JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Evening Sola 21, 1739

◆◆◆◆◆ "△△△" ◆◆◆◆◆◆

△△△’s chair creaked a protest as he pushed away from his desk, muscles stiff from hours of stillness. Coaxing life back into his limbs, he stretched, then made his way to the sideboard where a porcelain teapot exhaled wisps of steam into the quiet room.

But the tea never touched his lips.

A chill raced down his spine, sharp and electric.

The room tilted on an unseen axis. The teacup slipped from his grasp, amber liquid spilling unheeded onto the carpet.

—Then came the pain.

It arrived in waves, each crest higher than the last. Invisible blades sliced his skin. Phantom bullets tore through muscle and sinew. His flesh felt as though it was being burned and torn apart. All without leaving a single mark on him. It took every ounce of his willpower to stifle the scream clawing its way up his throat.

Through vision blurred by pain, △△△’s gaze locked onto the fireplace mantle, where four colorful animal figurines stood in a row. The fish, hand-carved from lapis lazuli—began to crack. Hairline fissures spread like spider webs across its surface, and △△△ knew. The hourglass of fate had been upended. Udo’s time—the moment everyone, except Nnenne’s warrior himself, had all dreaded and prayed against—had come.

“W-wait,” he gasped, lurching toward the figurine as if his touch alone could mend the cracks.

His body betrayed him mid-motion, his left leg suddenly leaden and unresponsive. The paralysis spread like wildfire through his veins, stealing sensation from his limbs inch by agonizing inch. Yet the creeping numbness offered no reprieve from the agony that tore through him.

These were not his wounds. This torment was not truly his.

And that is why he did not try to block it out like he would have usually done. He would bear this. This was his penance, the barest fraction of what he owed to those who had given everything in service to their cause. Their faith, their sacrifice—he would honor it in the only way left to him.

A sound like splintering ice pierced the air.
The fractures deepened, spread.

△△△’s breath came in ragged gasps, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint. The figurine trembled on its perch, then, with a sound like a thunderclap, shattered.

His heart exploded in his chest, a maelstrom that obliterated all thought, all sensation. As the shards of blue rained down, darkness rose up to claim him. He crumpled to the floor, a marionette with cut strings, and knew no more.

---

---

Udo

The night sky erupted in bursts of light, each flare a fleeting star born and dying in the span of a breath. Streaks of gold and red split the darkness, cascading in shimmering arcs before fading into stardust as green flowered against the dark backdrop. The air thrummed with each boom, a deep vibration that Udo felt in his chest. Across the park, the thunderous heartbeats pulsed, eliciting the gasps and cheers of the crowd below.

In his hand, a half-eaten funnel cake left a dusting of powdered sugar on his fingertips as he stood transfixed. He had sampled nearly everything the festival had to offer and none of them suited his taste. The churros had been cloyingly sweet, the turkey legs overly salted, and the corn dogs... well, he still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of those. But he’d tried them all the same. Each new experience was a story to be collected and preserved; a fragment of this world to carry with him when the time came.

When Nnenne finally welcomed him home.

Eyes closed, Udo imagined himself by a fire on that distant beach. Long-lost family gathered close, eager to hear what he had seen and done in his long years of service. He would tell them of strange foods and stranger customs, of the lands he had walked, of lives saved and battles fought in Nnenne’s name. His tales would span centuries, recounting the wonders and horrors he had witnessed.

He had seen the rise and fall of empires, watched the Great Flood—a cataclysm that reshaped the Eastern Islands—transform from history into myth. “Home,” and hundreds of the surrounding islands, once vibrant and real, faded from the world’s memory like seafoam. But Udo remembered. He would always remember.

The scent of his wives’ cooking wafting through their modest hut. The laughter of children playing in the crystal-clear waters. His blood-father’s fishing spear, worn smooth. Stories shared by firelight. Everyone’s voices raised in song.

These small, everyday moments were as much a part of him as the crushing guilt. He’d survived only by chance, away at sea in prayer when the flood came. Returning to… nothing. No island, no village, no family.

Why?

Had he angered Nnenne somehow? Failed in his devotion? Was this divine punishment for some unknown transgression? These questions haunted Udo as he moved through life like a ghost, untethered and hollow. Days bled into years, years into decades, decades into centuries. The world moved on, but Udo remained trapped in an endless cycle of grief and longing. Until…

“Do you want to die?” Mercy came as a ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ with ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ as ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ as ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ and ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ to match appeared before Udo while he was drowning his sorrows in cheap rum. A ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ extended, a pact offered: “I promise to be the death of you.” Their hands met, and everything changed.

Traveling with ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎, Udo’s world expanded. Color slowly seeped back into his grayscale existence. Joy found him—rare at first, then often—in life’s small wonders and great marvels.

Memories flickered through his mind. Peter’s crooked grin as they faced down a band of thieves, back-to-back despite their constant bickering. Karleen, radiant on the ballroom floor, finally herself in a gown that fit her masculine frame. And Wayra, whose chaotic magic turned a simple walk through the forest into a desperate escape from an army of enchanted flowers. Together, they had traversed sun-scorched deserts and scaled frost-capped mountains. They had fought monsters—human and inhuman—, solved mysteries, and saved each other more times than Udo could count. Each adventure, and countless moments in between, became treasured memories for him—the happiest times he’d known since losing Home.

Another firework’s crack drew Udo back to the present. The park bustled around him, a riot of sights and sounds. His gaze drifted to the gathering on the hill, where the Varian Princess had laid out an impressive array of picnic blankets and pillows. There, playing with a child, was... was… ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎. Udo’s brow furrowed. Though he could describe every other person in perfect detail, everything about ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ remained frustratingly indistinct. ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ features blurred and shifted, refusing to solidify in Udo’s mind, and ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ name came out as a string of blanks.

The curse was working as intended. Udo should’ve felt relieved. Instead, a bittersweet ache settled in his chest. For it was ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ he wanted to tell his family about the most, the ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ who had saved him from an eternity of emptiness.

As fireworks lit the night, Udo made his decision. When he reunited with his family, he would tell them of these man-made stars, how they blazed against the darkness, leaving their mark despite their brief existence—just like ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎.

Though name and appearance eluded him, perhaps in describing fireworks, Udo could capture ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎’s essence: brilliant, powerful, and beautiful. They rekindled Udo’s dormant spirit, infusing his life with a vibrance he thought long lost. In his darkest moments, ⬜︎⬜︎ had been a guiding light, offering hope in the vast sea of endless years.

Perhaps that was enough. To carry the feeling, if not the memory.

Yes, he thought, watching a starburst of color ignite the sky. Fireworks would do nicely.

__________________________________________________________________________

Udo

Music Inspiration: K’Sante, The Pride of Nazumah | Champion Theme

Udo danced to the rhythm of the ocean. His body swayed with the strength of the deep. Each step, falling in time with crashing waves, traced bloodied patterns across rain-slick cobblestones. The spear in his hands became an extension of his body, cutting arcs through air and flesh alike. Every movement was a prayer, a warrior’s offering to Nnenne, Grandmother of All.

Her song swelled. Home beckoned across centuries—a siren’s call Udo answered with his entire being. For Nnenne, he danced, yes, but also for those who had made his endless life bearable. Harder. Faster. Though no mortal would live to speak of this performance, he poured himself into it all the same.

Steel bit. Arrows hissed. Bullets tore. Yet Udo felt nothing but the rhythm. Nnenne’s tears fell from the sky, cleansing him and the fallen, purifying the ground and washing away the carnage. One with the dance, one with the sea.

Even as poison from a coated blade seeped into his veins, making his movements sluggish, he refused to falter. Bodies crumpled in his wake until only one foe remained standing.

“Be seeing y’all in hell, motherf***ers,” Peter grinned, cocky and unrepentant.
Karleen shook her head and chided, “Too vulgar.”
“Agreed.” Udo chimed in.

Peter’s lower lip jutted out as he puffed up his chest like the man-child he was. “Yeah? What’d be your final words then, huh?”

Karleen straightened, a spark of challenge in her eyes. “Poetry... or a quote from one of my favorite novels.” She cleared her throat and began to recite:

“In the twilight of life’s grand play,
Where curtains fall and shadows sway,
I'll whisper to the fading light,
A verse to ease the coming night—”

“Karl,” Peter interrupted, “if you’ve got that much energy to deliver a soliloquy, you ain’t dying.”
Udo scoffed, “I’m shocked you know what a soliloquy is.”
“Shut up.”

⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ looked thoughtful, in the way that usually preceded either profound wisdom or utter nonsense. “You know, if we’re operating under the ‘monologues can never be interrupted’ rule, perhaps a lengthy soliloquy wouldn’t be such a bad move. In theory, it would ward off death until the speaker finishes. I could recite the entire ‘The Infinite Chronicle’ while waiting for medical attention.”

“And you think you’d pull it off?” Peter asked.
“Oh no,” came the reply, “there’s an 80% chance my parting words will be something profoundly eloquent like ‘Well, that sucks.’”

Laughter erupted from the group. “What about the other 20%?”

“It depends. If it’s an accident or a friend who kills me, I’d probably say ‘I forgive you.’ But if it’s someone I don’t like—”
“There’s people you don’t like?” Karleen interjected, surprised.
“Oh, absolutely. Anyone who voluntarily eats black licorice is clearly in league with forces beyond mortal comprehension.” ⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎⬜︎ chuckled. “If it’s someone I don’t like, then I’d try to say something ominous, like... ‘The antidote... is in the…’” ⬜︎⬜︎ trailed off with a series of dramatic gasps and wheezes before going limp.

Peter snorted beer out his nose. “Diabolical. And surprisingly petty coming from you.”
“If they’ve gone to the trouble of murdering me, I think I’ve earned the right to be a little petty. It’s only polite.”
Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “No arguments here, Boss.”

Karleen turned to Udo. “What about you?”
“A prayer,” he answered simply. “If I have time left.”
“Oh, come on!” Peter groaned, throwing his hands up. “It’s literally the last thing you’re ever gonna say. Your last hurrah! Make it count! Go out with a bang, not a whimper.”

The memory receded, leaving Udo facing his final opponent in the rain-soaked present, chests heaving. Fine, he thought, how’s this then?

Udo’s gaze locked onto the man before him, past him, beyond him to the one pulling the strings. He leveled his spear, pointed it at the puppeteer.
The enemy raised his gun.
Udo smirked defiantly, his lips curling around his final words. “F**k you, Marek.”
The spear flew.
The gun fired.

As Udo’s spear pierced through the other man, the bullet shattered his heart. The sky blurred above him as he fell.
He was plummeting, down, down…
The street melted into seafoam.
He plunged past earth and stone, sank into the endless blue.

Bubbles, pearls of air, escape skyward,
A rush of swirling brine.
Udo sinks, weightless,
Into depths beyond time.

Above, a vast shadow looms,
Its gaze piercing the watery veil.
The dark sentience seeks his mind,
Tendrils probe, grasping for memories,
Only to find echoes and absence.

Fury ripples the boundary of worlds.
Nets descend, hooks glint, a final reach
To claim a soul that was not its to possess.

But Nnenne will not be denied her Grandson;
Her currents cradle him,
Pulling towards her heart,
Away from harm.

Wind’s emissaries dive,
Sleek arrows of feather and bone,
Slice through waves with righteous fury.
Beaks and talons flashing silver,
Sever threads of malevolent design.

Movement catches his eye—
A beast, familiar yet unknowable,
Wounded and struggling, sinks beside him.
Its mouth works, forming shapes without sound,
Again and again, a name lost to the depths.

△△△ △△△△△△△ △△△△△△△△

Udo’s heart aches with unspoken apologies,
For this one thing he cannot carry home.

The abyss swallows them both, darkness absolute.
Then—light.

Udo’s eyes flutter open to cloudless skies,
As wavelets lap at outstretched limbs,
Home’s music fills his ears.
His head cradled in grandmother’s lap,
Her weathered hands, etched with time,
Caress his cheeks with boundless love.

“Nno n’ụlọ, nwa nwa m nwoke. Anyị echeworo gị ọtụtụ.”
Welcome home, my dear grandson. We’ve deeply missed you.

“M na-atụ uche unu niile.” Udo breathes, his heart full.
I missed you all.

“Kedu ka njem gị mere?” she asks.
How was your journey?

A lifetime of stories press against his lips:
“Enwere m ọtụtụ ihe m ga-agwa unu.”
I have so much to tell you.

As if in answer, the sky erupts—
A blossom of fire and light,
Dazzling as Udo remembers.

Home at last, with tales to tell,
Of a world changed and changing still,
Of those left behind, and those who wait,
On this shore where all journeys end.

---

---

Wayra

A figure cloaked in feathers stepped carefully over the cooling bodies, ​​intent on reaching the one that mattered. Wayra’s keen senses picked up the coppery scent of blood mixed with the petrichor from the rain and the smell of spent magic hanging heavy in the air. Beneath it all, a familiar scent. They approached what they knew to be the vessel that once housed Udo’s spirit.

Wayra knelt beside the still form and reached out, tracing the contours of Udo’s face. A smile, frozen in death, greeted their touch. Something tight coiled in Wayra’s chest—regret, perhaps, or a flicker of an emotion they thought long buried. They closed the man’s unseeing eyes and, with unnatural ease granted by arcane might, lifted his body.

As they made their way out of the alley, Wayra paused to retrieve Udo's spear still lodged in the corpse it had felled. The weapon came free with a soft squelch. Wayra left the other bodies littering the ground undisturbed; they were not their concern.

Above, native corvids and birds less familiar to these lands descended, drawn by some unspoken call. Soon, the air filled with the wet sounds of tearing flesh, but Wayra paid them no heed.

Carrying Udo’s body and the spear resting easily in their grasp, they moved on. Behind them, the scavengers continued their grim work, and the rain cleansed what remained.

---

---

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Consciousness returned in fragments as the world came into focus. Ryn lay prone on the carpet floor, his body struggling to move a muscle. Echoes of pain pulsated through him and his skull pounded relentlessly.

He blinked several times before he could make out the figure kneeling in front of him—Peter, with his trademark bright red hair seeming ablaze in the dim light.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Boss,” Peter said.

Sola 22, 1739

_{Sola 22, 1739}

Rhythmic clopping accompanied by the steady sound of carriage wheels turning made for a calming ambiance as Ryn regaled Luz the tale of a holy man who wanted nothing more than to reunite with his deceased family. Far to the east of the Three Kingdoms there was an archipelago located in one of the most dangerous oceans in Eromora. Amongst the thousands of islands was a small island Udo called home. Home, where his tribe and family resided. Home, where his most precious treasures lived—his many grandparents, his fathers, his mothers, his siblings, his three gorgeous wives, and all nine of his beautiful children. Home, the place that no longer existed above the ocean surface.

Years ago, a great tsunami swallowed hundreds of islands. A majority of the islands were spat back out, but the "chosen" few sank deep into Nnenne's embrace, never to resurface. One of the chosen islands was Home. And Udo was the only one left behind.

For years, Udo wandered the seas, taking on one dangerous quest after another, fighting for those who asked him, searching for an “honorable death.” For Nnenne’s taught her grandchildren to never waste one’s life unless it was to save another life. He fought and fought and fought and fought. Until one night, Nnenne came to Udo in his dreams, telling him about a boy with the abyss for eyes who would grant him his wish.

“And he got what he wanted.” Ryn turned his head away from the carriage window to look at Luz sitting across from him. “We should be celebrating his death, the end of his long journey, for a dream finally fulfilled but…” He smiled as he usually did, “I know I’m being selfish when I say this… I wish he stayed with us longer, even if it was hard for him… I wanted him to live a long life as Udo.”

“It’s not selfish to wish a friend a long life,” Zarai had kept her hand on his, squeezing every now and then to show her support for Fritz as he told Udo’s tale. “And we will celebrate the end of his journey, but first we must grieve. Should we not?”

