Rodiak

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖ hair ♖}

_{C A S T L E D I N N I N G H A L L | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
M e n t i o n s :}

“My beautiful girl. Are you ready to go?”

The words sounded sweet behind the blanket of haze that had settled in Zarai’s mind.

“Come here, mija.”

Not waiting for her mother to repeat herself, Zarai stepped into the study.

The room was vast, warmed by the soft candlelight and heavy with the scent of ink and old parchment, with a hint of her mother’s perfume. Jasmine and gardenia blooming thick in the air, cloying in their richness. And pomegranate. Rich in sweetness, ripened past its prime, lingering at the edges like a secret left too long to fester. Plush carpets in deep reds and blues and purples swallowed the sound of her steps as she moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Francesca stood there, silhouetted against the evening light filtering through the windows, a crystal glass of wine poised elegantly between her fingers.

“Did you enjoy the gallery today?”

Zarai stiffened as her mother reached up, her fingers tucking a loose strand of curled hair behind her ear. It was a soft, gentle gesture—a motherly one—and Zarai had learned long ago not to flinch.

“It was lovely,” Zarai replied, keeping her voice light, careful. “Milo St. Claire’s pieces were incredible. His brushwork is one of envy.”

Francesca hummed, tilting her head in approval. “Art is a language, mija. One of grace and restraint.” She smiled, the corners of her mouth curling like an artist’s signature at the edge of one of Zarai’s paintings. “You must learn to speak it fluently.”

Zarai nodded, easily matching the warmth of her mother’s expression.

Moments like these were rare. So fragile that even a breath too strong could shatter them. She had learned to hold them delicately, to pretend, if only for a moment, that this was all their relationship had ever been. Warmth. Praise. Soft hands adjusting an errant strand of hair instead of wielding a cane.

She could almost believe it.

Then—

“But I supposed subtlety has never been your strength.”

… Roll…

The words slid into her skin like the bite of winter air that no haze could ever shield against. A chill, sharp and cutting, slicing through the illusion just as quickly as it had been constructed.

Zarai inhaled slowly, willing the sting away. Higher. Zarai must go higher.

“I—”

“You must be more mindful, Zarai.” Francesca swirled the wine in her glass, her voice deceptively calm as the surface of a frozen lake hiding the currents beneath. “I hear things, you know. Whispers. Little birds.”

Clouds. She could feel clouds all around her. So soft. So light. So gentle.

Francesca twirled a curl of rosy gold in her slender finger, their icy blue gazes meeting. “Tell me, my beautiful girl,” she said, her voice smooth, still warm but laced now with something familiar beneath—something cold. “Why do you insist on making things so difficult for yourself?”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

… Rattle…

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

“Sir Barrios, why does it look like you are about to storm the Sorian fortress?” Zarai drawled, her voice lifting with amusement. “Relax. It’s only a banquet, not an execution.” She glanced down as his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Shall I share some of my magical concoction with you, my knight?”

Sir Barrios’s eyes flickered toward her. His expression was unreadable behind the nice, cozy blanket of the drug. Her lips pulled and curled into an easy smile, far too relaxed.

“Your definition of relaxation tends to involve scandalizing half the nobility in attendance.” Sir Barrios glanced down at her with another retort, but it fell short as soon as he saw that smile on her face.

“Gods, Lady Zarai, are you high right now?!” He hissed quietly, looking over his shoulder to ensure no royal guard heard him.

Zarai laughed, as sharp and unapologetic as the clink of her jeweled heels against the marble floor. “Oh, come now, Sir Barrios. Where’s your sense of adventure? Or did you leave it behind with your sense of humor?”

“I left it behind,” he replied dryly, “when I was assigned to escort you.”

She grinned, leaning in just close enough to make him stiffen and shut up. “Admit it. You’d be bored without me.”

Before he could retort, the doors swung open with a dramatic flourish, and the herald’s voice boomed across the hall. “Announcing Lady Zarai Lesdeman of Puerto Vira!”

As they reached the center of the room, both bowed to the King and Queen.

Fingers brushed over the delicate layers of her dress as Zarai lifted her arms slightly, sinking into a flawless curtsy. Head bowed, eyes lowered, smile poised—the perfect display of grace, fitting for a future duchess. She rose with the same practiced ease, turning smoothly to make her way towards her seat, Sir Barrios trailing just behind her.

With her one duty for the evening now complete, she wasted no time in seeking out her assigned seat—though, much to his dismay, Sir Barrios had to steer her in the right direction. Her focus had already strayed, drawn to the grand feast already spread across the tables. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and with the effects of the drug humming through her veins, she could eat that whole roasted pig lying atop the table.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{Sola 25, 1739}

FLASHBACK TW: sexual harassment and self-harm

_{TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Harassment, Self Harm}

**Sola 25, 1739 - Midday to Evening, Casa del Sol**

After the Edwards's soiree, Zarai's itinerary was cleared of all lunches, invitations, and calls. She had been excited about the prospect of spending the day with her friends playing card games, but Sir Barrios had escorted her from the gathering without room to protest. Now, the princess was owed an apology, one Zarai intended to soften with some warm and delicious pastries. But that would be for another day. Today was special.

Today was moving day. How fun.

Duchess Francesca had finally secured a lavish manor just outside Sorian—a mere thirty-minute carriage ride from the city. The estate, grandiose and dripping with excess, boasted three stories, sprawling gardens, a private lake, two greenhouses, stables, and far too much land. Its name, Casa del Sol, inspired by the enormous skylight in the main entrance.

Zarai couldn’t help but wonder where the money had come from to buy such a place so quickly. She had tried snooping through her mother’s temporary study at the guest house, but Lady Kate had caught her in the halls before she could even make it to the office.

Red.

A wave of disgust hit Zarai as she thought about the money being wasted—funds that could have repaired roads, rebuilt bathhouses or improved Puerto Vira. Instead, it was funneled into a country they barely visited, spent on a mansion her mother would use for a season every other year.

The knot in her stomach formed and tightened painfully. She was so far from the guest house now. Far from friends. Far from Fritz and—

“Niña!” Francesca’s sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Stop standing around and help me! Show these imbeciles where the drawing room is. Must I do everything myself?” Her mother brushed past her, not sparing a glance as she insulted the workers to their faces.

Zarai cringed, her heart sinking as the men carrying the red velvet sofa exchanged a wordless glance. "I am so sorry about her," she whispered, knowing they wouldn’t—couldn’t—respond. She led them silently to one of the many drawing rooms, her stomach churning with each step.

