PapaOso

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Kilian Hale; Witch Hunter Extraordinaire

🜍 Age: 30s - Gender: Male 🜍

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🜍 Appearance 🜍

Height: 6’3”

Weight: 205 lbs, muscular and lean

Eye Color: Piercing green, sharp and unyielding

Hair Length/Texture: Short on the sides, normal length on top, slightly tousled

Hair Color: Stark white, with a slight sheen that enhances his striking appearance

Skin Color: Pale but weathered from years outdoors

Facial details(freckles, moles, etc): Kilian has a face that commands attention with its striking blend of ruggedness and refinement. His angular jawline and high cheekbones give him a sculpted, almost statuesque appearance. His piercing green eyes, sharp and calculating, seem to see straight through to the truth, framed by thick, slightly arched brows that add to his intense demeanor. A straight nose with a slight bump on the bridge (evidence of an old break) adds character, while his thin, well-defined lips, often set in a firm line or a subtle smirk, exude quiet confidence.

Distinguishing features: His stark white hair, cropped short on the sides with a tousled, natural length on top, blends with his pale yet weathered skin, giving him an almost ethereal intensity.

The most notable detail, however, is his commanding presence…an aura that makes him seem larger than life, even in silence. Every aspect of his appearance feels purposeful, as though carved by the weight of his convictions and the battles he’s endured.

Additionally, he has multiple void ash laced tattoos that act as both protection from Magicae and also as an outlet for his creativity.

Clothing Preferences: On an average day he favors a long, weathered leather coat with reinforced shoulders, its dark hue blending seamlessly into the shadows he frequents. Beneath it, he wears a fitted, sleeveless leather jerkin over a dark, high-collared shirt, allowing for mobility while still offering some protection. His trousers are sturdy and well-worn, tucked into high, scuffed boots with steel toe caps, designed for both harsh terrain and confrontations. Straps and belts crisscross his outfit, securing his weapons and pouches, while an embroidered scarf or a subtly etched bracer bearing anti-magic symbols hints at his trade without being ostentatious.

When dressing for battle, he wears dark leather armor reinforced with metal plating, a weathered cloak with a fur-lined collar, and sturdy boots. Straps and holsters carry his weapons, all of which are meticulously maintained.

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🜍 Psychology 🜍

Likes:
🜍 The thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of eliminating his quarry
🜍 Quiet nights under the stars
🜍 Weaponsmithing and maintaining his gear

Dislikes:
🜍 Arrogance in others (though he's confident in himself)
🜍 Superstition without merit
🜍 Cowardice in the face of duty
🜍 Mercy to the unworthy

Sexuality: Straight

Hobbies: He is not one to indulge in many hobbies outside of training, but he does enjoy tattooing both himself and others (Always with his void ash infused ink)

Life Goals/Dreams:
🜍 To rid the world of dangerous magic users and abominations
🜍 To perfect his craft as a hunter
🜍 To leave behind a legacy as the perfect vanguard

Personality Summary: Kilian Hale is the embodiment of confidence and competence. Intense, focused, and relentless, he speaks only when necessary, allowing his actions to define him. Though merciless in his pursuit, he has a quiet charisma that draws others in, even as they fear him. Beneath his stoic exterior, he maintains a dry sense of humor that finds its way to the surface from time to time, and he harbors a deep appreciation for the simplicity of a life lived with purpose.

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🜍 Background 🜍

Current occupation: Witch Hunter for the Vanguard Society

Any past occupations?: No, he was born and bred to be among the Vanguards

Relatives: His father, Korlys Hale, was among the best Witch Hunters the Vanguard Society had ever known. Kilian wishes to surpass him. Retired from active duty, Korlys serves as an elder and member of the Council of Regents for the Society.

Skills: Kilian was essentially raised from a very young age to be proficient in every facet of witch hunting. He shines in most if not all areas of his craft, but he is exceptionally talented in the following skills.

🜍 Use of his Flail
🜍 Marksmanship with his Witch Scope Sniper Rifle as well as his Void Ash Lever-Action Pistol
🜍 Runecrafting
🜍 Magicae Identification
🜍 Tracking & Survival

History Summary:
Kilian Hale was born into a long line of Witch Hunters, raised with the sole purpose of becoming the perfect weapon against the supernatural. His father, Korlys Hale, now serves on the council of regents, wielding influence and power in the Witch Hunting society. Trained from a young age in combat, strategy, and the ways to combat the arcane, Kilian was groomed to uphold his family’s legacy. While he excels in his duties, there are some that feel his absolutist and unrelenting interpretation of the codex can air on the side of extreme. Though he loves his father, his relationship with the man is complicated at best and Killian’s loyalties do not lie with his family, instead it is his commitment to upholding his duties and serving the Vanguard that truly mean the most to him.

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🜍 Questionnaire 🜍

History
🜍Did you grow up nurtured or neglected?: Neither; I grew up prepared.
🜍When you were upset, where was your sanctuary?: The training grounds, the woods, or the privacy of his chambers.
🜍What were you like in your teenage years?: Restless
🜍How close are you to your parents?: They served their purpose. That is enough.
🜍Do you have any trauma that haunts you?: My actions have forged me. Trauma is a weakness I refuse to indulge.
🜍What advice would you give your younger self?: Trust your instincts. They will not fail you.
🜍Were you an obedient child or defiant?: Obedient to what mattered, defiant to what didn’t.
🜍What is your biggest regret?: Regret is for the weak.

Romance
🜍Have you ever been in love? : Once. Move on.
🜍What is most important in a partner to you? Describe your dream partner.: No comment.
🜍How do you display affection? What is your love language?: Loyalty and Protection
🜍Have you had your first kiss? What was it like?: Yes. It meant something then. It means nothing now.
🜍Do you believe in love at first sight? Why or why not?: No. Attraction is immediate; love is earned.
🜍What does marriage mean to you?: A bond of purpose, not sentiment.
🜍Are you currently crushing on anyone?: No. Move on.
🜍Do you ever consider having children in the future?: A child would require more than I am willing to give, though it is expected that I will one day further the bloodline.

Personality
🜍Describe your ideal Sunday morning: Somewhere without your incessant questioning.
🜍What kind of person do you aspire to be?: Uncompromising
🜍What bad habits do you have?: Bad habits get you killed.
🜍If you could go back in time and change anything in your past, what would it be?: I would have walked away from this conversation before it started.
🜍What is your greatest fear?: Living forever
🜍What are your pet peeves?: Weakness, indecision, and wasted time.
🜍When you are in a sour mood, do you like to be alone or with others?: What do you think?
🜍Are you more likely to fight with your fists or your tongue?: You can certainly find out if you ask me any more of these useless questions.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Flashback, Sola 26th
Ari & Milo

Dearest Lady Ariella Edwards,

I trust this letter finds you recovering well after your evening in that wretched place. It is with no small amount of amusement that I recall your charming declaration that my artistic eye is, shall we say, “rather awful.” How boldly you cut me down, and yet, with such exquisitely untamed grace...how could I possibly be offended?

But, my dear, I wonder... Have you truly glimpsed the depth of what I create? A single glance at a lone painting is akin to tasting the first drop of wine before it’s had time to bloom upon your tongue. And though I will concede that the grotesque and immature subject of my recent portrait might have left much to be desired, I must ask...did I not capture every ounce of his delusion with uncanny precision? Was it not a masterpiece in its own right, for no other reason than the audacity it required?

I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you the opportunity to see more. The gallery holds so many secrets...each piece a layer, each layer a revelation. There’s a reason art is meant to be experienced in full, under the soft glow of candlelight, with shadows shifting like whispers on the canvas. You may find that something stirs in you yet...something deeper, more visceral...if only you let yourself be drawn into my world. After all, the greatest works of art are those that provoke, that linger long after you’ve turned away.

Of course, should your opinion remain unchanged, I’ll bear the brunt of your critique once more. However, call it a hunch…or perhaps even arrogance, but I am certain that won’t be the case. Furthermore, the punishment that has been cast upon you will be far more pleasurable for us both, should we take the time to truly get to know one another.

There’s so much I could show you, far beyond the confines of any portrait. I trust you’ll follow your curiosity and let it lead you to my door. After all, the only way to know the truth of my art...and of me...is to immerse yourself in all that I have to offer.

Yours, awaiting with great anticipation,
Mr. Sunshine
Milo St. Claire

Ari set the letter down on her lap, her fingers idly tracing the edges as she mulled over her predicament. Was it worse to endure the dungeons again or sit through the agonizing stillness of being painted? She wasn’t sure, but the answer was becoming clear—this was far worse. Sitting for hours, under the scrutinizing gaze of an artist —it was almost unbearable.

The thought of the king’s portrait made her bristle. It was arrogant of anyone to think she might like what he painted. But the king's face stirred something deep within her, an unsettling mix of emotions. Still, she felt a pang of guilt for having defaced the work. Whatever her feelings about the king, it had probably taken the artist ages to complete.

Standing up, Ari’s bare toes curled into the dirt of her sanctuary, grounding her in a place that felt far more real than the painted halls of the palace. It had been too long since she had returned here. After the disaster of Drake's birthday party, especially with her mother’s sharp tongue, home was the last place she wanted to be. She needed to be in *her* home—the sanctuary she had built among the ruins.

The once-empty space was now a haven of intentional clutter. Flowers and leaves adorned the walls with delicate care, some hanging to dry, others placed purely for the joy of seeing them there. Tiny skulls and bones, remnants of animals, had been fashioned into charms that hung like talismans of protection. Her books were scattered everywhere, pages half-turned, notes and sketches drawn hurriedly in the margins—evidence of her restless mind.

With a sigh, Ari left her cove, feeling the weight of what was to come. She moved with purpose, but inside, all she could think was how desperately she wished she didn’t have to face this.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ariella has spent most of the morning attempting to Locate his gallery. She didn’t even bother going home to clean up her appearance. Her dirty feet, grass-stained, mud-stained dress, and messy hair with random strands of grass stuck within two braids that hung down her shoulders. By all accounts, she looked poorly but for Ari, she was by far her at her happiest.

She reached the gallery door “ Milo St.Claire” gold plated on the door. She let out a sigh before pushing open the door.

Stepping inside she looked around, unable to see a single soul.

Hello? she called out.

As Ariella pushed open the door to the Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, the quiet sound of her entrance echoed through the vast, elegant space. The gallery was an embodiment of opulence... marble floors polished to a mirror shine, soft lighting illuminating the intricate details of paintings lining the walls, and sculptures artfully placed to draw the eye. Each piece seemed carefully curated to create an atmosphere of refinement and prestige; this was a place where the finest art could truly be appreciated. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and lavender, a subtle but unmistakable mark of sophistication.