“When you are ready we will throw the kind of celebration he would have wanted, we’ll make his memory proud, yes? Whatever he is reincarnated into or not, Udo will be proud.” She smiled at him, “We’ll exchange stories about Udo, wild stories of his bravery, and his killer charms. About how much he meant to us.” Her nose prickled, and Zarai had to stop talking before her voice broke. It took her a few seconds to blink the wetness from her eyes. “But for now, we grieve.”

Ryn leaned in and rubbed his thumb under her eye, “Not very convincing when you’re holding back.”

“I’m sorry I don’t want to cry in front of people.” Zarai rolled her eyes, “Some of us aren’t pretty criers.”

“Oh? Only pretty criers are allowed to cry? That’s too bad, I’m not much of a pretty crier either.” He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. “I guess I’ll keep my tears to myself since it bothers you.”

“Worry not; I won’t judge if you are.” Zarai cracked a smile at him. “Maybe only a little.” But all she wanted to do right now was crawl into bed and cry until she could no more.

“LLliiiaaR!” the parrot shrieked beside Luz’s ear. Ryn looked up at them. They looked back. His gaze traveled over to Karleen, who had been sitting right next to him and was also staring back at him. Although Peter was driving, Ryn could sense the weight of his attention.

A persistent feeling gnawed at Ryn, as if his crew were nudging him in a particular direction. They wanted him to divulge more to Luz, to have at least one confidant who had access to the power to protect him—the Hendrix family, the employees of Crosswinds Trading Co., the Erwynn citizens—should circumstances take a turn for the worse.

He finally looked at Luz, his friend. Heir of Puerto Vira, Lady Zarai Lesdeman. Daughter of a duchess who wanted nothing more than House Hendrix’s downfall. Did he trust her? Yes, he absolutely did, as both Luz and Zarai Lesdeman. No question about it. That was exactly why he did not want to reveal everything to her.

Zarai could see a shift in his eyes. Her stomach fell, and her chest tightened, readying herself for what could be coming.

Ryn felt the gentle warmth of Luz’s hands as he tightly clasped hers, “Udo died in peace. He didn’t feel any pain or was truly alone in his final moments.”

“I’m not saying this to comfort you. I’m saying this because… We made sure no one who swore fealty to us would ever depart this world in agony or solitude.”

On cue, Karleen, with her impeccable timing, extended her hand towards Luz, revealing a broken fish statuette. Alongside it, there were three other animal figurines, each crafted from different colored stones. Luz’s brows furrowed at his words and leaned in to look at the figurines closely.

“Everyone has their own. If they pass away, their figurine breaks.” He patted Luz reassuringly when the hand that reached over to the statuettes retracted. “Don’t worry, they won’t die if it breaks first. But I will get an ear full from Wayra.” Their avian companion confirmed his statement with a whistle.

“That moment when death becomes inevitable… my body takes on the experience of their death and my mind links to theirs until they cross over.” Ryn watched Luz’s reaction cautiously. He had just admitted to being involved in magic. There was no telling how she would respond. “So… whatever pain Udo felt transferred to me and… well, I suppose I was with him to the very end. If not in body, in spirit.”

Her lips parted, and she drew a breath in but quickly closed it before saying anything. A weight settled in her chest, heavy with unanswered questions and an unsettling sense of dread.

“How—how are you able to do this?” The hand around his tightened, trembling with a mix of concern and fear. “Why?” Why would he willingly link himself to others’ suffering? To feel a life slip away? To linger in the depths of death without its release? The thought sent chills racing down her spine.

The corner of Ryn’s mouth curled upward. “Magic,” he confessed. There. He said it. The plainest answer he could ever give. An answer that could cost Ryn his life, the Hendrixes’ status, reputation, and their livelihood. “As for the specifics, you’d have to ask Wayra yourself. This one’s their handiwork.” The parrot fluffed out in pride.

Bewildered would be one of the words Zarai would use to describe what she was feeling. She stared between Fritz and the bird, grappling with the enormity of the secret that had just been laid bare before her. She blinked once, twice, three times, as if hoping the revelation would dissolve into smoke. “The bird did this?” The implication hung in the air, heavy and surreal. If the bird could wield such power, maybe she should start calling it by its name. Her name? His name? Their name? Each possibility felt like a new layer of complexity to an already intricate web.

“Not this one, no. The person… people? Behind the bird.”

Ryn glanced down at Luz’s tight grip and he drew circles against her skin with his thumb. “Have your parents ever ordered someone to risk their life for their own purpose? And not necessarily for the benefit of the person whose life is actually on the line?” he asked instead of directly answering Luz’s last question.

Zarai frowned down at their hands, her heart racing as doubt clawed at her. In truth, her knowledge of her parents' dealings was a mystery, a dark cloud hanging over her understanding of them. She knew they were involved in some shady transactions, always brushing aside her suspicions by attributing them to tax evasion or business as usual. Duchess Francesca was the one in charge of the family’s trading company finances, while her father busied himself with their newly obtained railroads. The disconnect between her perception and reality gnawed at her.
“It wouldn’t be above them to do so,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with bitterness and resignation.
“How easy—” Ryn reconsidered his words, “or hard, would you say it is for them to send someone to their death?” Though he was well aware of the lengths Luz’s parents went to ruin Ryn’s family, he decided to give them the benefit of the doubt: it was always possible that they put such effort because they only disliked the Hendrixes. Almost flattering, if that were the case.

Zarai looked down, the weight of her family’s legacy pressing heavily upon her shoulders. She doubted her father cared enough to kill someone; he mostly retreated to his office, absorbed in his work or pinning insects. But her mother? That was a different story. She ruled their household with an iron fist, her brand of “discipline” often bordering on cruelty. The memory of her mother’s cold, calculating gaze sent a shiver through Zarai.

“Easy,” Zarai finally answered, her voice steadier than she felt. Yet, a knot tightened in her stomach as she ventured to ask, “... but why are you asking me this?” Her heart twisted at her own question, a quiet terror settling in as she braced herself for Fritz’s response.

He essayed a smile in hopes that it might gentle Luz’s disquiet. “I don’t want to become that sort of person.” Ryn held her gaze so she would understand he meant it, at the very least. “Power’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The more you gain, the higher you rise, the smaller all the little people seem. Like ants. And crushing an ant starts to feel like a small price for the ‘greater good.’” The “greater good” chiefly being the ruling house and not the people they ruled over.

“I don’t ever want such a decision to be easy. I want it to twist me up inside, make me lose sleep. I want to fight it, find another way even when it’s obvious there’s no other way. Sacrificing another’s life or well-being must be the last resort, never the first choice.” He glanced at the statuettes, “Those are supposed to remind me not to take anyone for granted. My anchor to earth… so I don’t fly away.” One of which had shattered; he allowed the figurine to break. Had that truly been Udo’s own wish, or was it self-deceit on Ryn’s part, to gloss his creeping resemblance to the Lesdemans and the Danroses?

Ryn peered at her, brow troubled. “Does… any scrap of that make sense?” he asked.

History itself bore witness to his words, a chronicle of countless lives recklessly cast aside at the altar of power and wealth. Zarai couldn’t help but reflect on her own family, who had been guilty of the very transgressions that fueled Fritz’s fears. The Lesdeman ascent to power in Puerto Vira had left a grim trail of bodies in its wake. How many lives had been sacrificed for their ambitions? How much blood stained her parents’ hands? Her own?
Zarai nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It makes sense.” She gazed at her hands, opening and closing them repeatedly as if expecting thick, red liquid to suddenly surface. “Heh, fuck. It makes perfect sense.”

In the half-light of the carriage, Ryn gently covered Luz’s hands. He said, “Their sins are not yours, Luz.” Though he understood how she might have felt she inherited them, as if they were woven into her very being. How could it not be? Families like his and Luz’s ingrained in their offspring the obligation to uphold the legacies of their forebears. Did that not include their sins as well?

The deeds of the past were like shadows—they followed them and could loom large over their present, but these shadows need not define their steps. Remember their forebears’ faults as lessons to learn from, but no more than that. For if they were to bear their forebears’ sins as their own, they would be doomed to a cycle where hate begets hate, an endless, sorrowful spiral. “Your hands aren’t dirty.” He brought her palms to his lips—with hands far from “clean”—to prove it.
Heat flushed her cheeks, a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on her chest, which grew heavier with each passing moment. It felt as though rocks were piled on top of her heart, rock after rock after rock, until she was on the verge of sinking beneath the earth, gasping for breath. Despite the flutter of her heart, the sensation was suffocating, a consuming tide of helplessness that threatened to pull her under.

"But they’re not clean," Zarai murmured, shaking her head in denial. It was her inheritance now, immutable and unchangeable; of that, she was certain. The burden of her family's legacy pressed down on her shoulders, a constant reminder of the choices and actions of those who came before her. She longed to break free from its grip, to carve out her own path untainted by the bloodbath of the past, but the weight of expectation felt like chains wrapped around her, anchoring her to a history she wished to escape.

Crushed under the invisible weight of her family’s name, deeds, and hopes, Luz seemed to appear smaller than usual. “Oh? I didn’t realize I was dealing with a master assassin,” Ryn smiled briefly before asking the real question. “Why do you think they’re not clean?” His thumbs rubbed circles around the places he kissed.

Zarai found solace in his ability to make her smile, even in situations such as these. It was like magic. “I’m not sure,” she confessed. It was a difficult matter that she could not entirely articulate, but Zarai could not deny that she had reaped the rewards of her family’s history. Though neither of them had directly participated in the violent events of the past, she had nonetheless benefited from them. Every dress she wore, every jewel she adorned herself with, was paid for with the lives of who knows how many individuals. How many souls had been sacrificed for the sake of the simple dress she wore now?

“We’ll figure it out later,” Zarai tried a smile, wanting to set the matter aside, at least for the time being. They were nearing the guest house, and she could sense the weariness in everyone. They had lost a dear friend, someone who had been like family to them. Zarai did not want to detract from that no more than she already had.

"You all need to rest," Luz insisted, taking Fritz's hands this time. "A full night's sleep, perhaps with the aid of some alcohol if need be." She turned her gaze to Fritz, her eyes pleading for him to agree. "That includes you, sir. No arguments, no excuses. Please." She pressed his knuckles into her lips, hoping her insistence would finally end the discussion.

A tightness gripped Ryn’s chest as Luz made a desperate bid to end the conversation. His hands moved slowly, fingers threaded through hers with utmost care. “Remember asking if I will help you?”

“And never forget, you’re not alone. Just reach out and someone will take your hand. You’re the only one who can save yourself, but it’s okay to ask for help.”

Luz nodded, wiping the corners of her eyes. “I didn't know you were some kind of wise man.” She sniffed and laughted weakly, “Fuck.” Tears spilled over and trailed down your face. Beautiful despite everything; beautiful because of everything. “Fine. I'll ask for help.” She took a deep breath, reached for his hand. “Will— oh fuck, this is hard.” She tried everything in her power not to sob, to stay strong because in the world they lived in, vulnerability was a weakness to exploit. “Will you help me? Please?”

“I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t let me…” Ryn’s voice dropped to a plea laced with a need for understanding. “Please… Don’t push me away, Luz.”

Zarai felt her lips part as if to speak, but no words came out. She quickly closed them, pressing them into a thin line. Was she pushing him away? This was still uncharted territory for her. One wrong move and the world could fall apart right under her. But this was Fritz. The man she so desperately wanted to help, and how could he ask her if she did not in return? She nodded slowly, swallowing back the forming knot in her throat. "I won’t, I’ll try." Fritz gave her a bitter sweet smile in response, but a hint of sorrow clouded his eyes.

“Your hands are beautiful. Clean or dirty, flawless or marred, pure or tainted. You are beautiful, Zarai.” He leaned in close until their faces were a hairsbreadth apart, leaving no room for her to deny or deflect his words with one of her quips. “You are.”

Dark eyes held her transfixed, a deep pool she could drown in. The count did not release the future dutchess’s hands or look away, not until the carriage jerked to a halt.

Zarai felt the rush of blood in her ears, the pounding in her chest so loud she feared Karleen might hear it. And yet, she found herself lost in his eyes, drawn in as if they held some irresistible enchantment. A familiar sense rushed to her, deep inside her, that she didn’t know was there. Zarai was drowning in those eyes, letting the darkness envelop her all around until there was nothing else but the darkness itself. At that moment, nothing else mattered; there was only the warmth of his hands and the depth of his gaze. She allowed herself to be taken over by the calmness and peace, if only for a fleeting moment.

“I won’t stop you if you really want to rest… But you did promise we’d celebrate Udo’s departure together.” Ryn’s tone took on a teasing lilt. “Join us? How else are we to finish all this stuff we got?” He nodded at the picnic basket beside her on the seat, filled with what they brought from The Tough Tavern.

"Okay," Zarai's voice cracked slightly, but she cleared her throat and reached for the basket. "Let's celebrate and drink to him." Despite her mind urging her to retreat to her room and seek solace in solitude, she couldn't bear to leave them. None of them wanted to be alone.

“Stay close to me; I’ve got the perfect room,” Zarai announced, lifting the basket and waiting for everyone to gather around her before leading them inside. A guard posted by the front door began to protest at their attire, but quickly bowed down when he noted Count Hendrix and Lady Zarai were amongst the group.

Zarai guided them through a series of hallways, the walls becoming barer and lacking the Caesonian art that adorned the more populated guest wing. She pushed open a pair of dark wooden doors, revealing a drawing room. Most surfaces were covered in a thin layer of dust, except for two couches, a small bookcase, and a liquor cabinet. They all settled on the couches surrounding the basket as they passed out the various hearty foods.

Surrounded by heavy drapes that had not danced with the wind in years and dust-covered antiques, they shared stories and laughter, toasting to memories that would never fade and ate every scrap of food they brought. As the night deepened, the room, filled with the echo of their camaraderie, gently lulled them into a collective slumber, their bodies finding rest in a jumble of antique settees and floor cushions.

In the soft glow of dawn, Ryn stirred, half-awake, to find Luz curled up beside him on one of the couches, their bodies entwined in a comforting embrace. With a featherlight touch, he reached out and gently brushed away the strand of hair that had fallen across her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of her cheek with tenderness.

Her lips twitched, and her brows furrowed, a subtle flinch rippling through her muscles. Under her closed eyelids, her eyes moved rapidly; she was dreaming. Moments later, Zarai stirred but kept her eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She nestled closer to the warmth surrounding her, seeking solace in its embrace.

“Morning already?” Her voice was a mere whisper, heavy with the remnants of sleep. Her mind swam in a haze, the lingering alcohol in her system and the vivid images of her dreams. Delicate snowflakes drifted down like a gentle cascade of white, the metallic taste of iron lingered in her mouth, the comforting darkness of the lake and the stark silhouette of the bare willow tree remained vivid in her mind.

“Yeah… We’d better get you back to your room before your mother summons the entire garrison to hunt you down.” Neither of them moved, however, content to remain where they were… as long as they could.

Ryn’s fingers found their way into Luz’s long locks, gently working through the tousled knots. “It looked like you were dreaming. Was it a nice one?”

Zarai groaned at the mention of her mother. "She'd do that, wouldn't she?" The woman's determination to control her was maddening. No matter the punishment, it only pushed Zarai further away. It felt like she was standing at the edge of the cliff. “I don’t remember, but there was a nice lake.” She sighed contently, relishing the warmth of Fritz's fingers in her hair.
He hummed and after few strokes of her hair said, “Luz? I know it’s not easy to let someone in, letting them see the real struggles—you’re brave for taking this step. Thank you for trusting me.”

Strong was the complete opposite of what she felt, but the seed had already taken root. There was no turning back now, for either of them. Zarai now had to brace for the worst if her mother happened to catch wind of this.

“We’ve made promises to each other, and I’m committed to keeping mine. But to help you the way you deserve, can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Take some time—just a little—to think about what you truly want. It doesn’t matter if it feels out of reach or if you or others might call it selfish. What do you wish for? What needs to change for you to feel happy? You don’t have to tell me right now… you can think about it first. And then let’s talk so we can make a plan together.”

Zarai didn’t need time to think. She knew her desires were selfish, but she had made peace with that. She knew exactly what would bring her happiness.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside, accompanied by not-so-hushed voices. A commanding woman’s voice issued sharp orders to her two ladies-in-waiting to open the doors to the empty hall.