『 ❀ 』

**Sola 25, 1739 - 8:30pm, Casa del Sol**

“You were right about the iron shipments. Our supplier’s prices have gone up, but I’d rather pay the premium than let Varian merchants meddle in our business.” Francesca, to Zarai’s right, said before sipping her red wine with mastered elegance.

“A wise decision, Your Grace. Keeps things tightly within your control.” Lord Monet, across the table, nodded, cutting into his steak. The blood dripped from the meat onto the porcelain plate, making her stomach twist. “Besides, with the premium, you can report certain quantities as ‘lost’ en route to Sorian, letting you claim back some taxes on paper.”

“Perfect. Now, the new route expansion—how are we progressing on that? If we can avoid unnecessary tariffs, the railway toward Felippina will be that much more profitable.”

“I’ve already arranged alternate paths to cut down on the tolls. By directing goods along the coast and through…”

Their voices drifted into a monotonous hum as Zarai took another sip of her wine, its bitter sweetness mingling with the Alidashtian herb oil she’d rubbed under her tongue before dinner, each sip pulling her further into a fog of artificial calm. The nice fluffy haze dulled the sharp edges of her discomfort, a welcomed feeling from the weight of their boring conversation.

The discussion was important, and it was unlike her mother to discuss business while Zarai was still in the room. Francesca’s confidence in Zarai’s state of inebriation seemed to have convinced her to speak freely with the bloated, oily Lord Monet. Who could not stop glancing her way with a repulsive mix of condescension and lust.

Why is he looking at me with those nasty-ass eyes, like a bloated hog sizing up its next meal? Zarai’s thoughts churned, venomous and relentless. He’s a festering insult to decency itself, waddling around reeking of wet dog and desperation. If mirrors don’t shatter at his reflection, it’s only because they pity the glass more than him. Her grip tightened on her fork, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her face neutral as she chewed on her steak.

Soon, it all began to blend together into a formless droning in her mind, the flames of the candle flickering hypnotically before her.

Right, left. Left, right.

Dancing in the middle of the room, the fire moved like nothing else mattered—not their conversation, not the growing discomfort clawing at her insides. Zarai's gaze locked on the flickering flame, her heart aching with envy. She wanted to be that fire—untouchable, unrelenting, free.

Left, right.

Right, left.

Up, down.

Down, up.

The flame twisted and swayed, alive in its dance. Dance, it seemed to whisper to her. Dance until there's nothing left. Her mind spun with the rhythm, her heart echoing the frantic tempo. Zarai wanted to be that fire. Let it take her. To burn, burn, burn until every piece of her was charred, her existence finally extinguished.

Then, all at once, the haze lifted, jolting her back to the sharp reality as something cold and hard pressed against her ankle beneath the table.

Zarai’s posture stiffened, and her eyes widened briefly as she looked at Monet. He sat there, a smug smile on his lips as he continued to talk to her mother. As if his shoe were not slowly teetering closer to her knee. It was like a poison slowly seeping past the fabrics of her dress and into her skin, slow and poisonous. Nasty. Disgusting.

Bile rose in her throat, and she glanced toward her mother, her eyes pleading for intervention—for anything. For a split second, their icy gazes met, a flash of awareness crossing Francesca's face, but she turned back to her wine, swirling with passive indifference. Zarai’s heart sank like a stone to the bottom of that snowy lake she often dreamed of, where darkness stretched endlessly. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she struggled to draw breath, her mind recoiling in disgust.

“Indeed. And, Your Grace, the increased demand in Caesonia will mean we’re only just beginning to see returns— Agh!” Lord Monet’s fork clattered against his plate as he reached under the table, his blazer sleeve catching on his plate, sending the bloody remnants of his meal splattering across the pristine fabrics of his tails. His expression twisted into one of annoyance, embarrassment, and something else Zarai knew all too well.

She’d kicked him. Hard and on his shin with her pretty crystal-encrusted shoe. She hoped it bled. She hoped it hurt to the bone and left a nasty, ugly bruise.

He tried to rub his shin, but the mess on his chest only slipped down and splatted on the floor with a disgusting wet sound.

The silence that had fallen in the dining room broke as Zarai’s chair scraped loudly against the marble as she rose, her hands steady despite the anger simmering under her skin. She smoothed her dress, keeping her expression calm as she locked eyes with her mother. “Excuse me, I am not feeling well.”

“Zarai Luzero Lesdeman!” Francesca’s voice lashed out as she stood, sharp and cutting, as she yanked Zarai back by the arm and delivered a stinging slap across her face. “You will not be rude to our guest! Este no es un comportamiento apropiado para una dama de tu posición!”

Roll.

Roll.

Her vision blurred, and her ears rang for a second before Zarai brushed her faded copper tresses from her face to look at Francesca with burning cold eyes. “Eso sería todo?” Her voice was devoid of emotion, even as her insides screamed. She wanted nothing more than to pick up the porcelain plates and hurl them across the room. Wanted to take the candle holder and plunge it into Monet’s stupid eyes so he could never look at her again. Wanted to burn this house to the ground with them inside of it. “Excuse me.” Was all she said as she curtseyed stiffly and left the room.

『 ❀ 』

The moment the door closed behind her, Zarai kicked off her shoes and tore at her dress, desperate to be rid of the suffocating layers trapping her. With blurred vision and shaky fingers, she managed to pry her corset off. It fell with a soft thud, joining the layers of expensive yellow silk and lace pooling around her feet.

She stood in her new pristine room in only her undergarments, decorated with the same excess as the rest of the house. Her skin still felt choked, as if it could never be free.

Zarai stumbled to the window and flung it open, greedily gulping the cool night air, as if she could force out the sickening filth clinging to her skin. But the air did nothing to alleviate it. She still felt it. His presence. There. Polluting her.

Her hands drifted to her legs.

She rubbed at her skin, as if she could erase the feeling of his shoe pressing against her. But rubbing did nothing. The touch was still there. Crawling up her thigh like a slow-burning sickness.

She scratched.

Harder.

Harder.

Blood beaded beneath her nails, smeared across her thighs in jagged lines. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her body shivering from something deeper than the cold night air. But she couldn’t stop.

Because she had seen it.

Francesca had known. She had looked Zarai dead in the eye and done nothing.

Zarai’s entire body convulsed with a shudder, and she pressed a trembling hand against her mouth. It wasn’t Monet. It wasn’t just him. It had never just been Monet. It was the way this world was built, the way her mother allowed it, the way it was as normal as breathing.

Roll.

Roll.

She should have said it in the morning.

She should have confessed her thoughts-–her darkest, most forbidden thoughts—to him.

Damn his trusting eyes, his silent acceptance, his understand that made her believe she could bare the ugliest corners of her heart to him.

Roll.

Roll.

