princess

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Part 1

Time: 2am - Ignis 5
Location Lover’s Lake

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The rushing sound of the waterfalls was almost louder than the beating of her heart.

It felt as though the world had narrowed to nothing but water and wind, the sounds pressing in on her from every side.

Wet blades of grass brushed against her legs as she stood there, cold and slick against her skin. The wind shifted without warning, snapping her skirt behind her, tugging at the fabric as though it were trying to pull her backward. When the wind stilled, the rain took its place, drumming against her shoulders and arms, soaking into her nightgown.

Heavy strands of black hair clung to her face and neck, as though unseen hands had taken hold of her and would not release her. They laid heavily across her mouth and eyes, masking her vision. She lifted her hand and swept them away with trembling fingers, but the wind fought back, catching the dark strands and drawing them forward again. They lashed across her face and settled there, plastered to her skin.

For a long while, she did not move.

She remained at the edge of the tree line, suspended in the darkness. The night had swallowed everything that wasn’t directly in front of her, and the rain made it worse, blurring the world before her. She squinted, lifting a hand to shield her eyes. The shadows pressed close behind her, while the lake before her stretched out ahead like an invitation she did not remember accepting.

Ahead, “Lover’s Lake” stretched out like a vast, black mirror. By day, it was a place of laughter in the sand and by night it was a place to rendezvous for romance later in the evening. Everyone knew the stories.

But now, in the heart of the storm, it bore no resemblance to its reputation.

The moon was shrouded behind clouds, broken only by fleeting shimmers of moonlight when the clouds shifted just enough to let a sliver through.

The cliffs on the far side didn’t seem far, but in the darkness, they felt impossibly distant. Their outlines rose against the sky like massive, sleeping giants, water pouring over their edges in torrents, vanishing into mist before they ever reached the lake below.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, just watching.

Minutes might have passed, or hours. Her thoughts slowed, drifting apart, until she no longer remembered what had brought her here in the first place.

Eventually, a strange stillness settled over her.

The storm raged on, and yet the stillness spread through her bones, dulling her fear and doubt until they felt distant. Without quite realizing she was doing it, she stepped forward. The ground grew softer under her shoes, turning to mud that sucked at her boots with every step.

“Charlotte…”

The whisper was louder here. Her gaze snapped upward, locking onto the middle waterfall across the lake, where white water crashed endlessly into darkness.

“cʜᴀʀʟᴏᴛᴛᴇ…”

The whisper was clearer now, layered beneath the roar of falling water and a shiver ran through her. This was ridiculous. It had to be. It was so late, three in the morning to be exact, that exhaustion was playing tricks on the mind.

That was all this was.

“c h a r l o t t e . . .”

Or maybe this was a dream.

Afterall, she had no business being here so late and alone in the dark, listening to a phantom voice.

“ＣＨＡＲＬＯＴＴＥ…”

Her heart pounded harder, faster, until she felt dizzy. She took a hesitant step back, her heel nearly slipping in the mud; she just barely caught her footing.

The voice seemed to rise from the lake itself, to slip down from the cliffs, to breathe through the very air around her.

She knew, with sudden clarity, that she should turn around — that she should run. But her feet remained rooted to the ground as she peered out at the waiting lake.

It no longer felt like water alone. The surface stretched before her, dark and waiting, as though it marked the edge of something she could not yet see, but could already feel.

And somewhere beyond it…

Something else waited too.

“c̣̐h͕̙͝a̞̎͟r̫͡l̥̊o̱̾t̰̔t̢̍e̙͠…”

It was as though the last whisper had come from just behind her ear…

…so close that she did not dare turn around to prove whether anyone stood there at all.

Her next breath faltered as though it had been taken for her.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Charlotte & Kilian

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Part 2

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

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Lottie was grateful Delilah had gone to purchase groceries with Nathaniel.

It was a selfish sort of relief, but it was real. If Delilah had been here, she would have thrown herself between them without hesitation, and Charlotte could not bear the idea of her getting hurt. Worse still was the thought of Gilbert or Lorenzo coming downstairs at the wrong moment and suffering Kilian’s wrath.

The idea made Charlotte’s stomach twist hard enough that she felt sick.

She stepped backward, only a little, because she didn’t want to make it obvious. Her hands were already shaking. She could feel it in her wrists, in her fingers, in the way her breath kept catching like she couldn’t quite get oxygen down her throat into her lungs.

She was scared. Terrified, even. There was no point lying to herself about that. But even in the middle of it, she knew with bleak certainty: this wasn’t random. This wasn’t the shock her body made it seem.

When she had put that necklace around Olivia’s throat at the banquet, she had understood what she was doing. She had known she was putting a target on herself and she had still done it anyway.

And she didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

If this was the consequence, then she would take it. She tried to tell herself that she could accept it because there was no other choice. Even as the door closed behind Kilian and her home suddenly felt too small, even as she stood there and looked at the man who could decide whether she lived and breathed another day, she tried to hold onto a thin thread of resolve.

But then her mind betrayed her with everything she still wanted.

She wanted to live long enough to make sure Lorenzo would be alright. She wanted to keep Olivia and Kazumin safe, because she had promised herself she would. And it wasn’t only them. Roman. Stratya. Sjan-dehk. Drake. Violet… All of them. She wanted to be there for them, even if all she could offer was her presence.

Oh—and Nolan.

How she wanted to see Nolan again. Even if it was only once. Even if she never found the words. Even if she didn’t get to explain anything at all. Just to look at him and know he was still there.

And she perhaps stupidly wanted to see Cassius again too, despite the fact she wasn’t supposed to want to, even if wanting him at all felt like another mistake she didn’t have the right to make.

Her vision blurred as she tried to stand very still, but failed as her trembling worsened.

Kilian took in the sights of the Vikena foyer with delight, a grin of satisfaction curling across his face.

“Such a beautiful home.” The compliment came out genuine, yet his words carried severity all the same. He was a tall man, bolstered by a competent and violent presence. Something about a man like him, standing in home like this… Felt wrong.

“A beautiful home for a beautiful girl…” His narrowed eyes shifted back to Charlotte as he looked her up and down once more, watching as her gaze remained rooted to the floor. “Such a shame that I can’t say the same for your bloodline. Sadly, it’s often the prettiest things that come from the darkest of places.” There was enough of a pause to feel uncomfortable, but not one long enough to allow a response.

“Your family, as prestigious as you are, comes from darkness, Lady Vikena. Did you know that?”

Charlotte’s lashes fluttered once as if she were thinking, but she never raised her gaze. “I—No, I did not.” She managed quietly.

Kilian laughed as he moved forward, closing the distance between them and lifting Charlotte’s gaze to meet his eyes with a barely gentle touch.

“Forgive me for not believing you, my lady, but I find it very hard to believe that you simply know nothing of what you are.” His eyes scanned her face as his grasp remained against her jaw. “Which makes your attendance at last night’s little incident all the more curious to me.”

Charlotte chewed the inside of her cheek very briefly then held his gaze as she confirmed, “I know nothing, sir.” The discomfort was ever evident in her expression, yet she was holding herself together as much as one could in her position. “I was simply meeting with friends and became a victim of a hostage situation… “ The word victim tasted wrong the moment it left her mouth. She swallowed then forced the rest out in a steady voice, “I never cast any magic nor do I know how to.”

“Ah, so you’re just a victim, then?” Kilian responded wryly. “Well…Lady Vikena, if you did not indulge in the heresy, who did?”

Charlotte’s stomach turned, but she did not look away. “There were two mages affiliated with the offenders,” she answered, carefully. “I presume their bodies were left at the tavern.” She hesitated, the horror flashing vividly before her eyes before she managed, “... One of them… was beheaded.”

His grip on her face tightened ever so slightly.

“There were two abominations with the thugs, that much is true. But those were not the only witches. The residual aura of magicae made that very obvious. So, I will ask you again, Charlotte. Who was it?”

Charlotte’s pulse thudded in her throat. “I didn’t see, sir.” She told him softly. “I was held down with a dagger at my neck.” She lifted her chin, letting him see the proof of the slice in her throat.

A soft scoff of a laugh escaped him as he let his grip soften and slide down from Charlotte’s jaw to her throat. He let a gloved thumb brush over the wound as he inspected it.