“...must be here…!”
“Find her, or you…punished!”

Zarai recognized the voice just as the door swung open. She tried to scramble to her feet, but it was too late. Panic set in as she thought about how to protect Fritz from her mother’s wrath. Perhaps she could pretend to have fallen asleep on the floor instead of the couch beside him. Duchess Francesca stormed in, pushing past her trembling ladies-in-waiting, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

“Good morning, Mo—” Zarai began, but the icy look in her mother’s eyes cut her off mid-greeting. What happened next, she half expected.

The ground rushed up to meet Zarai as she fell, the old carpet scraping her palms, but the sting was nothing compared to the sharp slap across her cheek. She felt like a little girl caught red-handed, trying to sneak a cookie from the kitchen. Above her, she heard the Duchess turn her fury toward Fritz as she struggled to rise.

“You. You did this to her,” Francesca spat at Fritz, her voice dripping with disdain. “Have you no compassion? My daughter is already damaged goods; she does not need another stain on her reputation. If you truly cared for her, you would steer her away from you. For her sake and her future.” Before he could utter a word in his defense, she seized Zarai's arm in a vice-like grip and dragged her out of the room.

A rare emotion flooded Ryn's body when he witnessed the Duchess strike her daughter across the face with such force that Luz crumpled to the ground.

Rage.

Red fury ignited within him, a wrath directed at both the Duchess and himself—at his own impotence, his failure to shield Luz from harm. The emotion swelled, poised to rupture through his flesh.

Then, nothing.

Swift and sudden as its arrival, the feeling fled, leaving the world drained of color, reduced to black and white. Hollowness replaced the overwhelming sensations.

This emotional neutrality was fortunate, as it allowed the count to handle the situation with the ladies-in-waiting more effectively. Based on their body language and facial expressions, the women exhibited signs of distress. Negative emotional reactions would be counterproductive in this scenario. The optimal course of action: maintain a calm disposition and leverage the opportunity to establish rapport and trust.

He went through the motions. Hitting the right notes, selecting words calculated to yield the most favorable results.

Color bled into Ryn’s world, sensation returned
—and with it, fear.

__________________________________________________________________________

Later, when Luz was alone for the briefest moments, Ryn appeared beside her. A carefully orchestrated encounter facilitated by the ladies-in-waiting. “I should’ve returned you to your room sooner.” He pressed his lips to the spot where Luz’s mother had struck her. “I regret not preventing this, but I cannot regret our time together.” His whisper tickled her ear. “Think about what I said,” he urged, a plea and a reminder all at once. “Take care of yourself.” Another kiss on her cheek, and he vanished, as if the count had never been there at all.

TLDR

Fritz confides in Zarai about Udo’s death, expressing deep grief and regret, wishing Udo had lived longer. Zarai comforts him as they discuss the burdens of power and the fear of corruption. Fritz reveals that the spell cast on him makes him feel the deaths of those loyal to him, in their place. Zarai is overwhelmed by this revelation but believes him.

As they discuss their families and legacies, Zarai admits feeling weighed down by her own family’s dark history. Fritz reassures her that she isn’t defined by her parents’ actions. Their conversation becomes emotional, with Fritz urging Zarai not to push him away. She reluctantly agrees to let him help her.

That night, the group settles in an old drawing room to grieve and celebrate together, and by morning, Fritz and Zarai wake in each other’s arms. However, Duchess Francesca storms in and upon seeing them, she slaps Zarai, and blames Fritz for further corrupting her daughter before dragging her away. Fritz, filled with anger and guilt, stays calm. Later, he secretly visits Zarai and asks her to think about what she truly wants in life before disappearing.

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 25 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Drake Edwards’ Birthday Party
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): Everyone around the tables; @Rodiak

“May I have a word, Count?” Luz asked. “In private.” She stood up and began walking away. To the others, she called over her shoulder, “Worry not; we will be back just in time for poker.”

Ryn blinked, taken aback by Luz’s abrupt request. He recovered swiftly, his features settling into a mask of casual amusement. As she announced they would return shortly, Ryn turned to the others with a grin. “Don’t start the fun without us!” He winked at them before pivoting to follow her retreating form.

He fell into step behind Luz, his stride easy while his eyes remained sharp. He could not help but notice the slight hitch in her gait.

Has she hurt herself? The thought flitted through his mind, chased by a darker one: Or has someone hurt her again?

A hot, prickling sensation skittered along his spine, an emotion he recognized yet refused to name. He tamped it down beneath layers of practiced nonchalance.

They emerged into a secluded corner of the garden. Here, the cacophony of the party dwindled to a distant murmur, replaced by the whisper of leaves.

“Strip poker might not be as entertaining with just two players, my lady.” Ryn joked, his tone light even as his eyes searched hers. “Although I’m flattered by the invitation.” He paused, then added more softly, “Are your feet giving you trouble?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Wulfric & Morrigan
Part II

FLASHBACK. Date and time: Sola 24th, morning.

---

---

“Was this the only thing bothering you?” she asked.

“It was not,” he accepted a cup from Haynes. “However, would you first answer me what you consider your duty, and why?” he reiterated his previous question. He took a sip of tea, and after a beat, added, “Please?”

“To be beautiful, of course. People like pretty things. They especially like to own it. If they can’t, some want a chance to ruin it.” She took the cup in hand. “As for why, because that was all that was expected of me since I couldn’t bear children.” Morrigan smiled in Haynes’ direction, “What do you think, pup?”

“I-I c-couldn’t p-possibly…” Haynes stammered. He puttered with the tray and the tea set, trying to look everywhere else, then finally peeked at Morrigan. “I t-think you are b-beautiful.” Sweat lined his forehead, and he trembled in place.

Pleased by the answer or the way Haynes answered, Morrigan reached for the man servant’s hand. “And you are absolutely adorable.” Her thumb traced suggestive circles on his skin. “It makes me want to gobble you right up.” The man gulped.

“Leave us be, Haynes,” Wulfric sighed, because he didn’t have the patience for Morrigan to continue toying with the man. The servant nodded rapidly, and after assuring he would be available if needed, he departed. “Morrigan, you aren’t a thing. You are a person,” he told her firmly. “No one should own you, and no one should be permitted to try to ruin you.” He regarded her seriously. “Besides, you have taken up tasks of your own will beside the nonsense that was imposed upon you, have you not?”

He enjoyed his tea for a moment, then broached the subject he had intended to discuss since before meeting her today. “Why are you torturing our servants?” he asked plainly.

“Torturing? Nooo,” she drawled. “I’m disciplining the problematic ones. Some at the request of others.” She sipped her tea. “... And to smoke out the occasional rats and snakes that like to slip in from time to time.” Morrigan placed down the cup. “Speaking of, you really need to do something about the quality of the royal guards.”

“Try not to take this the wrong way, but do you differentiate discipline from torture?” He shook his head. “Other nobles do not get to dictate our servants’ punishments. Edin should be more mindful too, but to expect anything of him…” he scoffed. “You, however?” he tilted his head. “I believe you could choose less cruel methods. To treat the people under our employ similarly to how you might criminals is detrimental in the long run,” he opined.

“I suppose I could.” But she won’t. It was obvious by her complete disinterest in the subject.

“If you could, but do not, then you are choosing to do something which is unnecessary, are you not?

She covered her mouth and yawned. “Based on your logic, dear, even though you could eat or sleep, but choose not to, because they are unnecessary. Should see how long you’d actually last without eat or sleep to test that theory?”

“How is torturing them necessary for survival? I am aware there are would-be spies, assassins, traitors, but to ’discipline’ whoever you or someone else deems ’problematic’...” he trailed off, frowning. He did not need her reminding him that he had done and ordered the same in the past, but even so... “Surely there are better ways? Ways which would be less likely to lead to retaliation? Ways with which we might lessen the turnover? Ways with which we would inspire loyalty rather than fear?”

Morrigan looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, as if struck by a sudden revelation, she clasped her hands together, a smile blooming on her face. “Hypocrite, that’s the word.” she said. “Last I checked, when your life and your family’s lives are being threatened, that counts as a matter of survival.”

“I only mentioned eating and sleeping as examples I thought you’d relate to the most. You know, reductio ad absurdum and all that.” She waved a hand, brushing aside a triviality.

“There are plenty of things that people choose not to do, for all sorts of reasons, that by your logic would be considered ’unnecessary’: Exercising, studying, keeping clean, socializing...” She ticked each item off on her fingers, the list seeming carefully chosen to strike at the heart of what Wulfric valued. “I can keep going if you’d like.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Just because you can choose not to do something, that doesn’t make it unnecessary.”

“My point is that in cases where protecting can be achieved without torture, torture is unnecessary. I am the last person to refute the usefulness of pain and violence as tools. Sacrifices are necessary at times,” that he recognized. “However, should we not strive for the least possible amount of sacrifices? The current practice is that we wave away any number of lives lost as necessary. I simply wish to minimize the suffering we induce because we never question if there are better alternatives. Alternatives which would still retain our lives while bettering the lives of our people. That is why I cannot agree to working with the Black Rose. I refuse to believe that is our best option.”

“Are we still on about this? I thought we’d moved past that silly business. Really darling, are you alright? Did you sleep enough? You keep coming back to this topic like a broken phonograph, thinking you’re going to get a different result this time around.”

“Why, yes, Morrigan, I have been engaging you in the same discussion, but you keep dismissing my points. You have not provided your reasoning when I have expounded mine. So, please tell me clearly: Could you negate or minimize your torture, disciplining, and harassment of our servants while safekeeping us? Do you approve of allying with Delronzo?”

Morrigan blinked, her doe eyes widening. “Goodness, if you’re having trouble picking up what I’m putting down, you must be terribly out of touch with the art of conversation.” Warmth appeared in her countenance as she smiled at a memory. “You never really liked those lessons involving diplomacy when you were younger.” She giggled. “Maybe we should arrange for your old tutor to pay a visit. Refresh your memory on the finer points of attentive listening and meaningful discourse.”

“I liked them just fine, Morrigan. You consider it pointless to act any differently from how we have so far. You are convinced that the only way you can accomplish your duty is to inflict endless brutality on others. You do not appear to trust that I could change, whether myself, anyone else, or the state of things. That there is no ’better’ and that it will always be the same. Are we - our family, or people in general - truly such a lost cause?”

Morrigan’s cheeks flushed pink, her lower lip jutting out in a perfect pout. “Now you’re lying to me? I very much remember how much you preferred swinging around a sword than spending even five minutes learning to butter people up, thank you very much.” With a dramatic huff, she folded her arms across her chest and turned away, nose in the air.

“Now you are mistaking me for Auguste,” he drawled. Granted, he found exchanges of false adulations tiresome. “Would you help me if I flattered you? As a favour to me? Or as a deal with me?”

The disappointment emanating from his cousin was tangible, a melancholic veil draping over her features and infusing her words. “... No, it’s you too. Because if you’d truly taken those lessons to heart, you’d know better than to say something like that.”

“Really, what sort of harlot do you take me for?” She placed her hands over her heart, as if to hold the pieces together. “I’ve always been there for you when you needed me. And as long as it doesn’t go against my job or my desires, I always will be. But now I see. You didn’t say all those nice things to me because you actually meant it.” She angled her face out of view as she sniffed and wiped her eyes.

“No, I was genuine. I can understand your doubt, however.” He gazed out at the overcast skies for a short moment. “I have always taken others for granted, even when I love them. Including you,” he recognized. He tilted his head towards her, and slowly extended a hand out to her. He raised his palm, moving it into her periphery, giving her all the time she needed to stop him or to express her discomfort at being touched right now. Finally, he settled his right hand atop her head, gently stroking her hair.

“I said what I did because I cannot affect change on my own, and you did not strike me as inclined to cooperation. I suppose…I should have asked first. Forgive me?”

Beneath his touch, Morrigan went still as a statue, so still she forgot to breathe. Disbelief colored her wide-eyed stare as she turned to face him. Not revulsion, Wulfric noted with relief. Just astonishment, pure and simple. She studied his face, lips parting as if to speak, but remaining silent.

As he withdrew his hand, her own hands shot out as if to catch it. She stopped short, fingertips barely grazing his skin. Slowly, Morrigan guided his hand to rest in her lap, cradling it between both of hers.

Seconds stretched into long minutes as she absently stroked his knuckles, gaze fixed on their hands.

Finally, softly, she broke the silence. “What is it you think I can do to help you deal with the Black Rose?”

Wulfric observed his cousin. At first, he had been puzzled by her reaction, but then…She appeared so vulnerable. “Say what you may about my diplomacy skills, but it would be in poor taste to ask you right now,” he huffed, only half-joking. An oddly melancholy smile formed as he bumped his shoulder into hers, light and amicable. He noticed that though he had probed if she could alter her approach with their servants, she offered to help with the Black Rose instead. He didn’t comment on her choice, however. Carefully, he turned his palm, lightly squeezing one of her hands, and let her keep it in her grasp as long as she liked.

That elicited a small smile from her. “Would it? If you’re trying to negotiate, isn’t this exactly the moment to tell me, when I’m at my sweetest? Besides, what if you ask me to do something that’s exactly the sort of thing I won’t do? Wouldn’t it be a crying shame if we both ended up all out of sorts later?”

Wulfric chuckled at that, and nodded once. “Then, will you aid me with obtaining information?” That was her forte, and he needed to find out as much as he could as quickly as possible. “Unless you think my father can be convinced to act,” he added, more so out of curiosity to hear her opinion than a belief that it could be done.

“I can manage that.” Morrigan tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Now, about your daddy… have you ever thought about, you know, bending the truth? Just the tiniest little smidge?” She stretched out the word “tiniest”, letting it linger in the air like the last notes of a sweet melody.

“If you mean the truth that the Black Rose’s existence is more of a detriment than a merit to him, I can think of a few ways to make him realize it,” he drawled. “Though, I had hoped that miserable after-party would have clued him in,” he sighed. “If you have something concrete in mind, do share,” he quirked an eyebrow at her.

One of Morrigan’s hands reached up to caress his cheek. “You’re a clever boy, you’ll figure something out.” She pressed her lips against his other cheek, and received a huff in response.

“...You had mentioned the royal guards?” He addressed the topic she had brought up before. “I have a training session in mind for them. It will not be punitive in nature, and it will involve all those who are meant to protect us… I expect that those who complete the training will be appropriately competent, while those who do not will either be relegated to a lower position or leave the service entirely.”

“It’s going to have to be for some.” She snapped her fingers and the tongueless knight appeared, holding out a paper. “This is a partial copy of the report I have given to your parents. To summarize, Kalliope is unstable and not fit for her job. You did hear the ruckus she was causing at the restaurant, didn’t you?”

“Hm, thank you,” he accepted the paper and quickly scanned through them. Once done, he folded it twice, and stashed it within his tunic. “I have noticed your table’s disruptions. It is odd for Kalliope.” Had she changed? “Given she is working here contractually, she has never been loyal as such.” That had always been the issue with her, yet Edin kept her around because she was useful.

Arden and Morrigan had never seen eye to eye, however, despite the overlap in their jobs. “Did you needle her at all? I hold her responsible for her actions regardless, but I do recall you two did not get along.”

“Nonsense, we get along just fine… when it doesn’t involve certain people.”

Either way, Arden had shouted with unexpected abruptness. “I am sure Father will blame it all on Duke Vikena without our intervention. Do you recommend we get Kalliope fired instead?”

“That little fit she threw was over some boy she’s sweet on. What do you think? Can you really trust a girl who flies off the handle,” she snapped her fingers, “like that?”

“A boy she is sweet on? That is novel.” As far as he knew, Arden had a penchant for having fun with men, but that was all. “I have never seen much point keeping her employed here when it is clear she would rather not be. I will mention it to Edin, but do not hold out much hope. You know how he is.”

“For someone so jumpy, you’d think he’d spot a snake in the grass.” She let out a delicate sigh, her words trailing off into silence.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Speaking of the duke, are you trying to make headway with Lorenzo, of all people?”

