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Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Bastion

Bastion ☼ Unknown (Approx. 100 years) ☼ Male ☼ Warforged ☼ Warrior

Appearance

Height:

7'0"

Weight:

400 lbs

Hair Color:

None

Eye Color:

Soft Blue (Faint Glow)

Skin Tone:

Ivory with Bronze Accents

Distinguishing Features:

☼ Etched carvings on his plating—small stars, swirling constellations, simple flowers, and an old noble crest, scratched into his armor by a child's hands.
☼ Signs of wear but well-maintained plating.

Clothing Style:

Simple, durable garments when necessary, but often forgoes clothing beyond a special scarf and a leather harness for carrying gear.

Psychology

Likes:

☼ Watching the sky, particularly stars and clouds..
☼ Small, delicate creatures (birds, insects, rodents).
☼ Learning about customs and emotions from others.

Dislikes:

☼ Senseless violence and cruelty.
☼ Being given orders without choice.
☼ His own reflection—sometimes sees a distorted image.

Habits/Quirks:

☼ Pauses mid-conversation to observe small details others overlook.
☼ Mimics facial expressions but doesn’t always understand them.
☼ Instinctively shields others, even from minor inconveniences.

Dreams/Motivations:

☼ To understand who he is, and who he wants to be.
☼ To honor the memory of what he once protected.
☼ To find a new purpose in the world beyond his prime directive.

Sexuality: Unknown (Never considered it)

Willingness to make friends (1-5): 4
Willingness toward romance (1-5): 2

Personality

Engaging With Others
✦ Extroversion (1-5): 2
✦ Kindness (1-5): 5
✦ Chattiness (1-5): 2
✦ Trustfulness (1-5): 3
✦ Sense of Humor (1-5): 2
✦ Loyalty (1-5): 5
✦ Selflessness (1-5): 4
✦ Flirtatiousness (1-5): 1
✦ Arrogance (1-5): 1

Handling Conflict and Decisions
✦ Patience (1-5): 5
✦ Temperance (1-5): 4
✦ Forgiveness (1-5): 5
✦ Courage (1-5): 5
✦ Stubbornness (1-5): 3
✦ Pacifism (1-5): 4
✦ Impulsiveness (1-5): 2
✦ Creativity (1-5): 2
✦ Mercy (1-5): 4
✦ Charisma (1-5): 3

Background

Place of Origin: Cyre (Destroyed in the Mourning)
Current Occupation: Wandering protector
Living Family Members: None
Why are you traveling to Khorvaire? Searching for purpose in a world that no longer has a place for him.
Non-Combative Skills:
☼ Observant and detail-oriented.
☼ Surprisingly gentle, good at handling fragile things.
☼ Capable of lifting and carrying immense weight effortlessly.
☼ Knowledge of noble etiquette, though he doesn’t always understand its nuances.

History

Bastion was not forged for war, but for protection. Among his peers, he stood as an elite vanguard, a sentinel designed to shield and endure. During the Last War, he was entrusted with the protection of many assigned individuals, yet none more important than the individual he was ordered to safeguard on a mission that took him far beyond Khorvaire—to the distant continent of Sarlona. This was no ordinary charge; the individual was of immense significance, and their survival was paramount.

What began as duty became something more. Spending years at their side, Bastion absorbed their kindness, curiosity, and wonder, mirroring their mannerisms despite not fully comprehending them. For the first time in his existence, he was not just a protector—he was a companion, a friend.

But all things end.

The war was over. His purpose, gone. What once defined him had been stripped away, leaving him an aimless relic in a world that no longer had need of him.

Now, he returns to Khorvaire—a land he was built to serve yet has never truly known—searching for a new purpose, or perhaps just an answer to the question:

What am I now?

Combat & Magic Potential

Class Concept / Role: Warrior

Signature Abilities:

☼ Defensive Mastery – Expertly reduce a devastating hit on yourself or an ally into a mere glancing blow.
☼ Juggernaut – Charge forward with unstoppable momentum, ignoring terrain or smaller enemies attempting to block your path.
☼ Crushing Blow – Deliver a powerful strike that shatters defenses or knocks large foes sprawling.

Major Weaknesses:

☼ Limited Social Understanding – Struggles with complex social interactions, taking things too literally
☼ Burdened by the Past – Still haunted by the ghosts of his past, leading to moments of heavy stress surrounding specific triggers that can cause him to go into a temporary low power mode (Essentially turning him off).
☼ Hulking – His immense build makes him powerful, but he lacks agility.

Racial Trait:
☼ Living Construct - Warforged do not need food, sleep, or air, and their bodies are naturally armored. They can also perform inhuman feats of endurance, such as traveling long distances without rest or resisting extreme conditions.

Boons and Banes:

☼ Boon 1: Kinetic Absorption - Bastion’s body is designed to absorb and redirect kinetic energy. When struck with a powerful attack, he can convert the impact into a surge of strength, either delivering a devastating counterblow or using it to fuel an explosive movement, such as a leaping attack or shockwave strike.
☼ Boon 2: Unbreakable Endurance – Bastion’s sheer fortitude makes him incredibly difficult to take down. He can endure extreme punishment, continue fighting through pain, and remain standing long after others would fall.
☼ Bane: Identity Crisis – With the war over and his past purpose lost, Bastion struggles with his identity. He questions whether he is still just a tool or if he has the right to define himself. This internal struggle sometimes causes hesitation in critical moments or leaves him vulnerable to manipulation.

Combat Equipment and Gear:

☼ Tower Shield

☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)

☼Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain mechanism is housed within Bastion’s left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook. He can fire it to latch onto enemies, pulling them closer or yanking them off ledges. It can also be used for mobility, allowing him to scale walls, mountains, or even grapple onto massive creatures to climb atop them..

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

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Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron
Roleplay Rules

1. Commitment & Posting Expectations

• Please only join if you are committed to posting at least once per week.
• While you may not always be required to post weekly, this is the maximum speed at which you may be expected to contribute.
• If you find yourself unable to continue or needing a break, you must notify the GMs. We expect clear communication.

2. Character Fate & Leaving the Game

• If you drop out of the campaign , you sign over full rights of your character’s fate to the GMs.
• Your character may be written out in a way that fits the story (e.g., disappearance, death, NPC status).
• If you anticipate a long absence, please communicate with the GMs to arrange a solution.

3. Roleplay Etiquette & Conduct

• No godmodding – You cannot control other players' characters or dictate outcomes without consent.
• No metagaming – Your character should not act on OOC (Out of Character) knowledge that they wouldn't realistically have.
• No speedposting – Be patient and allow all involved players time to respond before moving forward.
• Respect all players and GMs – Treat everyone with courtesy, both in and out of character.
• Adult themes (violence, intrigue, and mature topics) are allowed , but all sex scenes must fade to black .

4. Thematic Roleplay & Setting Immersion

• Eberron is a world of moral ambiguity and intrigue. Expect complex decisions, shifting alliances, and unexpected twists.
• Your character should have a reason to be in the world and engaged in the story. Avoid "lone wolves" who refuse to interact with the group.
• Magic is industry. Arcane power is practical and woven into society; keep this in mind when developing your character.

5. Conflict Resolution & GM Authority

• The GM has final say on all disputes, rulings, and game progression.
• If an issue arises between players, attempt to resolve it amicably before involving the GM.
• PvP (Player vs. Player) conflicts require consent from all involved parties.

6. Posting Format & Writing Standards

• Posts should be clear, descriptive, and in third-person past tense unless otherwise specified.
• Avoid one-liner responses unless they are appropriate for dialogue.
• Use proper spelling and grammar to the best of your ability.

7. Character Creation & Progression

• All characters must be approved by the GM before joining the game.
• Characters should fit within the Eberron setting , respecting its lore, politics, and themes.
• As the campaign progresses, character development should be natural and reflect in-game experiences.

8. Lore & Homebrew Adjustments

• This campaign will stay true to core Eberron lore , but some elements may be adjusted or expanded for storytelling purposes.
• House rules and homebrew elements will be communicated by the GMs.
• Be flexible and open to these adjustments for the sake of world cohesion.

9. Player Conduct & Community Expectations

• Harassment, discrimination, or toxic behavior will not be tolerated.
• This is a collaborative storytelling experience; work with your fellow players to create an engaging narrative.
• If you have concerns, bring them to the GMs privately and respectfully.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Welcome to Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

A Play-by-Post Campaign Set in a World of Intrigue, Arcane Industry, and Endless Adventure

Welcome to Eberron, a world shaped by magic, war, and ambition. It is a world where airships drift between towering metropolises, where elemental-fueled machines have changed the face of industry, and where ancient secrets lurk beneath the surface, waiting to be unearthed. But in the wake of a devastating war, the people of Khorvaire are left to pick up the pieces—some seeking power, others redemption, and many simply looking for a fresh start.

In Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron , you play as one of these seekers, arriving in Khorvaire with nothing but your wits, your past, and your future to carve out. Whether you are a veteran of the Last War, a fugitive escaping your old life, or an explorer chasing opportunity in the world's arcane-industrial revolution, your story begins here.

The Setting: A World Reborn from War

Map of Khorvaire

For over a century, the Last War raged across the continent of Khorvaire , as the Five Nations fought for dominance following the collapse of the Kingdom of Galifar . The war only ended four years ago with the signing of the Treaty of Thronehold , bringing a fragile peace—one that many doubt will last. The scars of the conflict are everywhere: cities lie in ruins, nations nurse old grudges, and displaced soldiers roam the land, searching for purpose.

Adding to the uncertainty is the catastrophic event that ended the war— The Mourning . On the Day of Mourning , the once-proud nation of Cyre was consumed by a magical cataclysm, leaving behind the deadly and unnatural wasteland known as the Mournland . No one knows what caused it, but fear of another such event has kept the peace... for now.

