Tae

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Kalliope & Sjan-dehk

Part 1

Time: Morning, Ignis 8
Location: A cove off coast of Sorian

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It was a nice cove that Cynwaer had found.

Sjan-dehk had felt as much when he’d stepped ashore a few days ago, but only now, as he walked up the sandy beach, with the soft rush of languid waves behind him, and the warm-but-not-too-warm morning sun hovering overhead—and without as much tension weighing on him—could he truly appreciate the relaxing airs permeating the cove. It was almost like a whole other world, here. The grey rock formations encircling the bay, and the verdant forest stretching further inland, made it easy for him to forget the world.

And to—for the moment, at least—forget the events of the past few days.

“More pitch for the stern!”

“...bucket of paint for the larboard gunwale…”

“If your hands are idle, you can start mending…”

The shouts and calls of sailors, echoing across the beach, provided Sjan-dehk a welcome distraction from his thoughts. They seemed to respond to the squawks and cries of gulls, ospreys, and other seabirds high above, circling lazily with wings outstretched. Punctuating this strange conversation were the loud scrapes of saws against wood, thumps of hammers against wood, and the occasional bellowed expletive.

A smile, small and unbidden, spread across Sjan-dehk’s lips. Moments of relative peace like this had been far and few in-between during the war—least of all for a warship as active as Sada Kurau. He’d long since learned to savour them whenever they decided to grace him with their presence.

Quietly humming a tune, he tucked the package under his arm—a vaguely cube-shaped object wrapped in old sailcloth—tighter against him, and quickened his pace. There was someone he wanted to see.

Not ten steps later, he came across Yasawen and Inshahri. The two young arcanists were crouched over a diagram etched onto the sand, the former with worried eyes and furrowed brows, and the latter with a long stick in hand. As Sjan-dehk drew closer, he heard the boy first.

“Shahri,” Yasawen said, trepidation clear in his voice. “I, um, I’m sure you know what you’re doing but…But this feels dangerous.”

Sjan-dehk immediately changed direction and walked over to them.

“It’ll be fine!” Shahri chirped. Her eyes turned towards him. “Good morning, Captain!”

Yasawen snapped his head around to look at Sjan-dehk, so quickly that Sjan-dehk could feel his own neck ache from just watching the boy.

“Oh! Good morning, Captain. Shahri—I mean, we’re just trying to draw an arcane array. A simple one! N–Nothing complicated!”

“I see,” Sjan-dehk replied simply. The diagram didn’t look like anything to him—just a series of overlapping and concentric circles, with crudely-drawn pictographs surrounding their edges. He looked at Inshahri. “So what’s this…Array supposed to do?”

Inshahri blinked. She said nothing, and simply smiled at him.

“I—I told you, Shahri,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “We should at least get the book, so if…If anyone asks us anything, at least we can give an answer.”

“I assume the book you need is aboard Sada Kurau.”

Yasawen nodded.

“And you want to get back aboard while she’s like that?”

Careened on the shoals, and amidst the white surf of breaking waves, was Sada Kurau, her keel exposed to air for the first time in months. Sheets of copper plated the entirety of her hull beneath the waterline, the metal tarnished by blots of mottled green in most places, though there were still tiny patches that could still glimmer in the sunlight. Long poles—not much more than tree trunks stripped of branches—prevented her from righting herself, whilst dozens of ropes, anchored to the ground by dismounted cannons, stopped her from toppling over onto her side.

Her crew clambered over her hull like ants. Some replaced planks that were showing signs of wear, others scraped marine growth from areas that weren’t protected by copper, but most simply gave her a good, and long overdue scrubbing. It would take a full day to clean her thoroughly, by Sjan-dehk’s estimate, and then another half-day to repaint her.

Ample time for rest, for everyone involved, in other words.

“Nobody’s getting aboard,” Sjan-dehk continued. “Not even me. Whatever you need will have to wait—”

“Shahri!”

A voice not too far off in the distance—a girl’s—interrupted him. Inshahri’s eyes widened, and she jumped to her feet.

“Hasehnya found us!” she exclaimed, hooked her arm under Yasawen’s, and practically hauled him up. The boy let out a surprised yelp, stumbling and almost falling face-first onto the sand, before he found his balance. “See you, Captain!”

Inshahri gave her parting words without looking at Sjan-dehk. Yasawen gave him an apologetic look as he was dragged away.

Barely a couple of heartbeats later, Hasehnya dashed past Sjan-dehk.

“W–Wait, Shahri, please stop!” she called out between pants, clearly out-of-breath. Still, she gathered up as much of her skirts as she could in her hands, and continued chasing after the two younger arcanists. “D—Don’t do whatever you’re planning to do! It—It’s not safe!”

Tehwasang followed behind her, though she was markedly in much less of a rush. She even found time to stop and offer Sjan-dehk a simple nod.

“Greetings, Captain,” she said, a smile on her face. “Hasehnya and I will take care of those two. Don’t worry about us.”

“Make sure you do,” he replied. “But make sure the two of you find time to unwind as well. Times like these don’t come easily. Get as much as you can out of the next day or so.”

“I’ll see to it that Hasehnya takes it easy, Captain.”

And with that, she ran off after her friend.

Sjan-dehk watched her go, and watched the other arcanists chase each other for a while. Then, with a soft chuckle on his lips and a shake of his head, he continued on his way. All of the arcanists—Tehwasang and Hasehnya included—weren’t much more than children. They could still afford to be silly, and he was more than willing to allow them that luxury.

He found the person he was looking for a little further up the beach, seated on the sand just a dozen-or-so steps away from the treeline. Her scarlet tresses shivered in a gentle, balmy breeze, and she was dressed in a spare set of his blue-and-white uniform. Sjan-dehk held his package just a little more securely against himself, straightened his back a little more, and approached Kalliope with careful steps. He knew he didn’t need to be cautious around her, but he couldn’t help himself. It hadn’t been that long ago when she’d been confined to his quarters while Dai-sehk tended to her considerable injuries.

Sjan-dehk announced his presence by clearing his throat, and setting the package on the sand.

“Courtesy of Master Avek,” he said, letting out a quiet grunt as he took his seat beside her. “There’s salted fish, some pickled vegetables, vinegared rice, and a few other things in there. I wish I could’ve gotten you something better than our rations to commemorate your recovery, but the next time I go aboard Sudah will most likely be for an hours-long tongue-lashing, and I don’t want to keep you waiting that long.”

He leaned back on his palms. There were better things he could’ve said—better than grousing about what he had to look forward to, and food, at the very least—but nothing came to mind. Pressing a finger into the soft sand, he swept his eyes across the beach, ultimately settling his gaze on the arcanists. Hasehnya still chased after Inshahri, and Inshahri still dragged Yasawen behind her. It did seem as if they were all having fun now, however.

“I’m sure you saw what happened,” he started awkwardly. “But don’t worry about it. Our arcanists may just be children, but they know what they’re doing. I’m mostly confident that they won’t do anything too stupid.”

The sun was almost too bright, the sand too warm, the air too full of life. For days, Kalliope had existed in a world that was only the size of Sjan-dehk's cabin, a dim, rocking space that smelled of medicinal salves, old parchment, and the lingering, comforting scent of the Captain himself.

The journey back to the Sada Kurau had been a blur of agony and strange, haunting beauty. She remembered the weight of Sjan-dehk’s arms, the way his chest felt like a fortress against the world, but it was the music that had kept her soul from drifting back into the river. Stratya’s fife and the bards in the streets had woven a silken shroud over the sounds of the city—drowning out the imagined click of locks and the memory of Hafiz’s low, melodic cruelty. Every note had been a handhold, something for her to grip when the dissociation threatened to pull her under. She had been so deeply, achingly grateful for that music; it was the one of the only things that had made the transition from the stone tomb to the wooden deck of the ship survivable.

But once the music stopped and the cabin door closed, the wreckage of her mind had truly begun to splinter.

