JJ Doe

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Lorenzo and Fritz "Ryn"

---

“Hm-hm-hm-hm-hm la-di-da-di-da he-he-he-he-he do-do-do-do-do. Good ol’ Lorenzo is ready to write. Lottie occupies the guest for the night.” Lorenzo bobbed his head, seated at the desk in his home library, wearing a jolly smile on his face. On the desk, he opened up a large multicolored hard-cover book containing his collection of written poems with a quick and ink at the ready. Kier, his ferret and closest friend scampered around the room chasing a shiny tin ball.

“I see we're both having a wonderful time, Kier. We really have to do this more often and…” Lorenzo sighed. “I should take you out soon. You're the extrovert of our pairing so it is only fair that you get to meet and greet with the same people that I do. Especially now that you have some competition at the Edward's estate. Those twins are something else, Kier. Very cute, indeed.” Despite everything Lorenzo said, Kier hardly paid him any mind except when he'd look the Duke's way when hearing his name being mentioned.

Quill scratched against parchment in the library’s comfortable silence. Lorenzo’s hand moved steadily, absorbed in capturing the perfect phrase.

A burst of enthusiastic dooking broke his concentration, followed by... a laugh? A soft, familiar chuckle that certainly did not belong to Lorenzo.

His quill froze mid-word. He turned.

There, settled cross-legged on the library’s richly woven carpet as if he’d always belonged there, sat Count Fritz Hendrix. His usually impeccable coat was rumpled as he played with an absolutely delighted Kier, who bounced and spun around him.

Upon catching Lorenzo’s gaze, Fritz’s expression brightened with a smile, “Good evening, Your Grace.” Kier chose that moment to launch a determined assault on Fritz’s fingers, tiny teeth catching harmlessly at pale skin as the count’s hand darted and weaved in their improvised game. “Don’t mind us. You seemed so absorbed in your work, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Huh? Oh! No, no, no, I should have taken notice of you. Especially since I knew Charlotte had guests over.” Lorenzo frowned while averting his eyes. “It’s a tad rude, and I should have respectfully greeted you all, especially with- Wait is Prince Wulfric actually here?” The duke only hoped Wulfric wouldn’t pop in as suddenly as Fritz had. Setting the quil down, Lorenzo clasped his hands in his lap. He wondered what the count might want, failing to consider that this might just be a friendly meeting.

Fritz continued to play with his furry friend. Kier twisted and writhed in mock battle, all sleek mischief and playful nips. “His Highness was here. Though he’s since taken his leave.” The younger man lifted his black gaze to Lorenzo, canting his head. “Did you wish to speak with him? He may still be in the neighborhood if we give chase now.”

“No! I mean, it's not necessary to have him return here. I am sure I'll have the chance to speak to him some other time.” Lorenzo kept up an uneasy smile. “How was the party Charlotte threw? I’m sure she spoiled you all with sweet treats and smiles. What was the occasion, even?” Lorenzo hadn't even considered why Charlotte would have such a strange collection of people over. He could only guess it was some sort of hobby club but couldn't think of what hobbies they'd all share.

Fritz maintained his searching gaze a moment longer before his features mellowed back into a soft expression. “It was delightful. Lady Charlotte has quite the gift for bringing unlikely companions together.” The count’s fingers found their way to Kier’s fur, tracing absent-minded patterns. “Does Your Grace not host purely social gatherings with your friends often?”

Lorenzo frowned.

“I’m afraid not. Before the courting season, Charlotte and I remained isolated in Vermillion for nearly a year. My wife's passing wasn't easy for either of us.” Lorenzo’s eyes were focused on an empty spot on the desk. “I also… don't have many friends.”

“I understand,” came Fritz’s quiet reply.

Lorenzo heard the whisper of fabric and the creak of floorboards as the other man rose. Each footfall drew closer until Fritz’s shadow fell across Lorenzo’s field of vision.

“The quantity of friendships has never struck me as particularly important,” Fritz continued, his voice closer now. “A single friend—one whose company you genuinely treasure—can be worth more than a hundred casual acquaintances.”

When Lorenzo finally lifted his gaze, he saw Fritz standing next to the desk, Kier bundled contentedly in his arms. The ferret’s eyes had grown heavy-lidded under the Count’s gentle ministrations, his small form nearly melting into the crook of Fritz’s elbow.

“Perhaps,” Fritz suggested, his fingers continuing their practiced strokes through Kier’s fur, “it’s time to consider hosting a gathering of your own. Nothing grandiose—just a small affair with those few people whose company you enjoy, and maybe even those you’d like to know better.”

“Hmm…” Lorenzo nodded as he digested the idea. He couldn't say it was a poor one but there was a large part of him that was against it and the pressures it would bring. Still, it was a flexible thing he could manipulate. It would be his and under his roof after all. And then the wheels began to turn. “That could be quite pleasant. I could keep some of my headaches away and enjoy the comfort of my Sorian estate!” They turned faster now. “Splendid Count Fritz! It's no wonder such a young man has achieved so much for himself! An exclusive party… Has that even been accomplished this season? I'd be the talk of town.” And faster. “Ohhhh! Fritz! A list… I can have a fancy list of names! With a little- no, a big man at the door to check off the names. A dress code. There has to be a dress code! And where would I even get the additional staff?” Lorenzo finally paused, thinking about the fiber details for a moment.

Something small and warm interrupted his spiral: Keir’s paw against his brow, guided there by Fritz’s hand as though the count had located an emergency lever to halt Lorenzo’s runaway thoughts before they achieved catastrophic speeds.

“Your Grace,” Fritz said, “far be it from me to dissuade you. Indeed, I’d be delighted to assist with staff and preparations, should you truly wish to pursue this venture.” He paused, adjusting Keir in his arms. “However, might I suggest we begin with something... smaller? More intimate? Perhaps even harken back to the sorts of gatherings you enjoyed before assuming the ducal mantle?”

“Hmm…”

The younger man leaned forward slightly, curiosity plain to see. “What sort of entertainments did you favor in those days, when you were simply Lorenzo among friends?”

“Simply, Lorenzo.” He echoed softly before peering up in thought. “Well… me and some gents would have a small gathering right before we attended an event. An hour or two among the people you knew, enjoying tea, treats, spirits, and vulgar jokes before diving into the sea of strangers.” The nostalgia brought on a feeling of warmth within his spirit and his eyes met Fritz’s.

“We could do something like that and simply leave out the stressors of going to a big event altogether.”

“That sounds marvelous,” Fritz said, before a chuckle escaped him—one he quickly tried to contain behind a raised hand. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but the thought of you trading vulgar jokes...” He let the thought dissolve into the air between them, too delighted by the image to properly finish it.

“Who would you wish to invite, Your Grace? Do you have any close friends in the area who might answer the summons on such short notice?”

Lorenzo answered with a defeated sigh. “That is a difficult question to answer. I'm not sure if you noticed but I am very unpopular amongst my peers.” He stifled a chuckle, briefly covering his mouth with his hand before continuing.

“Yet, their children tend to tolerate and even like me. However, that could just be Charlotte’s doing. Maybe other Varians like you and Dr. Williamson are good options? Duke Gideon, of course. Lady Morrigan is also rather friendly with me as well but… I’m not sure what that woman seeks from me.”

The beginnings of a smile died halfway on Fritz’s lips at the final name. “Lady Morrigan Danrose?” Each word fell with careful measure as if each syllable carried its own peculiar weight. “I hadn’t realized you two were growing… acquainted.” There was a hint of what sounded like worry in his voice. “Does this mean the… difficulties between you and the Danroses show signs of mending?”

“Huh?” Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “The Danroses? Oh no, Count Fritz, it is not like that. It is never like that.” Lorenzo answered rather passionately. “I judge individuals, my friend. It is the best way, I think. Crystal Damien, Drake Edwards, and Princess Anastasia Danrose are all fine examples. Even Prince Wulfric is a charming young man who looks up to a Duke such as myself from time to time.” Lorenzo smiled with confidence. “We are not our parents or our siblings. You Varians with your big families should know this better than even I.”

Fritz released a chuckle, one that carried no mockery but rather a thoughtful sort of amusement. “Your Grace, I trust you realize it sounds as though you take pride in this unresolved tension with the Danroses.”

The chuckle lingered a moment more before fading into contemplation. The count turned to the window, where moonlight painted silver trails across the drowsy summer gardens. “I am aware,” he answered. “Yet, there are people who do judge others by their parentage, siblings, lineage, their country, even by histories written long before their first breath. Any measure save the individual.”

“While we must see each person uniquely,” he continued, “we cannot wholly divorce them from the forces that shaped them. To dismiss their influence entirely could prove as perilous as allowing them to define us completely.”

Silence stretched between them as Fritz’s hand slowly stroked Keir’s fur, the creature having drifted into peaceful slumber against his chest.

“If I may be so bold, Your Grace,” the man said at last, “your words suggest the tension lies primarily between yourself and Their Majesties.” Fritz’s gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon as if offering privacy for the response. “What transpired to create such animosity with them?” Another long pause followed before he added, “...With Count Damien?”

“Well…” Lorenzo hesitated to answer but upon taking a harder look at Fritz, he felt no need to worry. If Kier liked Fritz, then it would be simple enough to share his feelings of those he disliked. “Well, they have never treated me kindly. Edin is inconsiderate to everyone, I know but that doesn't make it right. Why be so insensitive? And… Count Damien is a completely different matter. Most people adore but I’ve seen his true self. Such an evil man.” Lorenzo’s eyes fixated on an empty spot on his desk as he spoke of the man who had such an unwanted grip over his life.

“True self?” Fritz prompted him to elaborate.

“Yes, his true self! He likely despises and looks down on every single person he shakes hands with! He smiles on the surface but if he could get away with it, he'd insult and threaten you until he found himself pleased!” Again Lorenzo was impassioned.

“It is because of him that I stayed away from events for an entire year, and even now, he threatens me. He enjoys it too. I hate it. I hate him, but I can't do anything about this predicament… he’d destroy me if I tried to defy him.” Lorenzo’s tone had started so strong only to die at the end as he explained his reality.

Fritz turned sharply at this. “Destroy you?” Raw concern colored his question. “How?” A count wielding such power over a duke defied all laws of Caesonian aristocracy.

The younger man drew closer then, lifting a nearby chair without sound and setting it beside Lorenzo. “What does he have over Your Grace?” The leverage; the blackmail; the hostage.

There was a long silence between the two. Lorenzo was both reluctant to share more while it was not Fritz’s intent to pry too forcefully. There was also the element of the duke having to face the reality of it all.

“I- no one knows. I-I… I don't know if I can say it. I don't- I don't even believe it but-” Lorenzo faced the floor in shame, shaking his head as if he could will everything he was about to say away. Fear and sadness coiled and constricted his very being. “I can't say it. I can't face it. I can’t” His voice weakened, trembling. Lorenzo shut his eyes tightly, still trying to wish everything away.

A gentle pressure settled between Lorenzo’s shoulder blades, steady and sure—Fritz’s hand moved in slow, circular motions. It was the sort of touch that spoke of practice, of countless times spent soothing away fears and hurts. Children, maybe? No, the young man never mentioned having children of his own. Pets, then? It would explain why Kier had curled so trustingly in Fritz’s arms.

They sat like that for what could’ve been minutes or hours. Each circle was a wordless message: that wishing couldn’t unmake reality, couldn’t erase what was. But wrapped in that hard truth was something softer—a reminder, maybe even a promise, that Lorenzo wasn’t alone. All he had to do was open his eyes to see it.

When he finally did, those deep and endless eyes were waiting for him. “Problems rarely solve themselves through denial,” Fritz said. “They root deeper, like weeds in untended soil. And the Count—he will use every second of your silence to strengthen his grasp, not just on you, but on everyone you want to protect.”

“Like weeds…” Lorenzo's passion for garden tending helped Fritz’s words stick. The duke was backed into a corner and choosing to do nothing would never solve this dilemma. Lorenzo did not want to face his horrific truth but he also couldn't continue to be a slave to it.

“You are right,” Lorenzo replied, his voice low. “And I could never face such alone… I just worry for Charlotte. I don't want her to know a word of this, Fritz. She can never know.” Lorenzo stared hard into his eyes… and felt as though his gaze dissolved into darkness.

Fritz’s eyes didn’t just meet his stare, they welcomed it in. “She’ll find out someday.” He said, with the calm certainty of someone announcing tomorrow’s sunrise. Lottie was that determined. “One way or another.”

In that moment, Lorenzo heard what Fritz wasn’t saying aloud: that there was mercy in telling her himself. Wounds dealt by her stepfather’s loving hand might heal cleaner than those ripped open by harsh, unguarded revelation. “I can promise not to tell her,” Fritz added, “but I cannot stop her from learning it herself.”

“As long as… you can promise that.” Lorenzo let loose a sigh that melted away his serious expression. His worrisome face returned but he was ready to share one of his most concerning troubles. “I… I… Ugh…” He shook his head, sighing again.

“I… may have murdered my wife. Emina. I may have murdered her that night...”

If Fritz was shocked by his confession, the man didn’t show it. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “Start from the beginning.”

“The beginning? I- I don't know where… the beginning of that night? Our marriage?” Lorenzo’s confusion was just reluctance. Even he hadn't fully realized his questions were just a defense mechanism to help him stall the explanation. Deep down, he knew what he had to tell Fritz.

The count allowed a few moments to pass for Lorenzo to gather his wits about him before answering. “From where you think it all began.”

“It would have had to be that night. I mean…” Lorenzo scratched his head while squinting his eyes in deep thought on how to start properly. “That evening… Emina was very upset with me for embarrassing her. It wasn't a rare thing, but this time, she was especially fierce, which was because I had greatly embarrassed her by bringing Kier to an event held by King Edin in secret… She tried to kill him or at least I thought she might want to….” Lorenzo gave a longing look to Kier, his furry companion.

“When she couldn't get to him, she came after me with such rage, and I- I tried to calm her, but she had drunk so much. I tried to- to just speak to her but I couldn't keep her from striking me.” His fingertips ran along the scars evident on his face. “And then… everything. Everything… it just went black. I awoke with Calbert standing over me and telling me that he had watched me from that very estate of his throw my wife from the balcony. I doubted him… I still doubt him but I also don't believe she would have killed herself. It's what we both told the authorities but I don't know. I just don't know.”

This time, it was Fritz who needed a few moments to digest what Lorenzo revealed. A thousand questions seemed to pass behind his eyes before he settled on one. “You blacked out… the same way you blacked out after the annual ball?”

“Yes… but how do you know about that?” Charlotte came to mind immediately before remembering her mentioning searching for him that night accompanied by Fritz. “Nevermind. Charlotte must have mentioned it. It’s a rare thing that occurs but I don’t see myself capable of harming anyone. I wander for a while before I fall asleep. Sometimes in my bed, other times… elsewhere.” Lorenzo bit his lip as his anxiety built up. Even he doubted his own words, he also couldn’t accept being a murderer.

“Rare…” Fritz repeated. “When did these... episodes first start happening?”

“That night… That night was the first time I noticed it, considering what occurred, but the physician I visited informed me that it is likely these episodes could have happened even earlier since I normally don't remember what happened leading up to sleep. I mean…” Lorenzo chuckled nervously. “I could be lying in bed believing I simply dozed off. All without realizing I took a tour around the property before returning to bed…. My drinking probably doesn’t help either,” He admitted shamefully.

Fritz made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “That is possible,” he said, in the tone of someone who has just been handed a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. “But it feels strange that no one noticed your sleepwalking sooner. Or that there weren’t any signs of it. For example… ” He gestured at Lorenzo’s feet, then swept his hand upward to encompass the whole of him. “Dirt on your feet, unexplained injuries.” His hand continued its journey to indicate the room around them with Lorenzo's eyes following it along. “Objects found in odd places or rearranged.” Fritz fixed Lorenzo with a steady look. “Has anyone ever mentioned seeing you wandering about and acting out of sorts at strange hours? Or have you ever found things disturbed? Small things you might have shrugged off? Anything at all that seemed... not quite right before the incident?”

Lorenzo began to shake his head but stopped to carefully think about it. “That is… a good question. No to all of those. And I count my staff as an honest bunch. They'd inform me if I was acting strangely but they’ve only ever mentioned me not answering them behind my locked bedroom door or only finding me sleeping in the sitting room.” Lorenzo forced an uneasy guilty grin. “Sometimes it's hard to tell whether it's alcohol or the narcolepsy,” he shrugged.