The great houses, powerful dragonmarked dynasties , continue to expand their influence, ruling the world’s economy with their monopolies on magic, transportation, healing, and more. Meanwhile, spies and assassins wage an invisible war between the nations, secret societies weave their plots, and criminal syndicates thrive in the chaos.

This is the Khorvaire you arrive in—restless, unstable, and filled with endless possibilities.

Where You Begin: A Fresh Start on the Frontier

Your journey starts aboard an airship bound for Khorvaire , carrying travelers from across the world. Some seek fortune, some seek escape, and others carry ambitions that will shape history. But whatever your past, the future is unwritten.

Character Creation: Who Are You?

In Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron , you are an outsider, a traveler, a survivor of the world's upheavals. Your reason for coming to Khorvaire is your own, but here are some questions to help shape your character:

- What is your history with the Last War ? Did you fight in it? Lose everything to it? Profit from it?
- Why are you leaving your old life behind? Are you running from enemies? Seeking a new identity? Pursuing a lost dream?
- What are you looking for in Khorvaire ? Wealth? Power? Redemption? Something more personal?
- Who are your allies and enemies ? Do you have old debts to settle? Family you left behind? Rivals who would kill to see you fail?

Eberron is a setting where magic is a tool, not a miracle, and where the line between hero and villain is blurred. Your character should have personal stakes, a drive to shape their future, and a reason to be in this new world of intrigue and adventure .

The Themes of the Campaign

- World in Transition: The Last War has ended, but its wounds still fester. Nations, organizations, and individuals alike are struggling to rebuild or reshape their destinies.
- No Clear Good or Evil: Morality is gray, and the line between hero and villain is often one of perspective.
- Magic as Industry: Arcane technology powers everyday life, from lightning rails to warforged soldiers . Magic is practical, and innovation is constant.
- The Unknown Beckons: Whether it’s the Mournland’s deadly mysteries , the intrigues of dragonmarked houses , or ancient and long-forgotten ruins , Khorvaire is filled with secrets waiting to be uncovered.
- Your Choices Matter: Allies, betrayals, and ambition will define your journey. The world will react to your actions, for better or worse.

Interested? Join the Adventure.

If you're ready to step into the world of Eberron —a land of scheming nobles, ambitious criminals, and wonders both arcane and terrifying—then Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron awaits.

No matter your past, Khorvaire offers a chance to start anew. But nothing is given freely, and every fresh start comes with a price.

How will you shape your destiny?

Only time will tell.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Cassius & Calbert

Time: Late Evening of Sola 26th
Location: Damien Estate

---

Cassius had barely stepped into the grand foyer when his gaze landed upon the unmistakable figure of his father. Calbert Damien stood beside the elegant grand piano at the room's center, a cigar held loosely between his fingers. Wisps of smoke curled slowly upward, dissipating into the air. The count's posture was impeccably poised, yet his eyes betrayed his simmering displeasure. The reflection of the ornate mirrors cast haunting shadows behind him, making his silhouette loom larger than life.

He brought the cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply before releasing a slow stream of smoke. His eyes locked onto Cassius, scrutinizing him silently for a long, charged moment.

"Cassius," Calbert finally spoke after a deliberate silence, voice calm yet edged with unspoken displeasure. His voice was laced with a warmth that never quite reached his eyes. “I trust your evening was... eventful?”

Cassius paused, the remnants of the evening still lingering—the taste of Charlotte on his lips, the weight of her trust in his arms. He raised a brow at his father, a smirk settling effortlessly onto his features despite the intensity in Calbert’s gaze.

“Eventful? You could say that.” Cas shrugged offhandedly, striding deeper into the room. He moved past Calbert, stopping at the decanter resting elegantly on a nearby side table. His fingers brushed the crystal, but he hesitated, a subtle tension threading through his shoulders.

Finally, Cassius glanced over his shoulder, offering Calbert a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Though I suspect you already know exactly how my evening went. Isn’t that right, Father?” Turning back towards the decanter, he poured two glasses of whiskey and moved towards Calbert to hand him one.

Calbert’s eyes flicked to the glass Cassius offered, but he made no move to take it. Instead, he allowed the silence to thicken once more as he slowly lowered the cigar from his lips, the red ember at its tip glowing faintly. “Indeed,” he began. “I’d say I hardly need a recap of your evening,” he went on, the corners of his mouth tightening in a humorless smile. “Given that kiss you bestowed on Lady Charlotte Vikena for all the world to see outside her estate. One could judge the quality of your night from that alone, wouldn’t you agree?”

He turned slightly, setting the cigar down on the edge of the piano’s glossy surface. The fresh scrape of ash on wood underscored the tension in the air. “You do take after me in the manner you enjoy your theatrics, Cassius.”

“If there's a point you're trying to make, Father, I'd prefer you didn't dance around it. It's late, and despite my apparent flair for theatrics, I'm not in the mood for games.” With a pointed glance, Cassius withdrew the offered drink, tipping the contents of the extra glass into his own with deliberate ease. The whiskey burned pleasantly as he took a sip, stormy eyes never leaving his father as he waited, daring him to get to the point.

Calbert’s brows arched ever so slightly, the only visible sign of his surprise at Cassius’s boldness. “Games?” he echoed incredulity with bubbling anger, “You dare to accuse me of such a thing, after you deliberately disobeyed the one request I made of you?”

He exhaled a short, humorless laugh, stepping forward. “I warned you—told you to keep your distance from that girl. And yet here you stand,” his voice took on a colder edge, “practically boasting about your little dalliance, not just once but time and again.”

The count began to enumerate each incident, unfolding one finger at a time in a deliberate show of control. “First, at my very own event just hours after I asked you to stay away from her, you danced with her. Then, you appeared at the Edwards gathering side by side, rolling in the grass like carefree children. Next, you dashed off in the dead of night on her account—and now, you saw fit to take her out on a date.”

His gaze flicked to the whiskey in Cassius’s grip. “It’s almost amusing,” he mused, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “Seeing you there, so nonchalant—drinking in the dead of night, as though you truly believe you can stand toe-to-toe with the father who’s done nothing but take you in and show you kindness.”

He paused, letting the quiet drag, his mouth curving into a mirthless smile. Slowly, he spread his arms, a flicker of sadness washing over his features. “But if you’re really so averse to playing a game, Cassius,” he continued softly, “then lay down your cards.” Taking a single step forward, he lifted his chin and fixed his gaze upon his son, his voice dropping to a dangerously measured pitch.

“Tell me, boy—what have I done to deserve this from you?”

“Disobeyed?” Cassius echoed, a quiet scoff slipping past his lips. The corners of his mouth curled into a wry, humorless smirk as he swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid catch the dim light before his gaze lifted, sharp and unyielding. “You speak as though I’m some unruly child rather than a grown man who has seen more of this world than even you, has accomplished more as lowly, and let’s not forget fatherless commoner than most blue-blooded, silver-spoon fed noble fools could ever even dream of.”

He took a slow step forward, not quite challenging, but refusing to back down. “And I danced with her because she was on the verge of falling apart, and I wasn’t about to stand there and watch. I went with her to the party because we happened to cross paths that morning at the lake, and it simply made sense. I ran after her because any man of honor would find it a little concerning to see a noblewoman rushing towards an inferno like she was. Isn’t that what you expect of me, to behave like a man of honor? And yeah I kissed her—” He paused just briefly, something flickering in his storm-gray eyes before he smothered it, his voice evening out once more. “ There was no strategy, no ulterior motives. It was not a chess move, nor an act of defiance against you, father. I did it because I wanted to. It’s that simple.”

Cassius tilted his head slightly, studying his father with the same assessing sharpness Calbert so often reserved for others. The older man was a master of control, his calm as smooth as glass, but Cassius had learned to recognize the tension just beneath it—the blade hidden beneath silk, poised to strike.

“You want me to lay down my cards?” he mused, voice quiet but edged with something firm. “Fine. Consider them on the table.”

He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t waver beneath the weight of his father’s scrutiny.

“Charlotte’s not a pawn, Father, and neither am I.”

Cassius took another slow sip of his whiskey, letting the burn settle in his chest, grounding him. When he spoke again, his voice dipped lower, quieter, but carried a challenge all the same.

“So let’s hear it—why does it matter to you so damned much what I do with Charlotte Vikena?”

The count exhaled slowly through his nose. His fingers drummed against the polished surface of the piano as his mind whirred. “You mistake me, Cassius… If you think I see either you or Lady Charlotte as mere pawns, then you know nothing of me at all.”

His brows drew together, his tone dipping into something almost wounded. “I have spent my life securing our family’s standing, ensuring its survival. Do you think I would waste my time trying to guide you if I thought you were just a piece to be moved on a board?” His gaze darkened, flickering with something unreadable. “I told you to keep your distance not to control you, not to amuse myself with some arbitrary restriction—but to protect you.”

He let those words settle, watching Cassius closely, gauging his reaction before continuing. “ I know I did not give you enough context.” A humorless chuckle left him as he shook his head. “ But instead of asking for more, you immediately sought her out. You must understand why I take some insult… ” His voice tightened, his chin lifting slightly.“Whether you simply fancy her pretty face or have found yourself completely smitten with the girl, I am going to insist you keep your distance from her once more if you truly care about the wellbeing of this family, and most importantly—your sisters.”

He lifted his hand before Cassius could interrupt.

“Before you protest, before you dismiss my words as paranoia, I will give you the context you seem to so desperately lack.”

“Lady Charlotte Vikena,” he continued, “is not the woman you think she is. In fact, she is far from an innocent socialite caught up in the drama of the nobility. She is a woman who has aligned herself with those who wish to do our family harm.”

He lifted a hand, fingers pressing against his temple as if exasperated by his son’s obliviousness. “You ask me why I want you away from Charlotte Vikena? Then listen carefully, because after tonight, I will not repeat myself.”

