Rodiak

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{outfit ♘}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
M e n t i o n s :}

Mathias hovered near the entrance, hunching as much as his tall frame allowed. He had requested no announcement of his very late arrival. Drawing attention was the last thing he wanted. For a moment, he even considered slipping in through the servants’ door at the side of the hall, but that might have been even more conspicuous. So, when a wave of commotion swelled near the pillars, some incident involving Cassius Damien and another of a toppled couple, Mathias let out a quiet breath and stepped forward, seizing the moment.

One might assume his tardiness was due to military matters, a carriage mishap, or perhaps a diplomatic delay. The truth was far simpler; Lukas was leaving soon, and Mathias wanted to spend every last second with his son. Lord Oliver Larsen intended to begin the boy’s formal education at the end of the summer, and Mathias wished for his son to relax at home a few more weeks before the lesson began. And so, it was decided Lukas and Mary would depart to give the boy more time to relax at home.

Mathias had been so enthralled in the tea party with Lukas, Mary, Mr. Wiggles and Mrs. Morris the Lion that he had entirely forgotten about the banquet’s mandatory attendance. That was, until Mary stumbled across the invitation on the coffee table.

He’d barely had time to wash up before Mary and Lukas had laid out something for him to wear.

“Something to impress that lady friend you talked to last time,” Mary had said with a wink.

A black tailcoat and crisp white waistcoat, matched with a starched dress shirt and a proper bowtie. His trousers, dark as the coat, drank in the golden light of the chandeliers above. The only detail approaching luxury was the tiny silver adornments on his collar and the matching cufflinks at his sleeves. If this was meant to dazzle, a quick glance at the peacocks in attendance, decked in velvet and silks and gilded embroidery, made it clear; this was not it.

Which, in truth, suited him just fine.

With a flute of something bubbly in hand, Mathias made a straight line to the dessert table, wholly ignoring the main feast. He found himself wondering again why Varian’s presence had been mandatory tonight. Aside from the secret party, the one where a gaggle of young nobles were found with no memory of the night, nothing else stood out.

Ah. Never mind.

His gaze landed on Roman. Of course.

Mathias had thankfully sidestepped that entire scene. Still, he’d vouch for the man. Roman was decent, perhaps a bit off when it came to certain high-society cues, but Mathis wouldn’t judge him for that. Even after years steeped in high society, he himself still fumbled now and then. Little slips, easy enough to patch over with practiced charm.

He picked up a crème brulee, tapped through its caramelized shell with one finger, and dipped in to taste the soft custard beneath. A quiet hum escaped him. All those years of relentless education— cramming etiquette, tactics, languages, history, and math— had led to this. Not for himself, no. But for Lukas. So that one day, his son could stand in a room like this, chip up, confident. So he could enjoy all of this.

Mathias’s chest ached with quiet pride as he tilted his gaze toward the grand chandeliers above.

Karla would’ve loved this. She’d be here beside him now, half-eaten chocolate cake in hand, arm looped through his. Whispering outrageous gossip, spinning absurd little stories about the nobles around them. Guessing who was sleeping with whom. Predicting which knight or royal, or noble would cause a scene after one too many drinks.

He let out a sigh, picked up his dessert—along with another chocolate cake— and made his way toward his assigned seat. Lady Thea walked past him, and soon after Lady Ariella at her tail. He glanced over his shoulder to look at both women for a second before finally reaching his seat.

Mathias paused, briefly noting the adjustment. With a glance at the women seated around him, he smiled politely before taking his new seat without a word.

Mathias had a goal tonight: end the night with no drama. Something he had been rather lucky with. He only hoped tonight would be the same.

“Gods, these desserts are delicious.” He muttered to himself, lost in the sugary sweetness as he licked his tiny spoon clean.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♛ hair ♛}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Hafiz, Anastasia @princess , Kira @Potter , Rohit @Helo
M e n t i o n s :
Farim @Lava Alckon}

Nahir’s smile remained serene, her eyes sweeping the crowd with idle grace. She didn’t so much as glance at her uncle when she leaned in, her voice barely above a breath. There was no fear of her own body betraying her tonight, but that could not be said for Kira’s smile. Too warm. Too open.