“Which leads me to believe that this developed recently. That night could’ve been the very first time it happened.” The count’s gaze turned inward, features settling into the particular stillness that came with deep contemplation. “Walk me through the moments before an episode. What are the last things you remember?”

“Hmm?” Lorenzo peered upward, searching for an answer. “Hmmmmmm.” Lorenzo squinted his eyes, concentrating intensely. “Hmmmmmmmmnnrrrrgh…. I don't know. I mean, it's like when you have too much to drink. The night with Emina… the last thing I remember is the fight. With the ball… the last thing I can recall is… speaking with… Oh! The Royal Advisor. Plannington, yes. The other times I was home and already ready for bed or in here writing something. I think it may have happened a few days ago, but I was… also… drinking my medicine… regrettably a lot of it, so I may have just blacked out…” Lorenzo continued to ponder until his eyes met Fritz’s. “It could even be happening at this moment. I just don't know if I'll remember this part or not. Which is so troublesome, Fritz. I would give so much to simply just pass out. At least then I would be sure… that I am not a murderer.”

“We’ll find a way through this,” Fritz assured as his hand resumed their steady strokes along Kier’s fur. The ferret’s chest rose and fell in contented sleep, and Lorenzo envied that simple peace.

Fritz picked up his earlier thread of thought. “I’ve been wondering if there might be a pattern to it all. A trigger, perhaps. Something that sets the sleepwalking in motion—a particular sound or smell or sight.” His fingers traced the farrant’s ear. “Like hypnosis.”

“Hmm…” Lorenzo tried to think about it more, but unfortunately, there didn't seem to be a pattern. If there was one, it could be understood. If it could be understood, it might be stopped. But that meant possibly facing a truth Lorenzo wasn’t yet ready to face.,

“What kind of medicine are you taking?” Fritz asked after a moment.

“Oh um…” Lorenzo’s hands shot toward the lowest drawer of his desk, pulling it open. “I keep some here and some in the bedroom.” Lorenzo pulled out a brown tinted glass bottle with no distinguishing markings except the leftover white marks of the peeled label. “Opium and alcohol.” He set the bottle on the desk. “It's good stuff. You're welcome to try a sip if you’d like.”

Fritz adjusted his position carefully, mindful of the sleeping ferret in his lap, “I think I will, thank you.” From his waistcoat pocket, he produced a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and then held the bottle to the light, studying it like a jeweler with a suspect gem. Lorenzo watched, impressed by Fritz’s preparedness to inspect his favored tonic. “So this was prescribed by your physician?” Lifting the bottle to his nose, Fritz inhaled once before measuring a modest portion into the proffered spoon. “Dr...?” He let the word trail into an unspoken question, his eyes lifting to meet Lorenzo’s over the rim of his spectacles.

“Dr. Crane. Well, he's not really my personal physician but the moment he knew of my ailment, he wrote me so we could schedule an appointment. A nice man, he was and he asked more questions than even you have on my condition.” Lorenzo smiled. “He hated Calbert too, so we got along swellingly.”

“And Dr. Crane prescribed this?” Fritz asked again before lifting the spoon to his lips. For several long seconds, he remained silent, face unreadable as he assessed the tonic.

“He did. Yes.” A tinge of concern now shown on Lorenzo’s face.

“A second opinion might serve us well. I could arrange a visit with a specialist, or perhaps Dr. Williamson.” He hummed and set the spoon down. “There are... other possibilities we should consider.”

“Other possibilities?” Lorenzo parroted under his breath.

Then Fritz went still, his shoulders stiffening. “Dr. Crane… reached out to you first?”

“Eh…” Lorenzo had been in the middle of thinking, wanting to ask his own question when Fritz fired off yet another question.

“How did he learn of your condition? If no one else knew…”

“Well… some knew. Calbert knew and… he… he hates me. So I believed Dr. Crane when he said he overheard tales of my affliction. Likely through unflattering gossip.” Lorenzo sighed. “And that gossip led him to me. Isn't that something? The gods do find a way to be kind to me at times.” He managed a brief smile.

Beneath dark lashes, melancholy tinged the young count’s answering smile. He seemed to gather his thoughts, letting the moment settle before measured words finally came: “With your permission, I’d like to have someone keep watch over you for a time. It might help us understand your condition better. They would be entirely discreet—you’d hardly notice their presence.”

“Keep watch over me?” Lorenzo echoed uncomfortably. “But… what about my… private moments. Like if I…” Nothing particular came to mind but he didn't want to outright deny the request. “...have a lady over. And how do I know they won't peep at Charlotte?”

Fritz’s entire face lit up with a smile that could have melted winter ice. “Has someone caught your fancy?” He pressed his hands together in evident delight. “That’s wonderful! Does Lady Charlotte know of this yet?”

“No.” Lorenzo's voice was as small as could be while managing a nervous smile.

The word, or perhaps the way Lorenzo said it, wiped the delight from Fritz’s face. “No?” He repeated, prompting Lorenzo to elaborate but he simply shook his head, finding himself trapped in an uncomfortable corner of his own making.

After some hesitation, Fritz returned to the previous topic and reassured him, “The individual I have in mind is about as interested in Your Grace’s private affairs—or your daughter’s—as they would be in watching paint dry.”

The shift in his demeanor was subtle but immediate. “Consider this: how else can we study your sleepwalking? There are too many gaps, too many questions that you can’t answer.” Fritz spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “We need to understand what’s happening to you.” His voice softened. “It might even help us shed light on what truly happened the night your wife died”

“And what then?” Lorenzo snapped seriously, obviously defensive. “Fritz, if… If I discover I was the culprit on that night, I don't think I could live with myself… but I do wish to know the truth... How many nights do you believe this will go on? I don't want to worry Charlotte if this person watching me is noticed. She can oftentimes be too curious for her own good.”

“I cannot say for certain how long.” Fritz answered. “From everything we know, the episodes are too unpredictable to give a definite answer. I am sorry.” His shoulders slumped, then straightened when he continued. “Lady Charlotte will not notice any person keeping watch… However, as I said before: she’ll find out what you’re trying to hide someday. Would it not be better to have more answers than questions when that day comes?”

“That day?” Lorenzo felt insulted. From where he stood, there was no way Charlotte would find out more about her mother's death. “That day will never arrive, Fritz! Never! There are only two people who know anything about that night. You and Calbert. Calbert has nothing to gain by telling her because he would lose the only thing he has over me. And you… you will not tell her because you promised me you wouldn't…. You know what? I respectfully decline. I don't want another involved in this. It's better left forgotten.” Lorenzo refrained from looking at Fritz. He was simply trying to protect his ignorance. Trying to protect his bliss.

“That isn’t true.” It wasn’t better: it was easier, more convenient.

“It lives in you, so no matter how hard you try to push it away, your mind keeps wandering back to it, and your heart aches every time you look at your daughter.”

“Whatever good you hope comes from letting Count Damien take advantage of this situation is fragile, built on a lie… And I think you know that more than anyone.”

“If you really thought this was ‘better left forgotten,’ you wouldn’t have confided in me. Somewhere beneath the fear of facing the truth, I believe there’s a part of you that wants answers… maybe even justice.”

“Let’s break you and your family free from the count’s web.”

“No one…” A small sound escaped Fritz then, barely more than a breath. Lorenzo looked up to find Kier had roused from sleep—probably during the earlier shouting—and was stretching upward to investigate his friend’s face with curious concern. “... deserves to have their story erased,” Fritz whispered, as Kier’s nose twitched against his cheek.

Lorenzo slumped down into his chair, his stern demeanor breaking in the face of Fritz’s words. Yet, he didn't feel defeated by what was said. Instead, Lorenzo found himself aware of two paths before him; both lined with hardships. He could keep everything locked away and live his life never knowing what truly occurred whilst under the thumb of Calbert and keeping his daughter in the dark about her mother's death. On the other hand, he could uproot the truth, whatever that may entail. He may discover he was capable of murdering his wife or that he is completely absolved of the crime. The worst or best of scenarios could be behind the veil of mystery Fritz sought to remove.

“May I…. May I think on it?” Lorenzo's voice was low again. “I just need time to think about this.”

Gentle understanding crossed Fritz’s features, though worry still lingered on the edges. “Of course,” he said. His gaze swept the library until it caught on the brass-framed calendar adorning the far wall. “If I don’t hear from you in two days, I’ll circle back with you.”

To Kier, he said, “Until then, I’m counting on you to keep a close eye on him.” Fritz tipped the ferret’s chin up with one careful finger. “Can I trust you with this most vital task, Kier?” Kier responded with an emphatic squeak and a series of delighted wriggles that set his whole body dancing. This seemed to satisfy Fritz, who leaned close to whisper something in his little conspirator’s ear before straightening in his chair.

“So!” Fritz breezily swept onto the next matter, slipping back into the customary formality Lorenzo had come to expect from the count. “What are we to do about this little gathering of yours, Your Grace?”

“Um…” Lorenzo had been slightly taken by surprise by the quick shifting of gears. It was that and feeling a slight weight leave his shoulders after leaving such a concerning topic. “I suppose we should start with a guest list. A short one.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Charlotte & Fritz

Time: Evening
Location: Vikena Estate

---

As the others gradually left the house, the heavy atmosphere lingered like a storm cloud refusing to part. Charlotte sat quietly for a moment, her hands fidgeting with the delicate lace of her dress. Her thoughts whirled with everything that had been said. Yet, amidst it all, her gaze drifted toward Fritz. “I—I hope I am not being too forward, but…” she began softly, “Would it be terribly odd of me to ask if I might give you a hug?”

Her cheeks tinted faintly, though her gaze remained sincere. “It is just… you seem as though you might need one, and if I may admit so, I think I might as well.” Her lips curled into a tender, almost sheepish smile.

The request caught Ryn wholly unprepared. He blinked at her, certain his ears had twisted her words into shapes they were never meant to take.

It was not that he objected to hugs—Ryn quite enjoyed them—he simply was not sure if he needed one. Assassination attempts were hardly novel occurrences in his life; an unfortunate but ultimately unremarkable fact of existence, as common as blue skies or salted seas or winter’s bite.

However, when she admitted the hug was not just for him, Ryn crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms without a second thought.

There they stood, sharing a silence and stillness that felt neither awkward nor heavy. After a long moment, he murmured against her hair, “What are you feeling?” Because “are you alright” would have been an exercise in stating the obvious.

“Frightened and a tad overwhelmed.” Charlotte admitted as her arms encircled him. After a gentle, brief rub of his back, the embrace lingered for a moment longer before she pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on his arms as her gaze rose to meet his.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she hesitated, her thoughts swirling before she found the courage to continue.“I want to see this investigation through…” Her brows furrowed and determination shifted her features as she amended the initial statement firmly, “No. I must see this through. “

Her hands tightened slightly against his sleeves, a flicker of desperation crossing her features. “I cannot let any of you get hurt. If anything happens to any of you because of my inaction, I don’t think I could bear it.” Her voice wavered for a moment before steadying. “I need to get an upper hand somehow soon so I can be more useful.”

Her words struck a familiar chord in Ryn’s chest, echoing with a familiarity that made him pause. The sentiment could have been plucked straight from his own thoughts, and for a moment he was not entirely certain whether he was speaking to Lady Charlotte or addressing his own stubborn reflection. “I feel the same…” Ryn sighed.

“Which is precisely why I must ask,” he said, quieter now, “why you seem to think yourself exempt from the very concern you extend to others.” Lady Charlotte’s eyes lowered, her grip on his sleeves faltering.

His hand settled over hers where it still clutched his sleeve. “When were you planning to tell us how the meeting with Count Damien went?” The slight tension in her muscles told him enough before she could shape a response. A sad sort of smile tugged at his mouth.

“Had it gone well, I’d imagine you’d have burst through the door brandishing whatever information he gave like a sword. Instead, you’ve been tiptoeing around his name as if it might summon him.” Ryn tilted his head, studying her expression. “Something went rather spectacularly wrong, didn’t it?”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but the words tangled in her throat like knots she couldn’t untie. “You are not mistaken,” she began softly. With a sigh, she seated herself, her hands resting on her lap. Her gaze returned to him as she spoke after only a brief pause.

“It was my plan to enter Count Damien’s study deliberately—to willingly incur his wrath,” she admitted, her tone unwavering despite the vulnerability of the confession. “I thought… if I allowed him to believe he held the upper hand, if I played the part of a foolish, arrogant girl who dared overstep her bounds, he might indulge himself. That in his desire to revel in his own power, he would let slip the very information I sought.”

Charlotte’s lips curved faintly into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a smile tinged with bittersweet regret. “And in a sense, I succeeded. He spoke, and he gave me answers I had hoped for… but ones I now wish I had never heard. To be quite frank, that man has gone mad.”

Her arms wrapped instinctively around her body, as though shielding herself from an invisible chill that lingered still. “It was never my intention to keep this from you,” she admitted, her voice softening as her gaze flickered to her hands. “But the truth is—I don’t know any of you well enough to predict how you might react. Kazumin and Persephone are brave, yes, but their bravery has shown itself as impulsivity. And even Lord Smithwood…” She hesitated, her tone careful but firm. “I cannot be certain he wouldn’t act rashly with this knowledge.”

Charlotte’s gaze rose to meet his once more. “Count Damien wields fear like a weapon, and he does so comfortably like a man who knows he cannot lose. King Edin seems content to listen to him, even trust him.” She shook her head, her concern evident on her features. “I do not yet understand the game we’ve stepped into, nor the rules he’s playing by. But I do know this: I cannot risk anyone else’s life, not when we are so unprepared.”

Her arms tightened faintly as she exhaled, her expression softening as she added with quiet sincerity, “I am glad I was able to take a moment to urge everyone to be careful and stick together. This… this is far from over.”

The settee’s cushions sank beneath his weight as Ryn settled beside Lady Charlotte. He listened, noting the careful spaces where her story skirted around what Count Damien actually told her. Not that he blamed her—they were still strangers in many ways. Though her reluctance to confide even in Lord Smithwood gave him pause.

“You know,” Ryn said carefully, “there’s an interesting paradox in trying to protect us from being unprepared by keeping us, well, in the dark.”

“Fear works best in isolation—when it convinces you that sharing the burden somehow might make the situation worse. Count Damien understands this, I suspect. He’s counting on that solitude… But Charlotte,” He caught her gaze, held it. “How can you know how we’d react unless you give us the chance? Unless you let us know you, and know us in return?”

There was a flicker of tension in Charlotte’s expression as her hands briefly tightened over her knees. She composed herself, then replied with quiet poise, “With all due respect, Count Fritz, I did not leave them entirely in the dark. We discussed the gravity of the situation, including how Count Calbert might be tied to the Black Rose. I urged caution, asked them to stay together, and offered my home as a refuge. Prince Wulfric underscored the danger as well. No one departed unaware of the stakes.”

“Revealing more at that moment, without understanding how others might react, could have been exactly what Count Calbert intended as well. Until I discern the game being played, I cannot risk moving a piece without strategy. It may serve his purpose more than ours.”

Ryn spread his hands in a questioning gesture. “What steps can we take together to build the kind of trust where sharing doesn’t feel like such a risk?”

“Of course, in time, as we grow to know each other better, trust will naturally follow. However, this was not simply a matter of mistrust, nor was it you specifically that concerned me. That is why I was willing to share the information so readily when you asked.” Her voice softened and she looked at him with a sad smile. “I withheld this information because the situation demanded caution—not secrecy. Some of our friends have acted impulsively in the past on more than one occasion, and I cannot risk putting their lives in greater danger without careful consideration. If Calbert, a man known for his calculated threats, was willing to threaten us so freely, it stands to reason that we must tread carefully. I was even concerned about what might happen if Prince Wulfric were to learn of this.” She sighed and further explained, “I am still deliberating the best way to inform everyone without sending anyone into a trap.”

Ryn caught her sad smile and reflected it back with one of his own. “I understand your caution. The tricky part is that withholding information, even with the best of intentions, can be interpreted as a lack of trust in their judgment.” Such doubts could impact morale.

“It also sets a delicate precedent,” he continued. “Should others decide to protect you by keeping you in the dark—even with information that might prove vital to our investigation—you wouldn’t be able to reasonably object.”

The window facing Damien Estate drew his gaze. “Our adversaries are powerful figures playing a long, dangerous game. And our friends’ spirited ways aren’t likely to change any time soon, nor are our unique positions and circumstances. Which means you might find yourself doing this multiple times, for the foreseeable future.”

