It was unsurprising for the mausoleums of nobles to possess such finery. Just as it became the final resting place for the fallen, so too was it a museum in its own right, a place to foster a sense of belonging and pride to the descendants of such nobles. Marble statues, life-like yet larger than life, were granted to even minor members of the family, as if to state that their birth alone granted them the right to be enshrined, to be celebrated for as long as stone lasts. To be remembered, by the legacy they left behind, by the epitaph their loved ones engraved upon their headstones. Serenity too, had seen the mausoleum of the Arcedeens. Flawless walls, bedecked by lapis and silver. Legends carved down, so the learned could become enlightened. Murals depicting their finest moments, songs once sung still echoing down the long chambers, as one strode upon a myriad-patterned carpet to reach the very end, where the progenitor’s ashes laid, contained in a simple, unadorned pot.
‘From dirt we came, and to dirt we’ll return.’
It was privilege enough to be remembered. For the Lover Goddesses to grant one’s soul eternal rest. For the bodies that had trained, had bled, had worked for the kingdom to become intermingled with the soil from which Thaln drew its foundations. For one’s descendants to further hone your craft, reaching pinnacles that you could not comprehend.
And yet, there remained those who decided that it wasn’t enough.
Poor Veilena. Another of her ancestors lived only to besmirch her family’s name. Damon Cazt may be of a different evil compared to Anzel Cazt. He may hold himself to some higher standard, may disapprove of what the necromancer had done. But still. He was there, that blood-eyed vampire. Lounging against the grave that his family had built, conspiring with the blasphemers and criminals who sought the Princess’s assassination. He was no Paladin, who had pledged herself to the service of Mayon’s church, who had earned her forgiveness from Reon through unending service.
If there remained the possibility of pardon for this wretch, there was still a long way to go.
Serenity breathed. Felt Gerard’s hand on her shoulder. Heard the words he had to say.
And in response, she pressed her shield against his chest, until that idealist of a mercenary knew to grasp it in his own.
“I take it,” the lioness called, “that the girl still lives?”
"Of course. It wouldn't do much good to arrange a rescue party if she didn’t, would it?"
A living hostage was better than a dead one, for both parties, but such confirmation was still good. She did not turn to address her companions any further, only left them with parting words.
“We are shield and sword, to protect the innocent and purge the craven.” A pause, a silence broken by only the rasping of the shortsword from its sheathe. “The order is important here.” Perhaps it was the nerves that was causing it now, perhaps it was her adrenaline instead. “So why in Mayon’s name is it that only Sir Steffen and I thought to bring a shield, when we all knew that we’d have to rescue an innocent girl?”
In her right hand, the mace. In her left hand, the sword. Equal length weapons, but divergent in intention. Her eyes gleamed with a blue that the corpse before her could never appreciate again, and her sinew tautened, a steel coil building upon greater strength as her heart thrummed.
Now, she had but words for her enemy.
“I am Dame Serenity Arcedeen, of the Knights of the Iron Rose. Damon Cazt, your existence alone serves only to blacken the reputation of Lady Veilena Cazt. If remorse remains a sensation beneath your cold flesh, I recommend you pray to the Goddesses for forgiveness and take your own head.”
Her lips curled. A bloodless smile for a bloodless foe.
“And if not, then allow me to perform your final rites.”
Performative. It was enough that a human knight alone was able to take the time of an immortal. But if she was going to play, she may as well play to win.
