Sora got the hit in. He thought he might have gotten the brain, but he wasn’t sure. It felt down, but was that really it? Peering closely at it, Sora crouched down, ready to inspect it. “Don’t worry, we would have had to clear the cellar out soon anyhow,” he told the hammer lady. “But–”
Before he could say anything else, the thing picked itself up, and turned to face him. Sora’s eyes widened, and he jumped away from it faster than he thought possible. The zombie was still slow, but it knew to aim at him. Did that mean it could feel pain??
Either way, his stab hadn’t been enough to do him in, and Sora was ready to protect himself, thinking about stabbing it once again, this time in the eye-socket. However, hammer-lady grasped the situation as quickly as he had, and dealt the death blow. She swung the massive hammer as if it was second nature, splattering rotten, dried out brain matter all around. “H-huh. I sure hope it’s dead dead now, yeah.” He watched Blonde’s confident posture, gory hammer in her hand.
Now, he wasn’t queasy about blood but…this was a human – even if it was a once human – crushed into bits and pieces. Even though it disgusted him, Sora was still way too curious to let it be. He crouched down next to it, examining the corpse.
Before he could really start, Tiny went onto a tirade. That’s right, she’d shouted something or other when he’d stabbed the thing, hadn’t she?
“I was– No, I– It’s not–” He didn’t get a word in as she went on and on, shooting question after question in that sharp, high-pitched, near hysterical critical tone. “Would you just–”
He ground his teeth at that final interruption. Anger flared, sudden and bright. “I don’t want to hear shit from someone who just stood there doing nothing!” he snapped back.
Sora realized he’d gone too far as soon as that last word left his mouth, but the upset feeling wasn’t easy to overcome. He looked down– Bad idea. He looked out– It wasn’t much better. Was it just his imagination, or were the zombies starting to be drawn to the sounds from their inn again? He exhaled harshly. They couldn’t argue, not here, not now. They had to work together, or else they’d end up dead, like Tiny had said.
He looked back at the small elf, still disgruntled, yet also contrite. “Look, I’m sorry. That wasn't fair to say to you. I get that you’re worried and scared, ok? I am too. But it’s easy to talk about how things should have gone down after the fact. Doing something in the heat of the moment?” He shook his head.
“Besides…It’s not as if I went in without a plan, you know?” he tried saying gently. He inched closer to the fallen zombie. Without compunction – now that he got used to the grisly sight – he grasped the head. “Do you know which are the weakest parts of the skull?” he asked rhetorically.
“There’re a few of them. The eye sockets,” he indicated the area with his fingers. “But I was behind it, so stabbing it here would have been difficult. Same for through the mouth.” He pried open its jaw and showed off the palate. “Then there’s the temple – that’s why people shoot themselves here,” his hands moved to the temples. “But a knife ain’t a gun. And then…” His fingers travelled to the back of the skull, specifically, towards the base where the neck was joined to the head – and more importantly, where the spinal cord attached to the brainstem. “Here.” He felt up the stab wound.
For all his theoretical (high school level) knowledge though, it’s not as if he was an actual expert. Even after thoroughly rooting around the stab wound, he wasn’t sure how deep he’d gotten, or if his dagger had even really reached the brain.
“Maybe I didn’t get it good enough,” he shrugged, “or it takes more damage to do them in, or smashing the brain case is the only way…We can’t know that without trying a bunch of things.” His hands grasped the zombie’s neck. “Oh, and severing the head with a knife wouldn’t be any easier. That’s why they used axes for executions back in the days, ya know? Even with those, some still failed…” he fell silent in contemplation, then met Tiny’s gaze again. “Either way, I did think. But yeah, I agree we’re gonna need to be careful if we wanna survive.”
Wulfric nodded as he noticed Zarai signaling him from the distance, acknowledging her nonverbal gesture, and subtly motioned for her to go ahead. After he and Lord Drake Edwards had drifted apart, the royal idled by the buffet. Perplexingly, he was soon drawn into a rather…intense interaction with Fritz, of all people.
When he and Zarai met up, it was later at night. Wulfric found her lounging on a couch in one of the guesthouse’s drawing rooms. He was still in his full costume; he must have just returned from the masquerade. “Zarai,” he greeted her. His tone was a notch warmer than usual.
However, as he examined her closely, his eyes narrowed. Her black sleeves were sheer enough for him to notice something off. Suddenly, he stepped closer. First, he removed his gloves, storing them into an inner pocket. Then, with gentle motions and a featherlight touch, he pushed the sleeve of her dress up her arm, revealing the bruise forming beneath. “Who.” His voice took on a deeply frigid quality.
He was asking because given its size and shape, the handprint must be a man’s. Had it been a woman’s, he’d have assumed the culprit to be her mother. In which case, he would have said nothing. Zarai wasn’t the only one with a hands-on parent. A shared commonality of theirs they had noticed years ago, and had decided not to speak of by way of silent agreement.
But because the mark was left by someone he didn’t know about, Wulfric reiterated, “Who needs to die.”
As she contemplated the bruise, Zarai's mind raced with thoughts and emotions. She knew she should be furious at Monet for even daring to lay his nasty, grubby hands on her, but the lingering dread and fear outweighed her anger. The realization that she had finally stood up to face Lord Monet's aggression left her feeling vulnerable and exposed.
Feelings she did not wish to linger on.
“Lord Marcus Monet,” Zarai spoke his name with disdain, her lip curling in distaste. Uttering his name felt like expelling venom with every syllable and left a bad taste in her mouth. She knew Wulfric’s options against him were limited due to Monet’s strong ties with the Varian crown. Despite this, the idea of his death brought some satisfaction. “He is my mother’s top choice for my hand.” And only one, so far. She sniffed her arm, “He didn’t leave his stench on me, did he? Ugh, I ought to burn this dress, but that would be a waste of perfectly good fabric.”
At the mention of that name, Wulfric clicked his tongue, as if dismissing the off-handed notion of assassination once he learned who the man was. But he didn’t.
Oh, no, indeed he did not. He merely shelved it for the moment.
Gently, he rolled Zarai’s sleeve back down, once again concealing the bruise. “And for once in your life, you are listening to her?” he questioned. He could surmise that the lord was her last option, what with her reputation in Varian. “Is that why you spoke to Auguste?” he suddenly recalled. Her question led to an amused huff. “A moment,” he drawled. He removed his mask, and put it on the nearest surface. The silver metal gleamed brightly, its curved, menacing shape set against the marble end table.
Wulfric shook his hair loose, and carded a hand through it. Because it was rather warm, he removed his feathered cloak, and threw it onto the couch where it landed with a soft clanking of chains. Underneath, he wore a simple if elegant black tunic lined with silver. Taking off the cloak revealed his weapons; a shortsword belted at his hip, and a revolver holstered at the small of his back.
"Yes," Zarai sighed. There was no point in lying to Wulfric; he’d just see right through her anyway. “Although, I fear my proposition may have been a touch too bold for dear Auguste,” she admitted, leaning back on the couch, her gaze fixed on Wulfric. She couldn’t help but let her eyes wander over him, taking in his every movement. He was undeniably attractive– and pretty, too– but she would never admit to it aloud. Zarai refused to stroke his ego.
Freed from his costume, Wulfric settled in next to Zarai. “Allow me…” he offered his hand palm up, waiting for her to set hers into his. When she did, he delicately scented the air around her. Immediately, his nose wrinkled, and he pushed her arm away - largely in jest. “It’s faint. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he waved a hand dismissively. “So, are you now seriously considering courting?” he gave her a look, eyebrow quirked.
She appeared momentarily offended before realizing he was only playing with her. "What? Is it truly so difficult to imagine?" she retorted, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Mother left me with no choice; it's either I find someone else—someone who meets her demanding standards—or be shackled to that," she added, a shudder of disgust running through her at the thought. There was only herself to blame; had she fought against the rumors of her tainted reputation, the search might have been different.
“No choice?” Wulfric repeated. “No eloping, absconding, relinquishing your status and becoming a commoner?” he wondered. “Were those not the choices you had had in mind once upon a time?” A hint of that sharp criticism she despised so much crept into his tone. Yet, he genuinely was curious, and at least attempted to curb the sarcasm.
Zarai scoffed at the suggestion. “No, I won’t run away.” She glanced down at her hands. “Got any suggestions for me?” Zarai returned the quirked brow, “Any handsome, ridiculously rich gentlemen looking for an experienced wife?”
With a sigh, the prince leaned back against the backrest, observing his - as much as it pained him to admit it - friend. He seriously contemplated her question, sensing it was far more important than Zarai’s joking tone might lead one to believe. “Well, despite what you’ve said about Auguste, he isn’t one to balk easily. As I recall, you were the one to run away.” His gaze narrowed, and his chin raised haughtily as he gave her a warning look. “Yet, even if he were to permit it, I would not allow you to continue your openly promiscuous ways if you were to marry my brother.”
Yes, he too, was demanding; as Zarai liked to say, just as much if not worse than her mother.