The last few days had been a descent. She had been a ghost haunting Sjan-dehk’s bed, her body wasting away until her collarbones stood out more than normal. Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the tunnels. She would wake with a throat-tearing scream, her hands clawing at her own skin as if she could peel off the memory of Hafiz’s touch. The nightmares weren't just images; they were sensory assaults—the smell of sulfur, the cold slide of a needle, the feeling of her own autonomy being methodically stripped away until she was nothing but a vessel for pain and the pleasure of a twisted man. She had wept until her eyes were swollen shut, sobbing into the pillows until she was physically too exhausted to breathe, only to fall back into a fitful sleep where the cycle began again.

She had let Dai-sehk treat her, but she had been silent, her gaze fixed on a knot in the wood above her. She had made one request, whispered with a shame that felt heavier than any chain: something to ensure no part of her violator remained within her. Since then, she had felt hollowed out, a burnt-out husk of a woman. She had hardly eaten, the very idea of nourishment feeling like an insult to a body she no longer recognized as hers.

Now, sitting on the sand in one of Sjan-dehk’s linen shirts and pants, she felt exposed. The sleeves were rolled up multiple times to keep them from swallowing her hands, the fabric smelling of him and the sea—a sharp contrast to the stale, metallic scent that seemed to cling to her own pores. She looked at the package he’d brought, then slowly shifted her gaze to him. Her eyes were sunken and rimmed with the red of exhaustion, the vibrant green of her irises muted, looking like moss on a grave.

“Salted fish is plenty, Sjan-dehk,” she rasped, her voice thin and jagged from lack of use. “Better than anything I’ve tasted in a while. I think... I think my stomach forgot how to be hungry.”

To hear the weakness in Kalliope’s voice—-a far cry from the oftentimes mischievous, sometimes teasing, but always sure and strong tones that he’d gotten used to—made Sjan-dehk’s heart ache with a pang that cut him right to the quick. His fingers dug into the sand, and he stared at the space between his feet. How could he have felt so light-hearted, so relaxed earlier, when Kalliope was in such pain?

She watched the young arcanists with a distant, hollow envy. They were so loud, so messy, so unbroken. “They’re lucky,” she added quietly, her fingers digging into the sand. She focused on the grit beneath her nails—it was sharp, it was real. “To have someone shout at them to be safe. To have someone care if they do something stupid. It's a luxury they don't even know they have.”

She fell silent, the sound of the waves filling the gap. She looked at the oversized sleeve of his shirt covering her arm, the weight of it the only thing keeping her from feeling completely translucent.

“Thank you. For the clothes. And... for bringing me out here.” She looked up at the sky, her neck straining slightly. “When the stone was closing in... when he was there... I didn't think I'd ever see the sky again. I'd accepted that the dark was all that was left for me.” She looked back at him, a flicker of raw, heart-wrenching vulnerability in her eyes. “You saved me, Sjan-dehk. I know I’ve been... a ghost these last few days. But I owe you my life. I’m eternally grateful. Truly. Thank you for not letting me stay at the bottom of the river.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Kalliope,” Sjan-dehk replied with a shake of his head. Coughing into a fist, he cleared his throat before going on. “I mean, I appreciate your…Well, I guess appreciation, but it wasn’t just me who went to rescue you. Charlotte was there too, and Stratya, and Roman, and Cassius. I don’t think I could’ve done it all on my own. Not as quickly or easily, at least.”

He tilted his chin towards open waters, at a ship that lingered just beyond the bay. “And the Captain of that ship over there, Cynwaer? He was the one who pointed me in the right direction. Or at least, the people he knows pointed me in the right direction. But without their help, I’d probably still be walking around Sorian in circles trying to find you.”

He turned his head, and met Kalliope’s eyes with his own. The puffy redness circling them, the dullness of her irises, and the raw emotions in her gaze—none of those escaped his notice. “There’s plenty of people who’d happily jump into that river to pull you back out if you ever fall in again,” he said quietly, reaching out with a hand to cover hers. “And that includes me, so you’ve nothing to worry about. After all, what’s a river to a Jafin? I’ll dive in as many times as you need me to, and if I fish you out and find that you’re a ghost, I’ll just find a way to breathe some life back into you.”

A slight blush washed over cheeks, his ears picking up on the dramatic nature of his words. But still, none of it was a lie—if Kalliope ever found herself in trouble, he’d consider it his honour, his privilege to be there to help her out of it. “That’s just the right thing to do, you know?” he went on. “So please, don’t feel like you owe me anything. That you’re out of there, and recovering, and safe, is more than enough for me.”

“And, ah, you don’t have to thank me for my clothes,” he said, this time averting his eyes before they could drift over her. The looseness that was typical of clothes cut in the Jafin style, and his uniform being a touch too big for Kalliope, meant that rather little was left for the imagination. Sjan-dehk wasn’t even sure where he could rest his gaze. “I’ll see if I can borrow some from Iyen, or Hasehnya. They should fit you better.”

Kalliope felt the warmth of his hand over hers, and for a fleeting moment, the chill that had lived in her marrow since the tunnels seemed to recede. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with his in a tentative, fragile grip. His humility was so characteristic of him, so steadying, but she couldn't let him dismiss the weight of what he had done.

“I know I owe them, too,” she said softly, her gaze following his out toward the Remembrance and the shimmering horizon. “And I’ll find a way to tell them. I’ll thank Charlotte for her kindness and Stratya for the music that kept me sane. But Sjan-dehk...” She paused, her thumb tracing the line of his knuckles. “It’s different with you. You didn’t just pull me out of a warehouse. You’ve been pulling me out of the dark since the moment we met.”

Sjan-dehk’s eyes turned to their hands, the redness in his cheeks growing a touch brighter. Every brush of her thumb against his knuckles sent a strange, tingling sensation rippling up his arm, and across his entire body. He didn’t dislike it, however. Quite the opposite, in fact—it eased his aching heart, and filled him with a calming, soothing warmth. He looked back at her, and gave her a small, soft smile.

Slowly, he curled his fingers between hers, holding her hand in a ginger, yet firm grip, as if trying to tell her through touch alone that everything would be fine, one way or another. He’d make sure of it.

She looked back at him, her expression earnest and stripped of its usual masks. “You helped me remember that there’s more to the world than shadows and contracts. You... you helped open my heart again, even when I was trying so hard to keep it locked tight.” The confession hung in the air, vulnerable and heavy, but she didn't look away. “So don’t tell me I don’t owe you. I owe you the fact that I’m sitting here at all, instead of just being another ghost in the stones.”

Sjan-dehk wasn’t sure if he’d heard what he thought he’d heard. Had she just…Well, he didn’t even know what to call what she’d just said, but it certainly sounded rather intimate. His mind raced to come up with a response—not so much because he didn’t know what to say, but because he had too many things in mind to tell her. By the time he stopped staring at her with mouth slightly agape, however, she’d already moved on, and he decided to wait for the next opportune moment to share his words.

When he mentioned finding her better-fitting clothes from the other women, a ghost of her old smirk touched her lips—pale and fleeting, but there. She looked down at the wide, Viserjantan sleeves and the scent of sea air and sun-dried linen that clung to the fabric.

“Don’t bother the others just yet,” she murmured, her voice losing some of its jagged edge. “I actually... I like these. They’re comfortable. And they smell like you.” She shifted slightly, pulling the oversized shirt a little closer around her frame. “It makes the world feel a little bit safer. Like I’m wearing a bit of your strength until I can find my own again.”

She reached out with her free hand toward the package he had brought, her fingers trembling only slightly as she felt a heat touch her own cheeks. “Now, are you going to help me with this salted fish, or are you just going to sit there and turn red?”

“R–Right,” Sjan-dehk blurted out, the word leaping from his tongue a little too quickly. He looked away, and tried to hide his burning cheeks from Kalliope’s eyes. Embarrassed as he was, however, he still felt a deep sense of relief from having seen the fleeting smirk that’d graced her lips, as how a radiant sun might shine through gaps in foreboding stormclouds. It seemed that whatever he was doing, was helping.

He cleared his throat and pulled the package closer to him.

“Let me take care of this.”