Damn his gentle words of encouragement, that quiet hope he kept planting in her heart, urging her to riise above it all.

Roll.

Roll.

And damn the way she could feel the weight of his disappointment, a bitter ache twisteing in her gut.

Roll.

Roll.

Breathing.

It dragged her like a tide, suffocating.

Endless.

Her mother’s face.

Roll.

Roll.

Contempt.

Que lastima.

Basta. Pobrecita.

Roll.

Roll.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

Zarai sucked in a breath.

Her fingers were numb.

Her legs were slick with red.

Roll.

Roll.

Her reflection in the glass window stared back at her—wild-eye, unrecognizable.

She still, she felt nothing.

Not the pain. Not the relief. Just… weight.

Heavy.

Settling in her bones.

Not the kind of numb she liked.

No, this one was worse.

_{C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k ! C l i n k !
Like tiny bells in her mind. Ringing and raging. All around. Everywhere and nowhere.}

This one was real.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{C A M P I N G S I T E | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
M e n t i o n s :}

The rest of the morning had gone as Mathias had expected. After the small debacle with his fake mustache, he and Ariella spent the remainder of the party exchanging light pleasantries and laughing over the absurdity of Mary’s impromptu mustache artistry. She had, after all, won the hat-making contest during the horse race, so perhaps it was no surprise. Still, despite the humor, Mathias’ thoughts kept drifting toward Lady Edwards. Discreetly, he’d called for coffee and bread, hoping it would help sober her up. It was only the second time he’d met her, and both times, she had been inebriated. Given what he had observed of Duchess Edwards, he could understand why.

He watched as other nobles stumbled and slurred their words, which only made him want to join their drunken stupor. At least now, he understood why his get-up had gone unquestioned or unnoticed. He had to remind himself he wasn’t in Varian, and while appearances were still important for his personal goals in Sorian, perhaps he didn’t need to take things so seriously

___

Mathias climbed down from the carriage with a small huff, rubbing the small of his back before thanking the driver and grabbing his bag. He’d never quite gotten used to the jostling of carriage rides—perhaps he was just getting old. Dismissing the thought, he paused to take in the crisp, fresh air of the summer night. He could smell the trees, the grass, and the campfire nearby. It reminded him of those nights spent foraging for food when he was younger. The idea struck him again—maybe he could sneak off after the activities and see what Caesonia’s forests had to offer. It couldn’t be too different from Varian’s foraging, right?

As the camp staff welcomed them, Mathias hung back and scanned the group. He spotted Ariella, chatting with a woman who he had recently learned was Captain Stratya Durmand. Like him, she was dressed lightly but practically, ready for the outdoors. And unlike her, Mathias hadn’t brought a weapon, something he was now regretting if he planned on foraging later. He wondered if she carried a spare; she certainly looked prepared for anything.

His gaze drifted to a woman he hadn’t seen before. She stood watching the group, a smile on her face that didn’t quite sit right with him. Her posture and demeanor seemed out of place, as if she didn’t belong with any of the nobles or commoners. Intrigued, Mathias approached her, his friendliest smile in place.

“Quite an exciting night, isn’t it?” He folded his arms behind him in a gentlemanly manner. “I wonder what kind of activities the staff have planned for us. Should be fun, don’t you think?” His tone was casual and warm. “I’m Mathias, by the way. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. And you might be...?” He dipped his head slightly in a polite bow.

What Are You Listening To?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖}

_{E D W A R D S E S T A T E | M O R N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Fritz @JJ Doe
M e n t i o n s :}

Zarai’s pulse quickened the moment Fritz’s hand brushed her shoulder. It was such a light touch—barely there—but it was enough to make her entire body tense. She wished, desperately, for the ground beneath her to open up and swallow her whole. How could he see through her so easily? It was unbearable.

Her instinct was to pull away, to retreat into herself as Fritz guided her toward a soft patch of grass, his grip firm but never forceful. She followed, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten as they sat down. She hesitated when he motioned to her shoes before finally pulling them off. A brief sigh of relief passed her lips as her mangled feet were freed.

“I may have lied about being enough competition,” Zarai replied as a blush that crept up her neck and bloomed on her cheeks. Fritz’s hands moved to her feet, his touch warm and sure, and she nearly flinched again. She wasn’t used to this kind of tenderness.

The way he looked at her—understanding, almost too understanding—tugged at something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to face. Shame. Why did she feel ashamed? Why did his gentle care make her want to shrink away instead of lean into it?

She listened in silence as he spoke, his hands working methodically over her aching feet. Occasionally, she’d wince, a quiet gasp escaping her when he found a particularly tender spot. It was a relief, sure, but it didn’t erase the discomfort gnawing at her insides.

“I think he’ll be angry for a long time,” Zarai offered in response to Fritz’s words about Peter, her voice steadier than she felt. One hand gripped the fabric of her skirts, the other pulled at blades of grass one by one, a distraction from the raw ache in her feet and the weight of Fritz’s attention. “Have you told him that you’re worried? Maybe he needs it—the anger. Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes you feel in control.” She understood that feeling all too well.

When Fritz said he wanted to help, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. The sincerity in his voice was too much. Instead, she withdrew her feet from his lap, tucking her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, her gaze locked on his hands. Her fingers traced idle circles over her knee, the words she wanted to say lodging themselves in her throat.

“I know you want to help,” she finally managed, though her voice had grown softer. She opened her mouth to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. What could she tell him? That she didn’t know what she wanted anymore? That the more time passed, the more she feared the answer? Her lips moved, but no sound came out. So, she closed her mouth again.

“I’ll tell you,” she said after a long pause, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. “I just... need time. I thought I knew, but…” Her voice trailed off as a lump formed in her throat. What if he hated her for it? What if he saw her for what she really was? A mess. A disappointment. Not so different from her mother after all. “I need more time to figure it out. To see if it’s really what I want and not just something I’m chasing because I’m angry. So please don't demand an answer from me now. I don't want to disappoint you."

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♛ hair ♛}

_{E D W A R D S E S T A T E | M O R N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Wulfric @SilverPaw , Farim @Lava Alckon
M e n t i o n s :}

Nahir blinked, watching Prince Wulfric sip the very drink he had just warned her against. A small, appreciative smile tugged at her lips, acknowledging his subtle gesture. In response, she hesitated briefly before bringing her own glass to her lips for a cautious taste. He had been right—the drink was tempered, its flavor smooth and enticing, but not overwhelming. The warmth of the alcohol settled in her stomach, but it was more of an afterthought, a fleeting sensation against the deeper, more persistent heaviness she had woken up with that morning.