“Why ever not? He’s simply precious, isn’t he?”

Wulfric’s dubious expression made it clear what he thought about the duke. “What are you expecting to gain from this venture?”

“A bit of fun.” Morrigan looked at him quizzically, “I’ve flirted with plenty of other people before, why are you so concerned about who I do what with now?”

“Because I wish to understand you better.”

“Aww, how sweet!” Before Wulfric could dodge, she swept him into her arms, rubbing her cheek against him. His protests came out as muffled huffs, lost in the softness of her ample breasts. “But why now, hmm? You’ve had twenty-eight years to figure me out.”

Once released, he carefully carded through his mussed hair, neatly rearranging it. “I did not care to do so before now. I did not notice that I hadn’t.”

“It’s a family trait, I suppose. Danrose men. Always looking, never quite seeing.”

“I always considered my father especially blind, but…” He had not recognized it in himself.

“You’re not giving your daddy enough credit, my dear.” Morrigan watched Wulfric as she leaned her head on her hand. “Maybe you should put a little more effort into understanding him better too?”

“Him?” He showcased his complete and utter disdain with that one word. “No,” he flatly denied.

Morrigan tossed her head and laughed. “Why ever not?” she asked.

“Why?” A displeased frown set in. “Not to underestimate the potential for manipulation if I did, but is there anything worthwhile about him to understand?”

Morrigan practically sparkled with delight at his response. She savored the feeling a little bit longer before leaning in close. Her breath tickled Wulfric’s ear as she whispered, “Yes. Buuut… if that isn’t reason enough.” A pause, a breath. “If you want to understand me, you have to understand him. And once you do, all those questions that’ve been rattling in your head about House Danrose will finally make some sense. You’ll see why we’re all so... messed up.” From the corner of his eye, Wulfric caught a glimpse of an impossibly wide smile. But when he turned to face Morrigan directly, she was her usual, unassuming sweetness.

“I do not merely want to make sense of it, but fine.” It could be helpful in the long run, though it didn’t exactly strike him as a priority. “Do you love him?” he questioned. She did not refer to him positively, yet was dedicated to protecting him. Was it just a twisted sense of loyalty? That since they were ’all so messed up’ they had to stick together?

“Of course I do! He’s my Edipoo!” Morrigan wrapped her hands in the air to hug the image of his father that only she could see, “Why do you ask?”

“Then of course you would be invested…” he was about to prod further, but recalled something. “Because you want to be his hero.” There had been another part to that which he had said, though it was difficult to believe. “And he was yours? Did he manage to save you?”

Suddenly, her expression turned blank. The smile was there, but it was hollow. “What?”

He knew bringing up Aiden even indirectly was risky, but that reaction was concerning. “Is this not the case anymore?” he asked carefully.

It took awhile for her to find her voice again. “Nothing will change the fact that Edin saved me. He will always be my hero.”

“I see.” Nothing would change it, not even Aiden’s death had. “What did he do for you?” There was a hint of accusation there, not for her, but for Edin. If that man had the capacity for saving, then why had he doomed him? Wulfric had been certain that the question of why had ceased to matter to him, but the notion that his father could be different yet had chosen not to be was even more repulsive.

“More than anyone has ever done for me.” Wulfric felt the gentle brush of her thumb against his palm. “He heard my screams when not a soul paid me any mind.” Morrigan’s gaze drifted over the blooming flowers. “He freed me.”

“I was… am a person to him.”

“Just to him?”

“And Jane. To everyone else I was - a woman.” An innocent word on the surface, but he sensed the weight it carried and how much yet remained unsaid.

“So, Edin was once capable of something like that.” It was difficult to accept, but according to Morrigan, he had done good by her, and he believed her. Inquisitiveness prompted him to ask, “From your perspective, when was the last time he was…heroic?” He couldn’t help but spit out that last word scornfully; it was the only way he could say it in reference to his father. “Could he still…?” He frowned heavily, and shook his head. Even if Edin would, even if it were useful or good, it wouldn’t matter, not to him personally.

Morrigan’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Honey, you can’t leave a girl hanging like that.” She patted his arm. “Finish the question.”

Wulfric shook his head. “I am glad he was by your side, cousin. You are dear to me, and he to you, but I cannot forgive him. Not ever, even if he changed,” he exhaled slowly. “Is it not similar with you and your father?”

Morrigan’s laughter bubbled up, light and airy as champagne. “Oh, Adelard! You’re so silly sometimes. Comparing Edin to Daddy? That’s just...” His cousin dismissed the very idea of it with the flick of her wrist. “Why, it’s like saying a rosebud is the same as a tumbleweed!”

“Bless your heart,” she said, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “Wherever did you get such a fanciful notion?”

“A rosebud which shouldn’t have sprung into existence?” he quipped, referencing her earlier ’if none of us were ever born’ statement. “I am comparing them because I hate mine, and you yours. So, Geoffrey is a worse piece of shit?” He indulged in some cursing. “And you are keeping him alive? Do you torture him much?” he inquired casually.

“Do you? Truly?” Morrigan’s finger traced a line across Wulfric’s neck, like a knife slicing through his throat. Then it stopped on an old, old scar. “If this is the extent of your hatred… You still care for him.” Her hand fluttered back down and landed onto their still intertwined hands.

A noise of surprise escaped him – not at the touch, but at the claim that he didn’t genuinely hate his father. He paused to consider it, then regarded his cousin. “Enlighten me, then,” he said after a while, “what is true hatred like?”

Fingers tapped a gentle rhythm against Wulfric’s hand as she pondered his question. “Well now, let me see… Without using that nasty H-word or anything like it, why don’t you tell me why you want to kill Edin.”

He hummed. “Oh, that is simple.” He had no intention of going into the specifics, but, “He betrayed me.” Even now, remembering that…Contrary to what his cousin said, there had been a time when he had been overtaken by hatred. Killing was all he had thought about. He’d spilled blood by the gallons in a futile attempt to wash away that one memory. As if the deaths of countless nameless people could overwrite that tragedy. Prisoners, bandits, spies, suspects…He had been losing himself in endless violence, the grief-driven cruelty and festering rage he had broken out of only after he got some innocents caught up in it all. Oh, how those unwitting victims had gnawed at him. But then - even then - he came to a realization. It could be all over with one single death. He would be free with one death. Edin’s. And so, for months he had plotted, utterly fixated on killing his father. If his mentor hadn’t stopped him…well.

“Just the one?” Amusement sparkled in Morrigan’s eyes, fully aware of what he was thinking about. “So after your little blood-soaked rampage, what did you think killing him would accomplish? Set you ’free’? Make everything ’right’?”

“Nothing could ever make it right.” She giggled. What she found so funny, Wulfric couldn’t tell.

“If that’s all there is to it, you don’t hate him half as much as you think you do. Oh sure, killing him haunted your thoughts, day and night, creeping into your dreams. You schemed and you plotted, and you counted down the days. But then…” She paused, letting the silence stretch taut. “Nothing. You didn’t go through with it.” Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Because someone else told you not to.”

“Because I did not think it would change much.”

Morrigan shook her head, clicking her tongue. “You were angry, sad, and all kinds of upset because of Edin, lashing out at anyone who crossed your path. But hate?” She huffed a breath. “No darling, that is not ’true hatred.’ What you had was a temper tantrum.”

Suddenly, she pressed him against the bench, her face inches from his. “True hatred is an obsession. It becomes your everything. It’s the air you breathe, the blood in your veins. You can’t talk it away any more than you can talk away your own skin.”

Her eyes glazed over, lost in a world Wulfric couldn’t see. “True hatred is keeping him alive so that he can watch everything he cherishes turn to dust and ashes. Savoring his every tear like fine wine, each cry of anguish like music.” A shiver ran through her, eliciting a soft, breathy sound.

“But you never let him break completely,” she whispered, her voice thick with something that wasn’t quite desire. “Oh no no no. You want him to hurt, day in and day out. Death would be too kind, madness too merciful.”

Morrigan’s eyes refocused on Wulfric and she patted his cheek. “When you truly hate someone, sweetie… there is no escape. No freedom. Only peace in their misery.” Her warm body pulled away, leaving Wulfric oddly chilled. “So you do whatever it takes to keep that suffering going.”

“Including destroying everything someone you love might care about? If you even have the space for love with an obsession like yours.” He spoke as if he could rationalize emotion, as if logic and analysis could grant him the understanding he lacked, as if he could precisely dissect something as irrational as the force driving her.

A peal of laughter erupted up from Morrigan, rich and full-bodied, so unlike her usual airy titter. It rippled through her, setting her golden rose curls dancing. She dabbed at the corner of one eye. “Oh, honey, don’t let little old me interrupt. Do go on.”

“Is hatred your singular desire? Is keeping him suffering your only duty?”

“Heavens above, talk about obsession. Duty this, duty that - every chance you get, it’s duty, duty, duty. Adelard, darling, you desperately need to find yourself a new hobby. Or better yet, find someone who’ll tangle with you between the sheets so passionately, you’ll forget ’duty’ was ever in your vocabulary.” Morrigan winked at him before returning back to the topic. “You asked what ’true hatred’ is like, so I simply obliged with an answer.”

He snorted at her comment. “It is a hobby for me as much as his misery is a pet project for you,” he remarked. Fair enough, though, he had asked, and she had answered. “I am admittedly intrigued to see what you have devised for him sometime,” he arched an inquiring eyebrow.

“Him? Morrigan asked. It should’ve seemed obvious who Wulfric was referring to, yet she asked as if she either was that clueless or she wanted to make Wulfric say ’his’ name for some reason.

“Geoffrey.”

Nimble fingers danced through Wulfric’s perfectly coiffed hair, rearranging what needed no attention. “Arrange a refresher lesson with your old tutor,” this time it sounded less of a suggestion. “You keep asking the wrong questions on the basis of assumptions you’ve never even bothered to check if they are true.”

She lifted her hand, giving a languid wave that somehow managed to convey both nonchalance and command. It took a few moments until Haynes appeared. A cat-like smile of satisfaction curled at the corners of her lips. “Now, it’s true I’m not fond of Daddy. But the feelings I have for that man are nothing compared to who… what, I ’truly hate.’”

Her words were met by a barking laugh. “Oh, so you wouldn’t mind if I killed your father, and tied up that pesky loose end?” he grinned deviously. The servant, who came within hearing range just then, startled, stopped in his tracks, and blanched.

“Did…Your Highness call?” he asked cautiously.

“Did I?” Wulfric retorted ever so nonchalantly.

The man’s eyes widened in realization. He ducked his head, and went about the business of cleaning up the long forgotten tea. Soon, he was scurrying off, far away from the two predators he really wished hadn’t set their sights on him.

“So rude, Adelard, why did you send him away? I still wanted to talk to him.” She nodded at something in the distance. Looking over, Wulfric caught the movement of the bushes just before they went still.

“Who or what is it that you truly hate, and why?”

A gentle breeze stirred, carrying with it a dance of delicate petals and verdant leaves through the air around Morrigan as she turned to face Wulfric. The movement caused her golden rose hair to catch the sunlight, creating a halo-like effect around her face. Violet eyes shimmered beneath this aureate crown. Her white dress rippled softly and the fabric seemed to glow in the warm sunlight. All of it lent her an almost celestial presence. Her smile, radiant, completed the vision.

Her lips parted, and in a sweet voice filled with love, she uttered two simple words: “This kingdom.”

What juxtaposition.

“As for the why, you already heard part of the answer.” Her hand patted his. “But if you want to know more, shall we make a little deal? For every new tidbit you learn about Edin, you can ask me one.” She lifted a finger up to her lips and repeated, “One,” before continuing, “question about me.”

“Agreed,” he held out his hand, which she shook without hesitation.

“I will take it upon myself to visit your father one of these times.”

“It’s better that you don’t, but if you insist. Just know that he’ll try to kill you given the chance.”

“So, you leave him with that much freedom?” he drawled. “Noted.”

The decision of a future fun family meeting settled, he asked her, “Was there anything else you wished to discuss?” She shook her head in the negative.

He did have one request himself. “I am in need of covert agents as soon as possible. I have some contacts myself, but I would be much obliged if you sent any competent people my way.”

“The best kind of covert agents are the ones you don’t know about, honey. Tell me what you want and I’ll let you know if they find anything.”

“Two apiece to track Anastasia and Callum and protect them from themselves. As many as are available to deal with the Black Rose,” he requested.

When asked if there was anything else he had in mind, he hummed. “Now that you mention it…” he stretched. “Do we have existent records on which servants were punished when, how, and what for? I would prefer to systemize such practices.”

However, concerning this, his cousin was less helpful. Simply shrugging.

“Very well. But if you suspect any of my servants, please be courteous enough to inform me, Morrigan. I do not know if that is the case for Haynes, but if need be, I can assign a portion of his time to be spent with you. But believe me, I have my own ways of confirming the loyalty of those I hire, and I generally keep my employees busy during their working hours.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Excerpts from the life of a prince

II. The art of torture: Year 1718, Ventu

The prince was recuperating within the medical chambers under the tightest of security. He had been rushed there immediately, doctors crowding his unconscious body. He’d regained consciousness hours later with tubes attached to his arm, and his neck heavily bandaged. His mother was by his side, and he’d talked to her some before falling into another restless sleep.

He was only starting to wake again when the door flew open with a bang that made Wulfric jump. Morrigan came tearing into the room like a storm. Her face was flushed, her breath escaped in puffs, and her eyes were bright and wild as they scanned the room.

“Adelard!” she cried out. He barely had time to react before she threw her arms around him and held him against her tightly. “Oh, Adelard," she said, softer this time, but no less thick with emotion. She planted kisses all over his cheek and a long one on the forehead.

Arms were around him, holding him down, suffocating. “It hurts,” he told her quietly. It wasn’t because of her hug, not really. But the heat of her body was stifling; it radiated from her, and seeped into his. The gash beneath his bandages felt as if lava was running through it. It pulsated slowly but painfully, each heartbeat bringing with it a fresh pang of pain.

“Morrigan!” his mother hissed sharply from his bedside. “Can you not see that he is injured?” He was let down gently, and he blinked from one woman to the other, dazed. “...No sudden movements,” she added, calming her tone as she brushed through his hair.

“You came to visit.” Wulfric was pleased to see her, so he smiled at Morrigan, though it was very faint. He felt so weak and awful, but the company was…nice. He didn’t want to be so childish, but he was secretly glad for all the coddling.

Morrigan sank to her knees beside the bed, careful so as not to cause Wulfric any more pain. She took his hand tenderly in her own, running her thumb over his knuckles in a soothing motion. “Of course I did, sweetie,” she said softly. Violet eyes roamed over him, checking how bad his injuries were. “What happened?”

“I was just playing,” he said. Wulfric was clearly confused; he knew what happened, but not why. “Then he- he attacked me, and wanted to kill me…”

The child gripped Morrigan’s hand as tight as a vice, fingers digging into her palm. His breathing sped up, lids screwing shut as part of the memory vividly flashed before his eyes.

Suddenly, the man lunged at him, a jagged piece of the broken vase in hand. The prince was tackled to the ground, and the man swung wildly, screaming as his eyes glinted madly. Wulfric yelped, trying to kick at the servant, struggling to break free. He couldn’t. The sharp edge made contact just before the guards grabbed the offender and dragged the man back. However, the damage was already done, and the child brought a hand to his neck. It was searing hot – something sticky and warm oozed between his hands. Red was spreading everywhere. Blood. His blood.

He felt his mother stroking his back, and calmed down. Even though he was cautious turning around, the pain made him gasp. He gazed at his mother, silently pleading. It was tiring to try and explain further, and he knew she could tell Morrigan more.

Alibeth did, even as she took hold of his other hand. He listened as she went over what she’d learned from him, the guards, and the doctors so far. Even though she was speaking softly, Wulfric could tell his mother was angry - angry for his sake. However, the way she retold the event was similar to his history lessons. He liked those; there was always a way to explain what happened and why.

“I knew I should’ve done more than break his bones.” Wulfric thought he heard Morrigan mutter. He glanced her way, saw the familiar comforting face, but something dark spiraled behind those eyes.