Taking care not to accidentally rip the age-thinned and weather-beaten sailcloth, he deftly undid the couple of overly-tight knots that Avek had tied. The fabric unfolded into two rough squares. Sitting in the middle of them were plates and bowls covered in thin linens—likely cut from old clothes. Sjan-dehk peeled the damp fabric sheets off of the food and laid them neatly on the sand. “This looks like the fish,” he said, and placed a long, oval-shaped dish between Kalliope and him.

Next came a deep bowl. “The rice.”

Then, another elongated plate. This one, he brought up to his nose to give it a sniff before placing it on the sand. “Pickled vegetables. Cabbage, carrots, and peppers, mostly. They smell fine to me, and it looks like Master Avek’s cooked them through, so they should be safe to eat. Though if they taste funny to you, don’t eat them.”

He looked down the mouth of the next item, an earthen jar. “Sugared apples and plums, I think,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Must be made from local Caesonian stuff, because we didn’t bring any sugar with us and the only fruits we’ve got in Sada Kurau’s hold are lemons and limes.”

Two empty plates, and two pairs of chopsticks came next. Sjan-dehk took a set for himself, setting it on his lap, and held the other out towards Kalliope. “We can take our time eating,” he said with a smile. “As far as I know, there’s nobody else on this island, and I’ve nothing to do for the rest of the day. We won’t be taking Sada Kurau out to sea until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest.”

He paused, and when he looked at Kalliope, her earlier words—the ones about how he’d helped her open her heart again—played in his mind. A slight blush crept over his cheeks, but he kept a straight face, or at least a face as straight as he could muster. “So, ah, if there’s anything you want to do today, feel free to let me know. I don’t know what to do with myself, anyway, so it’d…I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d be more than happy to accompany you for the day.”

Kalliope watched Sjan-dehk’s hands—those same hands she knew could snap a man’s neck or fire a musket without a tremor—now coaxing Avek’s knots loose with a tenderness that made something sharp twist in her chest. The ordinary scrape of earthenware, the hush of linen, all of it built a fragile barricade against the static still crawling at the edges of her mind. It was an anchor, heavy and real, pinning her to the sun-warmed sand and keeping the chill of her mind at bay.

She took the chopsticks, letting her fingers brush his for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The scent of food hit her—rich, sweet, and alive—and for the first time in days, her stomach didn’t revolt. No bile, no sour twist, just hunger, sharp and startling.

“You might have to tell Master Avek he has a new best friend,” she murmured, her eyes fixating on the earthen jar. “Sugared plums and apples... it’s like he knew exactly what it would take to lure me back to the land of the living.” She took a small, careful bite of a plum, the sweetness exploding on her tongue, and it was a sharp, vibrant contrast to the metallic tang of blood she’d tasted for so long.

She chewed slowly, pondering his offer as she watched the waves. “Having your company alone is... it’s more than enough, Sjan-dehk. It’s refreshing. It keeps the noise in my head from getting too loud.” She poked at the rice, her expression turning pensive. “I don't have a plan for the day. I think I just need... normalcy. Whatever that looks like now.”

She looked down at the sand, her voice dropping an octave, becoming more serious. “I know I owe you an explanation. I know I should talk about what happened... about him. About...well all of it.” She shuddered, the oversized shirt rippling with the movement. “But I’m scared to, Sjan-dehk. I’m scared that if I say the words out loud, I’ll be back there. I’m scared you’ll look at me and only see the... the wreckage.”

She forced herself to look up, meeting his eyes with a vulnerability that was raw and aching. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just... be here. Maybe later, if there’s a quiet spot away from the crew... I’d like to go for a swim. To bathe. I still feel like the stone, blood, and grime are stuck to my skin. I want to wash it all away.”

She nudged a piece of fish toward the edge of her plate, trying to lighten the heavy air she’d just created. “But what about you? Is there anything on your mind? You’ve been so focused on me... surely the Captain of the Sada Kurau has his own thoughts, and not just worries about a ghost in his cabin.” As if trying to prove she was okay and he didn’t need to worry, she picked the fish up with the chopsticks and took a bite. She was a little clumsy with the utensil, but she managed well enough. They weren’t something she used often, but she was familiar with them at least.

“I’ve got plenty of thoughts,” Sjan-dehk replied with a nod. An amused, knowing grin pulled on the corners of his mouth, and a quiet chuckle flowed from his lips. Kalliope’s attempt at steering the conversation down a less serious path didn’t escape his notice, but he wasn’t about to stop her. If anything, he was more than happy to follow her lead—the past few days had been filled with nothing but seriousness. They could have a moment—or two, or three, or perhaps even four—of levity today.

Reaching across with his chopsticks, Sjan-dehk snapped up a clump of lightly-browned rice and brought it to Kalliope’s plate. “But I’d like to think that I can be excused for ignoring most of them while you were laid up in my quarters and, as you put it, looking like a ghost, or looking like you were going to—”

He stopped himself abruptly, and coughed into his fist. Gallows humour—especially the sort acquired from war and battle—wasn’t the sort of thing most people appreciated. He’d unfortunately learned that the hard way more times than he’d care to admit. And besides, making light of Kalliope’s situation—even if due to a slip of the tongue—when she’d only just recovered well enough to leave Sada Kurau just felt wrong.

A quiet, raspy chuckle escaped her before Kalliope could stop it, a small sound that felt raw in her throat. “You don't have to censor yourself around me, Sjan-dehk,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I know exactly how I looked.” She didn't voice the rest. She didn't tell him that in the deepest, darkest hours of her captivity, she had actively prayed for the phantom river to drag her under for good. Even while lying in his cabin, she had calculated the easiest ways to simply stop breathing, to let the dark win, because dying seemed infinitely less exhausting than existing through the violation that played over and over in her mind. But every single time her mind had teetered on that precipice, the memory of his stubborn, furious jaw and the steady cadence of his voice had anchored her, forcing her to hold on just a little longer.

“A–As I was saying,” Sjan-dehk quickly continued. His chopsticks clicked and clacked as he brought more food to Kalliope’s plate—first some vegetables, then more slices of fish. “I think it’s only right that I focused on you while you were laid up. I still carried out my duties, of course, but other things? None of them were too important, if you ask me. Not as important as making sure you were alright, in any case.”

His cheeks reddened at his own words, but still he faced Kalliope fully before going on. “And, well, I think I can take my time thinking now, so it all worked out in the end.”

The sheer earnestness in his eyes sent a sudden, frantic flutter of butterflies straight into her stomach, immediately followed by a deep, hollow ache in her chest that genuinely terrified her. Kalliope wasn't built for tenderness; she didn't know how to navigate a man who treated her life as something precious, rather than a commodity or a target. The way she was falling for him was dizzying and dangerous, a violent current she had absolutely no control over, but as she watched him blush, she realized she didn't want to stop it.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Mina Blackwood

Time: Evening
Location: Starry Night Ball
Attire: Dress & Hair
Interaction: @HylianRose Lucian
Mentions: @princess Marina @Remram Nolan @Lava Alckon Drake

A gentle warmth began to settle in Mina’s chest as Lucian stood close beside her, the nearness of him almost enough to soften the bitter taste left by the morning and the memory of her uncle’s sternness. She could not help but recall how, only days before, he had withdrawn his hand from her cheek in the sitting room, and she had braced herself for the distance she feared would follow. Yet now, as his gaze lingered on the golden roses she had stitched into her dress, Mina felt exposed in a way that unsettled her, though there was a strange comfort in it as well. Those roses had been sewn with careful hands and a quiet hope she had never dared to speak aloud.

When he leaned in, his breath brushed softly against her ear, and the low timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine, making her acutely aware of the tightness of her corset and the way her heart seemed to flutter beneath it.

“I’ve been waiting all night to say that...”

Her heart skipped a beat, uncertain and unsteady. For a brief moment, the heavy burden of the Blackwood secrets faded into the background, and the worries that usually haunted her seemed quieter. If Lucian kept looking at her as if she mattered, she was not sure she could keep her composure. She wanted to hold onto this feeling, even if it was fleeting.

Mina slipped her hand into his, her fingers curling around his with a quiet need she could not quite hide. She gave Drake a grateful nod as he excused himself, leaving her and Lucian alone as the music swelled around them.