A few patrons wandered through the main hall, their hushed voices melding into the sound of footsteps against the floor. Despite the serenity, there was an undercurrent of business and formality, where even the faintest out-of-place detail could disrupt the gallery’s carefully maintained aesthetic.

To say that Ariella’s presence disrupted that very aesthetic would be the understatement of the century.

She looked nothing like the other patrons... dressed in mud-stained clothes, her feet bare and dirtied, with strands of grass clinging to her wild hair. Her braids swung loosely as she stood there in the entryway.

From the other side of the room, a sharply dressed woman in her late thirties noticed Ari immediately. Ms. Ingrid Hollis, the gallery’s lead receptionist, was an embodiment of order and propriety. Dressed in a crisp gray blazer with a matching skirt, her expression instantly soured as she took in Ari’s disheveled appearance.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble as she made her way toward Ariella, an air of passive aggression practically radiating off of her. She forced a tight-lipped smile as she approached, her tone dripping with condescension. Excuse me, miss, but I believe you may have taken a wrong turn. This is The Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts, not the local market. She looked pointedly at Ari's bare feet. We do have certain... standards here.

Ingrid folded her arms and let her eyes drift over Ari, making no attempt to hide her distaste. Perhaps you’d like directions to a place more suited to your, ah, current condition?

Ariella's eyes looked down at her feet then back up, ready to snap back at the rather rude woman. But before Ari could respond, a smooth voice cut through the tension.

Ms. Hollis, I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, said Mr. Duval, a tall man with slicked-back, curly hair and a carefully maintained beard. He appeared behind Ingrid, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with an air of effortless charm. Mr. Duval was Milo’s personal assistant and public relations representative...a man known for his ability to manage crises and navigate delicate social situations.

Ingrid stepped back, visibly confused by his intervention. “Mr. Duval, I...”

He held up a hand, silencing her with a firm smile. “This young woman is a special guest of Mr. St. Claire himself. There will be no further issue.” His eyes flicked to Ari with a warmth and understanding absent in Ingrid’s judgmental gaze.

Ingrid’s face blanched, and she instantly backtracked, her tone suddenly much softer. “I-I wasn’t aware. My apologies, miss.”

Mr. Duval dismissed Ingrid with a nod, turning his full attention to Ari. His voice dropped into a more conversational tone as if he were addressing a friend. “Miss Edwards, I presume? Mr. St. Claire has been expecting you.” He extended an arm toward the gallery’s inner halls. “Allow me to escort you to his lounge.”

Offering a large smile to Mr Hollis she took Mr Duval's arm with pleasure. “ Thank you, “ she said nodding to Mr Duval as they began walking through the Gallery. For added effect, Ari slapped her feet against the Marble floors as the sound echoed through the room. Leaving a muddied trail across the clean floors.

“ I didn’t expect the gallery to be so … expensive.” she added looking around at all its finery. Her mother would die knowing that she showed up to a place like this looking as she did.

Mr. Duval chuckled softly as Ariella took his arm, her enthusiasm brightening the air around them. He felt the weight of her playful mischief as she slapped her feet against the polished marble, the sound echoing like a heartbeat through the gallery. The muddied trail she left behind seemed to almost rebel against the pristine decor, a bold statement of individuality that was both charming and audacious.

“Ah, well, it seems we have a little avant-garde art of our own in the making,” he quipped, casting a sidelong glance at the trail. “Perhaps we’ll need to commission a piece entitled The Footprints of Disobedience for the gallery's next exhibit.” His tone remained light, a clear attempt to match her energy. Ariella held back a chuckle, biting her lip instead she smiled.

As they walked further into the gallery, Mr. Duval gestured to the various pieces displayed around them, each one a testament to the caliber of Milo's work. “I can assure you, Miss Edwards, that the gallery's charm isn’t merely in the price tag of its art. It’s the stories behind each piece that truly captivates. Mr. St. Claire has an unrivaled talent for capturing the essence of the human experience...much like your own journey here today.”

He paused for a moment, allowing her to take in the vibrant colors and intricate details of the paintings lining the walls, but continued after that brief moment.

As they approached a set of opulently intricate double doors, Mr. Duval’s demeanor shifted slightly, a hint of seriousness entering his tone. “If you’re ready…Mr. St. Claire has been looking forward to your arrival.”

With a graceful gesture, he pushed the doors open, revealing a comfortable lounge bathed in golden light, and adorned with plush furnishings and paintings stacked against the walls. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. At the center of it all, lounging comfortably with a glass of brandy on the rocks in hand, sat Milo St. Claire himself, a smile already spreading across his lips as he saw her enter.

"Lady Ariella Edwards," Milo greeted smoothly, rising from his seat. "I knew you'd come."

"An order from the king would encourage that," she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the silence. She stepped further into the room, her feet leaving a trail of dirt across the polished floor, each footprint a subtle act of defiance. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the richly upholstered chairs, the intricate details in the tapestries, and the quiet opulence that seemed to press in from every angle.

But then her attention drifted to the windows, where the world outside called to her with a pull that no amount of luxury could match. The sprawling countryside beyond the glass seemed to breathe with life, the distant fields and whispering trees alive in a way the enclosed grandeur of the room could never be. A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips. No beauty within four walls could ever compete with the freedom and raw allure of the open air.

"I'm here because of… a painting, was it? Something I'm supposed to sit for?" she asked, her voice laced with playful curiosity. Her hands swung back, fingers clasping around her arms as she rocked gently on her heels, adding a touch of endearing awkwardness to her otherwise poised stance. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of intrigue and amusement, her brow slightly furrowed as if the idea of sitting still for a portrait was entirely foreign.

Milo’s smile widened at Ariella's cutting remark, clearly relishing her defiance. He watched with keen interest as she glanced longingly at the world outside, her small smile not lost on him. There was a wildness to her, something unrestrained, that was as captivating as it was refreshing amidst the gallery’s orderly grandeur.

He took a leisurely sip of his brandy, his eyes never leaving her. "Oh, indeed," he said, his voice rich with amusement. "The king can be quite… persuasive when he wishes. But I assure you, my dear Ariella, this is no mere task assigned to you out of obligation… It is meant to be penitence, after all."

Rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh, Ariella gave him a smug smile. Setting his glass down with a soft clink, he moved forward, his steps measured and smooth, closing the distance between them with a casual ease. Milo’s presence seemed to fill the room; he had a way of making even the largest of spaces feel intimate, as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. Giving her a once-over now that they stood so close, Milo smiled as he spoke.

"My name isn’t dear, it’s Ari," she quipped back. "Do you think I’d be here had you demanded anything? The king required me to be here. I would be much happier elsewhere, but I’d rather not spend another evening in the dungeon."

Her mood seemed to have shifted from the carefree demeanor she had earlier in the day. Something about Milo St. Claire seemed to bring that out of her. Crossing her arms, she added, "Do we have to do it in here?" she asked defiantly, watching as he continued to eye her. "Artists love the outdoors, no? Perhaps we could just find a nice field, and you can just paint while I…" She looked around the room. "Not be in here," she said, offering him another smile.

The artist’s smile softened, a hint of amusement flickering across his face as he studied her, taking in the shift in her demeanor with clear intrigue. His gaze lingered, dark and assessing, as he leaned back slightly. The intensity in his eyes shone through, though his perfected congeniality never faltered.

“Ari,” he repeated, the name slipping off his tongue like a promise. “So quick to forget we’re well past formalities. You did, in fact, vandalize a piece of art that would be worth millions on the market. A night in the dungeon and a free portrait are hardly severe punishments. Perhaps you just enjoy showing me you’re difficult to please.”

Crossing her arms, Ari squinted at him. “I am not hard to please. I’m rather easy to please.” She looked at him through the corner of her eye. “I just don’t like formalities, but if you're more comfortable with them, you may call me Lady Edwards. I also don’t agree that a canvas with some paint on it is worth more than my freedom, but I suppose that is where we disagree.”

He tilted his head, the dim, warm light casting shadows across his face as he seemed to consider her proposal. “The king may have brought you here, but don’t fool yourself,” he continued, his voice a deep murmur that somehow still held command. “You came to me. Your presence here… your stubborn, defiant presence… is no one’s decision but your own.” Her eyes drifted back to the large windows, counting the moments until she could leave.

A smirk touched his lips, and he stepped closer, closing that small distance again. “You want to be outside?” he mused, his voice calm, almost teasing. He let the suggestion hang there, a subtle challenge in his tone, before leaning just a bit closer, his gaze unwavering. “Besides, a field would be too… ordinary for you, wouldn’t it?” His eyes flickered with curiosity, as though seeing something intriguing in her just beneath the surface. Ari glanced back at him as she noted his intense look at her.

“How about this, Lady Edwards… Pick your most beloved place in all of Sorian, in town or out in the wilds, it matters not. Wherever you decide, I’ll paint you there.”

She couldn’t invite him to her secret spot—that was her favorite place—but there was a close second. “Lovers Lake,” she said without hesitation. “It’s one of my favorite places—the lake, the colors, the smell… everything. It’s beautiful.” She smiled at him. “Thank you…” she said softly, appearing to relax.

“So… does that mean you’ll be painting it today? I don’t know the artistic process, if I’m honest.”
Milo's gaze lingered on her as she described the lake, her voice softening with the memory of it, a spark of genuine fondness breaking through her defiant edge. He allowed a small smile, amused by the unexpected glimpse into her softer side. But, as her question lingered in the air, he tilted his head, letting the moment stretch a bit before answering.

“Unfortunately, Lady Edwards,” he began, his voice low, a trace of regret woven in, “the gallery’s launch in a couple of days leaves me with little freedom at the moment. My time, it seems, is bound to too many demands. But…” he let his words hang, leaning in a bit closer, “I’m sure we can arrange a way to meet again. After all, how else am I to capture the essence of the elusive Ariella Edwards if I’m not to exist in her aura for a time?”

Ari perked up “A launch? Oh! I’m sorry when I got your letter I assumed … I’m sorry.” she paused looking down at her feet “Oh…That explains that lady in the lobby.” she laughed nervously. “What about sketches though? I figured this painting would have been an afternoon thing.”