“Did he…Did he attack me because I’m important?” Wulfric asked his mother when she was finished. It wasn’t the first time someone tried hurting him. Two years ago, he had thoughtlessly accepted a gift, and ended up being poisoned. His mother had told him then that he had to be careful. She had said some people would want to hurt him because he was a prince.

“I am unsure yet, darling…But all will become clear in due time.” He opened his mouth to object, because it seemed there was something she was holding back. But she touched his cheek, and promised, “We can discuss it to your heart’s content when you are better, Wulfric.”

He huffed, but exhaustion was already taking him over. “Alright.”

“Get some rest, okay sweetie?” Morriagn stood up and helped his mother make Wulfric more comfortable in his bed. “When you’re all better, I’ll have a little present waiting for the good boy.” She tapped the good boy’s nose with her finger.

“In the meantime, do you want anything?”

“Tell me a story,” he requested.

“A story? Hmm.” Morrigan pondered for a moment. “Have you heard of The Lost Empire of the Silver Seas? It’s popular with the children and Aiden’s been absolutely obsessed with it lately.”

Wulfric’s eyes grew heavy as Morrigan’s melodic voice wove a tale of adventure on the high seas. She told of a dashing captain searching mythical islands for the fabled lost kingdom, filled with glittering treasure. Slowly, lulled by the epic story, he drifted into dreams of flashing blades and creaking ships, guided by the rhythm of crashing waves.

Just before sleep claimed him completely, he felt a light pressure on his forehead—Morrigan’s warm lips, kissing him goodnight. There was some quiet movement and a whispered exchange between his cousin and mother. The last thing he heard was, “If you need anything from me, Bettie, you know where to find me.”

Wulfric had slept through most of the first several days. When he was able to stay awake longer, he was allowed to play here and there under supervision. After a week, he was allowed to take short walks to the garden. The second week in, however, the routine became so terribly tedius and frustrating. He was still in pain, yes, but why did he have to be locked up as if he were some prisoner? He’d heard the doctors say how fortunate he was, and how he must truly be under divine protection.

If so, Wulfric wished the Gods would do something about all of this. He had no lessons, he couldn’t sleep in his room, his neck was painful and itchy, and he constantly had people all around whose most commonly uttered phrases consisted of “No,” and “I am terribly sorry, but.” In protest, he threw a tremendous tantrum, but after he tired himself out, he got the “Oh, see, you must still rest, after all,” treatment. It was driving him up the wall, and he didn’t know what to do about it, because no one was listening. Mother and Morrigan both were acting as if he still needed babying. Oh, how it grated that for every single step he took, there was someone looking down at him, judging him as weak and helpless. He hated it.

Morrigan laughed when Wulfric told her he wasn’t a baby anymore. “Oh honey,” she said, “no matter how old you are, you’ll always be your Mama’s precious little baby.” She cupped his puffed cheeks in her soft hands and nuzzled her nose against his, then kissed the frown creasing his brow.

“But… I suppose…” Her touch trailed down his neck, where the bandage covered his recent injury. She pressed down, down, down, until it stung and ached. Morrigan watched him closely, searching, assessing, testing as tears pricked his eyes. Waited to see if he would cry, if he would beg her to stop or flee. He would not. Wulfric swallowed hard, met her gaze. He was big. Strong. A prince. The Prince. He was not scared.

After what felt like forever, Morrigan withdrew her hand and smiled with pride. “What a strong wolf,” she praised. “I think you’re ready for my little present.”

“A present?” Wulfric asked eagerly. He blinked a few times to safely get rid of the uncomfortable dampness in his eyes, not letting a drop fall. He didn’t like crying, and besides, he had no reason to. It still hurt, true. But even worse was the urge to scratch, to claw at it like a mindless beast. Even with salves applied to the injury, that instinct was growing stronger and more frequent. The doctors had explained to him it was a sign of healing. He hoped it would go away soon.

Whether as a reward or as an appeasement, Morrigan told him to follow her, and led him out of the medical chambers. Seeing he was going somewhere different in a while, the child perked up. At times, he’d run ahead of his cousin, who, amused, told him which direction to take. “Oooh,” there was a sparkle of curiosity and delight in his gaze as they descended into the dungeons. He had explored there a few times, but adults mostly seemed to want to keep him away from the prisoners.

Except for Morrigan, who looked just as excited as he was. “Close your eyes, Adelard. Don’t open them until I say so. Can you do that?” Of course he could. Wulfric not only squeezed his eyes shut, but clapped his hands over them to prove it. Giggles filled his ears, then the heavy door shrieked open. Morrigan gently guided him through one room and into another. When they finally stopped he shifted from foot to foot, swaying with anticipation and fighting the urge to peek.

“You can look now.” Wulfric needed no further encouragement. He peeled his hands away, blinking as his vision adjusted to the dim light. Someone lay strapped to the most uncomfortable looking recliner. All kinds of strange tools decorated the table beside it. Morrigan flung her arms wide, matching the broadness of her grin. “Ta-da!”

Wulfric mimicked her smile, perplexed, but as he stared at the man chained to the rack, his expression turned blank. The man’s face was heavily bruised and bloodied, nose broken, lips swollen, yet he was still recognizable. His body was just as battered, his limbs twisted unnaturally. The servant had whimpered upon Morrigan’s entrance, but now his fearfully pleading eyes locked onto the child’s. “M-mph!” the man tried to say something through the gag.

“You,” he seethed. “You tried to kill me,” the prince accused. There was a turmoil of confusion and anger brewing within him. Vigorous muffled protests followed as the man tried to shake himself free. It was futile. Wulfric looked at Morrigan, then at the tools - though he didn’t recognize them, he knew they were weapons - then back at her. His cousin nodded happily, still grinning.

Wulfric approached the table, and chose something familiar. A simple knife. He slashed off the man’s gag, lightly cutting his cheek in the process. “I’b sorry - sorry, pwhe-ease forgib me,” the man started crying right away.

“Shut up.” His voice was eerily calm even as he gripped the knife tightly. The servant hiccuped, nervous eyes flitting here and there. “Hey,” Wulfric drew his attention. “Do you remember when you gave me this?” He pointed at his bandaged neck. The man swallowed, gave a tiny nod, was about to say something, but the prince hushed him. “You were saying…That I was a monster. That I should die,” he recalled. “Tell me why,” he demanded.

But the man started apologizing again, saying how he hadn’t meant it, how he didn’t know what had come over him, how he’d forgotten himself, and begged for mercy. Wulfric’s face grew darker as he listened. “That’s not what I asked.” He circled the man until he stood by his head. He held the knife in both hands, fingers tight around the handle. He stared down at the servant. When the man had attacked him, Wulfric had been just as helpless. Knocked onto the floor, an adult body pinning him down, a sharp improvised weapon wielded against him. His breathing picked up speed; he didn’t quite hear what the man was saying anymore. All he knew was that this person had caused him hurt, had meant to kill him.

With a shout, he brought the knife down, fast and hard - into the man’s shoulder. Even with all his strength, it didn’t plunge deeply, stopped by a bone. But the man screamed, and Wulfric knew he’d screamed just like that when he’d been stabbed too. He took deep breaths, mouth open, eyes wide as he stared at the wound he’d created, shocked. Yet…the person who’d hurt him was the one hurting now. That was good.

He closed his eyes for a bit, shaking. It passed after a while, and he started wiggling the knife out. It took a bit, prompting more screams, but then it was dislodged. Hands bloodied and slick, the child went back to where he could watch the man’s face. “Tell me,” he said again, voice rougher, tired out from the effort.

When the man failed to answer again, Morrigan’s hand flew out in a blur, backhanding him with a resounding crack that echoed through the stone chamber. She leaned in close, pressing a slender finger to his lips to hush his whimpers before they could fully form. “Now, now, darling,” she purred, her voice syrup-sweet. “Your prince asked you a question. It’s rude not to answer.” She clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. “Such dreadful manners. Do I have to teach you a lesson?” Her fingers slid across his cheek in a slow caress, gliding down the column of his throat. Her touch promised only pain as her nails began to circle over the fresh wound.

Wulfric observed the man, then glanced at his bloodied hands, at Morrigan, and finally at the servant. “Should I…cut?” he asked quietly. It was unclear whom he was asking, nor the exact emotions behind the question, but he was staring down at the immobile victim intently. He shuffled closer, the knife slick and slippery from blood.

The captive struggled to escape, but only managed to rattle his chains. “Wh-wait!” he gasped. “I - I’ll tell - so, jus -” the prisoner breathed heavily, eyes squeezing shut. Wulfric waited patiently, and when the servant next looked at him, there was something familiar in the way he did it.

“I did-did it,” he grit his teeth. “Be-be-coz, you’re like this.” He strained, and shook, gradually becoming more frenzied. “You-you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Jus-jus like back then. You thought it was so funny! Watchin’ me run, gettin’ your guards to bully me, threatenin’ me! And that damn vase! It wasn’t my damn fault! You saw tha-tha’! Bh-bhut, you beat me up s’bad s’a dog - worse than! Said I could never repay it, brought my family up—!”

The prince considered that. “But I was playing then,” he said, testing. “It was a game,” he insisted.

“A game? A game!” the man shouted abruptly, furious. “We ain’t your fuckin’ toys! Not yours, not the damn king’s – Gods! You, your father, all of you, you think we’re just tools to use till you throw us away! But no! Even a goddamned vase you care more about than any of us.”

“My father!” Wulfric repeated, visibly upset. Unprompted, the man went onto a rant about the king. He continued, on and on, even as the prince watched, surprise momentarily taking over the anger. After another minute, however, he was cut off - literally - by another fierce stab from the child. The man gasped as the weapon plunged into the soft tissue of his stomach area.

“So you hate him. It’s him you want to kill,” the prince reasoned. “Why not do it then?” He asked, laughing. A knowing grin spread across his features. “You can’t, right? But you thought that I was weak. That you could kill me,” he uttered darkly. “I was an easy target for you…” This clearly infuriated the child. “Not anymore,” he declared quietly. “And now you’ll die for it.”

Wulfric glanced at Morrigan. “He told me what I wanted,” he concluded.

At the finality of his words, Morrigan pouted. “You would let him off so easily?” Wulfric found himself confused; since when were executions being ‘let off lightly’?

Morrigan began to orbit the bound servant. Each step was calculated and precise, her heels clicking against the cold stone floor in a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm. “When he still doesn’t understand the gravity of his crime?”

She halted her pacing to place a hand over the servant’s stomach. “Does he regret every decision that led him here? Every step, every breath?”

Without warning, her fingers plunged deep into the open wound, evoking a shrill scream. But somehow, through the howls, Wulfric could still hear Morrigan’s soft voice just as clearly as he did before. “Does he realize what a privilege it is to serve us? And this… this is how he chose to repay our generosity? What audacity to bite the hand that feeds.”

Morrigan continued her invasive exploration inside the servant. Whatever she was doing caused him to writhe violently against his restraints, his wails rising to an ear-splitting volume.

She paused momentarily to savor his anguish before speaking again. “He still believes what he did was right, that you and your daddy owe him an apology for his own actions.”

“Death is too swift an escape for vermin such as him. He needs a lesson he’ll never forget, one that will etch itself into his very soul and carry to the afterlife, where it’ll dawn on him that it’s impossible to atone for even a fraction of his sin against you, against us, against Caesonia.”

With a hint of reluctance, Morrigan withdrew her blood-soaked fingers from the servant’s abdomen. A resigned sigh escaped her lips and she turned to Wulfric. “But, this is your gift. You can do whatever you want with him.”

“Hmmm…” Wulfric was deep in thought. He didn’t especially care what the man thought; he would die anyhow. “He doesn’t need to regret everything.” Even so, a part of him was interested in what Morrigan was saying. It sounded similar to what his father so often did, yet a shade different. There was undeniable intrigue to find out exactly what she meant. Would she show him something new? Would the man say anything else? Would he regret what he did? Would he learn? And if he did - if he did, what then?

“Alright,” he decided. “You can make him pay for this,” he traced the bandaged neck injury. “For…treason,” he rolled the word on his tongue, pondering the bound criminal. As he settled on his verdict, he smiled at his cousin. “I can share,” he told her proudly.

“Aww! Aren’t you just the sweetest thing!” Morrigan cooed, “Thank you, Adelard. You’re so thoughtful.” She affectionately pinched his cheek, “Why don’t we turn this into a lesson on anatomy and persuasion?” She ushered Wulfric to the table and picked up a tool from it. “The most important thing about torturing is to cause maximum pain without accidentally killing them. There’s different kinds of pain, but let’s keep it simple and focus on physical pain, okay?” When he nodded, she smiled and placed the tool into his hand. “Everyone’s pain tolerance is different, and it can change from day to day. The very first step of torture is to find out how much the person can handle.” She gestured towards the servant. “Start with something that you think will cause mild discomfort then start increasing the pain until you reach his threshold.” Morrigan stopped herself and rephrased the last part in case Wulfric didn’t understand, “Stop when he screams, starts shaking, or jerks away from you.”

The young prince obeyed, curious about the impromptu lesson. He followed Morrigan’s guidance - and drew upon his own ingenuity - to torment the servant. Because of what the man said, and because of how much he was thinking about what had happened, it occurred to the child that he must have hurt him before, when he was playing. But when Wulfric asked his cousin if that had been torture, she gave a weird answer. “Pain comes in all shapes and sizes,” she said. “Torture is not being able to escape it.” So, he figured it was best to learn the difference. His outings to the dungeons with Morrigan lasted days and days. During his time there, he observed and absorbed the lessons on pain, and its effects on a person. His cousin and his victim both had much to teach him on the subject.

Around the time the man started begging to be killed, Wulfric decided he’d had enough. His cousin pointed out they could go further, but he did what Morrigan termed ‘granting a merciful death’ to the prisoner. She’d asked if he’d ever like to do this with her again, and he told her maybe, if someone tried killing him again.

Either way, he had much to think about. He’d involved his mother too, when he started pestering her with questions. She was more than willing to indulge him - not just then, but throughout the following years, during which she taught him many, many things.

TLDR: At seven, Wulfric is nearly killed. But hey, he gets a cool scar out of it! Being the good cousin she is, Morrigan comes up with a very child-appropriate activity to bond over - torturing the culprit. Isn’t it sweet how she’s looking out for him?

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

^{In collaboration with @Cool Ghoul as Detlev Schäfer}

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Jesse’s foot bounced restlessly under the table as she watched the two gents’ exchange. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t like she could stop her ears from catching bits and pieces of the conversation… That and curiosity got the better of her. An undercurrent of tension crackled between them and she had no idea where it came from. Whatever it was, it was making her uneasy.

When the silver-haired man set his sights on her, Jesse quickly pushed to her feet and squared up. “Evening, mister,” she greeted, thrusting out a hand, ready to give a strong, firm handshake.

“Good evening, son.” Detlev’s hand shot out to meet the young man’s own in a swift, practiced motion - he offered a tight, strong grip, befitting a hardened western man, and gestured for the young man to sit after the greeting was done. Whatever bitter taste had lingered after the previous conversation’s sour conclusion had been cleansed wholesale by the young man’s forthrightness and candor - it impressed him alright, but he wasn’t quite yet ready to let his guard down.

“Do you smoke? The older man quipped, holding out a folded stogie to the bright-eyed youth before him, the enclosing papers a shade of dull brown rolled neat and tight around their dried, herbaceous contents. It was, by both nature and design, a true, old-western cowboy killer, and perhaps the finest specimen she’d ever seen.

Jesse’s eyebrows shot up at the offer, a surprised chuckle escaping her. It caught her off guard, in a good way. “Sorry,” she said, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re the first fella in this town to treat me like I ain’t still suckling at my ma’s teat.”

She glanced down at the proffered stogie, breathing in the rich aroma that wafted up. It smelled like quality tobacco, the kind you didn’t come across every day. Jesse’s eyes flicked back up to meet the older man’s gaze.

“If you’re offering, I’d be much obliged,” she said. “But are you sure? I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but that looks and smells like the good stuff. Ain’t you wanna save it for a special occasion?”