His attention returned to Lady Charlotte, “With everything we’re caught up in, you’ll be spending rather a lot of time and energy deciding what to reveal and how to reveal it to your own team. Time and energy that might be better focused on unraveling this conspiracy and outmaneuvering those who'd like to see us fail.”

Leaning forward in his seat, Ryn clasped his hands loosely. “So perhaps the real question is how do you envision this group working together? Are we to operate on a need-to-know basis, with you as the curator of information?”

Charlotte sighed softly, her gaze falling to her hands as though weighing the heaviness of her thoughts. When she looked back up at Fritz, her expression was gentle yet resolute. “I see your point, Count Fritz, and leading with transparency has always been my goal. I never want anyone to feel as though they’re on a need-to-know basis—especially not after the bonds we’ve begun to build. But it becomes painfully clear as we navigate these situations that context can complicate things. It’s not always black or white, and sometimes, what seems like the right course at the moment carries unforeseen consequences.”

Her voice softened, tinged with regret. “That said, you’re right—keeping things from the group, even with the best intentions, is not a habit I want to form. I will ensure every one is as informed as possible moving forward… within reason.” Her lips curved into a faint, apologetic smile as she added, “I only ask for your patience if, at times, I take a moment to consider the safest way to do so. Keeping you all alive will always be my priority.”

“.... I couldn’t bear to see anyone hurt because of me.” Her voice wavered slightly, but there was no mistaking her sincerity. After a pause, her tone shifted as she met his eyes once more. “I mean no ill will in turning this back on you, but if we’re to lead with transparency, I have to ask—have you been completely transparent yourself? It’s something I hope you’ll reflect on as well.” Her gaze lingered on him, not accusatory, but curious. “For instance… Did you share everything you know about Violet with us? I can’t help but feel you may have held back some pieces.”

She hesitated, a flicker of compassion in her expression. “If you were sworn to secrecy, I would understand. Such only underscores my point—context matters…” Her voice softened further as she offered a faint, weary smile. “I think we’re all just doing our best to navigate this insane situation.”

The thought clicked like the final tumbler in a lock. “Ah. I should clarify something. As I’ve said at the masquerade, there are matters I haven’t told you about.”

“I cannot fault you for being cautious. We all have our pasts, our scars that shape us. And Creators know that there are things I’m withholding from you too.” As he placed a hand over his heart, Ryn closed his eyes. “I am afraid of being hurt and hurting others.”

“I’m not suggesting we need to share every detail of our lives.” A laugh escaped him as he brushed away an old memory. “No one needs to know about the bubble bath incident.”

His attention turned to the evidence board, its papers, and strings creating a web of connections. “What I’m speaking of is more specific to this investigation and this team.” He gestured at their collective work. “We gathered here to solve this together, but bits and pieces are being held back from each other for one reason or another. And sometimes hiding one detail obscures others by accident.”

In a fluid motion, the invitation to Count Damien’s masquerade appeared between Ryn’s fingers. “For example, because you couldn’t tell us about the tête-à-tête, you couldn’t explain just how closely the count is watching our group.” He tapped the paper with the temple tip of his enchanted glasses. “Small omissions add up. They make it harder to piece things together and harder for the team to strategize effectively.” He considered his next words carefully. “And they leave room for misunderstandings.”

“When I learned someone hired the Bloody Thorns, Count Damien was on the list of suspects. Given the timing, and how carefully you avoided mentioning your conversation with the count, I wondered if you might’ve known something about it. Not specifically about him hiring assassins, mind you, but I did suspect he threatened to inflict some kind of harm to you and those around you… And you kept that to yourself.” Ryn rose from his seat.

The invitation made a soft rustle as he pinned it up on the board. “Now, it’s true that I still get mistaken for a starry-eyed schoolboy more often than I care to admit, but I’ve lived long enough to know that precious little is black and white.” He turned around to fully face Lady Charlotte. “Which is precisely why it’s important to know how you expect us to handle information within this team going forward. Particularly if some of that information is to be withheld from specific members, whatever those reasons may be.”

Charlotte listened intently, her expression thoughtful as she gave a small nod. “You raise a fair point. Perhaps the best course of action is to address this openly with everyone next time, so we can establish how to communicate more effectively while keeping everyone’s safety our priority.”

After listening to her answer, he said, “Whatever you ultimately decide to do, let me know.” Ryn smiled and added, “And if you find yourself spinning in mental circles—it’s okay to consult others.” He knew, of course, that some found it harder to reach out than others.

“Now then!” Ryn crossed back to Lady Charlotte, fingers dancing over the rims as he swapped the spectacles’ lenses. “I’m sorry for the sudden shift in topic, but there’s something else that I noticed. Do you remember how your magicae looked before your meeting with Count Damien?” He extended the glasses toward her. “Would you mind taking a look again?”

Charlotte tilted her head much like a curious puppy, her brows furrowing as she accepted the glasses Ryn offered. Carefully, she slipped the spectacles onto her nose, her eyes focusing on her hands resting in her lap. Her breath hitched as her gaze landed on the blue aura radiating from her skin. It was thick and vibrant, enveloping her fingers in a luminous halo that seemed to pulse gently with each beat of her heart. The light was almost hypnotic—a serene, cerulean blue with subtle ripples, like sunlight dancing across a tranquil sea. It didn’t just glow; it seemed to hum with energy. “...Do they… change colors?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with wonder.

“It’s not impossible… however, in cases like yours, it’s highly unlikely.”

After a moment of thought, something clicked in her head. Her expression softened as her fingers brushed the chain at her neck. Sliding the chair back slightly, she reached for the pendant nestled beneath her collar. The silver butterfly amulet caught the light, its sapphire centerpiece gleaming brightly, almost as if it were alive. She placed her hand over it, a faint smile spreading across her lips.

“I know this will sound crazy,” she began, glancing up at Ryn, her cheeks flushed slightly as though bracing for skepticism. “But I’ve been… seeing things lately. Memories, I think. They play out right before me as if I’m watching them happen all over again.” Her fingers lightly traced the butterfly’s wings, her expression growing wistful. “In one of them, my father appeared… clear as day. He led me to this amulet.”

She looked up, meeting Fritz’s gaze. “It was hidden in a drawer. He said it was meant to protect me.” Her voice wavered slightly, but her resolve held firm. “I think… I think this locket is why my aura looks like this now.”

She let the silence linger for a moment, the weight of her words settling between them. Then, almost shyly, she added, “Do you think something like that is possible, Fritz?”

“Would you mind if I...?” Ryn gestured toward the butterfly pendant while Lady Charlotte spoke of her father and memories. At her nod, he leaned closer with his lens ready.

The moment his finger made contact, the magicae patterns on his skin shifted—cerulean blue bled through like ink spreading through water, matching the aura that surrounded Lady Charlotte. He lowered the lens, thoughts crystallizing into certainty.

“Not only do I think it’s more than possible,” he said, carefully folding his spectacles and returning them to their case, “this leads me to believe that your father knew more about magic than most.” He met Lady Charlotte’s gaze. “Did he ever show any particular interest in the subject?”

“... Not that I can remember.”

“Hmm.” After a thoughtful pause, Ryn’s expression gentled. “Regardless, your father’s love runs so deep that even his memories are finding ways to protect you.” Ryn avoided using past tense, though her father might have passed beyond mortal reach, his devotion remained very much alive. Ryn nodded at Lady Charlotte’s unexpected gift. “Given the nature of your magicae, it may be a good idea to keep this close to you at all times.”

“ I agree.” Charlotte told him with a smile. “…I suppose I should retire for the evening. I am rather tired. Please feel free to stay and utilize one of our guest rooms.”

Checking the time, Ryn nodded. “I think I will, thank you.”

She closed the distance between them to give him one more hug. As she withdrew, Charlotte told him, “ I will see to it that a meal is sent up to your room if you do choose to stay. Goodnight, Fritz. Thank you for speaking with me!”

“And thank you for listening. Goodnight, Charlotte. Sweet dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.” Lady Charlotte stepped over the threshold when Ryn added one last thing.

“About Lady Violet…” he said, “You’ve the right of it: I haven’t shared everything. But I think it’s best that you speak with her yourself. She needs a friend, now more than ever.” A long breath escaped him, his shoulders sinking slightly. “The poor woman’s heart is like a wounded cat—desperately lonely but too frightened to let anyone near. Every offered hand looks to her like a trap, waiting to snap shut.”

“Poor thing... I shall speak with her and see if she will accept my hand.”

They could only hope.

Avalia

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

✠✠✠✠✠

A bark of laughter escaped Vasco at Barrock’s crack about partying. The thought of the stiff-necked orc cutting loose - now that’d be something worth seeing.

“Are these the General’s men?” Barrock grunted, hauling up the unconscious lizardman.

“Ain’t everyone these days?” Vasco drawled as he watched Barrock slip the bartender extra scratch. Good manners, that. And he took full advantage of it to signal for another drink.

Ignoring the fact that Rowan got himself kidnapped, everything was jake for Vasco - riding high from the scrap, decent booze, and hell, even Barrock wasn’t being his usual wet blanket self.

Then Aurora had to come along and kill his buzz faster than a raid on a gin joint.

“Where is my brother!” she screamed, like he was the mastermind who had orchestrated this whole dance. Worse, when she remembered that she was supposed to be the perfect choir girl, she started going on about some mumbo-jumbo about Vasco trying to help her brother and being scared. The broad didn’t make a lick of sense.

“Don’t know. Why don’t you take it up with the bunch who nabbed your hotshot bodyguard elf and jumped me instead of busting my chops, Spiritual Advisor?” Vasco said, the title dripping with all the respect of a back-alley insult. He turned back to his drink, letting the liquid do its healing since Aurora clearly had other priorities.

The thought of splitting from this crew was looking better by the minute. They treated him like a cheap tool - all stick, no carrot. Maybe if they’d been paying top dollar, he could stomach playing their favorite punching bag. But this? Getting blamed for any trouble because it was easier than facing their own mess? A sucker’s game, that’s what it was. No wonder The New Dawn were going the way of yesterday’s newspaper.

Just as the bartender topped off his glass, Zarnak started to stir under Barrock’s watch. Vasco swiveled in his seat. “Give a shout if you need a hand,” he told the orc, settling in to watch the show. This ought to be good.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Violet & Fritz Part 2

TRIGGER WARNING: Blood
Location: Polite Inn
Time: Late afternoon to early evening, before the detective meeting
Mention(s): @FunnyGuy @princess @ReusableSword

---

Violet entered the secluded room, carefully laying her cloak on the edge of the bed. She had insisted on the farthest room, away from the bustling main hall, to ensure she wouldn't be disturbed. Fortunately for her, Fritz anticipated her request and had reserved the room at the far corner, though there was nothing he could do about the neighboring guests. The air here felt heavier, quieter, as though the very walls were holding their breath. Her gaze drifted to her trembling hand, the fine tremors betraying the storm within. With her other hand, she gripped her wrist, squeezing tightly in a futile attempt to still the shaking.

Her entire body thrummed with excitement, an almost euphoric sensation that battled with the remnants of her humanity, the fragments that still felt sorrow, guilt, and regret. But the darker part of her laughed, relishing in the uncontrollable hunger. It should have been simple, she told herself, a few vials of blood and the thirst would be quenched. Yet, her body craved more than sustenance. Each time she indulged, it was never enough, leading her down a blood-stained path.

Each life taken only deepened her descent into madness, and each attempt to restrain herself was futile. She had tried to fight the urges, to find strength in the remains of her fractured soul, but the hunger always won, pulling her deeper into the abyss with every victim. Maybe this will be different…

Still gripping onto her wrist tightly, Violet turned to face Fritz. It was time.

The scene before Ryn was, he had to admit, a bit odd. The tastefully curated room now sported more towels than the average bathhouse. They covered every surface of the bed and were strategically placed across the floor. He had even stacked a precautionary tower of towels off in the corner, though he hoped Her Ladyship would not prove quite that... enthusiastic in her consumption.

The lady in question blinked, surfacing from whatever deep pool of thought she had been paddling in. Ryn offered a welcoming smile and swept an arm towards the table, where the trunk sat like a macabre picnic basket, its blood-filled vials glinting in the light. With a flourish, he pulled out a chair for her.

Once she was settled, Ryn took his place opposite her. He withdrew a leather-bound notebook and a freshly-sharpened pencil from his waistcoat. Poised to record this most unusual of taste tests, he said, “Help yourself to any of the bottles. I’ll record your impressions of each so we can determine which ones agree with you and how effectively they slake your particular thirst.”

Violet’s breath hitched as her fingers hovered over the vials, the sound of her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears like a distant drum. Her gaze flitted briefly to Fritz, absorbed in his notebook, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing just beneath her skin. The vial felt impossibly heavy in her hand as she lifted it, the number "3" glaring back at her—a harbinger of the chaos it held within.

The cork came free with a soft pop, and in that instant, the air thickened with the pungent scent of iron and decay. The deep, coppery tang wrapped around her senses, drawing her in like a siren’s song, irresistible and damning. Violet’s face slackened, her expression hollowing as the scent burrowed deep into her mind, unearthing shadows she had long tried to bury. The demons stirred, stretching in the dark recesses of her mind, eager for release.

Her hand trembled violently as she tried to steady herself, to push the ravenous hunger back down, for Fritz’s sake. But her restraint was slipping, unraveling like a thread caught on something sharp. The vial met her lips, the thick, crimson liquid coating them in a sheen of lustrous red. Her eyes fluttered shut as the first drop hit her tongue.

It was like fire. Molten and alive, it coursed through her, igniting every nerve. The taste was intoxicating—rich, dark, and full of life. Her body seemed to relax as the blood spread through her like a venomous tide, her once-shaking hand now steady, but her mind was a storm of wild, frenzied thoughts. The dark corners of her mind no longer whispered; they screamed, clawing at the surface. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and the hunger swallowed her whole.

Her eyes snapped open, dark and feral, pupils shrunken to pinpricks, as if they were retreating into the abyss that now consumed her. A low growl rumbled from her chest, primal and raw, as her left hand clamped down on the table, the wood groaning beneath her tightening grip. The hunger had fully taken hold, and she was no longer herself.

With trembling urgency, she snatched another vial, her breath ragged and shallow. The cork came free with a soft, mocking pop, and the room seemed to thicken, the air now suffocating with the stench of blood—rich, metallic, and overpowering. Her head snapped back violently, and this time, she didn’t sip. She devoured. The thick, warm liquid slid down her throat in seconds, and her body shuddered, drunk on the power flooding through her veins. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, snaking down her chin like a dark river, pooling at the curve of her neck.

She rose to her feet, swaying slightly, her vision swimming with the crimson hue of madness. She no longer recognized where she was—no longer cared. The world around her melted away, swallowed by the spiraling darkness wrapping its cold, spindled fingers tighter around her mind.

Her vision was a blur of red. Blood. It was all she could see. All she could feel. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, growing louder, faster, as if urging her to seek more, to claim more. The darkness was no longer a shadow—it was her. It lived in her veins, clawing at the edges of her sanity.

Graphite scratched across the paper, documenting Lady Violet’s every reaction to each sample with scientific precision. To his mild surprise—and, he had to admit, relief—her tastes proved far less restricted than anticipated. He’d expected revulsion, perhaps even violent rejection to some of the blood. Instead, she drank everything with equal fervor, her throat working as she swallowed.

However, as diverse as Lady Violet’s taste proved to be, Ryn did not ignore the predatory gleam in her eyes when they flickered to meet his gaze. The hunger in those red eyes spoke of a thirst far from sated—the primal urge for something warm, something alive.

Violet's hands moved with frantic precision, fingers trembling as she uncorked the vials one after another. Pop... pop... pop. The sharp sound echoed in the hollow space as she threw her head back, swallowing the blood in desperate gulps. The liquid was thick and cold, coating her tongue and throat with a coppery tang, leaving a metallic trail of satisfaction as it slid down.

Her breath hitched, and then something snapped. The frenzy in her movements stilled. The blood, now smeared across her hands, glistened in the low light, staining her pale skin a deep, violent red. Slowly, almost deliberately, she brought her bloodied fingers to her lips, her tongue curling over each one, savoring the taste. It was slow, deliberate, and hungry.

Her crimson eyes flickered to Fritz, cold and devoid of any warmth. Darkness had taken her again, that familiar, gnawing hunger dragging her back into its depths.