He brushed off her comment about sketches with an amused, almost dismissive wave. “Sketches? I’m flattered by your concern, but I’m afraid I’ve moved far beyond such basics. When the time comes, I won’t need sketches to see you...just the brilliance of my eye and the mastery of my hands. You’ll simply have to trust my expertise.” A soft challenge entered his eyes. “And if trust doesn’t come easily, well…Perhaps I can find ways of earning it.”

He held her gaze, his expression playful yet intense, letting the words settle before adding, “Until we can escape to the lake, perhaps we can take advantage of a few moments here and there, getting to know each other. I imagine, in that time, you may find me far less a tyrant than you think.” His smile returned, a touch wicked. “Or perhaps more of one.”

Ari hummed thoughtfully, rocking back and forth on her heels with a mischievous glint in her eye. She cast a sideways glance at him, feigning casualness before fully turning her attention his way. "If you consider yourself a tyrant," she teased, her lips curling into a playful grin, “you clearly haven’t met my mother. She's a whole different league."

Her smile softened, warm and inviting. "You know," she continued, "I imagine sitting for a portrait wouldn’t feel half as daunting if I were acquainted with the artist.” She let her gaze wander around the room, admiring the paintings on the walls with genuine curiosity. “One of the gentlemen gave me a little tour on my way here," she mused, before leaning forward with an almost conspiratorial smile. "But maybe you could give me a private one?"

She paused, giving him a look of mock defeat. "Of course, if you're too busy with the grand opening, I wouldn’t dream of imposing." Her voice carried a hint of wistfulness as if her request were just a whisper of a wish. "I could always return another time."

“Today,” he began, his voice softening with amusement as he studied her expression, “I may be the busiest man in the entire world.” He paused, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly with intrigue. “But don’t think for a moment I’d be too busy for you.”

With that, he extended his hand toward her, the invitation clear in his gaze. “Come along then, Lady Edwards.” His tone was teasing, but his offer carried a hint of intimacy, a thread of sincerity woven beneath the playful charm. “After all, it’s only fair you get to know the man behind the work if you’re to trust his talent. Consider this…a little prelude to the lake. Plus, given your thoughts on my kingly portrait…I simply can’t wait to hear your critique of the rest of my work.”

“Oh, the busiest man in the entire world?” she echoed, her tone rich with mock surprise. “Well, I’d hate to be the one to distract you from such important duties.” Her voice was teasing, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.

Finally, she unfolded her arms and placed her hand in his, her fingers warm and light in his grasp. “But who am I to turn down an invitation from such a busy man?” Her smile softened, a hint of sincerity slipping through her playful tone.

“And don’t worry—I’ll be sure to give my critique, fair and honest as always. Just know that I’ll hold you to that promise of the lake. I may be a lot of things, but I’m certainly not one to forget a promise.” With that, she inclined her head, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she allowed him to lead the way.

Milo’s fingers closed lightly over hers, his grip confident yet unhurried, as though there was all the time in the world despite the mountains of preparation yet to be done over the next few days before the launch. With a faint curve to his lips, he led her toward a specific section of the space, where the soft hum of conversation and footsteps between the workers and those who had found their way with early passes faded into the background.

He paused before a smaller doorway, stepping aside to let her enter first. “Prepare yourself, Lady Edwards,” he said, his voice low with a hint of playful warning, “for here lies the true heart of my work. I suspect it may surprise you.”

He glanced back at her, his smirk unmistakable, before removing the cover from a painting next to them. It was rather large, so much so that shadows seemed to crawl out from its very edges, wrapping around the figure barely visible at the center. “The Whisper,” he said, his voice quieter now, his hand resting lightly on the frame. “A personal favorite of mine. It’s not meant to be comfortable. Art, after all, isn’t always kind. Sometimes, it reminds us of what we’d rather not see.”

“What do you think, Little Miss Chaos? Too much darkness? Or perhaps…” His lips curled into a teasing smile. “…just enough?” Milo stepped back, studying the piece for a moment before glancing at her again.

Ariella tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the painting. “Chaos suits me, doesn’t it?” she teased, her voice laced with playful defiance. “But this… it’s not just dark. It’s something else. Like it’s alive.” Her voice softened, a flicker of genuine admiration creeping in as her gaze lingered on the piece.

Milo moved suddenly, with purpose, toward another painting. With a fluid motion, he pulled the cover away, revealing a piece of art that seemed to pulsate with its own raw energy. It was a vast, sprawling canvas, dominated by shades of deep crimson and bruised purples. The scene was fragmented yet cohesive: a faceless figure emerging from a churning sea of hands, some grasping, others reaching, as though in desperation or prayer. The edges of the painting dissolved into shadow, giving the impression of something endless and consuming.

“I call this one The Weight of Wanting,” Milo murmured, stepping back so she could take it in. “Desire, hunger, need... It devours as much as it sustains. It’s beautiful in its tragedy, don’t you think?”

Ariella's breath hitched as she absorbed the painting's intensity. “It’s… haunting,” she admitted, her tone softer now, almost reverent. “But there’s something… painfully human about it. Like it’s holding up a mirror no one wants to look into.”

He didn’t wait for her response, instead moving to the next canvas. With a sharp tug, he unveiled a smaller but no less striking piece. This one was painted in stark black and bone white, depicting a skeletal tree growing out of a pile of crumbling masks. From its branches hung fragments of broken mirrors, each reflecting distorted, mournful faces.

“Truth’s Bloom,” he explained, his tone quieter now. “It grows from the lies we tell ourselves, feeding on what we try to bury. But the truth always finds a way to emerge. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s... unforgiving.” His eyes lingered on the piece for a long moment before flicking back to her.

Ariella’s gaze was fixed on the painting, her expression unreadable. “The masks… they’re us, aren’t they?” she said softly, almost as if to herself. “We wear them, thinking they’ll protect us. But in the end, they just crumble.” She turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “It’s raw. Honest. And, yes, unforgiving.”

Milo moved to the next painting, his hand brushing the fabric of its cover as he paused. “This one…” His voice dropped, carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. “This one is closer to me than most.” He pulled the cover away with slow precision, revealing a hauntingly intimate work.

A single figure sat alone in a cavernous, empty room. The walls loomed with shadows that seemed to shift and crawl, swallowing the light that trickled through a cracked window. The figure’s face was turned away, but their posture spoke of crushing grief, of a burden too heavy to bear. Around their feet lay scattered items... a broken violin, a wilted rose, a small, tattered book... each rendered with exquisite, painful detail.

“Elegy for the Living,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about those we lose, yes, but also the parts of ourselves that die along with them.” He glanced at her, his stormy hazel eyes searching hers. “Do you see it, Lady Edwards? The beauty in the breaking? The truth in the ache?”

The room felt heavier now, as if the paintings themselves had filled it with their collective sorrow, longing, and fragile hope. Milo stepped closer to her, his expression unreadable. “Each of these,” he said, his voice low, “is a piece of my soul. The side of me that doesn’t bow to kings, smile to the masses, or entertain salons. It’s raw, and it’s uncomfortable, and it’s real. But isn’t that what art is meant to be?”

Ariella tilted her head, her vibrant red hair catching the light as she studied The Whisper, her green eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and something softer. She stepped closer, standing on her tiptoes to get a better look, as though the height might offer her some secret insight. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting to trace the shadows on the canvas but knowing better than to touch.

“Darkness isn’t always a bad thing,” she murmured, her voice unusually quiet. “Sometimes it just… feels honest. Like this.” She glanced at Milo out of the corner of her eye, trying to suppress the hint of awe tugging at her expression. “It’s… different. Portraits show faces, sure, but this shows something. Something I can’t quite name.”

When he unveiled The Weight of Wanting, Milo watched her closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as her breath hitched and she leaned in again, her arms crossing loosely over her chest.

“It’s a lot,” she admitted after a pause, her tone laced with reluctant admiration. “Not too much, though. It makes you feel, and that’s… unexpected.” She wrinkled her nose, trying to mask her intrigue with indifference. “It’s not like those grand, dull paintings of kings that just sit there looking smug.”

As Milo moved to the next piece, Truth’s Bloom, he noted her reaction with quiet satisfaction. She tilted her head again, her hair brushing against her cheek, and frowned—not with displeasure but with thoughtfulness—as her eyes flitted over the skeletal tree and the shattered reflections.

“It’s haunting,” she said softly, standing back on her heels for a moment before rising again onto her toes, as if trying to see more of the hidden faces in the broken mirrors. “Like it knows something we don’t.” She hesitated, glancing at him. “Why do you hide these?” she asked, her voice betraying her genuine curiosity.

“They’re not like anything else I’ve seen, Milo. They… make you look twice. Portraits don’t do that.”
When the last cover was removed, revealing Elegy for the Living, Ariella stilled completely. She didn’t step forward this time, instead hugging her elbows as she gazed at the figure in the painting. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together, determined not to let the ache it stirred show on her face.

“It’s lonely,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And heavy. Like the kind of sadness you carry because you don’t know how to put it down.” She paused, her gaze flickering to the broken violin. “It’s beautiful, though. In a way that hurts.”

She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Why would you want to hide these parts of yourself?” she asked, her tone soft but insistent. “You say they’re uncomfortable, but they’re… alive. These aren’t just paintings—they feel something. They make you feel something.” Her cheeks flushed as she realized how earnest she sounded, and she quickly added, “Not that I’m saying I like them, of course. Just… that they’re not what I expected.”

Ariella stepped back, her arms still crossed, though her expression softened as she glanced at the paintings again. “You’re right, though,” she said quietly. “Art isn’t supposed to bow or smile. It’s supposed to leave something behind. And this…” She gestured to the room, her voice trailing off. “…it does that.”

Milo tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. His hazel eyes gleamed with a flicker of something unreadable…mischief, perhaps, or maybe satisfaction. He took a measured step closer, the soft rustle of his silk shirt filling the pause between them.
“Hiding them?” he echoed, his tone low, carrying the weight of his amusement. “Oh, Lady Edwards, far from it. These”...he gestured to the haunting collection around them... “are about to be laid bare for the world to see. Every shadow, every fractured reflection, every ache I’ve poured onto these canvases will be spread before Sorian’s prying, judgmental eyes.”

His hand grazed the edge of Elegy for the Living, his touch deliberate but reverent. “But now that you’ve seen them first,” he murmured, his voice softening, “I can’t help but feel as though this moment belongs to us alone. A secret, just for you and me, before the masses try to make sense of it all...or worse, twist it into something it’s not.”

Milo’s eyes lingered on her, sharp and searching, as though he was committing her expression to memory. Then, his lips curved again, this time into something warmer, less guarded. “Let Sorian see them,” he continued, his voice more than resolute. “Let them try to wrap their minds around the weight and the shadows. But whatever they take from these pieces, it won’t compare to this...to witnessing you standing here, raw and unfiltered, letting them truly and wholly wash over you.”