Charlotte clenched her fingers beneath her shawl until her nails dug into her palms; it took everything inside of her not to flinch.

“I imagine you were quite terrified in that moment.” He said, voice lowering to an almost intimate whisper as his hand remained carefully wrapped around her throat. The movement made her eyes immediately widen, and she could scarcely keep herself from trembling.

“There, in that tavern, your life at the mercy of another… Powerless to do anything but pray to the gods and hope for rescue.” His grip tightened just enough to get his next point across and a cry escaped her lips. “Remember that fear. For there are members of your circle that meddle in the arcane. If you are among them, you will pay the price. If you lie for them, you will pay the price.” Kilian leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath touching her ear before his words did. “Remain the victim that you are. It is a part that you already play oh so well… Do not also become a fool.”

Kilian released her throat and straightened, letting the full height of his frame tower over her. The harshness of his previous expression shifted into a more pleasant façade.

Her eyes sharpened on him before she could stop them, her glare rising up on instinct. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wanted to demand he free that woman from her chains. She wanted to tell him to get out of her home.

I am no victim.

The words filled her mind but nothing at all left her lips.

“You have been such a hospitable host, Lady Vikena. Perhaps we will visit again soon.” The man turned to the chained woman he had brought with him. She was still standing there next to the door, present through it all. A single tear stained her cheek below the blindfold she wore, though her expression was completely empty. “Be polite, Agony. Bow to our host so she knows just how much you enjoyed our little visit.” The woman complied, though there was an obvious trembling in her hands as she met the command.

Her gaze softened as it fell on Agony, and her heart began to race all over again at the very sight of her. Charlotte couldn’t stop looking at the shaking in the woman’s fingers, at the single tear she hadn’t wiped away, at the way she obeyed so quickly it seemed automatic. The more she looked at her, the more Charlotte felt sudden anger.

And if the sound of footsteps against wood hadn’t suddenly cut through the air, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to stop herself from stepping toward the woman. From reaching out and wiping that tear away, even if it earned her another warning, or worse

She turned quickly, breath catching, and saw Gilbert finally enter the foyer from the living room, a dish towel still in his hand, his hair a bit messy as if he’d been dragged out of whatever he’d been doing the moment he heard raised voices. It was unclear how much he had seen, but she could tell by the way his jaw had set he had seen enough.

Without uttering a word, Gilbert simply crossed the space and slipped an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders and drew her close, placing himself beside her as if that had always been where he belonged. His gaze stayed fixed on Kilian, his expression unwelcoming to say the least, and he held Charlotte there as he waited expectantly for the man to finally leave her home.

Kilian simply smiled at Gilbert with a cocky grin.

“Good, good…I’m glad Lady Vikena has people looking out for her.” He said, words carrying truth even behind their darkness. “If she continues with the company she’s been keeping… I fear she is going to need all of the help she can get.” At the end of his words, he offered Gilbert a dangerous little wink, and turned his gaze to look Charlotte up and down one final time before turning and making his way out the door… Agony trailing behind him no different than an obedient dog on a leash. From just outside the door, Kilian made one final remark.

“See you soon, Charlotte.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: The Castle Ballroom
Interactions: Farim @Lava Alckon
Attire: Dress

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The herald’s staff rang through the ballroom, louder this time, cutting sharply through the music and conversation.

“Princess Anastasia Danrose!”

Her name rolled across the hall with all its importance, and when she stepped through the doors she looked like someone who had remembered, very suddenly, that she belonged to a story people were now watching like a theater performance. Her shoulders were held high, and her hands were folded neatly in front of her, as if they belonged to someone calmer than she felt. It was so much unlike the bubbly princess who usually danced into a room with a smile brighter than the likes any had seen. No, this Anastasia was somber, and following the instructions she had been given for once in her life.

Her movements were slow as she nodded her greeting to the onlookers, dressed in soft lavender. Her gown was comprised of a sweetheart bodice, a slim gold band at her waist, and cape sleeves that fell in sheer drifts from rose-detailed shoulders, edged in gold and scattered with tiny flowers that caught the light when she moved.

The sea of nobles parted as it always did. She could feel their eyes slide over her, and it wasn't to admire her beauty. They were looking for damage this time, and she knew it immediately from their gazes. They were looking for a crack.

The smile she owed her audience arrived too late, but she gave it anyway so no one would see her fall apart.

When their attention finally drifted, her gaze flicked to the dais, to where she was supposed to go, to the chair beside her father. And she almost did it. She almost walked straight to her brothers and played her part, sat down, smoothed her skirt, and pretended her body was not still remembering smoke and screaming. Then the space where her mother should have been swallowed her vision and she felt like she could no longe breath, because for one horrible second she could picture her sitting there as she always had, long brown hair pinned back, serious eyes watching everything. Anastasia made herself blink it away, but her eyes snagged on Callum’s empty seat next, and nausea filled her.

Her father did not notice, mercifully, still occupied with a gold figurine in his hands. Anastasia let her feet carry her through the crowd before she even admitted where she was going, slipping between sparkling gowns and murmured greetings she barely heard. She found him by instinct, as if some part of her had already decided where safety lived tonight.

The sight of Farim steadied her in the same way it had almost daily the past week.

When she reached him, she stopped as though she had simply wandered there, as though she had not crossed half the ballroom for the right to look at him first. Her eyes held his and her smile softened, not playful so much as grateful.

“You look unfairly handsome tonight,” she said. Her hand lifted as if to take his sleeve fully, as if she longed to cling to it, and she caught herself at the last moment. Instead, she let only her fingertips rest there. A small breath escaped her, and her voice wavered even while she tried to keep it steady. “I know I am meant to go sit where everyone expects me to sit.” Her eyes flicked, just once, toward the dais.

Her gaze returned to him, and the bravado she usually wore so easily was nowhere to be found. “But I don’t think I can do that yet tonight,” she admitted quietly. Then, with a gentle longing in her eyes, she leaned closer and told him with soft earnestness, “I would rather be with you.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

@Remram Nolan

The herald’s staff had struck the floor once, and the sound had carried farther than it should have through the glitter and music.

“His Grace, Duke Gideon Edwards. Her Grace, Duchess Victoria Edwards.”

The doors opened wide, and Gideon had stepped in with Victoria on his arm, neither of them rushing, neither of them pausing for the audience they were guaranteed, and neither of them looking in each other's directions. His uniform was a deep navy that read nearly black beneath the chandeliers, with gold trim that ran along seams. Medals sat in rows across his chest. A cloak fell from one shoulder in a heavy sweep that moved with him instead of behind him. His face was composed, but it was not soft. There was a restraint in the set of his mouth, a weary somberness in his eyes.

Even here, even in the perfume and the music, he still carried with him the sight that had burned too long before him.

Meanwhile, his wife Victoria moved like she had been built for this and nothing else, her posture perfect, chin lifted, the kind of confidence that made people straighten their own shoulders without realizing they were doing it. Her gown was complicated as always, a blend of olive and gold that layered in sheer fabric over dense embroidery, with goldwork climbing up her bodice in intricate patterns and spreading across her skirts in tasteful artistry. The emerald stones set in gold caught light with every turn of her head, and she wore matching earrings that glinted near her jaw. A tiara sat in her hair, and her hair fell in styled waves that looked effortless only because the effort had been paid for in the time and patience of her servants’ hands. Her smile was pleasant, despite everyone knowing her personality was certainly not.

Heads had turned, conversations thinned briefly and then resumed. Bows and curtsies rippled outward as people remembered their places and remembered, too, that the Edwards were not a household to treat casually. Gideon’s gaze traveled first to the throne tableau, to the King already seated and to the princes stationed at his sides. He held his expression steady as he approached the dais, but the tension in his jaw did not ease.

At the foot of the dais he stopped and bowed, and then rose with the same grace, offering the crown the necessary deference without giving the room anything else to chew on. Victoria curtsied beside him flawlessly, hands steady on her skirts. When they moved away from the dais, they had made their way toward the food tables promptly.

"Remember your face," Victoria had murmured to her husband, her tone sweet enough to pass for affectionate to anyone watching them from a distance. "This is a ball, Gideon. Not a funeral."

Victoria’s attention drifted quickly as the minutes passed. She peeled away into the crowd with ease, turning her smile toward other nobles and letting the room receive her exactly the way she preferred to be received.

