almost like a laugh. “Have we met before?”

Lucian shook his head at her question. He couldn’t be sure, his memory was overlapping in a way that made the truth difficult to parse through. ”I don’t know…” He spoke after a moment, his brows furrowed as he tried to remember beyond just the startling realization that she looked the spitting image of his late wife.

”Forgive my rudeness. I am Lucian Camilia, Prince of the Varian Kingdom.” He offered her a deep bow, hoping that by revealing his identity to her, she would reveal who she was. She looked familiar even beyond just her similarities to Sophia.

Her face lit up with realization and she rose to her feet hastily, her ankle faintly catching on the leg of the table. Nonetheless, she recovered with pose and gracefully presented him a curtsy.

Realization crossed Lucian’s features like a mirror to hers. He moved just close enough that he could reach his arms out to be prepared to catch her should she fall.

“Your Highness, please pardon me… It’s been some time since we last met.” She formally greeted him with a warm smile. “I am Lady Charlotte Vikena, of the Vermillion territory. My stepfather is Duke Lorenzo Vikena.”

Then, she gestured toward an unoccupied stool. “Please join me if you so wish.”

He smiled, the sort of practiced smile one comes to expect of someone of his station. ”It would be my pleasure, Lady Vikena.” He replied, his tone instantly swapping once he realized her identity. His mind still reeled silently at just how much she had grown and how similar she had become to Sophia.

”It has been far too long. I hope things have been well for you and your family?” He offered as he took a seat in the offered stool.

She held onto her smile as she returned to her seat, though her gaze dipped toward her folded hands. “ How I do wish I could say it has been so,” she admitted, a sigh drooping her posture. “ It has been difficult since my mother’s passing, but we’re managing the best we can.”

Charlotte’s eyes returned to his—the melancholy still lingering in her gaze. However sincerity marked her expression as she told him gently, “ I do hope your family has been faring well, and that the world has treated you all with kindness.”

He listened quietly, his gaze set on her face as she spoke. She looked so sad. The overlap of her and Sophia left his heart feeling as though it had been ripped to shreds all over again. He couldn’t help the way the corners of his mouth dropped into a slight frown or the way his brows furrowed with worry.

”We are managing as best we can as well. Life was not kind to us after Sophia’s passing. It left,” He paused, taking a deep breath, ”a rather large hole.”

Charlotte’s expression faltered at his words and she gently reached across the table to touch his hand tenderly. “ I…I’m truly so sorry.” She paused, her thoughts drifting. Then against her better judgment, Lottie decided to say more than that.

“ I do recall when you two married.” She began softly. Her brows furrowed in concentration and then for a moment she saw it all again through her younger gaze—the photos, the paintings, the way other girls had fawned over their marriage.

“My mother would show me the photos... “ She murmured, nostalgia warming her tone. “Princess Sophia looked ever so lovely, and you were the object of many girls’ dreams even here in Caesonia… I did not often believe in love outside of the books I held dear but you two seemed—“ She swallowed, pausing briefly, “—as real as it could be.”

She peered at him through her lashes, shy in her next admission, “ I do remember crying when I heard of her passing… I only ever did hear about how darling she was…and even over in Caesonia we felt the loss. I hope you know she has not been forgotten.”

Lucian tried to keep his face even, tried to temper his reaction to her words. A prince was not meant to fall apart in front of others, least of all a crown prince. His jaw tightened and he swallowed thickly.

”Thank you for the kind words.” was all he could manage, his voice cracking ever so slightly as emotions threatened his practiced composure. ”And once again, I apologize for my rudeness before. You just,” He paused again, as if thinking, ”looked upset.”

”I’d like to offer my ear in reconciliation if I might be so bold.” He suggested after a short beat. It was something he might not have done if it weren’t for her appearance. Sure, he would have continued the conversation, but Lucian felt a pressing need to ensure she was okay.

Charlotte’s smile stayed in place–sweet and ladylike as she always made sure to keep it. But there was something about the way he noticed she was upset, the way he had even offered an ear, that made her composure start to crack like glass. It was such a simple kindness. And yet it made her realize something in her had been fraying since last night… or perhaps since the very first ball.

The offer of his ear had landed on her like warmth she didn’t know what to do with. Something in her chest had lurched at his words, and she let out a shuddering breath. “Oh—Your Highness, please do not apologize… You’re not rude,” she told him politely, but the words slightly trembled. “Not even a little.”

“If anything, it was…” Her lashes dipped modestly, “very kind to notice, your highness.” Her fingers tightened together briefly. “...I’m afraid I simply look a bit…” She searched for a word that wasn’t too honest. “—tired.”

Her gaze slid toward the roses on the table as if they might help her find the rest of her poise. She reached out and brushed one of the petals with the tip of her finger, as if she were petting a beloved pet. “The evening of Drunkard’s Day was… unpleasant,” she offered gently, as though that single word could hold everything that had happened. “And I suppose it has taken longer than I expected to…” The sentence suddenly died on her tongue.

She had been interrupted by a sound that didn’t quite belong in a sunlit café–the hiss of a poker sliding back into coals. Then the broken edge of a man’s scream—Lord Edwards’ scream. His scream bled slowly into a desperate, animal scream of another. It wouldn’t stop as the smell of burning hair seemed to come from nowhere. The sight of flesh burning off the woman’s face hijacked her vision next. Her pupils dilated, and her hand froze, hovering over the rose.

For a moment, she was back on the sticky tavern floor, lungs seizing as she choked, the world around her muffled as if she were underwater. Charlotte watched the severed female head roll past her gaze, leaving that dark, horrible trail.

She tried to keep speaking anyway. She really did.

“—to forget.” she finished, voice still sweet, still careful… but now the tremor was more apparent under it, like a violin string pulled too tight. And when he heard her own voice, something inside her wavered.

Charlotte’s mouth parted to offer another graceful reassurance. But instead her hand rose, too quickly this time, and she covered her mouth as a sob clawed up her throat. Her eyes shone, and though she tried to blink them away, they very quickly started silently spilling from her lashes. They spilled over her knuckles in streams before she could do anything more to stop them.

Lucian felt his heart wrench like a vice grip had just squeezed with all of its might. He felt the almost violent urge to scoop her up and tell her it would all be okay, that nothing could hurt her again. He couldn’t be sure what had happened, whether someone had attacked her or said something simply untoward. He knew she wasn’t Sophia. And yet.

Lucian quickly reached for his handkerchief and reached over to offer it to Charlotte, all while every fiber of his being wanted to hold her. He was at least cognizant enough to know better.

Lucian pivoted in his seat, looking for the woman behind the counter, but she had gone into the back to prepare his flowers and hadn’t returned. He wracked his brain for ideas, solutions that could offer her the privacy she needed.

”Would you like to find somewhere more private, Lady Vikena?” He offered, his voice hushed and warm, filled with all the compassion the man could muster.

Charlotte had only hesitated a moment before reaching for the handkerchief with her free hand, her fingers trembling so badly she nearly missed it. She took it anyway and pressed the linen to the corners of her eyes. Her other hand, however, remained fixed over her mouth, knuckles tight, as though the moment she lowered her it, the noise that came out might ruin her entirely.

His question registered in her mind, but she didn’t trust herself to answer with words. Instead, she nodded slowly—a silent yes that asked for mercy without the shame of doing so aloud.

His jaw clenched, cursing whoever or whatever had her in the state before him. In a swift movement, Lucian was up and at her side, guiding her up from her chair. His eyes scanned the room, sending anyone who dared look his way a glare that spoke of the measures he would take to protect her image.

He spotted a little sitting room with a door and, luckily, no one in it. He began to guide her over to it, his grip gentle on her elbow. ”Just a few more steps..” He murmured.

Once they were in the room, he shut the door. Looking around, there was one window looking out towards the street. He sat Charlotte down at one of the tables and moved to close the curtain. The room was enveloped in a soft lavender shadow as the sun seeped through the lavender fabric.

”No one can see now.” He spoke quietly, moving to sit next to her. He was keenly aware of the rumors that would surface from what he’d just done, but he couldn’t think clearly when she looked like that.

She let him guide her as if she were fragile, her steps careful. With a lowered head, she kept her mouth covered. Though she didn’t look up, she could feel eyes on her. She nodded once when he murmured and forced her feet to obey as they made their way into a private room.

A quiet followed as she sat where he placed her, shoulders drawn in. She slowly lowered her palm from her mouth and let her lips part.

Charlotte swallowed hard. “I’m-” She began, and her voice cracked. Then she pressed the handkerchief to her cheek again, ashamed of how wet it already was. “I am so terribly sorry. I am not… usually like this.”

Her lashes fluttered as another flash of terror threatened. A shaky breath that sounded like a forced laugh escaped her. She shut her eyes for a brief moment and then when she opened them again, she added ever so softly, “It was just all so awful.”

Watching her felt like taking several stab wounds. His mind flashed for just a moment to Sophia, ripped to shreds and carried off into the night in front of him and how useless he had felt. His fist tightened against the arm of his chair.

”No need for apologies. While that door is closed, I am not Prince Lucian. Consider me… a wall. Or a stuffed toy.” He spoke, ”Say what you need to say, let it out if you want to. Nothing will leave this room.”

And with that, Charlotte told him about what had happened at the Tough Tavern the night prior—the deaths, the witches, how her friends had been hurt, even the sickening moment one had been kidnapped.

She had summarized it, of course, but it had been a few minutes all the same. When she had finally finished, she let out a shaky sigh. “I… I just wish so strongly I had been strong enough to prevent it all.” She then gestured toward herself with a sad smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “But I suppose there’s only so much one could expect from someone like me… when I can hardly keep my composure.”

His knuckles went white as he gripped at his chair, anger seething just under his skin. Of course. He thought bitterly. He shouldn’t be surprised that witches would be behind the girl’s pain and he felt a swell of bile threaten his esophagus. Another girl victim to their filthy actions. At least Charlotte was still here, still living and breathing. The same could not be said for Sophia.

”I know how you feel.” Lucian admitted softly, pulling his hand away from the chair to grip them together in his lap. ”When all you can do is watch and do nothing…” He picked absently at a scab on his ring finger, a small wound from practice with Kilian.

Her breath caught at his words. “I…” Her eyebrows met as she frowned. “I mean this with all my whole heart, Your Highness— I wish you did not understand. It pains me so.”