She had felt it from the moment she rose—a sluggishness that clung to her limbs, making each movement a little harder to execute, as if her body were refusing to fully cooperate. Nahir suppressed a flicker of frustration, refusing to let it show now. She had no name for this strange, intermittent weight that sometimes settled into her bones, nor for the tremors that occasionally fluttered through her hands. Today, her body was simply slower, heavier. But she wouldn’t let anyone see that.

“He’s well practiced,” Wulfric had remarked. She didn’t doubt it for a second.

Taking his arm as he escorted her away from the table, Nahir leaned into his support ever so slightly, though her expression remained poised. Her legs felt like they were moving through water, her muscles unresponsive and reluctant. When they reached her cousin’s table, her gaze fell on him, and though she wanted to offer a polite smile, the effort felt too much. Instead, the twitch of her lips resembled something closer to a condescending smirk, the kind Layla wore so often. Perhaps it was the sight of the princess perched shamelessly on his lap. Or maybe it was simply because her body felt more like a burden today, and Nahir couldn't summon the energy to feign interest.

Her time at the opera with Wulfric had been enjoyable and distracting, though the heaviness in her limbs had lingered. The performance was beautiful, but the subtle strain of keeping her movements controlled, of masking her body's betrayal, left her slightly drained. The conversation had been light, though at times she found herself struggling to stay fully present, the fogginess creeping into her mind as the evening wore on.

Now, back in the guest house, Nahir could finally let her guard down. As she sank into the cushions of her chair, she allowed herself to exhale, feeling the weight of the day settle deeper into her body. She requested another bath, this time with steaming hot water epsom salt, mustard powder, and baking powder. She hoped that the heaviness would be gone by tomorrow morning for a few more days.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖}

_{D A M I E N E S T A T E | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Fritz @JJ Doe
M e n t i o n s :}

Zarai’s lips curled into a smirk at his joke, though her eyes lingered on him. "Oh, I don’t know, my Lord. You might find I’m more than enough competition," she teased with a familiar ease, but the moment he shifted the conversation to her feet, her expression faltered. The playfulness dimmed as she glanced away, trying to brush off the discomfort. “Trouble? Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied lightly, though the faint tightness in her smile betrayed her. "But if you’re offering a foot rub, I might be tempted to take you up on it."

“How are you?” she asked, her voice softening to match his. Her hand twitched as though to reach for him, but she kept it by her side. “Peter and Karleen doing alright? The bird too?” It was easier to ask about them, to avoid what truly weighed on her mind. She hadn’t seen them since their celebration, and she hoped this small talk might help ease into the real reason she’d asked to speak privately.

The silence between them grew, pressing down with an unbearable weight. They both knew this wasn’t why she had asked him to speak alone, but Zarai still needed to know about them. They had all lost someone dear to them.

Would Udo think her brave for what she was about to do?

No. He wouldn’t. It was cowardly, but she didn’t know what else to do. Fritz had asked what had to change for her to be happy, and no matter how selfish it was, he had promised to help her. And now, the answer sat at the tip of her tongue, heavy and vile. She couldn’t say it—not when it was the very thing Fritz feared becoming. And here she was, contemplating doing exactly that. But was it the same?

She didn't know.

The silence wrapped around her like ink-black tendrils, suffocating and cold, pulling her deeper into the dark lake of despair that threatened to swallow her whole. She felt trapped beneath its icy surface, unable to reach the warmth, the light. She couldn't say it. She couldn't turn him into that.

"I'm sorry. This was a mistake," Zarai murmured, shaking her head. She took a step back, her resolve crumbling under the weight of what she had almost asked. "It might be best to talk later. Away from prying ears." She needed time—time to figure out another way to make her wish come true without dragging him down with her.

"Shall we go back?" she asked, her smile returning with practiced ease. "We can't let them start without us!" It was easier to slip back into that mask, to pretend, just a little longer. She only hoped Fritz would allow her that.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

<sub>♖ the fit ♖

E D W A R D S E S T A T E | M O R N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Ariella @Tpartywithzombi
M e n t i o n s :
Wulfric @SilverPaw</sub>

Mathias shot a glance back at the woman, praying she wouldn’t follow. To his relief, she was too preoccupied, watching the strands of his fallen mustache floating in the breeze. Up, up, and then—down. Down—right into Prince Wulfric’s plate. Mathias’s eyes widened in horror, and he quickly looked away, wiping any lingering bits of the mustache from his upper lip.

Once they were safely away from the elderly woman, who was now quietly giggling to herself, Mathias tried to conceal his embarrassment behind the oversized top hat. It only slipped further down his forehead, forcing him to remove it. As he finally turned to face his savior, Ariella looked like she was on the verge of bursting into laughter, her cheeks flushed with the effort of holding it in.

For a moment, Mathias couldn’t speak, just watched Ariella's arched brow and the quiver of her lips. The sight was enough to make him break. “No, I— it’s my first time,” he managed to say through his pressed lips before a snort escaped him. A second later, he was laughing uncontrollably, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from drawing attention, but it was too late.

This was absurd! Ridiculous! He could’ve been caught and humiliated, but somehow, Ariella had saved him just in time. Tears welled in his eyes from laughing so hard, one hand clutching his stomach while the other gripped the top hat.

“Did I at least look good as an old man?” he asked between fits of laughter, still gasping for breath. “Gods, that mustache smelled horrible.” And somehow, he could still smell it! "Thank you Ari, for the rescue."

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♛ hair ♛}

_{E D W A R D S E S T A T E | M O R N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Wulfric @SilverPaw
M e n t i o n s :
Rohit}

Nahir made a mental note of the list Wulfric had provided to Rohit, storing it away for future amusement. Lady Suhasani, in particular, would adore the Seaside Heaven Resort. And she could already feel Ece’s excitement when gambling was mentioned. Perhaps a little outing with her ladies-in-waiting would be the perfect break. It had been far too long since they spent quality time together.

She had just raised her glass to her lips when Wulfric spoke again. His words made her pause, and after a brief glance at the prince, she placed her cocktail back on the table. "A shame, really," she murmured, her eyes scanning the busy servers hurrying around with trays of cocktails. Had they known what was in the drinks? Or were they just as unaware, caught in the trap of this chaotic scene? Spiking a drink to humiliate certain nobles was understandable—almost expected in some cases when the servants were treated badly—but all of them?

This spoke volumes to the common folk's feelings toward Edwards and the family, and to do so in the presence of such high-ranking nobles. Were the people of Caesonia dissatisfied with the ruling class?

Nahir had been looking forward to a simple evening of sitting back and savoring Caesonian delicacies. But left and right, nobles were now giggling, gossiping, and swaying drunkenly as though they were common folk.