“She’s pleasant enough,” she murmured, as if discussing the fabric swatched for a new dress. “A charming distraction for the summer. But really, Uncle—when I’m finished, you’re welcome to her.”

She took a delicate sip of her wine, as if offering him leftovers were the most natural thing in the world.

A beat passed before she added, still soft, still sweet.

“You’ve always known how to make second place look so distinguished. I’m sure this will be no exception.”

Then, as if she’d merely complimented the win, she turned her attention elsewhere, the picture of composed indifference.

“You are too kind, Anastasia.” Nahir offered a gracious nod, as if stepping down from the clouds just long enough to entertain a compliment. “I am sorry I missed your charity, it seems I missed quite the triumph.”

And then the girl went on. Charity. Goodwill. Walking amongst the poor with her golden heart bared for all to see.

Nahir smiled and said nothing. Personally distributing aid had always struck her as a convenient headline at best and patronizing at worst. The poor needed legislation, protection, reform. Not parties. Not handouts wrapped in silken bows. But she held her tongue. Princess Anastasia was not in a position to enact such change, but she could inspire it. Drive change forward. Perhaps Farim had been right about her.

Then, of course, came Rohit.

Ah, Rohit. He was pretty, she’d give him that. Beautiful, even. It almost made up for the things that left his mouth.

Nahir didn’t turn toward him, instead looked past him to the little commotion by the middle of the room as she took another sip of wine, her lashes lowering ever so slightly. Shock? Fear. Resentment. Recognition. Nahir made a mental note to speak with the red-haired woman.

“A party for the poor,” she echoed, eyes back to the table and its guests. “What a… lovely idea.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖ hair ♖}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Torvi @Tae , Stratya @CitrusArms
M e n t i o n s :}

Zarai blinked at Torvthen twice, like the words were sinking through a sea of honey. Her grin spread slowly, like a lady and unbothered cat under the sun.

“Sweet’s not your specialty, huh?” She echoed, her voice syrupy with amusement. “That’s a shame. I was gonna offer you a peach. Or cake. Or a cookie. Damn, I want chocolate cake now.”

She took another bite of the ham, humming at its rich and delicious taste. Gods, why did everything taste so good? Had they used magic to make it taste like that?

“You do strike me more as…mmm… saffron!” She mused aloud, gaze drifting as though the thought itself had taste and smell and texture. “Expensive. Sharp. Maybe a little hard to find in the wild. And pretty, like the flower!”

She popped another bite into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, eyes locked on Torvi like she was trying to see through her, or maybe just getting distracted by how shiny her hair was under this lighting. “Saffron with a bite. That’s you.”

Just then, her expression shifted. Zarai’s entire body paused and her expression lit up as she blinked past Torvi. Olivia, a few ways down, was waving. Zarai immediately stopped chewing, raised both sticky hands in the air, and waved back with the enthusiasm of someone who had just remembered how arms worked.

“Hi!” she said, loudly, beaming like she hadn’t just frozen an entire conversation.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she returned to Torvi. Her tone picked up exactly where she’d left off, like nothing had happened.

“I like you. You’re pretty. And you’ve got a little storm in your. Makes people interesting. You ever notice how people hold their glasses when they lie? It’s always the pinky.”

She didn’t explain further.

Instead, she held out a piece of the honeyed ham like some sort of peace offering. Or friendship offering. “You want some? It’s sweet. Might change your—”

A hearty chuckle interrupted her as a familiar-looking knight dropped into the seat beside them and began enthusiastically gathering food onto her plate. Her energy was a solid thud of reality against Zarai’s dreamy haze. She blinked, then grinned wider, delighted by the abrupt entrance.