But when the tense seconds passed, he eased up. “Then, in recent memory…Cassius Vael, now Damien. A bastard, but Calbert’s, and one he clearly intends to treat as a legitimate son.” Despite his personal distaste for Cassius, there was no indication of it, his tone entirely factual. “Shahzade Munir has a reputation similar to yours, I believe.” He did not know much else about the man, unfortunately.
“If rich is enough, even a merchant would do.” He was sure Duchess Lesdeman had in mind a landed noble, however. By way of association, something occurred to him, and he snapped his fingers. “Ah. How close are you to Count Fritz Hendrix, exactly?” He recalled having seen them together at the ball his family had hosted. “And before you say, yes, I am aware your mother would disapprove.” The mild grimace indicated he had experienced the duchess’ vitriol against anyone bearing the name Hendrix.
Zarai's fingers played with the edge of her sleeve as she considered the suggestions laid out before her. Among them, Shahzade Munir stood out as a viable option. However, she was much more drawn to his sister, Layla, who exuded a commanding presence that could persuade Zarai to do almost anything. Yet, she knew her mother would never entertain such a union, regardless of Layla's wealth or potential future role as a Sultana.
A memory surfaced, accompanied by a voice that made her stomach clench, and her heart flutter. “Your hands are beautiful… You are beautiful, Zarai.” She pushed the memory aside as shame overtook her. "Count Hendrix is a friend," she said firmly. And if he were to be safe, he’d remain so.
At her assertion, Wulfric gave her a look – the kind that made it clear to her he thought she was being silly. “Zarai…A friend is exactly who you should consider. Marriage with someone you can get along with— It is a valuable thing.”
“Tch.” Zarai slumped against the back of the couch, grateful for the tightness of her corset that provided some cushioning for her still-bruised ribs. “I could marry Monet,” she mused, her voice laced with bitterness. “Endure for a night or two, then kill him in his sleep. A nice soft pillow over his head for a few minutes.” She didn’t meet Wulfric’s gaze as she continued. “Or poison. They say poison is a woman’s weapon, don’t they? A bit of it in his morning tea or porridge would do the trick.” She was unsure if she said it in jest or was seriously considering it. Though, it would be her last resort.
While Zarai was averting her gaze, Wulfric studied her, free of judgment. “If you could endure it,” he pointed out, tone serious. “It might have to be for longer than you are thinking. Weeks. Months. Years,” he warned. He knew from his mother just how difficult it was to get rid of an unwanted but well-positioned husband. He told her as much: “It wouldn’t be difficult for him to guess at your designs. He could blackmail you. Threaten you. Manipulate and pressure you until you feel you have no choice, again.” He waited as long as it took for her to absorb that. When she did, he moved closer, within whispering distance. “If we are to arrange an accident, it will have to be very, very thorough,” he relayed quietly, the smirk audible in his tone. Then he leaned back, as satisfied as a cat who got the cream.
She considered his words for a moment, reluctantly acknowledging their truth. As much as she hated to admit it, Wulfric was right. Despite Monet's repulsiveness, he was a man of power who could indeed make good on his threats. How else did such a man turn a crumbling House into what it is today? However, Wulfric’s last sentence echoed in her mind like ripples in a lake of red. Yet, the fact he was saying those words to her felt somewhat comforting.
"And what about you?" Zarai inquired, suddenly intrigued by Wulfric's marital status. "I mean to say, not with me—gods, no—but has anyone caught Your Highness's eye?"
Immediately, the inquiry had him raising his brows. For a moment, he thought Zarai had taken his advice to marry a friend far too liberally. As she clarified, however, he grew visibly relieved. “Oh, good. You had me worried you had gone insane,” he flashed her a knowing smile and she returned the same smile, rolling her eyes. Wulfric was sure both of them would sooner see the world end than entertain marrying each other. He hummed and stretched as he mulled over the question.
“Well…There was Mayet, but she proved too immature, and had to return home. Before we could duel, even,” he sighed, evidently disappointed. “The dinner!” he suddenly exclaimed, as something occurred to him. “Had I been at that damned dinner, I could have demanded an honour duel.” He stood up, agitated, and paced across the room. He stopped at the alcohol cabinet, and collected glasses and a drink. “Oh, look, there’s one of your favourites.” He poured himself a shot, downed it, and followed it with another. He brought the drinks over, poured for the both of them, and handed a glass to Zarai as he retook his seat.
Zarai snorted at his reaction, unsurprised over his very obvious disappointment. “I did hear that the dinner was a complete shitshow, plates thrown and all. I would have paid to be there.” She took the glass and sipped from it as Wulfric continued. At least now their future dinners with the Alidasht would be more peaceful with Mayet gone.
“A shitshow indeed,” he confirmed. After a pause to ruminate on the event, he went down the list of the candidates for marriage.
“Of the Alidastht, there was that cousin of theirs,” he referenced Saiya, “but the Grand Vizier is her adoptive father,” he shook his head. “Then there is Layla,” he smirked at Zarai, “who is more your type, I believe?” Frankly, the woman’s age was an issue too; with her being almost 30, they would need to get to the whole procreating matter very quickly. “I have yet to acquaint myself with Shehzadi Nahir, but I would like to.” From his assessment, they were both manipulative, diplomatic, and secretive. Given their similarities, perhaps they would be compatible - or perhaps, they would clash.
“From Varian, I would consider only Princess Beatrice, but I do not believe she or her parents would be inclined to the union. In Caesonia, there are a few more choices…” he trailed off, unenthused. “I suppose if I had to pick someone, it would be Priscilla Edwards.” He did not mean the reluctance as a slight against her. If anything, it was a sign of his esteem that he considered her an acceptable option.
“The Edwardses are incredibly wealthy,” Zarai nodded, contemplating his choices. “What of the Damien girls; what was it? Violet and Crystina?” She tapped her fingers over her glass, humming in thought, “Doesn’t Duke Vikena have a daughter too?” She paused, recalling the rumors she had heard about Charlotte. She didn’t think the rumors about her were true; she found them stupid and unfounded. And still, they mirrored her own predicament back in Varian and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for her.
“Although, if you are seeking a strong union, I'd suggest considering the Ganasea princess. It's unfortunate that Mayet couldn’t be here, you two would have made quite a cute couple.” She flashed him a teasing smile before taking another sip from her glass.
“I do not wish to allow Calbert of all people to marry into my family,” he told her. “As for the ladies themselves…There is something off about Violet - have you seen her lately?” he commented. “And Crystal is like a rabbit,” he waved a dismissive hand. A sheltered, naive, fearful woman was difficult to see as anything but a child.
He grimaced at the mention of Duke Vikena. “Good Gods, to have Lorenzo as an in-law,” he mock-shuddered. “Charlotte is fine, though, I suppose. But I am expecting her to take the reins of her duchy as soon as possible.” In which case, she couldn’t exactly double up as a queen.
There was also the matter of his general lack of interest, but that wasn’t something Zarai needed to know.
“Believe me, I am considering all options,” he sighed lightly. He raised a nonchalant shoulder at her attempt at teasing; he frankly only regretted not having been able to duel Mayet. “She was far too volatile. Throwing a knife, and holding a foreign dignitary at blade-point in a fit of rage?” he shook his head.
"I found her arrogance rather charming," Zarai hummed as she not-so-gracefully rose from her seat. Almost instantly, the room began to spin in a pleasantly numbing manner, just the way she liked. With a carefree attitude, she kicked off her heels; they were just an accident waiting to happen. She sauntered over to the bookcases that lined one of the walls.
“Of course you did,” he snorted. “Yet, I distinctly recall you saying in the past that, and I quote, my arrogance was one of my most unfortunate traits,” he paraphrased with an eye roll. It’s not as if it offended or upset him, but it was a mystery why she favoured women the more insolent they were. Granted, he too, had found Mayet’s haughtiness intriguing, so he wasn’t in much of a position to criticize Zarai for the same.
“And still is,” Zarai shot him a pointed look before returning to her search.
Sora listened to Tiny’s lists of reasons why fire wasn’t a good idea. He nodded throughout, though a pout crept into his expression. “So, no Molotovs?” he summarized, obviously disappointed. “Awwww, maan,” he sighed. He guessed that idea would be shelved for later. “I guess you’re right we gotta see first what actually kills zombies…Is it destroying the brain?”
At this point, the dragon-man – Sora decided to call him Ryu – produced a flame. “Hoooly-” Sora gasped, and just stayed there, mouth agape, utterly stunned at the evidence of magic. Still in a haze, he heard Tiny tell him about the ‘status’ thing. “Uh…Status?” he tried, and right there it was. Suddenly, out of nowhere, completely out of place – a holographic computer screen in front of his face. Listed were his name, age, race, level, stats, and a skill. “Taming…” That made sense. He didn’t know what to make of the idea that this world really worked based off of game logic.