His hand lowered, and his eyes locked onto Cassius’s with unflinching severity.

“That girl surrounds herself with dangers you do not fully comprehend, nor do you seem to care to.” He scoffed, a humorless chuckle escaping him before his expression sobered. “Do you know who she harbors? Who she aligns herself with?” His lips curled, not in amusement, but in disgust. “It begins with two individuals—Kazumin and a woman now calling herself Olivia.”

“Kazumin Nagasa is a deranged, perverted maniac who has long fixated on Crystal in an unhealthy, stalking manner. He lurked around her bedroom, obsessed with my daughter. When he finally had the gall to come here upon invitation, he was completely out of his mind—irrational, and dangerous. Olivia attacked our home with arrows and helped him escape before the guards could arrest him… And as for Olivia… she is not merely some mysterious woman Charlotte sheltered out of kindness. She was seen at the very scene where my daughter Violet was attacked with an axe... Do you know what she was doing?”

His gaze burned into Cassius as he let the weight of that question settle. “Running.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Fleeing the scene.”

“And Charlotte?” His voice sharpened as he took a step forward, eyes narrowing. “Not only did she not turn these people over to the authorities, but she gave them sanctuary. She shielded them, hid them—protected them. And now?” His lips pressed into a thin line. “She chooses to remain in their company. She surrounds herself with them freely, as if their past actions mean nothing. And do you know who else she spends her time with?”

He scoffed again, shaking his head. “Count Fritz Hendrix.” His expression darkened. “The man who spent the night with Violet while she was missing, getting her drunk in the slums.”

“And if that were not enough,” Calbert went on, “she had the audacity to sneak into my study. A woman I have welcomed into my house on multiple occasions—a woman who was supposed to be a family friend—betrayed that hospitality and trespassed where she did not belong.” His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of the chair he had taken.

“She was caught going through my things. She stood there, like a guilty child, caught red-handed in an act of betrayal. And do you know what she did?” He arched a brow. “She came crying to you.”

Calbert shook his head. “Do you not see the pattern, Cassius? Do you truly not understand?” His tone was softer now, but no less intense. “This is not coincidence. This is not innocent rebellion or childish defiance. This is a deliberate entanglement with people who have, time and again, put our family in danger after YEARS of devotion of the Damiens to the Vikenas. They are a collection of criminals and liars, gathering under the guise of misfits and lost souls.” His jaw tightened. “And whether she realizes it or not, Charlotte Vikena has woven herself so deeply into their web that she is either blind to it or complicit.”

Cassius stood still, his grip tightening subtly around the glass in his hand as Calbert’s words settled over him like a thick, suffocating fog. His father’s voice, always so controlled, so measured, carried its weight with surgical precision—each accusation, each revelation, was sharpened to wound, to carve doubt into the certainty Cassius carried with him.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, before bringing the glass to his lips. The whiskey burned down his throat, but it was nothing compared to the fire curling low in his chest.

Kazumin. Olivia. Fritz. He knew the names. Some in passing, some more directly. He had heard the rumors, the whispers of scandal. And yet, as Calbert spoke, as he spun a tapestry of treachery and deceit, Cassius found himself unwilling to take it at face value. He had seen Charlotte—really seen her—and she was many things, but she was no villain.

And yet… this was not something he could just dismiss.

He set the now-empty glass down with an almost lazy motion, fingers tapping idly against the polished surface before he turned back to face his father fully.

“That’s quite the tale, Father,” he murmured, voice smooth but lacking its usual bite. His expression remained unreadable, a mask worn too well. “A rather convenient one, too.” He tilted his head, a wry smile ghosting over his lips. “And tell me—how much of this is truth, and how much of it is just the right amount of truth?”

His storm-gray eyes locked onto Calbert’s, sharp and searching.

“Because I know you, Father. I may not have known you long, but I know how you, and men like you, operate. Every word you just said was carefully chosen, every piece of information curated for maximum effect. You always play the long game, and you never show your full hand unless you’re certain it’s the winning one.” He let the accusation settle between them for a beat before continuing.

“But let’s say I take you at your word,” he went on, pacing a slow step forward. “Let’s say Charlotte does keep questionable company. Let’s say she’s made some reckless choices, aligned herself with people who have hurt our family. Does that mean she’s guilty by association? Perhaps. Or, maybe she’s just a girl in over her head trying to do the best she can for her friends. You can relate to doing what’s necessary to protect those you hold dear, can you not? Lily, Violet, Crystal…even me. And do you not keep questionable company yourself in order to ensure our safety?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“All the while, you’re expecting me to walk away from her, to cast her aside without a second thought. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp against the quiet room. “Tell me, Father—are you a man who lets other people decide for you who to care about? I think not. Why the fuck would you assume I’m any different in that regard?”

His voice was quieter now, less edged with defiance but no less resolute.

“I don’t doubt that you believe what you’re saying. But you also believe that control is the same thing as protection. That keeping people in check is the same as keeping them safe.” He huffed out a breath, rolling his shoulders back as if shaking off the weight of this entire conversation. “And maybe that’s true for you. Maybe that’s how you’ve kept this family afloat all these years.”

He turned away slightly, glancing down at the glass on the table before looking back at Calbert with something quieter in his eyes—something less subtle in its honesty.

“But that’s not who I am.”

A pause. A long one.

Then, finally, Cassius straightened, his usual smirk creeping back into place like armor being slipped on.

“You want me to stay away from her?” he mused, tilting his head in mock consideration. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

His grin widened, sharp and knowing.

“Because—” he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping lower, “—my days of simply following orders are long behind me.”

Cassius let the silence stretch, the weight of his words lingering in the air between them. He watched his father closely, searching for any crack in that carefully constructed facade. Then, slowly, deliberately, he let out a quiet, pointed chuckle.

“You know,” he mused, swirling what little remained of the whiskey in his glass before knocking it back, savoring the slow burn, “it’s funny how you spin this story, actually. How you lay out the dangers, the betrayals, the criminals she surrounds herself with. You paint her as naive at best, complicit at worst.”

His gaze lifted, sharp and unreadable, as he set the empty glass down with a soft clink.

“But there’s something missing from your tale, isn’t there? Something rather important. See, I’ve been thinking about that night at the masquerade.” He took another slow step forward, his voice still casual, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it now. “How she was standing there, barely holding herself together, looking like she’d just seen a ghost. Or rather…” His smirk faded slightly. “…like she’d just been torn apart by one.”

He tilted his head, watching his father’s expression with quiet scrutiny.

“You warned me to stay away from her, yet by your own admission you’re the one who left her in that state. You, Father. And I have to wonder—what exactly did you say to her? What did you do that was so vile as to make her crumble like that?”

He let that question sit between them, let it simmer.

“You claim she’s a danger to this family, yet from where I’m standing, the only person I’ve seen hurting anyone…” He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head, before finishing simply, “is you.”

Calbert had let him speak his piece, had allowed the silence to linger a moment longer. When he met Cassius’s gaze finally, his eyes reflected sadness and disappointment.

“...You speak boldly, Cassius, of truths and deception—as if your judgment is beyond reproach. Yet you accuse your own father while placing your trust in a woman you just met..”

He sighed and put his hands on hips. “Consider this: Charlotte Vikena has been like family to your sisters for years, Crystal has considered Charlotte to be her very best friend… Yet she willingly shelters those who have harmed both girls. You accuse me of manipulation, yet you fail to see how effortlessly she manipulates you.”

Calbert tilted his head slightly, stepping forward with a quiet intensity. “If you truly trust her so implicitly, I challenge you—ask her yourself. Look her in the eyes and ask if she’s withheld information from you. Ask her if she’s willing to reveal the full extent of her connections and intentions.” He raised his chin slightly. “See for yourself if your Charlotte is as honest and noble as you desperately wish her to be, or if perhaps my caution was justified after all.”

Cassius didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he pondered, rolling his father’s words over in his mind like a gambler turning a coin between his fingers, testing its balance. The room felt smaller somehow, thick with unspoken tension, but Cassius didn’t look away. He watched Calbert carefully, as if searching for something just beneath the surface—some tell, some flicker of something that wasn’t control, wasn’t calculation.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before finally—finally—he spoke.

“You know, when I first came here, I figured you’d treat me like most noble bastards get treated—like a stain on your honor, a mistake you’d rather pretend didn’t exist. And I was ready to play the role of thorn in your side, father.” His voice was quieter now, measured. “But you didn’t do that did you?. We both know you could’ve ignored me, cast me aside, made it clear I was nothing but an inconvenience to you.”

His eyes flickered, something genuine behind them. “Instead, you’ve been… generous. More than I expected. You took me in, gave me a place at your table, at your side. And whether that’s out of duty, guilt, strategy—hell, maybe even something close to fatherly affection—I don’t know. But I do know it’s more than most would’ve done.”

Shaking his head slightly, a quiet, almost amused scoff escaping him. “Which is why I’m not going to stand here and pretend your words hold no weight.”

He rested his hand on the edge of the table, fingers drumming idly against the wood.

“You think Charlotte’s dangerous—whether by her own choices or by the company she keeps.” His voice was steady. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe she is tangled up in something bigger than she realizes. Maybe she’s not as innocent in all this as I’d like to believe.”

His lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But perhaps even the great Count Damien could be wrong. Either way, I don’t take a man’s word as gospel, even if that man is my father.”

He straightened, running a hand through his hair before continuing. “You need to understand. No one survives as long as I have in this world, not with the life I’ve led, without knowing when someone’s playing you.”

Cassius tilted his head slightly, considering. “So, I’ll talk to her.” The words were simple, but firm. “Not because you ordered me to. Not because I believe every damn word you’ve said. But because at the end of the day you’ve earned that courtesy from me…And, because I want to hear the truth from her lips. Not yours.”