"Then I suppose it is a mercy that I saved the best of my embroidery for you, my Prince," Mina murmured, her voice dropping into that low, velvety silkiness she reserved only for him as they stepped out onto the glistening marble floor. She allowed her left hand to rest against his broad shoulder, her touch light but anchoring, intensely aware of the stark contrast between her deep midnight gown and the rich, dark tones of his coat. "Though I must warn you, if the court ladies truly do attempt to copy it by next week, I shall expect you to defend my honor against their terrible needlework."

A quiet laugh slipped from her, unguarded and genuine. As Lucian guided her into the first slow turn of the dance, the hem of her gown whispered against the floor, but Mina kept her gaze fixed on his face, tracing the familiar lines she had come to know so well.

"And do not tease poor Lord Nolan," she said, her tone lighter than it had been all evening. "Marina is not easily managed. It takes a certain strength to keep up with her." Mina allowed herself a small smile, knowing Lucian was only looking out for his sister as always.

“As for the slumber party... I suppose it is quite a scandal to unleash upon King Edin's tightly wound court. I can already see the court gossips twisting themselves into knots trying to figure out what political strategies we are plotting over pillows and late-night sweets and talks of who we have our eyes on."

The dance carried them gently into the center of the marble floor, its surface glistening beneath the candlelight. As the music swelled, the chatter of King Edin’s court seemed to twist and warp at the edges of her awareness. At the periphery of her vision, the air grew dense and heavy, and a translucent, weeping figure began to take shape against a gilded column, threatening to pull her into that overwhelming tide of sensation that so often left her trembling. Mina felt a cold prickle of panic tightening beneath her corset.

Not tonight, she told herself, her delicate fingers tightening around Lucian’s hand as she forced her gaze to anchor on the familiar warmth of his auburn hair and the steady blue of his eyes, using his presence as a shield against the dead. She needed a distraction, something vivid and intoxicating to drown out the murmurs of the veil and the lingering bitterness her uncle had left behind.

A lazy, brilliant smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as she leaned just a little closer, letting the silk of her gown brush softly against his boots. "So I know your mother likely has a very specific, very polite checklist for a future bride, Lucie." Her storm-blue eyes caught the light, a sudden, wicked glint of mischief flickering there as she looked up at him through her lashes. "But I must ask… do you think your reputation can survive a dance with a woman who refuses to behave at all?"

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Shehzadi Ranya al-Kadir

Time: Evening
Location: Grand Ballroom
Outfit: Ranya’s Outfit
Interactions: @RemRam Askel [@InfiniteCosmos] Munir @AuthenticTomb Aslam @Lava Alckon Farim
Mentions: @princess Hafiz

---

Askel’s lips brushed the back of her hand, warm and grounding—a gentle weight that pulled her back from the edge where Hafiz’s venom still lingered, bitter and cold in the air. Ranya’s laugh slipped out, soft and breathless, as the wine curled through her veins, turning the ballroom’s sharp corners into a hazy, golden dream. Her brothers had each played their part: Munir’s smile edged with hidden teeth, Aslam’s loyalty burning quietly at her side. But it was Askel’s easy defiance, his refusal to be cowed, that soothed the wildfire beneath her skin, letting her heat settle into something almost calm.

Farim’s teasing banter drifted over, light and familiar, promising mischief for later. Ranya’s emerald eyes caught the light, glinting with affectionate mischief of their own. She dipped her head in a parting nod, every movement deliberate and graceful, a silent farewell wrapped in silk and sunlight.

“Oh, I do not think it counts as theft if the prize is entirely willing,” Ranya giggled, before she turned to her brothers. “Do try not to drink the entire ballroom dry while we are gone. I should hate to have to carry you all back to the manor.”

She slipped her arm through Askel’s, letting him draw her away from her brothers and into the open sea of the dance floor. The Sorian orchestra’s music rose around them, bold and sweeping, building a golden wall that set them apart from the rest of the world—just the two of them, suspended in the hush between heartbeats.

As his hand settled at her waist and their bodies found the rhythm together, the careful mask she’d worn all evening began to crack, hairline fractures letting her true self flicker through. The wine loosened her, made her bold—she pressed closer than any rule of court would allow, her feet gliding over the polished floor as if she’d been born to this dance, to this moment.

“Askel,” she whispered, her voice dropping below the roar of the strings, meant for him and him alone. Her green eyes looked up at him, bright and swimming with a sudden, fierce emotion. “I am so sorry. I am sorry that he got to you before I could. I am sorry he dragged you into his wretched games and tainted our moment before it could even begin.”

She leaned in, just enough that the world narrowed to the space between them, her eyes burning as she fought back the tears that threatened to betray her. Her voice trembled, raw and honest, the last of her composure slipping away. “I was a fool,” she confessed. “When I first arrived and saw you across the room, my heart screamed to run straight to your arms. But I let the fear win. I let his threats anchor me to the shadows. I am so sick and tired of letting men like Hafiz dictate my every breath, keeping me caged like a beast in a menagerie while they barter with my life.”

She shifted, her movements fluid but edged with desperation, searching his eyes for the unbreakable safety she’d hungered for since that first, stolen moment when they danced in the tavern.

“I should have trusted you could handle anything my family threw at you. I’m so sorry.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Mina Blackwood

Time: Evening
Location: Blackwood Rooms —> Starry Night Ball
Attire: Dress & Hair
Interaction: @HylianRose Lucian @princess Marina @Remram Nolan @Lava Alckon Drake
Mentions: @Oso Ambrose @CitrusArms Stratya

The air around Mina felt heavy. There was no smoke from a pyre this time, but the weight of her past pressed in on her, refusing to let go.

Ambrose’s voice was rough, missing the boyish warmth she remembered. When he called her Lady Blackwood, the formality stung. It felt like the last bit of summer between them was gone.

“The fault was mine for being in your way.”

Mina’s heart twisted. He was apologizing for existing in her space, while she was the one who had broken his world for a mercy he never wanted. She wanted to look at him, to tell him that his presence had always made her feel safe. But she couldn’t. If she saw the grief for his sister in his eyes, or the last traces of the love she had tried to smother, she would fall apart.

The Edwards brothers arrived, breaking into her thoughts like sunlight through a window. Mina noticed the younger one, Nolan, slightly stumbling over his words as he looked at Marina. The open admiration in his eyes was so simple, so honest, and nothing like the mess she carried. For a moment, she wished she could have something that easy—a beginning without blood or secrets.

Then the Captain of the Guard approached. Mina glanced at Stratya Durmand, who stood tall and steady, drawing Ambrose’s attention. When the Captain asked him to dance, Mina felt a sharp pang. It wasn’t jealousy—she had no claim to that—but a hollow ache, as if she no longer belonged.

Good, a cold voice in her head whispered. Let him find a woman who isn't a shadow. Let him dance with someone who doesn't smell of resin and regret.

"Ambrose, you are dismissed!" Marina’s voice cut through the tension like a bright silk ribbon.

Mina hardly had time to notice Ambrose leaving before Marina crashed into her, all red hair and lilac scent. The hug was fierce, nearly knocking the breath from her, but for the first time that day, Mina felt the cold inside her start to melt.

"I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!" Marina chirped, her lips pressing affectionate kisses to Mina’s cheeks.

Mina’s arms came up instinctively, hugging her best friend back with a desperation she hoped the Princess wouldn't notice. "Marnie," she murmured, her voice finally losing its brittle, formal edge. For a moment, she buried her face in Marina’s shoulder, hiding from the room, hiding from the ghosts. "You’re going to ruin my hair, you absolute menace."

She pulled back just enough to see Marina’s face, her own eyes softening. After the horror of the morning and the worry over her uncle, Marina was the only light that didn’t hurt.

Even as she smiled at Marina, Mina’s eyes wandered. Without meaning to, she looked past Ambrose, past Lord Nolan, and found Lucian.

He was right there.

She had noticed his eyes on her gown, lingering on the golden roses she had sewn in as a quiet message. He had seen them. He understood. The small, amused smile on his lips sent a jolt through her, sharper than any magic she possessed.