Like Tiny had pointed out though, it’d be a bad idea to make assumptions based on media they’d consumed. They actually had to try things out to see how they worked. “Oookay, so there’s a fucking status screen, god, does that make me feel crazy,” he muttered. With a thought, he closed the screen.
He walked back downstairs, eyeing the zombies outside. Seemed like his exclamation hadn’t agitated him. “Hey, what’cha doin’–” the question died on his lips as he saw what Blonde was up to. She opened up the cellar, and an undead stumbled out.
It was slow, ungainly, but a walking corpse to be sure. Sora exhaled harshly, cursing out the intruder zombie in his mind. As his heartbeat raced, Sora felt adrenaline surge through him like lightning. Slowly, but faster than the zombie, he walked up to it as quietly as he could. It couldn’t see him, but he still kept to its blindside, approaching it from the back. Mostly, he focused on moving as quietly as a mouse. Once close enough, he unsheathed his recently acquired dagger, and aimed a stab at the base of its skull. If he was right, the zombie wouldn’t know what hit it.
“I beg your pardon, My Lord.” Riona approached the crow man as soon as she spotted him. “The man you were dancing with, are you acquainted with him?”
“Hmm?” Wulfric turned towards the stranger. He had been on the lookout for Zarai, who had apparently got entangled in a drinking contest. But now that his attention was on this woman bearing an orange dress, a cat mask concealing her features, he was struck by a strange sensation of familiarity. “Count Hendrix and I have recently become acquainted, yes,” he answered, tilting his head as he studied her. “But if you are interested in him, you need only approach him,” he suggested, amusement colouring his tone.
The appellation “Count Hendrix” surfaced again, affirming that it was the name he was known by within this circle. “He is a foreigner?” Riona asked. The crow man had a point, but if the stag man had any relation to the people she was thinking of, then she’d prefer to approach him in a less public space.
“A foreigner?” That was a good question. Given how the count concerned himself with Caesonia, the prince suspected his family might have been one of those ‘political exiles’. Here, the woman acted as if she knew him, or should know him, yet didn’t recognize his name. Curious. “You could say. He is from Varian.” At the very least, Hendrix was a citizen there.
Varian. Her heartbeat picked up speed. “I see, thank you.” Echoes of memories rippled through her—those days when Ríoghnach had waited with bated breath, impatient for the carriage to emerge from the horizon, carrying people, gifts, and stories from faraway lands.
“Why all the questions?” he couldn’t help but wonder.
She opened her mouth, paused, and then said. “Because it is courting season, My Lord. If one must seek prospective matches, the least one can do is ask questions.”
“If one must, yes, but you were not inquiring for the purposes of courting,” he stated as firmly as he would a fact. “There were no signs of romantic, sexual and/or political interest, nor any indications that you were trying to hide such,” he noted. “No, it was more so,” he fluidly waved a clawed hand, “a weaving of the known and unknown, locating something familiar in the unfamiliar, connecting points of information new and old.”
He cocked his head at her again, his fixed gaze briefly revealing the intensity of his intrigue. “Since it is evident you have your reasons for secrecy, how about an exchange? Whatever you believe, hm, shall we say safe to reveal? Your information related to the count, and in return, I will offer the same. I would not mind even mundane matters, if you are seeking the same.”
Riona’s dark eyes narrowed as she tilted her chin upward to look down at the taller man. While the stag man brought feelings of nostalgia, this crow man also felt… familiar. Infuriatingly so. “Rather presumptuous of you. Who are you to dictate what I do or do not feel?” Even if his claim about her interest in the stag man was on point.
The woman’s reaction stirred the edges of faint memories of a time long past, but not quite to the point of recall. “I was not dictating your feelings, merely making an observation based on your behaviour,” he noted. “Of course, I may have been mistaken, in which case, I apologize,” he shrugged easily. “Though, your reaction does lead me to believe I was right on the mark.” He chuckled lightly, entertained. “Or is it that you let others’ words dictate your thoughts and emotions?” he pondered, almost half to himself. “Oh, but these are merely bothersome assumptions again, are they not?” he added rhetorically.
“More to the point, is my offer appealing to you or not? If not, it strikes me as rather pointless to exchange pleasantries. Especially given that it is rather presumptuous of you to demand my name without bothering to introduce yourself first.” Though he’d thrown her words right back at her, his tone was a contrast to hers; mild and light - almost bored, in fact. A hidden smirk belied his apparent disinterest, however.
The crow man sure did like the sound of his voice. Or maybe he was just bored senseless after no one wanted to chat with the oh-so-charming fellow, so he picked Riona to be his plaything. “Others’ words and attitude do shape my thoughts and emotions about them. And I’ve decided I’ve already wasted too much of my time and energy on you.” Her gaze fixed onto his. “I respect myself too much to keep this conversation going.” Without another word or gesture of farewell, Riona turned heel. At least she now knew Count Hendrix was a Varian noble. It should be easier to find out more about him from there.
That tone of her voice - even if now much older - combined with her fiercely oppositional words, and the number of mannerisms which reminded him of someone from the past…It all clicked together with sudden clarity. “Lady Dantès.” He hadn’t intended to call out to her, and was clearly surprised that this particular name found its way to his lips. Had found its way out to the world after years of silence. Years of being consigned to oblivion; to the belief that the whole family had met a most unfortunate end.
The dead name, reanimated by a too-familiar voice, seized Riona where she stood, rooting her feet to the polished ballroom floor. Slowly, she turned to face the crow man, studying him through narrowed eyes to discern which ghost precisely had found its way back to haunt her. For better and for worse, there weren’t that many options. “Fake Prince?” she asked at last.
The train raid to Javaria had been fun. Wulfric didn’t get to ride trains often, and he and his guards and servants had had it all for themselves. After the train ride, a carriage was waiting for them. A drive in that later, he and the company his parents had insisted on arrived at a small estate. It, and the whole town around it were so different from what he was used to. It all looked like something straight out of a fairytale. The young royal could easily imagine it having been built by elves, because the houses sort of looked as if they’d been grown right out of the forest. There was a mystical air to the area, and Wulfric was sure there were all kinds of secrets hidden within.
However, he wasn’t here to explore. At his arrival to Count Bernard’s estate, the few guests lingering outside burst into whispers. They did bow or curtsy, but they still reminded Wulfric of flies, what with their annoying buzzing. His guards loomed behind him, their presence serving to deter the buzzards from flying too close.
They made their way inside, the count’s servants announcing his arrival. The reception hall was on the smaller side; a good two dozen guests made for a crowd. Then, there were all the children; there were as many youths as there were adults. A large group of children was a foreign sight to the prince, so he watched them curiously.
There were those murmured greetings and buzzing whispers again. Wulfric looked from guest to guest, searching for the count. However, the first to approach was Duchess Edwards, who weaved through the crowd, and emerged right into the protective bubble formed by his guards with practiced grace and eerie focus. She had a predatory glint in her eye. Similar to Morrigan’s when was about to torture a ‘fun prey’, as she called it.
“Hello, Prince Wulfric, how lovely to see you!” She covered her mouth with a hand as she laughed merrily. But the emotion didn’t reach her eyes; they were all pure calculation.
“Good day, Duchess Victoria,” he smiled a smile as empty as hers. “You’re a very pretty lady, and that dress really suits you!” He flattered her the way he had been taught to do in etiquette class.
She blushed, and Wulfric wondered if that was acting, or if she was just a fan of compliments. “My, what a charmer you are!” As they talked, they slowly moved towards where he spotted the actual hosts of the party. “You will be a lady killer one day, I can tell.” Somehow, the rapacious glimmer in her eyes became even brighter, intenser. “I do have a very pretty daughter, you know? She’s only six now, but give her a few years, and she’ll be the best there is, I know she will!”
Wulfric hummed noncommittally. “Girls are boring,” he commented.
“Oh! At that age, are you?” She fake-laughed again. “Well, if you’d ever like a friend, I have a son too.” She suddenly clapped her hands as they came to a stop before the Bernards. “But! This is my brother’s birthday. This is Jonathan, Your Highness.” She leaned down slightly, holding her hand to her mouth, gesturing that she would relay a secret. “He is a bit odd, but please, do not mind him.” She wasn’t quiet enough not to be heard. Did she not realize?
“I’m not weird!” The young lord burst out, glaring at his sister. But at his father’s sharp, “Jonathan!” the child looked down, sulking. “Sorry,” he said without looking at anyone.
Ignoring what had happened, the prince greeted him. “Nice to meet you, Jonathan.” Wulfric went out of his way to smile at the child, but the boy was still looking down.
“Hi. Your Highness.” His reply was sullen, and he even kicked at the floor. Wulfric judged him as very childish.
“I brought a gift for you. I didn’t know what you liked, so there’s a few things in it. I hope that’s ok.”
Finally, the child looked up again, pleasantly surprised. “O-oh. Thank you…Prince Wulfric.” There was even a slight warm smile, genuine gratitude colouring his expression.
Easy.