After a swallow, her attention snagged onto the movements on his finger. A tender sort of disapproval took over her countenance and she murmured, “Oh, please don’t do that.” A flush rose in her cheeks as she realized she was ordering around a prince, but she supposed it was too late to back down. She reached into a small satchel about her torso and began to rummage through it. “It will reopen and take twice as long to mend. “

”It’s really nothing…” He started, his voice trailing off. He had a deep seated wish that she wasn’t this kind to him, that she didn’t touch him with those warm hands that made his longing only worse. She couldn’t know the effect she was having on him and the despair he felt at knowing her warmth was dead and gone.

She finally produced a small folded square of linen and a little wrap of clean cloth. “I… have a plaster.” She announced with a sniffle. Then she leaned in just slightly, offering it, “May I?”

He stared at the objects in her hand for a long stretch of seconds, debating. He couldn’t think of a way to turn her down without seeing some sort of disappointed look on her face and he knew that would be far more devastating. He nodded quietly, watching her.

Charlotte inched her chair closer with a soft squeak of the metal. Then, she began to work gently, applying the plaster to his finger, a slight tremble remaining in her movements. “When a scab is disturbed, the skin has to begin the whole process again. It’s… quite rude of us, really, to ask our bodies to do the same work twice.” She informed him quietly, though her wobbly attempt at humor did uplift the corners of her mouth.

After securing the plaster, she raised her gaze and smiled as she wiped at her cheeks again. “There.”

Lucian watched her quietly, acutely aware of the way her skin felt against his. The scab was of no real consequence to him. He didn’t much care about it or himself, if he ever being honest. It wasn’t a lack of self-preservation or hurting himself, he just didn’t care. Still, her words did warm him.

”Thank you, Lady Vikena.” He replied politely, placing his hand back in his lap. ”I apologize for having worried you.” He offered, his words sounding hollow even to himself.

His response drew a breathy giggle escaping her lips, “Worrying me? “ She repeated with astonishment. “I am the foolish girl you had to relocate to the next room. ” Her smile wavered, softening. “If anyone ought to apologize, it’s certainly me.”

He glanced up from looking at his hand to meet her gaze, his own soft smile returned to hers. ”You are not foolish, Charlotte Vikena. Merely human.” He returned. ”And if you ask my sisters, worry is just about all I do.” He chuckled.

”The things you went through are hard and you are a strong woman for having made it out alive. Don’t worry about the things you couldn’t do or should have done.” He spoke after taking a short breath. ”But please know that you are not the only one who feels that way. I imagine there are many from the tavern who feel similarly. I think it’s human of us to have those feelings.”

“I suppose you have a point,” she conceded, though it didn’t seem as though she truly thought so deep down to her core. Then, after a pause, she added, “Your sisters are very lucky to have you.”

Lucian smiled gently. He wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he was going to do his best to make it so.

Charlotte gently put her hand over his and looked up at him through her lashes. “I can tell you carry more than you ever say.” She told him, and then an earnest smile flickered. “Thank you. You’re a good person, Prince Lucian Camilia.”

Lucian simply smiled back, not trusting himself not to suddenly begin sharing everything to this girl. She was not his wife, despite how much he wished it so. If she were, he’d have no shame in letting tears fall, emotions boil over. He’d have no shame in sharing his burdens and his guilt. But his wife she was not. She was just a girl, a girl who was also carrying around her own burdens. She didn’t need his on top of that.

”Do you feel a little bit better having gotten some of that out?” He asked with an earnest smile.

“Indeed, I suppose I do.” She replied softly. Though it had been therapeutic to vent, Charlotte knew this was something that would haunt her— one conversation wouldn’t just tidy it all away. But she also knew couldn’t dump all this on someone again; especially a prince at that and one she hardly knew.

And Charlotte could feel in her heart that last night was only the beginning of her troubles. There was no sense dragging Lucian into them.

With another smile, she rose once more. “It was lovely to see you, Your Highness. Hopefully we can speak again under better circumstances.”

Lucian knew the look on her face all too well and based on what she’d told him, those images would linger and give her endless nightmares. A shoulder to cry on could only do so much against those kinds of horrors, especially from someone like him. While he could empathize with her, at the end of the day, he was a Crown Prince, someone next in line for his kingdom’s throne. He wasn’t exactly someone people typically let their guard down around.

He stood as she did, bowing ever so slightly towards her. ”It was lovely to see you as well, Lady Vikena. Please send your family my regards.” He returned curtly. He couldn’t stop the nagging feeling at the back of his neck.

”I-” He started, his breath getting caught in his throat for a moment, ”I know it might be a bit forward of me. But, if you ever need someone to talk to, someone who understands, please know that I am always willing.”

“Likewise, Your Highness.” She smiled at him with a tinge of sadness in her gaze. “And of course, I will always be willing to lend an ear to you too… Whenever you want or need it.”

Lucian got up and walked over to the door before turning to look back at her again. ”I might just take you up on that,” He conceded quietly, giving her a slight smile. ”Lady’s first.” He added after a beat, opening the door for her, and she graciously moved out of the room.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

TRIGGER WARNING: DARK IMPLICATIONS, TORTURE, SA IMPLICATIONS

Kalliope's Kidnapping

Part 2

Time: 3am-10am, Ignis 3
Location: ????

---

It was never just one thing.

Mind Flayer.
The Dagger.
The Flame.
Healed.
Infernal Needles.
Peel her nails.
Break her fingers.
Healed—just enough to begin again.
The collar’s lesson, repeated until her muscles stopped arguing.
Another spell. Another correction. Another hour that refused to end.

And Marek had watched it all.

Marek’s attention was worse than either of Yuka or Felix: quiet, unblinking, almost tender in its patience. He stood there as though the stone had built itself around him. He only remained for an hour or two, but it had seemed like forever to Kalliope, the strange force of a man standing before her and simply smiling, barely blinking as he observed her pain with an almost perverse enjoyment.

Even Felix and Yuka left before he did.

It was never clear who did the spells to her, but Felix and Yuka had taken their time in their trained methods of physical torment. Just when her mind started to reach for numbness, it would change. Not to give her mercy, but to deny her the comfort of rhythm.

But morning came and it came to an end. By seven, it stopped so abruptly it made her nerves reach for it like an addiction. Men replaced the night with watchful silence, faces she didn’t recognize. Time moved in slow increments until the familiar footsteps returned.

Around ten, the door opened again.

Yuka stepped in first, immaculate as ever, her smile soft enough to pass for kindness. “Good morning, Kalliope!”

And behind them—someone else followed but remained in the shadows.

Kalliope stayed utterly still, frozen by something deeper than fear. Her head drooped, sweat-soaked hair plastered to her cheeks, hiding the wreckage of her face. She floated in that thin, colorless fog between blacking out and breaking apart. The missing bite of needles and fire pressed down on her, a suffocating hush that screamed in her skull. Yuka’s voice sliced through the murk, but it didn’t stir any fight—just made her fingers jerk under the bandages, haunted by the ghost-pain of torn nails.

She kept her gaze down. Every muscle in her body felt like a snapped wire, still twitching with the aftershocks of all the 'corrections' that had rewired her nerves since before dawn.

"Morning," Kalliope rasped, the word barely a ghost of a sound, scraped raw by the screaming she’d sworn she wouldn't do and the collar that had punished her for it anyway.

With a slow, grinding effort, she forced her chin up. Her eyes, once bright green, were now rimmed red and hollow, the color drowned out by exhaustion and something colder. She flicked a glance at Yuka, then let her gaze slip sideways to the shadow in the doorway, breath catching in sharp, uneven bursts. Who had they brought to her now?

She was splintering, the edges of her soul curling in on themselves like scorched parchment, but at the center, something black and furious still burned. "You're... late," she rasped, lips split and sticky with blood, twisting into a shadow of a smirk. "Thought we were having...such a good time."

Yuka’s smile didn’t move an inch at the sound of Kalliope’s voice. If anything, it warmed. “Aww. Look at you.”

She drifted closer, her gaze lingering on the collar, the wet strands stuck to Kalliope’s skin as though she were admiring a piece of art that had survived the fire. She trailed a finger along her jaw with an amused giggle. “Still so pretty.”

Felix took a step in behind her, hands loosely at his sides. He looked Kalliope over without ceremony. “You’ve seen better days,” he observed mildly. Then he smiled, satisfied. “But then again, I’ve heard you’ve always been hard to… persuade.”

Felix’s gaze slid past Kalliope toward the doorway. Toward the place the shadows were still too thick. “If you couldn’t tell,” Felix said softly, “we know quite a lot about you. We were told… well. Everything.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. A breath moved in the dark and then the figure in the doorway finally stepped forward, as if he’d been waiting for the words to make room for him. The candlelight caught the shape of a smile first. Not friendly. Not even cruel.

Hafiz emerged from the shadow, his eyes bright as if he had just won a great victory.

“Here’s how this works,” he continued, voice still conversational. “You’re going to work for us. You’re going to report to us. And you’re going to do what we say.”

Yuka leaned in, hands clasped behind her back, smile widening like she’d been waiting for her favorite part.

“If you refuse,” he said, “then everything we know gets leaked.” His gaze flicked, briefly, to Kalliope’s mouth, as if acknowledging the last scraps of defiance there. “And as for your captain,” Felix added, the words almost idle, “we’ll make sure he’s sipping poison instead of drugged tea next time.”

The breath escaped Kalliope in a silent, painful rush. Her lungs felt as though the air had turned to lead. Looking at him—the man who had spent years tearing apart her soul—she experienced a wave of nausea so intense that she nearly gagged against the strap. Her pupils were wide and fixed, and she began to shake with a frantic tremor.

"Please," she whimpered. The word slipped out before she could stop it, a raw echo of the broken child she once was. "Not you. Anyone... anyone but you." Her gaze darted desperately between Felix and Yuka, pleading silently for the needles or the fire to return. Anything to drown out the suffocating reality of his presence.

The threat toward Sjan-dehk hit her like a blow to the stomach. Her head snapped forward as she grasped the reality of their reach. They had already drugged them once; they weren't just bragging—they were counting down. "Leave him out of this," she rasped. Her voice shook with a mix of fierce hatred and pure fear. "He has nothing... he's nothing to do with this." She turned back to Hafiz, her skin appearing ghostly gray in the candlelight. "What are you doing here? Why... why are you here?"

Hafiz did not answer her question the way a sane man would. He didn’t look confused by it, or even offended. He looked… rewarded. As if the sound of her pleading had reached some deep place inside him, and he was grateful all over again that it still existed in her throat somewhere. After all, that old reflex that tasted like surrender no matter how she tried to dress it up as anything else.