He stepped back slightly, giving Calbert an almost roguish smirk, but there was something else behind it now—something more grounded.

“You’re asking me to see things clearly, to see the bigger picture. Fine. But that means getting the real truth, not just the version that suits you.”

Cassius held Calbert’s gaze for a long moment before finally stepping back, striding over to the decanter again and pouring himself another drink.

Calbert watched Cassius speak in silence, his expression unreadable. Only the slow curl of cigar smoke betrayed the depth of his thoughts. Finally, he tilted his head slightly, exhaling through his nose.

“All I’m doing is looking out for you, Cassius.” His voice was quieter now, firm without harshness. “Your free will has never been in question. But I hope you will respect our family—especially your sisters.” He took a step forward, hands clasped behind his back, eyes unwavering.

“You assume I speak out of convenience. Perhaps. But I wouldn't waste my breath on empty words. Nor would I waste my time.” A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

His gaze flickered briefly toward Cassius, thoughtful. “Go talk to her, then. See for yourself.” His voice dropped lower. “But brace yourself, Cassius. You might not like what you find.” Turning away, he departed up the stairs.

Cassius watched as his father ascended the stairs, each measured step echoing through the quiet room. He didn’t speak, didn’t call after him—just stood there, that steel-gray stare following Calbert’s retreat until the man disappeared entirely.

Then, silence.

With one last glance toward the empty staircase, Cassius turned away, heading toward the doors. Despite having only been inside for a few moments, the night air called to him, crisp and cool, offering an escape from the weight of the conversation. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be getting much sleep anyway.

Time to go clear his head.

Tomorrow, he would figure out his next move. Tonight, or at least what remained of it…belonged to oblivion.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Lottie & Cas

Part 11

Time: Sola 26th

Location: Rosegate

It was a strange thing—for a man like him to be left speechless. But now, standing here with the taste of her still lingering on his lips, he found himself unwilling to break the silence. Because the silence meant something. It was charged, humming with everything they weren’t saying but had felt all the same.

His pulse was still hammering, wild and unrestrained, but his hands were steady where they rested on her. He could still feel the way she had melted into him, the way she hadn’t pulled away, the way her breath had caught just before his lips met hers. And gods, if that didn’t unravel him.

Cassius exhaled slowly, a low chuckle escaping as he let his forehead dip briefly against hers, an uncharacteristic softness overtaking him. “…Oh…” He repeated simply, knowingly.

Her lashes lowered as their foreheads pressed together, hiding the emotions behind her eyes, before she dared to peek up at him, and then suddenly broke into a breathless giggle.

And then, Charlotte poked his chest with one delicate finger and whispered, as if sharing a great secret— “…You taste like whiskey.” It was soft, almost shy, however, it was almost like she was memorizing the moment, tucking it away somewhere secret.

Cassius stilled for half a breath, then a slow, lazy grin curved his lips.

“Well, love,” he murmured, voice all low, velvet and warm. His hand at her waist flexed, just slightly, thumb sweeping slow over the fabric of her dress, the fingers of his other hand still resting beneath her chin. “I suppose it suits me,” he mused. “A little strong. A little reckless. An acquired taste…Sounds about right.”

“But you didn’t pull away.” His voice dipped lower, not quite teasing, not quite questioning—just a quiet observation. His touch skimmed up her spine, barely there, but enough to send a ripple through her. “So I’d wager even if you weren’t a whiskey girl before…You are now.”

His forehead still brushed against hers, close enough that her breath mingled with his, close enough that he could see the delicate rise and fall of her chest, could feel the warmth of her, soft against him. He didn’t move back even a fraction of an inch.
Because, gods help him, he wasn’t ready to.

Charlotte lingered close to him, her lashes still low as if the moment was too precious to look at fully. She let her fingertips brush along his chest, barely there and she let her forehead continue to rest against his, letting her eyes flutter shut for half a second.

Then, she whispered, "...Maybe I just like the way it tastes on you."

As soon as the words left her, her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, and she ducked her head slightly, tucking herself a little closer like she was hiding her own boldness. And then, just because she could, she slid her head down to rest against his shoulder.

His thumb brushed along her cheek, the touch tender and lingering. He tilted his head slightly to meet the soft, sweet scent of her hair as she nestled against him. He could feel the warmth of her, the undeniable pull of her presence, and damn, if that didn’t make his chest tighten with something sharp and unfamiliar.

“You’re killing me, Lottie,” he admitted softly, his voice betraying an edge of vulnerability he rarely showed. His fingers slid through her hair just enough to pull her even closer, a careful gesture that made her cheeks redden even more if such was possible, yet it felt like a declaration. “I don’t know what it is about you, but…” His words trailed off, lost to the space between them.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, the weight of it heavy and delicate. His hands found her waist again, pulling her closer still, the way only someone willing to fall could. And damn if he didn’t feel like he was falling.

“Maybe I should stick around long enough to find out,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss against the crown of her head. There was a quiet finality to it, a moment of surrender, like he was willing to let the rest of the world wait for him to figure this out. To figure her out.

But for now, just for now, he didn’t need to know everything. He just needed her to stay close.

Just as he took in a slow breath, still savoring the feel of Charlotte’s warmth against him, a couple brushed past them, jostling him roughly as they moved by, oblivious to the tension they’d just interrupted.

At first, Cassius stiffened, the muscle in his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked to the man who had bumped into him. He could feel the surge of irritation in his chest as he was torn from that perfect moment, but as his gaze locked onto the man, the anger faded—softened—by something that felt like a sudden, ridiculous realization.

He almost couldn’t help it. Cassius let out a short laugh, shaking his head, the fire in his chest dying away, replaced with the comfortable cynicism that only a moment like this could breed. His eyes drifted back to Charlotte, the tension between them still palpable, though the world outside had already started to rush back in.

He gave her a smirk, his voice smooth and teasing as he ran a hand through his hair. “Damn…I was quite enjoying that little moment.” He winked at her, his expression still playful despite the irritation that had almost been there a moment ago. “But we’re probably better off getting out of the way of people who can’t watch where they’re going.”

His gaze softened as he looked back to her, a gentle pull of his lips shifting into something more sincere. “C’mon. Let’s get back to the table.” His hand found hers again, his fingers threading through her own. “And hey—seem, I still owe you a little bit of info anyways, don’t I?”

Charlotte, still reeling from the moment they shared, picked up her head and met his gaze with a smile. Her lashes fluttered as she tried to focus on him, her fingers curling lazily around his hand as she leaned just a bit too close, her breath warm against his skin. “Yes, sir…” she teased, her voice light, but her finger poking him again with every word. “You owe me all the info!” She let out a little giggle that broke apart as she turned away, stumbling toward her seat.

She slumped into the chair, her fingers curling tightly around the edge, her shoulders heavy with something that wasn’t quite as playful as it seemed. Her eyes found his, pleading as she forced the smile to remain on her face.

“If you tell me…” she paused, her voice small, almost childlike, “you won’t leave me after, right?” The words barely escaped her lips, faltering, almost desperate in the way she asked

For a moment, Cassius just stared at her.

The words hit him harder than any punch, any blade, any wound he’d ever taken. It wasn’t just what she said—it was the way she said it. Soft. Small. Like she already expected the answer to be yes. Like she was bracing for it.

And damn if that didn’t tear something open inside him.

His usual smirk was gone, stripped away by the rawness of her voice, by the way her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table like she was holding herself together. His hand was still warm from holding hers, but she had already pulled away. Like she was waiting for the inevitable.

Waiting for him to leave.

Cassius exhaled, slow and steady, but there was no easy way to navigate this moment, no witty remark that could smooth over the weight of what she’d just asked.

So, instead, he did the only thing he could…

Answer from the heart.

“Lottie.” His voice was quiet, steady, but there was an edge to it. He leaned in slightly, resting his forearms against the table, closing the space between them without touching her. His storm-gray eyes locked onto hers, searching. Pleading.

“I’m not going anywhere.” The words came low, firm. A promise.

He let them sit there, let the words settle between them like a weight lifted, like something solid to hold onto. And maybe it scared him too—how much he meant it. How much he needed her to believe it.

His fingers twitched slightly against the tabletop before he reached out, brushing his knuckles against the back of her hand—tentative, uncharacteristically gentle. He wanted to say more…to make grand proclamations, to prove to her that he had no ill intent.

But what was his intent, exactly? And were those intentions something that could even be real? He wasn’t sure he knew the answer, yet he knew that he meant what he had said. And so, again, he repeated the only words that he could—and he spoke those words like a vow.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Charlotte’s searching gaze moved over his face, as if trying to memorize the weight of his words.

For a moment her expression softened and she gently smiled. Her head then lowered onto her arm, her lashes casting shadows against her cheeks as she rested against the table. Yet, even then, she didn’t look away.

“Okie dokie…” Her light voice shifted into something more casual as she added with higher volume, “ … Sooo… Violet…”

Cassius exhaled slowly, the weight of her question still lingering in his chest, even as she shifted gears so effortlessly. He almost smirked at the casual “Okie dokie” —almost. But the truth was, he was still reeling. Still feeling the way her voice had cracked just moments ago. Still hearing the way she had asked that question like she already knew the answer. Still feeling like there was a million things he had to say.

But instead, he let her have this. Let her steer them somewhere lighter, even if his heart was still catching up.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face before finally giving her a crooked smile. Alright, then.

“Violet.” His voice was still low, still touched with something softer, but his teasing edge was beginning to creep back in. “Right. Well… let’s just say she’s got a bit of a… condition. One that is a little…weirder than most.” He hesitated, once again questioning how wise it would be to share the kind of knowledge about his family that he knew without a shadow of a doubt would bring his, still newly found, father to a fumingV boil. But this was for Charlotte.

“She’s a vampire, Lottie.