Detlev’s stony countenance broke for a moment, a grin parting his lips involuntarily as the young man’s words sunk in. ”Tough being underestimated, isn’t it? Well, in my experience, you’re not too young to lose something, and the West sure seems keen to take whatever it can get.” His hand remained where it was, clutching the dented old cigarette case and the singular scag offered forward between two extended fingers. ”Oh, it’s the good stuff alright, but not good enough I mind parting with it. We can’t live as though the reaper’s gonna take his time getting to us, you know? I hear his horse doesn’t need to stop for water nor feed.”

The grin on Detlev’s lips lingered: the foundation of a joke was there, but in the tone of his delivery it’d lost that soft edge, and resulted in it instead sounding like something he’d genuinely heard, once upon a time. With a rehearsed, slow, and deliberate retreat of his hand, he did his best to inspire action from the young man to snatch at the stogie before it left his reach.

Jesse nodded slowly, her eyes distant for a moment. Twenty-one years on the trails had taught her that lesson all too well. “True enough,” she conceded.

With a smooth, unhurried motion, Jesse plucked the stogie. Her other hand dipped into her coat pocket, fishing out a small tin.

“Still, it’s worth having something to look forward to,” she continued. “The reaper may be a rude guest who don’t bother to send word before he comes knocking, but that ain’t no reason to stop making plans or getting excited for tomorrow. Might as well give old Reaper something to interrupt when he finally shows his bony face.” Jesse held up the stogie. “Like how I’m fixing to light this up under the stars, where I can savor it proper without all these other smells mucking it up.” Her nose wrinkled as she frowned at the saloon, waving away a haze of tobacco smoke and stale whiskey that clung to everything.

Carefully, she nestled the stogie in the tin and pocketed it. A smile crossed her face. “Thank you kindly for the stogie,” Jesse said, tipping her hat slightly. She gestured toward the table. “Did you wanna palaver here?”

A chuckle emanated from Detlev as he listened to Jesse go on - the young man had gotten a lot of things right, by his estimation, and the outlook he’d displayed thus far had been impressive in its freshness. ”You know, you’re beginning to make the reaper seem like a pretty crappy guest, all told. But you’re right, and I’m glad we agree - as precious as something might be, you can’t take it with you, better to enjoy it in good company and on your terms than having it pinched from your pockets by the undertaker.”

The cigarette case closed with a resonant snap, his amber eyes shimmering with curiosity as the young man’s words sunk deeper into his understanding. A feeling within him bubbled up as he observed the young man’s wisdom first-hand, an ancient surge of motivation he’d long since ceased the consideration of… And though that hadn’t changed, he had to admit: the young man had the makings of an honest-to-god Texas Ranger, and back in the day, he would’ve shipped him off in a heartbeat. But those days were gone - he was done sending boys to die. ”Keep this between us, but: there’s a ladder ‘round back of the old Ranger’s safehouse down the way, clamber on up and it’s just you and the stars. As private as it gets in a town as tightly-packed as this.” He offered, with a twinkle in his eye - but the smile faded, as did that telltale shimmer of mischief, as business was mentioned… and the mental images of what Ramos had described came flooding back. “Yeah, here’s fine. Ramos has me checking in with everyone after the fight, you know, making sure everyone’s grievances are put on record. A better sheriff you won’t find anywhere - man gives a shit even when it isn’t his turn.”

Jesse’s expression sobered as the silver-haired gent’s face grew serious. She straightened up a mite and gave a curt nod of understanding. Even if she wasn’t rightly sure how much help she’d be.

At the mention of a particular word, her ears pricked up. “You said sheriff? That wouldn’t happen to be Sheriff Estrada, would it? Our wagonmaster mentioned him before I got dropped off. Said he was one of the good ones.” Jesse’s eyes flicked towards the saloon doors, as if half-expecting the man himself to come striding through. “It’s good to put a face to the name.”

Turning back to the man, a new thought struck her. “Say, mister, are you a deputy?”

”The very same.” He said, with no small measure of pride: Ramos had built a great reputation for himself since their days working together, and it was good to finally see him be truly recognised for his efforts to invoke positive change. ”Not a deputy in the traditional sense, nah. I don’t have a badge or anything like that - but me and Ramos go back a long ways, long enough he can ask me to step in and I’ll trip over myself to oblige.” His intonation alone was tinged with an underlying current of respect and reverence - the words he’d spoken had come from somewhere deep within himself, somewhere honest and true.

Jesse regarded the man with open admiration. There was something to be said for a citizen who’d step up to help keep order without the official mandate. “So you’re the Sheriff’s favorite posseman. Reckon that makes both of you the cream of the crop around these parts.”

”My apologies, by the by. I’ve not shown you the decency of introducing myself: I’m Detlev Schäfer. What do they call you, son?”

“Jesse. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Schäfer. Just rode in with Rodrigo’s caravan. Been beating the bushes for work, but…” She gestured to herself—her dark skin, baby face, and slight build—with a wry smile. “Turns out I don’t inspire a whole lot of confidence in folks looking to hire.” Not without trying to rip her off, that is.

Pointing her chin towards the seat she was earlier, she continued, “I was sitting there trying to sort out my next move when that ruckus broke out.”

Detlev’s eyes narrowed as he watched Jesse articulate himself - from what he’d gleaned so far, it was almost criminal that such a promising young man was being overlooked. The words he’d previously offered once more rang true - it is tough to be underestimated, and it appeared Jesse was no stranger to such. ”Their loss, then… If I was the man I was a couple decades ago, I likely as not would’ve sent you off to join the Rangers with a personal recommendation.” The man’s pause wasn’t one of consideration - his countenance contorting briefly as he was once more visited by unfortunate, and unpleasant memories of those years. ”I guess what I’m trying to say is: I see your potential, son. And when we’ve dug ourselves out of this mess we’re in, I’ll recommend you to Ramos as a deputy at the very least. You have my word on that.”

Jesse felt a sudden rush of excitement course through her veins. A deputy? Her? The prospect seemed almost too good to be true, yet Mr. Schäfer’s earnest expression left no room for doubt. Unable to contain her enthusiasm, Jesse’s face split into a wide grin. “Really? That’d be grand! Thank you.” she exclaimed, her eyes and voice brimming with genuine gratitude.

A chill wind swept through the establishment, emanating from the direction of those traditional saloon doors, and oh, how they clattered in its wake. Whatever this dark portent was, it seemed to snap Detlev back on course, and he leaned in slightly, his tone ominous in its seriousness.”Of course, this mess I’m mentioning isn’t a trifling one. If I can speak plainly? People have been going missing for a little while: maybe you’ve heard rumors of such, maybe you’ve not - but I’d like your word, if you see anything odd out there, you spot anyone creeping around you don’t feel should be, even if you’ve only got your gut’s feeling for proof, you come and tell me, alright?”

The giddy warmth of potential opportunity drained from Jesse’s body, replaced by an icy trickle down her spine as Mr. Schäfer’s words sank in. With a deliberate nod, Jesse’s voice dropped low. “You have my word, Mr. Schäfer. Anything that don’t sit right, I’ll bring it straight to you or the Sheriff.” Pausing for a heartbeat, she added firmly, “And that’s a promise I aim to keep, deputy’s badge or no.” Jesse didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding—she’d do right by those missing people regardless of how things shook out for her about employment. “I was fixing to introduce myself to the Sheriff come morning, see about work. But I’m guessing he might need an extra set of eyes and ears for a posse, given the circumstances?”

Detlev’s expression remained stern and strong, his eyes burning white-hot into Jesse’s very soul as he offered his word. This was the first time, in all the collective moments that’d passed since they started talking, that he’d finally committed to taking the young man’s measure. The severity of the situation, combined with the immense value he placed in honoring one’s word, left little room for levity or warmth in the proceedings - in his perception, Jesse had just sworn an oath of allegiance, and Detlev was committed to ensuring it was sworn with utmost sincerity. ”I’ll mention you by name when I share my findings with him, as well as your eagerness to help. But keep in mind, the payoff for such will be in the future… in the here and now, you’re my eyes and ears, and the more you give me, the more examples I can give to Ramos when the time comes. Quid pro quo.”

A flicker of hurt crossed Jesse’s face as the older man’s words stung her. “With all due respect, Mr. Schäfer,” she started, meeting his amber eyes straight on, “this talk of quid pro quo ain’t necessary. I appreciate the offer, but the way I see it, if there’re folks going missing, that’s everybody’s problem.”

She paused to drain the last of her drink, “Sides, it ain't like I don’t benefit from pitching in. Out here, we’re all we’ve got. If I can prove myself trustworthy to folks, maybe I can carve out a place for myself.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “Course, I reckon there ain’t much chance of me sniffing out something the Sheriff and his ace posseman haven’t already caught wind of. But like I said, you two’ll be the first to know if I find anything suspicious.”

“My… apologies, my young friend.” Detlev offered, his expression still stern, but his eyes betrayed a more personal level of regret. “It was not my intention to offer you an incentive where your honor had sought none.” He slowly rose to his feet, his hat tipped in the young man’s direction as he half-turned away, to stare out into the world beyond those saloon doors - his lonely world, his desolate home: wandering. Yet as the rattling of his spurs took him one step away from the table, he turned to face the young man again: “You ever need anything, a little talk or something more tangible, come by the old ranger safehouse whenever. Maybe… maybe I’ll get used to talking to decent folk quicker that way, you know, with practice.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schäfer. I will. Have a good night.”

A half-smile was all he could manage, and he stomped off towards those saloon doors - looking like the pearly gates themselves, from where he was standing: he’d been more sociable in the past bell than he had in the last five years of his life, and he was not adjusting well.

________

__________________________________________________________________________

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: The River Port Lodge
Interactions/Mentions: @princess@mole
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

The second that ugly mug Zarnak came lumbering over, jaw flapping about debts and tabs like Vasco was some two-bit chiseler, Vasco let out a long sigh.

A crooked smile played on his lips as he leaned against the counter. “Well, whaddya know. Didn’t peg the Black Maw Syndicate was full of sore losers. What’s the matter? You forget I won them goods fair and square in a game of bones?” And a couple of actual bone cracking too, but, hey, details. “Not my fault your lackeys ain’t up to snuff.”

He stifled a yawn and started perusing the menu while the Syndicate clowns prattled on about consequences, debts, and whatever else these thugs loved to babble about. Blah, blah, blah. When the chatter dragged on longer than his patience, he gestured for them to hurry it up.

Truth be told, he wasn’t paying much attention and it didn’t really matter what they were actually saying either. It all boiled down to whether they’d be trading lead or not.

Whichever way this little meeting went, Vasco still wanted a drink. So he flagged down the bartender and ordered himself a beer.

When Zarnak decided to get frisky with a blade to his neck, he didn’t flinch. Vasco just gave the shiny steel a once-over. “Done? Swell.” He tossed a look at Rowan. “It’s up to you what you wanna do, pal.”

Without another word, Vasco grabbed the back of Zarnak’s head and pulled him in close. He planted one right on his kisser. A real slobberknocker of a kiss that left her face a picture. Grinning like the cat that got the cream, Vasco danced out of reach, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 25 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Drake Edwards’ Birthday Party
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): Everyone around the tables

The lord’s birthday celebration took an unexpected turn. The once refined atmosphere quickly gave way to something rowdier, more reminiscent of a tavern at night than a noble gathering. Inhibitions loosened, voices grew louder, and hands wandered with newfound boldness.

A frisson of worry threaded through Ryn’s thoughts. The last party involving nobility and alcohol had ended with collective amnesia and a surfeit of unanswered questions.

He plucked a glass from the nearby table, held it up to the light. Through his spectacles, he examined the liquid, shimmering innocently within, then brought it to his nose. The pungent aroma made him wrinkle his nose, but small relief softened his features. “Hmm. And here I thought this would be a family-friendly party,” he remarked as he placed the glass back down.

Smiling, Ryn addressed the group, “I suppose this means the scheduled debauchery has been bumped up to brunch time, then?”

From an inner pocket, Ryn produced a well-worn deck of cards. “Shall we play out here where everyone can admire the gradual unveiling of nature’s finest sculptures, or shall we move somewhere more private?” He chuckled, “I’m equally open to playing games that don’t involve disrobing.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Cynwaer & Quack

---

The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across the stonewalls of the underground chamber. Crates and barrels were stacked haphazardly throughout the space as a group of commoners, young and old, worked to organise the supplies. The scrape of wood against stone and murmured conversations echoed off the walls, punctuated by the occasional giggle or shout from the children who darted between the adults, more interested in their games than the work at hand.

Sexton “Quack” Cryer stood hunched over a sturdy wooden crate, his brow furrowed in concentration as he examined its contents, comparing them to the list he held. He scratched his quill against parchment as he tallied each item.

Suddenly, a commotion near the entrance disrupted the steady rhythm of work. Excited voices steadily grew to a crescendo and the children abandoned their mischief and scampered towards the newcomer. The young women beside Quack began to titter and grin, smoothing their hair and adjusting their skirts as they shot coy glances towards the approaching figure.

But Quack ignored it all. Even when Cynwaer’s rich voice called out a greeting, he continued inventory-taking.

Quack hadn’t been an easy man to find. He never was, which – all things considered – Cynwaer took to be a good thing. It was hardly appropriate for a man of Quack’s line of work to be easily found. But then again, Cynwaer hadn’t tried particularly hard to find the man. It had just slipped his mind, that’s all. Getting reacquainted with a city as sprawling as Sorian took time for anyone, what more for Cynwaer, who hadn’t stepped onto its streets in ages?

Surely, it had nothing to do with Cynwaer dragging his feet. Or with him having a few drinks with that foreign captain the previous night.

He shrugged to no one in particular as he walked between stacks of crates and barrels. It didn’t matter, he supposed. If Quack was as good as he was supposed to be at what he did, he would already know that Cynwaer was in the city as soon as Remembrance slipped into harbour. And if Quack had really wanted to see him, then surely he would have sent for him.

With smiles and waves, Cynwaer greeted the children that ran up to him before advising them to return to their work, lest they draw the ire of their crotchety overseer. Similarly, he flashed winks and grins to the ladies who looked his way. “Mornin’ lassies,” he said politely with nods to each of them before pointing to whatever it was that required their attention. “Best youse get back tae yet work, aye. Would’nae wan’tae make yer boss lose ‘is ‘ead, would we nae?” The ladies giggled and nodded in response.

That Quack didn’t even acknowledge his presence bothered Cynwaer little. He had expected as much from the man. Instead, the Remembrance’s Captain merely sidled up to the man, taking his time to lean against a stack of crates before pulling out a sack of coins and jiggling in front of Quack’s face, almost teasingly. “Regards frae Renny, Songbird, and mesel’,” he said and placed the sack on top of whatever it was Quack had been examining. “Cheers fae sendin’ us ta’ word. ‘At’s one less taxman and a dozen or sae less o’ the king’s lads.”

One... two... three beats of silence passed, broken only by the rhythmic scritch-scratch of Quack’s quill. The ladies fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot and casting uneasy glances between Cynwaer and Quack. Cynwaer cast reassuring glances at them over his shoulder. This was just part of their banter; there was nothing to be worried about.

Finally, a petite blonde cleared her throat. “Erm... Sexton?”

Quack’s head jerked up, his eyes widening as they landed on the sack of coins. “Cor love a duck! Where in the bleedin’ ’ells did this come from?” The man’s brogue thickened noticeably, as it always did when he was irritated.

He thumbed through his papers, “Ain’t no mention of this ’ere.” Scooping up the bag, he tossed it at a buxom brunette. “Oi, Moll! Take this to Bess, will ya? ’Ave ’er count the brass.”

“Right away,” Moll replied, hesitating. She glanced at her friend, then at Cynwaer, clearly at a loss.

The blonde stepped in. “Sexton, love, it’s Cynwaer. He’s here.”