“What a farse,”

He had read her mind, but Nahir gave no indication of whether she agreed or disagreed. She simply took a bite of her salmon roll, her gaze fixed on the scene unfolding around them. Her eyes lingered on Charlotte and the Damien bastard, both of whom were lying on the grass like fools as the chaos slowly unfolded around the,. And yet, they seemed strangely at peace in that moment. A pang of something familiar tugged at her chest, but she quickly turned her attention back to the prince as he addressed her once more.

“I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery,” Nahir replied with a soft smile. “Duchess Victoria handled it with as much grace as one could, considering she dared others to smell her feet to prove her ‘un-cheesiness.’ If her husband had not interfered, I wager she would have been the first to lose it. I thought Lord Drake would come second, but he took his fall graciously.” As gracefully as one could. The absurdity of the whole thing had nearly made her lose her composure. Now, as she recalled the spectacle, she took another sip of her orange juice to hide her amusement.

It was always easier to laugh at others than at oneself.

“Duke Edwards certainly knows how to handle her,” Nahir remarked, giving a knowing nod. “But if we are to relocate, what sort of entertainment would Your Highness prefer?” Her fingers toyed absently with the glass of juice, but she set it down as she felt her left hand stiffen ever so slightly. Not wanting to draw attention to her discomfort, she quickly added, “I’ve heard wonderful things about the opera house in Sorian.” The words flowed smoothly, masking the frustration she felt with her own body.

<sub>♖ the fit ♖

E D W A R D S E S T A T E | M O R N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Ariella @Tpartywithzombi
M e n t i o n s :</sub>

“And how is Miss Alberta, Lord Wimsley? Oh, I haven’t seen her since the passing of good old Lord Trang.” The elderly woman’s voice, laced with concern, crackled with the weight of time, her eyes widening in expectation.

“Ah well…” Mathias began, but before he could continue, the old woman raised a hand, cutting him off with exaggerated dramatics.

“Do not tell me! She must be heartbroken! Oh, her poor soul! She must have shut herself away in her studio, no doubt.” With a pained sigh, the woman pressed her wrinkled hand to her heart, eyes fluttering shut as if summoning the strength of the gods. “I’ve prayed to the heavens for her and for dear Lord Trang,” she added, dipping her head with a slight tremble, offering a reverent moment of silence. But barely a heartbeat later, she sprang back to life. “Lord Wimsley, I heard you were meant to travel west to Varian... wait, are you not supposed to be there now?” Her aged eyes squinted, deep creases at the corners crinkling further as she peered at him, suspiciously scanning his face.

Panic surged in Mathias’s chest like a flood. “No... of course not. I’ve sent my valet in advance to prepare the house for me,” he said quickly, forcing a laugh that came out far too awkward. His gaze darted desperately around, searching for an escape. If he simply walked away, surely the woman would cause a scene, and the last thing he needed was unwanted attention. “Lady—”

“Good evening!”

The sudden interruption came like a lifeline, and Mathias barely suppressed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, Lady Ariella! You’ve grown so big! I remember when you used to barely reach my knee. Such a lovely face you had back then,” the old woman cooed, her tone nostalgic, though she squinted further as if unsure of her own memory.

Mathias glanced skyward, silently questioning her greeting—it wasn’t anywhere near evening. But he bit his tongue as he turned to face the familiar figure of Ariella. Ariella! It wasn’t recognition that filled her eyes—his ridiculous disguise had worked far too well. Or… was it the unmistakable scent of alcohol clinging to her that had muddled her senses?

“Good evening, my lady,” he greeted her with a polite bow, masking his concern as she stumbled toward him. His entire frame tensed, bracing to steady her if needed, though he remained frozen in place to avoid toppling over himself. As she righted herself, the sharp smell of liquor hit him full force. Had she really been drinking this much, this early? He frowned slightly, worry knitting his brows together, but he held his tongue—further awkwardness was the last thing either of them needed.

“You may be right,” Mathias mused, though he struggled to follow the erratic thread of conversation, “Or perhaps she was simply born that way. My own father, for instance, wears the most comfortable shoes but acts like he might as well be teetering in six-inch heels with a corset tight enough to cut off circulation—” His attempt at humor faltered slightly as his lips twitched, feeling lighter than before.

“Oh! Lord Wimsley, your hair just fell!” The elderly woman’s gasp broke through the conversation like a crack of thunder. She stepped back, her eyes widening in shock as she looked down at the fallen clump of horsehair that had once been a part of his mustache. “What a curious thing,” she remarked, bending slightly as the wind gently carried the fake hair across the ground.

Mathias blinked, staring in disbelief at the sight of his mustache now floating serenely on the breeze. One, two, three, four hairs drifted away with graceful elegance, almost poetic in the way they danced through the air, as if mocking his predicament. For a moment, no one spoke until the morning breeze finally whisked the remaining fake mustache out of sight, carrying it away like a leaf in the wind.

Mathias blinked at the sight of his mustache, now floating serenely in the breeze, as if mocking his predicament. “Ah…” he began, feeling his face flush, but quickly regained his composure. “You know me, my lady,” he said with a strained grin, “I must keep up with the youth!” He glanced toward Ariella, his smile turning nervous as he silently begged her to go along with the absurdity of the moment.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

_{dress ♖}

_{D A M I E N E S T A T E | E V E N I N G
I n t e r a c t i o n s :
Anastasia / Charlotte @princess , Fritz @JJ Doe , Farim @Lava Alckon
M e n t i o n s :
Charlotte and Drake}

“Y yo no dudo de tu talento de persuasión, pero hay que estar de acuerdo que yo ganaría. O sea—” Zarai motioned to herself in an over-the-top, playful manner, thoroughly enjoying the banter over Anastasia’s affection. “Mira me, príncipe. Soy una delicia. No estoy diciendo que tú no lo eres, pero yo soy un pastel después de un día largo y demandante. Tú… tú eres… una galletita. Linda y chiquitita– but sharing is caring, after all.” She pinched the air teasingly in front of her, a full smirk forming on her lips as she winked. She left it at that, allowing their lighthearted quarrel to rest for another day, especially with Anastasia now entirely engrossed in Farim. They really did make a cute pair, but beneath the surface of her jest, Zarai couldn’t help but feel a pang of concern over their very public display.

Zarai knew more than most the weight of rumors and criticisms that circulated within high society. It was a relentless, invisible pressure, tightening its grip on anyone it touched. She would never wish for anyone else to endure that suffocating scrutiny.