He stepped out of the doorway’s shadow with lazy certainty. “What am I doing here?” Hafiz echoed softly, almost amused at the idea that the question mattered.

His gaze lingered on the collar, on the bandages, on her tremor. “I am here because you finally understand something you have spent years lying to yourself about.” The smile that touched his mouth wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t even joy. It was appetite.

“You were never difficult to persuade. You were merely stubborn about admitting when you had already been cornered.”

He moved a step closer. “I made a bargain with Marek, Kalliope.” His voice was almost gentle. “I gave him more than what I knew. I gave him what I remembered. Not summaries. Not rumors. The memories themselves—whole, intact, and vivid. Every scene you have tried to bury.” His eyes traveled up her face. “And I gave him yours as well, because the first thing I did when I got my hands on you was ensure I would never be surprised by you again. I studied you until you stopped being a person and became a map.”

The smile widened with something quietly triumphant, as if he’d been waiting years to say it aloud. “So understand this now—Marek does not have to guess what frightens you. He does not have to waste time discovering where you bleed. He can reach into you and take what he wants when it suits him, because I handed him the keys.” Hafiz’s steps continued, predatory in their patience. “And because I gave him everything, he gave me something in return.” His gaze flicked to Felix and Yuka as if they were merely furniture in the room. Then it returned to Kalliope, and stayed. “Not only can summon you to do his bidding, but I can summon you for mine as well.”

Hafiz stopped close enough that she could smell him. His expression softened into a parody of tenderness. “You asked why I am here,” he murmured, voice low. “I am here to watch you realize what your pride has been protecting you from: that you were always mine, and… you will always be mine.” His eyes shone as if this was a love story to him.

Kalliope stared at Hafiz, her breathing shallow and jagged. The fear felt like a heavy weight, a cold sludge filling her veins as he talked about her memories—the only things truly hers. The idea of Marek’s dark, empty eyes reaching into her mind to take away the few moments of peace or warmth she had ever known made her stomach churn. "You... you sold them?" she whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of the violation. "Everything... you already took everything... and you sold the rest?"

A sudden flash of anger surged through her exhaustion, a desperate spark of the fire that usually kept her going. "They weren't yours!" she snarled, her voice turning ragged and hysterical as hot tears spilled over, carving paths through the grime on her face. "You took my life, you took my body, but those... those were mine. You had no right to give them away! You're a coward, Hafiz! A pathetic, parasitic coward who can't even haunt me without help!" She thrashed once, a violent burst of anger that made her joints pop, but her bravado vanished the moment she saw Yuka and Felix creeping toward the shadows of the doorway.

“Yuka… Felix… You are dismissed.”

Her rage was instantly replaced by a heavy, paralyzing dread. The reality of the situation crashed over her like a freezing wave. The physical pain from the night was nothing compared to the thought of being left alone with the man who had owned her skin for so long. "Wait," she choked out, her eyes darting frantically to Felix, her composure shattering. "Wait! Don't... don't go. Don't leave me alone with him. Please. I’ll work for you. I’ll report to Marek. I'll do whatever you ask, just stay in the room!"

A sob broke free, raw and ugly, as she thrashed against the restraints, the iron biting into her wrists. "Yuka, please!" she wailed, her face twisting in a mask of pure desperation. "Don't leave me with him! Beat me, break my fingers again—I don't care! Just don't let him touch me! Please, gods above, don’t let him touch me!" When the door began to close, the sound triggered a primal scream that echoed off the damp stone; a sound of a woman watching her last shred of safety disappear into the dark.

Yuka’s smile stayed soft, almost sweet, as if she waved her fingers toward Kalliope upon the departure. She even hummed, pleased, and let her fingertips drift away. Meanwhile Felix had also lingered. His gaze had snagged and a flicker of sympathy formed in his eyes. But ultimately, he tore himself away and left with Yuka.

And then Kalliope was left with Hafiz until the night time, when she’d finally be relocated.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Stratya, Kazumin, Cassius, Olivia & Charlotte

Part 2

Time: Ignis 2 Evening
Location: Vikena’s Sorian Estate

---

The walk to the Vikena estate only took minutes, especially with Cassius able to assist.

One moment they were surrounded by the cool bite of night air, the next they were within the familiar warmth of the Vikena foyer.

Charlotte barely registered any of it properly. Her voice came out a little breathless, but determined as she led them through the entry. “This way—please,” she murmured, “Mind your step.”

The living room was surrounded by rich wood walls and bookcases. Under the center coffee table was a thick rug with elaborate designs. Several red-cushioned couches gathered around a wide hearth. The fireplace dominated the far side of the room, its flames throwing a dancing gold across the space. Despite the room looking the same as it always did, it somehow felt unfamiliar after the brutality of the tavern.

Charlotte guided Stratya toward the nearest couch. “Sit—please sit,” she insisted, “You’ve done quite enough for one evening.”

When Stratya lowered herself onto the cushions, Charlotte hovered a moment longer. Then her gaze dropped, and her expression broke. It was smeared along the front of her dress. She stared at it as though seeing it for the first time, the reality of it settling. And then her eyes moved, inevitably, to Stratya’s hand.

She immediately sank down beside the couch, knees settling on the rug, her skirt pooling around her. Slowly and carefully, she reached for Stratya’s injured hand and cradled it, barely daring to touch as she cupped it between both of her own.

“Oh, look at your hand…” Her voice turned gentle in the way it did when she was trying very hard not to cry. “I’m so sorry, dear…” The endearment slipped out without permission. Her thumbs hovered uselessly, trembling just above Stratya’s skin. “I will fetch some medical supplies.” she told her.

As she pushed up, the room seemed to lurch—firelight suddenly too bright, the edges of her vision swimming. Charlotte’s fingers caught the edge of the couch as a sharp throb pulsed behind her eyes, and for a second she just stood there blinking like she was trying to remember how to be upright.

She still tried anyway: one step, then another. Charlotte’s grip slid along the couch for balance, chin lifting with a stubborn little set of her mouth, as if the next step were obvious. Yet her thoughts couldn’t quite get there: bandages, spirits, linen… but where? Charlotte swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the hall and then back again, hand still braced on the couch. “They’re… in the—” she started, and the words just… didn’t come.

It seemed to the knight that arriving at the Vikena estate had sparked a drive in Charlotte, despite her state. Somewhere, it seemed the young lady had forgotten her own injuries. “Aye, feels tha’ way, doan i’, oooye,” Stratya let herself settle onto the couch with a groan, holding her left hand out from her body to spare it any shocks.

Those eyes came to her hand. Though Charlotte was continuing to prove herself, her calmness was not that born of familiarity, the way Stratya was used to her battle scars being greeted. So very tenderly, the young lady held her wounded hand, a softer response than even her mother. As Lady Vikena studied her hand, Stratya studied the Lady, “aye, go’ a bi’ rreckless, I think.” It was the injury she earned saving the very lady inspecting it. “I’ve ‘ad worrse and come back jus’ fyne. I jus’ need tae.. rrespec’ t’ injurry.” How could she possibly tell Charlotte the injury had been for her sake? It wasn’t necessary.

As Charlotte pushed herself back up, determined to tend to her guests, Stratya saw it. The young lady had taken a great blow to the head, and now the consequence was showing itself beyond fatigue. The knight leaned carefully to the side and stretched her right arm out to lay her hand over Charlotte’s on the couch, “Lady Charlot’e, y’ took a blow tae th’ head. You shoul’ come an’ si’ wit’ me. Help me wit’ my glove, won’ ye?” Gently, the captain took the young lady’s hand, though her fingers were clumsy as she did. Stratya’s hand burned still from her spell casting, yet her left was so much worse, even besides the knife wound. “Lord Damien, I’m afrraid it seems,” she took a moment to look for Vikena staff in the room, “we’ll ‘afe tae ask yersen tae find t’ supplies?”

Though she’d bade Charlotte to help her with her glove in an attempt to coax her to sit, perhaps her hand was worse yet than the hole in it.

“I’m—” Charlotte started, then stopped, breath catching.“I’m sorry. I know you’re right.” And she let herself sink down beside Stratya. Her hands, still trembling, fussed with Stratya’s glove. At least having something to do kept her from drifting.

Kazumin came in behind them, holding Olive tight to his chest, moving like he wanted to sprint but forcing himself not to, careful not to jostle her. The cold outside still clung to him, but the room was nice and warm. His eyes immediately darted across the couches, as if he were hunting for the safest place to put her down. Finally, he found an open spot and crossed to it, then slowed right at the last second, his grasp becoming gentle as he lowered Olive onto the cushions.

His gaze swept her fast, and he visibly winced at what he found; his breath caught, then steadied as he leaned close. “I won’t be long,” he murmured, voice rough, thumb brushing lightly at her hairline before he pressed his forehead to hers with a featherlight touch. Then, Kazumin forced himself to pull away.

It was only then that he truly looked up and saw Charlotte properly, and he wore the shock on his expression. The gash, the dazed way she tried to stand like sheer stubbornness could glue her together… Heat flashed behind his eyes as Winston’s image stabbed through his mind. He swallowed it down with a harsh gulp, jaw working once like he was grinding the anger into dust, and made himself move before it could take him anywhere useless.

His attention cut to Stratya’s hand next, and relief flickered that Stratya was coaxing Charlotte to sit. “Aye—good,” he breathed, and then his tone sharpened, aimed at Charlotte with blunt, protective insistence. “Aye, you sit there and tend to the lady general's hand. No need for ya to be moving and assisting with that head wound. Let me and Cassius handle fetching the meds and cleaning supplies, got to get those injuries cleaned. Gonna need to fetch plenty of water too… ” He stepped closer, then stopped himself, wanting so badly to hug Charlotte and not knowing how without hurting her; his hand even lifted before he caught it and let it drop back to his side, fingers curling tight.

He looked to Cassius, urgency back in his posture. “Lord Damien—if you’re willing, help me find the medical kit and clean linens, aye? We’ll need water too. Plenty of it.” Cas nodded simply. Then Kazu’s gaze returned to Stratya, worried for the captain as well slipping through despite him. After that, he turned, moving with haste, already scanning for cupboards, doors, staff, for anything that might get him to supplies faster without leaving the room to fall apart behind him.

A sigh of relief escaped Olivia once they entered the foyer. She held onto Kazumin weakly, her red hair draped over his arm like a waterfall of red. She shut her eyes briefly and pushed off the desperate need for sleep. She watched Lottie attempt to take care of Stratya and her injured hand, but the knight coaxed her into sitting beside her. Her chest became heavy while she watched the two ladies injured, but especially Lottie. She was going to have to stay awake and need supervision. Cassius’ interaction with Lottie was more intimate than she had expected, though she was glad someone else had Lottie’s back.