“You are very generous, Your Highness.” Count Bernard bowed, taking over for his son. Jonathan gave his father an angry look when the count wasn’t looking, but Wulfric saw it. “Now, let us commence the celebrations!”
They were led into the dining room. Even though it wasn’t his birthday, he was offered the seat of honor. “You don’t mind sitting to my right, do you?” he asked Jonathan, who was still lingering by his side.
“Um. I guess…Is it true you’ve never been to anyone else’s birthday party - other than your family’s?” Wulfric nodded, and Jonathan brightened considerably. “Oh! That’s so cool! T-that I’m the first one, I mean…” he trailed off, slightly embarrassed. But the prince didn’t pay it any mind. Anyone would be honoured.
Their table was set just for the children. That was a shame. Wulfric had wanted to talk to the count, and ask him about this town. He supposed the youngest son would have to make do.
They sat down. For the first time, Wulfric could take a good look at the other youngsters. “Who are they?” he asked Jonathan quietly, who eagerly introduced them.
Immediately to the prince’s left was a girl in a ruffled, pastel seafoam dress who had white ribbons tied in her black hair. She sat all prim and proper, but had eyes only for him. She was the daughter of a neighbouring baron, Suzanne van Bergen.
Next to her were two girls, Margaret Laine and Jennifer Ilves, who were fervently whispering to each other. Here and there, they’d break into giggles after looking at him. They had dresses too, but even though they were multi-coloured, they were plainer than the first girl’s. Margaret had chestnut curls and a freckled face, while Jennifer wore her dark blonde hair in pigtails. The former was a merchant’s daughter, and the latter a banker’s.
Next were a pair of twins, Cora and Charlie McDowell. The girl had her hair braided and pinned up, while the boy wore a ponytail. They were both dressed in practical clothing. Maybe it was a local custom, but they just looked very poor to Wulfric. Their parents were owners of a mining company, and were the Bernards’ friends.
Close to the twins sat a child whose appearance left Wulfric puzzling over their gender until he heard the name Mariel. Her short, artfully styled ashen hair, coupled with a royal blue doublet and black trousers, could easily have led anyone to mistake her for a boy. She came from the minor noble family of Tveit.
At the other end of the table, a girl sitting somewhat apart from the others caught Wulfric’s attention. She had sun-kissed olive skin and dark wavy hair that was slightly browned from time spent outdoors. Her outfit was an unfamiliar, but harmonious blend of Caesonian fashion with accents of Alidasht. When asked about her, Jonathan admitted he wasn’t entirely sure himself. Like Wulfric, this was his first time meeting the girl. All Jonathan knew was that she was the ward of Lord Desmond Dantès. He guessed she may have been brought here to familiarize her with the social circles of nobility.
To the right, a pig—wait, no, just a very plump boy—by the name of Florian Lund occupied a seat. The emerald green tunic strained to contain his substantial girth. He was joyously engaged in devouring a pastry, blissfully unaware of the crumbs that scattered onto his lap. Each bite set his rosy cheeks and honey-blonde curls into a cheerful dance. Despite his unassuming appearance, he was the progeny of one of Caesonia’s greatest knights.
Next was a tall, gangly boy with wild black hair, who kept grimacing as he strived to avoid Florian’s flailing elbow and the spray of food particles. He was hunched over himself, as if to withdraw into a nonexistent shell. Subtly, he inched to the left, trying to get further away from the fat boy. This bony boy’s name was Juan Venegas, and he was the son of a lord.
Adjacent to Juan was a stocky boy who kept shifting around, jittery and restless. Though he kept looking around, he didn’t really seem to notice Juan getting closer. His hair was shorn right down to his skull. Wulfric thought he might jump out of the chair any moment. He was Tomás Meaghan, whose parents were successful in the wood industry.
Lastly, there was Lars Blundell, the scion of another lesser noble family. His presence was imbued with a palpable sense of arrogance, his posture and demeanor leaving no room for doubt about his high regard for himself. He seemed utterly indifferent, even dismissive, of the esteemed gathering around him. This included the prince, whom he viewed as an equal at best. His air of superiority was as unmistakable as it was unapologetic, setting him apart from his peers in both manner and attitude.
Since it was around noon, lunch was served first. The children were louder than Wulfric deemed polite, but the conversation topics were familiar. What such-and-such did, or how they’ve gained this-and-that, or did a good-great-charitable-or-some-other thing.
The last meal was dessert; a birthday cake, of course. Ooohs and aaahs ensued from some of the more eager children.
Then…
Then came the singing.
The children opened their mouths, and an ungodly cacophony emerged. Wulfric could only stare, slack-jawed, as they began to sing the happy birthday song.
Weren’t entertainers supposed to be hired for this part?
Was Count Bernard so poor he couldn’t afford them?
This was terrible.
Some of these youths must have had basic music training, but this particular group had never sung together, and it showed. Some started too soon – or too late – and others rushed to get through, while a few were either too loud or too quiet.
When it was finally over, Wulfric congratulated Jonathan, said, “Happy birthday,” and shook his hand. The same sentiment echoed around the table.
Jonathan blew out all the candles, mouth puffed and face growing red as he snuffed out the flames. That done, the cake was cut and distributed. Any decorum thus far displayed grew exponentially worse with the amount of cake consumed, Wulfric observed. Florian devoured his piece as greedily as the pig he resembled, the girls’ giggling somehow got shriller, Tomás knocked an elbow into Juan, and even the previously sedate twins were exchanging up-to-no-good grins.
After their meal, they were led into a drawing room, where the gifts awaited opening. Jonathan appeared warily hopeful, but not too enthused. There weren’t many presents, but wasn’t he excited about seeing what he’d get?
Yet, as the unwrapping commenced, it became apparent that very few gifts were actually intended for Jonathan. Several were gifted to him, but were meant to impress his parents; things like sample goods from various businesses and territories. A few were actually presented to his parents while Jonathan received a token gift only. And the ones for him didn’t seem like much in Wulfric’s opinion.
His gift, of course, was special. As he’d said, there were several items packaged together; a sheathed dagger, a leatherbound journal, an embossed fountain pen, and an intricate puzzle box. Jonathan marveled over each and every one, and turned to him with a huge grin. “Thank you, Prince Wulfric! These-these are great! It’s…it’s the best gift.”
Obviously. It was from him, after all, Wulfric thought with a smirk.
Jonathan bounded up to him, and Wulfric offered him a hand. The child took it, but also sprung a hug on him. That must have been one of those strange, touchy-feely practices from the north. Wulfric patted him awkwardly and got out of the hug as smoothly as he could. “Glad you like it,” he smiled politely.
“I don’t-don’t just like it, I love it!” Excitedly, Jonathan proceeded to tell him, and to everyone else how grateful he was, how generous the prince was, and how great the king and queen were, et cetera. Just as Wulfric had thought that was it for the gift giving, he noticed a girl who’d kept her gift to give to Jonathan herself rather than handing it off to the servants like everyone else had done.
It was Lord Dantès’s ward who lingered at the edge of the gathering. Clutched in her hands was a small package, plainly wrapped. She frowned down at it, no doubt realizing it paled in comparison to his perfect gifts.
Noticing her hesitation, Lord Dantès went to her side. He spoke gently, reminding her that thought and meaning mattered most of all. With a reluctant nod, the girl shuffled to Jonathan, presenting the package as she said, “I made this for you.”
Jonathan accepted the gift and peeled away the brown paper. Below the modest wrapping lay an equally modest handkerchief. Some of the children, and even adults, snickered at the present. But when Jonathan unfurled it, Wulfric saw the intricate embroidery—the Bernard crest, Jonathan’s initials, and symbols representing his birth month and blessings for his future. “I hope you like it.” The girl watched Jonathan’s reaction anxiously.
Thankfully for the young lady, the count’s son appeared happy. “I do,” he reassured. Gently, he traced the embroidered handkerchief, fingers going over each stitching. He ended up putting it into his pocket, then took her hands into his own. “You thought about me when you made it. That means…a lot,” he told her.
In fact, Jonathan liked it so much that when they went into the small ballroom, he danced with Lady Dantès first, regardless of what his parents thought about it.
Meanwhile, Wulfric, who was more used to dancing with adults, asked Duchess Victoria for the first dance. She was very easy to charm, and though he didn’t enjoy the way she spoke down to him, he was used to that too. Adults always underestimated him. For the second dance, he asked Countess Bernard, who laughed when he did so, told him he was adorable, and accepted.
Even so, the countess urged him to dance with ‘someone his age’ next, so Wulfric picked Lady van Bergen. He didn’t like Suzanne, but she never figured it out. She was blushing so hard, Wulfric wondered if she’d overheat from it. When he was done with her, she skipped to the gossipers to brag about dancing with the prince. Wulfric looked around for someone else. Lady Mariel Tveit was with Florian already, so he sought out the next noble.
He spotted the tiny girl off in a corner again, her guardian Lord Dantès close by. Wulfric approached and bowed to her exactly how he’d been taught to do when asking a lady for a dance. “Would you care for a dance?” he asked politely, and offered her his hand.