The arrival of the servants with trays of food and drinks pulled Zarai from the storm brewing in her mind. The delicious smell of delicacies filled the air, temporarily clearing the fog. They set the dishes in the center of the table and placed plates before everyone. A tray of cocktails had been brought out as well; even Sir Barrios’s tea had been replaced with an orange juice cocktail—something, she noted with amusement, he didn’t protest against.

She made a mental note about the charity concert, determined to attend and show her support. Just then, Lord Drake took to the stage, proudly displaying the musical piece gifted by Charlotte. Zarai let her eyes close for a moment, letting the beautiful notes wash over her as the melody unfolded. “That is lovely…” she murmured to herself, appreciating the talent behind the music. But when Drake made his dramatic exit by stumbling off the stage, Zarai slapped a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter. “I hope he didn’t break anything,” she chuckled, reaching for a cocktail to help hide her giggles. Gods, it tasted so strong!

The conversation took a mischievous turn then, and Zarai enthusiastically joined in. “Strip poker does sound rather fun,” she nodded, eyes twinkling with playfully. “But I will only play if Sir Barrios agrees too!” She grinned as she looked at the knight, just in time to catch him downing his cocktail. “What do you say, my knight? Will you partake in a fun game of strip poker with us?”

Sir Barrios, clearly unprepared for such a bold proposition, began to cough into his hand and almost spilled his drink, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Whether from embarrassment or the fact that he was briefly choking on his drink, Zarai couldn’t be sure—but it was a perfect moment to shift her attention to Fritz.

“May I have a word, Count?” Zarai asked, her tone softening as she turned to him. She gave the rest of the table a quick smile. “In private.” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed her chair back and stood up, biting back a wince of discomfort. "Worry not; we will be back just in time for poker." She said over her shoulder as she headed towards a more desolate part of the garden. The pit in her stomach deepened with every short step. Her feet ached, but the pain only steeled her resolve.

Today, Fritz would have the answer to his question.

Sola 22, 1739

_{Sola 22, 1739}

The midnight sea-side breeze tickled her skin as Zarai descended the narrow alleys behind the Sorian Library. The streets were littered with trash and drunkards alike; some slumped against buildings trying to keep their heads upright while others lay on the dirt road. Even back home, people littered the streets of lower Puerto Vira drunk, drugged, or a combination of both. Her chest twisted with an unfamiliar feeling, it pulled at her until forced herself to look away.

The trip from the guest house to The Tough Tavern wasn’t short, not now anyway. She had to take her time, or she’d run out of breath quickly, and her chest still hurt every time she took a deep breath. It was frustrating and humiliating, and she could do nothing about it but blame herself for her idiocy. Zarai was still debating whether she would beat whoever had done this to he. First, she would have to find the culprit, fortunately for her Duchess Francesca was already on that.

Warmth from the tavern greeted her when she opened the door and stepped inside the building. She’d expected Fritz and Udo on the stage, Peter somewhere not too far laughing his ass off, and Karleen giving them all a disapproving shake of her head. Instead, she found them in a corner, all sitting at a table without a word exchanged between them– Udo nowhere to be seen. The air felt heavy as she approached them, eyebrow arched at the parrot perched on one of the empty chairs.

Luz removed the thin brown cloak from her shoulders as she looked at them all. "Having fun, aren’t we?"

“Ah, why isn’t it the illustrious Heir of Puerto Vira herself!” Peter stood on his seat and anchored his foot onto the table as he dramatically bowed. “Welcome. What brings you to this humble watering hole, milady?” Karleen, seated beside him, smacked Peter’s propped leg, causing the redhead to fall back into his chair. “Sh*te! What the f**k Karl?”

“Manners.” Karleen nodded at Luz.

"Fabulous as always, Karleen." Luz nodded back, but not before sticking her tongue out at Pete

“Good evening, Lady Ledesman.” Ryn’s voice ringed tired even in his ears. “It’s good to see you.” He rose from his chair and offered Luz his best smile. He expected to see the shadow of Sir Barrios looming behind her or in the recesses of the room, but saw no traces of him anywhere. “So… will Sir Barrios still have his job tomorrow?”

"He will, he is just catching up to his beauty sleep. Needs all of the extra hours he could get too." He’s not the only one in need of sleep. Luz returned his smile easily.

His smile turned lopsided. “Care to join us?”

She nodded, looking around the table. Luz shot a glance at the the parrot, and quickly decided that she’d rather not add any more marks to her skin than the collection she was currently sporting. Even if she did try, the parrot was already staring her down in an almost threatening way. I’ll cook you. I don’t know how, but I will. She thought glancing to the other empty chair besides it.

“GriIllLLlled,” the parrot sheerked at the top of its lungs, as they flapped their wings. “SMOooOooked! MmmmMmm!” Karleen tore off some chicken from the banquet and pushed it into the parrot’s mouth. “Mmmm.” The parrot repeated. Zarai cringed.

She began towards it when Fritz suddenly stopped her and offered his own. ”Thanks.” Zarai glanced at the parrot, glad she didn’t have to sit next to a colorful talking chicken… that ate chicken. ”There’s someone missing.” She said to Fritz, her eyes darting to the snapped figurine on the table. Udo? Without giving an answer other than a nod, Ryn wandered off to a neighboring table to ask if he could take a chair.

“Excellent power of observation, milady.” Peter held what was clearly not his first drink in her direction then chugged it down. He slammed the empty tankard onto the table and called out to the other red-head manning the bar, “Oi! Another round of drinks over here!”

“Poison?” Karleen asked Luz, cutting the idiom down to two syllables.

”Always.” Zarai replied without a second thought.

Ryn slid a chair between Luz and the vacant seat. “Get whatever you want, it’s our treat.” He heard Peter’s snort, dark and dripping with anger and sadness.

”I’ll settle for the usual.” Luz knew that mead could do no wrong for her, and she needed something stronger, she knew the barkeep had something behind the counter that would do just fine.

She glanced around the table and shifted in her seat. Her icy stare darted around the table as if the air it self would tell her what the fuck was going on. Everyone was acting out of the ordinary, even Karleen was quieter than usual. She had expected, and now wished, for Peter to start teasing her over her title. Poking fun and pointing out the obvious for the whole table to hear.

This feels like a family dinner. Luz thought, trying not to shudder at that thought.

Another second later Luz groaned loudly as she slumped back on the chair and crossed her arms. ”Is anyone going to tell me what is going on or are we going to pretend this isn’t awkward?”

“Excuuuuse us, milady, did we disturb you? We’re real sorry about that. Hey, let’s move over there so we don’t make her feel awkward.” Peter began to rise, a movement halted by Karleen's hands.

“Stop it, Pete.”