Ari's gaze admired the paintings, her eyes tracing the intricate details as though unable to tear herself away. The intensity of her focus was palpable, as if each brushstroke held some unspoken truth. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a fleeting sound that danced through the quiet room, followed by a smile that curved playfully across her face. But then, something shifted—like a cloud passing over the sun. The smile faltered, fading into a quiet sorrow as a thought seemed to settle in her mind. Her eyes, bright and full of life only moments before, clouded with realization.

"Sorian doesn’t like the strange and unusual," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and quiet bitterness. "They much rather you wear shoes and curtsy to every demand." Her shoulders, once poised with an air of casual confidence, sagged in defeat, as if the weight of her words had taken their toll. "It’s a shame that these will likely be scrutinized…."

Her eyes shifted from the paintings to their creator, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before she spoke again, her tone softer now. "I like the strange and unusual though," she added, a spark of warmth returning to her gaze as it once again found its way to the artwork before her. The smile that bloomed on her lips this time was genuine, albeit tinged with a bittersweet fondness. "You paint portraits and landscapes, but I think these are the most honest I’ve seen."

A soft sigh escaped her, as though she had been holding her breath for far too long. Slowly, she took a step back, her body relaxing as she clasped her hands in front of her, the motion almost meditative. "At first, I thought you might paint me like you did the portrait of the king," she said, her voice trailing off with a touch of uncertainty. "But now… I hope you do something like this."

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

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Time: 10:00 AM
Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
Mention:N/A
Attire:A Suit Fit For A True Artist

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Please Play This

The Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts shimmered under the morning glow, its marble facade illuminated by scarce golden sconces and lanterns, casting a warm halo against the intended dimly lit interior. Guests filtered into the grand foyer, an eclectic mix of noble elegance and avant-garde flair, their laughter and chatter creating a symphony of anticipation. The first hour of the gallery’s grand opening was reserved for the donors and other luminaries of the Sorian art community. Inside, the atmosphere pulsed with energy...a mingling of muted harp strings, the scent of truffle hors d’oeuvres, and the vibrant hues of Milo St. Claire’s latest masterpieces adorning the walls.

Milo himself was the centerpiece of the room, a vision of composed radiance. Draped in a tailored charcoal suit with golden accents that mirrored the gallery’s decor, he greeted every attendee with warmth and genuine interest. His blonde hair was immaculately swept back, and his hazel eyes glimmered with an almost otherworldly light. Each handshake lingered just enough to feel sincere, and his laughter resonated...deep, rich, and effortlessly charming.

“Ms. Vanderhall, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet as he accepted a compliment on the gallery’s floral arrangements. “The lilies are poetry themselves, perfectly framing the elegance of my work.” He gestured toward a sprawling canvas titled Tempest’s Embrace, a cacophony of swirling blues and golds that seemed to undulate under the gallery’s soft lighting.

But Milo’s practiced composure faltered for a fraction of a second whenever he glanced at the centerpiece of the exhibit: The Mirror of Perception. The reflective installation occupied an entire alcove, its shifting surface distorting every onlooker’s image. It was mesmerizing, almost alive, drawing guests in with its haunting allure. Milo’s smile tightened every time someone praised its brilliance, though no one else seemed to notice the flicker of something darker in his eyes.

As the gallery’s pre-show hour unfolded, Milo moved through the crowd like a conductor orchestrating his symphony. At the Ivory Lounge, he leaned against the sleek bar, holding court with a group of critics and patrons. With a champagne flute in hand, he regaled them with a story about his travels in the far east, punctuating his tale with humorous asides that sent ripples of laughter through the group.

“But truly,” he said, lowering his voice to a more intimate tone, “I owe everything to you, my cherished guests. You’ve given my art a place to flourish, to truly be seen on such a grand scale. This morning belongs to each and every one of you as much as it does to me. Your presence breathes life into my chaos, transforming these pieces into something transcendent.” His words lingered, drawing the crowd closer, spellbound by his charm.

When the harpists transitioned to a delicate rendition of a familiar waltz, Milo excused himself, gliding toward the Portrait Gallery. This room was quieter, its subdued lighting casting a reverent glow over the gilded frames. He paused before a particularly striking portrait of Countess Diana Cristian, the strokes of his brush capturing both her regal poise and the vulnerability in her eyes.

“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” a voice interrupted, and Milo turned to face a young woman whose curiosity shone even brighter than her jewels.

“She is,” Milo replied with a soft smile. “A masterpiece in her own right. All I did was follow where her one of a kind essence led my hand.”

The interaction was brief but magnetic, leaving the woman lingering as Milo continued his journey through the gallery. Alone for the first time that morning, he found himself back at The Mirror of Perception. He stared into its warped surface, his reflection splitting and shifting with every subtle movement. His smile faded, replaced by an intensity that bordered on reverence. For a moment, the world around him seemed to quiet, the vibrant gallery dimming until only the mirror and his fractured image remained. His jaw tightened, and his hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Then, as if on cue, a voice from behind broke the spell. “Milo, darling! Everyone’s dying to hear about Reflections of Reverie.”

The mask slipped back into place, his golden smile returning as he turned to greet the guest. “Ah, but what’s art without a little mystery?” he teased, gesturing for them to lead the way. “Come, let us unravel it together.”

As he moved back into the crowd, the air of the gallery seemed lighter, the whispers and laughter of his guests filling the space once more. Yet the mirror remained, silently distorting the images of those who dared to look too closely.

Once the clock neared eleven, Milo was urged back to the entrance of his Portrait Gallery by the event’s esteemed organizers. Seeing as any moment now those doors would open and the rest of Sorian would flood into these halls, and the people of Caesonia would get the honored pleasure of laying their eyes on the blessings of his brilliance. Some would be awestruck by his works, others would critique them without the slightest idea of the actual majesties before them…But all would bear witness to what “Mr. Sunshine” was truly capable of.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Play Both!

You are cordially invited to an exclusive evening showcasing the remarkable works of the renowned artist Milo St. Claire. This gallery event promises to be an unforgettable experience of creativity, elegance, and mystery, all set within the captivating atmosphere of his private art studio. Join the crème de la crème of the art world for a night where beauty, emotion, and imagination collide.

📍 Location:Sorian Gallery of Fine Arts
🕰️ Date & Time: The exhibition opens at 11:00 a.m.

✨ What to Expect:

🎨 Exclusive Art Exhibit:
Wander through a maze of paintings, sculptures, and installations designed to evoke wonder and contemplation. Milo’s latest collection, "Reflections of Reverie," will be revealed for the first time, featuring works that explore the duality of light and darkness, chaos and tranquility, in human emotion. Guests will have the opportunity to discuss the deeper meanings behind each piece with the artist himself throughout the night.

🍷 Open Bar & Specialty Cocktails:
Enjoy an array of premium wines, fine champagne, and signature cocktails crafted just for the evening. Let your taste buds indulge while your eyes feast on the visual splendor. Drinks will be available at the Ivory Lounge, a cozy space adjacent to the gallery with plush seating and dim lighting for intimate conversations.

🍽️ Gourmet Hors d’Oeuvres:
Sample a curated selection of fine hors d'oeuvres that complement the artistic theme. Delicacies such as truffle-infused risotto bites, smoked salmon crostini, and mini tartlets with gold leaf accents will be served by elegant waitstaff. Milo personally selected these dishes to pair perfectly with the mood and tone of his works.

Hors d'Oeuvres

🖋️ Live Calligraphy & Sketching:
As a part of the artistic experience, a live calligrapher will create personalized nameplates for each guest upon entry, while a live sketch artist will capture candid moments from the night, allowing guests to take home a piece of the evening.

🎶 Ambient Music:
Immerse yourself in the delicate sounds of renowned harpists, playing soft classical and contemporary pieces throughout the night. The music will echo through the gallery, heightening the emotional impact of Milo’s work.

🖼️ Interactive Art Installation:
Guests are encouraged to interact with the featured piece, "The Mirror of Perception," a reflective installation that distorts images based on where you stand, symbolizing the ever-changing nature of self-awareness. This eerie, haunting work invites contemplation and personal reflection, a centerpiece that encapsulates Milo's vision for the evening.

💎 Limited Edition Keepsake:
Each guest will receive an exclusive commemorative print signed by Milo St. Claire himself, a memento of the night. These limited edition prints, specially designed for the gallery event, are a token of Milo's appreciation for those who come to celebrate art and its power to transform.

✨ Dress Code:

Formal or Avant-garde attire is encouraged. Let your wardrobe reflect your creative spirit and be part of the night’s artistry. (VIP Access comes with admittance into the “Clothing Optional” Areas of the exhibit.)

Don’t miss the chance to witness Milo St. Claire’s latest masterpiece collection in an atmosphere designed to captivate and inspire. Whether you are an art connoisseur or a casual admirer, this is an event not to be missed.

Exhibit Rooms:

📜 The Portrait Gallery:

Portrait Gallery

Admire large, gold-framed portraits of notable figures, including Countess Diana Cristian, Count Calbert Damien, Duchess Francesca Lesdeman, and more. The soft glow of chandeliers creates an intimate atmosphere.

Portrait Gallery - Featured Individuals:

• Countess Ella Bernard
• Countess Ada Mäkinen
• Countess Kasia Pawonska
• Countess Diana Cristian
• Count Calbert Damien
• Duchess Francesca Anne Lesdeman
• Count Gustav Hansen
• Pasha Mona Mostafa
• Pasha Faven Zulu
• Pasha Sunni Olufemi
• Pasha Tanaka Haru
• Pasha Zhao Mei
• Pasha Jasmine Chen

Portraits

Portrait Gallery - Featured Individuals

Countess Ella Bernard

Countess Ella Bernard

Countess Ada Mäkinen

Countess Ada Mäkinen

Countess Kasia Pawonska

Countess Kasia Pawonska

Countess Diana Cristian

Countess Diana Cristian

Count Calbert Damien

Count Calbert Damien

Duchess Francesca Lesdeman

Duchess Francesca Lesdeman

Count Gustav Hansen

Count Gustav Hansen

Pasha Mona Mostafa

Pasha Mona Mostafa

Pasha Faven Zulu

Pasha Faven Zulu

Pasha Sunni Olufemi

Pasha Sunni Olufemi

Pasha Tanaka Haru

Pasha Tanaka Haru

Pasha Zhao Mei

Pasha Zhao Mei

Pasha Jasmine Chen

Pasha Jasmine Chen

🎨 "Reflections of Reverie" Exhibit:

"Reflections of Reverie" Exhibit

This room is dedicated to Milo’s latest collection, "Reflections of Reverie." The works displayed here explore the duality of light and darkness, chaos and tranquility in human emotion. The paintings evoke a deep sense of contemplation, as guests have the opportunity to discuss the meanings behind each piece with the artist himself. The room is designed to be contemplative, with lighting that enhances the contrast between light and dark.