Zarai leaned in, fascinated a she watched the knight pull at the ribs only for the bones to slide out clean. Once. Then twice.

“She’s fighting ghosts,” she whispered to Torvi with the utmost seriousness.

Zarai watched the knight’s determination win over the ribs as she finally managed to cut a portion with meat still attached. She took a bite, leaned back, and let out a satisfied noise that sounded almost divine.

Too distracted to really take note of anything else happening around her, Zarai clapped once. “That was a whole journey. Ten outta ten. Would eat vicariously again.”

Zarai turned back to her own plate in a swift move and began to eat again. Fingers digging into the meat, juices and honey coating her already sticky fingers once more. Nothing matter more than getting the last bits of ham in her mouth.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♛ crown ♛}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Farim @Lava Alckon , Anastasia @princess , Rohit @Helo , Kira @Potter
M e n t i o n s :
Hala's Stinky Dog}

Fashionably late.

“Presenting Shehzadi Nahir Aysun Kadir, daughter of Sultan Raif Kadir!”

Nahir moved through the banquet hall with effortless grace, the sheer fabrics of her embroidered gown catching the light as she walked. Tonight, she had forgone her usual crimson for something softer—layers of violet and lavender, the delicate hues shifting like twilight against her skin. Silver, not gold, adorned her. Fine chains, delicate cuffs, dainty earrings, a constellation of gems scattered across her collarbones and wrists. Her hair, usually bound in intricate braids, cascaded in loose waves. The ensemble was regal without severity; every detail and move looked like a whisper of elegance rather than a declaration.

Eyes shifted from the what ever noble had just entered to her, naturally. Not that she particularly cared.

She came to a stop before King Erin and Queen Alibeth, dipping into a bow that was precisely as deep as custom required. No more, no less. “Your Majesties,” she greeted, her voice smooth as silk. “It is an honor, as always.” A polite smile, an exchange of pleasantries, and then she moved on.

Like windchimes in a summer breeze, a song of soft fine jewelry followed her wherever she went.

As she made her way further into the hall, Nahir’s gaze drifted over the gathered nobility—measuring, cataloging. When her eyes caught on Prince Wulfric, she smiled warmly. He always looked the part, she had to admit. Stoic. Broad-shouldered. Composed. Commanding. Cut from the kind of marble that demanded people listen. It suited him.

A pause in her thoughts, brief and weightless.

Some things looked perfect on paper.

Then, she moved on—unhurried and fluid.

Reaching the Alidasht table, she greeted them all with a warmth that was both natural and precisely measured. A moment’s pause, a quiet sniff. “Curious, I had not expected canine in the bouquet of tonight’s perfumes.”

Her attention moved neatly, efficiently, through each of them.

“Uncle,” she said to the Grand Vizier as she neared her seat. With a gracious dip of her head, and nothing more, she greeted him.

“Cousin,” to Farim, with a note of playful suspicion, she greeted next. “Looking too content. Should I be worried?”

To Princess Anastasia, she offered: “Princess, you carry the evening well. I do hope we can keep you entertained for the rest of the evening.”

“Rohit” she said simply, the corners of her mouth tilting in wry amusement. “It is good to see you again.” She continued with the other Alidasht guests until finally—

“Miss Kiraa,” Smooth. Even. No different from the rest, at least in tone.

But her gaze lingered a fraction longer than etiquette required. Not long enough to be considered rude, but just long enough to raise an eyebrow..

And then she sat, the silks of her gown cascading around her like a settling dusk, every gesture quiet and clean.

The mask, as always, impeccable.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖ hair ♖}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s : Torvi @Tae
M e n t i o n s :}

Zarai blinked, slowly, as if her brain needed a moment to catch up. The honeyed ham in her mouth was absolute perfection—sweet, savory, melting on her tongue like a gift from the heavens above. She barely registered that someone had spoken to her until the words fully settled.

Oh.

Right.

She was at a banquet.