Charlotte’s lashes fluttered, her gaze drifting unfocused over Cassius as a slow, sleepy smile curled at her lips. “I beg your pardon, “ Her voice was softened by her intoxication, her thoughts drowsily tangled. She’s a..”She exhaled a breath as if gathering the energy to finish her thought, but instead, a yawn escaped her lips.

Her lashes lowered once, twice…and then did not lift again.

Her posture slackened as her body relaxed fully, her breathing slow and even. One last murmured whisper drifted between them, barely audible—

“…Entirely too preposterous…”

And with that, Charlotte Vikena succumbed to sleep, blissfully unaware of the revelation she had just missed.

Cassius paused, his heart caught somewhere between concern and disbelief. He stared at Charlotte for a moment longer than necessary, her soft breathing filling the silence. She’d fallen asleep so suddenly, so unexpectedly. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest as he shook his head, still a little bewildered by everything that had just transpired. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

His hand moved gently toward her shoulder, brushing the hair from her face before letting it linger for just a second longer than necessary. His fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her dress, hesitant. She really just passed out on me. Mid-conversation. While talking about bloody vampires. Great.

Cassius exhaled, this time with purpose. It was time to move. The night was still young—too young to let her stay here in a place like this. He could already sense the way the club's atmosphere pulsed with something darker, the air thick with whispered exchanges and the scent of danger lurking just beneath the surface. Something about this place felt more menacing the longer he was there. It was not at all what he had expected when planning this date. Even the best club held it’s secrets, but something about the crowd here felt different than when they arrived. His gaze swept the room one more time, scanning for threats, before it returned to Charlotte.

He gently placed his hands under her shoulders, testing her weight. Okay, this is gonna be tricky. His mouth quirked upward despite himself, his usual sarcasm slipping out: “I guess that’s one way to get out of an awkward conversation.” He muttered under his breath, humored by the whole situation.

He moved to adjust her, carefully lifting her into his arms. She barely stirred, her head resting against him with a soft, unknowing trust that made something tighten in his chest. For a moment, he hesitated—staring down at her peaceful face.

Then, with a deep breath, he began to carry her out of the club, each step measured and steady, determined. The weight of her felt like nothing compared to the quiet promise he’d made to her. I’m not going anywhere.

As he made his way toward the exit, Cassius was fully aware of the subtle shift in the atmosphere as the patrons of the Crimson Veil regarded him and Charlotte—whispers barely suppressed, eyes tracking their every movement. But Cassius didn’t care. Not tonight.

That’s when he heard it—a voice, smooth and slithering through the air like honey.

“Cassius.” Lucian D’Arcy’s voice, charming as ever, carried across the room before he stepped into their path. His presence, that unsettling mixture of grace and enigmatic flair, made Cassius stiffen just slightly, but not enough to show it.

“How lovely it is to see you again.” Lucian’s eyes flicked to Charlotte in his arms, a flash of interest in those eyes. “And what a beautiful woman you’ve brought with you this time. You really are a lucky man.”

Cassius’ jaw clenched at the intrusion, his posture rigid as he glanced down at Charlotte, not wanting Lucian to get any closer. The way Lucian’s gaze lingered on her made something cold coil in Cassius’ stomach. His protective instincts flared.

“She’s not mine to offer your compliments to, Lucian,” Cassius said, his voice flat, a growl beneath the surface. His irritation was palpable, but he kept it controlled. Charlotte, still unaware of the conversation, remained nestled against him, and for a split second, his grip tightened just a little.

“Oh, but that kiss, dear Cassius…that kiss said otherwise.” Lucian’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “But you should know... She's an intriguing one. I’d love to get to know her better, do bring her back, won’t you?” He moved in closer to Charlotte, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her bag. Somehow without Cassius noticing, he slipped a sleek, crimson business card inside. He was damn good at what he did.

Cassius barely suppressed the urge to snap. “I’m starting to gather that it was a mistake to bring her here at all.” His voice was cold, dangerous, and he took a deliberate step forward, placing himself between Lucian and Charlotte.

“Goodnight, Lucian.” His words were clipped, sharp, and without waiting for a response, Cassius turned on his heel and began walking away.

Lucian watched them go, the smile never leaving his lips as he stood there for a moment, eyes following their retreating figures. His gaze flicked briefly to the woman standing at his side—Deva, a striking woman with raven-black hair and midnight eyes. She was dressed in an ensemble that commanded attention, and the moment her gaze met Lucian’s, there was an unspoken understanding.

“I know that look...” she murmured, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You have plans for them, don’t you boss?”

Lucian’s eyes remained locked on the door even after exited, his voice low and almost amused. “Not them... Just her.”

As Cassius carried Charlotte through the Crimson Veil’s gilded doors, the weight of unseen eyes followed him into the street, but he didn’t spare a single glance back.

His strides were steady, purposeful. She remained a quiet warmth in his arms, her breath featherlight against his collarbone, completely unaware of the storm raging beneath his skin.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Lottie & Cas
Part 9

Time: Sola 26th

Location: Rosegate

Charlotte steepled her fingers on the table, her lashes lowering as a wistful smile moved across her lips. “I suppose that makes us two tragic fools, chasing ghosts and answers the world never intended for us to find.” She sighed, reaching for her wine glass. Though the way she set it down afterward was far less graceful, the stem colliding with the table with a clink.

Ignoring her little incident with the cup, Cassius gave her a knowing little nod of playful agreement.

“As for that promise…” she murmured, her expression thoughtful, almost detached. “I cannot swear to something like that. But I will try. That is the best I can offer.” Her voice softened, growing distant as if the words were less for him and more for herself. “I know this much—I need to be better. The girl I am now… I reckon she wouldn’t survive what waits beyond those doors.”

He stilled as her words settled, his eyes locked onto hers. For once, he didn’t have a quick retort, no sharp-edged quip to throw between them like a shield. He simply let the weight of her words linger as he observed her as if searching for answers.

Charlotte lifted her glass again, gazing into the liquid as if it held the answers she sought. A thought slithered through her mind—heavy and cold.

If I am to succeed, then she must die.

Her lips parted slightly as if to voice something more, but instead, she took another a long sip.

A sip that was probably unwise.

A sip that was probably too late to stop.

A breath passed between them, thick with something unspoken, as she considered how his words had reminded her of Wulfric’s warning, of the caution she had already been urged to take. Fear should have settled in, but instead… she just felt tired.

It had been made undeniably clear the Black Rose was not to be trifled with. But what did it matter? She was too stubborn to turn back, too deep in the web to stop pulling at its threads. There was nothing to be done about that.

So instead, she deflected her thoughts, and she looked at him. Really looked at him.

Her brows furrowed slightly, her mind tracing back through their conversation, lingering on the things he had said—the things he hadn’t. There had been something in the way he spoke of paths with no return, something in the way his smirk never quite reached his eyes. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in her chest, something she wasn’t prepared to name.

Leaning forward, she braced her elbow against the table, studying him. “You say I should be careful, but what about you?” She gestured vaguely at him with a loose motion of her hand. “You… You speak of all these doors, all these paths with no way back—but sounds to me you’ve walked more of them than you’d care to admit.” Her words, though slurred just slightly from the wine, seemed thoughtful. “And your home…” She hesitated, watching his expression carefully, her own brow knitting together as she pieced together his words from earlier. “You said there’s a lot that goes on within the estate.”

She exhaled, shaking her head slightly as she peered at him with something dangerously close to worry. And then, suddenly, as if guided by instinct rather than thought, she leaned over the table and reached out, her fingertips brushing against his wrist and lingering. Her lashes fluttered slightly as she regarded him, the weight of wine and worry clouding her mind.

“You also said I shouldn’t go at this alone, but tell me, Cassius,” she murmured, her voice honeyed with intoxication, slow and soft in a way that almost felt too intimate, “Have you always been doing this alone?”

The brush of her fingertips against his wrist was light, fleeting, but it burned through the layers of his usual armor in a way he hadn't expected.

Cassius didn’t move at first, his pulse a slow, deliberate thud beneath her touch. His eyes flickered down to where her fingers lingered, then back to her face—her lashes lowered, her expression blurred with wine and something dangerously close to worry.

Then, smoothly, deliberately, he placed his other hand on top of hers, making her breath hitch slightly. His palm was warm and steady, Not restraining. Not pulling away. Just… there.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher around the edges.

“You’re right about one thing, love,” he voiced barely above a whisper. “I’ve walked my fair share of paths without a way back. More than I’d care to count. And I’ve opened doors by the dozen that should’ve stayed closed, just like you’re about to.”

He let his thumb trace across the back of her hand as he considered her his words. “The difference is, I knew what I was getting into… And more than that, I trained for such a life. For years. You? You’re still figuring out just how deep this rabbit hole goes. And Lottie, what if you’re just in over your head here?” He let the weight of his words linger before he sighed.

For a fleeting moment, Charlotte’s eyes dimmed as she murmured, “...Then I suppose I had better learn how to swim.”

“As for my home…If you can even call it that…” He glanced past her, toward the dimly lit corners of the nearby pier, as if something unseen lurked there. “There’s a lot that goes on within the estate, yes. Some of it I understand, some of it I don’t. My father seems to have fingers in every fucking cookie jar in Caesonia. He has his dealings, and I’m not entirely sure what his actual reach is just yet.”

His gaze found hers again, sharper this time. “And about Violet… I’ll tell you what I’ve surmised, but that knowledge doesn’t get to leave this table. Whatever merry band of detectives you’ve gathered can stay in the dark about this one, or they can find it on their own. This is just between us, understood?”

He didn’t wait for a response, instead…he allowed the tension in his jaw to loosen and his features to soften for but a moment. “You also asked if I’ve always done this alone,” he murmured, mirroring her words back to her. A small, knowing smirk tugged at his lips, though his eyes held something less than obvious. “Well, at least I’m not alone tonight.”