It won’t be long now, he thought, setting aside his notes. His fingers moved to his cuffs, unhurriedly rolling up his sleeves to expose pale forearms. Then, maintaining eye contact with Lady Violet, he loosened his collar and undid the top buttons of his shirt.

He had considered offering other major arteries, of course—the femoral, perhaps—but decorum won out in the end. This act was intimate enough as is, he would rather spare them both unnecessary embarrassment.

Her mind was completely gone. The Violet they knew had vanished, leaving only a hollow shell twisted by ravenous hunger. Her once vibrant face was now a mask of something monstrous, her eyes lifeless and glazed with a predatory gleam. The dim light cast long shadows across the bloodied mess on the table, the metallic stench of copper saturating the air, sickening and thick. The room was suffocating under the weight of something wrong.

It all happened so fast. One moment, Violet stood still, eerie and silent, by the table. The next, Fritz was pinned beneath her, a bed of towels beneath his body. Her fingers were wrapped around his throat, digging deep into his skin, drawing blood. She pressed down with unnatural strength, her body holding him captive. Her gaze fixated on the pulsing vein in his neck. His heartbeat thundered in her ears, each rapid thump an irresistible invitation. She inhaled sharply, her breath ragged, and a guttural growl rose from deep within her chest.

She no longer saw Fritz—he had become nothing more than prey. The person under her grasp no longer existed in her mind, replaced only by the pulsing rhythm of his life.

Her jaw slackened, lips curling back to reveal the glint of her fangs, sharp and eager for flesh. She sucked in a deep breath, the coppery scent of blood intoxicating her senses. Slowly, she drew back, her movements unnervingly deliberate, her mouth widening in anticipation.

Then, like a viper striking, she lunged. Her teeth sank deep into his neck, piercing the skin with a sickening squelch. Warm blood spilled into her mouth, hot and rich, flooding her senses with an overwhelming wave of ecstasy. Her fangs burrowed deeper, tearing into his flesh as she fed, each frantic pulse of his heart sending fresh streams of blood surging into her.

The room seemed to close in around them, the shadows thickening, suffocating, as her body pressed harder against his. Every sound—the gurgle of blood, the raspy gasps for breath—became a symphony of death. It just kept coming, more and more of his blood pooling in her mouth like a facet.

More!

Ryn had steeled himself for the attack, but it still shocked his body. No amount of mental preparation could stop the rapid drumming of his heart or quiet the sharp, jagged breath that escaped his lungs when her claws and fangs bit into his throat.

There was, however, no fear.

He lay there, motionless beneath her, offering neither resistance nor plea. The initial shock of it all—the rush that had set his heart racing—began to ebb, slowing to a steady, almost serene rhythm. Pain hovered at the edges of his awareness, a distant hum he could acknowledge but not fully grasp.

As warm blood seeped from him, Ryn felt the growing cold creeping into his limbs. He tried to keep track, mentally counting how much blood he was losing per second, but it was a task easier said than done.

When the light-headedness set in and Lady Violet showed no signs of slowing, Ryn finally whispered her name, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Violet.”

Her grip tightened against his head as she pulled his neck more, opening his veins.

She did not hear him. Or did not care. Either way, she did not stop.

His voice cracked as he tried again. “Violet… If you don’t stop soon, you’ll have to clean all this up on your own...”

Still, she did not pause. Her hunger held her in its grip, consuming her as much as she consumed him.

With a fading strength, Ryn’s hands found their way to her. Not to push her away but to rest them on her. He trusted her. Even now, when everything was slipping away, he believed in Lady Violet. He gently stroked her head, and kept whispering her name, over and over. There was no doubt in his mind that she would master this.

Just before darkness took him, Lady Violet’s face hovered above him. Her expression was too hazy to make out, but he smiled at her anyway.

“Everything... will be… okay.”

And then, silence. Stillness.

Her mouth tore away from his neck with a ragged gasp, her lungs burning as if surfacing from deep water. Scarlet streaks of blood stained her lips and chin, the metallic taste lingering on her tongue. Her chest heaved as the suffocating darkness that had gripped her mind slowly began to recede, like claws releasing their hold. She barely registered the weight of Count Fritz’s limp body cradled in her arms, his unconscious form a lifeless heap against her.

Her crimson eyes darted wildly, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of her thoughts. The taste of warm, thick blood clung to her senses, and she glanced down in horror at her arms. Her breath caught in her throat. The reality of what she had done crashed down on her like a wave.

With a cry of alarm, she released him, his body falling limp against the blood-soaked sheets as she scrambled off the bed. Her heart pounded in her chest as she took in the scene—the room bathed in red, the thick, glistening trail of blood leading from the table to the bed. Violet’s eyes filled with tears, a choking guilt rising in her throat as she stared at his still, motionless form.

It was all starting to make sense. The horror of it, the hunger she couldn’t control. ”No. no..no no no …NO NO NO”

She ran over to him gripping his shoulders tightly, She began to shake him ” Wake up…come on…” She whispered in desperation. Her head moved down to his chest, resting her head on his chest.

Thump……..Thump…….

Relief flooded through her like a cold wave as she realized—he wasn’t dead. The rhythmic, faint thump of his heart reassured her that she hadn't gone too far. She hadn’t killed him.

With hurried but delicate movements, she ripped the blood-soaked towels from the bed, tossing them carelessly over her shoulder. The sound of wet fabric hitting the floor echoed in the room as she focused on clearing the space for fresh sheets. She worked quickly, her hands trembling as she carefully shifted Fritz’s body, pulling him until he lay comfortably, his head resting gently on a soft pillow. The sight of his chest rising and falling soothed her frayed nerves, but the knot of guilt twisted tighter in her stomach.

Tears blurred her vision as she collapsed to her knees beside the bed, overwhelmed. She pressed her arms onto the mattress, burying her face in their protective fold as quiet sobs racked her body. The tears fell freely, soaking the blanket beneath her, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stop them.

She had hurt him. The thought gnawed at her. His heart still beat, but what about the pain? The fear he must have felt in those final moments before he lost consciousness—why had she done this? The hunger, the violence... it wasn’t her. It wasn’t supposed to be her.

But it was.

Her red eyes peered over to top of her arms, she looked at his peaceful body sleeping. Her hand slowly reached out to him, wrapping around his fingers as she held his hand.
”I’m so sorry…” she whispered ”I couldn’t stop…”

Darkness swirled around Ryn, a thick, inky void that pressed against his consciousness. How long had he drifted in this lightless sea? Time seemed meaningless here.

Then, a sound—someone weeping. The sobs tugged at him, drawing him upward through the murky depths of unconsciousness. As he neared the surface, the crying grew louder, more distinct.

Ryn struggled toward awareness, reaching out blindly. His fingers twitched, and suddenly something enveloped his hand. The contact anchored him, pulling him the final distance.

His eyelids fluttered open, the world a blurry haze. Ryn blinked, willing his vision to clear. Slowly, shapes coalesced—and there, hovering above, a face came into focus.

Lady Violet.

Her crimson eyes were rimmed with tears, her cheeks wet. She clutched his hand, whispering broken apologies.

Ryn’s throat felt dry, but he managed to croak out words. “I’ll take that... as a compliment.”

With effort, he raised his free hand, brushing his fingers across her damp cheek. A weak smile tugged at his lips. “‘Five out of five stars. So delicious... it’ll move you to tears. Will... visit again’.”

The chuckle that followed was more of a wheeze. He fell silent, studying Lady Violet’s distraught expression. Though he already suspected the answer, he felt compelled to ask, “...Are you alright?”

She stood to her feet, nearly popping up as she leaned over the bed. ” Lord Fritz!” she said with a shock. She quickly wiped her cheeks of the remainder of her tears. Her glassy red eyes peered down at him. She let out a long sigh of relief, sitting down behind him. ” What a strange man…” she said grinning, her fangs visible to him for a moment. ” I nearly kill you and you're asking if I’m alright.” She relaxed her shoulders and smiled softly ” Physically I’m fine.The real question is how are you? I would imagine dizzy and you seem to have your wits about you.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to scare you.” As Ryn attempted to hoist himself upright, his vision swam, and he found himself unceremoniously reacquainted with the feather-stuffed mattress. His fingers grazed the raw punctures at his throat, eliciting a slight grimace. “I confess to feeling rather woozy, and I’ll require some assistance with these wounds, but...” His eyes met Lady Violet’s, bright with triumph and quiet admiration. “I am alive. You did it, Violet.”

” You’re giving me too much credit…” she said softly.

“And you give yourself too little.”

” You will feel woozy for a while, we should get some food into you.” She stood up and walked forward to the table, looking down at it in disgust. She reached towards the basket that sat off to the side, it had linen wrapped over the top to protect the bread. Thankfully there was no blood on it.

Walking back to his side she took off the cotton towel and offered him the basket of rolls ” This will help, make sure to eat it all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After Lady Violet's hesitant—and almost fearfully careful—attention to his wounds, Ryn found himself propped against a small mountain of pillows, accompanied by an equally mountainous basket of bread rolls. Despite the heaviness weighing down his every movement, he made quick work of early dinner, washing down each bite with cool water that seemed to restore his strength.

He was halfway through his fourth roll, picking apart its golden-brown crust, when he asked, “Has your appetite been sufficiently sated?”

” Yes” She lied offering him a smile ” I’m sorry you had to see that…” She looked away from him as he ate.

Another blackout.

Ryn watched Lady Violet while he chewed. Her smile was of the variety he knew all too well. “I apologize, of course the thirst is always there. Let me rephrase the question: has this dulled its edge at all? Even slightly?”

Thoughtfulness creased his brow as his gaze drifted to the bread in his hands. “If it hasn’t, we’ll need to make some adjustments and calculate how much it will take to reduce the bloodlust to manageable levels.”

” Let's not worry about that for now.” She said softly.

The furrow in Ryn’s brow smoothed out, replaced by bright, uncomplicated optimism. “On the positive side, you took to the samples remarkably well!” His lips curved upward. “This will make procurement considerably easier.”

“Did any particular sample speak to you more strongly than the others?”

She turned away from him. ” I don't remember much of the tastes i’ll be perfectly honest…It all just blended together” She said softly.

“That’s okay. At least now we know you can consume just about any type of blood with equal enthusiasm.”

Looking back at him with a fake smile her red eyes silently looked him over for any other wounds she may have caused. ”You need to know the information I have for you now. I can’t answer all of the questions you will likely have but I may need some information from you. ” She said in an attempt to change the subject. Taking in a deep breath she tugged up a blanket over his legs to keep him warm from all the blood he just lost. ” Do you have any enemies? Anyone you believe would hurt you?”

His smile dimmed. “Sadly, there are people who would be overjoyed to see me and my entire family dead.” Had luck, or fate, not intervened that day, those who wished them harm would have succeeded. “Why do you ask?”

” Do you know of The Bloody Thorns?”

Not as much as he would like. Ryn shook his head, “No.”

” I have it on good authority that they are after you. Unfortunately, I don’t quite know the reason for it. Your name was on a list, along with some others. There is a planned attack on Drunkards Day at night. You really can’t think of anything that they may want you for? ”

“Oh, I can think of multiple reasons. The most promising three: the unforgivable crime of existing, the cardinal sin of upsetting a parent, and—perhaps most damning of all—my rather inconvenient habit of uncovering secrets people want to keep hidden.” Ryn canted his head, “How did you come across this information?”

” I’d rather not say but I trust the information.” she said firmly ” I can be there… to help keep an eye on you.”

Ryn’s head snapped toward Lady Violet with such abruptness that his freshly dressed wound protested, sending a lance of fire down his neck. He pressed his fingertips to the bandage. “Your warning may well have saved my life and you have my deepest gratitude. However, I cannot, with anything approaching good conscience, allow you to cast yourself into harm’s way on my behalf.”

She raised a brow as she looked down at him and said firmly ” And why not? You put me in a position that nearly killed you yet putting myself in a position to help you is worse?” she sighed ”I have avoided death, literally been ripped from the arms of it.” she said softly ” Life has thrown much worse things at me…If for some strange reason, it decides to end all of my suffering by protecting a friend. I can’t imagine a better thing. I’m practically a walking corpse…I mean…Look at me” she gestured to herself, first to her scars then her fangs which she finally tucked away. ”...but I'm still here. And I will be after we stop whoever these people are from attempting anything. At least allow this monster some kind of redemption.”

Ryn opened his mouth, then closed it again, any words of protest dying on his tongue. Her conviction about being a monster, the shadows that seemed to lurk behind her eyes—she was seeking equilibrium, trying to balance scales that had tipped too far in one direction. A life for a life. A neat mathematical equation, though he doubted the arithmetic of redemption was quite so simple. Red eyes searched him as he lay there quietly.

His hands clasped hers as he met her gaze and offered a slight nod.

His smile, when it came, was gentle but firm. “Okay,” he said softly, the word carrying more weight than its single syllable suggested. Then, because he could not quite help himself, he added, “But as you don’t want to lose a friend, neither do I. I’ll seek what additional aid I can find, and you—” He squeezed her hands gently. “You’ll take no unnecessary risks. After all,”—and here his smile bloomed into something warmer, more playful—“we still have that standing appointment for tea in the gardens, and I have the perfect book in mind for our first book club.”

” There is something else…” she added holding a soft smile from his book club remark.

” The more we encourage these meetings some things may happen. I don’t fully know what or how it will go” She took a breath ” It’s a blood bond of sorts. You will likely develop feelings towards me and I you. The word love was used but it can be in many forms not just romantic. On top of that, there is mention of a protection spell and some other things I still don't quite know much on.” She looked towards him ” If I find out more I’ll share it with you. I plan on doing some reading to see what I can find. Are you sure this is something you want to keep doing?”

Ryn listened intently to Lady Violet, his eyes growing wider by the second. “By the Creators…” he breathed. “A blood bond?”

There was silence.

Violet's eyes widened slightly before looking away bracing for a reaction.

And then…

“How absolutely fascinating!” His eyes went alight with unrestrained curiosity. Lady Violet’s head snapped back to look at him. Her words about the effects of blood ties between a vampire set his mind racing down countless theoretical pathways, each more intriguing than the last. “I wonder what the mechanisms of that are… It almost sounds like a magic ritual.” One hand placed itself beneath his chin while the other folded across his chest. “When you feed, there’s an inevitable cross-contamination—your saliva, my blood… Could it be possible that the magicae within our body fluids is used to form this bond?”

Shaking her head slowly she opened her mouth to respond but he continued.

“Though,” he mused, “perhaps the development of strong feelings is not necessarily supernatural. After all, such an intimate and potentially life-threatening exchange requires trust. It rather naturally lends itself to deeper connections, doesn’t it?”

Ryn offered her a warm, reassuring smile. “From what you’ve shared, I see no cause for concern. I am helping a friend, and if we become better friends because of it,” he spread his hands in a gesture of acceptance, “then why not?”

Ryn cocked his head. “Where did you come across this information?”

” Books…Just knowledge that I had gathered from some reading. I thought it to be fictional but there were so many repeat commonalities it makes me believe it's true.” She avoided mentioning Alexander, ”It is a very intimate thing…Unfortunately not memorable” she joked nervously ” I just black out, It's like something else just takes over and then I just come too. Sometimes after I’m done and other times..much later.”

This was not the type of knowledge that, even with the amount of wealth that nobility had, could be casually obtained from “some reading.” Especially not in Caesonia. Though she insisted the texts were mere fiction, there was a certain conviction in her confession that told Ryn that she trusted the source. Which led to a rather interesting possibility: based on her reluctance to reveal whoever told Lady Violet about The Bloody Thorns, the source of this information was likely the same person.

“I see,” Ryn said, allowing a thoughtful pause to stretch between them. “May I examine these volumes? Fiction they might be, they might help our research on blood-bonding of the vampiric variety.” He shrugged. “And if nothing else, they’d make for an interesting book club discussion, wouldn’t they?”

"The books were part of a private collection I lost access to some time ago, but I’m doing my best to track down replacements. If I manage to find them, I’d be willing to share. Perhaps you’d uncover something in them that eluded me."

She paused looking around slightly nervous ” How familiar with Charlotte Vikena are you?” She asked out of the blue.

The name drew a quizzical tilt of Ryn’s head. “I’ve made her acquaintance only recently,” he replied, his words measured and patient as he waited for Lady Violet to unburden whatever weighted thought had prompted her sudden inquiry.