Then Nolan asked Marina to dance, and Mina’s attention shifted back to them. She watched her friend, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Go," Mina said, her voice warm. "We’ll have plenty of time to catch up later—maybe even a slumber party like before. I could use it."

She nudged Marina toward Nolan, watching her with a bittersweet ache that was almost joy.

When Marina had moved away with Nolan, Mina suddenly noticed how much space had opened up between her and Lucian. She took a slow breath and stepped toward him and Drake, her usual mask slipping away, leaving her exposed.

"The golden roses were a late addition," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the music. She offered a small, graceful dip of her head to Drake before her eyes settled back on the Prince. "I thought... perhaps the Rose of Varian should look the part tonight, even in a garden like this."

She tilted her head, a small, hopeful smile appearing before looking between Lucian and Drake. She couldn't ignore the heir to the Edwards line standing right there, a witness to the strange, vibrating tension.

"You both look remarkably composed for men surrounded by so much chaos," she remarked, her gaze lingering a second longer on Lucian’s auburn hair before including Drake in her focus. "Lord Drake, Prince Lucian... are you truly as calm as you appear, or are we all just giving very convincing performances tonight?"

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Shehzadi Ranya al-Kadir

Time: 6PM
Location: Grand Ballroom
Outfit: Ranya’s Outfit
Interactions: [@InfiniteCosmos] Munir @RemRam Askel @AuthenticTomb Aslam @princess Hafiz @Lava Alckon Farim
Mentions:

---

The practiced speech withered on her tongue as Munir pressed a kiss to her forehead. For all his arrogance and the relentless, needling questions that made her want to scream, she knew he cared—truly, deeply. Her hands, still knotted in his coat, loosened at last, though the heat beneath her skin clung stubbornly, a fever that would not break, dry and relentless as the Alidashti sun.

​”Act like it,” he had said. ”You are the Chosen.”

​The words tasted of copper and old blood. She knew he meant them as armor, a way to slip through the court’s nest of vipers, but bitterness still curled tight in her chest. For Munir, it was a strategy; for her, a death sentence. When he told her to act like the Chosen, she didn’t hear a brother’s care. Instead, she heard the order to crawl back into the gilded shroud, to smother the wildfire and become the cold marble idol their father adored. It was as if he feared the heat in her veins, as if Ranya’s true self would burn the Shehzadi to ash. He could not see how the shroud’s seams were already cutting wire-thin lines into her soul. He wanted her hidden, a ghost behind glass, but the fire in her blood was done being doused.

​Ranya watched him walk away, her golden brother—effortless, bold—striding into the viper’s den to shield a man he barely knew, only because he knew her heart was held by that man. Her breath caught, sharp and uneven, tears stinging her eyes until a gentle presence at her side steadied her.

​Zahra said nothing at first. She didn’t need to. She moved in front of Ranya, a living shield, her motions fluid and sure, blocking the court’s hungry eyes. From some secret fold of her robes, she drew a silver flask and poured a dark, rich wine into a small cup. The scent of fermented fruit cut through the air—sharp, grounding, more honest than the cloying perfume of scorched velvet.

​“Drink, Ranya,” she whispered, her hand steady as she held it to Ranya’s lips. “Your fire is showing. The curtain is weeping for you.”

​Ranya drank deep, the wine burning a clean path through the ash on her tongue. Zahra’s fingers drifted toward her shoulder, reaching for the cool balm meant to erase the bruises, but Ranya caught her wrist.

​“No,” Ranya murmured, her voice thick with a sudden, reckless edge. “Let it stay. Let the world see a glimpse of the 'protection' I enjoy. I am tired of wearing a mask over every wound.” She took the cup from Zahra and downed its contents before grabbing the flask and pouring herself another.

​Zahra paused, then nodded, adjusting the sea-foam silk so it barely brushed the edge of the bruises blooming on Ranya’s skin. Each time Ranya moved, the silk shifted, revealing a flash of ugly truth to anyone daring enough to look.

​“He is going to kill him, Zahra,” Ranya whispered, the wine already starting to hum in her veins, loosening the knots in her stomach. “He is standing there, smiling at Askel, and all I can see is the desert where he leaves the things he breaks.”

​“Then be the sun that makes him blink,” Zahra countered, smoothing the veil. She gave her best friend a smirk and a look that spoke volumes. “Go and claim what is yours.”

​Ranya straightened, the wine flooding her with a liquid, reckless confidence. She drained the cup, warmth settling deep in her bones. She was just about to move when Hafiz’s voice sliced through the music, cold and sharp.

​“And to my niece, Shehzadi Ranya, and Prince Askel of Varian! May their affection prosper beneath all the attention it has earned.”

​The ballroom froze. A wave of white-hot rage surged through Ranya, stoked by wine and the sheer audacity of his theft. Inside, her soul screamed—he had reached into the sanctuary of her heart and dragged her most precious secret into the garish light, to be picked apart by the court. This was no toast; it was a brand. Hafiz was marking his territory, binding her to a foreign prince on his terms, content to watch the fallout from the shadows. Yes, she had intended to make it known this evening anyway, but that should have been her’s and Askel’s decision on when to do so.

​Nausea twisted in her gut, the wine’s sweetness curdling to bile as she realized he had stolen the agency of her confession. That moment had belonged to her and Askel—a quiet promise beneath another sky—and Hafiz had twisted it into a weapon of control. The heat inside her flared, no longer a prickle but a furnace roaring with indignation.

​As Hafiz turned away, Ranya fixed her gaze on the center of his back, glare sharp enough to pierce bone. I could set you ablaze with a thought, she seethed in silence. For a heartbeat, the air around the Grand Vizier did not just warm—it shimmered, a pocket of desert heat so fierce it made the light ripple and the fine hairs on nearby necks rise. He kept walking, but for one jagged instant, he passed through a furnace of her making.

​Ranya stepped from behind the curtain, sudden and scorching as the sun. She glided toward the trio, silks billowing, ignoring Hafiz as he slipped away like a vulture from a fresh kill. Her focus was only on Askel.

​As she stopped beside him, she deliberately shifted her shoulder, letting the sari drop just enough for the dark, finger-shaped bruises to catch the candlelight. It was a silent, screaming defiance directed at the retreating back of her uncle. Look at what you did, the marks said. And look at how little I care to hide it.

​She reached for Askel, her fingers weaving through his in a public, unbreakable claim. The wine left the world blurred at the edges, but her focus on him was bright and cutting. She did glance to her cousin briefly as she giggled. ”I thought I was always the spark, dearest cousin.” She teased him before looking back to everyone else.

​“It seems the Grand Vizier has developed a sudden fondness for the truth,” she said, her voice melodic and clear, carrying the slight, airy lilt of the alcohol. She looked up at Askel, her green eyes bright with an intensity that promised she would burn the world down before she let go. “Though he has always been rather clumsy with things he cannot own.”

​She turned her gaze to Munir and Aslam, her chin lifting as she held Askel's hand firmly. “Since the toast has been made, I believe it is only right that we show the court exactly what prospering affection looks like. But I am curious on both of your thoughts?”

​She squeezed Askel's hand, her eyes challenging her brothers. “What say you? Is he worthy of your blessing, or must I claim him against the world alone?”

Let them look. Fire doesn't just illuminate; it consumes.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Shehzadi Ranya al-Kadir

Time: 6PM
Location: Grand Ballroom
Outfit: Ranya’s Outfit
Interactions: @Infinite Cosmos Munir
Mentions: @Remram Askel @AuthenticTomb Aslam @princess Hafiz

---

The velvet curtain felt like a heavy, airless weight as Ranya stood with Munir away from the excitement. For a moment, the sheer absurdity of his interrogation gave her back her teeth. It was easier to be sharp than to be terrified, and Munir was practically vibrating with a frantic energy that begged to be punctured.

“Stop. Just stop,” Ranya snapped, her voice low but vibrating with a sudden, dry heat. “You want to know who I’ve met? I’ve met someone who looks at me and doesn't see a monument or a ghost, but sees Ranya. I am not a bird you can whistle back to a perch. I have done nothing but claim a single sliver of the world for myself, which is something I thought you, of all people, would understand.”