After Kazumin set her on the couch, Olivia sat up and watched the scene. Her own head throbbed,but she was nowhere near as bad as anyone else. She thought for a moment of a few spells, and then addressed the two ladies.

”I can heal both of you if you'd prefer. Lottie, you definitely need to be healed.” Her gaze flickered over to Cassius suspiciously. ”Unless you have any issues with magic. Will you rat me out? I think we’d all prefer that she doesn’t have any short or long-term injuries.” She then added in a quiet voice, ”I will hiss at you again,” she teased Cassius, although her resolve was not one of joking matter.

At Olivia’s offer, Charlotte’s gaze lifted. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please. Heal her first.” Stratya, with her eyes on the healer in question, shook her head.

Cassius smiled at the jest. “Oh I have plenty of issues with magic.” He said boldly, though his concern for Charlotte was still obvious, the statement sounded more like the version of him the others had seen before. Lottie’s gaze had snapped to him immediately upon those words, concern written on her face that she hadn’t the mind to conceal.

“More than my fair share, to be honest…And I am a lot of things, but a rat? Not a chance.” Cas continued as he moved around the couch towards Kazumin in preparation for the two to go grab the supplies. “Furthermore, love, I’ve been hissed at by far worse things than a witch. If you can heal them, please…by all means. Do your thing. You will get no complaints from me.”

Cassius then turned his gaze from Olivia back to Charlotte. As he spoke to her, his roguish inflection became softer, gentler, just for her. “Kazumin is right, Lottie. I know you wish to help, but right now the best way to do that is to tell us where to find the medicine. We can gather everything and help Olivia get you and our lovely Knight Captain here right as rain.”

“The… the medical kit,” Charlotte managed, eyes flicking toward the hall as if picturing it. “Butler’s pantry—left of the kitchen. Second cabinet. Top shelf. It’s in a blue tin.” She paused, as if searching for more details, “And linens… west staircase closet.”

She laid her head without much thought on Stratya’s shoulder wearily. “If you… if you two get lost, just screech until someone comes to your aid,” she breathed, the hint of a smile trembling at the corners of her lips.

A humored huff escaped Captain Durmand. If only things were so simple. “Lady” Olivia was not what she seemed, and that was very dangerous, especially now. She’d been climbing on rafters and fighting like it was a part of her life. As well, her shouted cooperative tactics with Kazumin spoke to years of working together. Alas, Kazumin was only recently raised to nobility. They only way, she thought, they could know each other so well was if they’d been long-time friends, but that didn’t make sense.

“Lady Olivia,” Stratya began, her tone heavy, “I am afrraid I hesita’e tae le’ ye cast morre spells.”

The captain let her arm hold Charlotte gently, giving her shoulder a soft squeeze. She wished things were simple enough she could just allow it. “Jus’ momen’s ago, ye were in t’ thrrows o’ darrk magic. Thah’ is also an injurry. If I le’ ye cast morre magic, will it be aggrriva’ed? Will t’ darrkness surrge?” Stratya looked at the gash on Charlotte’s head, and then her hand. She could heal it herself, but her own injury was already going to take a long time to heal naturally. There weren’t a lot of options. Injuries like theirs might place them at the scene. Healing spells and dark magic seemed to her they would be at odds with each other. Perhaps such well-intentioned magic would be safe? Yet, it could also expend the energy that would stand opposed to corruption. Too much was unknown.

“I should arrest you.” Knight-Devout Captain Stratya Durmand gave the short, frustrated sigh of someone who was losing a fight against their own principles and values, “I should. Thah’ would be my safest move.. prrobably.” She watched Olivia for a moment, letting it sink in, before she continued,

“but I think thah’ would nae be t’ best ferr t’ Kingdom oa its people. Yerr nae crriminal,” at least, not because of this, “yerr.. sick, or.. injurred. Somethin’, I’m unsurre if we have a worrd ferr i’. Y’ need help, nae punishmen’.”

Worse yet, “t’ Crown has got’en involved. Werre Qu-... Alibeth still on t’ Queen’s thrrone, I coul’ attempt tae rreason wit’ herr. I doub’ t’ King will hearr anythin’ I ‘ave tae say shorr’ o’ wha’ ‘e wan’s tae hearr. I migh’ jus’ end up marrkin’ m’sen, trryin’. The witchhun’errs will only get morre dangerrous..”

If dark magic sickness is anything like the Fury.. Hmm. It was worth a shot.

Stratya took her right arm from Charlotte and began to dig into her satchel, “Lady Olivia, I will grran’ ye perrmission tae use magic tae heal ourr wounds, bu’ I ‘ave conditions. Firrst, unless dirre-est need confrronts you, only cast with my perrmission. You will seek my council after such emerrgencies confrron’ you. Two, you will answerr my questions, which I will ask you in just a momen’. Thrree, afterr you heal ourr wounds, you will,” she pulled out what looked like a joint, “smoke this wit’ me. And fourr.. neverr, everr, cast darrk magic again.”

Olivia’s laugh was soft, brief, and almost surprised; it slipped out like steam from a kettle before she could stop it. She tipped her chin toward Cassius in a wordless nod that carried a whole conversation inside it: I understand. I do. There was amusement, yes, but also a recognition of irony, a respect for the honesty. Then she let the sound die, and whatever warmth had been in her face went with it.

When Stratya spoke, Olivia went still.

Not frozen. Deciding. Her gaze held on the knight’s mouth as if every syllable mattered. Her expression became unreadable. Only one eyebrow lifted slowly. She could have snapped. The retort rose hot and instant. It would have been sharp enough to make everyone in the room flinch. She felt it press against her teeth.

But instead, Olivia swallowed it. Her pride went down, and her voice came out controlled. “No,” she said, and she didn’t stutter. “...It won’t be aggravated. It won’t surge from a healing spell.”

Her gaze flicked once, to Charlotte’s head, to Stratya’s hand. Stratya’s conditions came next, one by one, laid out like rails on a track. Olivia listened to all of it without interrupting. Not because she agreed, but because she was learning the shape of the cage being built around her.

Only cast with my permission.

Olivia’s face didn’t change. Inside, something in her curled its lip and mimicked the cadence of Stratya’s voice with a cruel little theater of her own. With my permission, with my council, with my… Mentally, she rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder the rest of her didn’t tilt. In actuality, she restrained herself.

She gave Stratya a slow nod anyway but when the joint appeared in Stratya’s hand, Olivia’s eyes dropped to it with immediate refusal. “I don’t need it.”

“I won’t use dark magic again,” Olivia told her with a nod again, because nodding cost nothing and bought time. Inside, a different Olivia moved like flame along dry paper. Already thinking, with a cold practicality that startled even her: if Stratya tried to own her, Olivia would erase the part of her that thought she could.

She lifted her gaze, meeting Stratya’s eyes fully now, and her voice gentled just enough. “You’re doing your job,” Olivia said. “I understand that.”

“It’s interesting,” she murmured suddenly after a moment, “how many people in that castle use magic, and yet we’re meant to believe the King sees nothing at all.” Her mouth just barely curved. “Either he’s more oblivious than anyone gives him credit for, or he’s choosing what to be blind to.”

Her gaze returned to Stratya. “One eye for another,” Olivia said quietly. “You keep mine quiet, and I’ll keep yours quiet.”

I will not trade one prison for another.

Olivia let the pact settle without adding anything else to it, then moved to Stratya. Her hands were careful as she took the knight’s injured one, supporting it beneath the palm so the weight wouldn’t jolt the wound. “Hold still,” she murmured. She shut her eyes for a moment to focus.“Sanitatem.”

Warmth moved through her fingers and into Stratya’s hand, urging torn flesh. The wound tightened, the bleeding slowed, and the worst of it closed into a cleaner line that still needed bandaging, but would no longer split open with every movement. Olivia’s breath caught anyway,a dulled echo of Stratya’s pain going through her own nerves.

“It’ll ache,” she warned, opening her eyes.

Then she turned to Charlotte, who looked so hurt that it made a pang go through Olivia’s chest, and when she spoke her voice lowered, as if she didn’t want to startle her. “Lottie, look at me,” she said softly.

She brushed hair away from the gash and pressed her palm to Charlotte’s scalp. “Sanitatem.”

The spell took faster this time, greedier, and Olivia felt it drain her with a sudden heaviness. Charlotte’s wound sealed, the bleeding stopped, but a cold and punishing feeling curled through Olivia’s body. Her vision narrowed, her stomach turned, and she held herself upright on stubbornness alone until the magic finished.

The moment she pulled her hand away, a thin stream of blood slipped from her nose. Olivia wiped it quickly. “I’m fine,” she said automatically. The weakness rolled through her again, deeper, leaving her limbs heavy and her head light, and she reached for the couch to keep herself from swaying.

Her gaze found Kazumin, and whatever pride she had left was spent on staying standing. “Kazumin,” she said quietly, “Please take me to the guest room. I need to lie down.” She then allowed Kazumin to guide her out after he got done wishing the other girls to feel better, and giving them hugs.

Well, that didn’t go as poorly as it could have, at least. Stratya stared after Olivia for a moment before her watched her hand slowly flex. It had been closed, somewhat, before, but now she could actually articulate it at all without it seeping or oozing or outright reopening. She’d read the spell used before, and knew the price. She thought for a time before finally she broke her silence with a sigh, her head flopping back with resignation, “I fearr my intentions arre misunderrstood..” She let out a dissatisfied growl, lifting her left hand and pressing her wrist to her forehead. She should still be careful with it. “Things ‘ave become too dangerrous. Would thah’ I could give herr sanctions orr.. something. Not a Gods damned leash. Thah’s beyond my authorri’y..”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

S A I L I N G . T O . S O R I A N

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^{Date: Ignis 2 · Time: Morning · Location: Middle Sea — en route to Sorian on "The Radiant Dune."}

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The Radiant Dune had been at sea for nearly a fortnight. Brightly dyed canopies danced in the breeze as the royal sailing ship made its way across the Middle Sea, en route to Sorian of Caesonia, carrying some of the Sultan’s precious offspring. The vessel cut through the morning swells of the sea with the confidence of a creature born to the water. Beneath those canopies lounged Alidasht nobility, reclining on cushions as servants came one after the other carrying trays that clinked as they were set upon clothed tables. Teas, sugared fruits, and towelettes scented with orange blossom were placed before the royals to indulge in. Soon the tables filled with even more delights: warm saffron flatbreads, bowls of yogurt drizzled with honey and topped with pistachios, and platters of sliced mango, papaya, and starfruit. Crystal goblets caught the sun as servants poured pomegranate juice. Nearby, Royal Wardens kept steady watch along the railings, while the hooded Sultan’s Sentinels stood like statues, guarding everyone on board with vigilance. Beneath the deck, a full traveling household was available to tend to the royals’ needs: attendants, scribes, personal physicians, cooks, and serving women selected from each territory. It was the warm morning of Ignis 2nd. The crew murmured of shifting currents and the possibility of summer storms, but the sky remained mostly clear. The passengers could no longer see land in any direction; only the endless rise and fall of waves. They were far from home now, and the long weeks at sea were beginning to settle into their bones. They weren’t slated to arrive until the morning of Ignis 10th after all.