Cassius let that hang between them, letting her decide what to do with it, and letting himself, for just a moment, enjoy the warmth of her hand between his.

Charlotte’s lashes lowered as her fingers curled beneath his. She had decided not to comment regarding his father—for many reasons—however, she could imagine living with Calbert was a certain kind of hell.

Then, her eyes rose to meet his more intently after he had finished speaking. “Whatever you entrust to me shall remain between us.” Her eyes never wavered from his as she spoke. There was no hesitation, no flourish, just the certainty of a promise that would not be broken.

Slowly, her fingers shifted, twining with his in a way that felt natural, as if they had always been meant to fit together.

"And you’re right…" she suddenly added, her voice etched in gentle affection, "You’re not alone."

She squeezed his hand and then told him with a smile that was both soft yet sweet. "Not anymore."

“Not anymore,” he repeated under his breath, barely audible. It wasn’t a question, nor a statement of disbelief. It was a simple acknowledgment, one that ran deeper than either of them could likely explain in the heat of the moment.

He leaned a fraction closer, just enough that his breath brushed across her skin. His other hand, still resting over hers, tightened ever so slightly.

“Lottie,” Cassius began, his voice a soft murmur, “I promise, I’ll tell you everything I know about Violet before the night’s over…but…” He couldn't help but look at her with an expression that bordered on intimate. “There is one more thing I’ve got planned for us.

He allowed the silence to stretch between them, letting his words hang in the air like a secret that needed a little more time to unfold. “Can we put all of this out of our minds for a while longer? Just… let go, for a bit? Will you offer me your trust once more tonight?”

Cassius’ smile was slow, deliberate, and utterly disarming, his eyes never leaving hers. “I swear you’ll be glad you did.”

Her brows knitted together briefly then she softened, “... Alright! She finished off her drink in one last gulp then added, “Lead the way.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Lottie & Cas
Part 7

Time: Sola 26th

Location: Rosegate
Mention: @Tpartywithzombi Violet

Charlotte’s glass of wine hovered mid-air, forgotten as her hazy mind attempted to process what she had just heard. Her eyes had widened to the size of saucers, shock flickering across her face. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to regale her with a tale of battling hooligans while wielding an axe over steak and wine—but that was one thing. His final statement? That was an entirely different beast.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she blinked—once, twice, then a third time—her brows knitting together in slow, drunken confusion. The warmth of the alcohol buzzed pleasantly through her veins, making it difficult to hold onto any one thought for too long, but this story? This sliced straight through the haze.

"You should have let them kill me."

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass and her stomach felt as if it twisted

The room seemed to tilt ever so slightly, or maybe that was just the wine. Charlotte wasn’t sure. She let out a breathy, almost bewildered laugh, shaking her head as if that might help the pieces fall into place faster. But they didn’t. They scattered, like loose pearls on a marble floor, rolling just out of reach.

“You… You’re referring to Violet…“ The words came out slow as if she needed to hear them aloud to make them real. But why would they… “ Charlotte exhaled sharply, her fingers drumming anxiously against the stem of her glass. Pieces of the conversation she’d had with Violet came flooding back.

“ But yes, the mutt downstairs is apparently my half brother. He is also apparently great at killing people…”

She now finally understood why Violet had said that, but the fact Cassius had mentioned an axe brought up only more questions.

”… I saw… V-V-Violet D-D-Damien’s dead.. Dead body… With an ax to the face.. I don’t.. I don’t know how.”

“Um.” Her brows furrowed once more, “Did she have a scar on her face when you first saw her?”
Violet had said she didn’t remember anything, but she certainly remembered this specific encounter given her commentary…This means that whatever had happened to her, whatever had left her in that state, must have occurred before this.

Cassius took another slow sip of his wine, his expression unreadable as he let Charlotte’s question hang between them.

Oh, love, he thought dryly, that’s because my dear sister is actually a blood-sucking cursed creature of the night, and the Damien household is a madhouse wrapped in silk and scented candles.

But, of course, some things were best left unsaid; especially given that he had honestly already said too much with the story to begin with. Curse those wine-loosened lips. Even if he was starting to feel his drink a bit, and honestly had no idea where he truly fit in among the Damiens, he wasn’t the type to betray family secrets—not so easily, anyway. So instead of laying out the insanity for Charlotte on a silver platter, he simply chuckled and leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass.

“You’re asking good questions for someone who’s already deep into their third—or was it fourth?—glass of wine.” His smirk was easy, teasing, but his eyes held something heavier beneath the surface.

Then, after a beat, he tilted his head slightly. “But yeah… She had a scar—nasty thing, too. Looked like it had healed over, but it wasn’t old. Almost fresh, even.”

His fingers drummed against the table, and he let out a low exhale, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t ask questions at the time. Figured she had enough problems without me poking around her past.”

He lifted his glass in a small, almost wry toast before taking another drink. “But…regarding the whys and hows of it all, I’ll give you this much—there’s a lot that goes on behind the pristine doors of the Damien estate. More than I could ever explain over dinner.”

His gaze flickered over Charlotte for a moment, reading her expression, before he exhaled through his nose, letting a quiet chuckle slip. “Trust me, in matters of the strange… sometimes, it’s best to just not know.”

“No.” Her voice wavered despite the abrupt way she had blurted the word—not from the wine, but from something deeper inside her chest. Charlotte shook her head once, twice, her eyes glassy yet resolute as they met his. “I can’t just… not know.”

Her fingers found her temples and she rubbed them as if she could will away the spiraling thoughts that crashed against her mind. A sigh escaped her, and for a brief moment, she pressed her face into her hands

This wasn’t important to him. Why would it be? He had only just met his family. He hadn’t spent days drowning in an ever-growing tide of questions that refused to give her even a moment’s peace.

Charlotte’s voice, slightly muffled by her hands, came out almost incoherent yet tinged with unmistakable exhaustion. “My life has been nothing but strange since I arrived here a week ago, and I am so dreadfully tired of understanding absolutely nothing.”

She exhaled deeply, gathering herself, before lifting her head once more. Her frustration then softened into something more pleading. “…I grew up knowing Violet. And I promised her I would help her.” She explained, “...I spoke with her after we first met, if you recall.”

“She told me she did not remember anything... Not who hurt her, not how she ended up this way.” Her hands curled into fists against her lap. “Cassius, someone is trying to kill her, and if what you say is true, they may have tried more than once…” She gestured vaguely toward him, toward his story, her movements looser than usual—whether from emotion or intoxication, she wasn’t sure. “ How am I supposed to simply let it slide?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Mina, Rohit, & Milo

---

Time: 10:20 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts

Milo had been watching Rohit closely, the other man's words lingering in the air between them like notes from a masterfully played violin...rich, layered, and resonant. He had been prepared to respond, to explore the thread of thought Rohit had unraveled about movement, about being trapped in a moment, about whether one could truly appreciate light without having drowned in darkness.

But then, the world moved.

It was a subtle shift at first...just the flicker of candlelight catching on deep crimson, the soft rustle of heavy fabric in motion...but then it all unraveled at once. A presence, sudden and striking, barreled into their space like an errant brushstroke disrupting the smooth canvas of conversation.

Milo turned in time to see her...dramatic in black and red, a vision of depth and contrast, like something conjured from one of his more impassioned nights at the easel. The woman had fallen, or nearly so, and Rohit had caught her with the grace of someone born to navigate the rhythm of life with effortless precision.

For a brief moment, it was all frozen...the scent of roses heavy in the air, the flicker of emotion in the woman’s eyes, the warmth of Rohit’s easy charm as he bowed in greeting.

Milo smiled at the duo in sheer amusement with a raised eyebrow before he addressed the woman.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he remarked, intrigue curling at the edges of his lips. His hazel eyes, sharp with curiosity, swept over the woman Rohit had so gallantly steadied. "Are you alright?"

His voice was gentle, but there was something in his gaze that sought more than just an answer...he was already reading her, deciphering the story written in the tension of her shoulders, the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes.

Mina barely had time to register the sensation of falling before strong hands caught her, halting her descent with effortless grace. The scent of spice and sandalwood filled her senses, mingling with the lingering fragrance of roses from her own attire. She blinked, momentarily startled, before tilting her chin upward to meet the dark, smoldering gaze of the man who had saved her from utter disgrace.

How convenient.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as she steadied herself against him, allowing just a second longer than necessary before Rohit released her. As he bowed with the elegance befitting Alidasht nobility, Mina’s smirk deepened. Were all Alidasht men charming? She didn't allow the other accompanying thought to make an unwanted entrance into her mind.

With practiced ease, she returned the bow in the Alidasht style. "A pleasure, Bey Rohit Amar," she purred, the name rolling smoothly from her tongue. "You make quite the gallant first impression. I'm not sure if you were hoping to sweep me off my feet, but it was a fortunate accident if not. I’m Lady Mina Blackwood."

Milo’s lips twitched at that. A woman who met charm with charm, quick-witted enough to keep pace. How very refreshing.

With a carefree shrug, Rohit replied “My life is filled with fortunate accidents.”

Milo’s voice, warm with amusement, drew her attention. Mina turned, her stormy blue eyes meeting his hazel gaze, keen and observant. A man who studied people like they were canvases to be deciphered. How intriguing.

She took a deliberate step back, reclaiming her space with effortless poise, and let a soft, rueful laugh escape her lips. "An entrance, indeed," she mused, fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. "Though I must admit, I prefer to leave people breathless for different reasons." Her gaze flickered between the two men, playful yet measured. "But it seems fortune is on my side today. Two handsome gentlemen to catch me when I fall? Truly, the gods must be feeling generous."

Milo’s grin deepened, his gaze flickering toward Rohit briefly, before returning to Mina with playful appraisal. “Generous, or perhaps merely well-entertained. The gods have always been fond of a good story.”