Quack spun around, his face a mask of exaggerated shock. “Wot? Cynwaer, ye say? The same galoot wot couldn’t be arsed to send word ’e’d be two days late? Left us wonderin’ if ’e’d gone and got ’imself scragged? The same cheeky bugger wot thinks a man’s time ain’t worth a fleck of dust and can just waddle in whenever ’e bloody well pleases? And don’t even ’ave the decency to beg pardon? That Cynwaer?” He made a show of scanning the room, gaze sliding right past Cynwaer. “I don’t see ’ide nor ’air of ’im.”

Cynwaer rolled his eyes, but allowed Quack to carry on.

“Nah,” Quack added, returning to work, “our Cyn might be a rude git, but ’e ain’t soft in the ’ead. ’E wouldn’t dare show ’is fizog ’round ’ere without a peace offerin’ fer ’is tardiness. Like a few bottles of the good stuff ’e’s plundered, maybe.”

“Sorry pal, but if I ‘ad any o’ the good shite, I’d ‘ave drunk it aw’ mesel’,” Cynwaer said, shaking his head and chuckling. He hovered around Quack like a fly buzzing around honey. “Come now, there’s nae need tae be sae upset, aye? I ‘ad me reasons tae be late this time.” The lilting tone in his words and lightness of his voice betrayed his amusement with the whole situation. “An’ it’s aw’ good ones tae, aye.”

When that still failed to get Quack to respond, he sighed. “The last ship I ‘eld up ‘ad nothin’ but a few tuns o’ blastin’ powder, nothin’ yer cannae get on yer ane wi’ less trouble, I reckon. Besides, I used most o’ it tae turn our taxman an’ some o’ ta’ king’s lads intae butcher’s work.”

He looked over his shoulder at the blonde, giving her a smile, a nod, and a small gesture for her to leave them for now. “Cheers, lass,” he mouthed to her before returning his attention to Quack, a serious expression hardening his features. “I’m nae here fae a social visit, pal. I’m just ‘ere tae dae a favour fae Renny an’ Songbird. Ta’ twa o’ ‘em tell me that folks ‘ave been gae’n missin’, an’ obviously in enough numbers tae make ‘em worried, aye. Yer probably ta’ best man tae ask fae somethin’ like this, but yer know ‘ow it’s like. ‘Tis always best tae get yersel’ stuck in before dae’n anythin’ else. So now I’m ‘ere, aw’ stuck in an’ lost, an’ offerin’ yer a trade. If yer’ve any bit o’ information on these missin’ folk, I’ll take ‘em in exchange fae a favour done yer way.”

This was a risky play, Cynwaer knew. For all he knew, Quack’s price could prove to be far more trouble than it was worth, or Quack might not even have what he wanted in the first place. But it was a risk Cynwaer considered worth taking. Investigative work had never been his strength, or even something he liked; he simply hadn’t the patience or aptitude for it.

Quack let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. “’Pon me life, Cyn, yer tighter than a duck’s arse in water. Can’t even shell oot fer a wee dram, can ye? Bloody cheapskate, ye are.”

With a sharp whistle, Quack summoned a lanky young lad who rushed over to his side. After removing a sheet of paper, he handed the rest to the lad along with the quill. “Finish this ’ere fer me, will ye? There’s a good lad.”

Turning to Cynwaer, Quack jerked his head towards the entrance. “Right then, ye great lummox. Let’s ’ave us a proper chin-wag. Come on, shift yer arse.”

As he led Cynwaer through the twisting passages, dodging barrels and crates, he continued, “Now then, gie us the particulars, Cyn. Ye might nae believe it, but there’s mair folk gone missin’ than ye might reckon. Only reason it ain’t common knowledge is ’cos it’s rarely the toffs what vanish, ye ken?”

Cynwaer grimaced. He understood perfectly. A noble goes missing, and the entire city would be up in arms. Perhaps even the entire kingdom. But a commoner? Whole streets of them could up and disappear, and few would care. Fewer still would even notice.

They stopped in a quiet alcove where the torchlight barely reached. Quack fixed Cynwaer with a shrewd look. “So, oot wi’ it. Who exactly are ye lookin’ fer?”

“Nae’dy in particular,” Cynwaer replied. Neither Songbird nor Renegade had told him anything in that regard, and Cynwaer hadn’t expected them to. People were going missing, and that was all the pair – and Cynwaer himself – needed to know. And besides, if someone they knew had truly gone missing, Renegade and Songbird wouldn’t have bothered with sending Cynwaer ahead to investigate. The two of them would have likely torn Sorian apart brick-by-brick themselves.

Cynwaer scratched the back of his head. “Knowin’ Renegade and Songbird, they’re nae after just rescuin’ one or twa. They’re gae’n tae wan’ tae take the ‘ole damn operation down an’ tear it up by ta’ roots, an’ to tell yer ta’ trut’, that’s what I’m thinkin’ o’ dae’n mesel’.” He paused, hoping that the weight of what he was saying was sinking in. He didn’t know about Quack, but he had no illusions that this would lead to anything other than major – and very violent – actions.

“Sae if there’s anythin’ yer know about what’s gae’n on, it’d be real ‘elpful if yer could dae us a favour an’ share,” Cynwaer continued. “Especially if yer ‘ave any idea who’s behind it. I dae’n wan’ tae walk intae a fight when I dae’n e’en know who ta’ feck I’m fightin’, yer ken?”

Quack kneaded his forehead, exhaling forcefully through his nostrils. “Blimey, that’s about as useful as a lead balloon, innit? Ye can pass that on to yer Renegade an’ Songbird mates too. Might as well be tryin’ to nail jelly to the wall.” He fell silent for a moment, his eyes taking on a distant look as he seemed to rummage through the cluttered attic of his mind. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, a glimmer of recollection sparking to life.

Cynwaer chuckled. Quack wasn’t wrong; Renegade and Songbird had pretty much tasked him with seeking for a needle in a haystack. Only in this case, he wasn’t even sure if it was a needle which he sought, or even if he should be looking in haystacks. “Well, yer can tell ‘em yersel’ in a week or twa when they get ‘ere.”

“There’s been mutterin’s makin’ ’round in the rookeries ’bout some crew wha’s been climbin’ the greasy pole right quick in Caesonia. Bunch of wrong ’uns, they are.” He leaned against the stone wall. “Word is, they’ve got their fingers in more pies than a baker’s dozen. Every dodgy deal, like human traffickin’,” Quack emphasized, “and honest trade from ’ere to the bleedin’ horizon, they’re in on it. Buildin’ a right proper empire, they are, right under our very noses. But ’ere’s the rub…” The man hunched forward, “They got the backin’ of toffs.” Slowly, he lifted his finger to point upward, “Maybe even the Crown.”

That was close to what Cynwaer had guessed. He hadn’t believed for a moment that something as brazen as the abduction of dozens – even if they were of commoners – could go unnoticed in Sorian without the involvement of influential, powerful, and rich people. “Well, aw’ empires ‘ave a lifespan,” he said with a grin that wasn’t as cocksure as he had hoped it would be. And could anyone blame him? To call the task ahead daunting would be an understatement. Especially if Quack was right, and the Crown was indeed involved.

Cynwaer shook his head slightly. There was no point in fretting over that now. He had to focus on what he could do, and worry about the rest later. Otherwise, the anxiety would surely render him paralysed. “I reckon they’d ‘ave tae smuggle folk by ship an’ nae sae much by land. It’d be a lit’le hard tae drag sae many unwillin’ folk out ta’ gates, aye?” He mused aloud. It was a gamble, and one that seemed more and more like a longshot the more he thought about it. But it was at least something with which he could work.

“I’ll take ol’ Remembrance out tae sea taenight an’ see if I can catch ‘nybody tryin’ tae slip awa’ frae Sorian ‘arbour. Reckon they’d try tae use cover o’ dark.” He looked at Quack. “Might ‘ave ta’ trouble yer, pal, tae ‘elp disappear ‘nyone I might end up rescuin’. Think it’s bet’er if they leave Sorian entirely, or go tae ground, aye?”

“Aye, ye can count on us, Cyn,” Quack replied without hesitation as he clapped a hand on Cynwaer’s shoulder, a resolute fire burning brightly behind his eyes. “Wot’s a bunch o’ rabble-rousers like us good fer if not fer the common folk, eh?”

“As fer wot to do wiv ’em after... well, that’s a pickle, ain’t it? Reckon we’ll ’ave to suss it out as we go along. Some might need to scarper right quick, others might do better layin’ low ’ere fer a spell.” His expression grew grave, his brow furrowing. “Thin’ is, mate, there’s summat else ye ought to know. When I said this lot is involved in every dodgy deal, I weren’t just flappin’ me gums. I mean every bleedin’ deal, includin’ magic.”

“If these bastards are nabbin’ folk left, right, and centre. who’s to say they ain’t usin’ some hocus-pocus ta make it easier? Could be turnin’ their victims into mindless puppets, or wipin’ the guard’s memories clean as a whistle. What if we do take ’em in and the bastards ’ave got ’em under a hex and sniff out our hideaways? Or worse yet, the poor sods just go off like a powder keg, blowin’ us all to smithereens?”

Cynwaer grimaced. That was something he hadn’t considered. “Ah feck, ‘tis times like these I’d rather ‘ave Songbird around. They’ve a good nose fae aw’ this magic shite. But I s’pose I’ll ‘ave tae think o’ somethin’ when it comes tae it. Fae aw’ I know, I might end ta’ night with not’in’ tae show fae it.”

He planted both his hands on Cynwaer’s shoulders, his tone deadly serious. “Ye best be ready fer anythin’, Cyn.”

“Aye, dae’n worry yer head about me,” Cynwaer replied and pulled away from Quack. “Yer might ‘ave tae worry mer about ta’ taxman we blew up, though,” he said as he made to go back the way he had come. “Reckon ta’ king’s gae’n not’ice saen that ‘e’s nae get’in’ aw’ ‘is coin, an’ e’s gae’n start lookin’ fae answers.”

Quack shrugged, “Aye, an’ we know nowt ’bout it, do we? Nothin’ but reg’lar folk doin’ reg’lar commoner stuff.”

He ambled after the other man and jabbed a finger accusingly at Cynwaer’s face. “Wot you need ta worry ’bout is ’ow ta make up fer bein’ a tardy stingy bastard.” When they reached a junction, Quack made to turn off, waving. “It better be good too, ya ‘ear? Summat I can share wi’ the uvvers.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Quack as he disappeared around the corner, wondering how long it would take the poor sod to discover the crudely scrawled note he’d left stuck to his back.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

__________________________________________________________________________

________

The scrubland surrounding Amistad stirred to life as dawn broke, painting the horizon in muted golds and soft pinks. Jesse Li stood at the edge of the Wandering Emporium’s camp, her gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the town. The air, crisp and cool, carried the earthy scent of mesquite and morning dew. A jackrabbit darted between prickly pear patches, startling a covey of quail into sudden flight, their wings flapping against the stillness of the morning.

Jesse’s heart thrummed in her chest, matching the frantic flutter of wings—a steady, rhythmic beat of excitement and nervous energy. Her fingers instinctively tightened around the strap of her well-worn satchel.

“Now, you sure you ain’t forgettin’ nothin’, baby?” Louisa Li’s voice, thick with a Southern drawl and worry, cut through Jesse’s thoughts. It was easily the hundredth time she’d asked that morning.

With a blend of affection and exasperation, Jesse turned to face her mother. “Yes, 妈妈. I triple-checked everything, just like you taught me.” Jesse patted her satchel. “It’s all here, I promise.”

The Li family were gathered in a tight semicircle around Jesse, on the threshold of her new adventure. Her father, Xing, rested his hands on Jesse’s shoulders as he spoke, “Remember, 囡囡, town big, many people. Some good, some not. You watch, you learn, you stay safe. Not everyone see past... outside.”

Quincy, her brother, stepped forward. His usual cocksure grin was tempered by a hint of worry in his eyes. “You've got this, Jess,” he said, lifting her hat to playfully ruffle her short-cropped hair. “Just keep your wits about you and your weapon in top condition.”

Elijah, the eldest, added, “Trust your gut, 小妹, and if push comes to shove…” He mimed a quick jab and a kick, winking. “Aim for the soft spots.”

Jesse couldn’t help but smile, despite the knot of nerves in her stomach. “Quick feet, quicker fists if I need ’em. Got it.”

Marion, the youngest of the Li family, tugged gently at the hem of Jesse’s coat, her eyes still red and glistening from tears. “Bring me back something pretty, okay?”

Jesse crouched down, “I’ll find something special just for you.” She gave Marion’s hand a light squeeze before standing.

Around them, a small crowd of well-wishers from the caravan gathered to see Jesse off. Old Zora, their resident hedgewitch, wheezed out a blessing. Wagonmaster Rodrigo, clapped her on the back so hard she nearly stumbled and gave her an advice, “If you find yourself in a tight spot, go to Sheriff Estrada. I hear he’s one of the good ones.” Even grumpy Mr. Holloway, the tinker who rarely left his wagon, shuffled over to offer a gruffly muttered, “Don't get yourself killed out there, kid.”

Overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, Jesse felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back, determined to appear strong. “Thank you all for believing in me. I won’t let you down.” With a deep breath, Jesse embraced each family member in turn. “Thanks for giving me this chance,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Louisa cupped Jesse’s face in her hands, “We’ll be camped just outside town for a week. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” Jesse interrupted, but her mother’s warning look quickly shut her up.
“If it gets to be too much, you come on back, you hear? Ain’t no shame in knowing when it don’t work out."
This time Jesse just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Jesse offered a final wave before heading towards Amistad, her steps, light and purposeful. Entirely absorbed in the path ahead, she missed the subtle nod Xing gave to Elijah.

As the town’s buildings drew nearer, Jesse squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. Hope swelled in her chest as she took in the sights and sounds of her new adventure. This was it.

The weight of her family’s expectations and her own dreams propelled her forward. Whatever challenges Amistad might throw at her, she was ready to prove herself and carve out her own place in this frontier town. Or so she thought.

Little did Jesse know that by the time the sun set on her first day in Amistad, she would find herself slumped against the wall of a nameless alley. Her stomach growling, the crushing weight of repeated rejections having deflated the day’s earlier optimism. In its place, a gnawing worry would take root in the pit of her stomach.

________

__________________________________________________________________________

As his daughter’s figure receded into the distance, Xing’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Elijah, jerking his chin in the direction of the town. The eldest son met his father’s gaze, understanding the unspoken command. With a subtle nod, Elijah slipped away from the group, following his sister’s path at a discreet distance.

Quincy observed the exchange and frowned. “爸爸, Jess ain’t gonna like that,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Xing’s head snapped towards his younger son, eyes flashing. “我不在乎她喜不喜欢,” he hissed rapidly. Switching to English, he continued, “Better this than find her dead in street. Or worse, sold to bad men. Wishing she dead. You want that? Hmm?”

Quincy held his father’s stern gaze for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh. He turned and trudged back to his wagon.

Meanwhile, Louisa stood rooted to the spot, her eyes never leaving the distant town. Her lips moved in a silent, fervent prayer to any benevolent force that might safeguard her naive daughter.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 25, 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edwards Estate, Drake Edwards’ Birthday Party
Interaction(s)/Mention(s):@Lava Alckon@princess@Potter@Rodiak

Ryn smiled sympathetically at Lord Edwards, the weariness already settled on the lord’s shoulders and the hint of anxiety flickered behind his eyes. The party had scarcely begun, yet the birthday boy already bore the weight of a thousand pleasantries.

“Lord Edwards, I thank you for your gracious welcome. But please, do not trouble yourself over me. I’ve already taken up more than my fair share of your attention.” Ryn gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the crowd. “Your admirers await.” He paused, then added gently, “Do remember to pace yourself, my friend. It would be a terrible shame if the man of the hour couldn’t enjoy his own party.”

With a final, cordial pat on Lord Edwards’ arm and a promise to speak again soon, Ryn released the lord to attend to his other guests.

Ryn’s gaze wandered the expanse of the garden, a sea of color and movement, until it settled on a familiar silhouette.

Luz.

She was some distance away, engaged in conversation with Peter’s not-so-secret infatuation. A flutter of something unnamed stirred in his chest. Despite crossing paths here and there, they had not properly spoken since the morning incident a few days prior.