She yanked her wrist from his grip as soon as it loosened, her eyes flashing with a defiant, sassy heat. “Honestly, Munir, you’re acting as if I’ve eloped with a pirate instead of simply enjoying the novel sensation of a conversation that doesn't start with a prayer and end with a reminder of our dead mother’s chin.”

She gave his arm a little shake, her bangles chiming a sharp, mocking tune. “If that bothers you, then perhaps you should look at your own glass before you start throwing stones at—”

Her words died in her throat. Her breath hitched, catching with a sound like tearing silk.

Across the expanse of the ballroom, through the gaps in the swirling dancers, she saw the flash of deep blue robes—the predatory, smooth movement of a man who didn't walk so much as he glided. Hafiz.

He was standing before Askel and Aslam. He was smiling. Ranya’s vision tunneled. The music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—it all faded into a dull, underwater roar. The temperature in the small, curtained alcove began to skyrocket. A dry, searing heat radiated from her skin, and a faint wisp of grey smoke began to curl from the edge of the velvet curtain where her shoulder pressed against it. If she didn't find her center, the fabric would ignite within moments.

Icy panic slammed into her gut, a punch that stole her air. Without thinking, her hand flew to her shoulder, her fingers clutching the sea-foam silk exactly where Hafiz’s grip had been. She winced, her fingers digging into the fabric, and in her distress, the silk shifted. The draped edge of her sari slid an inch lower, revealing the stark, ugly truth: four dark, blossoming bruises shaped like the tips of a man's fingers, and a purpling smear where a palm had ground into her collarbone. If Munir were paying attention, he would surely see it.

“He’s there,” she whispered, her voice breaking, the sassy mask finally shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. She looked at Munir, her green eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, glassy film of tears. “Munir, he’s talking to him. He’s going to… Please, you have to… If he knows, he’ll kill that light. He’ll kill it just to watch me go dark.”

She seized Munir’s coat, her knuckles white. But then, as she watched the standoff across the room, a sudden, chilling clarity hit her. If they ran over there now—if she arrived with tears in her eyes and Munir arrived looking like a frantic animal—they would be handing Hafiz exactly what he wanted. They would be confirming that the Prince of Varian was a weakness to be exploited.

She forced a breath into her lungs. It felt like inhaling glass, but it worked. She straightened once more and stepped away from the curtain just as the smoke began to thicken. The heat receded, the air cooling just enough to keep the velvet from bursting into flames.

Ranya smoothed her sari with trembling hands. She blinked back the tears, her face resetting into a mask that was far too pale, but steady nonetheless.

“I... I apologize, Munir,” she said, her voice a ghostly, hollow chime of its former self. She didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere over his shoulder. “I lost my footing for a moment. The heat of the ballroom, I suppose. I am perfectly fine.” It was a lie so transparent it was painful, but she stood tall, adjusting her veil with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. “We cannot go over there. Not like this. We will stay here, we will breathe, and we will wait. I am the Chosen, and I will not be the reason his world burns.”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Race: Yuan-ti
Class: Rogue Arcane Assassin
Location: Port Verge
Interactions: @FunnyGuy @Lava Alckon @Samreaper @Oso @DWGJay@princess@Potter
Mentions:
Equipment:

Full Equipment List

🌸 A finely crafted katana
🌸 A concealed dagger laced with paralytic venom
🌸 Throwing needles coated with different poisons
🌸 Black silk combat outfit reinforced with hidden Mithril chainmail
🌸 Soft-soled boots that allow for near-silent movement
🌸 Smoke bombs and illusion charms for quick escapes
🌸 A set of forged documents under multiple aliases
🌸 A tea set and an assortment of teas
🌸 Incense
🌸 Leather gloves

Attire:
Gold Balance: 98
Injuries: Gash on hip and thigh, small cut on her head, aching shoulder

Meiyu spent the evening in silence, a shadow in the corner. While Minerva bathed and chattered with Phia, Meiyu sipped her tea, letting the chaos of the room slide past her like water over stone. She read, unmoved, the steam from her cup curling in thin, serpentine ribbons—mirroring the unblinking focus of her golden eyes.

She watched the Kitten with clinical interest. The shifter’s boisterousness was a gaudy cloak, but Meiyu had already begun to peel back the layers. Minerva’s frantic energy and Wendel’s grounded calm—two faces, same coin. The presence of a changeling was no surprise. One vanished, another appeared, both scribbling in the same journal. She might not have pieced it together if she hadn’t read over Minerva’s shoulder. But she kept the secret. A hidden blade is only useful when no one else knows where the hilt lies.

Night deepened. The others claimed their bunks. Meiyu took the lower bunk across from Minerva, watching the firelight flicker over restless limbs and stiff shoulders. Arya tense, Phia fidgeting, Minerva unashamed. None of it fazed her. Every sigh, every shift—a data point. While they slept, Meiyu sat in stillness, mind tracing the invisible web binding them. Eight gems. Eight tethers. She pressed her fingers to the hidden mark beneath her robes, feeling its cold, proprietary thrum. They were all pieces in someone else’s game.

Her thoughts flickered to the Little Fox. Why tail them? Maybe a ninth gem, maybe just another stray drawn by the same thread. She would find out soon enough. For now, his secret was hers alone. There was no profit in sharing. Sleep came lightly.

---

Morning crept in, gray and salt-laced through warped glass. Meiyu woke as someone slipped into the bathroom. She moved in silence, a shadow dressing for war. When the door opened, the Kitten was gone. In her place: a stoic Valenar elf, darker-skinned, presence heavy and severe.

Meiyu didn’t flinch. She didn’t reach for steel. She stood by the table, posture loose, and offered Malik a slow, knowing smirk. She knew. She was neither surprised nor impressed. She watched him, silent, as he adjusted to the new skin—so different from the Minerva’s naked bravado the night before.

She said nothing. There was no need. She smoothed black silk, checked the hidden needles at her belt. Phia’s questions and Arya’s silence washed over her. Meiyu’s eyes stayed on the door. The pirates would come soon. The game, at last, was moving.

---

Meiyu moved through the winding streets of Port Verge with a silent grace that made her seem more like a ripple in the air than a woman walking on stone. While the others bristled under the gazes of the locals or looked toward the looming silhouette of Seadragon Keep with trepidation, Meiyu’s attention was fragmented with lethal precision.

She sensed the Little Fox before she saw him. Clever, nimble, but to her—just another pulse of heat at the edge of awareness. Predator’s intuition. As they turned past splintered driftwood, she kept her gaze forward, but her shadow reached for him.

“Hello again, Little Fox,” she sent the magical whisper, her voice a ghost in his ear. She felt a flicker of amusement as they approached the reinforced gates of the keep, the ship-hull walls rising like the ribcage of a leviathan. Just before the heavy iron-bound doors swallowed the group whole, she cast one more thought back toward the shadows. “Are you going to be my guardian angel today? Or are you just waiting for the leftovers?”

Inside, the throne room fractured light across old bones. Meiyu ignored the guards. She studied the beams, the patchwork scars in the wood, the way shadows pooled. She measured which rib would break first, which darkness would swallow a body whole.

Then, she looked at him.

Prince Ravic Dane. The Little Shark.

Her gaze didn’t just rest on the Prince; it dissected him. She cataloged every rhythmic shift of his translucent blue skin and the deliberate weight behind the tapping of his fingers. He appeared young, but Meiyu was no fool—she had lived long enough to know that eternal youth was often the most expensive mask of the ancient and the monstrous. Her eyes flickered from the frayed gold of his coat to the tension in the hand gripping his blade, searching for the invisible fractures that existed in every man. She looked past him, too, scanning the gargantuan rib bones of the ceiling for structural rot and noting anywhere someone could be hidden watching them. Every fortress had a soft underbelly, and every master had a throat. She was merely deciding which one to open first.