🪞 Interactive Art Installation - "The Mirror of Perception":

Mirror of Perception Exhibit

This interactive room features Milo’s installation, "The Mirror of Perception." Guests are encouraged to interact with the mirrors, which distort images based on where they stand. The installation invites personal reflection and exploration, symbolizing the ever-changing nature of self-awareness. The haunting and eerie reflections create a surreal experience."

🗿 The Sculpture Gallery:

Sculpture Gallery

Dedicated to Milo’s sculptures of women, this gallery showcases smooth marble statues that capture the beauty and elegance of the female form. The sculptures are presented on pedestals throughout the room, allowing guests to move around and admire their intricate details. The atmosphere is serene and refined, with soft lighting enhancing the gentle curves of the statues.

🍸 The Ivory Lounge:

Ivory Lounge

This cozy space adjacent to the gallery is where guests can relax and enjoy premium wines, champagne, and signature cocktails. The lounge features plush seating in soft cream tones, elegant Victorian-style furniture, and dim lighting for intimate conversations. It offers a perfect retreat for guests to indulge in fine drinks while reflecting on the art they’ve seen.

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🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

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Time: Evening
Location: Damien Estate
Mentions / Interactions: @princess Lottie, Calbert

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Cassius sprawled in the grass, his body stretched out beside Charlotte as the sun bathed the meadow in a warm, golden light. The world was a panorama of green beneath them, and the sky above, vast and endless, held drifting clouds like lazy white ships sailing across a sea of powder blue. Charlotte's voice broke through the silence, light and musical as she pointed toward the sky, her finger tracing the shapes of clouds with childlike joy.

“Look, Cassius! That one’s a wolf, and that one’s a heart!” She giggled, her laughter like the softest of songs, rising and falling with the breeze.

His gaze, however, was not on the clouds. It was on her. The way the light kissed her skin, turning her pale complexion into something luminous, something delicate. The way her hair, wind-tousled and dark as the midnight sky, framed her face in soft waves. She was a painting, an ethereal vision in the perfect moment...and for once, Cassius could feel the tumultuous storms inside him recede. There was no battle raging in his chest, no echoes of haunting days past that so often darkened his quiet moments. The world felt still, quiet in a way that was almost unnatural.

It was a peace he hadn’t known in years. Maybe never, really. And yet, despite the relief it brought, it felt...off. Unfamiliar. Jarring in its perfection. He could almost hear his own heartbeat as it thudded in his chest, the sound a sharp contrast to the stillness surrounding him.

Charlotte shifted, her hand finding his. She wrapped her fingers around his own, the simple act so small, yet it caused something inside him to flutter...something tender, something unspoken. She turned her head toward him, her bright blue eyes meeting his with an innocence that made his heart ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

“You're quiet,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile, but there was an undeniable warmth there, as if she knew exactly what was going on inside his mind. “Are you actually enjoying this?”

He managed a smirk, his fingers tightening around hers, and he shifted, propping himself up slightly on his elbow to look at her more fully.

“Charlotte,” he said, his voice half-mocking, half-serious, “have you been casting spells on me?”

She let out a soft laugh, the sound like a melody he wanted to memorize. But she didn’t answer him. Instead, her gaze flickered toward something behind him, something that caused her smile to falter ever so slightly.

Cassius turned, following her gaze. And that was when he saw it. At first, he thought it was more clouds, but no. The shapes were wrong...too thick, too heavy. It was smoke.

His stomach twisted, his pulse quickened. His breath hitched in his chest as the air around him seemed to grow heavier, thicker. Something was burning. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. But he couldn’t place it. His mind floundered, unable to make sense of the surge of dread that gripped him.

Before he could react, Charlotte sprang to her feet, her hand slipping from his grasp. “Come on, Cassius!” she called over her shoulder, her voice still light and carefree. “Let’s go see what it is!”

She dashed toward the smoke, her laughter echoing through the meadow like a bell ringing in the distance. But Cassius didn’t move. His body felt frozen, a strange and desperate panic starting to churn in his chest. He couldn’t breathe...couldn’t find air as his lungs began to seize. The sensation was suffocating, thick with smoke. His heart pounded in his ears.

“Charlotte!” he shouted, pushing himself up from the ground, his feet stumbling beneath him. He was panting now, desperate, his breaths shallow and ragged as the distance between them grew. “Lottie, wait!”

But she didn’t listen. She kept running, her form a blur ahead of him. The meadow, the peaceful sky, it all felt like it was closing in, narrowing down, folding into the darkened smoke that was rising in the distance.

And then...then it was like the world itself shifted.

The sky above them darkened, the clouds turning to billows of black smoke that twisted and swirled in unnatural patterns, choking the very air.

Cassius ran. He stumbled forward, his body shaking with a sense of urgency, of panic that was too raw, too primal to control. “Lottie, stop!” he shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the distant, deafening sound of crackling flames.

She turned back to him then, her smile wide and innocent, the way it had been when she’d first looked at him. But it wasn’t her smile that stopped him in his tracks...it was what happened next.

In the blink of an eye, Charlotte’s form was engulfed in flames.

Cassius screamed. It was a sound that tore from his throat, raw and jagged, as her body was consumed by the fire. Her pretty smile flickered out, replaced by a scream that broke his heart. She disintegrated before his very eyes, her skin and hair turning to ash as her figure vanished in a burst of smoke. The wind carried the remnants of her away.

His hands shook violently, reaching out for her, but there was nothing. Nothing but the ashes that stained his palms and the blood that rushed in his ears.

He was alone. And yet, somehow, he wasn’t.

The wind picked up, the ashes swirling in the air around him as the world transformed into an inferno. In the distance, beyond where Charlotte had stood, he could see the village. The snowy village. It was burning. A cascade of orange and red flames that spread through the streets, devouring everything in its path.

Screams. Screams were everywhere. People ran through the streets, their faces twisted in terror as they were consumed by the flames. The air shimmered with a strange, purple energy that clung to the smoke, a haunting and unnatural hue that sent a cold chill through his very soul.

Cassius couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The panic, the horror, the ghosts of his past...it all collapsed onto him at once, suffocating him. Then, through the cacophony, a voice pierced the void...a steady, familiar voice, firm and commanding yet tinged with concern.

“Cassius. Wake up.”

The voice called again, cutting through the haze of his nightmare like a beacon.

“Cassius, wake up. Now.”

The fire, the ash, the screams...they dissolved into darkness, leaving only the sound of his ragged breathing. His storm-gray eyes snapped open, and he found himself kneeling on the floor of his chambers, his palms pressed against the cool wood of the bed frame next to him. His heart pounded in his chest as if trying to escape, and the faint remnants of imaginary smoke lingered in his mind and lungs. He was absolutely drenched in sweat.

Above him, a figure loomed. Count Calbert Damien stood with a hand on Cas’s shoulder, his sharp features illuminated by the dim light of the room. His expression was utterly full of concern for his son..

“Are you alright?” Calbert asked, his tone calm but probing.

Cassius looked up at his father with confusion before piecing together the reality of his situation. He pushed himself to his feet, running a hand through his messy, sweat-dampened hair and forced a smirk to his lips, though it felt like a thin veneer over the turmoil beneath.

“Just a little dream,” he said with a shrug, brushing past his father’s concern. “Nothing serious.”

Calbert studied him for a moment, his calculating gaze lingering, but he nodded curtly, accepting the explanation for now without pressing further.

“Good. Because we need to talk.” He stepped back, motioning toward the chair near the window. “I was hoping we could discuss your conduct since arriving in Sorian.”

As Calbert spoke, Cassius moved with practiced nonchalance. Grabbing his shirt from the edge of his bed, he peeled it over his sweat-soaked body, the muscles of his back taut as he bent to pull on his boots. The Count’s voice droned on, clipped and precise, outlining his concerns with all the precision of a surgeon dissecting an ailment.

“Your disappearance after the party this morning, for example...what exactly do you think that signals to those that already question your legitimacy here? You can’t afford to appear unreliable, Cassius. You’re playing a dangerous game, and every misstep...”

Cassius ignored the rest, crossing the room to the small side table where a decanter of wine awaited. He grabbed a glass, poured the deep crimson liquid, and swirled it idly. The weight of his father’s words brushed against him, but his focus wavered, his gaze drifting toward the window.

And that’s when he saw it.

The column of smoke in the distance, rising against the twilight sky like a dark omen. His grip on the glass faltered as his eyes scanned the scene, landing on a familiar figure...a flash of black hair and a pale blue dress. Charlotte. She was moving with hurried determination toward the smoke, her lithe form disappearing into the haze of the evening.

The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor in a spray of wine and shards.

“Cassius?” Calbert’s voice sharpened with confusion, but Cassius had already turned on his heel, his pulse thundering in his ears.

“We’ll have to talk later,” he said, his voice clipped as he strode toward the door.

“Cassius, what...”

“It’s Charlotte.” His hand gripped the door handle as he cast a glance back at his father. “I have to go.”

And without waiting for a response, he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him as his boots echoed down the hallway.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Drake & Milo

Time: Evening of the 25th
Location: Milo’s Penthouse

It was beginning to be a rather calm evening. Slightly cloudy, the perfect amount of overcast to a serene night. But in the inner mind of Drake, the evening was anything but calm. There are scant talented artists in the city that could hold a candle to someone of Milo’s caliber - so when the young lord had the idea of gifting his beloved Lady Thea a portrait painted to capture her enchanting image, few came to mind. After a brief process of elimination it came down to either Lady Zarai, who had already seen him tumble like a fool earlier, or St. Milo, a man who had recently expressed his vehement disapproval of his sister - and caused a large debate over the destruction of his latest masterpiece.

So here Drake was, at the doorstep to the man’s penthouse, about to use the knocker to ask the man a favor that hopefully would turn out well. If not, well, he had other options he could always try and reach out to. He gave the knocker three solid clacks and stood back, waiting for any probable answer with baited breath.