She paused, glancing over at Fritz. Her hand brushed the edge of the nearly empty bowl of bread, which she set on the nightstand beside him. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, she leaned over him, her body stretching across his as she shifted into the bed beside him. Her crimson eyes drifted to the ceiling, reflecting the room’s dim light. The sharp scent of copper hung around her, a reminder of her dark nature.

Reflexively, Ryn adjusted himself to accommodate Lady Violet. His hand found her back and fell into that familiar rhythm—tap, tap, tap—the same gentle pattern his parents and grandparents had used to lull him to sleep, the one he had later used when his siblings sought comfort in his bed during restless nights.

”She stopped by my home recently. She’s a neighbor, so her visit wasn’t entirely unexpected, but we haven’t spoken much since Crystal was a child. It felt... odd. Not in the way you might think, but there was something overly friendly about her, almost intrusive. It was as though she were sniffing around, trying to uncover something hidden. I can’t say I trust her motives."

Her head turned on the pillow, and she looked over at him, a faint, reassuring smile playing on her lips.

"It’s probably nothing. Just my imagination running wild. If you do happen to run into her, perhaps you can find out if it is just my imagination or if you get that sense as well.”

Ryn’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “That’s peculiar,” he said, studying her face. “From how she spoke of you, I had rather gotten the impression you two were dear friends. Was I mistaken?”

Letting out a long, weary sigh, Violet's expression softened, a glimmer of sadness darkening her gaze as she tilted her head back to stare blankly at the ceiling. Her lips parted, words trembling on the edge of her breath. “Maybe… back before everything went wrong,” she murmured, her voice a threadbare whisper. “Roman was the only one who cared about what was happening to me. Now even he’s gone, avoiding me like the plague.” Her voice wavered, catching painfully in her throat as emotion began to well up. “He was my only friend, the only one I trusted. And somehow, I’ve already ruined that.” Her shoulders pressed into the bed, a shadow of despair darkening her features. “It’s only a matter of time before I destroy this too.”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath as if trying to steady herself, and let the silence settle. “Look at me…” she finally continued, her tone hollow. “I’ve been sliced open and patched up more times than I can count, my eyes are the color of blood…” she paused, brushing a fingertip across one of her sharp, gleaming fangs, exposed in a grim, humorless smile. “And these…” she muttered bitterly. “I was killed, dragged back just to exist in this life, forever surrounded by death and disappointment.” Her voice grew softer, laced with a resignation that bordered on defeat. “I can’t blame them. I smell like death; it clings to me like a shroud. I bring it wherever I go, leaving only bodies behind. Who would want to be around that?I wouldn’t…” Her voice trailed off.

“So no…my only dear friend is off enjoying the courting events I imagine.”

Drawing Violet into a half-embrace, Ryn kept up the steady rhythm against her back. “Please correct me if I’m wrong,” he whispered, “but you’ve not actually spoken to them of this, have you?” There was a pause where he waited for her to answer before continuing, “Violet, don’t torment yourself over what might not even be true.”

She turned to look at him, her raven black hair pooling around her.

He drew back just enough to meet her gaze. “Talk to them. Share these fears. Listen to what they have to say. I could arrange the meeting, should you require it. And if your fears prove prophetic—” his lips curved into a half-smile “—send for me. Cry until you can’t cry anymore, and then we’ll either cocoon ourselves in blankets and copper dreadfuls, or party until the sun chases us home. Whatever you prefer.”

Finally, she spoke, her voice low and tinged with weariness. “You make it sound so simple." Her fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face as she looked away, her gaze distant."But you don’t understand. If I speak to them... if my fears are true..." She trailed off, her hands curling into fists against the bed.

She took in a deep breath looking back at him with a smile “ Focus on getting your strength back. The rest can wait." Her face relaxed as her fingers unlocked from their fists “ Thank you for everything Lord Fritz…" she said softly “...everything." She added the word holding more weight than he likely knew.

She reached over him pulling another roll from the bed and gestured it toward him with a soft smile.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Ríoghnach "Riona"

Time/Date: Nighttime, Sola 25th
Location: Pinebrook Camping Site
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @princess@ReusableSword@Tpartywithzombi@Helo

Thoughts warred within Riona like angry cats in a sack, clawing and hissing for dominance. The man who couldn’t be Darryn—who absolutely shouldn’t be Darryn—addressed the crowd as if the past few days hadn’t happened.

As if he hadn’t been murdered.
Darryn. Alive. Breathing. Talking.

She should feel something. Relief that it had all been some horrible mistake. Anger that he’d let her believe him dead. Joy at seeing him alive and whole. She should be running to embrace him or slap him or demand answers.

Instead, her skin crawled with a wrongness she couldn’t name.

Even after the crowd dispersed, Riona’s eyes remained fixed on “Quinn.” Not that any amount of staring would reveal answers.

It took Lady Ariella’s “CAL!” to break the spell. Training took over. Her spine straightened, hands clasped, eyes lowered, expression smoothed into careful neutrality. A perfect servant’s bow, neither too deep nor too shallow. The maid became another part of the background.

Present but unseen. There, but not there.

Just like her mind.

Roman’s words from their last conversation rattled in her skull. Necromancy.

If Darryn hadn’t faked his death... if this wasn’t some cruel coincidence... Then what in the hells was walking around wearing his face?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Callum & Riona

Time: Evening
Location: Palace Grounds to the Camping Site
Mention(s): @princess@ReusableSword@CitrusArms@SilverPaw@Tae@Tpartywithzombi

---

Coven & Secrets

Callum paced outside the gardener's hut as he tried to work up the nerve to enter.

“You’ve been here tons of times. And it was only weird the once.” He whispered to himself. He looked at the door; dark patterns of wood grain leaked from the door. The whisps melded into twisting shadow serpents that lashed out, fangs bared and eyes locked on him. He immediately recoiled from the door. Again. He jumped in place and tried to shake the fear from his arms.

“It’s not real. You know it’s not real.” He whispered to himself. “Suck it up, Cal, suck it up.” He felt it in the pit of his stomach. Dread at being caught out here, afraid of Riona’s home, knowing it would upset her if she saw him. He thought about that deeply unwelcoming feeling he’d had the last time he was here. Felt that same heat-bearing down his neck, felt the same chill deep in his bones. Something hadn’t wanted him here before, what if it was still in there?

He closed his eyes, tired of seeing things that weren’t real. At least it’s not Darryn. He thought only to feel disgusted with himself for thinking it. He deserved to see the horrible ghost Darryn, he deserved to suffer for not helping Darryn. For getting him killed.

Finally, Cal summoned enough courage to knock on the door, a bit too softly. Part of him hoped Riona wouldn’t answer and he could avoid going inside, wait a day until he wasn’t seeing things. Maybe even avoid finding out if she was just as angry with him as she’d been with Ana. But that would only be a delay. "Riona?" He asked. "Got time for a chat? If you still want to talk to me?" He asked softly through the door.

A muffled rustling sound came from behind the door, followed by the scrape of wood on wood. The door creaked open, and Riona’s face peeked out, eyebrow raised.

“What are you knocking for, Cal? You have a key, come in,” she said, puzzled. She left the door open and retreated back to the cluttered table.

He stared at the open door for a moment before slowly closing it. "Seemed rude to just walk in unannounced?” The explanation came easily but didn’t sound convincing.

Riona gathered an assortment of papers—a copy of the now previous Royal advisor’s journal, scribbled notes on castle gossip, and a few choice pieces of information that many of the servants knew but kept quiet about. With twine, she bound the pile together.

Even though she was going to take all this with her, Roman wouldn’t get everything at once. No, she’d learn the value of each piece of information. Parse it out individually, watch his reaction, gauge what really interests him. Adjust her focus, and payment, accordingly.

As she worked, Riona’s gaze flicked towards Callum. She noticed how he lingered by the threshold, tension visible in the set of his shoulders. Her hands stilled as his earlier words finally registered, and a flicker of worry crossed her face. “Why do you think I don’t want to talk to you?” she asked. “Is everything alright? Did... something happen?”

"If you’re mad at Ana, about what happened, you should be mad at me too.” He said quietly, finding a spot on the floor and keeping his eyes locked there. It probably made him look guilty, or overly broody, but that spot on the floor just looked like floor and he didn’t want to risk seeing anything else. "And you’re right to be mad, it might not have happened if we’d left him alone.” His eyes flickered to Riona for a second before returning to the same spot on the floor.

"How are you doing? I heard you were assisting Captain Durmand with her investigation.” He asked, imagining how much worse it had to be, focusing on everything that happened to Darryn, worse than just hearing about it. "That can’t be easy.”

At first, she had no idea what Cal was talking about. But as he continued—mentioning Anastasia, Stratya, the investigation, “him”—understanding dawned. The tavern. That gods-damned argument… Darryn.

“It isn’t…” she answered, then sighed and turned back to her packing. Her hands moved mechanically, stuffing items into the bag without really paying any attention to what it was she shoved in.

After a stretch of silence, Riona said, “Gods, I’m so f**king useless. Quack and I both sensed something was off, but we…did. Nothing. About it.” She yanked on a stubborn buckle, nearly tearing it off.

"You're the last person I’d call useless.” He said, a quick glance toward the sudden sound. He wondered what all was in that bag but didn’t care enough to ask about it.

“I analyzed his remains and what did I learn? Jacksh*t. Narrowed the substance that melted his body down from ‘literally anything’ to ‘strong non-organic chemical or magic’ that aren’t accessible to the public. Brilliant work, Riona. Really cracked the case there. Like it wasn’t bloody f**king obvious just looking at… what’s… left of him.”

Her movements slowed, then stopped altogether. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a shaky breath. When she spoke again, Riona whispered. “I want to know what happened to him.”

"I think we can assume magic.” He whispered that word, afraid to speak it too loudly. "Ana talked to him after the whole carriage ride thing. Argued with him, she saw his eyes glow red. Had a whole family meeting about it this morning. Alibeth, Wulfy, Ana, and oddly enough Captain Durmand was included.” He emphasized Stratya’s presence. "The Captain must be very close with Alibeth to get hear what all was discussed.” He added making it clear that he didn’t trust anyone who shared that much trust with the Queen.

Each name that rolled off his tongue tightened Riona’s muscles. The Queen. The First Prince. The Princess. Her jaw clenched, but she held her own tongue, letting him continue his revelations.

"Alibeth mentioned she’d caught spies in the palace before. Spies with glowing eyes who seemed on the ‘brink of insanity’. She asked if we all knew of the existence of magic.” He continued, moving closer to Riona, keeping his eyes down, not daring to look around the room. There wasn’t anything he could do to make this any easier, but he could give her all the information he had and hope it shifted some pieces of the puzzle into place.

That checked out. She also saw Darryn’s eyes and how unstable he was.

Riona turned back to Cal, who still refused to meet her eyes. “He warned me, you know? Darryn said there were people other than the Danroses I needed to watch out for. He was terrified, Cal. And it sounded like he had no choice but to do as they ordered. Whoever they are, they’ve got serious pull… and access to things most people don’t.”

Closing the gap between them, she stared at Cal’s downturned face. “That’s why I need you to introduce me to your secret party host.”

Before he had a chance to say anything, Riona pressed on. “I know your first instinct is to defend your friend. I get it. But Darryn’s death is linked to that party in some capacity. Your friend might have nothing to do with the murder, but they provided the space where anyone of any background could meet and magic was used. What if Darryn’s killer is one of the partygoers?”

He said nothing, only nodded his head. Everything she said made sense, and even if their murderer wasn’t a partygoer, Marek had connections. Callum was sure Marek would want to help, that was just the kind of guy he was.

“This is your chance to get your friend off the suspect list and zero in on who actually did this.” She took his hands in hers. “Please, Cal. Help me find out what happened to Darryn.”

"Ana and I will be meeting with Marek soon. Of course, you’re invited, and whatever you need, I got you. Maybe try not to fight with Ana, she might not show it, but I know how terrible she feels about this.” Cal met Riona’s eyes. He had to make sure she knew he meant what he said. He knew it now, he could trust Ana, she was different from the rest of his family. He had real proof of that, but he’d get that later.

Riona’s face lit up, a warm glow spreading through her. His unwavering support meant everything. But as quickly as it came, the feeling soured, her expression darkening at the mention of his sister. Callum wondered why Riona suddenly looked disappointed in him.

Her hands slipped away from Cal. Spinning around, she busied herself with cleaning up the table, shoulders tense. “Then maybe she should try harder showing it,” she muttered, voice edged with bitterness. “Because she’s not convincing me.”

He wanted to challenge that comment, wasn’t it enough that he’d seen it, that he believed Ana? She doesn’t trust you. Your word means nothing. Whispered a voice in the back of his mind. Instead, he said nothing and only watched her turn away from him.

"Darryn also gave Ana drugs, good drugs, when they had their argument. Weird thing to do right? Fight with someone and then give them a gift. Might be more to that than just a goodbye gift. The Captain mentioned an executioner’s blade nearby. Whoever did this, hounds tracked them right through the main part of town, they weren’t afraid of getting caught.” He offered more, tried to think of any other details regarding Darryn that might help, he owed Riona any information he had on the murder.

Riona huffed lightly, a weary smirk playing at the corners of her mouth as memories surfaced. “You have no idea the size of torch Darryn was carrying for Anastasia do you? Even laid up in the infirmary, he jumped to her defense. I swear, she could’ve gutted him with a rusty spoon and he’d have thanked her for the attention.”

Cal did have a point about the “good drugs” being more than “just a goodbye gift,” though. “Do you know what those drugs actually were?”

"She said they were tablets that make you feel happy, ecstasy I’m guessing.” He answered, pausing before asking, "Are you mad at Ana because she asked Darryn to drive that carriage, or because she didn’t love him the way he probably loved her?”

Riona shook her head, “I’m mad that she used his feelings against him.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to articulate her thoughts. “And for all that talk about how much she cares about him…” She trailed off, exhaled sharply, and tried again. “I wish she’d put as much effort into supporting him as she does with Lady Thea.”

Her eyes met Cal’s. “This whole mess with the afterparty lit something in you, didn’t it? It got those gears turning about making changes. Real ones. For yourself and others. And that was before they found the body. I guess… I thought, hoped, Darryn meant enough to spark something in her too.”

“Maybe she just needs a nudge.” He insisted, and it almost felt wrong to defend Ana. Almost.

“But no… it was just another day for Princess Anastasia Danrose.” Brows furrowed, her gaze intensified. “What does it mean that it took Darryn getting murdered for you to trust Anastasia again?”

Her gaze wandered back to the table in search of something to do, but there wasn’t anything else to clean or pack in the bag. “She’ll continue schmoozing, boozing, and whatever else it takes to fill that hole inside her… the loneliness… And that means there’s gonna be another Darryn soon enough.” There always was.

“It isn’t how she reacted to Darryn that makes me trust her,” Callum admitted. “At the meeting, Ana said she’d seen magic used before. That as a child another girl had threatened both her and Edin. She saw this other child’s eyes glow, saw a dark energy.” Callum took a few steps closer and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“But even as a frightened child, she wouldn’t send another child to a pyre. Even now, thinking magic and its users are evil, she protects that secret. It’s a very un-Danrose thing to do. I see something good in her. I am asking you to trust me enough to look for yourself.” He added gently, patted her shoulder, and pulled his hand away. He couldn’t see Ana’s flaws as any worse than his own. Callum leaned against the table, fingers tracing familiar grooves in the table, finally feeling comfortable in the hut again.

“And you’re right, she might become someone who uses people, like Darryn, for what they have to offer and then tosses them away. Finding ways to cope until people aren’t even people to her. A lot of nobles become that, I could’ve been that. But I had you. You helped me understand that I can’t focus solely on my own suffering, but no one helped Ana. I want to try, see what chooses to be.” He looked over at Riona, hoping the next thing he said didn’t kill the conversation.

“So that’s why I told her, about me. Just the witch stuff.” He smiled as he said it, Ana’s reaction had been so much warmer than he’d expected. “And then she told me it was Charlotte Vikena she’d once seen using magic.” He whispered, he had no secrets to keep from Riona. “Not who I was expecting at all.”

There was so much to unpack—Cal’s confession to Anastasia, Lady Charlotte’s hidden magical abilities, the ominous dark energy Ana had witnessed. But one detail snagged in her mind like a loose thread. “What a very un-Danrose thing for Edin to do too… you’re telling me he didn’t send Lady Charlotte to the pyre?” It felt like there was more to the story.