Gideon remained behind, watching rather than participating, until time and movement carried him back into the orbit of his adopted son. When he reached Nolan’s side, he paused to let him take in his presence and then he set his hand lightly at Nolan’s shoulder. "I know this is not where you would choose to spend your evening," he said softly, the warmth in his voice genuine—the kind of genuine warmth that could calm a room if he wanted it to. "But you do not have to endure it alone."

"If you wish to make some friends tonight, I will be here if you need me." Gideon lowered his voice further, careful that it would not carry to the nearest curious ears. "No one corners you tonight. If anyone tries, you look to me, my dear son, and I will put a stop to it. You have my word."

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Nolan & Marina

Time: Ignis 5 Day
Location: Museum of Caesonian History and Science

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An institution of knowledge of the natural world and its history, a place of learning where even those who care little for either could find something to pique their interest. Within the grand halls of the Museum of Caesonian History and Science people of all ages walked through with inquisitive gazes at carefully curated exhibits, reading off placards written in enough detail that even the most common laymen could glean something from it. Out of all the establishments in Sorian, this was by far Nolan's favorite.

No matter how many times he had visited in the past, he could never grow bored of it. How many times had he passed by it as a child with worn clothes and an empty gut wondering what laid past its doors? Too many to count most likely. Even now after all of these years he still found himself in the museum once again though this time it was because there was a new temporary exhibit: an exhibit on bugs and insects found not just in Caesonia, but from the warm, tropical climate of Alidasht and the less snowbound regions of Varian.

It was rare for Nolan to be excited about much, but a new exhibit would always get his blood pumping. There was still so much of the world he did not know, so many things he had never seen, and today was just another sliver of knowledge to be gained. Well, it was not like he didn't know a lot about bugs to begin with; he read a lot about them as a child in the Edwards Estate Library but seeing them in person was another story altogether!

"Let's see, where is it?" He murmured to himself as he looked around the foyer. His eyes lit up when he saw a sign that said The Strange World of Entomology.

"There you are!" He beamed ecstatically before he rushed over to the exhibit filled with many creepy crawlies. Once inside, he saw glass cages filled with various insects living in mocked up ecosystems. He started with the closest exhibit which featured various beetles.

Marina cut through the museum’s hush in proper, put-together finery: a dusky blue dress that looked sweet at first glance and dangerous on second, fitted through the bodice with pale sleeves that billowed just enough to be dramatic. Her dark auburn hair had been left loose, tickling her collarbone in soft waves every time she turned her head, and there was a coating of plum lipstick on her mouth.

She slowed right behind Nolan, peering past his shoulder. “Here I am !” Marina echoed, then let her gaze drift over his face for a moment before she commented smugly, “Of course you went straight for the beetles.”

Then she rounded him and leaned closer to the glass, eyes narrowing. “That one,” she said, tapping the glass with one gloved finger, “is basically a tiny armored thief. Some beetles can play dead so convincingly that predators get bored and leave—like,” her lips curved as she spoke, “‘sorry, I’m unavailable for violence right now.’” Her gaze slid to Nolan, bright with satisfaction at her own commentary. “Stag beetle,” she added, as if Nolan had asked. “Lucanus cervus.”

Nolan had straightened up with a start and turned around to see this woman who crackled like electricity and mischief speaking to him with familiarity. 'Of course you went straight for the beetles?' What in the world did she mean by that? Why was she even speaking with him? Had she mistaken him for someone else? Why else would she be talking to him? He could not tell if her presence should make him anxious or if she had caught him so amazingly off guard that his brain was in a state of shock. Just who the hell was she?

There was a mischievous glint in her eyes, one that he could recognize very well. That same glint could be found in Ariella's own eyes whenever she was brewing trouble. If he had shown any weakness, he knew he was going to be swallowed whole.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain some semblance of control. "Personally, I am more partial to the Diabolical Ironclad Beetle, Phloeodes Diabolicus" His finger pointed at a beetle that looked like it was made of wrought iron than any form of organic matter. It stood still, laying low to the ground and flat. "It isn't a thing of beauty, it can't even fly, but it is a creature that has been tempered and refined by evolution. It can withstand forces 39,000 times its own bodyweight, protecting it from would-be predators until they give up. A marvel of nature." He stated with his own satisfaction and admiration for such a simple creature.

Nolan turned his attention to his unexpected companion and focused on her face with a knitted brow. For the life of him, he could not recognize her; he felt like he would have remembered a face like hers. "Though I am afraid that I am not the person you are looking for, unless my memory has failed me and I promised a date then that truly would be a marvel." A chuckled parsed his lips though it was more at himself; there was no way he could gather that kind of nerve.

Marina’s brows lifted in pleased surprise as Nolan began speaking.

The Diabolical Ironclad Beetle

Her lips curved, slow and smug, as she leaned closer to the glass and studied the flattened little creature. “Mm.” The sound came out satisfied. “You have excellent taste,” Marina declared finally. “The ironclad beetle is a tiny war crime.”

She leaned in with that same mischievous look. “Frightened ladies try to step on those bad boys all the time and then bam,” She continued as if she were conspiring with him, her voice a low hiss. “Nothing. The exoskeleton is layered like a composite, so when it’s squeezed, the structure spreads stress out instead of cracking in one fatal spot… Meaning…” A grin formed on her face and she offered her fist toward him like a ridiculous oath. “The iron clad being is an invincible foe that can thwart all evil.”

When he made that little polite joke about the date, Marina’s gasp was so dramatic it belonged on a stage. And because Marina was Marina and she couldn’t leave well enough alone, she asked, “how could you say that with such a straight face?”

She leaned in, eyes narrowing with accusation. “We’ve been planning this date for weeks.” Marina lifted her chin and folded her arms, holding the glare just long enough to see if he’d panic.

Then finally, she waved her hand to dismiss it all. “I jest. We’ve never met. “

A genuine smile softened her mouth as she finally offered her hand. “I’m Marnie.”

Rather than a clinical explanation, this woman had a rather colorful way of illustrating concepts. If he were to be honest with himself, she was quite captivating. Her energy was uncontainable like a storm and yet, bounced like rays of light. To put it simply, it was a pleasure to listen to her speak with such zeal on all things multilegged and fluttery. Her in-depth knowledge had caused his lips to curl into a smile from his own pleasant surprise; if one were to tell him that a charming woman would wander to him and elucidate upon the many critters behind the planes of glass he would have rolled his eyes.

However, when she offered her fist, he looked at it with raised brows. Never had he ever seen a lady offer a fist bump before; it was like seeing a pauper singing opera, but here he was. And he was supposed to reciprocate? Has he ever given a fist bump ever since he became an Edwards? Hesitantly, he pressed his knuckles against hers.

Before he could dwell too deeply on the matter, the woman gasped so loudly that a few other patrons shot around and looked at the duo with either curiosity, or some glaring at Nolan for being an inconsiderate date. However, she could gauge by his reaction that he was not buying it; a smirk played on his lips as he looked at her with a knowing look. He knew himself all too well. If he had asked a woman on a date, then his family would have never left him alone and Lottie would have made sure not a hair was out of place. They would have made a whole show of it.

But rather than doubling down, her face softened with a kind smile. The moisture in his mouth ran dry at the sight of her hand extended to him.

She doesn't want to hurt you, Nolan. Keep your breath steady. You're in control; you're not in danger.

Nolan reached out and gently grabbed her hand. It was so small compared to his. "Nolan, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." His smile seemed so tiny compared to hers.

“Nolan,” Marina repeated cheerfully, shaking his hand with an enthusiasm that was a touch too much for most and exactly enough for her. Her violet eyes skimmed over him with curiosity, catching the nervousness in his posture, the way he seemed to hold himself like he was waiting to be corrected. It tugged something protective awake in her.

She let his hand go and smoothed her skirt with exaggerated dignity, as if she’d decided this was now an official appointment. Then she looked up at him. “Now, Nolan,” she said, “you must show me your favorite creature in this entire exhibit.” Her lips curved playfully. “I will accept nothing less than your most beloved little monstrosity.”