She turned her head, her icy blue eyes hazy but still sharp enough to look at the person addressing her. Another chew, then another. She chewed with exaggerated care, dragging the moment out, and finally swallowed.

Then, with the most self-satisfied smirk, she licked a stray drop of honey from thumb and drawled, “Mmm. Sorry, I got a little… lost in the moment.” She waved her hand vaguely over her plate as if to indicate the food itself was responsible.

She mirrored the woman’s posture and leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her knuckles, looking her over with sleepy amusement. “Zarai, but you can call me whatever you’d like—just say it sweetly.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖ hair ♖}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
M e n t i o n s :}

“My beautiful girl. Are you ready to go?”

The words sounded sweet behind the blanket of haze that had settled in Zarai’s mind.

“Come here, mija.”

Not waiting for her mother to repeat herself, Zarai stepped into the study.

The room was vast, warmed by the soft candlelight and heavy with the scent of ink and old parchment, with a hint of her mother’s perfume. Jasmine and gardenia blooming thick in the air, cloying in their richness. And pomegranate. Rich in sweetness, ripened past its prime, lingering at the edges like a secret left too long to fester. Plush carpets in deep reds and blues and purples swallowed the sound of her steps as she moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Francesca stood there, silhouetted against the evening light filtering through the windows, a crystal glass of wine poised elegantly between her fingers.

“Did you enjoy the gallery today?”

Zarai stiffened as her mother reached up, her fingers tucking a loose strand of curled hair behind her ear. It was a soft, gentle gesture—a motherly one—and Zarai had learned long ago not to flinch.

“It was lovely,” Zarai replied, keeping her voice light, careful. “Milo St. Claire’s pieces were incredible. His brushwork is one of envy.”

Francesca hummed, tilting her head in approval. “Art is a language, mija. One of grace and restraint.” She smiled, the corners of her mouth curling like an artist’s signature at the edge of one of Zarai’s paintings. “You must learn to speak it fluently.”

Zarai nodded, easily matching the warmth of her mother’s expression.

Moments like these were rare. So fragile that even a breath too strong could shatter them. She had learned to hold them delicately, to pretend, if only for a moment, that this was all their relationship had ever been. Warmth. Praise. Soft hands adjusting an errant strand of hair instead of wielding a cane.

She could almost believe it.

Then—

“But I supposed subtlety has never been your strength.”

… Roll…

The words slid into her skin like the bite of winter air that no haze could ever shield against. A chill, sharp and cutting, slicing through the illusion just as quickly as it had been constructed.

Zarai inhaled slowly, willing the sting away. Higher. Zarai must go higher.

“I—”

“You must be more mindful, Zarai.” Francesca swirled the wine in her glass, her voice deceptively calm as the surface of a frozen lake hiding the currents beneath. “I hear things, you know. Whispers. Little birds.”

Clouds. She could feel clouds all around her. So soft. So light. So gentle.

Francesca twirled a curl of rosy gold in her slender finger, their icy blue gazes meeting. “Tell me, my beautiful girl,” she said, her voice smooth, still warm but laced now with something familiar beneath—something cold. “Why do you insist on making things so difficult for yourself?”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

… Rattle…

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

“Sir Barrios, why does it look like you are about to storm the Sorian fortress?” Zarai drawled, her voice lifting with amusement. “Relax. It’s only a banquet, not an execution.” She glanced down as his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Shall I share some of my magical concoction with you, my knight?”

Sir Barrios’s eyes flickered toward her. His expression was unreadable behind the nice, cozy blanket of the drug. Her lips pulled and curled into an easy smile, far too relaxed.

“Your definition of relaxation tends to involve scandalizing half the nobility in attendance.” Sir Barrios glanced down at her with another retort, but it fell short as soon as he saw that smile on her face.

“Gods, Lady Zarai, are you high right now?!” He hissed quietly, looking over his shoulder to ensure no royal guard heard him.

Zarai laughed, as sharp and unapologetic as the clink of her jeweled heels against the marble floor. “Oh, come now, Sir Barrios. Where’s your sense of adventure? Or did you leave it behind with your sense of humor?”