“I don’t think Edin was there, and I assumed the threat was verbal. But whatever happened, Ana said Charlotte had threatened her and Edin. It was enough to scare her, and I’m the only person she’s told who her magical threat-maker was. Guess I should’ve asked for more details.” He said and Callum doubted there was anything human enough lurking inside Edin that would compel him to show mercy to even a child.

Too bad she didn’t follow through on her threat.
“Yeah… you might need to.”

Callum nodded his agreement. He’d ask Ana about it again sometime soon, and try to get a better vibe of who Charlotte really was as well. That’s what he needed, a long to-do list to keep himself out of trouble.

After a few heartbeats of silence she circled back to what Cal said earlier. “It’s not that I don’t see some good in her. Hells, I even feel sorry for her sometimes. That’s exactly why she pisses me off so much—...” She took a moment to calm her rising hackles. “... I’ll see what she chooses to be, with you. I want to believe in her as much as you do. But it’s gonna come down to what she actually does—or doesn’t do.”

Reaching out, Riona patted his arm. “You continue to be the supportive brother she needs. I’ll be the bitch who’s being too hard on everyone’s favorite princess. Maybe between the two of us, we’ll strike the right balance. And you’ll never have to be the bad guy.”

“Hey, when she proves me wrong—and I hope she does—I’ll gladly hang up my villain hat.” Worry creeped into her as she looked up at Cal. “I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, but... it’s the best I’ve got right now.”

He wondered if her answer would be the same if he were defending someone else. Someone who wasn’t part of his family. He gave a half-hearted shrug, muttered an “okay”, and let it go. After everything his family had done to her, maybe asking her to believe in another Danrose was too much. He waved a hand above her head, swatting at the empty space.

“Weird, I don’t see or feel a villain hat up there.” He teased. “You’re not a bitch either. You are a good person with strong opinions.” There was enough going on, he didn’t want to make things worse for her. “And if you keep insulting my best friend, I’ll fight you. And we both know I’ll lose.” He lightly tapped her shoulder with a fist.

To have similar words she said to him the other day being flung back at her made Riona laugh. “True. And after our last glorious face-plant with Mr. Window Weirdo, I don't think you can handle another loss right now,” she said, returning the gesture.

The sound of laughter cut away some of the tension and Cal smiled back. “I’m not going to forget about Darryn, we will find who did this. They will wish for the crown’s mercy because they’ll get none from me. Doesn’t matter who it is.” He added; and whatever pain had been inflicted on Darryn, he’d make sure the culprit got the same or worse. He paused to see if she had anything more to add about Darryn. Callum wasn’t finished sharing bad news just yet.

“Good to hear.” After a long pause she added, “And… thanks.”

Riona caught Cal staring at her intently, and for a moment, she wondered if he was going to continue to press her about the tension with Anastasia. Part of her knew that wasn’t his style—Cal had never been one to pry. But then again, until recently, he hadn’t been one for violence either. Things were changing. She hesitated, unsure if she really wanted to launch into a rant about his sister, especially now that it seemed the siblings had patched things up.

The memory of Cal’s conversation with Quack and the potential fate of his royal siblings should the rebels win the revolution flashed through her mind. … Has his position on all that changed too?

“If you need to call Ana out for how she is, you should do it privately.” He added, realizing she hadn’t agreed to his request. “In a tavern, Riona? After what you said to Wulfric? I am worried about you. That you are going to get hurt, or worse, for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person in front of the wrong people.” Callum continued, fear etching its way into his voice. He scratched at his neck but his gnawed-off fingernails offered no relief from dread.

“If I can’t do stupid self-destructive things, you can’t either. It’s only fair. I can’t handle losing you.” His focus stayed on her, wondering how she couldn’t see the added danger she was putting herself in.

Riona’s hard expression melted away, her eyes softening as she looked at Callum. “It’s only fair,” she repeated. She couldn’t promise to stop being self-destructive, but she would try to be less stupid about it. “For what it’s worth, I can’t handle losing you either.”

Her fingers raked through her hair. A long breath escaped her, carrying with it some of the tension coiled in her shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately.” she muttered, more to herself than to Callum. “I used to be better at keeping it together.”

“It’s like… Like everything I’ve bottled up for years is suddenly bursting out. Maybe…” Riona paused, searching for words. “Maybe I’m just tired of it all, you know?”

“And part of me wonders if I should just... end it.”

Realizing words that weren’t meant to be said out loud slipped out, Riona forced a smile. “But,” she said, her tone lightening in an obvious attempt at deflection, “if I do end up royally messing things up... will you avenge me?”

Callum pulled Riona into a hug. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He said before something dark crept into his voice. “Anything ever happens to you, I’ll find all the spookiest curses and ensure all your enemies receive eternal torment. They won’t know a moment of peace in this world or the next.” His arms tightened around her.

Riona’s eyes widened as Callum suddenly pulled her into a hug. Heat spread to her face and pooled behind her eyes. Letting out a shaky breath, Riona leaned into the hug. “Damn it, Cal. You’re going to make me cry.” Even though it was already too late.

There was a twisted joy in knowing someone cared enough to promise vengeance on her behalf, mixed with guilt for feeling that way. Gods, how messed up was she to want anyone to carry that kind of burden? She thought of her family, of the townsfolk, and wondered if they had felt a similar bitter comfort when she had sworn revenge over their lifeless bodies.

She tightened her grip on him.

“And if you're tired, too exhausted to keep trying, lean on me. I understand how that feels, we’ll get through it together.” He let her go and pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, setting it on the table.

“I made calming potions today. For the next family meeting. Can’t be storming out any time they say something awful if I want to learn all their secrets. You should keep one, for when you need it, and we can keep making more.” He whispered as he let her go. There was no reason not to use magic, their biggest advantage, to its fullest potential.

“Are the meetings always that bad?”

He thought about how cold Alibeth had been, how she’d looked right at him and admitted she wanted Darryn to die. He wondered how she could call herself a mother and tell two of her children she wanted their friend dead. How excited his older brother had been to paint another friend as some evil mastermind. They both got some twisted enjoyment out of hurting him. “Usually.” He didn’t need to tell her how little the rest of his family cared about Darryn. Wulfy only seemed disappointed that he’d failed to keep a promise, that loss of life didn’t seem to matter. “When I’m even invited.” He shrugged.

Although she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to use the potion without it affecting the spell she carried, Riona accepted it. Might be helpful in a pinch. “Thanks.”

The clock chimed and Riona checked the time. “I better start heading out.” She said as she shouldered the bag. “I promised I’d meet Roman at the camping event tonight.”

Roman? His head tilted at the mention of his friend, wondering what the two were meeting about. “I’ve got one more thing,” and he needed to bring it up here, where he could be sure no one was listening in.

Callum cleared his throat, “I can’t stop thinking about what you said the other night. About Roman. And Mina. You’re right, they’re probably in danger after that ritual. We’re all probably in a lot of danger and things are going to get worse. If Alibeth’s bringing up magic it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for it. Start hunting. No one’s safe from that. Not us, not Roman, Mina, Marek…Ari.” His voice dropped to a barely audible level as he named people, but his words continued to spill out at a frantic pace.

“And if they’re looking for it, they’re going to find it, any way they can. Accuse whoever suits them.” His eyes shifted, no longer looking at Riona but past her, staring off at things only he could see. Thick smoke and shadows rose up from beneath the floorboards. It coalesced into dark pillars around the room.

“We have to protect each other. Have to keep those like us, other witches, safe. Strike first before people start burning.” Smoke became flame. Flames engulfed the shadowy pillars. Everything in the hut was blindingly bright. Twisted, pained expressions of those he cared about screamed without sound from within the flames. Bruning. Suffering. Unheard. The illusion only fueled his panic. The memory of the flame spell he’d cast in Wystan’s room reminded him what that felt like, how awful a fate it was. He stared wide-eyed at the illusion as his skin grew paler.

No one was safe. No one who practiced magic. No one who the crown saw as expendable, undesirable, or dangerous. It had happened before, worked for past monarchs, and the crown would do it again. Unless he made sure they were stopped.

“I can see it, Riona. Right now, like it’s happening. Been seeing things, illusions, all day. But I won’t see this again. Won’t let it be real.” Words hissed out through a clenched jaw. He couldn’t look away from the illusion, couldn’t let himself forget the too-real possibility that it could happen.

For a heartbeat, she wondered if he was speaking metaphorically, but the haunted look etched across his face told a different story. Whatever Callum was seeing, it was all too real to him.
“Cal?” Riona reached out, grasping his hand in hers. His skin felt clammy and cold. When he didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on some unseen horror, she squeezed his fingers and tried again. “Cal… These... things you’re seeing. When did they start?” A sinking feeling settled in her chest as she hazarded a guess. “Has it been happening since we found that hidden room?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“Today. After I showed Ana an illusion spell. Had to prove to her magic isn’t evil. It doesn’t have to be feared.” And she listened, Ana believed me. He relaxed a little, thinking about that. Flames flared and burned out. The smoke remained, stretching out, filling the space. Until it was only shadows, coating the walls, acting out nightmarish scenes with their ever-shifting forms. Shadow puppets performing every terrible thing he’d read about witch hunts.

“But this is payment for that spell. Probably compounded from using that curse scroll.” And probably made worse by making potions and dabbling in other spells following Drake’s party.

Riona visibly relaxed. If it was one thing if the illusions were from the side effects of using a spell from the book. It would’ve been another thing if it was the result of touching an ancient cursed object.

“But I did see things after we found that room. That felt, different from this. I don’t know what that was, maybe something to do with that tea I drank.” He added; today’s illusions felt more real, easier to pin down.

And just like that, the tension returned. “If it’s from the tea, we should ask Roman or Mina about it. But if it’s not… we should consider the possibility it’s from the objects from that room.”

He hesitated, he didn’t want to keep secrets from Riona but he wasn’t sure how to explain what happened last night without bringing up the unwelcoming presence in her home. “It wasn’t from the room, I felt it before we went in there.” He said cautiously and before she could ask where he added, “and if you’re worried about that crown I tried to put on, don’t be. Pretty sure I’m clear but if the illusions aren’t gone tomorrow I’ll let you know. We can practice a de-hexing on me. It’ll be fun.” He offered.

Riona narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms slowly. “Callum? … Do you want me to pretend I didn’t notice or do you have something you’d like to share with me?”

“I should tell you. I will tell you. Just not now, But what I saw after we went in that room, I felt it here first. And I don’t feel it right now but I don’t want to risk seeing it again.” He spoke as calmly as he could manage as a look of pure terror flashed across his eyes. “Please, just give me a day or two.” He asked.

What else could she say but sigh and whisper “Okay”?

He took a breath and returned to an easier topic. “In the past, witches formed covens for protection. They worked as one. Were more powerful that way.” Callum paused and smiled.

“I think it’s time we bring the old ways back, form a coven. And I’d hate to do that without you, but I will understand if don’t want to be involved. Roman and Ari should both be at Pinebrook tonight, I plan to start with them. A coven where we’re all equals. Watching out for each other. Keeping each other safe. Fighting back when we need to.” He offered, laying out the general idea of his plan for tonight.

“What do you think? It is my least self-destructive plan yet.”

“Well, well. Look who’s become a social butterfly. A few months ago you were trying your damnedest to keep everyone at arm’s length, and now you’re joining groups left and right.” Riona teased.

Her tone sobered as she continued, “But you’re right, it’s not a terrible idea. Especially if this witch-hunting thing is going to ramp up.” She met his gaze, her decision already made. “Count me in.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” He gestured to the door. “Time to grab a carriage.” He added only to be hit with a puzzling question.

“What about your commitment with the Thornbreakers? Not worried if there might be a conflict of interest?”

He shook his head. “No, they’re after the crown and those that serve it, those who act to keep power in only a few hands. They’re not after witches. Not that I know, at least. If anything we share an enemy. And any witches who serve the crown, they’re on their own.” He might even be able to help Quack out more.

That was true. “Let me change the question… Say things get messy and you have to choose one or the other. Then what?”

Callum wasn’t sure how to answer that, he only shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends on why things are messy.” He answered honestly. “But nothing, no one, is getting in the way of goal number one. Rip that crown away from Danrose hands, expose every fucked up secret my family hides, and make sure Edin, Alibeth, and anyone else who’s earned it, finds retribution.” He repeated his promise, put an arm around her shoulders at that final word. Retribution, he liked the way that word sounded as it rolled from his tongue. If he couldn’t rid himself of a need to destroy something, then let his destruction be for something good. Let it be justice and vengeance tied up together.

Retribution. The fire in her blazed with excitement at his words. Yes. Yes! YES!

“You tell me whose names belong on that list, and I’ll work with whoever I can to make that happen. It’s more than a goal, it’s a reason to keep going, a purpose. And if I can do more than that, it will be tearing down the rest of this rotten system, the other houses in Caesonia, until titles mean nothing here. No one should be dying from a lack of coin.” He continued, and that was why he trusted Quack, why he believed in his vision. This kingdom didn’t need a chosen corrupted few living in excess while the rest suffered and starved.

“Magic is how that happens. It was part of the old ways. Witches used their power to lift others up. Not to control them, not to feed off them, but to help them. It was an act of mercy from the gods, their sacred gift to humanity. My ancestors tried to burn that out of the kingdom. I will restore it, but I can’t do any of that alone. Restoring magic, the way it was meant to be, is how we make this kingdom better for all its people.” Callum couldn’t see a conflict of interest between magic and the Thornbreakers, everything was linked together. His hand gripped her shoulder.

Partly overwhelmed by Cal’s passionate speech, Riona’s lips parted and closed without saying a word. It was more than obvious that, to him, the Thornbreakers and his new coven were just different hands reaching for the same prize: freedom and equality. In the world he dreamed of forging, neither could exist without the other.

“Witches, Thornbreakers, and anyone who suffers under the crown, our enemy is the same. The world’s not in our favor, our shared enemy is overwhelmingly powerful, and that unifies us. It’s going to take a lot of different people working together to overcome that, but we can. We must. Or nothing gets better for any of us.”

“Then I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you’re going to tell Quack about the coven.”

“Wasn’t planning to, unless it becomes necessary. I don’t plan to give him, anyone, any names, they don’t need to know who’s in the coven. And the coven doesn’t need to know who’s in Quack’s group. Less risk of information getting out, at least for now.”

She nodded in agreement, relieved that he decided to keep those two groups apart.

“As a co-founder though, I think we need to be careful about who you invite and who actually joins. Aside from Roman, Ariella, and Mina, who else do you plan to invite?”

“We’ll vote on new additions. Come to decisions as a group. It can’t be another monarchy, none of us should hold power over the others.”

“I like that.”

As she started for the door, the weight of the bag reminded her of its contents and Riona slowed to a stop. “Hey, speaking of Roman... has he asked you to do anything for him lately? Anything... unusual?”

“What?” That question caught him off guard. “Why? What has Roman asked you to do? I haven’t seen him much lately.” He glanced at the bag she carried. “What are you meeting with Roman about?” He asked since she’d brought him up again.

“I met him in the woods this morning. He’s actually been wanting to talk to you about something. I don’t know if it’s gonna be the same thing he told me, but since we’re all going to be at Pinebrooks tonight, it’s probably best to get the details directly from him.” Riona patted the bag. “He asked me to pass him any information and rumors that are going around in the castle.”

Cal could wonder what Roman was up to, but it sounded like he’d find out soon enough. “You’ll be careful, right? I know you’re the best spy in the city and all but-” He didn’t finish the thought, but no one made a good spy hanging from a noose.

“Don’t worry, he didn’t ask me to go dig up classified information or national secrets. He only wanted me to tell him about things that any servant working at the castle would’ve heard or seen.” She reached for the door handle, then let her head thunk against the wood with a groan. “Shoot. With all the things that happened I never got the chance to tell you about what I found in Alden’s room the other night.”

Callum made a face at the mention of Alden’s name. “Was it a list of what that guy’s been up to?” He asked. He glanced at the clock, they probably had enough time and he was too curious to hear what Edin’s advisor might be hiding.

Riona turned to face Cal. The scene in Alden’s quarters flashed through her mind—upended furniture, scattered papers, and the blood. “Alden’s room was ransacked. There was blood leading to the window and… no one’s seen or heard him. And now we suddenly have a new Royal Advisor who appeared out of nowhere.” Subconsciously, Riona reached over to cover the tear of a dress she changed out of hours ago. “Mister Alexander Deacon.”