Among all the reactions he anticipated, the sheer dread etched on the girl’s face was not one. This wasn’t the timid nervousness of a maiden about to dance with royalty. Her fear was raw, similar to the terror visible in prisoners moments before their execution or the despair of a certain servant. Lady Dantès stared at Wulfric like her worst nightmare came to life.
Desperate and wide-eyed, she looked for help from her guardian. When Wulfric followed her gaze, he met the warm, welcoming smile of the brunet. His eyes, almost black with hints of green in the right light, reminded Wulfric of the gentle demeanor of the horses Aiden tended to. With this lord, Wulfric didn’t feel belittled for his youth; he only looked down at Wulfric because of being taller, nothing more.
Lord Dantès turned his attention to Lady Dantès, saying, “It is up to you, sunshine.” His tone lacked the coercive edge the other adults used to push their children to interact with the prince, truly allowing her the freedom to decide.
The Dantèses exchanged a long, silent conversation with their eyes. Eventually, the girl steeled her resolve, and her deep brown gaze pierced Wulfric.
She executed a proper curtsy but stood rigidly as if bracing for a duel rather than a dance. “It would be my honor, Your Royal Highness,” she said, though her body language suggested otherwise.
“Alright,” Wulfric answered casually, though his smile had grown befuddled. He had no idea why the girl was so scared. Her guardian seemed to know, but Wulfric had never even met these people, hadn’t heard about them either. Who were they, to react like that? “If you’re sure.” He looked from the girl to the lord one more time. The lady, however, had clearly made up her mind, and accepted his hand.
He led her onto the dance floor, and started with a very simple waltz. He couldn’t help but think that she might run away if she grew too scared. However, she was also watching him defiantly, as if trying to challenge him despite her fear. It was weird, so he asked outright, “What are you afraid of so much?” She was moving very stiffly, which made it for an extremely awkward dance, though Wulfric did what he could to make it less so. If they were dancing, then it should at least be a decent dance.
The girl looked like she was about to deny it before simply admitting, “You.”
Wulfric hadn’t expected that admission. He tilted his head, studying her some more. “Why?” he asked simply.
Lady Dantès returned his scrutiny. “Do you care?”
Wulfric gave her a look. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Why else would I ask?” Maybe this girl was a bit slow.
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
He considered that for a moment. He didn’t think he would. The people who’d been afraid of him so far, he wasn’t mad at them, except if they wanted to hurt him. “I promise,” he said eventually.
“Or tell your parents?”
Wulfric sighed. Lady Dantès seemed to think this was some terribly important thing. “They wouldn’t care about what some random little girl thinks – or says. They’d just tell me not to pay it any mind either. But fine. I won’t tell them.”
Her eyebrows knitted together as she weighed the sincerity of his words. “You scare me,” she paused, biting her lip, then continued more boldly, “because you’re mean and fake. Just like your mother and father, and their parents.”
“What?” Wulfric burst out, immediately indignant. Then he remembered the promise, and sulked for a while. “What do you mean?” he followed up when he felt less upset. He was still pouting though.
Even though Wulfric was the wounded party, the girl had the gall to be upset by his outburst. A sense of mistrust permeated from her. He managed to rein in his anger, but he had somewhat violated his promise. She must be wondering if he was also a liar.
Lady Dantès leaned in closer, determined to catch any lies. “You look nice and you talk nice, but it’s not real, is it?” She regarded the others in the ballroom. “You think you’re better than all of this,” she challenged.
“You think it’s fake when you try to be nice? Should everyone be rude and insulting like you are?” He scowled down at her, frustrated. “You don’t know me, you don’t know my parents, and my grandparents are dead. You’re the liar.” She wanted honest? She’d get it. “Everyone thinks I’m better.” He looked around the room. “Maybe not Lars,” he snorted. “You’re like him,” he accused, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re just some stupid girl, and you’re jealous because you want to be better.”
The girl stared at him, bemused. Then suddenly a smirk spread across her face, and she let out a small laugh. It took a moment for Wulfric to realize his defensiveness caused it. “If that’s what you really think, then you’re stupid,” she retorted.
“They don’t think ‘Wulfric’ is better than them. Nana said these kinds of people will kiss up to anyone they can use.” Images of the gift opening crossed his mind. “And they can use a ‘prince.’ You should learn how to tell the difference, Your Highness.”
“So what? They can use me, I can use them,” he shrugged. Regardless of what Lady Dantès thought, he was better at it than others. And he’d get better still. Besides, many, many people really did believe he was special. What did it matter if some were pretending? It’s just how it was.
The look she gave him could only be described as pity. “It means you’re replaceable, dumb-dumb.” Lady Dantès sighed. “Kind of sad that the only way you can be nice is by faking it…”
The way he was watching her now was as if he was studying a new lifeform. He’d been told about the idea of ‘the heir and the spare’ when Auguste was born - a bit before, actually. If he ever died before he could get to be king, then someone else was there to do it. That was so obvious he didn’t even bother saying anything about it. As for the other thing, it’s not as if the girl was kind either.
When she spoke again, she didn’t look scared or wasn’t laughing anymore. She was getting bolder by the second. “You like hurting people. Lars is a bully, but at least he didn’t do what you did yet.”
So this girl thought she knew something. He wondered how. Could she be guessing? “No, I don’t.” Well, maybe sometimes, he did. “What did I do?” he challenged.
His answer seemed to cement her opinion of him. “Hurt people so bad they’d rather die than live another second with you around.”
“Is that what ‘they’ told you, too?” he wondered. This must be why she made him promise not to tell. Whoever ‘they’ were, they must be an enemy.
“They are the people who work for you.” She tilted her head to the side. “They know what you did to that man… what you like doing to others. But they’re scared because they know how mean you can be… But here you are pretending to be Prince Charming.”
“Whatever. You’re just pretending to know something more. And you think you get to call other people liars,” he scoffed. It was good the song was ending, because he didn’t want to spend any more time with this girl if he could help it.
The tiny girl lifted her chin to look down at him. “Are you talking to a mirror? It sounds like you’re talking about yourself.”
As the music came to an end, she said, “I’m scared of you, because a mean prince will only be a mean king,” and left the dance floor without him.
TLDR for the flashback: Wulfric visits Javaria in Montague, attending Jonathan Bernard’s birthday party as the young lord celebrates reaching 8 years of age. One of the invitees is the mysterious Lady Dantès, a ward of the Lord Desmond Dantès. During the event, Wulfric dances with her once, but the two clash, as the 6-year old girl accuses him of being ‘mean’ and ‘fake’ despite also being clearly terrified of him.
“There’s no need to fight them all.” His voice carried a note of weariness. They swayed to the music wordlessly until Ryn gasped. “Today or tomorrow? Adel, I’m happy you’re enthusiastic about our little outing, but we haven’t even settled on a destination yet!” Prince Wulfric regarded him with a blank stare. “You… are talking about my offer this morning? In the kitchen?” No response. “‘Then we should do this again, next time I’ll take you outside’?”
“The…outing,” Wulfric repeated. Hendrix was quite masterful in pretending nothing unusual had occurred. Well, the moment had passed, though it lingered heavily at the back of his mind. “I suppose. I will notify you when I am available, and I can act as a guard while you go about your business.” He had no preference for location, but given the usual constraints… “Unless we find ourselves with unlikely bouts of free time on our hands, it will have to be within the city.”
The prince’s words drew a playful smile across Ryn’s face, “So if we did find ourselves with bouts of free time on our hands, you’d consider venturing outside the city?” With a man he suspected to be an assassin?
“Why not?” he shrugged, confidently nonchalant.
He studied Prince Wulfric, as best as one could study another covered from head to toe, and moved on to another question, “Where have you never stepped foot in?”
“In Caesonia?” He found it strange the count was asking where he hadn’t been. “Some minor villages aside, I’ve been more or less everywhere.” Really, it was easier to answer in terms of where he had traveled. “I’ve been to Varian often, though the visits were usually to the major cities. I haven’t been to Alidasht much, but one of those times was a year-long stay.” In conclusion? “I have never been anywhere outside these three kingdoms.”
“... minor villages...” It ruffled in response.
That town was no different than countless others strewn across the kingdom; it boasted nothing to make it stand apart. A place of little consequence, bereft of resources and strategic value, just a humble place tucked within the folds of the kingdom. The soil was stingy, the view unremarkable. It was a place you passed through on your way to somewhere more important. But oh, the people! They danced when they felt like dancing, fought when the fight was worth it, and loved their neighbors as themselves. They had little but gave much, sharing whatever they could. So though the town was poor in coin and influence, it held the most coveted treasure: a home.
A home that had fallen to rubble and dust, its beating heart forever silenced. Bodies were heaped together in a charred, tangled mass in the square. She, the centerpiece.
He never visited, did he? That minor place of little consequence.