“I left it behind,” he replied dryly, “when I was assigned to escort you.”

She grinned, leaning in just close enough to make him stiffen and shut up. “Admit it. You’d be bored without me.”

Before he could retort, the doors swung open with a dramatic flourish, and the herald’s voice boomed across the hall. “Announcing Lady Zarai Lesdeman of Puerto Vira!”

As they reached the center of the room, both bowed to the King and Queen.

Fingers brushed over the delicate layers of her dress as Zarai lifted her arms slightly, sinking into a flawless curtsy. Head bowed, eyes lowered, smile poised—the perfect display of grace, fitting for a future duchess. She rose with the same practiced ease, turning smoothly to make her way towards her seat, Sir Barrios trailing just behind her.

With her one duty for the evening now complete, she wasted no time in seeking out her assigned seat—though, much to his dismay, Sir Barrios had to steer her in the right direction. Her focus had already strayed, drawn to the grand feast already spread across the tables. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and with the effects of the drug humming through her veins, she could eat that whole roasted pig lying atop the table.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{Sola 25, 1739}

FLASHBACK TW: sexual harassment and self-harm

_{TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Harassment, Self Harm}

**Sola 25, 1739 - Midday to Evening, Casa del Sol**

After the Edwards's soiree, Zarai's itinerary was cleared of all lunches, invitations, and calls. She had been excited about the prospect of spending the day with her friends playing card games, but Sir Barrios had escorted her from the gathering without room to protest. Now, the princess was owed an apology, one Zarai intended to soften with some warm and delicious pastries. But that would be for another day. Today was special.

Today was moving day. How fun.

Duchess Francesca had finally secured a lavish manor just outside Sorian—a mere thirty-minute carriage ride from the city. The estate, grandiose and dripping with excess, boasted three stories, sprawling gardens, a private lake, two greenhouses, stables, and far too much land. Its name, Casa del Sol, inspired by the enormous skylight in the main entrance.

Zarai couldn’t help but wonder where the money had come from to buy such a place so quickly. She had tried snooping through her mother’s temporary study at the guest house, but Lady Kate had caught her in the halls before she could even make it to the office.

Red.

A wave of disgust hit Zarai as she thought about the money being wasted—funds that could have repaired roads, rebuilt bathhouses or improved Puerto Vira. Instead, it was funneled into a country they barely visited, spent on a mansion her mother would use for a season every other year.

The knot in her stomach formed and tightened painfully. She was so far from the guest house now. Far from friends. Far from Fritz and—

“Niña!” Francesca’s sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Stop standing around and help me! Show these imbeciles where the drawing room is. Must I do everything myself?” Her mother brushed past her, not sparing a glance as she insulted the workers to their faces.

Zarai cringed, her heart sinking as the men carrying the red velvet sofa exchanged a wordless glance. "I am so sorry about her," she whispered, knowing they wouldn’t—couldn’t—respond. She led them silently to one of the many drawing rooms, her stomach churning with each step.

『 ❀ 』

**Sola 25, 1739 - 8:30pm, Casa del Sol**

“You were right about the iron shipments. Our supplier’s prices have gone up, but I’d rather pay the premium than let Varian merchants meddle in our business.” Francesca, to Zarai’s right, said before sipping her red wine with mastered elegance.

“A wise decision, Your Grace. Keeps things tightly within your control.” Lord Monet, across the table, nodded, cutting into his steak. The blood dripped from the meat onto the porcelain plate, making her stomach twist. “Besides, with the premium, you can report certain quantities as ‘lost’ en route to Sorian, letting you claim back some taxes on paper.”

“Perfect. Now, the new route expansion—how are we progressing on that? If we can avoid unnecessary tariffs, the railway toward Felippina will be that much more profitable.”