Drawn as if by an invisible thread, Ryn found himself gravitating towards her. Before he could close the distance, however, Shahzade Farim and Princess Anastasia reached the two ladies first. Ryn waited, giving the others a chance to exchange greetings before joining their circle. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Shahzade Farim,” Ryn intoned, bowing low in the traditional Alidasht style, “peace be upon you.”

Then, turning to Princess Anastasia with a grin, he exclaimed, “Annie!” In one fluid motion, he took her hand, bowed, and twirled her in an impromptu dance move. Their hands met in a playful clap at the end of the spin. “How’s the music practice coming along? Only a few more days until the concert! Exciting, isn’t it?”

To Miss Persephone, he offered a courteous bow, his lips kissed the air above her knuckles. “A pleasure to see you here, ‘Miss Olivia.’ Are you settling in alright?”

Finally, inevitably, Ryn’s attention fell on Luz. His hand rose of its own accord, paused—a heartbeat’s worth of uncertainty—before fingers brushed across the apple of her cheek with feather-light tenderness. “Hello, My Lady,” he said softly. Ryn’s lips formed silent words: Are you okay?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Flashback: Night Sola 23, 1739

Callum & Riona Part 8

---

Everything hurt again. He couldn’t get back up, the most Cal could manage was to press a hand against his side where a knife had been. He had definitely gotten blood on Wystan’s floor. He’d lost the scroll. He should’ve cast that curse again. He should’ve kept a better grip on the enemy. He should’ve tried to strangle him. He should’ve- he’d messed this all up…failed, again.

Cal closed his eyes. He felt the flames return. He felt chills rack his body at the same time. Is this what dying felt like?

The air was full of screams, they kept growing louder. Fire crackled; that awful smell caught in his throat mixing with the frothy bile. His hands moved to cover his ears and the screams only grew louder.

Something bad was happening. Pain that wasn’t his own coated the air as an immense sorrow bore down on him.

And Callum remained as useless as he’d ever been. Can’t get up. Can barely move. Useless. Failed. He tried to mumble an apology to Riona but couldn’t even get the words out. Can’t give up. He opened his eyes, moved his hands away from his ears, and slowly the room began to come back into focus.

“Ira.” He whispered as he pressed a finger into his stab wound, twisting it and hoping it made for a worthy sacrifice for the first spell that came to mind. His pain quieted to a murmur as pure rage filled him. Doubt melted away.

The rage spell gave him enough fight to half get up, just enough to launch himself at the red-headed man’s knees.

Irritation boiled over. Without releasing his chokehold on Riona, the man struck out in a vicious kick, single-minded in his determination to end her before turning on the prince.

The blow slammed Cal’s eyes shut. When they fluttered open he saw…

Something that shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, yet undeniably was. A being. A horror. A nightmare given form.

It towered over them, an entity with two monstrous heads built from countless writhing bodies. Men, women, children—all sizes, all ages. Some appeared almost normal. Others bore the marks of their demise. All were bent and twisted into impossible angles, crammed together to give the monstrosity shape. Their eternal screams and moans filled the air.

The two-headed thing gorged itself on the miasma that oozed from Callum and the redhead. With each wisp it devoured, the creature grew. Infinitesimally, but enough to make its components scream anew as their tormented bodies stretched and warped beyond all limits. Never allowed the relief of breaking.

“More…” the twin heads rasped. “More!” As the horrors pressed closer, Cal could make out the faces in pitiless detail.

Cal tried to cover his ears again. But he still heard it; a cacophony of suffering. Final screams and death rattles echoed and filled the room.

“Shut up!” He forced out a raspy command, eyes never leaving the demonic apparition, its skin bubbling with faces of the dead.

Near him, a cluster of faces fell suddenly silent. Recognition dawned on them. Pain gave way to sheer hatred. They roared. Thrashed against their prison of flesh. Hundreds of hands grasped for the prince, teeth bit at the invisible contours of the entity, straining to break free and tear him apart.

Several eyes moved as one and focused on Callum. Hands grabbed for him even as tried to crawl away. His hands reached out for the sword, his thoughts focused on an obsessive desire to destroy something.

Among the legions, Cal saw his own face. Familiar eyes burned with loathing. A cacophony of condemnation battered him from all sides, but it was his voice that rose above the din. “I hate you.”

Cal’s hands found the hilt, his arms shook as he lifted the blade and swung wildly. No form or precision behind his strikes, it was the wild fury of a child’s tantrum fueled by rage that only intensified and expanded with each passing moment. His attention split between the apparition that had added his face to its quilt of faces, and the redheaded stranger.

The stranger twisted, using Riona as a human shield against Callum’s wild flailing.

“The burning smell intensified. Small streams of smoke rose from the tips of Riona’s shoes as if they were about to catch fire.

“Stop.” A voice cut through the maelstrom of hate-fueled noise, firm yet gentle. “Alaric.” Then came a soft touch.

A hand, callused and strong from years of hard work, broke through the flesh cage and grasped Cal’s arm.

“Shh, easy now,” the voice murmured, conjuring images of a stablehand calming a skittish horse. “It’s okay, everything’s going to be all right. Just breathe. Close your eyes and focus on breathing.”

Something grabbed his arm. Called him Alaric. And he could think of only one person called him that. He threw an elbow back, dropping the sword in the process, hoping to hit hard enough to silence the voice.

“That is NOT my name.” Aggravation only flared at being told to breathe. Being talked to like an unruly child. It reminded him Morrigan snooping around his room, her constant backhanded comments, how she walked around acting like she knew everything, how she only ever called him by his middle name. His rage burned brighter. “Do not tell me what to do!” An impetuous command flew out, and he flung his elbow again. All he saw was a confusing blend of smoke, twisted faces, and a blanket of red.

But the hand didn’t let go. “Even knowing that will kill her?” the man’s voice asked. Although the mass of bodies covered the owner, Cal sensed the man’s gaze turn to the two heads that continued their feast. “Continue to feed that, and it will kill Riona.” The pressure on Cal’s wrist increased slightly. “No one has to die here tonight. I don’t want anyone to die. Not you, not Riona. I’m begging you.” The man’s voice cracked on the final word, “Please stop.”

He struggled to no avail to free his hands. Even knowing that will kill her. It sounded like a threat. A voice that belonged to someone he couldn’t quite see. Threatening him, his friend, in his house. He stared at the two-headed beast, a ghoulish illusion he could only assume had been cast by the intruder.

Callum wanted to fight. He needed to hit somebody, hurt someone, destroy something with his own hands. An urge that consumed and burned away any other thoughts. It felt righteous, justified, to unleash all that on a man who’d come here to ruin all of his and Riona’s work. To snatch their small victory from them and turn it over to Edin.

But the strange voice broke as it uttered, please. “He needs to die.” Callum whispered, with single-minded focus, as he tried again to jerk his hand free towards the redheaded man. “He’s trying to kill her.” He argued with a voice he wasn’t even sure was real.

The owner of the hand didn’t reply right away. None could deny the lethal intent in the stranger's eyes.

“This spell feeds on the very things that birthed it. Rage. Hate. The purer, the stronger it becomes… which is rarer than you’d think. There’s plenty of anger and hate around here, but they usually contain ‘impurities’ of other emotions that the spell has to sift through.”

Cal pulled and thrashed against the force that held him back. Break free. Kill the stranger. Break free. Kill the stranger. His mind was sharply focused, he grew increasingly desperate as each wild attempt to free himself and charge forward was continuously thwarted. Break free. Kill the stranger.

The unseen gaze left him to look at the two heads again. The energy it drew from him and the redhead seemed the same, and yet… “There’s more fury coming from you than him.”

Yes. Yes! I am fury. My rage is pure. My wrath is justice. The voice understood. His rage was pure, it was perfection. No mercy to dilute it, no other desires to pollute it, only pure and perfect wrath with a single target in mind. And his mind thought of what he could do once his arm was freed. Fingers digging into eye sockets, teeth gnawing through flesh, fists and skull used like a battering ram. He wanted it. Needed it. Break free. Kill the stranger.

The mass of bodies shifted violently, accompanied by piercing screams and a stifled grunt from the hand’s owner. Fumes seeped from the writhing tangle of limbs, coalescing into the unstable, flickering form of the redheaded stranger. It was saying something. A lot of things.

Callum’s knees buckled as a symphony of shrieking rattled his bones, and pounded against his head. “Stop doing that.” He half hissed, half whined. No beating or hangover could compare to the pain those screams left writhing inside his head. He wondered if a sound could crack a head open, he wondered if it already had.

His ears strained to make out the fragmented sentences. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” the voice that wasn’t quite the same voice as the redhead said. “Why couldn’t they just leave the f**king sword behind?” Other details escaped Callum’s understanding, but one name stood out: Riona. The redhead wished they had contacted the maid, believing she could have helped them.

Cal’s eyes flickered from the redheaded to the distorted doppelganger. A confusing mix of words came from one of them but he wasn’t sure which. “My sword. Mine. I’LL KILL YOU! You. You! Here to steal. Here to spy. A thug with cheap tricks.” His violent thrashing came to a sudden halt following a faint pop.

—the entity vanished, along with the others.

Callum sunk to his knees, his arm hurt too much to move it. Riona is going to die because I can’t be useful, not one godsdamn time. Not now. Not ever. The cold thought blew through him. Despair turned Callum into something so cold and hollow that the rage couldn’t burn. It was suffocated out of him. “Just take it. Take the stupid sword and let Riona go. Please, kill me, let her go. She’s just a servant.”

Silence stretched. Then, a single word: “What?”

The redhead stood motionless, amber eyes boring into Cal. “What... did you just say? ‘Riona’?” His gaze snapped to the maid in his chokehold.

“F*ck.” He let go. Riona’s body crumpled to the floor, lungs heaving for air. “F*ck,” he repeated, the word gaining heat. “F*CK!” The third time, he punctuated it by slamming his boot into a nearby chair and sending it skittering across the room.

Minutes ticked by, marked only by the sounds of “f*ck” and wall kicking. Finally, spent, he braced himself against the table, chest heaving. “F*ck,” he whispered, the fight drained from him.

There was another pause while the redhead seemed to weigh his options. With a grunt, he shoved away from the table, fishing a vial from his pocket. He uncorked it with his teeth and knocked back the contents in one swift motion, then tugged his mask back into place. A second appeared in his hand. Carefully, he knelt beside Riona, cradling her head as he tipped the liquid past her lips.

Callum continued to sink onto the floor, his good arm moved to press against the wound in his side. He heard the stranger swearing, shouting, and a body dropping to the ground. The gasps of air that followed told him Riona was still alive. He heard furniture and the wall being kicked at, he recognized the irony that their best chance of getting out of this was for the guards to hear and show up.

As the room grew quiet he turned his head to look at Riona and saw the stranger forcing her to drink something. Poison! He lifted his leg enough to stomp his foot against the floor. “Help.” He tried to shout but his voice came out faint and tired. He stomped his foot again. “Riona. Sorry, I let you down. Again.” He whispered as he tried to stop his foot once more only for his heel to slide weakly against the floor.

The ginger-haired man huffed as he lowered Riona to the ground. He strode over to Callum and just splashed the rest of the liquid over his face. It seemed to dance across Callum’s skin, knitting together the gashes, soothing away the discolorations, and shifting cartilage until his nose realigned itself with a muffled pop.

Rough hands fisted in Callum’s shirtfront, yanking the fabric up. “Why’d you have to pull it out like an idiot?”

Fresh agony lancing through his midsection as something brushed against the raw, aching hole. But soon after, the peculiar sensation followed. Sinew and skin crept together, sealing the ugly puncture as the pain ebbed to a distant throb.

The redhead released him and rocked back on his heels. “Let’s make a deal,” he said. “We both weren’t here tonight.”

“I’m not making a deal until I know who, and what, I’m dealing with.” Callum answered, sounding more confused than anything. The stranger had won, so why had he stopped and given them healing potions? “You get your rocks off sneaking into windows are starting fights? Can’t say that makes you seem trustworthy.”

“I didn’t kill you even though I coulda, still can, I really want to, and,” he pointed at himself, “I asked nicely first.” He then pointed at Cal. “You started it.” As if to remind Cal what he was thinking before the man kneed him, he patted the boot that contained the spell scroll. “So, we both weren’t here tonight. Agreed or should I just finish you off for good?”

“Nicely? You broke in through the window, looking like an assassin, and threatened to tell Edin I was up to something. Not nice. You started it.”

The redhead made an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes. “Wow, well excuuuuuuse me, princess. So, I’m ‘not nice’ because of my clothes? Shame on you.”

“And yeah, considering how I let you talk and continue to let you talk? I’m a holy saint.” On cue, two blades appeared in his hands, one was the knife that stabbed Callum, the other belonged to Riona. He tucked his own weapon away but held onto Riona’s. “Course, I’m happy to fix my mistake if Your Royal Highness would prefer.”

“Maybe later, for now, let’s start with tell me why you’re here…Is it to kill Wystan?” Callum asked, curiosity stronger than any concern for himself. “And give me back my scroll.”

“Tell me your business first and I’ll think about telling you mine.” The stranger propped his chin on his free hand. “Sure, but only if I get to take her.” He flicked the dagger in Riona’s direction.

“Try it and I will shout for the guards.” Cal glanced toward Riona, only turning his attention back to the redhead once he was sure she was still breathing. “Isn’t my business obvious? I’m snooping, digging around the palace for secrets. And forbidden reading materials.”

“What a coinkydink, me too.” The words came muffled through the stranger’s mask. His amber eyes locked onto Callum, unblinking and curious. A heartbeat passed. Two. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m a spiteful goodfornothing shithead? Because I felt like it? Because I know they hide things that shouldn’t stay hidden. Pick one.” Cal offered. “If I ask you why, are you just going to copy my answer again?” He asked.

“Ha! Maybe. Wanna have a go at it?” The man waited for Cal’s response, clearly amused.

When Cal asked why, he answered. “I’m a grade-A a**hole with an ax to grind. See, there was this one scumbag I never got to settle up with, so I’ve been taking it out on every other scumbag I can find.” A humorless chuckle escaped him. “And these types? They’ve all got skeletons rattling around in their closets. Dirty little secrets they’d rather keep buried.” The stranger leaned closer to Cal. “I’m the spiteful-good-for-nothing graverobber who’s gonna dig ‘em up and use ‘em as clubs.”

Callum laughed, hard enough that hurt his sides but especially the side that had recently been stabbed. “You should’ve led with that. I think we’re more alike than you think. I’d be more than happy to help you dig up every skeleton in this place if you club my old man with a rotten femur.” His laughter turned to wheezing.

The stranger scoffed. “Don’t go insulting me now, obviously I’m more good looking.” He stood, brushing dust from his pants. “So, are we keeping this powwow off the books or what?

“Off the books, but I’ll curse you with boils if you harm Riona again.” He said with a smile and offered his hand for the man to shake on it.

A weary sigh left the stranger as he reached down, clasped Cal’s hand, and hauled the prince up to his feet. “I’m already going to get an ear full for this.” His gaze traveled down to Riona, who looked to be stirring. “If you’re not full of sh*t,” the stranger said, strapping the sword onto his back, “tell Riona: ‘Remember what the giant said in the alley.’ She does that, she gets your scroll back. Play nice, and the sword might find its way home too.”

“Weird request, but sure. Deal.” Cal agreed, it wasn’t like he had another option anyway, no way was he up for round two.

The stranger gave a curt nod. Then, in a blink, he ghosted across the chamber, vaulted through the open window, and melted into the summer night without a sound.

TLDR

As the fight against the mysterious figure continues, Callum sees a nightmarish entity appear, burning Riona from her feet with its arrival. The entity seems to feed off the volatile energy in the room, and while it speaks, and shrieks, with many voices, one voice stands out and attempts to reason with Callum. As the entity vanishes just as suddenly as it appeared, the fight ends once the intruder hears Riona’s name. Callum and the intruder come to a begrudging agreement before the man leaps out the window.