His fair cheeks took on a slight hue of red as her violet eyes examined him, feeling them scan all of his foibles. Gods above it was embarrassing to look this pathetic, he knew that. Here there was this bright, intelligent woman that for some reason upon high he could not understand singled him out of every person in his exhibit and there he was standing so meekly like a little boy. If he had any ounce of his brother's charm and charisma this would have been a fine set up, but he didn't.

His hand fell to his side, his bright green eyes watched her performance. Was she always like this? Always putting on a show from the way she carried herself to the way she even spoke about things mundane to most people? It was so bold and outrageous that one could hardly say that she was putting on an act and yet, her smile was so genuine that it made him second guess. Which was the real Marnie? Or did this encompass all of her? Such things made it hard to keep his balance around her.

"My favorite in the exhibit, huh?" Nolan echoed back. This woman really had a knack for keeping him on his toes. Not one to keep looking like a dog with its tail between his legs, he corrected that weak posture of his.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that though not out of unwillingness or indecisiveness; this is a new exhibit, and it is my first time visiting since I've arrived back in Sorian. Nolan, despite trying to hold together whatever mask of dignity and propriety, asked with heat radiating from his cheeks he asked, "So how about this? We'll walk through together and we'll both share our findings. That is if you find my company agreeable."

In truth, Marina thought Nolan was… adorable. He was as pretty as a painting and as shy as a mouse. He was so earnest that it was almost as fun as poking at her brothers; the whole concept of Nolan as a person amused and delighted her. Although she hadn’t the slightest clue what had possessed her to even talk to him, other than that she had simply overheard his delighted cry upon finding his precious bugs, and she had decided such enthusiasm deserved an answer.

It was strangely easy, carrying on like this with him; he made her feel safe in a way she didn’t quite understand, and she didn’t question it too hard. It wasn’t as though she could plop her heart out on a table for him to see, no–Marina could barely manage to get herself to do that with her own family, most days not even with herself.

But she liked his company. She didn’t feel so angry around him.

And the relief of that was both unfamiliar and welcome.

So in the end, she smiled brightly and said, “ I find your company most agreeable, Nolan. Let us venture through this labyrinth of creatures together. ”

It was an odd feeling, to be constantly on his toes and yet to enjoy someone's company at the same time. How could the smile of a woman bring about so much warmth and yet so much anxiety? A calm and yet trepidation? Conflicting emotions rattled in him, and they all stemmed from a single, simple desire: he wanted to get to know her better. He wanted to know what was behind those violet eyes, the razor-sharp wit and intellect that glimmered with promise with every moment she spoke.

"I'll graciously accept the honor then," Nolan said with a tinge of warmth in his voice and a smile that curled upwards from his lips. His arm gestured an invite to walk by his side through the exhibit and she enthusiastically took the offer.

As they walked though, Nolan glanced down at her and curiously asked, "So, Marnie, I must ask. Are you new to Sorian or are you perhaps a visitor?"

Before she could answer, there was a loud THUMP next to them. Behind a pane of glass was a cricket, a very, very big cricket to put it quite plainly. Its antennas fidgeted around as its beady black eyes stared at Nolan and Marina through the glass before jumping against the cage again.

"Giant Wētā, Deinacrida Heteracantha. They grow about eight inches in length. The females weigh about two and half ounces, or about the weight of a tennis ball. Sounds like it too." Nolan looked unperturbed at the cricket fighting for its escape. Or maybe it was very angry about its situation?

Marina’s expression wore her fascinated approval. She released Nolan’s arm and drifted closer, as if pulled. “Oh hello, big mama,” she murmured in a sweet coo, as if she was greeting a dog instead of a creature that looked capable of surviving a war.

She leaned in until she was nearly nose to glass, her breath fogging it for a second as she held the wētā’s stare without blinking. Her eyes narrowed in recognition, like she understood the attitude.
“I wouldn’t want to be boxed up either,” Marina said softly, “I do understand, my lady. I truly do.”

Then, without looking away from the glass, she added, “Her name is Lady Hilda. ”

It was a pleasant, yet odd sight to watch her coo a cricket the size of a small puppy when most would have probably turned their nose up in disgust. Objectively speaking these were ugly creatures; they lacked the bright and varied colors of many insects nor did they have beautiful patterns. It was a big, brown thing with hairy legs and yet, Marnie treated it with kindness regardless.

And then she found a way to inject whimsy. He could only softly laugh like rays of light peaking through a cloudy day. "'Lady' Hilda. She has a title?" Nolan stepped to her and leaned forward to look at the Wētā closer to eye level. It was an insect; it possessed intelligence lower than that of a human and had such a shorter life span, but it was still a living being.

"I understand her ladyship very well; it's a scary thing to be locked up," he murmured softly. For just a moment, his eyes dulled. Briefly, ever so briefly, he was somewhere else, somewhere he'd rather not be.

And then he was back. Nolan straightened his back and glanced around the exhibit. "Perhaps we should let her be. We have plenty of ground to cover."

Marina didn’t answer right away. Her gaze had shifted from the glass to him the moment his tone changed, and she didn’t miss the flicker of emotion behind his words and the dulling of those eyes. Nosy as she could be, she made the choice not to pry—not now.

Instead, she nodded finally. “Onward, then,” she agreed. Marina made a show of tearing herself away, like it was an act of great personal sacrifice. She gave the glass one last fond look, lifted two fingers in a salute, and murmured under her breath, “Be brave, Lady Hilda.” Her gaze ever so slightly slid toward Nolan as she whispered, “ Do not let them temper your fighting spirit.”

Then she turned, skirts swishing as she fell back into step beside Nolan.

They rounded the next case and Marina stopped so abruptly Nolan nearly walked into her. Inside the terrarium, a praying mantis sat on a branch. Her head turned slowly until her big eyes were set on Nolan and Marina

“That one’s not afraid of anything.” Marina whispered.

The mantis then lifted one arm and Marina’s mouth tugged into a pleased smirk.

“I like her,” she decided. “If I were a bug, I’d be her.” Then Marina lifted both hands in front of her chest, wrists bent and fingers curled like a mantis, then made a tiny “chomp-chomp” motion toward Nolan with a little grin.

"So you're very territorial?" Nolan joked with a smirk as he approached the glass and leaned forward to examine the specimen. It rubbed its eyes with its forearms against its eyes to remove debris. His eyes lit up with almost a childlike joy to examine a creature with the only restraint being the glass between him and the mantis. "They're effective little killers, blending in and then they spear their prey with their forelegs when they least expect it."

“Oh, absolutely. I had a whole watchword system for my room.”

He turned his gaze back to her. "And you know what they are famous for. If they're hungry, they eat the males after...they..." Heat radiated from his cheeks while flush crept from his cheeks to his ears. Suddenly, the context of her playful bites took on a whole new meaning.

Marina’s eyes went wide, and for the briefest second she looked flustered. Heat climbed up her freckled cheeks so quickly it ratted her out before she could hide it, and she hated that it did. She hadn’t even been thinking about that part. She could practically feel him deciding she was some sort of creep.

Was she flirting with him? Was this what flirting looked like? Dear god, flirt back dammit! How does one even flirt?!

Nolan turned face away from her. "You're assuming that I would be the one being eaten." His eyes widened in absolute horror when he realized what that sounded like. "Oh gods, that came out entirely wrong! I'm so sorry!"

Marina had planned to answer that with words, but instead, she let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, then snapped her mouth shut and forced her expression to look nonchalant. It did not fully succeed. Her blush remained.

If there was a cliff nearby, he would have swan dived off it. Maybe he could break into the terrarium filled with venomous spiders and let them end his suffering? At this point, he would settle for huddling into a corner and silently scream. The silence was too damn heavy.

She finally cleared her throat and folded her arms, as if she hadn’t just short-circuited. “Nolan…” she began, slowly, in a scolding manner as if he was a child that had said something inappropriate. She then wagged a finger at him. “You are not biting my head off.”

Her chin lifted once more with mock authority. “I know I might not look it, but I’m rather terrifying on a battlefield.”

His brows lifted towards the ceiling; Nolan had expected his face to sting from a well-deserved slap, instead to his surprise she was just teasing him. She had a greater mental fortitude than he did; he could not imagine how many people would have let such a vulgar comment go like that.

She paused thoughtfully and subsequently poked both her cheeks. “And I’m cute, so you wouldn’t dare be violent to a face like this.” Then she fluffed her curls like it was proof.