“Deacon?!” Callum repeated the name with a mix of surprise and enthusiasm. “We’re planning a charity event together, Mina too. Isn’t he great? Wouldn’t have guessed he’d end up as advisor though.” He could only wonder why Alexander would want to work directly for Edin, but it was probably best to just ask the man himself.

“Deacon works with Black Rose and Marek, they’re all about doing more charity work around here.” He added catching her up on anything she might not already know.

Alexander Deacon. Working for Marek. The pieces clicked together with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the chest. Riona’s fingers went death-white around her bag strap. The party, Darryn’s warning, his murder—had she just helped them? Helped the people who might have—

No. Focus. Breathe.

“Black Rose, huh?” she echoed. “...Actually, Deacon invited me to participate in the auction.” Her voice stayed steady as bought time to get her racing thoughts in order.

“You seem less happy about this than me.” He pointed out, noticing the sudden change in her demeanor. “Did you agree to participate? It’s not a bad idea right, do some good? And looks like I’m taking my prince duties seriously, which could help me get closer to Wulfy. Be a better spy.” He asked.

“The charity is a great idea. I agreed to participate because he told me you’d be handling the donations. And I know you’ll make sure they reach actual people in need.” She added. “If joining can help raise more money, then I’m happy to help. Even if it might not be much.” Riona’s gaze drifted downward as her fingers twisted the fabric of her dress. “I’m… just not comfortable with Alexander Deacon.”

“What about Alexander makes you uncomfortable?” He asked with concern, noting the anxious movement of her fingers.

“It’s… hard to explain, but he comes off… disingenuous.” Greasy.

“I’ll pay closer attention to him next time.” He said, not knowing what she meant by that. When he’d talked to Alexander, the man seemed enthusiastic about everything.

Seeing how much Cal liked Marek, Riona thought he might get upset calling Alexander disingenuous on nothing more than a gut feeling. So his answer came as a relief. Her fingers relaxed and she nodded before asking something else she noticed.

“You don’t sound surprised about Alden’s disappearance. Was it brought up during the family meeting?”

“No, at least not while I was there. Can’t say I’m sad to see him gone.” He said with a shrug. He didn’t like Alden, he did like Alexander, and he could only assume that it would help Marek to have one of his top guys whispering in Edin’s ear. Maybe he didn’t have to worry so much about Marek being in danger, it sounded like he was already on top of the situation.

“So… you guys talked about Darryn’s murder, but nothing about the Royal Advisor? Doesn’t that sound kind of weird? How has no one noticed him missing? I mean, someone had to report his room being torn apart. The blood alone…”

“I left early, and so did Ana, I’m not sure what else they talked about. I could ask Captain Durmand, she might tell me.” He said, wishing he had stayed for the full meeting. He could’ve missed important information. “No, I will ask the Captain what I missed.”

Then it wouldn’t hurt to give him a head start. “You might want to read this. I haven’t told the Captain about it.” Riona reached into her bag, pulled out a single sheet—a copy of Alden’s journal entry—from the bundle of papers, and handed it to Cal. “I found his journal.”

Cal read the copy of a passage from Alden’s journal. “’My dear Calbert is dealing with his own struggles now, with Violet now in her own state of rest. He will be dying to know what happened exactly, and is desperately looking for answers. He will be easy to influence.’ What do you think he means by that?” He asked, reading part of it allowed. What happened to Violet?

“Your guess is as good as mine… but…” Riona thought back on the last few days, trying to remember when she saw Lady Violet. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Callum thought about it for a moment. “She was at the tea party, same one I met Deacon at actually, talking to Wulfy.”

Having Lady Violet and Alexander mentioned in the same sentence didn’t sit well with Riona. “Did they come together?”

“Not sure, I didn’t see them together, but I was also late.” He said confused about the question. “You don’t think Deacon and Violet are conspiring together, do you?” He asked, his inflection on the word conspiring paired with a grin and raised eyebrows made it clear he didn’t mean plotting some grand conspiracy. “Ooohh, Calbert would lose his mind.”

Riona smirked wryly. If only what Alden was referring to in his journal was just that level of scandal. “How did Lady Violet seem to you?”

Cal shrugged, “I didn’t talk with her. Last time I talked to her was at the first ball of the summer. She seemed fine then, maybe a little annoyed about the “randomly paired dances” but nothing out of the ordinary. At the tea party though, she was dressed like she was in mourning.”

“Huh… I haven’t heard there being a death in the family.” Riona would have to double check on that, but she was pretty sure word would have gotten around if there was one. “But aside from that she looked fine?”

Again, all he could do was shrug. “I guess so?” He’d barely glanced at her but he hadn’t noticed anything too unusual.

A contemplative hmm escaped Riona as she chewed over Alden’s cryptic comments about Lady Violet’s “own state of rest.”

“‘Your majesty is still as dimwitted and unclever as ever’,” He laughed reading that out loud. “Any idea what he was planning? Guess he wasn’t as bad as I thought he was. ‘THEY will be necessary for the kingdom’s downfall…but they do not need to suffer. That will be reserved for “your majesty” solely.’ Guess it’s almost impossible to spend that much time around Edin and not hate him.” Cal smirked and handed the paper back to her.

She took the paper and put it back into the bundle. “I don’t know. Whatever it was, it’s possible that he was discovered.”

“Did you notice Alibeth isn’t mentioned anywhere?” Riona frowned slightly, “And the bit about the ‘sons’ being necessary for the kingdom’s downfall… what’s that supposed to mean?” Did Alden know about Cal joining the Thronbreakers?

“I didn’t…maybe Alden is… or was, working for Alibeth, kept her name out of it as a precaution?” He suggested.

“Maybe… but then why write any names at all? This could’ve been used as evidence against him.”

“Hubris?” He suggested. “Read anything else good in his journal? Maybe the answer to that question is in there, or at least a few more clues.”

“Bits and pieces, but I haven’t exactly had the chance to read the entire journal yet and—...” Riona looked at the time. “We should get going. If you want, we can read the journal together later. You might catch something I didn’t.”

Callum straightened his posture and offered his arm, which she took without missing a beat. “Would you escort me to Pinebrook, it’s dark out and the woods are very creepy.” He asked, only half joking.

“And if anyone asks, I was here tonight to get your advice on allocating funds from the charity event.” Callum said, crafting his story. If anyone saw him outside, he was nervous because the last time he’d asked palace staff for help, a carriage ride to a party, it had not ended well. He was here, for an extended time, discussing a charity project, they continued that conversation in a carriage to Pinebrook.

As they waited near the front gates of the palace for the carriage to pull around he shared another idea. “I would like to dedicate the charity auction to Darryn, if that’s alright with you.” He asked as the sound of hooves and wheels heralded the carriage’s arrival.

“Of course it is, you don’t need to ask me.” Riona turned her head towards the direction of the approaching carriage. “But if you are, can you send some of the money to his family? … If they’re around.”

“I could, if my plan to guilt my brother into making sure they’re taken care of doesn’t work. He did give me his word that Darryn would be safe, the least he can do now is make sure Darryn’s family is safe and cared for.” Cal said, it was better that the crown paid for that, and as far as Callum was concerned, Wulfric owed him that.

Riona scoffed. They both knew what a good job Wulfric did keeping Darryn safe. “Guess we’ll see how well that goes.”

“Either way, I’ll make sure it happens.” He assured.

__________________________________________________________________________

The carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones as they made their way through the capital’s outer gates. Riona sat across from Cal, keeping her gaze fixed on the window.

With each turn of the wheels, each hoofbeat carrying them further from the city walls, something inside her began to unravel. The crushing weight of the Capital’s invisible miasma of spite and fury that had been her constant companion—began to thin.

She should have felt relieved. Should have welcomed the lifting of that burden.

Instead, its absence left her feeling hollow and scared.

The cursed fire within her, fed for so long on the city’s malice, flickered uncertainly. Riona pressed her palm against her sternum.

It was still there, quieter, but still there. And she knew it would remain as long as she had breath in her body and will in her heart.

It was a quiet carriage ride, and Cal could only attribute the somber atmosphere to the weight of Darryn’s murder. After a while, he moved from his seat and sat beside Riona. Still quiet, he didn't want to interrupt her thoughts, and there weren’t words that would make anything easier. He offered proximity until the silence became comfortable.

Sensing movement, Riona turned her head toward Cal. In the carriage’s dim interior, Riona’s eyes looked like bottomless pits and her skin had paled a bit from sudden weariness.

She gave Cal an appreciative smile before looking back out the window. “It’s been awhile since I’ve left the capital. Feels… strange.”

“Sorian, and all her problems, will still be there tomorrow. You deserve a break from it.” But Riona looked far from relaxed, so he pulled a flask from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Got a potion for that too.” He joked, shaking the flask.

Riona let out a small, amused sound—something between a sigh and a laugh. Her mouth twisted into a half-grin. “Really?” She shifted in her seat to face Cal fully. “You’d better be sharing that,” she said, reaching for the flask.

__________________________________________________________________________

The air became different; crisp and clean and infused with hints of campfire and roasted food. The clomping of hooves slowed to a stop and the carriage door opened, allowing them to step out into the carefully tamed wilderness. Everything at the campsite was lit by soft lanterns and moonlight, even the nearby lake seemed to shimmer. Friendly staff was quick to greet them, a handful of strange faces with familiar, mandatory, smiles.

And one all too familiar face. Callum froze for a moment, almost grateful for how lifelike the haunting image of Darryn now looked. Side effects must be getting weaker. He felt relief at the thought.

“Darryn?” The name fell from Riona’s lips in a breathless whisper that said she saw the impossible too.

Avalia

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

✠✠✠✠✠

The wall had been good company, but Vasco figured they’d spent enough quality time together. His body groaned in pain as he peeled himself away from it.

The dining room looked as if a tornado had tap-danced through it - chairs splintered into matchsticks, tables overturned, a mirror cracked spider-web style, and dark spots that might’ve been blood dotting the floorboards.

He shuffled to the bar like a punch-drunk boxer after twelve rounds, found the one stool that hadn’t joined the morning’s brouhaha.

“Where’s my beer?” Vasco asked the empty bar.

His head throbbed, rough and uneven as a Model T stuck in first gear. He pressed his palms against his temples and thought back on the hell of a dance number he’d pulled off earlier.

After Rowan fainted like a little princess, they nabbed him while Vasco was left to entertain the Black Maw boys alone. He’d done alright for a guy bringing fists to a knife fight, even sent one of them off to dreamland. But with that dead ear of his, fighting three-to-one in an enclosed space was a sucker’s game.

Glass hit the wooden bartop, snapping him back to the present. The barkeeper had materialized from wherever he was hiding to serve Vasco his drink.

“Thanks, pal,” Vasco said before baptizing his throat with the holy water of hops and barley.

“You’re bleeding.” The barkeeper pointed at him.

Vasco glanced down at the red spreading across his shirt and sighed. “Damn.”

The door slammed open hard enough to wake the dead, and there stood his cavalry, a day late and a dollar short, taking in the renovation job he’d had a hand in.

Hoisting his beer, Vasco greeted Barrock and Aurora. “We found a place to stay.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Roman & Riona Part 2

^{Trigger Warning: Blood}

---

_{Morning of Sola 25, 1739}

“Good” he spoke and with a flick of his wrist a leather pouch sailed toward the girl landing with the sound of metal coins rubbing against themselves. “Now as for payment.” he stated after his test of her reflexes.

“That should roughly be about what you normally make in a month. We can pay you however you wish, jewels, fine goods, a lock box in another city, disperse it among the lower class citizens, even a buried chest in the forest.”

He gestured towards the bag he tossed her. “Every time you hand off any information to any of the ravenwood citizens or workers that carry my sigil you will be paid. If it isn't good intel you'll still get this much, you get more depending on the quality of the information." He gave her another moment to process the info. His eyes and ears still scanned their surroundings for listening ears or prying eyes.

The pouch landed in Riona’s hands with a satisfying weight, the clink of coins within unmistakable. Her fingers traced the outlines of what must have been silver pieces—a month’s wages, he’d said. Her heart quickened at the possibilities. Then, her frugal mind instantly began allocating the unexpected windfall.

With extra coin, she could restock her dwindling supplies of components, maybe even splurge on expensive ingredients and better tools she normally had to pass over. Some would be set aside for emergencies. The rest would go to the charitable works she conducted through “Miss Vos’” banking account.

Riona’s attention shifted from the coin pouch to the ceremonial fire pit, then to the small burial spot. “I have some questions,” she said before returning her gaze to Roman. “First, does the payment have to be money?”

She didn't look to have any issue catching the bag flung at her, good reflexes and an inquisitive mind. “I would be worried if you didn’t.” he responded. Turning where he stood to make his way towards a tree on the outside of the cleared meadow. Several large and small rocks piled at its base in seemingly no order.

“No it does not.” he stated, shifting his head slightly towards her. “Like I said we can pay you with anything you like however you like. But it will not be anything more or less than what you are owed.” Roman knelt down at the tree and began slowly moving the stones away from the base.

Riona nodded, filing that tidbit away for later. She offered the coin pouch back to Roman. “You should take this back then, I haven’t done anything yet.”

Her mind latched onto his earlier words. “About those details you couldn’t say until I accepted. What are they? Are they tied to the offer you said you’re gonna give to Callum? Or that thing you claim I could use against you?”

He waved off her hand when she tried to give back the coins, “that is for hearing me out and accepting the job. I have built up the guild I started, enough that I don't need to worry about coins or money.” continued to clear the stones until he got to the base of the tree. A quick look would reveal a rune carved into the base of the tree and some kind of clear crystal embedded into the engraving.

“I will make one thing clear to you.” his gaze shifting to lock eyes with her’s. “Everything I have told you, I have told only you, and I can talk my way out of any of it.” not an outright threat but a warning, a clear one.

“... I really hope this isn’t the ‘thing I can use against you’ you were talking about, then.” Riona said as she put the pouch into her basket. “Kind of defeats the purpose.”

His gaze returned to the tree and he gestured to her to look closer. There was only a moment for her to see what he was looking for before his hand covered the mark in the tree. He spoke in a low whisper but with confidence, every word punctuated followed swiftly by the sound of wood splitting, “andar vísa veginn, endurbyggja, móta, endurvaxa.”

Grimacing slightly at the discomfort, the skin on his hand shifting to match the bark of the tree without the color. He drew his hand back allowing them both to see the crystal and rune sink into the tree while the bark moved to cover the wound. A small spell but enough for his needs.

Riona felt it before she saw it. A prickling sensation crawled across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms. The air around them seemed to thicken, to shift, as if reality itself was being rewritten. But it wasn’t just the atmosphere that changed; the thing deep within, stirred in response. She sucked in a sharp breath, and took an involuntary step back.

Roman had just confirmed what she’d begun to suspect, and he’d done it right in front of her. Was this what he’d meant? When he'd spoken of leverage, had he intended for her to witness this? Riona’s gaze flickered between Roman and the tree.

All he did for the next few moments was rub his hand deciding how to answer her other question. “I will not give you details or tell you how we know… we have found evidence of necromancy.” a short pause to allow her to keep up. Truth is he knew he was drawing attention to specific people and families by saying this but pressure needed to be applied and not just by him.

Yet it was still information that needed further investigation even if all he had to go on was Violet's resurrection and vampirism. “There are also somewhere between 2 to 4 vampires operating within the city.” The fact she was a vampire alone was enough information to say that there were at least a couple more without completely lying through his teeth.

Riona’s eyes widened. Vampires? In Sorian? The revelation left her momentarily speechless. “So…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “So your actual mission is to hunt down these vampires?” The words felt surreal as they left her lips. “Is that…” Her gaze returned to the tree where the crystal and rune sank into. “What House Ravenwood does? Hunt the supernatural?

“No” he stated bluntly to her question, his tone remained casual as if this was a common thing to talk about. He motioned for her to follow as he began to walk toward another tree on the edge of the field. She hesitated only for a moment before following him.

“Vampires can be reasoned with, it is just a curse after all. My grandfather worked with one before.” That part was true, one of the many secrets his father passed down to him. However, he was quickly reminded that he was again getting close to things he shouldn't be saying with the stinging flare of the mark on his arm.

“As long as they are fed and can control themselves they can be useful…” pausing for a moment as he thought of those cursed souls who were truly unpredictable. “no, it's the alter personality or twin soul curses you have to be worried about.” He knew that lesson far too well. The maid was still staring at him intently as if searching for something.