“Apologies, I meant where within Sorian have you never set foot in.” But if the prince did go everywhere in the capital… “If you have walked every corner of the city, where have you spent the least time in?”
‘Every corner’ might have been an overstatement. “The slums, low-end establishments, the mines…” he shrugged. “I do not go out of my way to mingle with commoners.” He was sure that was self-evident, and yet…
“Why?”
Wulfric sighed at the question. Nonverbally, he indicated for them to move off the dancefloor. If this was to become an involved conversation, he’d rather have it in a more appropriate setting. “I am aware that you are a proponent of personally involving yourself in every little thing, and acquainting whomever you come across. Yet why would I? I do not deem it necessary nor efficient.” Neither did he hold that kind of interest in most others. “You and I operate in very different ways, Hendrix,” he shook his head. “However, I take it that you are set on proving me wrong, or some such.”
What would have normally received a quip or two was met with sobriety. “Noblesse oblige.” The count let a moment pass to note the response the phrase elicited before pressing on. “Despite what you may think of them, they’re still your people.” Ryn’s mien was as unruffled as his mask, betraying nothing. “A kingdom is only as strong as its most marginalized. If you want to make a stronger kingdom, you must start from its foundation... or risk your castle toppling.” His gaze never strayed from the prince’s eyes, pinned into place. “Everything starts from understanding.”
Once again, the count sought to meet his gaze, even through the heavily obscuring mask. Wulfric acquiesced by staring him down. “Yes, it does,” he agreed with the literal meaning of ‘nobility obliges’. “I know my duties,” he stated coolly, a touch offended at the implication that he did not, or that he wasn’t performing them. “The poor are the foundation? That’s a bit of a stretch.” The ‘castle toppling’ bit was…an interesting threat, to say the least.
“Understanding,” he scoffed, disdainfully tossing his head aside before he turned a haughty look on Hendrix. “What you mean is that I should rule based on sympathies,” he sneered. “But it is exactly that which so often leads to favoritism.” That wasn’t his only grievance; someone trying to dictate how he ought to care or for whom and for what was not appreciated. That aside, there were advances he had in mind for the kingdom. “I will harness potential where it exists,” he proclaimed resolutely. “And there are certainly improvements to be made, that we can agree on.”
A guffaw erupted from Ryn, sudden and loud enough to turn the heads of those within earshot. As his laughter continued unchecked, however, their curiosity waned and they relegated the sound to the status of background noise. Soon, they all returned to their own affairs.
Eventually, his laughter subsided to sporadic bursts. “So,” he said between gulps of air, “you’re no different from him.”
With a last chuckle out of his system, Ryn sucked in a deep breath. “You know Adel, for someone who complains a lot about favoritism, you do tend to disregard ‘the poor’ and focus on very specific groups of people...” Instead of pointing out the obvious implication, he rubbed his chin and voiced another thought. “It’s like you use that as an excuse to avoid due diligence.”
Ryn frowned slightly, “I also hadn’t realized you’re the sort to rely on chance to find individuals with potential. Would you not rather nurture it so anyone can harness it?” His eyes fell onto Prince Wulfric’s neck, to where the scar was. “There’s no shame in admitting you’re intimidated because you don’t know how to handle them.”
“Not to worry,” Ryn reassured, patting the prince’s shoulders with both hands, “that’s what our excursion is for. Once you’ve witnessed the lives of your people—really seen them—you’ll be able to come up with the best way to improve things for everyone.”
“People are the foundation of a country. It doesn’t matter if they’re poor or rich.” His hands slid off Prince Wulfric’s shoulders. “If you can’t take care of the foundation… what’s your purpose?”
Ah, that laughter. Such a pointed, hysterical thing. So familiar. Was it an echo of the time when he himself had first wondered how similar he’d become? The prince experienced a rare feeling of contriteness. “Perhaps not so different after all…” His father did hate the destitute, the infirm, and all such ilk. Was indifference an improvement? Wulfric sighed. “I would ask why you bother,” with me, he didn’t explicitly say, “yet I can guess well enough.”
Underneath the calm exterior, Ryn’s heart stopped. “Oh?”
Wulfric merely hummed in answer, however, and moved on. “Bias and hypocrisy,” he lifted a hand, not seeking to defend himself. “I am aware I prioritize those in power,” he twitched his shoulder in a small shrug. Truthfully, it did bother him, the idea that he was overlooking an important problem. “An excuse…” He fell into thought.
It gnawed on him, at times, that it may be because of excuses that he hadn’t killed his father. The risks it would carry for him, to commit regicide and patricide. The risk of opening forth a path to more bloodshed; how such an act may wreak havoc upon the nation. The question of how it would all affect his siblings. Excuses aside, would it not be by becoming king, even if by force, that he could once and for all truly affect the changes he wished?
Then again, hadn’t a large part of him, too, genuinely believed in internal change?
So…was the notion that he didn’t have enough power in and of itself an excuse?
“Hm.” He’d adopted quite the stereotypical thinking pose, elbow perched upon a folded arm, balled fist set against his chin.
He reached no particular conclusion on that line of thought. Instead, he glanced back at Hendrix, shaking it off for now.
“Oh, I am all for education. Unfortunately, attempts to improve it have been limited at best.” He wasn’t a fan of the conclusion that he was ‘intimidated’, and found it a tad dubious that an excursion with the count would make such a striking difference to his plans. “We shall see,” he hedged.
He tilted his head at the question about his purpose. “My aim is to take care of them.” He could have expounded on their different views of caring, or regale him with his goals for the nation and its people. But that’s not what the count was saying, here.
However, those words seemed to be enough. Hendrix visibly relaxed, and his expression softened.
“You know,” Wulfric continued, a tone of revelation in his voice. “Since you are so heavily invested in the prosperity of this county, and appear to possess a desire to act as my arbiter…”
He stared down at Hendrix with more intensity than at any other prior point during their conversation.
“Take my advice to heart,” he intoned solemnly. “If you conclude that I am incapable,” he lifted an arm, and set a clawed finger against his own neck in a very telling manner.
“Do. Not. Hesitate.”
Ryn blinked a few times. “Is that a request?”
Wulfric straightened up, hand waving dismissively. “An advice,” he reiterated casually. “Make of it what you will.”
But he could not leave it at that. “No.” Ryn stepped closer. “What is it that you want?” His eyes desperately searched the prince’s, looking for that silver thread he thought he saw the glint of behind those words.
Wulfric considered the other man. “Would it not be a grand thing,” he began softly, “to have someone you could trust with both your life and with your death?” He paused, the question lingering unanswered. “I have a few people for the former…but the latter?” A wry smile formed. “It might be better to pick someone I mistrust, than to have no one at all. Why not you?” he prompted.
“You’re putting your complete trust… into someone you mistrust?”
Slowly, his shoulders lifted up, then dropped after a moment. “Well, it isn’t as if I would let you, but…you strike me as sensible and capable enough.”
“You wouldn’t let me, but you still ask me to… Is this, not-a-request, for insurance?”
Ryn stared up at Prince Wulfric for a long time. “Thank you for the compliments,” he finally said, “but I fear I may disappoint you.” He lifted up his open palms. “I’d make a terrible assassin.” He then shrugged. “So, you have no choice but to live up to my very, very, very lofty expectations, and be ‘capable.’”
Dark eyes twinkled behind the mask. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Wulfric felt as though he’d seen the count before, many years ago.
As he started wondering if he should be disappointed, Hendrix offered…an alternate offer?
Wulfric was vividly reminded, how not so long ago, he had been fiercely telling himself he wouldn’t live by someone else’s standards. Yet, had he not unwittingly fallen into the trap of listening to his parents far too much? Maybe, a counterweight was just what he needed.
“I know a thing or two about lofty expectations,” he quipped. Without the faintest clue of what exactly he was agreeing to – and frankly, why he was – the prince raised his right hand. “Shall we shake on it?”
Ryn eyed Prince Wulfric’s offered hand while his remained suspended. “Be careful, Adelard. Promises can be soul-bindingly powerful. If you want to shake on it, shake with intent to fulfill it.”
“Of course,” Wulfric said calmly, despite Hendrix’s outlandish manner of phrasing that. “I fully intend to use you to fashion this country into a better kingdom.” A note of amusement crept into his tone at his next words. “We could also term it…cooperation.” He studied the count for a beat. “I will do what I can to realize that goal,” he stated seriously. “And you?”
“Yes.” The answer came out without hesitation. “I am with you in this endeavor. We always have been and always will be.” For it was in their nature. The oath.
Ryn reached for Prince Wulfric’s outstretched hand, but stopped a breath away from it, waiting for the prince to bridge the gap—a chance to back out. “For a realm not just ruled, but truly served.”
“So be it.”
Wulfric bridged those last few millimeters with ease. Smoothly, he took ahold of Hendrix’s hand. It was a firm, solid grasp. Silent now by way of agreement to a common purpose, the two men shook on it.