The tension in his muscles loosened and he could feel himself begin to breathe again. "Yes, yes you are," He admitted with a soft chuckle.

Taking a moment to summon his courage, Nolan shifted his balance to face her with an earnest expression. His hand reached for his heart, and he gave her a polite bow that had been drilled into him from a young age. "I really do apologize though, sincerely. As you plainly witnessed, I have a knack for putting my foot in my mouth when I'm... off balance." Nervous, he meant that he was nervous around her, but he couldn't allow himself to say it. Not in front of her. His pride wouldn't allow it.

"But that is not an excuse. How do I make it up to you, Marnie?"

“Oh, it’s fine, I—” Marina cut herself off as his last statement fully registered in that brain of hers.

A slow, delighted smile spread across her face, and it spelled trouble. “Make it up to me?” she echoed, her dangerous tone sweet as sugar.

"Yes...?" Nolan confirmed hesitantly.

She lifted the back of her hand to her brow like she was about to faint, but the obvious smirk ruined the performance. “Tragic,” she sighed dramatically. “A gentleman loudly implying he’d like a taste of me in a public place of education. I may never recover.”

"Wh-wha-! I did not mean-!" Blush burned his cheeks as she dramatically announced his social faux pas with that obvious smirk on her face. Oh, she was a very dangerous woman.

Then her eyes flicked up to his, bright with mischief. “Yes. I’ve decided.” she said, as if passing judgment. “You’ll spend the courting season making it up to me.”

On one hand, he was glad to still be in her good graces. The one thing he wanted to do was to make her think that he was some sort of rake; that would be a humiliation he was not sure he would be able to survive. On the other hand, he could feel it in his bones that she was going to run him ragged... But he did enjoy her company. With a relenting sigh, he asked, "And what are the details of this arrangement?"

“The details?” Marina echoed. She then tapped her chin and said firmly, “Mm. No.” Subsequently, she leaned in just enough and explained merrily, “I’ll make it up as we go. I’ll keep you on your toes, you’ll keep me entertained, and if you behave, I might even be merciful.”

"Might even be merciful." Nolan repeated back with an arched brow. A chuckle of disbelief rang past his lips while he shook his head. "How generous of you. So, I am at the mercy of your whims and fancies. You're a little devil; you know that right?" If there was a lesson to take away from this, it would be to never even attempt flirting again.

Marina giggled as if he had complimented her, a devious little smile on her face. “Oh, I know,” she said sweetly as if this was common knowledge.

"However, I am nothing, but a man of my word. Until the end of this courting season, I am at your beck and call." Nolan bowed towards her again though this time there was something overdramatic in the way he did it. It was as if he was copying her to tease her for her flair for performance.

Marina pinched the edges of her skirt and dipped into a curtsy. “Very good,” she declared, eyes filled with wicked satisfaction. “I accept your surrender.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Kalliope’s Rescue

Roman, Kalliope , Lottie, Cassius, Stratya and Sjan-dehk

Time: Evening, Ignis 3
Location: A warehouse in Sorian

---

The warehouse stank of brine and iron, the ocean’s scents leaking in from the nearby beach. A loose sheet of tin up in the rafters kept tapping with the wind. Somehow, the sound made the dark feel crowded.

Kalliope sat on the concrete with her back to a support beam. Blood had dried in ugly streaks along her mouth and throat. Her hair had come loose into a messy spill, caught in her lashes and on her cheek.

A handful of men loitered in the open space, close enough to enjoy the sight of her and far enough to feel safe doing it. They were not careful the way trained people were careful; they were bored, and boredom made them bold. One leaned against a crate and smiled at nothing, another rolled his shoulders like he was settling in for entertainment, and a third crouched to pick up a ripped strip of her shirt, letting it dangle between his fingers with a pleased little hum.

“They really dropped us a present,” he murmured, as if saying it softly made it less monstrous.

The man by the crate laughed through his nose, eyes fixed on her like she was a present that had finally arrived. “He said keep her breathing,” he replied, voice lazy with confidence, “didn’t say she had to be comfortable.”

Another took a slow step closer, testing the distance. His grin didn’t reach his eyes; it never did with men like him. “Bet she’s got a mouth on her when she isn’t leaking blood all over the floor,” he said, savoring the cruelty like it was a joke meant for friends. “Tonight we’ll see how much fun she really is.”

The lanterns suddenly trembled. The men paused, all at once, heads turning, attention honing in at all once with the sudden feeling that they weren’t alone in the warehouse the way they’d thought they were.

Then the door went in with a violent crash.

And through the shower of splinters, emerged the blackened muzzles of a twin-barreled firelock.

The men barely had any time to react before one barrel boomed. Its strident report reverberated through the warehouse, echoing off walls and rattling the roof. Dim sparks—the glowing remains of burnt powder, shot from its mouth like the fiery breath of a Vasenyan wyvern. A frantic scream ripped from a man’s throat. Someone else yelled a warning. Both, however, came much too late to help the man standing furthest from Kalliope, but closest to the entrance. He still had his eyes on the red-haired woman when the better part of his head—everything above his lips—exploded into a cloud of red mist and fleshy gore.

One.

Sjan-dehk didn’t waste any time. He threw himself into the chaos, boots thumping loudly against the floor, smoke still curling from the spent barrel of his blunderbuss. One man regained enough of his senses to charge at him with a dagger in hand. Sjan-dehk discharged the other barrel into his chest. Tiny pellets—some chiseled from stone, others cold iron—turned the man’s abdomen into a bloody mess. The blade dropped, clattering on the floor, and his body soon followed.

Two.

With both barrels empty, the blunderbuss was now little more than an unwieldy club. Sjan-dehk dipped low, and threw it with both hands at another man’s legs. It struck him in the shins, its heft still enough to make him stumble.

Sjan-dehk dashed forward, a blur of blue, white, and black. The man lashed out with his knife in a wide, careless swing. Sjan-dehk tucked his chin in, letting the blade glance off the steel plates covering the brim of his hat. Without as much as a grunt, he drove a fist into the man’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs, and forcing him to double over.

Shifting his feet, Sjan-dehk slid back. He drew a pistol and placed a bullet in the man’s head.

Three.

Someone else rushed towards him. Or perhaps they were trying to rush past him. Either way, he didn’t care—he flung the spent firelock at him. The heavy piece of wood and metal struck him in the shoulder, not hard enough to send him sprawling, but enough to make him shout in pain and trip over his own feet.

Sjan-dehk drew his sword, caught up with him, and ran him through. The blade cut through cloth and flesh as if they were nothing. With a precise twist, Sjan-dehk pulled the weapon free, letting the body crumple to the floor.

Four.

His eyes scanned the room. There were still more people. More thugs. More enemies.

No, focus.

He ignored the ones standing—the ones with the weapons, the ones keeping their distance with hesitation in their steps—and turned his gaze towards the red-haired woman sitting on the floor, and slouched against a pillar, behind them. He saw the dried blood flaking on her face, the fresh scars on her flesh, and just the terrible state of her person. Anger—No, rage boiled in his chest, and his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth felt like they would grind each other into dust.

Kalliope had been hurt—badly so—and the ones responsible for it had the sheer audacity to still be alive. Sjan-dehk tightened his grip on his sword. His eyes were already searching for his next target.

Then, he paused.

No, focus. We’re just here for Kali.

He breathed out sharply through his nose. The desire to simply slaughter these thugs was loud in his mind—and he knew he could do it with ease. But that would still take time, and how much time could he afford to waste, with Kalliope in such a state?

No, the smart thing to do would be to get her out of here as quickly as possible.

“All of you,” ” Sjan-dehk said. He took one step forward, making sure every thug had a clear view of the blood—the blood of their fellows—spattered across his cuirass. He pointed to the corpses behind him. “You can join them. Or you can get out of my way. I did not come here to kill you.””

A half-truth, but still a truth, nevertheless. Sjan-dehk pointed to Kalliope. “I am here for Kali. She comes with me, I will let all of you go.”

He raised his sword slightly, just enough to show the blood still dripping from its blade. “But get in my way, and I send all of you to your Gods. Be smart. Choose wisely.”

As Sjan-Dehk had dove straight into the room, the clack of steel armor announced Stratya’s movement as she entered directly behind him and darted to the side. She knew he’d go straight for her. That was best - she would cover him.