“You’re used to the supernatural.” She said. It wasn’t a question anymore, it was a statement of fact. And it brought her some comfort. “Why are you so concerned about vampire activity in Caesonia?”

“The supernatural is all around us, we just got worse at seeing it.” He answered again and began to pull stones from the base of another tree. “Vampires are solitary and territorial. They don't normally get together like this unless one is old and powerful enough to buy or intimidate their way past the inquisition or they are being paid to be here.” Some of that statement was speculation based off of what he was told by his father, but he wouldn't tell her that.

“So who would not only be able to contact them but be able to pay them to be here and why?” He asked while he was thinking through the problem and guiding her on the same thought process. “To cause fear in order to aid the employer in control? A secret weapon or disposable strike force? Perhaps some kind of enforcers in some kind of planned calamity?”

The last of the rocks were pulled away revealing another rune, different in design but built the same way. “Their presence here is a threat to everyone, a message.”

His explanation seemed plausible enough. As a noble, he did have people to take care of and Riona respected that Roman took his duties to heart. She even got the whole “loose lips sink ships” thing, but come on. “If their presence here is a threat to everyone, why are you working on this alone?” Not only did he say that Riona was his only confidant, he made it clear that he would deny everything if she breathed a word. That meant no one else knew.

Keeping people in the dark left them ripe for the bloodsuckers’ picking. “You need more backup. Real backup. Not just some random maid who’s your friend’s friend. I mean supernatural experts or someone with pull and resources that can coordinate things with you and keep casualties as low as possible.” Riona paused, realizing another reason why Roman needed a castle maid. “You think someone up top’s involved.”

Again he placed his hand over the bark and again he spoke their ancient tongue. Latin was much better at articulating spell craft and what you wanted to happen, its cost was also much more equivalent. Yet, their ancestors found their language was primal, elemental, powerful, but expensive for what it did.

His skin cracked and began to slowly weep blood as the bark disfiguration on his hand grew and dug into him. It made him grimace quietly to himself and there was still one more to go.

Riona’s hand shot out and closed around his arm before he could hide the damage. She tugged it closer, eyes narrowing as she studied the blood and wooden growth. A nearby spring could help with cleaning. But treatment? Her gaze flicked to her herb basket, mind racing through healing properties and combinations. Bandages, she definitely needed bandages. Her eyes darted to her skirt. It wasn’t exactly clean, but it beat nothing. Sorry, modesty.

“Okay, that’s it.” The question burst out of her, unable to hold back any longer. “What in the hells are you doing?”

His eyes scanned her expressions as she gripped his arm where he thought he might find suspicion or fear he was only met with a feeling of curiosity and the faintest bit or worry. “This is what I can't explain away. Those crystals will still be in these trees for a very long time. The magic we used was absorbed into them.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about, but then she recalled the leverage; the “thing she could use against him.”

“First off, nice try, but you didn’t answer the question. Second, you can still lie about it,” she said. “And who do you think people will take the side of? The random commoner or the noble lord?” Riona shook her head. “No, you’re going to have to give me something concrete. Something you can’t weasel your way out of.”

Again he watched her eyes move from his arm to her basket, “I have what I need to bandage myself and there is still one more tree that I have to do this too. Your concern is appreciated.” it was a true statement, this was the exact reason he came out here. Well, that and to clear his head.

The man picked himself back up and began to walk to the next tree. Pulling his sleeve up to his elbow and letting the blood occasionally drip from his hand into the ground. “It is a sacrifice to our gods anyway, a price to be paid.”

His voice trailed off for a moment while he regarded her earlier words as he walked, “information on the vampiric curse is extremely hard to find, as is most curses. The only so-called ‘experts’ on these things are agents of the inquisition. Vampires are a threat but it's more of a show of power. It's rare that they are called into action but it does happen.” he paused in his ranting and looked at Riona.

“I am not alone, as I said I have plenty of eyes outside the castle but none inside. Using the inquisition as a bluff is the most ill do. Where the city guard here are a hammer in terms of their abilities to investigate and solve these issues, the royal guard is a sledge hammer. Both are equally able to scatter the rats but innocents can get caught in the crossfire.” another pause as if to strain his point.

“In those terms the inquisition is a cannon and many innocents will die while the roaches get away. The groups I work with are a scalpel, they go after supply lines and leadership, plant seeds of chaos and misinformation so that the vermin eat themselves.” he stated with confidence. “We just have to find them first.”

“Obviously the Inquisition isn’t much of an expert if all they do is make a mess and fail to get their target,” Riona said dryly, arching an eyebrow. Then she sighed, “I get it, you’re saying you guys are the closest thing to an expert. But I still think you’re putting innocent people at risk by keeping everyone in the dark about it.” It felt like sending a child out into the woods without telling them that there were wolves out there, all because Roman wanted to make sure that the pack leader didn’t notice he and his men were tracking them.

She fell silent, her eyes fixed on Roman’s hands as he worked his magic. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite puzzle out the purpose of the spell.

Stopping in his tracks he turned his head over his shoulder to look over at her with a cold stare. For a moment that's all he did, no smile barley any emotion at all. “You are NOT some random commoner Ríoghnach….” giving her his full attention for the moment he continued, “I am telling others just as I am doing now, slowly. Spreading this information to the wrong people can get the inquisition's attention and cause widespread panic.”

That was when Riona knew she couldn’t take everything he said at face value.
“Everything I have told you, I have told only you, and I can talk my way out of any of it.”
“I am telling others just as I am doing now, slowly.”
So which is it, Roman? You can’t have both.

Clenching his jaw in thought, Roman continued, “I intend to minimize the threat of both the criminal syndicate and rebel cell in this city and this kingdom. If either of them win, many innocent people will die.” reiterating the reason he was talking to her in the first place.

Riona frowned slightly. One second they’re discussing vampires, the next he’s on about criminal syndicates and rebels again? Sure, he mentioned the vampires having a powerful employer, and maybe he thought there was a connection with the criminal syndicates, but the rebels? Really? No… This felt less like altruism and more like a wolf eyeing up the neighbor’s henhouse.

Then again…

Innocent people would die regardless of who won: the syndicate, the rebels, or the current regime. They were dying now even as they spoke. Not in battlefields or massacres... but quietly.

Absent-mindedly, his hand reached up and rubbed his necklace spreading the red liquid across its surface. His arm ached from the spell’s and burned from the inflammation of his blood bond. It was up past his elbow now with the intricate pattern beginning to flare red across his skin.

His gaze was pulled away from the ache in his arm and back to her. He could tell her of the relics they brought with them but that might kill him. “Hidden in a secret compartment in my personal chest is a book. You need a magnet to lift the bottom of the chest out. The book is magic and it's old, I've been translating the book for some time.” showing her the crystal he gripped in his hand, “I found it deep in a mountain, on a pedestal of obsidian surrounded by crystals, jem’s, and jewels growing from the surrounding stone.”

The memory of the place made him sigh, it was peaceful there. “The crystals hold magic better than any other medium I have found. They are used in these trees as they absorb the spell we cast during our ritual here… this should make the effects of the spell last longer in this area.” should was the key word there although they understood some of what these crystals were for they didn't have a true understanding of them.

Fascination lit up Riona’s eyes. This was the stuff straight out of a novel or one of her cousin’s adventures—secret compartments, magic books, mountain crystals—each detail ignited her curiosity. “So this spell,” she said, gesturing at the trees. “What’s it actually supposed to do?” More importantly. “Can you teach me how to use those crystals?... Rune magic?”

Again she was met with silence as he regarded her. The silence continued as he removed the last of the stones from the last tree. Roman didn't even regard her again until after the spell was cast leaving his arm looking almost like the tree behind him. His breath became more strained with the use of the last spell.

“Peace, Luck, and healing.” he started as he retrieved a small bottle from his hip pouch. “A powerful ritual conducted at the same time as sixteen other similar rituals were performed across all three of the major kingdoms in hidden locations.” A sigh escaped him; he was not looking forward to what he had to do next.

Peace, Luck, and healing. The words echoed in her mind, taunting her. If true, it changed things.

Riona’s hand drifted to her chest, fingers splaying over the ever-present fire within. She thought she enjoyed her time in the forest because of the tranquility nature brought… well, naturally. But if it was magically induced?

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She might need to stop coming here.

For all she knew, the rune’s magic could be mucking with her own. Weakening it. Hells, maybe even be powerful enough to just undo what she had been working for for all these years entirely.

Riona’s grip tightened over her heart. Would she need to destroy these? The thought of it made her stomach twist with guilt. It felt like kicking puppies—if puppies were arcane safeguards meant to protect people. People. That meant them too: the Danroses.

Why?... If this was always here, why didn’t it protect us when we needed it the most?

“It affects everyone and everything differently, but it's a slow burn spell and will take its time. Until then chaos will be a normal occurrence while the natural world shifts to realign its balance.”

Roman’s concern about the rebels suddenly clicked into place: if he followed some Druidic philosophy, one that emphasized balance between chaos and order, then of course he’d be wary of sudden upheaval. Even if he claimed to care for the downtrodden.

Surely he must know that discontent doesn’t sprout from contentment. People didn’t risk their lives, their families, for trivial reasons. No, this unrest had deep roots—poverty, oppression, desperation: imbalance.

A sharp breath in and then a grimace, “Fuck.” spoken through gritted teeth as the green slimy concoction flowed from the bottle and over his arm. Audible sizzling and the strong stench of hard solvents filled the air. Pain evident on his face while he tried to think of something else, the bleeding slowly replaced by the dripping of the ooze.

Riona visibly flinched at his pain, hand raised to reach over to him before she stopped herself.

“If the information you get me is… good, I can teach you a… little at a time. It would count as some of your… payment.” Romans eyes flared and his arm shook while biting back the pain. “I… I can arrange it so that we pair up for the… up-upcoming camping event.”

Riona forced herself to nod, her eyes never leaving Roman. The acrid smell of chemicals made her nose wrinkle. “I’ll... see you at the camping event then,” she managed, her throat tight. “Are you done casting spells?”

The moment he grunted an affirmative, Riona didn’t hesitate. She grabbed his uninjured arm. “Come on,” she said, tugging him towards the nearest spring, her grip firm but gentle. “We’re patching you up. Now.” Her tone brooked no argument.

Glancing back, she grimaced at the ooze and blood. “First, we’re getting that off you,” Riona said, “Then I’ll whip up something for the pain with what I can. Any allergies I should know about?”

“One more thing to do.” He placed two rolls of cloth next to them and a clear bottle with an amber colored viscous liquid inside, “the honey will help with the burns… it needs to look like an accident at the forge.” he neither hesitated or explained more.

He didn't let her respond with a flick of his hand. The lighter he had retrieved from his pouch sparked to life. A bright white and orange flash traveled across his left arm burning off the ooze and searing his flesh.

His right hand plunged into the ground as deep breaths took him over. The pain was intense but far from the worst he has been through. The fall down the mountain when the rope snapped was still his least favorite experience. At the very least his shaman would be able to get it his hand working again by the morning.

“Ok… ok… now you can take care of it and no, I only have issues with Raspberries.” he spoke between breaths. Many years of training and work kicked in to keep himself calm and controlled. Mostly it was getting his mind over it, physically this would just be a few more scars on his arm in a few weeks. A benefit of the curse he thought.

Riona’s stomach lurched as Roman’s flesh sizzled. The stench of burning skin hit her nostrils, memories resurfaced, and she swallowed hard against the bile rising in her throat. Sh*t. This was bad. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. Burns. She could treat burns.

“Keep your hand under the water,” she ordered, guiding his hand into the cool spring. “I’ll be right back.”

She darted into the underbrush, eyes scanning for anything useful. There—yarrows. And there—comfrey and plantain leaves. Into the basket they went. With her knife, she scored the bark of a willow tree, peeling back a strip to reveal the pale inner layer. Carefully shaving off what she needed, Riona snapped off a leafy branch, then sprinted back to Roman.

He did what he was told, the pain in his arm momentarily overpowering his train of thought. This might not have been the best idea but at least she is able to work like this. His thoughts ran over all the information he passed onto her, wondering if he made the right decision hiring her.

Back at the spring, she set Roman’s arm to air dry while she prepped. Riona rinsed the plants and her mouth before grinding them with her teeth into paste. It wasn’t exactly sanitary, but this would have to do. Her cotton skirt tore with a satisfying rip—damnit. Roman’s bandages. Could’ve used those. Ah well, waste not, want not.

Gently, she daubed the herbal paste over Roman’s angry red skin, layering willow leaves atop it before wrapping everything securely with the cloth. “Why are you doing all this?” Riona finally asked. “Out of the goodness of your heart? A sense of duty?... Why?”

Silence was all she was met with. He was obviously thinking. Either not knowing the answer or deciding how to answer. His gaze moved from his arm to meet hers, “you could say it's duty…” again silence his stare looking as if he was looking at something a thousand miles away. “My will is not entirely my own.” the confidence in his voice wavered for the first time during their conversation, his gaze shifting to his right arm.

“My will is not entirely my own.”

An unexpected, familiar ache rose in Riona’s chest. She understood—maybe not in the same way, not in the way Roman lived it every day—but she knew it through her cousin. A kind of curse that binds and hollows out a person bit by bit. Her mother had distanced them from the burden the family carried, carving out a life far from the duties that consumed those left behind. It had spared Riona the responsibility, but her cousin hadn’t been so lucky.

Then there was the more literal type of curse…
“...it’s the alter personality or twin soul curses you have to be worried about.”

Her fingers slowed as she finished securing the last knot. “I’m sorry,” Riona said to Roman, but also to the memory of her cousin. “It’s not fair…”

“If you are doing this for everyone’s sake… then thank you.” Riona withdrew her hands. “I hope there’s something or someone in your life that makes it all worthwhile.”

Again her answer was silence and a thousand yard stare. His thoughts replaying memories, quick flashes of suffering and strife, love and loss, only to end with death and rage. His gaze returned to hers, his confidence returning with a hint of anger. Not at her or the pain in his arm, no this was an anger towards the world.

... The spell fed on that anger, the hate, as it always did. And grew.

“There was once. I might be able to find someone again.” The large man stood pulling down his jacket sleeve carefully then slipped on his gloves. “I appreciate what you have done but don't thank me, at the end of this summer we may end up being enemies.” the man paused as if remembering something. “There was one other thing I have to pay you with but I'll talk to you more about it at the camping event. I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors Riona.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

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

Ryn’s hand touched Luz’s shoulder, barely a whisper of contact it might have been imagined, yet it was enough to halt her retreat. He tutted softly and teased, “Folding so soon? You need to up your game, Luz.”

The hand trailed down her arm, lifted her elbow upward before finding her hand. With a gentle tug, he guided her towards a particularly inviting lush patch of grass.

As they settled onto nature’s emerald cushion, Ryn coaxed her feet onto his lap. A hint of mischief danced in his eyes. “Since you’ve so graciously conceded this round, I believe the rules state that you have to remove one item of clothing.” His fingers hovered over her shoe, a silent question in the pause. At her slight nod, he eased it off.

Under the guise of a massage, Ryn examined the condition of her foot. His fingers mapped the landscape of it, noting each twitch, each sigh, as he tried to piece together the story written in skin and muscle.

Across the sole, parallel welts ran from heel to arch, like furrows in a field long fallow. Faded lines crisscrossed newer welts, their uniform width and spacing as deliberate as any craftsman’s work. The cane’s signature was unmistakable. Ryn’s breath caught, a hitch so slight it might have been mistaken for a sigh. He met Luz’s gaze, his eyes reflecting deep understanding. For now, he held his tongue, allowing his touch to convey what words could not.

“I’m... we’re all managing as best we can, each in our own way. Peter, though... he’s struggling. Antsy. So angry that it’s driving him to take unnecessary risks. I’m worried about him.” He had hoped Peter’s infatuation with Ms. Persephone might temper his recklessness, but her silence only seemed to fuel it. A heavy sigh escaped him as he continued his ministrations.

The quiet between them stretched, filled only by the distant party sounds and the occasional sharp intake of breath as Ryn’s fingers found tender spots.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft, earnest. “Don’t be afraid, Luz. Whatever it is you desire, whatever would bring you happiness—I want to hear it. I want to help.” Even as said these words, a niggling suspicion took root in the back of Ryn’s mind. Her reluctance, the weight of words unspoken… they hinted at a request he both dreaded and, in the darkest corners of his soul, anticipated.

🗡 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?”