The polished stone floor of the grand throne room ran slick with splattered blood as the figure stumbled forward. Before the other could retreat, crimson-stained fingers closed tight around fine robes and drew their faces close. The crown tumbled from its place by the sudden motion, somersaulting and caroming across the floor in glints and gleams.
Eyes, darker still than the night’s reign, supped deep of betrayal writ plain. With the last laborious breaths questions and curses might have passed drained lips, but only a gasp emerged—“Noblesse oblige.” A wretched cough sent flecks of scarlet flying. “Swear… you’ll care for them all.”
If they were going to take it all, let it come with the duty owed.
“I beg of you.”
Or someday face the consequences of one’s hubris.
Someday…
… ṣ̶̕o̷̪͙̐m̵̰͂ë̶̬́́… d̷̨͎̪͒̑ǎ̶̹̗͔͌̈̚͜ỹ̶̭͎̟͆̈́…
After a deep discussion Wulfric and Ryn agree to work together for the betterment of Caesonia.
After Theodore’s discussion with Samuel concluded, they each went separate ways. Theo didn’t bother asking the man where he stayed; when it was time to find each other, he was confident they could do so.
The walk across the darkening city was surprisingly pleasant. Sure, part of it was the pleasure of having made a good deal. But even tired as he was, he’d always had a special fondness for the night. The stars could be seen faintly, far, far above. Had it really been from somewhere up there where the Perishing Star had descended from to slay the Thousand-Faced God?
Even those who had lived at the time gave no clear account of what had happened. Perhaps, it had been beyond mortal comprehension. After all, how could godhood or god-slaying feats be perceived or understood by mere mortals?
It did beg the question, however, whether the Perishing Star was a deity, or an anti-thesis thereof. No one worshipped it, not as far as he knew. Was it even a being, an entity in any comprehensible manner? Well, the Thousand-Faced had not necessarily been such. Yet, the god’s death had brough doom and ruin upon them. They had lost the divine, yet had gained magic.
Was magic merely the natural result of the god’s death, a concentrated blessing dispersing into a myriad of infinitesimal pieces available to any and all who but strived to harness that potential? But if it was that, wouldn’t have monsters been attracted to any mage adventurers? He’d heard of no such thing.
It was a mystery.
The monsters. The Abyss. The inexplicable draw he felt to descend into the very depths.
There’d been that one moment when Theodore had stared down, and wanted to jump, Was it a premonition of things to come? Was death an inevitability? Would attaining godhood inevitably lead to him abandoning who he was, his self, his very soul?
All of that was an unknown. Whatever came, however, the urge persisted.
It stayed with him well into the new day. It would be a constant, until he died – whether that death be literal or metaphorical.
He and his followers had met up at the tower. He’d retained his spear and shield, but the others had sold their loot or else had brought their earnings. Through the night, each of them kept a portion of their earnings; one of the preventions against getting robbed.
They’d found a shabby, run-down inn. The rooms were cramped and unsanitary, and the other guests within surly or loud or too drunk to do much other than stumble around. The proprietors didn’t seem to care – as long as the minimal fee was paid, it was all good in their book. Honestly, the lodging were barely a notch above the stables. In the morning, Theo questioned if even that assessment had been correct; he was fairly certain he’d got a rash or two from bed bugs.
After a cheap, oily breakfast, Theo decided getting a decent bath was in order. Apparently, there were communal washing facilities available. The group got cleaned, then they all headed to the markets together for a shopping trip.
Arnfinn was clinging to him. “Will you get hurt again today?” he asked quietly.
“Hmm, well,” the dhampir absent-mindedly patted the boy's head. “This is why we’re getting some gear now. That’ll help me not get hurt, or get hurt less, at least.”
The cambion pouted. “I don’t like you being hurt.”
Theodore chuckled. “I know, I know. I’ll get stronger, though. Strong enough not to get hurt.” That was a promise to himself as much as it was to Arnfinn. His first day had been successful, and he was buoyantly riding the winds of good fortune. However, the previous day had had its own striking revelation.
There were other people like him out there. People like the blindfolded swordswoman. He’d warned his other followers of her. Until he had other recourses, encounters with her were preferably to be avoided.
But he couldn’t run forever. He needed power. Whether it be equipment, training, the fragments of divinity gathered from the Abyss…He’d get it all.
First order of things, however, was buying some adventuring equipment and supplies.
As absorbed as he was in his self-assigned work, and distracted by the very real danger of being eaten (or worse, infected) by zombies, Sora barely registered the little elf’s protest that she wasn’t a child. “Huh?” he glanced at her. He paused mid-step, and where he might have usually sort of flailed at being caught unaware and thrown off balance, the inborn athleticism of his body led him to performing a needlessly graceful half-spin. “Oh.” He looked her up and down. “Yeah, sorry, you look about 12 to me,” he shrugged.
What a fate, though, to be put into a child’s body – or into one that appeared very much prepubescent. “I guess…” he put a finger to his chin. “Your face is kinda adult-ish. Tough to tell with elves. I know I look younger too.” He twitched his shoulders again. “You sound adult enough, so you really must be one. Sorry,” he smiled at her, slightly embarrassed at having acted so parental – or brotherly – towards an adult woman.
Once the zombies were successfully distracted by his mirror-throwing feat, Sora continued the conversation with the others. “Really, you were on the plane too? Maybe we all were…” He frowned as she immediately termed their experience an isekai. “It’s another world for sure, but I don’t know about reborn. There wasn’t really any birthing involved, we were just put here. These bodies don’t look like they were dead – thank god – so it’s possible they were just,” he waved both hands, “created.”
He sighed. “Maybe it’s an isekai, or the afterlife, or the spirit world, or a super-secret military experiment on immersive virtual reality back on our world, I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t really matter.” It’s not as if he didn’t want to know, but finding out the hows and whys of where they found themselves was so far down the list of priorities, it might as well not even be an afterthought.
He just shrugged at the hammer-lady’s question. “Who knows? But I don’t want to be bitten, that’s for sure.”
He watched as the not-child went on to explore her room, and emerged with an honest-to-goodness mage staff. “Lucky,” he whistled. Rather than jealousy, there was pure and simple excitement. They’d been placed in a dangerous situation, sure, but there were ways for them to deal with it. Rather than search the remaining rooms on the second floor, he descended downstairs.
On the first floor, the situation was much dire. “Urgh.” Sora grimaced as he caught sight of the numerous undead lingering outside. Thankfully, even though he could see them through the windows, it was clear they operated based on sound rather than sight. There wasn’t any logic to it, honestly, but then, there wasn’t much sense to this situation in the first place.
There was only one other person inside, and they were dead. Sora approached cautiously, and knelt down. The body wasn’t moving. That was a plus. It was lying down there, but since it was the only one, the question was; how did this person die?
As Sora investigated, the answer became clear. The visor was lowered, specks of rust gathered on the floor, the area of the neck…the body’s hand, and the blade next to it. “Oh, no.” He fiddled with the helmet, removing it from the person’s head. The throat was slit. They must have done it themselves. “You poor thing…” He wished he knew who they were. He felt great empathy for this person, even though they were a stranger. “Were you the last one? Or just left all alone?” he whispered. His fingers gently touched the face; by now, it was bits of dried skin clinging to a skull. “I’ll take care of you, alright? Just…wait a bit longer.”
He picked up the weapon, then. It was a dagger, and all the blood on it almost made it seem rusted. “I’ll put this to good use,” he promised. “Is that ok?” There was no answer, of course not.
Oh, well.
Sora figured it’d be fine. He wanted to give her – he wasn’t sure why, but he got the sense it was a woman – a proper burial. Maybe that’d make up for the stealing.
It wasn’t just the dagger he took; tied around her waist was a belt with a sheath to go with it. It took some work, but he pried it loose. He wanted to clean it before using, which led him to the kitchen. There were many knives here, even cleavers, but…It was sentimentality that drove him to hold onto the dead woman’s things. He’d never known her, but he wanted something to remember her by. To ensure that the brave, lonely, desperate soul who’d secured this area wouldn’t be forgotten.
There weren’t any signs of modern plumbing; no water faucets in sight. However, there were several barrels. At least two he found bore water. He ladled some of it into a small basin, found a washcloth, a scrubbing brush, and got to work. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard. Once done, Sora put on the belt, and sheathed the dagger.
“Now, then…” There were so many thoughts racing around his mind, it was difficult to focus. The meditative cleaning procedure had helped some, but Sora still felt overwhelmed. “Ok, zombies, zombies…” he turned around, eyes flitting here and there. The kitchen was too chaotic to help him organize his mind.
What did people fight zombies with in the movies? Guns. Chainsaws. Bombs?
Fire.
“Fire,” he repeated out loud, marvelling at his own idea. “That’s right, maybe we can burn them, or…” Or find more things to throw at them.