There were always those in the dark corners, keeping to themselves. Sometimes for sickening reasons. Like that bloke, with his hand down his pants, now scrambling to be ready. The man in front of him turned from the gunman to the armoured woman rapidly approaching. Her plated left arm faced him as she charged with a shield strapped to her forearm, a cuirass covered her torso, a cold expression stared him down.

He fumbled with his knife in panic, giving her ample opening to plant her left foot and pivot, revealing the shortsword she’d drawn in her right hand just as quickly as it pierced through his back. Her stride carried her into the thrust and gave her the momentum to shove the corpse to the floor with her sword still in hand.

Most of the other men in the room had their attention on the man cutting a path through them very loudly. Stratya closed on the man fumbling with some sort of satchel he’d secured shut, his eyes too focused on her to see what he was doing to unfasten it. He looked away briefly and the next thing he saw was the tip of her sword.

Throwing daggers. A simpler alternative to a crossbow, perhaps. She set her sword down and picked one out, looking around the room for a troublemaker. They all seemed quite scared of Sjan-Dehk, and indeed, he was quite the fighter. A little reckless, but she understood why. Movement in the shadows in the back of the warehouse caught her eye. Her left hand retrieved her sword, the throwing dagger still in her right. With the attention of the room drawn as it was, Stratya found it easy to sneak around the perimeter, to close in on the movement. When she was close enough she felt confident about hitting it, she loosed the projectile to a satisfying cry of pain and a prone figure.

A man near her had seen the thing wizz past his head and turned to see her. Her hand found his face and she gave a mighty twist, slamming the human dreg into the wall head first. An incredible pressure came from her hand, feeling like it might crush his skull, eliciting screams as he clawed at the gauntlet protecting her forearm and hand. “Ye find this sa’isfying, do ye?!” The pressure in her grip pulsed and the Fury flashed through her eyes, for only the man in her grip to see, as she crushed his skull in her hand and dropped him. Slowly, her head led the rest of her body as she turned to the room.

Roman and his men watched the others move through the door and into the fray. He brought up the rear, taking the time to observe those inside. They didn’t move as a cohesive unit; they looked like mere hired help. Unfortunate.

“Take two alive. Kill anyone else that gets in your way.”

Boots scraped and skidded over the concrete as the remaining men broke. It was less a retreat than a panicked scattering. They shoved past crates and each other, shoulders clipping crates and each other, eyes wide and wild as if the warehouse itself was now filled with lions. One tried to back away with his hands half-raised, tripped, and hit the floor hard with a choked cry; metal rang out sharp in the sudden scramble—the key tumbling from his pocket and clattering across the ground before he crawled after the others attempting to escape.

The seven men who came with him dispersed past the others. Two teams pinned down their targets with speed and efficiency, binding and gagging them before they could scream. The other three moved to cut down and disarm anyone who tried to fight or was too slow to flee. They moved and fought in near perfect sync—practiced, trained strikes, cuts, and kicks.

Sjan-dehk watched Roman’s men cut down and capture the runners with hardly any emotion on his face. He hadn’t lied—he let them go. The actions of everyone else who’d come with him was simply not under his control.

He made a mental note to ask Roman for one of the captives later. If these men—or more likely, their paymaster—wanted Kalliope so badly, Sjan-dehk wanted to know why.

No, he needed to know why.

And if the Varian wasn’t keen on giving up his prisoners, then Sjan-dehk would just have to hope that at least one of them was slippery enough to escape the warehouse, and run into Cynwaer’s crew lurking in the surrounding streets. If the Recompense’s—No, the Remembrance’s Captain word was good, they’d sweep up any stragglers and hand them over to Sada Kurau.

Lottie hastily darted in from the shadows of the entrance and snatched up the key. Then she threw herself to her knees before Kalliope, her gentleness a juxtaposition to the cruelty of the room. She carefully cradled her face between both hands. “We’re here, Kalli… oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, blue eyes shining with tears as her thumbs brushed tenderly along Kalliope’s cheeks. She lingered just long enough to make sure Kalliope could see her before she shifted closer and, hands trembling but determined, leaned down to work the key into the lock on the chains.

Roman did not rush to save her or join the fight. In fact, he acted as if the slaughter wasn’t happening at all. While the others fought, he searched. His eyes swept over every scrap of detail in the warehouse, every scratch on the floor, every piece of displaced debris. He seemed more interested in how she had gotten there than in assessing her actual condition. There was always a chance this was a setup, and she was merely the bait.

The warehouse was nothing but a ghost, its stink of brine and iron scraping at her senses like static in a dying mind. Kalliope was back in the river, the one from her childhood nightmares, water dragging her under while the shore burned and the world screamed. She’d spent the last hours begging for the dark to finally swallow her whole, for the water to fill her lungs and end the nightmare Hafiz had clawed open.

Little Sparrow, a voice whispered—soft, melodic, and smelling of sun-warmed clover. Little Sparrow, why are you weeping?

Because I’m tired, Kalliope’s mind answered into the void. And I cannot find the shore.

A phantom warmth touched her heart, a hand that felt like home. You have been so brave, for so very long. But you must be brave a little while longer, my Little Sparrow. You do not yield. Remember the fire in your blood. You do not yield.

The thunder of the firelock, the wet slap of bodies hitting the ground—just echoes, just the same brutal loop she’d run a thousand times to survive. Sjan-dehk’s voice sliced through the chaos, but she didn’t even flinch. She’d conjured him so many times in this hell, he was just another ghost. He was safe on his ship. She was still drowning, listening to her mother’s voice at the bottom of the river.

The world lurched sideways. Hands, warm and trembling, caught her face and held her together.

Kalliope’s breath caught, jagged and raw. She forced her eyes to focus, the glassy film of dissociation cracking just enough to let in the impossible—tenderness, in this hell. Dark hair, just like she remembered. “...Mama?” The word barely made it out, a thin, broken thread. A single, hot tear cut through the dried blood on her cheek. She slumped into those hands, her heart splintering. “You came back.” She managed a delirious, crooked smile through split lips. “I waited so long in the dark... please, let me come home...” She stared into those eyes, blue and ancient with grief. No. That was wrong. Her mother’s eyes were green, just like hers.

Thumbs brushed her cheeks again. Not clover—lavender, and the sharp salt of the warehouse. The fog in her mind shivered, tore apart. Her mother’s garden vanished, replaced by the cold, filthy floor. Not a ghost. Lottie.

A sob ripped out of her, violent and raw, tearing her chest open. Disappointment crashed over her—she wasn’t dead, the afterlife hadn’t claimed her. But relief followed, sharp and dizzying. She wasn’t alone with her ghosts. Someone was here, real hands working the key into her restraints. Kalliope’s body sagged, muscles too shredded to hold her up without the beam.

“Charlotte?” The name tore out of her, a broken plea, as the chains crashed to the floor. She slumped forward, no longer held up by iron, her body shaking so hard she could barely breathe. “Charlotte, you’re...you’re really here. You’re...I’m not...I’m not dead?” The realization hit like a fresh wound, forcing her to feel every ache, every bruise, as the numbness of the river finally let her go. And if Charlotte was here... She looked up, searching for Sjan-dehk, and another sob broke loose. He’d come for her. They all had. They’d cared enough to find her.

Sjan-dehk’s eyes met Kalliope’s. He saw her shoulders shudder with her falling tears; heard the vulnerability in her voice.

And just like that, all thoughts of the fight vanished from his head.

“Kali,” he breathed, and immediately went to her with haste in his steps.

The key turned with a click, the metal complaining, then yielding. The lock gave way, and the chains fell with a heavy clatter.

Lottie flinched at the sound like it had struck her, then immediately leaned in closer, as if she could shield Kalliope from even that last cruelty. One of her hands slid down to steady Kalliope's shoulder and the other swept carefully to gather the chain away from her skin.

“There we are… ” she whispered softly. “You're safe now. You’re alive and soon you’ll be well.”

She moved with a tenderness that didn’t match their surroundings at all, guiding Kalliope forward into her arms, catching her before she could fold to the floor. Lottie shifted onto her knees properly, bracing herself to be a cushion, drawing Kalliope gently to her.