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Weaving between posts and the occasional sibling, Fareed’s tall form paced the room. Not clearly showing any form of agitation, but the sense of it was clear. “And we are certain that this trip is necessary? The… security in Caesonia is far from enough. Such stories have come from it…”

Aslam took a slow sip of tea, his closed eyes the center of his relaxed posture. “It is our father’s will.” He spoke neutrally, setting his cup down without so much as a soft clink and at last opened his eyes, looking up at Fareed. “I share your concern, brother, but I am just as eager to finally be off this ship. My supply of reading material is running quite low.” He finished with a self-amused laugh that lacked the concern he claimed to have.

Ranya simply watched her brothers with a smirk, her fingers gently kneading the thick, white fur of Aisha's neck. Her jewel-toned silks caught the sun as she moved, making her gold anklets chime a private, happy tune. Should she be wearing her “holy” silks? Maybe, but she felt like they were in a trusted area with trusted guards. Plus, Abba wasn't here to dictate her. She took another perfect slice of mango, enjoying the cool, sweet flavor against the hot air that always seemed to follow her. Her eyes twinkled with genuine amusement.

“Oh, my dear, serious brothers,” she purred, her voice playful as she glanced between Fareed and the seemingly calm Aslam. “Let’s be honest. This trip isn’t just about strengthening ties. It’s about apologizing for the theatrical disaster our family caused earlier in the season. We are here for damage control, a delicate repair job that only my charm can fix.” She gave a proud, pompous look before breaking with a snort of laughter at herself. “Think about it, Mayet threw a dagger at a duke, Nahir doesn’t remember an entire party, and poor Munir cried over a Countess who probably used him for a jewelry box. They made us look like a desperate spectacle! Abba needs us to impress, and frankly, I was bored with the palace. We are here to show the Caesonian King and Queen that the Kadir family is still the ultimate prize. Now, stop fussing and trying to wear a hole in the deck, Fareed. Let your little sister enjoy the fresh open sea air that she's never experienced because she's never been permitted to leave home before.”

“I understand, even for them such actions were foolish. Do you think they were coerced? Should I prep my toxin tools?” Fareed’s pace slows for a moment, a far off look in his eyes.

Although she had been listening passively, Maryam had no desire to join the conversation. It seemed much like chatter, and hearing her recount the events was a little absurd. She was aware of the situation, yes, but it was odd to hear it spoken aloud. Her time was best spent thinking. Pondering, over whether this would be a mistake. She idly begins to tap her shoes on the ground.

Aslam had joined Ranya with a soft chuckle of his own at her initial statement that might have had the secondary effect of disguising tea that had gone down the wrong pipe at that moment. He, of course, had kept a vague eye on his distant siblings but Ranya always did have a wonderful way to put things that he VERY much appreciated. The prospect of repairing their image was a far more interesting project than weaving through the web of foreign nobles in the hopes one was less likely to stab him in the back.

“Perhaps, but they should have been better prepared for such maneuvers. Whatever the case, we shan’t find answers out here.” His shoulders shrugged in the way he attempted to express indifference when a subject did bother him. Aslam brought a flatbread to his lips after another sip of tea, the movements made at a leisurely pace. “All the more reason to CELEBRATE our dear Ranya’s first sea voyage.” His hand reached out for one of the yogurt, using the lavish spoon provided to bring some of the sweet treat to his mouth with a soft hum of delight.

With a fluid grace, Ranya rose from her cushions, the silks of her gown whispering against the deck as she intercepted Fareed’s path. She reached out, taking his large hands in her small ones, warm skin against his anxious energy, and gently tugged him toward the cushions as she gave him a reassuring squeeze. “Sit, brother. You are making the horizon dizzy,” she chided softly. “Keep the toxin kit handy, but no need to prep it just yet. Mayet wasn't coerced, that I can guarantee. She simply has the temper of a viper. And Nahir? She likely just found a bottomless cup, however Abba did say there were talks of magic or drugging. Certainly something to be aware of, at very least.”

The much taller sibling looks down at her, letting out a deep sigh and visibly relaxing. As much as he does that is.

She released him to glide toward the refreshments. A servant stepped forward to assist, but Ranya waved her away with a sharp, regal flick of her wrist, seizing the crystal pitcher of wine herself. She enjoyed the weight of it, the agency of serving rather than being served.

“Munir is a curiosity,” she continued as she grabbed four goblets and moved back towards her siblings. “Our brother, the eternal rake, suddenly weeping to 'settle down'? To break a playboy's heart, you must first convince him he has one. That smells of manipulation.”

She poured wine into a goblet and then pressed the first glass into Fareed’s hand, then moved to Aslam. “But I prefer Aslam’s philosophy.” She handed him his wine, leaning down to press a warm kiss to his cheek. “To the horizon. And to the first time in twenty years the walls around me aren't made of stone.”

Aslam offered a warm smile at Ranya as he took his glass, putting down his now empty bowl of yogurt, and raised it boldly high at her toast. “Well said!”

Finally, she sank onto the cushions beside Maryam, pouring her some wine before extending a goblet to her quiet sister to interrupt the rhythmic tapping of her shoe. “You are thinking too loudly, sister,” Ranya murmured, her voice dropping to an intimate purr as she settled close and giving her a warm smile. “Is it the destination that worries you, or are you simply plotting which of us to throw overboard first?”

“Uhmmm neither… Just not sure if this is all a mistake, I guess.” Maryam murmured. It wasn’t long after her words that she suddenly rose and departed back to her bedroom.

Aslam’s first sip of the wine was a long, slow one taking time to savor the flavor. He titled his head side to side as he let the wine linger in his mouth for a prolonged moment before swallowing. His golden eyes had lingered far too long on the glass after he put it back down, his brows slightly furrowed. His decorated robe flowed down as he stood up and he made his way over to the nearby railing to stare over the waters. “I knew there was work to be done, but hearing it from Ranya…just…” He spoke quietly to himself, a habit he couldn’t break.

“...I wonder if there are any rare ingredients I can acquire while we’re here. There was a story about some crimson flower high in the mountains….” Aslam muttered a bit louder as he looked forlorn over the horizon. His posture slouching some as he leaned his arms on the railing, his long locks of black hair blowing in the sea breeze.

Ranya paused, her glass suspended midair, as Maryam disappeared with the startled elegance of a deer catching a scent on the wind. The space her sister left behind seemed to shimmer, and Ranya’s eyebrow arched in silent amusement. She barely had time to savor the oddness before Aslam slipped away, drawn to the rail and the restless sea, his words scattering into the salt air like secrets meant only for the waves.

She turned to Fareed, lowering her glass with a rare look of genuine perplexity. “Did I say something upsetting?” she asked, her voice dropping the teasing lilt. “I thought I was being rather optimistic, all things considered.”

That’s when a servant slipped into their circle, bowing low to murmur news of the delegation’s awakening. In an instant, Ranya’s posture changed. The warmth in her eyes cooled, the playful sister dissolving beneath the weight of duty. Obligation settled over her shoulders like a familiar, heavy cloak. What words boiled in Fareed's throat slipped as if rain off it.

“Excuse me, brother, but it seems like it is my turn to vanish for a moment as duty calls,” she said, handing her wine glass to the servant. “If the court is waking, then Suna’s Chosen must be seen. I cannot greet the others on the ship looking like… well, like myself.”

She slipped into the cool shadows below deck, vanishing as quietly as a thought. When she returned, she was remade. The easy silks and bare skin were gone, replaced by immaculate white gauze stitched with gold that shimmered in the morning sun. A veil hid the mouth that had tasted both wine and mischief, leaving only her eyes—dark, rimmed in kohl, unreadable. Each step was slower, her movements measured, as if the weight of her jewelry and the heavier burden of expectation pressed her into stillness. She settled among her cushions, serene as a statue in a sunlit sanctuary.

Qingling spent a good amount of time with her daily morning preparation before she considered herself ready to leave her bedroom and face the rest of the world for the day. Applying her elaborate and delicate cosmetics took time as it could not be rushed and then moving on to the actual dressing itself. Once personally certified ready, she left her quarters and moved up the decks of the ship to where the Alidasht royalty lounged to offer them her morning greetings. She glided over the decks of the ship, her feet mostly concealed by the long flowing nature of her dress that rested high upon her chest. Upon approaching the sheltered canopies of cushions, Qingling bowed in traditional Kimoon fashion to the princes and princess present first before acknowledging the rest of the other nobles present. “Good day, your highnesses, Shehzades, Shehzadi. I hope you all are doing well.” Once she was done with her greetings, she moved to an unoccupied cushion, pausing en-route to grab two pieces of warm saffron flatbread to munch on before even seating herself. Qingling would then focus her attention on devouring the flatbreads in her hands before moving to grab herself a goblet of pomegranate juice as well as a serving of the yoghurt.

Ranya watched the woman move, all liquid grace and easy confidence, gliding across the deck as if the world itself parted for her. Qingling bowed, then seized the flatbreads with a boldness that made Ranya’s heart twist—so unashamed, so alive. It was almost scandalous, and Ranya ached with envy.

Look at her, Ranya thought, the fire in her chest sparking hot and sharp behind her ribs. She walks as if the air belongs to her. She plays her music, she dances, she eats when she hungers. She is an artist of her own life, while I am merely the canvas others paint upon. Her fingers curled, white-knuckled, in the silk at her waist. It was never about the food. It was the hunger itself. It was the freedom to want, to take, to exist without the suffocating shroud of holiness draped over every breath.