The soft echo of the knocker faded into the stillness of the evening, leaving a palpable tension in the air. Moments later, the door creaked open to reveal a dark haired, rather beautiful woman in a tailored suit with her hand firmly resting on the handle of a pistol holstered at her hip.

Her striking presence was softened a bit by the gentle glow of the lanterns lining the corridor. With her hair pulled back in a neat braid and piercing gray eyes that scanned Drake with a mix of curiosity and caution, she exuded authority with a subtle sprinkling of grace.

“Good evening,” she said, her voice absolutely neutral. “Can I help you?”

Her gaze assessed him, a slight hint of intrigue in her expression as she noted the tension in his posture.

Drake met the gaze of the woman, slightly perplexed yet not fully surprised to find someone else answering the door. ”Hello. My name is Lord Drake Edwards, I am here to see St. Milo if he is available. Who might I have the pleasure of greeting this evening?” He bowed, and took a step back. He noticed her hand resting on her pistol and added. ”I assure you my visit is a peaceful one.”

Ms. Sharpe’s expression remained unchanged, her piercing gaze unwavering as she absorbed his introduction. A moment of silence lingered, the tension only emphasized by the stillness of her posture.

“Sir Drake Edwards,” she repeated, her tone calm and measured. She did not return the bow, but her hand eased slightly from the pistol's handle, acknowledging his reassurance. “My name is Ms. Sharpe, you can consider me Mr. St. Claire’s…problem solver.”

She stepped aside, opening the door wider with a smooth, practiced motion. “If your visit truly is a peaceful one, then you’re welcome to wait in the foyer. I’ll see if Mr. St. Claire is available.”

With a brief, appraising look, she turned and gestured for him to enter. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” she added, her voice devoid of any warmth yet not unkind. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Erika moved away with purpose, her footsteps nearly silent as she disappeared deeper into the penthouse, leaving Drake to take in the opulence of Milo's home.

Drake followed the woman inside, and a short but polite ”Thank you.” echoed into the foyer. There was much little he could do other than watch her fade into the darkness and await his host patiently. All the same he took the time to walk the room, slowly and deliberately. The clacking of his shoes could be heard, as he held his hands behind his back and eyed up the decor and feng shui of the man's home.

There was a myriad of works, ones he surmised were Milo’s or perhaps someone he aspired to be. The lavish furniture was equal parts pragmatic and stylish. There was a calculated luxury at play here - one that Drake respected. So much so that he couldn’t help but speak ever so subtly into the empty foyer. ”The man sure knows his way around interior design.” Drake straightened himself after the cursory inspection and stood in the center of the room awaiting St. Milo, or perhaps the return of Erika, or some other third party. Who truly knew with this man?

As Drake took in the elegance of Milo’s home, a gentle footfall broke the quiet, drawing his attention to the top of the staircase. Descending with unhurried grace, Milo St. Claire appeared, shirtless beneath a loosely tied silk robe that draped around him with effortless elegance. His hazel eyes glinted in the lantern light, a faint smile playing on his lips as he regarded his unexpected guest with a mix of curiosity and amusement.Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Milo came to a casual stop, his robe barely hugging his shoulders, revealing the surprisingly toned lines of his chest and abdomen.

“Lord Edwards,” he greeted, his tone warm and slightly surprised. “This is certainly a pleasure. It’s not every night that such an esteemed guest simply knocks on my door.” Tilting his head playfully as though he misspoke, Milo amended his statement with a teasing grin. “Well, perhaps it’s more common than I let on, but still, my good sir, your presence here is most surprising and welcome… especially given the events of our initial meeting. To what do I owe this honor?”

At the edge of the room, Ms. Sharpe reappeared, though strangely she did not come from the stairs, which seemed more than odd given she had ascended them just moments ago. Her gaze was watchful yet respectful, as she kept her silent vigil while Milo’s attention was fully given to Drake, awaiting his answer with an air of poised curiosity.

Drake smiled gently at the man—an air of amusement at the praise he was being thrown his way, yet he kept himself professional and poised all the same. “The candor is much appreciated, St. Milo. Tonight, I come to you with a bit of a proposition if you would like to hear it.” He paused, allowing for ample time to object, and after a few moments continued on, slowly pacing across the living space.

“I understand the altercation between us the other night wasn’t on the best of terms. I personally do not wish to carry ill wills—and I often subscribe my family to similar niceties. So today I come to you with a request, a commission, and a challenge. Which should interest a scholared artist such as yourself, shouldn’t it?” Drake grinned at the possibilities of Milo’s responses, but decided to provide more context. “You see, I am going to request of you, if you should choose to accept such a request, a portrait of someone who you can only see from a distance. No modeling session, no arranged meeting of any kind, but simply painting off of a memory of someone you’ve seen from afar. Am I catching your interest so far, my good man?” He turned and looked at the silken-robed individual, pivoting on his foot and clacking his shoes audibly on the polished floors.

Milo’s brow arched as he listened, intrigue sparking in his hazel eyes. He leaned casually against the arm of a nearby chair, folding his arms as a wry smile crept across his face.

“Quite the challenge, Lord Edwards,” he replied, his tone shifting to one of genuine fascination. “A portrait with only memory as my muse. You’ve certainly brought a succulent little proposal with you tonight, if I do say so.”

He tilted his head, considering the conditions. “And this portrait, of someone seen only from afar… fascinating. It requires a certain artistic liberty... an interpretation rather than pure representation.” A flicker of amusement lit his eyes as he added, “And I dare say, the intrigue surrounding your request sweetens the offer.”

Pausing, Milo’s gaze drifted a moment, as if envisioning the work itself, before settling back on Drake. “You’re aware that memory is a fickle thing, Lord Edwards. I can’t promise you an exact likeness, but what I can offer will be as close to the truth as art will allow. I am, after all, the best in the world at what I do.” He extended a hand toward one of the nearby chairs, inviting Drake to make himself comfortable. “Now, if you’d be so kind, tell me who this captivating figure is and why you’re willing to take such a… shall we say, unorthodox approach?”

Ms. Sharpe remained poised at the room’s edge, her expression unreadable, though a slight quirk of her brow suggested that even she found the arrangement intriguing.

Drake raised his hand and pointed a single finger in the ceiling as he spoke, as if revealing a grand revelation. ”Ah but my good man you are the best of the best. I shall not be too critical but I know artists tend to take painstaking efforts to achieve perfection in their works. So that shall not be taken lightly.” He smiled. ”As for the who and the why - allow me a moment of candor.”

Drake walked towards Milo, a slow and measured pace as to not set off any mental alarms in the mind of Ms. Sharpe diligently keeping watch. ”The short answer is, well, love. To put it plainly. I am a bit of a romantic and possibly even foolhardy - so I must confess there is someone as of late who has captured my attention rather fervently. So I wish to part onto her a gift - one capturing this radiant beauty I see so vividly every time our paths cross.” Drake turned on his heel and gestured to the wide array of art that adorned the walls of Milo’s welcoming room.

”My talents do not lie in the painted form - or any medium of drawing, sketching, sculpting, or what have you. But you, St. Milo, have a gift that not many possess. It is this gift I wish to request from you to show my appreciation of this womans natural beauty and charisma. And given the fact that I am a raging romantic, I am trying to do with so with upmost secrecy.” Drake began “talking” with his hands as if to demonstrate his enthusiasm in the idea. ”Imagine the look on her face when she sees a masterpiece in her image! I imagine that would inspire a cornucopia of emotions! Do you not think so?” The young lord took a pace back and motioned his hand in Milo’s direction, as if to physically hand him the conversation as he finally took a breath to pause.

The artist’s eyes gleamed toward Drake, an indulgent smile quirking at the edge of his lips. He leaned back, crossing his arms leisurely as he took in the young lord’s enthusiasm with a quiet chuckle.“Oh, my good Lord Edwards,” Milo murmured, letting each syllable carry a playful lilt. “A romantic, an admirer of beauty, and a man with a flair for grand gestures. I must say, it’s rather refreshing.” He tilted his head, his gaze alight with sly curiosity that was almost wicked. “But indulge me for a moment, won’t you? For there’s a question that always captivates me when these… romantic ventures come knocking at my door.”
With a flourish of his hand, he paced a few steps, then stopped to give Drake a conspiratorial glance. “What happens, good sir, if I paint this woman so beautifully… so vividly, that she falls quite in love with the painter rather than the patron?”
He raised a brow, his lips curving into a smile equal parts coy and mischievous. “You see, you wouldn’t be the first to commission a portrait, only to find that the poor muse, upon glimpsing my handiwork, is suddenly swept into a vision of the artist himself…” he placed a hand to his chest with mock humility, “and not of the gallant soul who originally held her fancy.”

He drew closer, his gaze never leaving Drake’s, his voice soft but with a lingering thrill of mischief. “Imagine her, gazing upon the portrait, her heart quickening at each brushstroke, her thoughts turning not to the one who commissioned it, but to the one who captured her likeness so perfectly.” Milo's smile widened, and his voice dropped to a whisper, as if sharing a tantalizing secret. “Are you quite certain you can bear that risk, Lord Edwards?”

With a final flourish, Milo straightened, his expression a mask of theatrical seriousness barely concealing his amusement. "Of course, I’m not guaranteeing that she'll find herself utterly captivated by my artistry. Only that such matters do have a way of... taking on lives of their own." He offered Drake a seat with a graceful gesture, his smile lingering as he awaited the lord’s response, eyes gleaming with playful delight.

Drake took a seat, and in a brief moment of inductive thought considered the possibility. The man nodded. ”You see, Fate does have quite the way of working things out I would say. Such a thing is certainly possible. And while I would resign myself to a tinge of regret - I would also like to believe the one I’m destined to meet would not fall for another in such a manner.” Drake crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on the opposite knee while holding his hands intertwined over the front of his shin in a dignified manner.

”If I were to be coy, sir. Would it not also fall upon the person who commissioned said piece to see the value in the beauty of a muse? If I am the one calling you to her, while you may be the talent that expresses her natural beauty - would the credit of seeing such radiance not fall onto me?” The man grinned. ”Plus I can be quite the charmer when I need to be. Although to answer your question plainly - should such a turn of events come to play without any direct intervention of your own…then I suppose I shall take such a risk. But do not consider such notions an invitation to go sweeping her off her feet. That would be my job.” Drake wagged his finger at the man. While his response was admittedly a little cheeky, there was a hint of genuine caution in the way he spoke about it.