One arm wrapped around her shoulders, while the other cradled the back of her head. Lottie held her close to her chest, her eyes shining with tears. “You don’t have to be brave right now. You can just… rest. Sjan-dehk, Stratya, Cassius, Roman... They've all come to save you and they'll protect us.”

Her own breath trembled, but she kept it steady for Kalliope’s sake, rocking her ever so slightly, the way you would calm a frightened child. Every few seconds, her fingers brushed Kalliope’s hair back from her face, tucking stray strands away as if tidying her could make her world feel kinder.

“I’m so sorry, Kalliope.” Charlotte whispered again.

Sjan-dehk knelt beside Charlotte, his brow knitted with concern, and eyes filled with worry as he swept them over Kalliope. Her wounds looked serious, and even if they weren’t, she was clearly in a terrible state. The first thought that came to his mind was to have Dai-sehk see to her—he’d trust that man with his own life, and the lives of everyone aboard Sada Kurau. Kalliope would be safe, and her injuries quickly healed, under the surgeon’s watch.

“We’ll get you to Sada Kurau,” he said quietly. Without thinking, he reached for her hand, placing his own gently over it. “You’ll be safe there, I guarantee it.”

A pang of guilt stabbed at his heart. He knew that he had to shoulder at least some of the blame for Kalliope’s pain. All this could’ve been avoided if he’d just focused a little more, if he’d moved just a little faster, during the fight in the tavern. He’d wasted too much time on the thugs, wasted too much effort cutting down men he could’ve easily scared away, or let Cynwaer handle. And in the end, it was Kalliope who paid the price.

“I’m sorry.” Those words escaped him before he even realised it.

His first instinct was to explain them, but then he shook his head to clear those thoughts away. It wasn’t the right time for that. So instead, he looked at Charlotte and pointed over his shoulder at the bag affixed to his belt, sitting just below the small of his back. “Please, help take out my shirt from there,” he said. “Then give to Kali. I can hold her while you do that.”

Charlotte nodded and followed his instructions. She gently slid Kalliope’s body delicately into Sjan-dehk’s open arms, then moved to fetch his shirt from his bag.

Perhaps it was because she’d been blaming herself for years that Stratya heard it in his voice. “Doan blame yerrsen.” Hypocrite. She approached, scanning the warehouse steadily. Her hand had been wiped on a cloth attached to the inside of her shield, perhaps poorly. The cloth had been intended for her sword. Roman’s men were methodical and effective, something she could appreciate.

It was then that a side door at the far end of the warehouse flew open with a sharp crack of splintering wood.

A man stumbled through it first…or more accurately was kicked through it…boots skidding uselessly across the concrete before he collapsed onto his back. An axe was buried squarely in the center of his chest.

A heartbeat later, Cassius stepped through the doorway behind him, bloody sword in hand and wearing his Iron Wolves armor for the first time since coming to Sorian.

He moved with the unhurried swagger of a man who had finished his work. His armor was dark with blood that wasn’t his, sweat slicked strands of his perfect hair fallen loose around his face. He crossed the distance in a few long strides, planted a boot on the corpse’s abdomen, and wrenched the axe free with a wet, guttural sound that was followed by the spilling of blood from the wound.

“West hallway’s clear,” he said calmly through slightly heavy breaths, eyes flicking once over the room. He saw the bodies and destruction the others had left in their wake. It seemed as though some semblance of order had been restored. Satisfied, he turned away from the corpse without another glance, wiping the blood from his sword before sheathing it and hanging the axe where it belonged on his belt.

His attention went immediately to Kalliope, a surge of relief coursing through him at the sight of her alive and breathing. Though he knew better than to assume that she was not worse for wear. His eyes then shifted to Charlotte, who still held Kali in her arms. The relief was replaced by worry, shock, and a dash of frustration. She wasn’t supposed to be here. The words ran through his mind as he began to process the danger she, and the others, had allowed her to be in. A problem to address later.

He gave Stratya, Sjan-dehk, and even Roman a thankful nod as he approached and knelt down beside the tortured woman they had all come here to rescue. His eyes softened, and the smile he offered Kalliope was one full of vulnerability… Lacking its normal bravado. She seemed as though she was barely holding on to consciousness, but he offered words as comfort all the same.

Roman continued his quiet investigation while the others checked on Kalliope, returning Cassius’s nod with one of his own. He made several quick hand gestures to his men, issuing silent orders.

Four of the seven were to take the two captives the long way back to their ship, which was anchored out in the bay. One would stay with Kalliope to serve as an escort when they moved her. The remaining two would stay with him to keep watch over the others. The men obeyed without a sound.

“You didn’t think we were going to let these fools take you from us, did you?” The question held a gentle, friendly tone. “We’re all here now, and everyone is going to take care of you.” Finally his gaze turned upwards to Lottie. “Are you okay?” He asked quietly.

“Physically, I’m quite alright…” Lottie assured Cassius with a weary sigh. She had been soft spoken, however, her tone had carried a hint of dryness, as if such was the only way to internally cope with the sudden uptick in extreme violence around her just these last two days. Before she could stop herself, her gaze darted about him in an effort to check him for any injuries. Only when she found none did her shoulders ease. Still she asked, just in case. “ And you?”

“Oh I’m fine, love. Especially now that we know our girl here is going to be alright.”

She turned back to Kalliope at once, her softness returning in full. “Alright, sweetheart—arms up for me,” she murmured, lifting Sjan-dehk’s shirt carefully and angling it toward Kalliope’s head.

Kalliope wasn’t drowning anymore, but the air in the warehouse pressed down on her lungs, thick with brine and the raw, iron stink of blood. Every word from Sjan-dehk, every careful brush of Lottie’s hand, snagged her back into a body that felt like it had been shattered and stitched together with broken glass. Shame burned through her—bloodied, used, torn apart by the man she feared most. She wanted to vanish, but the need to cling to them, to not be left alone in this ruin, was so much worse.

“Sjan-dehk...” she breathed, his name a shattered prayer as she felt his hand over hers. His warmth was a tether to a world she thought she’d lost forever, and when he whispered his apology, she tried to squeeze his fingers, though her grip was weak and trembling. “No... not your fault... don’t say that.” Another sob caught in her throat, jagged and sharp, as she looked up at the faces of those around her, friends and new acquaintances alike. She saw them through a blur of tears—the people who had waded through blood just to find the wreckage of her.

Sjan-dehk averted his eyes. He knew the truth. No matter what Stratya—or even Kalliope—said, he knew the truth. He should’ve focused. He should’ve been faster.

He tightened his hold on her, ever-so-slightly. “Just rest,” was all he said. Anything more, and he might end up saying things that were better left unsaid. For now, at least—there would be plenty of time for reflections and self-critique later. Until Kalliope was away from this terrible place, and in safe hands, Sjan-dehk wouldn’t allow anything else to occupy his mind.

As Lottie lifted the shirt, Kalliope’s breath hitched in a series of shallow, panicked stutters. The simple act of shifting her weight sent a white-hot flare of agony through her core and her limbs, a brutal, sickening reminder of the hours Hafiz had spent systematically violating and breaking her. She bit her lip until it bled anew, a soft, broken whimper escaping her as she leaned her weight entirely into Sjan-dehk’s chest, hiding her face against him to conceal the hysterical, soul-deep trembling she couldn't stop. She felt disgusting, her very skin crawling with the memory of Hafiz's touch.

“Gentler,” Sjan-dehk said to Charlotte each time Kalliope flinched and whimpered, despite that Charlotte made certain her movements were as slow and careful as they could be. His voice had much more of a bite than he’d intended, but it wasn’t until Charlotte had fully pulled his shirt over Kalliope’s shoulders that he gave the girl a sheepish, apologetic look. He nodded to her. “Thank you. And sorry.”

“Don’t... don’t let me go,” she whispered, her voice cracking into a raw, hollow sound that barely sounded human. She clung to him as if he were the only thing keeping her from slipping back into that dark, suffocating river. “Please... just keep... talking. Don’t let it be quiet again. If it’s quiet... he’ll come back. I can still... I can still feel him on me...” She let out a small, terrified gasp, her fingers curling into Sjan-dehk’s clothes with a strength born of pure, unadulterated terror. “Take me away. Please. Just take me home.”