Outwardly, her mask held firm. Ranya tilted her head, letting her eyes smile with a flicker of warmth barely visible beneath the veil, all tranquil grace and gentle light. No hint of the wildfire beneath. “May the sun warm your path this morning, Hanim Qingling,” Ranya said, her voice a soft, melodic chime, perfectly modulated for a public audience. It was gentle, welcoming, and distant. “It brings joy to see the sea air has given you such a healthy appetite. Please, sit. The vastness of the ocean is best admired in good company. I hope the trip has been treating you kindly?”

While finishing up the first of the two savory flatbreads in her hands, she also took her seat, upon the princess’s invitation. Dutifully, she ignored the towering form of Fareed two steps behind his sister. Visibility being his own form of politeness. Ranya's mouth then moved to form words, and Qingling felt compelled to answer. “My appetite is rarely dulled, Shehzadi. My father often jokes with laughter among others that my appetite can feed a whole army of servants.” With the sole remaining flatbread she had initially taken left in her hands, she paused for a moment to take a scoop of the yoghurt before continuing to form words. “I am well-accustomed to such journeys. My father, being the influential passionate merchant lord he is, travels frequently, many times by ship, and I accompany him often.” Finished forming words, Qingling moved to munch on the remaining flatbread in her hands, tearing bite-sized pieces, one after another as she brought them to lips, savouring each one of them.

Amira had been up since the light had filtered in through her window. She had truly meant to join the others for breakfast, but after grabbing a fig from the kitchen when no one was looking, she had spent the last hour just gazing out at the beautiful ocean.

She imagined all that awaited her, and her chest could hardly contain the excitement that beat inside her. She envisioned going to a beautiful ball, filled with glamorous men and women. There she would catch eyes with someone, and then just in that moment, she would know. That was who she was supposed to be with for her whole life. She couldn't help but make a little squee noise as she brought her hand to her chest.

It was only as she saw the elegant Zhao from Qishu, that she seemed to notice herself. Not only was she running terribly late for breakfast now, but she had to remind herself that she was no longer alone. And not in that way that meant a guard or her siblings were close by, even if both were. There were constant eyes on her now, and she had to make sure to keep up the act of a dignified noble.

Though... it was just her relatives, right?

Excitedly heading after Qingling, she turned up at the luxurious area under canopies. Smiling a bright and warm smile to the rest of the nobles, she greeted them cheerfully, “Morning to all of you. I hope it has been as glorious for you as it has been for me.”

Quickly, her hands found themselves taking hold of a serving of honey-drizzled yoghurt, before adding on a ton of different fruits. Only then did she turn to take a seat in the mass of pillows as she looked at the deliciousness in front of her. She did not hold back for even one moment, seemingly forgetting all about her chastising herself about appearing more noble as she gladly indulged.

Aslam’s expression grew a bit darker as Ranya excused herself, the pleasant mood from earlier souring slightly in his mind. He made his way back to his earlier seat, pouring a generous cup of the wine he had tasted earlier, in preparation for the rest of the distinguished guests to arrive. Part of a smile came back to his face as Qingling made her entrance. “A pleasure for you to join us. We are doing as well as rich food, soft cushions, and a beautiful vista can afford us. Perhaps once you have had your fill you can grace us with a small performance.” A bit of his more playful mood rising in his response as he gestured to each with an open hand that finally pointed towards the vast sea that laid just beyond the railing.

He didn’t interrupt the conversation between his sister and Qingling, nodding along as his eyes darted to the current speaker. His stomach was mostly full so beyond his sips of wine he snacked on what fruits there were. “I am sure you have a wealth of stories to tell then. I am curious to know what sort of exotic sights you have come across.”

The muscle of his left eye briefly twitched as he noticed Amira follow in shortly after, but he quickly schooled himself as he turned his attention to his cousin. “You are quite lively again today, Amira. You must have slept well.” The smooth glass of his cup graced his lips immediately after he spoke.

Ranya sat as still as painted sunlight, hands folded perfectly in her lap. She speaks of feeding an army, she thought, envy curling like smoke in her chest as she watched Qingling eat with such unburdened gusto. And I am not permitted to feed even a whim.

“There’s a kind of wisdom you only find in the world’s marketplaces,” Ranya said, her voice gentle and clear, like water over stones. “I imagine their maps are drawn in colors we’ve never seen.”

Then the whirlwind arrived. Amira burst in, all noise and hunger, her laughter squeaking through the air and scraping at Ranya’s nerves like grit caught in silk. Aisha rumbled a low, sympathetic huff, and Ranya’s hand found the tiger’s neck, fingers kneading the thick fur in silent thanks. She let her eyes crinkle with a practiced warmth as she turned to greet her cousin, masking the flicker of irritation beneath a silken smile.

“Cousin,” Ranya greeted, her tone indulgent but laced with a quiet command. “You bring a storm’s energy to a calm morning. Do breathe between bites, Amira. The fruit is not fleeing. It will not jump overboard if you do not conquer it all in one moment, I promise.”

She caught Aslam’s eye, sharing a fleeting, conspiratorial glance before turning her attention back to Qingling. “But please, Hanim, indulge us. Tell me something so impossible it might just be true. I am starved for a little wonder today.”

Qingling looked towards Prince Aslam as he spoke about gracing them with a small performance of her own. Now, that was something she could do. Although she did not have any of her musical instruments with her at the moment, she could still sing for them. Like all of her performances done in Qishu, her singing was always done in traditional Kimoon, followed first by an explanation in the common tongue so that all could appreciate what the song was about. Qingling would indeed be glad to entertain the entire gathering of royals and nobles on the deck this beautiful morning. The song she was about to perform was a signature of hers, an interpretation of two ancient Kimoon poems about a lonely traveller far from home.

Her hands free of all the flatbreads and with the yoghurt completely consumed, Qingling rose from her seat and bowed proudly to all that were present.

“Shezades, Shehzadis, fellow nobles, I will be performing for you a popular song of mine called ‘The Passage of Time’. This song is based on two ancient Kimoon poems about a lonely traveller drifting through a vast, mist-shrouded range of mountains and cold rivers, where the changing colors of the leaves and the flight of wild geese serve as painful reminders of a home they cannot return to. It reflects on the tragedy of time, lamenting how a person’s vibrant youth eventually fades like falling petals, leaving them alone with only the silent moonlight and the memories of a life spent wandering. It is a poem about the longing for a past that has withered away while the world indifferently moves on.”

The young noble then moved her cushion to a more central position and knelt on them as she began her song. It begins with a hypnotic haunting tune, the sweeping and airy melody of her traditional singing style that has captivated many an audience. The breathy tone with its swaying, rhythmic pulse, rises and falls like gentle waves, drawing in listeners with a captivating effect. Not once does she raise her voice, instead maintaining a low soothing tone that feels peaceful and melancholic, as she conveys the song’s theme of deep, underlying ache for something lost. Once she was finished with her performance, Qingling did another Kimoon bow and beamed a proud cheerful smile that was completely opposite to the melancholic song she had just performed. “I hope my performance was to your expectations.”

“I slept so well, Cousin Aslam,” Amira replied gratefully in a cheery light voice as she stopped for the moment to stop her attack on her food, “The swaying of the boat is like the ocean itself is rocking me to sleep—”

Almost like a mother... she had gone to say but stopped herself at the last moment. It was not like she would know anything about how that would actually feel. Her smile faltered for a moment before quickly distracting herself with the deliciousness in front of her.

It was then she heard Ranya greet her with words that brought a warm blush to her cheeks. Her hand slowed down as she found herself focusing on the food. It was much nicer to concentrate on than the creeping feeling she had that maybe this family reunion wasn't going exactly how she wanted.

Luckily for her, Qingling was fast to delight them all with a beautiful song. Staring up at the elegant woman with large brown eyes filled with wonder, all she could do was be in awe.

This lady was so graceful and peaceful, leaving all eyes on her as they soaked up her art. Amira couldn't even fathom having that kind of presence.

That did not stop her from speaking up in a quiet, hopeful voice though as she fiddled with the fabric of her skirt, “I - I can't sing, let alone follow up on such beauty but... I can dance a little.”

Aslam listened attentively to Qingling’s song with his eyes closed, swaying his head lightly alongside the tune. It was truly a hauntingly beautiful melody and even if he couldn’t understand the lyrics, which he could, Qingling’s performance carried the intended feeling of the music perfectly. He looked towards the songstress with a smile as he clapped his hands. “It was very enjoyable, Hanim Qingling. I thank you for indulging me this morning. If only I could bottle it up for later.” Aslam mused with a soft sigh. Truly the unease he had been feeling just recently seemed to have retreated back into the deeper depths of his mind once more.

His attention shifted over to Amira once she had spoken up. Aslam did not wish for the rest of the trip to be a tense or awkward time between them, even if she was another one of her father’s agents. It would be too much of an annoyance to maintain and Qingling’s song had placed him in a rather merciful mood. “Would you be willing to give us a small demonstration, cousin?” It was a genuine request from the eldest prince, an olive branch for the trip at least.

He had long since read through what books he had brought with and there was sadly no laboratory he could experiment. Aslam would take what entertainment he could find.

At the sound of her cousin's voice agreeing, she looked up at him with shock that seemed to scream 'really?!' before beaming a grin back at him that was as bright as the sun beating down upon them. Amira had never performed in front of anyone but the servants and her teacher, but she was not going to let this opportunity pass her by.

She stood up a little too fast to hide her excitement or keep up the appearance of the noble she was. Looking around, a shy smile seemed to light her face as she noticed the space she had and the fact that she had no music. Such little things would not stop her passion, though.

Slowly closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath and listened to the waves of the ocean hitting the side of the boat before her hips started to move with the gentle metronome beat. There, under the bright blue sky, Amira opened her bright amber eyes and stared past the people and right into the water that carried them across to a foreign land.

Arms calling out to the unknown, she brought it in, as she started to bump her hips from side to side. She no longer seemed to even notice the eyes on her, raising her arms up above her head before bringing them down to flow across her body. Then without any warning, she spun—a lovely spin that made her skirt flare up and jingle—till she tripped over a plate of fruit.

Toppling over the loose fruit and wooden ball, she fell hard to the wooden floor of the ship. Amira made a surprised guttural sound at the sudden impact before she groaned and began checking her forearms, which had caught her fall, to see how badly they were hurt. Next moment, she was looking past her long brown hair to where the rest of her audience was, a bright red blush starting to burn up her cheeks.

This was not how it was supposed to go.

Ranya held herself upright, every inch the golden idol, while Qingling’s song threaded through her, tugging at the old ache that lived beneath her ribs. A life spent wandering, she mused, the thought sharp as citrus. I would give up this title for even a single day of such freedom.