“I’ve already arranged alternate paths to cut down on the tolls. By directing goods along the coast and through…”

Their voices drifted into a monotonous hum as Zarai took another sip of her wine, its bitter sweetness mingling with the Alidashtian herb oil she’d rubbed under her tongue before dinner, each sip pulling her further into a fog of artificial calm. The nice fluffy haze dulled the sharp edges of her discomfort, a welcomed feeling from the weight of their boring conversation.

The discussion was important, and it was unlike her mother to discuss business while Zarai was still in the room. Francesca’s confidence in Zarai’s state of inebriation seemed to have convinced her to speak freely with the bloated, oily Lord Monet. Who could not stop glancing her way with a repulsive mix of condescension and lust.

Why is he looking at me with those nasty-ass eyes, like a bloated hog sizing up its next meal? Zarai’s thoughts churned, venomous and relentless. He’s a festering insult to decency itself, waddling around reeking of wet dog and desperation. If mirrors don’t shatter at his reflection, it’s only because they pity the glass more than him. Her grip tightened on her fork, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her face neutral as she chewed on her steak.

Soon, it all began to blend together into a formless droning in her mind, the flames of the candle flickering hypnotically before her.

Right, left. Left, right.

Dancing in the middle of the room, the fire moved like nothing else mattered—not their conversation, not the growing discomfort clawing at her insides. Zarai's gaze locked on the flickering flame, her heart aching with envy. She wanted to be that fire—untouchable, unrelenting, free.

Left, right.

Right, left.

Up, down.

Down, up.

The flame twisted and swayed, alive in its dance. Dance, it seemed to whisper to her. Dance until there's nothing left. Her mind spun with the rhythm, her heart echoing the frantic tempo. Zarai wanted to be that fire. Let it take her. To burn, burn, burn until every piece of her was charred, her existence finally extinguished.

Then, all at once, the haze lifted, jolting her back to the sharp reality as something cold and hard pressed against her ankle beneath the table.

Zarai’s posture stiffened, and her eyes widened briefly as she looked at Monet. He sat there, a smug smile on his lips as he continued to talk to her mother. As if his shoe were not slowly teetering closer to her knee. It was like a poison slowly seeping past the fabrics of her dress and into her skin, slow and poisonous. Nasty. Disgusting.

Bile rose in her throat, and she glanced toward her mother, her eyes pleading for intervention—for anything. For a split second, their icy gazes met, a flash of awareness crossing Francesca's face, but she turned back to her wine, swirling with passive indifference. Zarai’s heart sank like a stone to the bottom of that snowy lake she often dreamed of, where darkness stretched endlessly. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she struggled to draw breath, her mind recoiling in disgust.

“Indeed. And, Your Grace, the increased demand in Caesonia will mean we’re only just beginning to see returns— Agh!” Lord Monet’s fork clattered against his plate as he reached under the table, his blazer sleeve catching on his plate, sending the bloody remnants of his meal splattering across the pristine fabrics of his tails. His expression twisted into one of annoyance, embarrassment, and something else Zarai knew all too well.

She’d kicked him. Hard and on his shin with her pretty crystal-encrusted shoe. She hoped it bled. She hoped it hurt to the bone and left a nasty, ugly bruise.

He tried to rub his shin, but the mess on his chest only slipped down and splatted on the floor with a disgusting wet sound.

The silence that had fallen in the dining room broke as Zarai’s chair scraped loudly against the marble as she rose, her hands steady despite the anger simmering under her skin. She smoothed her dress, keeping her expression calm as she locked eyes with her mother. “Excuse me, I am not feeling well.”

“Zarai Luzero Lesdeman!” Francesca’s voice lashed out as she stood, sharp and cutting, as she yanked Zarai back by the arm and delivered a stinging slap across her face. “You will not be rude to our guest! Este no es un comportamiento apropiado para una dama de tu posición!”

Roll.

Roll.