“We’re libating.” Ryn stroked the rim of the cup while his eyes remained transfixed on the ripples of the liquid. He only looked up with his signature smile when the beverages were delivered to their table. After thanking the person who brought them their drinks, he distributed the cups to everyone.

Zarai was ready to go like a wind up spring, insult at the tip of her tongue until she realized something. She was being fucking asshole. With a sigh of resignation, she sat back down and offered a small apologetic tug of her lips to Peter. She couldn’t demand to know what had happened when it was clear none of them wanted to speak of it.

”Libating.” Her tone had gone softer as her eyes darted to the broken figure on the table.

“For Udo.” Ryn took a sip of the drink to soothe the lump in the back of his throat, but all the alcohol did was burn everything along its path. It did not make the next words any easier to say. “He’s dead.”

The air grew thick with a weighty silence that fell over their table like a heavy shroud. Despite the lively commotion permeating the tavern—patrons’s animated conversations, mugs clinking, and laughter echoing in the air—it all seemed muted and distant.

Luz stared at Fritz, her mouth agape. She was having trouble processing what he had just said. He was lying, she concluded. It was all a sick joke she never thought he would play. How could he say that in front of Peter and Karleen? In front of that stupid parrot?! But as she searched their faces, their somber looks became more and more apparent to her.

“So this ain’t going to get any less awkward, Your Gracious-Graciness.”

It wasn’t a lie or some cruel joke. It was the truth. Fuck. A sharp, invisible blade twisted in her chest, and her lungs tightened as though she were being dragged underwater. The world plunged into the icy depths of a frigid lake, and it threatened to pull her down with it.

But she wouldn’t let herself drown.

Luz rose to her feet, gripping her cup as if it were a lifeline, and lifted it high above her head. “To—” her voice faltered, her breath catching, “To Udo—may he find peace in Nnenne’s arms.” Her free hand moved in a slow, deliberate motion, first to her forehead as Udo had done, then to her heart, and finally to her trembling lips.

Every human at the table followed Luz’s lead while the parrot lifted their piece of chicken as high as they could. “To Udo,” they chanted in unison and took a swig of their drinks. The silence returned as everyone’s eyes focused on something far, far away.

“Is he reincarnated?” Karleen broke the silence first.

“Already?” Peter lit his pipe and gave it a moment before answering. “Prolly not. Wasn’t it after the ocean picks all the meat off their bones that their souls are released from their body or some sh*te like that?”

“Sh****tttTTe LIiikke Ttthhaat?” the parrot parroted.

“I always thought their souls were released once Nnenne accepts their body.” Ryn chimed in.

Peter waved his hand dismissively, “Same difference.”

“Do souls stay in the ocean if they’re not reincarnated?” Karleen asked.

“According to Udo’s sermons, reincarnation is a choice. So maybe they do?”

Karleen’s gaze drifted over at the broken figurine. “I hope his family waited for him.”

Ryn followed her gaze. “I’m sure they did. He worked very hard to reunite with them.”

She kept her hopes for Udo’s reincarnated soul unspoken, choosing instead to observe the group in silence. Leaning back against her chair, Luz cradled the cup of mead close to her chest, a small smile forming as she allowed herself to imagine Udo reborn, this time into a peaceful life. She pictured him as a baby, welcomed by a joyful family and a mother eager to hold him in her arms. The thought was a fleeting comfort.

Fortune favors the brave…

With that, she finished her drink in one swift motion, rising from her seat and heading toward the bar without a word. Moments later, she returned, a bottle of clear liquid in one hand and a stack of small shot glasses in the other. “This is Mezcal, a traditional drink from Catalonia,” she explained as she poured the spirit into the glasses, her movements deliberate. She handed each person a shot. “Drink up.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Peter said, snatching up a cup. Karleen swallowed her drink in one swift motion, then reached for a cup with a grateful nod towards Luz. Ryn thanked Luz and slid the last cup towards himself out of courtesy, but did not do much beyond that. Unlike his companions, Ryn was still nursing his first drink.

Peter tilted his head back as he released a puff of smoke from his mouth. “Not gonna ask how’d it happen?”

Luz downed her shot swiftly, savoring the burn as the liquor scorched its way down her throat. Peter’s question drew her focus back to the group. Did she want to know the details? Udo was gone, and nothing could change that now. All that remained was to mourn and let go. Luz hoped Nnenne had already embraced his soul, guiding him toward peace—whether it be to another life or wherever he chose to go.

Yet, she couldn't deny the pull of curiosity. How had it happened? Was it quick? Had he suffered? Was he afraid? Alone? The invisible knife in her chest twisted painfully, but she silenced it with another shot.

“How did he die?”

“Murdered.”

The word struck Ryn like a dagger.

“Wait. Or was it just an elaborate suicide?” Ryn heard the sharp edges of Boss trying to catch his attention, so he peeled his gaze away from his cup and jumped into Peter’s amber eyes. No words passed between them.

Luz’s chest tightened, her lungs struggling to pull in air as she settled back into her chair. She blinked rapidly, brushing away the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. Her gaze drifted to Fritz, and all she wanted was to pull him into a hug. Hug them all, even that irritating parrot. That was what you were supposed to do—offer a comforting touch when words fell short.

Reaching across the table, she placed her hand over Fritz’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. He wrapped his hand around her’s and returned the gentle squeeze.

She had to clear her throat before speaking again, “Do you know who?”

Peter managed to say yes, before Ryn’s voice cut in, “Don’t.” Although his countenance remained neutral, his grip on Luz hand tightened. Only she noticed the tremor.

She cleared her throat softly, steadying herself before speaking again. “Do you know who the bastard who did it?”

“Don’t. What. Boss?” Peter punctuated every word with a hiss. “Don’t strip and jig? Don’t eat watermelon and cheese together? Don’t talk about how we know exactly who did it, but aren’t going to do a damn thing about it?”

Luz looked at him, frowning.

“We don’t actually know who was involved.”

“Bullcrap!” Peter slammed his hands on the table, causing the items on the table to jump and clatter. “You f**king know that Bl–”

“For her safety.”

Peter paused. His attention shifted onto Luz.

Ryn also shifted his attention to her. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you too.” His grip loosened on her hand to pat it. “It’s best if you don’t know.” Then he gave her a smile—an artfully crafted guise to hide a wellspring of emotions both untold and neglected.

“Best for who, Fritz?” Luz scoffed, the disbelief evident in her voice. Was he really going to pull that shit? As smart and charming as he was, sometimes Fritz could be a complete idiot.

The corner of Peter’s eyes twitched, a telltale sign of his mounting displeasure. Even in his discontent, however, there lingered a glimmer of hope, a silent plea that reached out to Luz.