“Your voice carries the weight of the mountains, Hanim,” she said aloud, her public mask serene as the jewelry on her veil chimed. “It is a rare gift to make a heart ache for a home it has never truly left.”

Amira rose, and chaos bloomed in her wake. Ranya watched, lips barely twitching, her disappointment cool and distant as moonlight. When her cousin finally tumbled into a heap of silk and crushed fruit, Ranya remained perfectly still, only Aisha’s low, amused chuff betraying the humor in the scene.

The storm finally broke the furniture, Ranya’s internal voice drawled. This is why they cage us, Amira. Because you are made of clumsy, unbridled impulses.

She exhaled a thread of patience, silver-fine, her gaze gentling as she donned the mask of saintly compassion. “Passion is a fire, cousin, but even fire must be mindful of where it treads.” With a flick of her fingers, she summoned a servant. “Are you alright, Amira? It would be a tragedy for our journey to end with a twisted ankle before we’ve even glimpsed the shore.”

As Princess Ranya complimented her on her performance, Qingling smiled warmly with pride. It always felt great when others enjoyed her performances, be it her music, singing or dance. It was something she lived for, and would never get tired of. “You are too kind, Shehzadi. I feel most honoured that you enjoyed my humble little performance.” Her gaze then shifted to Princess Amira who seemed like she was now motivated to put on a little performance of her own.

Qingling was eager to see what the royal had in store for all of them. The Kimoonese looked on with delight as Amira started dancing and watched intently. Then without any warning, the Shehzadi fell in a tumble of silks and fruit and a plate that was flung her way, which she caught with ease. She placed the plate on the deck and without any hesitation, Qingling got up from her seat, and moved over to where Amira was checking her forearms. She knelt down and moved close to check on the princess, but also made sure not to touch the royal without permission.

“Are you hurt, Shehzadi?” As a dancer herself, she was no stranger to falls. When she first started many years ago, her arms and legs were often bruised from the many falls she had until she learnt to practice well.

Aslam had found himself impressed by Amira’s movements at the start of her dance as he watched on with passivity exceeded only by his darling sister. He was well versed in the many dances within the kingdom and for a brief moment he believed Amira to have a genuine talent for it. That belief came crumbling down just like the Shehzadi onto the floor. His eyes closed for a brief moment as he gritted his teeth and exhaled through his nose. The only redeeming factor of this incident was it had not been around outsiders.

He nodded his agreement with Ranya. “I should have a lotion with my personal items to ease any swelling should there be bruising. The ball will quickly be upon us when we arrive and it would not do for you to be injured.” The softness in his voice did not quite meet his eyes. He would not have to worry if his Uncle had trained his daughter as an assassin it seemed.

Amira had hoped for the same compliments that showered Qingling, but instead, after her little accident, Ranya's words cut through the awkward silence like steel.

No matter how kind they sounded, the tears were already starting to threaten to spill from Amira's eyes. Then there was suddenly the elegant Qingling, the star of the morning, right down there next to her, asking her if she was alright.

She no longer could hold back the tears, and before anyone else could reach out to help her up, she was up in a startled mess of clinking jewellery and silky cloth. What was long, luxurious chestnut hair that had been carefully prepared, was now a tousled mess sticking to her skin and catching on to the golden decoration. Her large amber eyes looked over all the staring faces, and before another word could be said, she ran.

Jingling and bare feet padding across the wooden deck, she ran until she could no longer see the eyes that stared at her with pity or something she could only liken to distaste. It was only when she ran back to her cabin, with the door closed behind her, that she stopped running. There she threw herself onto her bed and stifled a small cry.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Part 5

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

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“You’ve asked your questions. Now, I believe it’s my turn, and I’d like to start with the most curious of us at this table.” The attack was warm and friendly. “You must tell me how the courtship between you and Lady Vikena is going? I mean, her father might be a lunatic, but Charlotte is…” He made an uneasy face. “Plain is probably the best word, which probably makes it that much easier for you, being a Damien. You could probably do better, but the Duke of Vermillion’s daughter that everyone overlooks might be a great choice in the longterm. I might be lucky enough to see a Duke Damien in my time.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, the D’s. It’s quite nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm,” Alexander let out, vocally marking Cassius’ departure. It was good for the young man, and an even grander opportunity for himself. He and Charlotte were now placed into center focus, with not a soul around to speak for her.

Violet’s gaze followed Cassius only briefly, crimson eyes tracking his retreat until the front door swallowed him whole.

Her fingers curled subtly in her lap.

Instinct urged her to rise, to follow, to offer some quiet word or simply stand near him until the worst of it passed. But she stayed. Cassius was not a man who unraveled under watchful eyes, and an empty chair at the table would speak louder than any concern she could voice. Space, she knew, was sometimes the kinder choice.

Charlotte however, seemed to be a common concern of his, not just passing interest. Not a mere rumor. There was something deeper there than Violet had understood, something raw enough to crack Cassius’ carefully cultivated armor.

She drew a slow breath and straightened, lifting her chin as she turned her attention back to the table.

“If I may,” Violet said calmly, her tone composed but firm as her gaze settled on her mother. “They were only rumors indeed.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Alexander before looking at her mother.

“Lord Ravenwood and I were both in attendance at the gallery,” she continued evenly. “We spent the evening in quite pleasant conversation with Mr.Deacon and Lady Charlotte. Mainly discussing the displays and the artists before we all departed.”

She allowed a faint, polite smile to surface.

“Art has a way of encouraging speculation where none is warranted,” she added lightly. “Sometimes I feel people are less interested in the art on display and more interested in the people who enjoy the art.” She took a sip of her wine.

“Spoken with wisdom beyond her years…” Lianna replied with a pleasant smile. [color=paleviolet]“But I believe Alexander mentioned something occurring between himself and Lady Vikena.”[/color] She nodded, positive that her revelation debunked Violet’s testimony. It even provoked Alexander to blanket her hand with his own, as if he was preventing her from striking with a phantom blade in her grasp.

“Lianna, please…” Alexander frowned, shaking his head at her as if she could see it. “Charlotte was-”

“She was being young!” Lianna cut in with a humored and easy tone. “I’ve outgrown jealousy, my love. It is a feeling we wives must set aside when our husbands are so handsome. I’m sure Countess Damien would back me up.” The comment drew a giggle out of the countess, as Lianna laughed lightly into her hand, before continuing, “Charlotte is just… playing the field. It's likely why she jumped at the opportunity to participate in this morning’s dating auction.”

“Lianna…” Alexander's voice dragged almost harshly, his face rather stern.

“That tone is undeserving.” She tilted up her head in playful defiance. “I was simply answering the question posed by the countess, dear.”

Marek watched the exchange between Alexander and Lianna with faint, academic interest, but his eyes often shifted over to Calbert as he enjoyed seeing the gears turn and the emotions cycle in the man’s gaze.

But eventually, he grew tired of the game and set his glass down with just enough force to alert the room.

“Despite such…quaint conversation. I find,” Marek said mildly, rising from his chair, “that I have seen all I intended to this evening.”

The movement itself was unhurried, elegant even. As though the dinner had now ended precisely when he decided it had.

“Count Damien,” he continued, inclining his head just enough to be respectful without being deferential. “Your hospitality has been… illuminating.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the table. To the food untouched by Violet. To the tension still coiled in the empty chair Cassius had left behind.

“Let that boy of yours know that I look forward to our next meeting, but for the rest of you… I trust you will continue to enjoy your evening.”

Marek turned then, the hem of his coat whispering against the floor as he began toward the door. He was nearly at the threshold when he stopped and stood in complete stillness for a beat. He then turned back around ever so slowly that the room seemed to tilt with the motion.

His gaze found Violet with unnerving precision.

“Lady Violet.”

The way he spoke her name carried authority, almost as though he owned it. Though there was charm there still, an antiquated sense of effervescence that felt almost alien.

“Should you ever wish to meet the man who put the axe in your head,” he said, voice smooth, conversational despite the heaviness of the topic. “you need only ask.”

He paused there for maybe two seconds before turning and continuing his stride. From the threshold of between the dining and beyond, he said his final piece.

“I know exactly where he is.”

And with that, Marek Delronzo turned and walked out, his presence peeling away from the room like a shadow retreating at dawn.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

John & Charlotte

Part 4

Time: Ignis 1 Afternoon
Location: Woods near Lovers Lake

---

The density of the trees thinned as they made their way down the final stretch toward the lake.

Lover’s Lake spread out before them, its surface shimmering beneath the sun. The air felt cooler here, damp with moss and the area was shaded by the canopies of trees. A few families were still scattered along the shoreline, blankets laid out as their children dug merrily in the sand.
Charlotte slowed, her steps faltering as she took in their surroundings.

“Charlotte…”

“John…”

Her gaze was drawn across the lake as that strange voice met her ears.

It was just like the library.

White water thundered down the distant cliffs, spilling into the basin below. The sound of it pressed against her insistently, as the waterfall itself was beckoning her too. The voice rose again from that direction, clearer now.

Charlotte’s dark hair whipped behind her with the breeze. For one second, she considered it.

Then she looked away.

Whatever waited there would have to wait for her. The matter of finding Steven was much more important.

West of the area, near an entrance to another path through the woods: the land rose gently—two low, rounded hills, their slopes mirrored on either side of a narrow overgrown footpath that vanished into the trees. The trail was well-worn by children’s footprints.

“John…”

She lifted a hand, indicating the rise ahead. Her gaze traced the shape of the hills, one… then the other. “Do you see them? The two triangles,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Placed side by side… with a path between.”

Her eyes followed the trail into the trees, where the light dimmed quickly and the forest thickened. “They were playing hide and seek, I presume. she added softly, “Something obvious to them… and invisible to anyone else.”

She looked back to John then. “If this is where the triangles lead…” she said, quietly, “…then the turns come next.”

The duo pressed onward, occasionally pushing aside branches as they followed the narrow path into the woods. Time stretched as the trees thickened around them, until at last a crossroads emerged.

Charlotte slowed, recalling the instructions—two rights, then three lefts. She gestured them to the right, committing to the first turn. The next decision point did not come quickly. The path wound on and on, and with each passing minute she found herself questioning what on earth had possessed a group of children to venture this far into the woods simply to play hide-and-seek.

Nearly twenty minutes passed before the final turn was behind them, and they found themselves approaching a small clearing ahead. Smoke curled from a cookfire in the center of the clearing.

Charlotte saw two men immediately in leather—one pacing with agitation, the other planted like one of the trees, arms folded. Their voices carried in a way that suggested they were in the midst of an argument that had been circling for far too long. She took John’s hand and pulled him into the shadows with her, pressing them close to a trunk.