Milo’s grin widened, his hazel eyes sparkling with coyness as he leaned back. “Well, my good Lord Edwards, if you’re so certain of your charms, who am I to stand in the way of such a noble vision?” He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the game as he studied Drake’s every subtle movement with glee. “Now, tell me more about this radiant muse of yours. I must know what kind of beauty warrants such a gamble.”

A gentle cough to clear his throat, followed by a slow inhale. It was almost like watching a schoolboy confess his crush, yet with much more assuredness. ”Lady Thea Smithwood is the muse we are speaking of. I have grown quite fond of her as of late - and I plan to give this work of art for her up and coming birthday.” A quick raise of his hand prompted Milo to hold any reservations for the time being. ”I know it is rather short timing. You could consider it another facet of this challenge I have laid before you. But should it prove unreasonable I can still give such a gift later down the road - whatever you need to achieve that artistic perfection the creative mind strives for.” His hand lowered back into his lap, his legs now unfolding to rest comfortably next to one another.

“Lady Thea Smithwood, you say? Ah, even the name is beautiful.” He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Short timing, indeed. Yet urgency often inspires the most delicious brilliance. Pressure, after all, is the crucible in which true artistry is forged. Diamonds are not forged through peace, as they say.”

He let the words hang for a moment, then added with a sly smirk, “But fear not, my good lord. Artistic perfection is a mistress I know well... and I don’t keep her waiting. Challenge accepted.” He extended a hand, a silent promise wrapped in a playful smirk.

”Wise words, Milo.” Drake pondered the nugget of wisdom as he shook his hand firmly. ”Such notions will not be unrewarded. I will make sure to assign some funds in the form of a paper cheque. Or if you prefer physical cash payment, then I will make arrangements with our treasurer.” Drake smiled.

”I know that our first meeting was not under the best of conditions. But my goal is to help make things amiable, and try to amend any ill will my sister may have done with her…ahem…creative endeavors.” Drake sighed. ”I am aware she is to meet with you. From one gentleman to another, knowing how much that piece meant to you… Drake’s gaze shifted, moving shyly off to the side in mild embarrassment before reaching back to meet Milo’s. ”…that if you could afford an extra dosage of patience and temperance for her, I would greatly appreciate it. She can be feisty, and albeit a little stubborn. But she’s a good person deep down, my sister.”

“Ah, a man who speaks of payments and amends in the same breath; truly, you are full of surprises, Lord Edwards. Paper, coin, or favor, I find all currencies... negotiable.” His voice dripped with playful insinuation, hazel eyes flickering with intrigue.

At the mention of Drake’s sister, Milo leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head with a casual ease that somehow still seemed calculated. “Your sister, you say? Feisty, stubborn, and in need of patience? I love a challenge.” He chuckled, the sound low and smooth. “Consider your request noted. Temperance, after all, is just another form of art; one I’ve practiced in... fascinating ways.” His eyes glimmered with mischief, a flicker of past tales hinted at but left unsaid.
With a final, theatrically resigned sigh, he straightened, eyes locking onto Drake’s. “But worry not. Regardless of her sins against my art, she’ll find me the picture of civility. I am a professional, after all.”

There was a soft smile on the man’s face, and a charismatic glow to his features that softened at the thought of the man proposing his willingness to cooperate. Even if there was a hint of playful banter behind his demeanor, Milo seemed to present himself as any professional artisan would - if anything far more professional than what Drake had seen before. ”That you are. I suppose it is just the mewling of a worried older brother. I do tend to make sure that those within my circles are taken care of. To the best of my abilities of course.”

Fixing his posture, yet keeping that same calm complexion about his character, Drake took a moment to collect his thoughts and recounted the arrangement they had discussed. ”So it is settled then. A portrait of the lovely Lady Smithwood, and an agreement over the scheduled assembly with my sister. I daresay you have given me everything I could ask for and more tonight, Sir Milo. Is there nary a detail or request you have of me before I go to take my leave? I would hate to take up any more of your time this evening.”

“Ah, Lord Edwards, you’ve been nothing short of entertaining yourself. I’ve no demands, no requests... only the assurance that I’ll bring brilliance to both your muse’s portrait and your sister’s penance.” His tone dipped with an unmistakable playfulness. “And don’t worry, I’ll take good care of Lady Ariella.”

As he stood, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, the quiet presence of Ms. Sharpe entered the room. She stood near the doorway, her gaze scanning the scene like an ever-watchful hawk. Though she said nothing, her arrival carried a clear intent: the evening’s business was coming to an end.

Milo extended a hand toward Drake, a polished smile gracing his lips. “Now, my good lord, rest easy knowing that all is in motion. Consider the Lady Smithwood’s radiance and your sister’s fiery nature equally inspiring challenges for a man of my talents.” His handshake was firm yet elegant, the unspoken confidence of a man accustomed to sealing deals in style.

He gestured lightly toward Ms. Sharpe without looking. “It seems the evening is ready to part us, though if you’ve any further details or musings, Lord Edwards, I’m all ears before you take your leave.”

Drake took the extended hand, feeling equal parts hopeful and refreshed that such a negotiation would go off with little to no issues. ”I haven’t any further requests, my good man. I shall leave you to the night's affairs. If all goes well maybe we could even share a spot of brandy to congratulate artistic visions being given physical form - and for the creative endeavors of men such as yourself.” He paused, and stood up, pacing towards the door as he gave the decor one final glance over. Drake pivoted on his foot and gave the man and Ms. Sharpe two distinct and individual bows. ”Good evening to you both, and thank you for your hospitality this fine night.” The young lord took his paces and left, his figure slowly fading into the growing darkness from the long set sun.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The Arrival at Pinebrook's Campsite

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the first shades of twilight, carriages began to roll into the heart of Pinebrook. The comforting clatter of hooves against the earth and the soft murmurs of noble guests eager for the camping retreat filled the crisp evening air. As the carriages arrived, the guests were greeted by the warm glow of lanterns scattered across the campsite.

Set amidst towering trees that seemed to stretch endlessly into the night sky, the campsite was a breathtaking sight to behold. A large, circular pavilion stood at the center, its warm lights casting a golden glow over the scene. The pavilion housed beautifully arranged tables, where guests would gather later to dine under the stars. Surrounding the pavilion were elegant tents, each one illuminated by soft lanterns that gave the area an almost magical feel. These tents were thoughtfully arranged in a semi-circle around a central fire pit, where logs and wooden chairs waited to invite guests for a cozy fireside evening.

In the center of the camp, the crackling fire pit provided warmth and a rustic charm, with comfortable chairs and benches circling the flames. The air smelled of burning wood and fresh pine, heightening the serene atmosphere of the forested retreat. Above them, a full moon hung in the sky, casting a silver glow through the branches, and the twinkling stars seemed to dance in the deep night.

The guests were welcomed by camp staff, each dressed in simple yet neat attire. Among them, one particular staff member stood out: a man with brown hair, who might seem vaguely familiar to those who had known Darryn Fletcher. His features were eerily similar—especially the scar running across his neck. Some might wonder if this could be a relative, or perhaps something more mysterious, as the resemblance was uncanny enough to draw whispers from those who recognized him.

As the campers stepped out of their carriages, their senses were immediately greeted by the blend of nature’s tranquil beauty and the subtle luxury curated by the royal family for this special event. The evening was just beginning, and already, the magic of Pinebrook’s Courting Season Camping Event was in full bloom.

Soon, two senior camp staffers hurriedly approached with bright, welcoming smiles. The first, a bubbly young woman with a mass of curly auburn hair, waved enthusiastically at the guests as they descended. Her green eyes sparkled with excitement, and she adjusted her forest-green tunic before calling out, “Welcome to Pinebrook, everyone! We are so excited to have you here!” Her cheerful voice carried easily across the campsite.

Beside her, a tall, gangly young man with tousled blonde hair and round spectacles tried his best to look official while nervously clutching a clipboard. He offered a bashful grin, his cheeks flushed as he spoke up, “Yes, yes! We’ll be getting started just as soon as everyone’s gathered. In the meantime, feel free to stretch your legs and take in the beauty of Pinebrook.” He gestured awkwardly around him, clearly not as accustomed to the role as his counterpart.

The woman beamed and clapped her hands together. “Once everyone gathers 'round, we’ll start handing out your tent assignments! And,” she added with a playful wink, “you’ll be assigned your partner for the evening. So stay close! It’s going to be an unforgettable night!” The two exchanged a quick look of shared excitement before guiding the guests towards the pavilion with friendly gestures.

Dream RP?

@The Elvenqueen@Shu@Foster

Thank y'all for answering! I'm always so curious to see people's visions.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Flashback: Cassius Vael

The City of Erwynn; 13 years ago

---

The warm, sunlit streets of Erwynn buzzed with life, filled with vendors hawking their goods, children playing, and the scent of spices hanging thick in the air. It was the kind of place that set Cassius’s blood on fire, the kind of place where freedom felt tangible. The city seemed to hum with energy, inviting him to explore its corners and crevices. Cassius, all lanky limbs and restless energy, stood at the mouth of the alley with his back against the wall, his storm-gray eyes scanning the crowd with excitement.

But that excitement faded fast as his mother approached, her soft voice pulling him out of his daydream.

“Little Bear,” Meredith’s tone was gentle but firm, her fingers brushing through his hair, trying to tame the wild mess as best she could. Cassius rolled his eyes, ducking his head a little to avoid the fussing, but there was a small smile on his lips. He loved his mother, but he wasn’t a child anymore.

“I need you to take Dom with you today,” she said, her words slicing through his excitement like a blade. “He’s younger, and his mother needs help with him while the rest of us are setting up for the show.”

Cassius groaned, already seeing the day slipping away from him. “But Mom, I..."

“No buts, Cassius,” she interrupted, her voice softening as she cupped his face in her hands, her thumb brushing over the scar forming across his brow. “You’re getting older now. It’s time you started looking out for others, not just yourself. I know it’s not always fun, but responsibility isn’t always supposed to be fun.” She smiled at him, warmth in her eyes. "You’re rough around the edges, you know that as well as I do, but we both know that you're a good boy. I trust you to keep him safe. That means something, son."

He huffed, still not thrilled, but there was something about the way she said it that made him straighten his back a little, even if he didn’t want to admit it. “Fine, fine. I’ll take him. But if he can’t keep up, it’s on him.”

Meredith chuckled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to leave. Cassius ran a hand through his already messy hair, muttering under his breath as he made his way toward where little Domino was playing, his small form crouched over, examining a line of ants on the ground.

"Dom!" Cassius called out, a hint of impatience in his voice. "Let’s go. You’re coming with me."