Those eyes, that look, that damn glimmer—it was like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over her, chilling her to the bone. If Fritz kept acting like this, she might as well throw the damn bucket herself. “Who?” Her gaze snapped to Peter, determined and relentless. If Fritz wouldn’t give her the answers, she’d get them from someone who would. “Who ordered it?”

—No.

“Zarai.” Ryn’s voice was stripped of all warmth and his once soft expression turned chillingly blank. “‘It’s best if you don’t know,’ because, if you get too close, you and all the people you care about might face the same fate as Udo.” As he drew closer, his figure cast a shadow upon her—and hopefully, her resolve. “Ask yourself, are you truly prepared to gamble with their lives, simply out of curiosity? Can you bear the weight of knowing that your actions led to the agonizing demise of those dear to you? How their lives slipped away with no one to share their final moments?”

Stop.

Luz did not need to be a part of this, especially when it could put her life in danger. He had to scare her off. “You want to know how Udo died? He was ambushed in the middle of the city at night. We found lots of lacerations and more than a couple bullet wounds. One of the bullets hit his heart. He bled to death, Luz.”

Stop it.

“The thing about having a hole in the heart is that for a few precious seconds, the person’s still alive.” Ryn’s hands seized Luz’s shoulders. “They live long enough to feel the pain.”

Stop!

“The loneliness.” His fingers dug into the weave of Luz’s garments, desperate for the tactile reassurance.

“The sorrow.” Heat pooled behind his dry eyes.

“The anguish.” Despite his efforts to quell it, the tremors resurfaced.

“And regret…” Ryn breathed deeply, then curved his lips into a hollow semblance of a smile. “It was not a peaceful end. That’s how Udo died.”

Stop!!

“Liar.” The familiar baritone of Udo’s cadence emanated from the parrot cracked the fragile smile. Ryn shut his eyes as he salvaged the fragments before he fell apart, piece by piece.

“... a hypocrite of the highest order, a liar...” Udo’s words dropped into the water and rippled across Zarai’s mind. “... would you still step in to help Fritz?” Another drop fell. “He is so convinced that he has to do this alone and it’s why he will fail.” Then it vanished too, engulfed by the sea.

Whatever angry remark or bitter insult she had prepared melted away as she watched the man before her crumble. He was like glass, shattering slowly, each fracture spiderwebbing across the surface of someone she cared for deeply.

“Fritz…” Luz's voice came out softer than she intended, yet it still felt like it wasn’t soft enough. She gently pushed his hands from her shoulders and leaned forward, wrapping him in a tight embrace. One arm held him close, pressing against his back, while the other hand found its way to the back of his head, her fingers threading through his black hair with tender care. Slowly. The way her grandmother used to do for her when she was just a child.


Ryn’s breath caught sharply, his body tensing as Luz’s arms enveloped him.

"You can't scare me off," Zarai whispered, her arms still wrapped tightly around him, as if her embrace alone could hold him together. She clung to him, desperate to stop the fractures from spreading, to prevent him from shattering into a million pieces—pieces she feared he wouldn’t be able to put back together again.

Ryn’s hands found their way around Luz, pulling her closer. His fingertips traced the contours of her as he pressed his face against the curve of her neck. Their bodies melded together, Luz becoming the one thing holding him intact. Through a shaky breath, Ryn mustered an attempt at joviality, “Well, it was worth a try.” He allowed himself to savor the comfort of her presence for a few more heartbeats, then murmured, “We can talk… but not here.”

“It’s been quite a night,” Ryn said deliberately loud enough to reach not only those huddled around the table but also any curious eavesdroppers. “Mind getting the carriage?” Karleen nodded and navigated her way through the maze of people toward the exit. Ryn looked down at the Mezcal and leftover food decorating the table. “And I’ll go see if we can take this to go.” Once Ryn left, Peter, Luz, and the parrot were all that remained at the table.

Luz watched Fritz walk away, her gaze fixed on his shoulders, tense as though one wrong step might cause him to fall apart and scatter across the floor. She hoped—desperately—that this wasn’t just an act. That he would reach out, ask her for help. But deep down, she feared he was already planning how to shut her out, to handle everything on his own.

Smoke unfurled from Peter’s nostrils, curling through the air as he exhaled. “Thanks. Boss’s always been the type to bottle stuff up but…” The redhead sighed. “He didn’t allow himself to grieve. Just did the sea burial then went straight back to work with that damn smile on his face.”

"I figured." Luz shrugged, casually spinning the shot glass in front of her. "Some people need time to process their grief. Others just need a little push." Her eyes met Peter’s through the lingering haze of smoke. "If there’s anything you can tell me, please do." She sat up straighter, leaning toward the table with quiet intensity. "Or if you need help, money, transportation, anything—just let me know."

Peter’s eyes remained locked on Luz’s as he leaned back into his chair and blew out another puff of thick smoke. “Don’t make promises you’re not sure you can keep until you know what you’re getting yourself into first, huh, future Duchess?” The lighting of the tavern and thickness of the smoke made the amber of his eyes seem to glow. “You never know when a promise might turn out to be a contract in disguise.”

TLDR

Zarai walks through the dirty streets of Sorian, still recovering from an injury that causes her pain with each breath. She arrives at the Tough Tavern, expecting to find her friends in their usual jovial state, but instead, the mood is somber. Udo, one of their companions, is missing. As they gather around a table, Zarai notices something is off. Her attempts to lighten the mood fall flat, and soon, she learns the terrible truth—Udo is dead, murdered.

The grief hits hard, and the group raises a toast in Udo's memory. The conversation drifts into uneasy topics about souls and reincarnation, but the focus remains on Udo's tragic death. Zarai is torn between wanting to know more about how Udo died and the fear of being pulled deeper into the dangerous circumstances surrounding his murder.

Fritz and Peter argue about revealing the details of Udo's death. Fritz tries to protect Zarai by keeping her in the dark, but Peter’s anger boils over. Fritz, desperate to scare Zarai away from the truth, describes Udo’s agonizing death in chilling detail, hoping it will dissuade her from asking more questions.

Translations

"Y yo no dudo de tu talento de persuasión, pero hay que estar de acuerdo que yo ganaría. O sea— Mira me, príncipe. Soy una delicia. No estoy diciendo que tú no lo eres, pero yo soy un pastel después de un día largo y demandante. Tú… tú eres… una galletita. Linda y chiquitita– but sharing is caring, after all." "And I don't doubt your talent for persuasion, but you have to agree that I would win. I mean— Look at me, prince. I am a delight. I'm not saying you're not, but I'm a cake after a long and demanding day. You... you are... a cookie. Cute and tiny– but sharing is caring, after all."