Her vision blurred, and her ears rang for a second before Zarai brushed her faded copper tresses from her face to look at Francesca with burning cold eyes. “Eso sería todo?” Her voice was devoid of emotion, even as her insides screamed. She wanted nothing more than to pick up the porcelain plates and hurl them across the room. Wanted to take the candle holder and plunge it into Monet’s stupid eyes so he could never look at her again. Wanted to burn this house to the ground with them inside of it. “Excuse me.” Was all she said as she curtseyed stiffly and left the room.

『 ❀ 』

The moment the door closed behind her, Zarai kicked off her shoes and tore at her dress, desperate to be rid of the suffocating layers trapping her. With blurred vision and shaky fingers, she managed to pry her corset off. It fell with a soft thud, joining the layers of expensive yellow silk and lace pooling around her feet.

She stood in her new pristine room in only her undergarments, decorated with the same excess as the rest of the house. Her skin still felt choked, as if it could never be free.

Zarai stumbled to the window and flung it open, greedily gulping the cool night air, as if she could force out the sickening filth clinging to her skin. But the air did nothing to alleviate it. She still felt it. His presence. There. Polluting her.

Her hands drifted to her legs.

She rubbed at her skin, as if she could erase the feeling of his shoe pressing against her. But rubbing did nothing. The touch was still there. Crawling up her thigh like a slow-burning sickness.

She scratched.

Harder.

Harder.

Blood beaded beneath her nails, smeared across her thighs in jagged lines. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body shivering from something deeper than the cold night air. But she couldn’t stop.

Because she had seen it.

Francesca had known. She had looked Zarai dead in the eye and done nothing.

Zarai’s entire body convulsed with a shudder, and she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. It wasn’t Monet. It wasn’t just him. It had never just been Monet. It was the way this world was built, the way her mother allowed it, the way it was as normal as breathing.

Roll.

Roll.

She should have said it in the morning.

She should have confessed her thoughts-–her darkest, most forbidden thoughts—to him.

Damn his trusting eyes, his silent acceptance, his understand that made her believe she could bare the ugliest corners of her heart to him.

Roll.

Roll.

Damn his gentle words of encouragement, that quiet hope he kept planting in her heart, urging her to riise above it all.

Roll.

Roll.

And damn the way she could feel the weight of his disappointment, a bitter ache twisteing in her gut.

Roll.

Roll.

Breathing.

It dragged her like a tide, suffocating.

Endless.

Her mother’s face.

Roll.

Roll.

Contempt.

Que lastima.

Basta. Pobrecita.

Roll.

Roll.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Zarai sucked in a breath.

Her fingers were numb.

Her legs were slick with red.

Roll.

Roll.

Her reflection in the glass window stared back at her—wild-eye, unrecognizable.

She still, she felt nothing.

Not the pain. Not the relief. Just… weight.

Heavy.

Settling in her bones.

Not the kind of numb she liked.

No, this one was worse.

_{C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k !
Like tiny bells in her mind. Ringing and raging. All around. Everywhere and nowhere.}

This one was real.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{C A M P I N G S I T E | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
M e n t i o n s :}

The rest of the morning had gone as Mathias had expected. After the small debacle with his fake mustache, he and Ariella spent the remainder of the party exchanging light pleasantries and laughing over the absurdity of Mary’s impromptu mustache artistry. She had, after all, won the hat-making contest during the horse race, so perhaps it was no surprise. Still, despite the humor, Mathias’ thoughts kept drifting toward Lady Edwards. Discreetly, he’d called for coffee and bread, hoping it would help sober her up. It was only the second time he’d met her, and both times, she had been inebriated. Given what he had observed of Duchess Edwards, he could understand why.

He watched as other nobles stumbled and slurred their words, which only made him want to join their drunken stupor. At least now, he understood why his get-up had gone unquestioned or unnoticed. He had to remind himself he wasn’t in Varian, and while appearances were still important for his personal goals in Sorian, perhaps he didn’t need to take things so seriously

___

Mathias climbed down from the carriage with a small huff, rubbing the small of his back before thanking the driver and grabbing his bag. He’d never quite gotten used to the jostling of carriage rides—perhaps he was just getting old. Dismissing the thought, he paused to take in the crisp, fresh air of the summer night. He could smell the trees, the grass, and the campfire nearby. It reminded him of those nights spent foraging for food when he was younger. The idea struck him again—maybe he could sneak off after the activities and see what Caesonia’s forests had to offer. It couldn’t be too different from Varian’s foraging, right?