It was then she noticed a young boy was lashed to a tree with rope, wrists high, shoulders pulled back. Dirt streaked his face and clothing. He should’ve looked small like that, but his mouth narrated a different story.

“If you’re going to execute me,” he said brightly, “could you at least do it now so I don’t have to listen to you two idiots talk any longer?”

The pacing hunter retorted, snapping, “He’s a witch, Digby. ” and the other shot back, “He’s a kid.” Steven tilted his head, eyes flashing. “For the record, I’m not just a kid. I’m a great kid. Practically collectible.”

“Stop talking,” the pacing hunter hissed, “Hours of this. Hours. You don’t get to—”

“Oh, have we passed hours?” Steven asked, feigning surprise. “Here I thought you’d been threatening me for days. My mistake.”

The other man’s jaw tightened. “Enough,” he said tiredly. “We keep him alive until we’re sure.”

“And how sure is sure?” the pacing hunter snapped back, hands splayed in a gesture of maddened disbelief. “He laughed when I said cleansing. He’s not normal.”

Steven gave a helpless shrug as far as the ropes allowed. “I laugh at a lot of things. Coping mechanism.”

A twig snapped under Charlotte’s boot and she bit her lip, her eyes widening in alarm. The sound seemed to slice straight through the clearing.

The standing hunter paused then let his hand drift to a string of beads at his wrist—stones threaded with iron, each one etched with tiny marks Charlotte couldn’t make out. He thumbed them once. Then again—slower.

The beads clicked.

His expression tightened.“Hold.” He lifted his wrist toward the dark beyond the camp, scanning the treeline. “That’s not him.”

Steven perked up immediately, eyes widening with vindictive delight. “Told you. I’m very upfront about my hobbies.”

“There’s a witchblood nearby,” The pacing man’s mouth twisted with hunger. He turned toward the shadows as if he could will them to part. “Someone came back for him.”

Steven’s grin faltered for a moment then he forced it back into place. “Well,” he said, “whoever it is—hi. I’m Steven. I’m tied up. I would like to not be tied up anymore.”

“... Perhaps I should draw them off—have them chase me—while you free the boy?” Charlotte’s voice softly filled John’s ear.

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

_{Location — Husker's Interacting With — Jolene @Tae}

❁ ─────────────── ❁ ─────────────── ❁

Willow woke up that morning in a car to the familiar scent of banana.

The car sat in the early spill of morning, parked right behind Husker’s by the dumpster. It was so close the smell of old cigarettes felt baked into the vinyl. The sun rays crept through the open window, caressing the skin of the young woman folded into herself against the leather. Her lashes fluttered like they were reluctant to let the day in, but when they finally lifted, the blue of her eyes looked paler in the illumination.

A small sound escaped her lips that was something between a sigh and a hum, as she lifted her head and peeled her cheek from the glass, leaving a faint pink imprint on her cheek.

Her tawny hair lay in loose strands across her cheek, caught on one side by a little flower clip that was now crooked and the rest fell over her shoulders in messy, thick braids that looked like they’d been done days ago. She could feel the black choker still snug at her throat and her oversized sweatshirt clung to her, reeking of the remnants of last night.

Knee-high black socks climbed her legs, and her worn Converse were kicked up on the front edge of the seat, her knees drawn up close. One hand rested in her lap, palm open, fingers gone slack as if she’d let go of something.

Her gaze traveled through her surroundings slowly like she was counting things off; she liked to make sure she wasn't dreaming on mornings like this, and she often needed to. The key sat in the ignition. The radio was on low, on some station she didn’t remember choosing, its tinny music barely audible. Her window was half open, allowing the cacophony of the world outside to fill the space. She lay there and listened to that symphony as she always did: a machine humming, distant voices, a bird somewhere, the leaves whispering in a thin breeze that didn’t cool anything.

"The power's out, man. Let's just go to Husker's. You can hear the generator chugging already."

Willow sighed as her stomach dropped, and for a second she didn’t move at all, like she was waiting for someone to tell her what happened next. Her gaze drifted about, unhurried, and that was when she saw the banana air freshener.

There was that familiar little tree, swinging like a pendulum that didn't seem like it'd ever stop.

It made her think about how this wasn't her car; she didn't even have a car. But she'd recognize that banana scent anywhere.

She shut her eyes as her head throbbed and her fingers tapped in an anxious rhythm at her knee cap. Perhaps she thought her body could drum up memory if it kept time long enough.

There were a few flashes. A parking lot. The sound of laughter. A dark living room she couldn’t place, shapes on couches, mouths moving without faces. A hand on her shoulder. A sweet feeling.

Besides that, her mind drew blanks.

She swallowed, her jaw clenching once as she chewed at the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.

Willow hastily reached for the radio, fingers trembling, and turned the volume up.

Music flooded the car. She let it swallow the generator’s chug and the voices outside and the tap of the banana air freshener against the mirror.

A smile managed to form on her dry lips as Stevie Nicks’ voice slid through the speakers and the feeling was bittersweet. Her body relaxed, but the song ached in a way that she felt in her very bones. Nostalgia could be so painful.

Sometimes the song would make her miss her mama—make her miss the way she held her and rocked her, the way she made her feel precious for just a moment. The words of the story wouldn't matter so much, only the feelings, only the pictures.

This morning was one of those times.

She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned her head back against the window again. The glass was cool where her temple met it and she closed her eyes for a second.

Eventually her eyes opened again to the sight of herself in the rearview mirror.

For a moment she just stared. She swallowed, watched her own throat move. And then, she saw someone else.

She saw a little girl with pigtails and stickers on her cheeks, her knees drawn tightly to her body in the backseat. Willow narrowed her eyes on the scene as if it was really happening before , listening as the child hummed along to the very same song.

Willow knew that little girl. Maybe it wasn't the Willow who sat in the front seat, but she remembered the little girl who pressed her cheek to the window and pretended she was in her own music video, so the tears that slipped past her eyes didn't seem so bad.

Willow’s breath caught, her eyes shining.

_{"I'm... I'm sorry... I'm trying."}

She shut her eyes as tight as she could. Then she turned the key and killed all the noise, the car going suddenly still around her. She tucked the keys up into the visor like she’d always been told to and climbed out into the sunshine.

She immediately fished her phone from her pocket as she got her footing and shut the car door. Eleven percent.

Her fingers worked ahead before she could process. Jo, can you please come help me— Her jaw tightened and she rushed to pressed to lock the phone in a surge of adrenaline. She bit her lip and waited before returning to the message to backspace. Then she started a new one.

hey Jo <3 stepped out early this morning. think the power's out in town but Husker's got the generator going. need anything?

❁ ─────────────── ❁ ─────────────── ❁

The generator’s noise got louder as she stepped into Husker’s; it sounded like the whole building had teeth it was grinding. The air inside was cooler than the car, but smellier as always. Willow kept her head down anyway as she hurried in toward the back, waving a quick hello to the manager.

She weaved through the familiar obstacles into the little break room like she’d done it a hundred times, and she kinda had. This had become a little routine of hers.

There was a drawer in the cabinet Willow always used, one that stuck if you didn’t pull it just right. She tugged it open and fished around beneath crumpled napkins until her fingers found what she was looking for: her bag. She pulled it out, held it close to her chest. Willow shut the drawer again with her elbow and made for the bathroom.

Inside were spare clothes: A black tank, a pair of baggy jean shorts, a plaid flannel, a travel brush with teeth missing, a little packet of wipes, a cheap stick of deodorant and a spare phone charger.

The fluorescent light of the bathroom always was a killer on her eyes after nights like these. The mirror was spotted with old water marks. The sink had a rust ring around the drain, but she turned on the faucet anyway. After yanking her sweatshirt over her head and onto the ground, she shoved her hands into the water.

Her eyes snagged on her wrist, on the dark and smeared writing. Willow stared at it for long while.

Then she scrubbed.

Soap, water, nails, the rough paper towels—She scrubbed until the skin was angry. She didn't work at the skin until it was clean. She had scrubbed until it hurt.

Willow pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth as she finally shut off the water, eyes stinging for reasons she pretended not to understand. When she lifted her gaze, her reflection stared back with that too-wide look again.

“Okay,” she whispered, not to anyone.

Then she wiped her face. Her fingers went up to her braids next, and she undid them. Her hair fell heavy around her shoulders and Willow hurriedly combed her fingers through it.

She changed quickly after that.

She practiced her expression in the mirror for only a few seconds, before she gathered her bag to her chest and returned it to its drawer. Willow finally stepped back out into Husker’s, ready to play the role of the girl who’d come in for an extra shift.

“Good morning.” Willow’s smile was genuinely sweet as she brushed hair behind her ear. “I thought I’d swing in and give day shift a hand. I know we might get hit harder than usual with the power out.”

❁ ─────────────── ❁ ─────────────── ❁

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🌸 Race: Half-Elf 🌸
🦋 Class: Druidic Mystic 🦋
🍄 Location: Kraken's Wake🍄
🍃 Interactions: Arya @Potter
🌼 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.
✦ Amulet with an unknown crest
✦ Thick Magenta Hair – Flowing in long, heavy waves with many braids, tiny beads, and blossoms braided throughout.
✦ Arm Jewelry – Vine-wrapped armlets and bracelets studded with glistening stones in violet and turquoise hues.
✦ White off-the-shoulder crop top
✦ Mistpetal Skirt
✦ Waist Adornments – A 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: 6 🪞
🌸 Injuries: Phia is exhausted, weak, and achy. 🌸

Phia blinked at Arya’s touch like she’d been pulled out of a dream, her gaze lingering for just one more second on the glowing drink before she turned fully toward her. “Oh.” Her voice softened at once, and she nodded. She was used to Menzai chastising her for going ahead, and normally wouldn’t have taken well to a stranger trying to manage her. However, this stranger was a goddess, and as Phia took in Arya’s disposition, she realized the poor girl was probably frightened at the idea of being alone. “I'm so sorry, my goddess, I will never abandon you again.” Her tone was intense, full of resolve that was entirely unnecessary for the moment.

Then, quick as that, her expression brightened; her smile was warm as she suddenly slipped her hand into Arya’s. Phia leaned in, lowering her voice like she had a precious secret meant only for Arya, even with the whole tavern roaring around them. “Arya… We need to go get some of those pretty drinks together.” Her eyes flicked back toward the bar, sparkling with interest. “The red one looks like it was brewed inside a sunset.”