Domino, the little Alidasht boy with dark, eager eyes and a smile too big for his face, practically jumped up, running over with his sandals flopping against the cobblestones. “Where we go, Cas?” His thick accent twisted the words, but the excitement was more than clear in his voice as he looked up at the older boy.

"Wherever I go, kid. But you better keep up, alright?" Cassius shot him a half-hearted glare, already turning to stride off into the crowd. Dom practically danced after him, struggling to match his pace, his small legs pumping hard to keep up.

Cassius tried to act annoyed, but there was a part of him that found the kid’s boundless enthusiasm amusing, if not a little endearing. Dom didn’t speak much of the common tongue, but he managed to talk Cassius’s ear off about anything and everything as they walked. Each new sight and sound seemed to fill him with wonder...every stall, every shout from a vendor, every new corner they turned.

"Stop lagging behind, Dom," Cassius grumbled when Dom paused to look at a stray cat slinking through the shadows. He kept walking, his long legs carrying him swiftly ahead, though he couldn’t stop the small smirk that tugged at his lips when Dom scampered after him, almost tripping over his own feet.

They wandered through the city’s winding streets, Cassius showing Dom how to move through the crowds without drawing attention, how to swipe a piece of fruit from a stand when the vendor wasn’t looking. It was a game to Cas, one he’d perfected over the years. Dom tried to mimic him, his small hands clumsy at first, but his determination shone through. After a few attempts, he managed to snag an apple without anyone noticing, and Cassius clapped him on the back, more proud than he let on.

"I do good, Cas?" The kid asked, obviously eager for Cas's approval

"Not bad, Dom," Cassius said, biting into his own stolen fruit. "You might just survive the day after all."

Dom grinned, beaming up at him like he’d just won the biggest prize in the world.

But just as they turned into a narrow alley, the tone of their day shifted. It was subtle at first, the way the shadows seemed to grow longer, the air colder despite the sun still hanging high. Cassius noticed a figure standing at the other end of the alley, waiting. A man with dark eyes and a twisted smile.

"There’s my boy!" the man called out to Dom, his voice sickly sweet. "It’s time to come home, son."

Cassius froze, his stomach turning. He didn't know Dom's family well, but he knew that the kid’s dad had died a few years back, and that his mother had been raising him on her own. The man stepped forward, his gaze locked on Dom.

Cassius’s instincts flared, and he shifted in front of Dom, his voice low and urgent. "We need to go. Now."

He grabbed Dom's hand, pulling him back the way they’d come, but the man followed. “Hey! Stop!” he barked, his voice harsh now, the sweetness gone. "That’s my son!"

They spun, ready to flee…but another figure loomed in their path. This man was broader, his face shadowed by a cruel grin.

Trapped.

Cassius’s pulse quickened as he realized they were boxed in. His grip tightened on Dom's hand as fear coursed through him. They were cornered, the weight of responsibility crashing down on him with brutal clarity.

"Let the kid go," one of the men snarled, stepping forward. "You can walk away. No need for anyone to get hurt."

Cassius swallowed hard, his body trembling. "No," he said, his voice weak but defiant. "He’s not going with you."

Dom was clinging to him now, his small hands shaking. Cassius looked down at the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, his mind racing.

One of the men pulled a knife, and Cassius's breath caught in his throat. "Last chance." The man said, the blade glinting in the low light.

Cassius’s hands shook as they clenched into fists, his whole body trembling from fear and adrenaline. "You... you’re not taking him." He stammered, his voice cracking. He wasn’t even sure if he could fight, not with his legs trembling like this, but he couldn’t back down. His body was telling him to run, but something else…something desperate and terrified kept him rooted to the spot. Please... please go away… He begged in his mind.

And just like that, Cas bolted, holding on to Dom's hand for dear life. But before they could get far, the men lunged. The next moments were a blur of chaos and violence. One man grabbed for Dom, but Cassius shoved him back, kicking and punching wildly. The other man swung his knife, catching Cassius across the arm, the sharp sting of the blade barely registering through the haze of panic.

Cassius flailed with desperation, arms swinging, legs kicking, barely aiming his strikes. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sharper than the last as he scrambled to find anything…anything…to fight them off. His hand latched onto a broken bottle, and he swung it clumsily, more out of panic than skill.

His heart pounded in his ears, his vision narrowing. Don’t let them get you…don’t let them take him! He kicked a loose barrel, sending it crashing into one man’s legs. He grabbed a broken piece of wood, swinging it at the other man’s face. But they kept coming, the knife flashing again, cutting across his chest, then his side.

Blood smeared his shirt, and pain throbbed through his ribs with every shaky breath, but he couldn’t stop. I can’t... I can’t let them win. Tears pricked the edges of his vision, blurring everything around him as he swung chaotically, fighting more like a wild animal than a human. His hands stung from where his knuckles had split open, but he barely noticed it. His whole world was a blur of panic and blood, his body moving on its own. Please... let this end…I don’t want them to take the kid.

One of the men tackled him to the ground, pinning him down, the knife raised high. Cassius struggled, his arms shaking as he held the man’s wrist, trying to keep the blade away from his throat. Tears burned in his eyes, terror clawing at his insides as he felt his strength slipping.

Then, by some stroke of fate, the man’s grip on the knife faltered. It clattered to the ground beside Cassius’s head. Desperation surged through him. With a scream, he grabbed the knife, and as the man lunged again, Cassius thrust the blade upward, driving it into the man’s chest.

Time seemed to stop.

The man’s eyes widened in shock, his body convulsing before going still, slumping forward onto Cassius. The weight of the man, of what he’d just done, pressed down on him, suffocating him. Cassius struggled to push the man off, his hands slick with blood...both his own and the man’s.

The second man, realizing what had happened, took one look at the bloodied scene and bolted, disappearing into the shadows without a word.

Cassius was left panting, trembling, his body aching. Every inch of him shook uncontrollably as he shoved the limp body off him. He stared at his bloodied hands for a moment, blinking in disbelief. Did I really just…

A sob choked out of him, and he quickly wiped his face with the back of his arm. Get up. Get up! He forced himself to crawl toward Dom, who was curled up in the corner, trembling just as badly as he was. “It’s... it’s over,” Cassius whispered, though his own voice wavered, as if saying the words would make them true.

"Dom," Cassius rasped, his voice hoarse. "You... okay?"

The boy nodded, tears streaming down his face. Cassius pulled him into his arms, holding him tightly, the weight of what he’d just done pressing down on him. He was bleeding, exhausted, terrified.

But Dom was safe.

And that was all that mattered.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Time: 10am
Location: Edwards Estate / Drake’s Party
Mentions: @princess Lottie, @FunnyGuy Lorenzo

---

Cassius laid there, feeling the cool earth beneath his back and the warm sun above. But the real warmth, the kind that spread through him like a slow-burning fire, came from Charlotte. Her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with life as she teased him... it made his chest feel oddly tight. A part of him wanted to dismiss it, to lean on his usual tricks…a grin, a playful quip, but when she took his hand, that same hand that had taken lives and spilled blood, he froze. It wasn’t the touch of a princess to a knight. No, it was even softer, more delicate. Too tender for a man like him.

For a moment, his heart did something unfamiliar…it skipped, maybe. And, to his confusion, a blush crept up his neck. Shit... I think I'm blushing. He glanced at their joined hands, trying to mask the way his breath had caught in his lungs. Her touch sent warmth into his chest, spreading through his veins and settling somewhere deeper, somewhere dangerous. He felt his throat tighten, the weight of her simple, earnest words crashing over him like a wave.

"...And I’m glad it’s with you."

He tried to grin, to let some cocky remark slip from his lips. But nothing came. All he could do was look at her, that easy smile faltering for the first time in longer than he could remember. His storm-gray eyes softened, taking in every detail of Charlotte...how the sunlight danced in her dark hair, the way she seemed to shine against the chaos of the world around them. Gods… she’s beautiful. The thought took him by surprise, knocking him sideways in his mind.

Cassius forced a chuckle to break the silence, though it sounded almost nervous to his own ears. Nervous...him, of all people. “Well, that makes two of us.” he said lightly, though his voice had a rougher edge to it than before. His eyes lingered on her, watching as she sank deeper into the grass, her contentment palpable. The moment was soft, sweet… too sweet.

And that’s when the doubt crept in.

The rogue in him, the man who had spent his life chasing thrills and experiencing all the beauty in the world, felt a tug to pull away. His instincts kicked in, like they always did in a fight, but this wasn’t a battlefield he recognized. This was something else entirely, something that made the back of his neck heat up and his pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with enemies charging to take his life.

He could feel it now...something shifting deep inside him, as if the ground he stood on was no longer solid. His thoughts, though always a storm, usually sharp and focused, began to race in a thousand different directions at once. He wasn’t in control. What is this? he wondered, the confusion creeping in, unsettling him in ways no threat or enemy ever had. But he didn’t understand it. He was supposed to be good at this...reading situations, keeping control, predicting the next move, or at least reacting to whatever move could come with poise and always a dash of confidence. Yet when it came to her, to this moment, all he could feel was that unfamiliar heat coursing through him, a war raging inside that he had no idea how to fight.

Before he could dwell on it, Lorenzo’s bizarre mumbling cut through the air, dragging him back to reality. Pieces of him felt relief, a small smirk curling at the corners of his mouth as Charlotte scrambled to her feet, tipsy but resolute. She was so endearing in her determination, commanding the scene with that familiar fire in her eyes...a fire he was unsure she even knew she had. It was a good distraction, a reprieve from the uncertainty that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

Still on the ground, Cassius pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching her with that familiar, cocky grin. But even now, there was something softer in his gaze as he followed her movements, something that hadn’t even been there before.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as she announced the alcohol ban and took charge of the situation. His heart warmed at the sight of her rallying behind Lorenzo, even as the man, who moments ago had threatened him, rambled on about ferrets and feet.

Life is so fucking weird, sometimes.

When Lottie turned to him with that bright smile, asking for his help with Lorenzo’s gifts, Cassius gave her a wink, slipping back into his usual charm. “Of course, anything for you, Princess.”

But even as he said it, his mind kept circling back to the moment before...the touch of her hand, the look in her eyes. Part of him wanted to laugh it off, to pretend none of it mattered. But deep down, he knew better. Something was shifting in him, and no amount of teasing or bravado could keep it at bay forever.

You’re in trouble, Cassius. A voice rang out in his mind’s eye, though this time it was not his. This voice came from a deeper place, one built on memories and days gone by. It was the voice of his mother, the voice of Meredith Vael.