Then he spoke of property with the casual arrogance of a man who had never truly tasted his own blood. Internally, Meiyu’s thoughts turned a shade of black that would have made even Phia’s vibrant flowers wilt. She belonged to no one. Not to whatever divine or otherwise being that had marked her, not to the masters she had buried in her past, and certainly not to a blue-skinned boy on a chair of junk. The idea was almost erotic in its danger—a misunderstanding she intended to correct with blood, eventually. But that would come in time. Beware the patient woman.

She watched the others bare their teeth. Malik’s blood, Phia’s pride, Corin’s steel, Bastion’s oath. All noise. All weight.

When silence found her, Meiyu stepped forward. No stomp, no shout. Just a slow, predatory glide that shrank the room to a breath. She stopped, head tilted, golden eyes unblinking—studying Ravic like a jeweled insect she meant to pin and keep.

“Meiyu,” she exhaled, her voice a low, sultry vibration that seemed to crawl up the bones of the throne as she gave the smallest of bows. “And if I am property, I hope you are a careful owner. I have a habit of outlasting my masters, and I’ve noticed that even the sturdiest thrones are built from the bones of things that thought they were invincible.”

She let her gaze linger on the scars on his chest, her eyes widening with a dark, appreciative hunger—not for the man, but for the ruin he represented. She stepped back to the group, but her eyes never left his, her smirk sharpening into something truly malevolent.

“Tethers and leashes are such intriguing things, aren't they?” she murmured, a soft, chilling giggle escaping her lips. “They go both ways, Prince. If you hold me too tight, you might find I’m the one leading you to the bottom of the sea…deep, cold, and breathless.”

She settled into a watchful stance, the golden glow in her eyes promising that if he truly wanted to own her, he would have to survive her first. And no one ever did.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Mina Blackwood

Time: Evening
Location: Blackwood Rooms —> Starry Night Ball
Attire: Dress & Hair
Interaction: @Oso Ambrose @HylianRose Lucian @princess Marina & Edin
Mentions:

The smell of the courtyard lingered in Mina’s throat, thick with resin, burnt hair, and something sharp and metallic that made her uneasy. No matter how much rosewater the maids used or how many layers of silk she wore, the taste of ash would not leave her.

As she sat before her vanity, the reflection staring back at her felt like a stranger. If King Edin was willing to reduce his own Queen to a collapsing silhouette of flame and cloth, what hope was there for a girl like her? A girl whose very blood was a crime in this land. She was a daughter of Varian, but here in Sorian, she felt like nothing more than dry tinder waiting for a spark.

A heavy hand settled on her shoulder, and Mina nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Steady, Mina," Sebastian Blackwood’s voice was low, devoid of its public joviality. His eyes in the mirror were bloodshot, his skin sallow. The "illness" was clawing at him again. "You saw what happened today. The wardens are looking for shadows. From this moment on, you do not touch your gifts. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. We have been in this city for weeks, and we must survive several more. Edin’s law is absolute here."

Mina turned on her stool, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and weary defiance. "I know the risks, Uncle. But how else am I supposed to keep you safe? How am I to cover the… the mistakes?"

She remembered the dead maid, the cold skin, and the hurried effort to hide what had happened. The room had smelled like a slaughterhouse, and she had forced herself to make it look ordinary again. Sebastian’s hunger was getting worse, and it was taking more from her each time to cover his tracks. The magic left her feeling empty and exhausted.

Her voice shook as she whispered, "The changes in you... they frighten me." She reached out, her hand stopping just short of his sleeve. She thought of the man who had raised her after her mother died, the one who had always been steady and strong. Now, he seemed to be slipping away, replaced by someone she barely recognized.

"Then be frightened enough to stay silent," Sebastian snapped, his expression hardening into a flicker of the predator she had seen earlier that week. "Now, finish. We have a performance to give."

As Sebastian turned to leave, the silence he left behind felt heavier than his words. Mina slumped against the vanity, her hands shaking so violently she had to grip the edge of the marble.

Guilt settled in her chest, heavy and unrelenting. Each time Sebastian gave in to his hunger, she felt it as if it were her own failure. She was supposed to be the one to fix him, the one who could restore their family. She had spent years searching old books and trying every spell she could find, hoping for a way to end this damned curse.

If only she were stronger, maybe he would not have to be this way. Mina wiped a tear from her cheek, feeling the powder smear beneath her fingers. She blamed herself for every mistake he made, certain it was her failure as a healer, as his protector, and as his niece. She loved him fiercely, but that love was turning into fear. Lately, she was not just afraid for him, but of him. Sometimes, the way he looked at her made her feel like an obstacle, and other times she was an obsession…a possession, and the chill it sent through her lingered long after.

She was drowning in the blood he spilled, yet she kept reaching out to pull him from the waves, even as he dragged her deeper into the black. It damned her beyond redeeming.

---

The Grand Ballroom was a masterpiece of denial. The music surged, drowning out the memory of the morning’s screams, and the gold filigree glittered as if the sun had never set on a pyre.

"Count Sebastian Blackwood and the Lady Mina Blackwood of Varian!" the herald announced.

Mina stepped into the light, feeling gazes settle on her. Her midnight blue and gold gown was heavier than she expected, the silk close against her skin before it fell away in a long train. The neckline was lower than she expected, and the sleeves brushed her arms as she moved. Her heart beat quickly, and she tried to keep her face calm. She had golden roses added last minute in hopes that Lucian would take notice, a silent way of saying she accepted his new nickname for her. She aimed to be the “Rose of Varian” tonight.

She followed Sebastian toward the throne. They offered the deep, practiced bows required of visiting nobility—a perfect display of respect to King Edin, even when Mina’s true loyalty remained with the Camilias.

"A stunning display of stability, your Majesty," Sebastian remarked to Edin, his voice back to its booming, hearty mask.

Once the formalities were over, Mina slipped away as soon as she could. She needed a moment to herself, away from the King’s watchful eyes and her uncle’s constant presence. But even here, surrounded by so many people, it was impossible to be alone.

"Lady Mina! A word, if you please?" A middle-aged noblewoman, her fan fluttering like a trapped bird, intercepted her. "We were all so shocked by the news this morning. And your return to court these last few weeks... tell me, is it true that the climate in Kolonivka is simply dreadful for the complexion?"

It took everything in Mina not to roll her eyes at the woman. Such an underhanded jab, it was ridiculous. She forced a polite, brittle smile. "The Varian winds can be quite brisk, Lady Elara, but our hospitality is unmatched."

"And your uncle? He looks a bit… peaked tonight. Is the family 'affliction' worsening?" The woman’s eyes were sharp, probing for a weakness, a scandal, a crack in the Blackwood armor. Two could play at this game.

"My uncle’s health is as constant as the Blackwood name, I assure you. However, I have noticed that those who focus too intently on the shadows of others often find their own light beginning to dim. Do be careful, My Lady; the candlelight in this room is so very unforgiving to a worried face." Mina said, already beginning to step backward, satisfied at the horror on the woman’s face. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I see a friend I must greet—"

She moved too quickly, eager to get away from the questions. Her heels clicked on the marble as she turned, not watching where she was going. Mina collided with a solid, unyielding form. The impact sent a jolt through her, and she gasped, spinning around with an apology already on her lips.

But the words wouldn’t come.

The air left the room. Standing before her, looking as though he’d been carved from the very duty and honor she had abandoned years ago, was...

"Ambrose," she breathed. The name felt like a sin on her tongue, a word she had no right to speak after the way she had dismantled him.

He stood with a terrifying, rigid stillness. The candlelight showed the hard line of his jaw. He looked older, not from years, but from the silence she had left between them and the loss of a beloved sister.

Mina’s hand flew to her chest, her fingers clutching the silk of her bodice as if she could physically hold her heart inside. Seeing him was a physical blow; it was a thousand memories of a stolen summer in Varian crashing into the reality of the girl who had looked him in the eye and lied until he bled.

She remembered the day she broke him. She remembered the precise way his face had crumpled when she told him she didn't love him, that he was a common distraction she had outgrown. It had been a mercy, she’d told herself then—just as it had been a mercy when she did the very same to Munir. She had methodically made herself the villain in both of their stories, tearing their hearts out with practiced cruelty so they wouldn't become victims in hers. She had to ensure they stayed far away from the rot of the Blackwood curse and the encroaching darkness of her uncle.