Hearing the weakness, and the terror in Kalliope’s voice made Sjan-dehk’s chest feel tight. More than anything, he wanted to find the ones responsible—every last one of them, from the highest boss to the lowest thug—and make them pay for what they’d done to her. The flickering flame in his belly sparked, threatening to re-ignite. Sjan-dehk quickly doused it, drawing in a deep breath and swallowing his fury. He had to focus on getting Kalliope out of here.

“I won’t let you go,” he said quietly and squeezed her shoulder. Then, he grinned—more to give her some assurance than anything else—and continued. “In fact, I’ll have to get a little closer, so excuse me while I…”

His words trailed away, and he bent over slightly to slip an arm under her knees. With a soft huff and a grunt, he carefully lifted her off the ground. He slowly stood up, his body leaned back, and his arms tucking Kalliope in towards his body, while he found his balance. “Don’t worry about the silence,” he said, unconsciously squeezing and patting her shoulder. “Don’t worry about anyone else. Nobody’s coming back, not while I—I mean, not while we’re all here. If they do, we’ll laugh at them for being an idiot, and then make sure they won’t do anything to you. You’re safe.”

He looked at Charlotte and Cassius, then Stratya and Roman. “I will take her with me and return to Sada Kurau,” he said. It was neither a suggestion nor a question. After the events of the past week or so—and after all he’d learned about Caesonia—he didn’t, and couldn’t feel safe leaving Kalliope anywhere other than his ship.

“I can’t promise to have enough to say to last the trip back, but I’ll try.” He continued to speak as he carried Kalliope back the way he’d come, taking care to step over the bodies he’d left, and to avoid the slippery puddles of drying blood and pieces of scattered gore. “There’ll be more noise than you’ll ever need once we’re back aboard Sada Kurau, anyway. Her crew’s going to get into a buzz seeing me return like this, I just know it.”

They needed sound? “I shall make t’ ci’y sing. Jus’ ge’ herr safe.” Stratya marched from the warehouse swiftly then and whistled. She knew Gale would be near. “Barrds. Now. Tell Garrcian I’m payin’ ferr wha’e’er this doan coverr, frrom ‘erre tae porr’. Somethin’ soothin’.” She passed him a satchel of coin.

Gale had no room to argue, not from the look in Captain Durmand’s eye. There was a bit to organize, but who was going to look sideways at the occasional bard? Orders received and no time to waste, the man made off quickly to make the Captain’s needs done.

Stratya herself moved ahead of them still, finding the fife she’d had in her satchel since the tavern and pulling it from its hardcase. She stopped only once she was in a good position, between the party and the port, giving enough space that Gale might get some bards set up, maybe they’d even hear her and pick up her tune.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

@CitrusArms Stratya @Remram Askel

A servant moved through the ballroom with the certainty of someone trained to be invisible. The tray rested level in their white-gloved hands, silver catching the chandelier light as they weaved between skirts and drifting conversations.

Ahead, the prince and the knight captain stood near the edge of the crowd. The servant approached from the side rather than head-on, careful not to interrupt their line of sight or force them to step back. He paused at a respectful distance and dipped his head in greeting, then angled the tray slightly upward.

"Jamón-Wrapped Manchego & Pear Canapés."

The skewers were arranged in rows like small jewels set for display. Each one held a curl of aged, cured ham wrapped around manchego, a sliver of sweet pear tucked inside, and the smallest drizzle of dark wine reduction that gleamed when the light found it. The scent rose—it was salty, rich, and sweet all at once.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The king had been prepared long before the first carriages arrived, and Edin took his seat as if it were the most natural place in the world for him to be.

He wore a midnight velvet suit so dark it read nearly black beneath the chandeliers. It broadened at the shoulders with a disciplined, military line. Gold filigree embroidered his coat in patterns that caught the candlelight each time he shifted, and the front was fastened with a row of buttons set with tiny moonstones. A long sash of deep royal blue crossed his chest, pinned at the shoulder. Rings sat on nearly every finger. And the crown, of course, was set perfectly. His offspring flanked him on either side.

Prince Wulfric sat at Edin’s right, placed where an heir was meant to be seen. Prince Auguste sat at his left, equally composed. Two other seats framed the set—one meant for Princess Anastasia, one meant for Prince Callum—and both were empty. Princess Anastasia had yet to arrive, but Prince Callum's arrival was certainly not expected.

From the throne, Edin tracked the small choices people made when they entered: who bowed immediately and who delayed, who smiled too broadly, who refused to meet his eyes, who searched for foreign guests, who lingered near the banquet tables instead of stepping into the open center of the floor. Servants weaved through the crowd with trays of appetizers and cocktails, and the effect was exactly what he wanted: hands busy, mouths occupied, bodies distracted.

When the first song ended, he rose without haste. He lifted one hand and waited until the room actually gave him its attention, until the last murmurs thinned into silence.

“Good evening.” Edin’s voice carried through the hall. “Tonight, Sorian looks to its future.” His gaze traveled over the breadth of the ballroom. “We welcome our honored guests, and we honor the traditions that keep this kingdom enduring: order, discipline, and unity.” He did not raise his voice, and he did not soften it, either. “ Tonight is for Caesonia, for Varian, and for the Alidasht!” A roar of applause followed his words.

His eyes flicked once toward his children, a reminder as much as a reassurance. Then he returned his attention to the crowd. “So dance,” he said simply. “Eat! Represent your houses with dignity, and represent this city as the capital it is.” He lowered his hand in a small signal. “Let the Starry Night Ball begin!”

Edin sat again as the musicians resumed, and as the court began to move. Conversations restarted as if they had never stopped. And from the throne, he watched it all.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The doors to the grand ballroom opened to music, and the night swallowed the day like it had never happened. Above, the ceiling had been turned into the night sky, lights catching on blue drapery and gold filigree until the whole hall felt suspended inside a dream. At the far end, beneath a crescent-moon centerpiece, King Edin was already seated upon his throne. His offspring flanked him.

Along both sides of the room, banquet tables stretched in lavish rows, overflowing with food drawn from every kingdom—Caesonian elegance, Varian heartiness, Alidashti spice—as if diplomacy could be eaten and swallowed whole. Copper pots steamed; carved roasts and glazed mains shone under candelabras; platters of breads, pickles, and fruit were arranged. And then dessert tables glittered with layered cakes, berry-topped confections, sugared pastries, and tiny jeweled bites set in gold trays.

Staff moved through it all gracefully, weaving between couples and courtiers with silver trays. Appetizers arrived in perfect rounds, offering to guests as they mingled, followed by circulating cocktails. Tables with chairs were positioned in the corners of the room and there was an entrance to a grand outdoor balcony. Laughter came easier than it should have after what had happened that day, carried on strings and chandeliers and the insistence of a court determined to celebrate on schedule.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Date:Ignis 10

Interaction: @Remram @HylianRose @Chrys @Redking0380 @Tae @ReusableSword @Conscripts @Potter @Tpartywithzombi @samreaper @FunnyGuy @Lava Alckon @CitrusArms @Oso @Apex Sunburn @Infinite Cosmos @AuthenticTomb

Good evening! It's now 6pm on Ignis 10th.

Regarding any unfinished business for Ignis 2 evening, please be clear that you are writing in for that time, and/or mark it as a flashback.
Please feel free to continue any collabs from Ignis 3rd to Ignis 10th day time. Make sure they're marked clearly as flashbacks and dated.

The ball will be open posting. Please try to have two posts between your posts; do not spam post!

Queen Alibeth’s tribunal concluded this morning with a guilty verdict. The execution followed shortly after.

The city spent the afternoon under a heavy hush but as evening approached, the mood was redirected on purpose. King Edin is forcing the narrative forward, pushing Sorian toward anticipation for tonight's ball.

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✦ THE STARRY NIGHT BALL ✦

“A night to remember. A day the city is told to forget.”

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Rumors & Guests:

Varian’s King & Queen are rumored to attend.
New Alidasht guests are expected.
Count Emil Schmidt is in town and may attend.
The Petits are returning home and will not attend.

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Tone & Stakes:

The city is unsettled — but the palace is determined to look unshaken.
This is not just a ball. It’s a reset, a performance of stability, and a test of who follows the script.
Expect eyes on your behavior.

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Map of Sorian

Wiki Links

Main page
World Info
Sorian Info
Caesonia Info

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