As the camp staff welcomed them, Mathias hung back and scanned the group. He spotted Ariella, chatting with a woman who he had recently learned was Captain Stratya Durmand. Like him, she was dressed lightly but practically, ready for the outdoors. And unlike her, Mathias hadn’t brought a weapon, something he was now regretting if he planned on foraging later. He wondered if she carried a spare; she certainly looked prepared for anything.

His gaze drifted to a woman he hadn’t seen before. She stood watching the group, a smile on her face that didn’t quite sit right with him. Her posture and demeanor seemed out of place, as if she didn’t belong with any of the nobles or commoners. Intrigued, Mathias approached her, his friendliest smile in place.

“Quite an exciting night, isn’t it?” He folded his arms behind him in a gentlemanly manner. “I wonder what kind of activities the staff have planned for us. Should be fun, don’t you think?” His tone was casual and warm. “I’m Mathias, by the way. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. And you might be...?” He dipped his head slightly in a polite bow.

What Are You Listening To?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖}

_{E D W A R D S E S T A T E | M O R N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Fritz @JJ Doe
M e n t i o n s :}

Zarai’s pulse quickened the moment Fritz’s hand brushed her shoulder. It was such a light touch—barely there—but it was enough to make her entire body tense. She wished, desperately, for the ground beneath her to open up and swallow her whole. How could he see through her so easily? It was unbearable.

Her instinct was to pull away, to retreat into herself as Fritz guided her toward a soft patch of grass, his grip firm but never forceful. She followed, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten as they sat down. She hesitated when he motioned to her shoes before finally pulling them off. A brief sigh of relief passed her lips as her mangled feet were freed.

“I may have lied about being enough competition,” Zarai replied as a blush that crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. Fritz’s hands moved to her feet, his touch warm and sure, and she nearly flinched again. She wasn’t used to this kind of tenderness.

The way he looked at her—understanding, almost too understanding—tugged at something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to face. Shame. Why did she feel ashamed? Why did his gentle care make her want to shrink away instead of lean into it?

She listened in silence as he spoke, his hands working methodically over her aching feet. Occasionally, she’d wince, a quiet gasp escaping her when he found a particularly tender spot. It was a relief, sure, but it didn’t erase the discomfort gnawing at her insides.

“I think he’ll be angry for a long time,” Zarai offered in response to Fritz’s words about Peter, her voice steadier than she felt. One hand gripped the fabric of her skirts, the other pulled at blades of grass one by one, a distraction from the raw ache in her feet and the weight of Fritz’s attention. “Have you told him that you’re worried? Maybe he needs it—the anger. Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes you feel in control.” She understood that feeling all too well.

When Fritz said he wanted to help, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. The sincerity in his voice was too much. Instead, she withdrew her feet from his lap, tucking her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, her gaze locked on his hands. Her fingers traced idle circles over her knee, the words she wanted to say lodging themselves in her throat.

“I know you want to help,” she finally managed, though her voice had grown softer. She opened her mouth to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. What could she tell him? That she didn’t know what she wanted anymore? That the more time passed, the more she feared the answer? Her lips moved, but no sound came out. So, she closed her mouth again.

“I’ll tell you,” she said after a long pause, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. “I just... need time. I thought I knew, but…” Her voice trailed off as a lump formed in her throat. What if he hated her for it? What if he saw her for what she really was? A mess. A disappointment. Not so different from her mother after all. “I need more time to figure it out. To see if it’s really what I want and not just something I’m chasing because I’m angry. So please don't demand an answer from me now. I don't want to disappoint you."