I am a monster to you, she thought, the realization stinging worse than the smoke of the morning's pyre. And I have to stay that way.

Even as her soul ached for the safety Ambrose once represented, she felt the traitorous shift of her own heart. It was a jagged, humiliating truth: even now, standing before the man she had destroyed, her eyes instinctively flickered past him for a split second, landing on the shock of auburn hair that belonged to Lucian. Her heart was a messy, divided thing—tethered to the ruins of her past with Ambrose and Munir, yet reaching, pathetic and unbidden, for a Prince who could never truly want a ruined thing like her.

Mina stepped back, her silver sleeves moving with her. She forced her face to become calm and distant, the way people expected her to be. "I... I apologize," she said, her voice thin and formal, every word a fresh glass shard in her throat. She didn't call him Sir Ambrose; she didn't think she could handle the weight of his title or his gaze. "I wasn't looking where I was going. This crowd is... overwhelming."

She froze there, her breath coming in shallow hitches, her gaze locked onto the embroidery of his jacket because she was terrified that if she looked into his eyes, he would see the cracks. He would see that the girl who broke him was herself in pieces.

She stood on the precipice of a breakdown, caught in the gravity of the man she had sacrificed to the shadows, waiting for him to speak, and the man she truly longed for standing only a few feet away.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Shehzadi Ranya al-Kadir

Time: 6PM
Location: Grand Ballroom
Outfit: Ranya’s Outfit
Interactions: @AuthenticTomb Sylvia [@ReuseableSword] Roman @Infinite Cosmos
Mentions: Aslam @AuthenticTomb Askel @Remram Kira @Potter

---

The gold ornaments at Ranya’s brow shimmered as she offered Lord Roman a polite, if slightly distant, inclination of her head. “Shrewd indeed,” she murmured, her voice carrying a hint of silk-wrapped irony. “In Alidasht, even the air we breathe is often a matter of negotiation. I am glad to see your memory for our home is as sharp as your eye for detail, Lord Ravenwood.”

Ranya let her gaze linger on Roman as he accepted the tart from Sylvie, a flicker of guarded amusement curling at the corner of her lips. It was a quiet relief to see Sylvie’s brightness returning, but Ranya’s mind wandered, tugged irresistibly like the tide toward the far edge of the ballroom.

Despite her best intentions, her gaze slipped back to the silhouette she ached to be near. Askel. Their eyes met across the room, and a smile, unbidden and impossible to hide, tugged at her lips. She was grateful for the veil that shielded the flush she felt blooming beneath.

The sight of him was a sweet, aching pull beneath her ribs. He stood tall, a calm anchor in the court’s swirling chaos, but it was his companion who truly stole her breath. Aslam. Her heart thudded, wild and frantic, as she remembered yesterday’s confession—how she had bared her heart to her brother, admitting she had fallen for a man whose name she never dared to speak. Would Aslam piece it together now? She had never doubted his sharpness. To see them together was like watching two worlds collide, a dangerous tangle of threads that Hafiz would not hesitate to seize if he sensed the truth.

And yet, watching Askel speak with such earnestness, his face softening with a smile that she hoped was meant for a memory of her, Ranya felt a sudden, reckless surge of agency. Let him watch, she thought, her fingers tightening momentarily on the sea-foam silk of her sari. Let Hafiz see me walk toward my own sun.

She began to turn, a graceful apology already blooming on her lips, ready to slip away from Roman and Sylvie, when a sudden flurry of movement stirred the air at her side.

“Lord Ravenwood. It is so very nice to see you.”

Ranya blinked, her composure threatening to crack as Munir materialized beside her, uncharacteristically rumpled. Her eyes widened as he fumbled with his veil, letting the fabric fall to the floor with a careless disregard for the "holy" image she was meant to uphold. It was almost a mockery, and if not for the many watching eyes, she might have landed a sharp jab to his ribs.

“Munir?” she whispered, her public voice faltering. The look in his eyes was not one of courtly boredom; it was a storm of frantic, protective interrogation.

“Dear sister. I have a few questions that may need to be asked in private, if you would spare me a moment of your time?”

The weight of his gaze told her everything. He had seen. He had gathered the scattered pieces—the Prince of Varian, the secret sighs, the stolen glances between them. Panic surged up, cold and biting, threatening to spill over the composure she clung to. If Munir had uncovered the truth, how long before Hafiz’s shadow crept in to claim it?

Ranya flashed a quick, taut smile at Sylvie and Roman, her hand slipping to Munir’s arm—half to steady him, half to draw him away from the hungry eyes of the court.

“Lord Ravenwood, Sylvie—you must forgive us,” she said, her voice regaining its melodic, albeit hurried, chime. “It seems my brother has been struck by a sudden bout of Alidashti urgency. Family matters, I’m afraid, wait for no orchestra.” Before moving away with her brother, however, she looked to Sylvie once more. ”Princess, I very much would like to get… what is it you call it? Brunch? Yes, I believe that is the word. Perhaps we could meet for brunch tomorrow if you are free? I have greatly enjoyed your company this evening.” She waited for a reply before departing with her brother.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur as she guided Munir toward the shadowed edge of a velvet curtain, the fabric swallowing their movements in secrecy.

“Careful, brother,” she hissed, her eyes darting toward where Hafiz might be watching. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, and that display with the veil—was that for my benefit? What is so urgent that you must pull me away like a thief in the night?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Shehzadi Ranya al-Kadir

Time: 6PM
Location: Grand Ballroom
Outfit: Ranya’s Outfit
Interactions: @AuthenticTomb Sylvia [@ReuseableSword] Roman
Mentions:

---

Ranya’s eyes softened, the emerald green of her gaze warming with genuine affection. Sylvie’s indignant defense of her family was as refreshing as a desert spring—so few people spoke of "prizes" and "taste" when discussing the Alidashti royals; they usually spoke of fear or utility.

“You have a fierce heart, Sylvie,” Ranya murmured, her voice losing its edge of performance for a moment. “If only the rest of the world possessed your clarity. But do not let your light dim on my account.”

She noticed the flicker of hesitation in the younger girl's voice, the way her bright confidence wavered when the topic turned back to her own charms. Ranya reached out, her fingers, light as a bird's wing, briefly brushing Sylvie’s arm in a gesture of sisterly encouragement. The gold of her bangles sang a soft, reassuring melody.

“A dress is but a frame for the jewel, little star,” Ranya said, her tone gentle yet firm. “And you are quite radiant tonight. The silk only serves to remind the room of what they are looking at. Trust me—any hero with eyes in their head would be a fool not to find their way to you.”

Before she could delve deeper into the girl's romantic anxieties, a shadow fell across their corner of the dessert table. At first, she wondered if it was her brother, Fareed, but with a glance she saw it wasn’t. Ranya’s spine instinctively straightened, her Public Voice snapping back into place as a tall, imposing figure approached.

The man’s bow was impeccable, and his voice carried the steady weight of a nobleman well-versed in the dance of the court. Ranya turned, her sea-foam silks swirling around her ankles as she offered a measured, graceful inclination of her head. Her eyes were clear and observant as she studied Lord Roman Ravenwood.

The name sparked a distant memory, a flickering image of sand-stone pillars and the scent of expensive ink. She had seen him before, she was sure of it. Perhaps during the long, grueling trade negotiations that her father and Hafiz had chaired in the Alidasht palace. She hadn't been permitted to speak then—only to sit like a silent, holy icon of Suna’s grace while the men bartered over spices and coins.

“Lord Ravenwood,” she greeted, her voice a melodic chime. “Your service is most welcome, and your flattery is as polished as your bow. You must forgive me if I am slow to place the face; the Alidasht sun can sometimes blur the memories of home when one is so far North, though I believe our paths have crossed beneath my father’s roof.”

She offered him a polite, guarded smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, her hand moving almost reflexively to adjust the drape of her veil. “It is a pleasant surprise to find a familiar face amidst this strange land. Are you here to rescue a pastry as we have, or are you simply here to ensure the Princess and I are not causing too much trouble near the sugar?”