Her smile lingered, teasing and inviting, as she met Milo’s gaze again. "As for whether I’m alright–well, I suppose that depends." She let her lashes lower briefly before lifting them again, her eyes alight with mischief as she glanced at both men. "Have I successfully recovered my dignity, or must I work a bit harder to make you both forget my momentary lapse in grace?”

“Was any dignity truly lost? I think, all anyone saw, was the lovely Lady Mina Blackwood make a flawless introduction to the two most handsome men in the room.” Rohit countered. He gave her name the same drawn-out and honey-dipped attention she’d given his.

“Your entrance may have even proved the point I was trying to make; life’s stumbles, the darker moments that make the light shine brighter, offer invaluable spontaneity. They make life more exciting, more worth living, and only add to life’s beauty. That is what I’ve found in Milo St. Claire’s works. But I’m interested to hear both your thoughts on that.” He glanced from Milo to Mina, and everything about the woman’s bold attire made him certain she’d have thoughts worth hearing as much as the artist himself.

Milo hummed, considering Rohit’s words as his gaze lingered on Mina, curious as to what she would say. But his answer came with an easy, confident cadence.
"Spontaneity is the artist’s greatest muse. The way light falls in an unexpected way, the way a moment unravels precisely because it wasn’t planned." His lips curled at the edges. "And in that sense, Mina, I’d say your entrance was a masterpiece of timing.” He reached out a gentle, introductory hand. “Milo St. Claire. It’s a privilege to witness the beauty of one such as you, Lady Blackwood. Welcome to my gallery. And as honored as I am to hear that my work has informed the good Bey’s philosophies…I too would like to hear your take on the matter, my Lady.”

Mina’s lips curled, amusement flickering in her dark eyes as she took Milo’s offered hand with a graceful dip of her head. “A masterpiece of timing?” she mused, voice smooth as the finest ink on parchment. “You’re far too kind, Lord St. Claire. But I do believe I must agree with both of you.”

Milo, whose grip was as light as a whisper, gave a soft chuckle—warm, rich, utterly amused. “Ah, but you wound me, Lady Blackwood. I must correct such a tragic misstep before it scandalizes the room—I am, regrettably, no Lord.” His hazel eyes gleamed with playful mischief as he released her hand. “I fear I was only blessed with talent, not title. Though, between you and me,” he leaned in slightly, as if conspiring, “I find the former far more useful at parties.” With a wink and a rather sweet smile, Milo directed his attention back to his art. “But please continue, your thoughts are far more interesting than any semantics could ever be.”

She turned her gaze to the paintings surrounding them, the light of the gallery casting shifting glows and shadows across each canvas. Her fingers absently trailed the fabric of her sleeve, as if resisting the urge to reach for a brush. “The unexpected, the unplanned—those moments breathe life into art, do they not? Some would call them mistakes, but I find they are often the very strokes that make a piece sing.” A knowing glint sparked in her eye. “After all, there are no true missteps in creation, only… fortunate little accidents.”

Her words were meant for Milo, but her gaze flickered toward Rohit as well, holding his for a lingering beat. He had been the first to frame the conversation in such a way, spinning her stumble into something meaningful, something beautiful. She wondered if he always carried that perspective, finding poetry in the imperfect, or if it was merely another layer of his effortless charm. Either way, she found herself intrigued.

“Fortunate little accidents.” Rohit quietly repeated the delightful phrase to himself. The words lingered, rolling around in his head. He needed more of that in his life.

Mina turned back to the artwork, allowing her thoughts to drift deeper into the pieces before her. One in particular caught her eye—darkness bleeding into light in stark, breathtaking contrast. Figures caught in motion, frozen in time at the precipice of something inevitable—tragedy or triumph, it was impossible to tell. And perhaps that was the point.

“They feel… honest,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Not just reflections of life as it is seen, but as it is felt—the turmoil, the longing, the fragile beauty in every fleeting moment. They do not merely capture, they confess.”

Her lashes lifted, locking onto Milo once more, intrigue sparking beneath their shadowed depths. “Your use of chiaroscuro is masterful. The way you manipulate contrast, guiding the eye not just to what is illuminated, but to what lurks in shadow. I imagine achieving such depth required more than mere intuition. Did you glaze in layers, or do you work alla prima?”

The question was poised with deliberate intent, a subtle challenge woven between admiration. She was not just another noblewoman murmuring pleasantries over fine art. She understood it.

Milo’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile—one that held the warmth of summer’s first golden light. He had entertained countless admirers, endured tedious flattery, and waded through a sea of empty praises, but this—this was different. She truly recognized the depth of it.
Rohit nodded along, listening intently but understanding very little. Chiaroscuro. Alla prima. He liked the way the words sounded, the way Mina pronounced them so elegantly, but what they meant - he had not a clue.

“Yes!” He added with excitement. “What is the illustrious genius’s process.” Rohit continued, looking at Milo. It didn’t matter how well he understood all this artist's terminology, it was always exciting to listen to someone speak about something they were so passionate about.

The artist leaned forward ever so slightly, his hazel eyes aglow with delight. “Ah,” he exhaled, as if savoring the taste of the moment. “A question posed with precision—measured, deliberate, and oh-so dangerously perceptive. You do realize, my dears, that with such insight, you run the risk of truly seeing me?”

His fingers idly traced the rim of his wine glass, the gesture languid, almost meditative. “Yes, working in layers provides control—patience, prudence, the careful shaping of fate with every delicate glaze. An artist may stretch time itself, coaxing a piece into existence as one would a reluctant lover.” He paused, tilting his head, a rogue’s glint in his eye. “But I am—will always be—an alla prima man.”

His voice dipped, rich with something indulgent, like velvet sliding over bare skin. “Chaos, my darlings, is the lifeblood of my art. The unpredictability of oil meeting canvas, the thrill of a stroke that cannot be undone, the urgency of creation in its rawest form—now that is where the magic lives. To tame it would be a sin, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mina’s gaze lingered on Milo, a slow, appreciative smile curling her lips. “An alla prima man?” she mused, her tone dipping into something silky, almost sinful. “A man after my own heart.”

Her ocean eyes flicked toward Rohit, catching his gaze as if she had drawn an invisible thread between them. “I have to agree with Milo. Chaos, after all, holds a certain… undeniable allure. It ties in well with your comment on spontaneity from earlier.” Her tone deepened, her words laced with a knowing tease, as she looked between both men. “There’s something exhilarating in surrendering to what cannot be controlled, don’t you think? A brushstroke that defies precision, or perhaps… a moment of passion that dances on the edge of chaos.”

She let the air hang heavy with her suggestion, her gaze moving between them, daring either man to rise to the occasion. “After all, some of life’s most extraordinary masterpieces are painted in shadows.”

“Life is all about surrender, very little can be truly controlled. But chaos, I think it always wishes to return to order. Like a dance, a bit of spontaneity here and there, but in line with a rhythm. Everything exists in a delicate balance. Without light, there are no shadows, but to stare wide-eyed into the sun will leave you in darkness.” Rohit said with a shrug that simply said ‘what can you do.’ Nothing but surrender to whatever life throws, he supposed.

“I am curious about the Mirrors of Perception, shall I expect more spontaneity in there? A journey through the ever-changing nature of self awareness right? Certainly sounds promising.” Rohit rifled through his pockets for a small golden case and popped the small rectangular object open once he found it. Inside was a row of tightly rolled joints.

“I happen to have some of the finest herbs from home, guaranteed to alter perception and awareness just enough to really, spice up the exhibit. Any takers?” He offered.

Milo let out a wistful sigh, reclining just enough to make it look effortlessly elegant, yet brimming with mischief. His hazel eyes shimmered with the kind of longing reserved for poets and dreamers, a man utterly devastated by the cruel pull of responsibility.

“Ah, my darlings,” he purred, placing a hand over his heart as if genuinely mourning his own departure. “If only I could commit some manner of violent crime—truly, I’d murder with flair—just to linger in your company a moment longer. But alas, the weight of expectation presses down upon me like an overzealous lover, and I must tear myself away before the temptation to abandon it all becomes too great.”

A slow, teasing smile curved his lips as he let his gaze flicker between them, sharp as a blade yet warm as honey. “For if I were to remain even a moment longer, I fear I may do something positively reckless—like fall in love with one, or both, of you.”

With a smooth, unhurried motion, he reached for their hands, enveloping each in one of his own. A man well-versed in reverence, he pressed a lingering kiss to the back of Mina’s hand first, then Rohit’s, each as deliberate as a final brushstroke upon a masterpiece.

“Should you choose to step into the Mirrors of Perception under such,” a pointed glance toward the golden case of finely rolled indulgences, “augmented circumstances, I wish you only the most delicious revelations. Try not to lose yourselves entirely… or do, if the moment demands it.”

With that, he turned, moving with the practiced ease of a man who knew all eyes belonged to him. Yet just as he was about to slip away into the crowd, he hesitated. A flash of something wicked danced across his features as he reached into his jacket and retrieved two ivory cards, embossed with the faint shimmer of gold filigree.

He offered one to Mina, then the other to Rohit, his voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial.

“Should you ever feel the urge to experience the full extent of the gallery’s indulgences, these shall grant you access to the more… selective delights. But be warned—only those truly worthy may find themselves at home in such rarified company.”

A final smirk, a lingering glance, and then—like the final notes of a symphony fading into the night—Milo St. Claire was gone.

But not forgotten. Never forgotten.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Sola 26th
Location: On His Way to Sorian

The candlelight flickered weakly as a cold wind slithered through the cracks of the modest home. Laudna clutched Henrik to her chest, rocking him absentmindedly while her young daughter Melissa sat still at the table, eyes fixed on the empty plate before her. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, but neither woman took comfort in it. Their world had already begun to unravel.

A heavy knock came at the door. The room tensed as if the walls themselves could sense the coming storm.

Laudna hesitated before answering, looking to an empty corner of the room as though she was searching for answers as she smoothed the wrinkles from her apron with a trembling hand. When she opened the door, she found a man there, draped in an unforgiving ensemble of black, a stark contrast against the humble home’s candlelit warmth.

His long coat, dark as a moonless night, was lined with deep crimson that flashed like fresh blood whenever he moved. The high collar framed his angular face in harsh shadows, giving him the appearance of something sculpted from obsidian and command. Beneath the coat, a fitted black doublet clung to his broad frame, its fabric heavy with reinforced stitching, hinting at both durability and calculated precision. Dark leather gloves encased his hands, supple yet well-worn, the kind that knew both the hilt of a blade and the cold grip of a throat. His boots, polished to a dull sheen, bore the scuffs of travel but none of neglect—each step measured, deliberate, echoing with quiet authority.

The true weight of his presence lay in the details—the subtle insignia embroidered in dark thread upon his chest, a mark of his station that needed no gaudy embellishment; the way his belt sat heavy with the tools of his trade.

There was no warmth in his attire, no softness, no indulgence. It was the garb of a man who had stripped himself of excess, leaving only what was necessary to uphold his purpose. His hair, thick but white like a man well beyond his years, despite him only seeming to be in his 30s, emphasized the stark lines of his face. The dim light cast deep shadows over his strong jaw and the hollow beneath his perfect cheekbones. Every movement he made was deliberate, as though the very air bent to his will, and his presence carried the quiet weight of inevitability.

But it was his flail that drew the most attention. Spiked and ancient, it hung idly from his belt like a specter of death itself, its heavy iron head engraved with symbols long forbidden. It was not merely a weapon—it was a sentence, a promise, a curse.

His piercing gaze swept over the dimly lit home before settling on Laudna’s face.
"Good evening," he greeted, voice smooth and measured. "I understand your family has been through quite an ordeal. I won’t take much of your time. Just a few questions. If you’ll have me."

Laudna swallowed hard. She nodded, stepping aside as Kilian entered without waiting for an invitation. His boots clunked against the wooden floor, slow and deliberate. He took in the surroundings—a humble hearth, a table set for supper, four chairs pulled out, though there were only three members of the family before him. His attention turned to the heavenly aroma wafting through the air.

"Ah," Kilian said, inhaling deeply. "That smells divine. What are we having?"

Laudna opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. Melissa, who couldn’t be more than ten or eleven years of age, answered with a forced politeness as though she were much older. "Rabbit stew, sir."

Kilian smiled and unbuckled his flail, setting it onto the table with a dull thud. "Then I shall join you. It would be a shame to let such a fine meal go to waste. Don’t worry, you will be compensated for the hospitality." He sat at the head of the table; in the seat a father would normally take.

Laudna hesitated for only a moment before mechanically serving him a portion. Kilian took his time, slicing his meat with precision, chewing thoughtfully. The silence stretched, save for the crackling of the fire. They ate in relative silence save for the coos and occasional whines of young Henrik. Eventually though, Kilian broke the quiet as his gaze found that of Laudna’s.

"You must have been relieved when you heard your husband was to hang. A poacher and a horse thief—shameful crimes. But then, what a spectacle that must have been." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Vanished into thin air. Right there on the gallows. There one second…gone the next. Some say it was a miracle, others could have sworn it was the work of devils. What do you make of that, seeing as it was your husband who pulled off such a deed?"

Laudna fumbled with her spoon. "I—I wouldn’t know, sir. We weren’t there."

"Of course, of course." Kilian took another bite. "Strange business, though, wouldn’t you agree? Not many men survive the noose, even less escape it like ol’ Martin did."

Laudna clenched Henrik tighter as he began to fuss. Kilian leaned back in his chair, stretching leisurely, before his eyes flicked across the room. He noted the way the air around the corner of the house stirred slightly, how the dust did not settle quite right.

Kilian smiled to himself. "A man who can disappear like that must be very blessed… or very cursed. Either way, magic is simply not allowed…Which, as I’m sure you can guess, is why I have come here tonight. You wouldn’t happen to know where he went, would you?"

Laudna’s lips parted, but no answer came.

Kilian hummed. "No matter."

He continued to eat, savoring every bite, letting the weight of his presence press down upon them like an anvil. He made idle talk—Melissa’s age, Henrik’s temperament, the weather, the quality of their home. Laudna answered in clipped sentences, her voice growing more unsteady. The tension was suffocating, each moment stretching unbearably long.

"You must love your husband very much," Kilian mused. "He provided well for you, despite his... methods."

Laudna’s knuckles whitened as she gripped Henrik. "He did what we had to, sir."

Kilian nodded, feigning understanding. "A shame that sometimes necessity and law do not align. A shame indeed. Especially when those close to us turn to such vile techniques such as the arcane." His eyes moved to meet with the young girl’s.

"Tell me, child, did you love your father?"

Melissa blinked, caught off guard. She glanced at her mother, unsure.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Did he love you?"

"Yes, sir," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

"And yet he left you, didn’t he?" Kilian leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "A man who truly loves his family wouldn’t run, would he? He would stay. Protect. Provide. And yet, he is nowhere to be found."

Tears welled in Melissa’s eyes, but she held her breath, refusing to let them fall.

"He didn’t leave us."

"No?" Kilian’s voice remained pleasant, almost amused. "Then where is he?"

Melissa swallowed hard, staring down at her untouched plate. She was a child, but she was not foolish. She knew the wrong answer could mean a terrible outcome.
"I... don’t know, sir."

Kilian studied her for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose as if disappointed.

"How unfortunate. I was hoping he at least had the decency to tell his own daughter goodbye."
Melissa’s shoulders trembled, her lower lip quivering as she clenched her hands into fists beneath the table. Kilian watched with detached curiosity, then leaned back in his chair.

"Some fathers are better than others, I suppose."
And then, Kilian stood.

He wandered casually, eyes tracing the modest decor, fingers grazing over the rough wooden furniture. He took a long breath, as though appreciating the air itself, before his gaze landed on the corner.

The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the old clock, the occasional creak of shifting wood, and the uneven breaths of the family. Every inhale, every exhale, dragged through the air like a rusted knife.

Kilian exhaled slowly, almost thoughtfully, before tilting his head curiously. His voice, when it came, was measured. Almost gentle.

“Tell me, girl.” His eyes never left the corner of the room as he spoke to Melissa. “How much does your father mean to you?”

The room held its breath.

Melissa’s lips parted, but no words came. The firelight cast shadows across his face, making the angles of his features sharper, hollowed.

“Go on,” he murmured. “I want to hear it.”

A shuddered breath. Her fingers clenched tighter in her lap.

“He—he means everything to me,” she whispered.

Kilian blinked once, slow, deliberate.

“Everything.” He let the word settle, his voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “A daughter’s devotion. It’s a powerful thing.”

He took a step closer to the corner, dragging the moment out, his boots scraping softly against the floor as he dragged his feet. The room felt smaller. Tighter.

Martin moved before he thought. A wild, desperate rush toward the door.

But Kilian was faster. Much faster.

TRIGGER WARNING:
EXTREME VIOLENCE

Then, without hesitation, he lunged—his hand shooting forward, gripping the invisible throat of the man who thought himself unseen. A strangled gasp choked through the still air as Martin materialized, feet kicking helplessly against the floorboards. Laudna screamed. Melissa burst into hysterical tears.

Kilian’s expression never wavered. "Not every father deserves such devotion... Magic and corruption walk hand in hand, Martin," he said. "And both must be purged."

With a monstrous force, he dragged Martin toward the hearth, the flames casting a violent dance across the room. Then, with terrifying finality, he slammed Martin’s head against the stone. Once. Twice. Again. The sickening crunch echoed through the house, drowning out the sobs. Blood spattered across the brick, across Kilian’s hand, across the floor where Martin’s body slumped, twitching before falling still.

For a split second there was no sound at all. Only silence.

Melissa had collapsed into muffled sobs, her hands pressed over her mouth. Laudna, still clutching Henrik, had gone deathly pale, her lips trembling as if she were trying to will herself into nonexistence. The fire hissed as droplets of blood sizzled upon the embers.

Kilian exhaled softly, releasing the ruined corpse as if he were merely discarding a rag. The moment Martin’s body hit the floor, the sickening wet slap rang louder than the crackling fire. A metallic scent thickened in the air, sharp and cloying. Laudna’s mind numbly registered the color...deep crimson pooling at Kilian’s feet, soaking into the worn wooden planks. Bending down, Kilian searched the man briefly before finding and ripping the enchanted bracelet from his limp wrist…and without even inspecting it he tossed it into the fire to be burned away into nothingness.

The firelight caught the sheen of fresh blood glistening on his gloves, streaked and seeping into the creases of the leather. He flexed his fingers once, the motion slow and deliberate, smearing the warmth across his palm. He turned, adjusting his cuffs, brushing away a splatter of red from his collar. Kilian strode back to the table, picked up his fork, and took one final bite of the rabbit stew.

He closed his eyes in appreciation. "Exquisite."

Then, reaching into his coat, he produced a single gold coin and placed it gently in Laudna’s trembling hands. Her fingers barely curled around it, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"For my dinner," Kilian said smoothly, his voice untouched by the horror he had wrought.

The scent of iron was suffocating now, clinging to the back of Laudna’s throat. The candle flames shuddered as though the house itself recoiled from what had been done.

Kilian turned to leave, but just as he reached the threshold, he paused. The Witch Hunter glanced over his shoulder, watching the shattered remains of a family he had just destroyed. "Raise your children well, woman. The sins of the father need not pass to the son, or..." His eyes turned to Melissa with indifference. "...to the daughter."

And with that, he stepped into the night, leaving behind only the weeping of a widow and her now, fatherless children.