“Molotovs!!” he suddenly exclaimed, then slapped a hand over his mouth. Obviously, they’d have to be hella careful not to burn down the city or themselves, but Sora thought it could work. So, he started gathering whatever could be useful for starting a fire. Candles, broken lamps, and lamp oil. Jars of cooking oil. Pieces of cloth. Small, dried pieces of wood. He set the items on a relatively clear countertop in the kitchen. Problem was, he’d tried fiddling with the lamps, but either they were too broken to function, or he just didn’t know how to use them right. There were also no matches he could find. If there were any anywhere, they’d probably be too small to find easily.
So, Sora wandered back to the main area. “Does anyone know how to start a fire?” he asked casually. Even if they couldn’t do that right away, they could still reinforce the doors. Thus, the elf started gathering up larger pieces of wood, and smaller pieces of broken furniture to barricade the doors with. There was a persistent scratching noise coming from the cellar, but he chose to ignore it. Whatever was in there, he didn't think it could come out by itself. They would need access to the cellar, but first, he wanted to make sure nothing else would be joining them inside.
Sora found the correct door, and a little girl came out of it, clearly scared. He was taken to a few years back, to when his sister was that age, and he was vividly – painfully – reminded of his younger sibling.
He crouched down so she wouldn’t have to look up at him. “Hello, there,” he lowered his tone and made his voice softer. It was easier to sound kinder as an elf; his voice was already different than he was used to. Melodious, warm, and airy all in one. When he was putting in the effort, it was as soothing as a light spring drizzle, as gentle as the warmth of early summer’s morning sun rays.
…
Maybe elves were naturally prone to poetry. Sora didn’t know why else he’d suddenly be thinking about nature like that.
“Ahhh,” he carded a hand through his hair nervously at the little girl’s question. “I was on a plane,” he said, making no mention of the harsh truth to the child. He gave a quick glance at the other two when they answered. It didn’t seem like they knew either. Maybe they were all in the same or in a similar situation?
“I don’t know how I got here. Maybe I got lost?” he joked lightly, smiling at the little elf in a friendly manner. “Did you get lost too? Were you with someone else?” He figured she must have been with her parents, or someone.
Not once did it occur to him that the small, scared girl might not be a child.
“It’ll be alright–” he started saying, but that’s when the pounding started. “Oh, shiiiii–” he bit off the curse on the account of the minor present. His body grew tense however, and his smile slipped.
Don’t panic, easy, think it through, calm breaths, he silently encouraged himself. “Alright, we have to be very, very quiet now, and very brave, alright?” he told the elf child. “We’ll protect you if it comes down to that,” he promised her, then stood up.
“Yeah, you’re not the only one,” he said quietly to the winged man. “When I looked out of the window…I thought I saw zombies.” He inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. “If this is all for real, we’re gonna have to be very careful.”
What did he know about zombies? Well, only what he’d seen in games, movies, and other media.
“I’ve seen they’re slow, but I don’t think running out right away is a good idea. They heard us, so maybe a loud noise can distract them. I’ll look around, try to figure out something. Could you two find something to block the doors? Maybe with chairs? Worst case scenario, we could still go out the ground floor windows…” he trailed off.
There wasn’t much time to plan or chat. Sooner or later the undead would burst in, and then they'd be in serious deep shit. In even deeper shit. “Would you like to come with me or with one of the others?” he asked the short elf.
Whatever the girl decided, Sora stood up. First, he headed back to his room. He picked up the mirror, and cautiously moved over to the window. He opened it as carefully as possible, making as little sound as he could. He hurled the mirror out of the window as far as it went. It landed in the distance with a crash. He wasn’t sure if that’d be enough to get the zombies off their backs, however. Either way, he closed the window once that was done.
Next, he went on to explore the rest of the inn. He needed to know what this place looked like. Maybe he’d find something useful, too.
“HGAAAAAAAAHHH!” Sora woke suddenly with a shout, heart racing. He sat up quickly, enough to make him dizzy. His head swung from left to right as he looked around wildly. “Wha– Where?” he gasped. Hadn’t he heard a scream, somewhere? A hand grasped at his chest. There were no more sounds, however. If anything, this place was…oddly peaceful.
The lack of imminent apparent danger wasn’t convincing, not with his head full of those godawful last memories. It was imprinted on his mind; the panic as the plane started going down, the loud, rending creaking and wrenching of metal, the sensation of suddenly plummeting, the realization that they were fucked, that they might die.
He’d had that classic life-flashing-before-your eyes – well, frankly, it was terror-fueled pieces of thoughts scattering through his head. There’d been the this can’t be happening, thiscan’tbe– phase. There was hoping and praying that somehow, anyhow they’d be saved, that they’d make it out safely despite being told they’d have to crash-land. There’d been thinking of his family. His heart had twisted into itself at the thought he might not see them again. He’d even though of uni, and how he’d never got to go, after all. There’d also been that the one fucking time I decide to actually travel, this happens bitterness at his utter misfortune.
Then…there’d been some sort of dream or hallucination? Something about whether he’d rather be strong or fast or whatever, and what ‘skill’ he’d like…It’d been weird, and it felt like any other nightly figment of imagination, starting to fade more and more as he came to awareness.
Now, there was this.
He found himself in a poorly maintained room, of the kind that were common in cheap inns and hotels. Except, this one had so much dust everywhere, he didn’t think anyone’d come in here in years. There wasn’t even sign that he’d walked in, or that anyone had carried him; no footprints or trail on the floor, just an even dust cover spread on the wooden boards. There was that musty, damp, slightly irritating scent of mold, though he could see no obvious signs of it on the walls or ceilings. The bed – yes, he was on a bed – was lumpy, the covers threadbare and bearing some suspicious spots of yellowish discoloration.
There were a few pieces of old wooden furniture; a night stand with some antique lamp on it, a closet, a dresser with a small mirror, several shelves, what looked like a chest of all things, and a chair set next to the window. It all had a very old vibe – almost antique. But not antique in the way that it’d be sold or shown off as something special. It was like a painting showing a glimpse into the mundane life of a peasant in…He couldn’t really determine the time period.
The only source of light was the window. Glancing outside revealed an unknown town. It had that same olden vibe about it, like an European city from a few centuries back. The streets were empty, and some buildings had accumulated minor structural damage – paint chipping, broken windows, pieces of roof tiles fallen to the floor.
There were…Armoured people moving about?
“What the hell…” As he watched, it became apparent the armoured folks were slow, practically stumbling or half-dragging themselves around aimlessly. “…Zombies?” He didn’t know what fucking else to call them. Cosplayers, maybe, or actors…None of this made any sense.
Groaning, he stood up. A quick glance down resulted in flinch, and Sora almost stumbled back onto the bed. “Ouch,” he mumbled. What was weird was that he was wearing – armour? Some kind of leather, or sturdy cloth, a kind of fantasy-style adventurer and officer getup. It reinforced the idea of this being a show, or an event, or something – but he didn’t remember signing up for anything like that.
“Don’t tell me this is the afterlife?” He scratched at his head – something felt weird. His hair was way smoother, a bit wavier, and longer too. And red?
“Hie?!” he suddenly let out a startled, yelping sort of noise as brushing through his hair suddenly led to a fleshy obstruction. Cautiously feeling it, it was an ear.
“Oh, what the hell.” Deciding to check out what he felt, he shuffled to the mirror. Blue eyes, an unnatural shade of wine-red hair, elf ears. “Uh. Huh.”
He had no idea what to make out of any of this. Inspecting his room – including opening all drawers, the closet, and even checking under the bed – revealed no obvious clues. He didn’t want to risk opening the window, so he went to the only other option.
The door.
Creeeeeeeeak, it shuddered and shook ominously. A shiver ran up Sora’s back. This was waaaay too like the start of some horror movie set-up for his liking.
The hallway wasn’t anything special; more dust, more wooden floors, more faded wallpaper…More open doors?
Light poured in from the other rooms that had been opened.
Sora looked down one way. Then down the other.
His mouth dropped open.
There was a dragon!
Okay, not really, but a walking, talking, reptile-person. “Is that a costume?!” he whisper-shouted as he approached. Though he saw the hammer-wielding lady, he was too busy being in awe of the reptilian humanoid. There were slitted eyes, a tail, wings, and horns, but barely any scales. “DUDE, can you fly?!” he blurted out. “I soooo need to know about this.”
Usually, he was the type to want to know about things for practical reasons. But this was one of those instances where he wanted to know, just because. He was fascinated, and he literally had to physically shake himself out of it, because he was still in the middle of figuring out some other stuff – like where he was, and why.
“Oh, sorry, my bad…I’m Sora,” he introduced himself to the two. “Where’d you get the hammer?” he asked the blonde lady. She was pretty in that unreal, picturesque way – not that he could say much, though, what with having become an elf.
He looked around the hallway, suddenly remembering something. “Wasn’t someone screaming? Other than me, I mean,” he smiled sheepishly. “And…do you know where this is? Uh…I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure last I checked, I was dying, and this–” he gestured to his body, “isn’t really what I looked like? So weird…” Sora padded from door to door, trying to catch hint of any other sounds. “HEY, is anyone else there?” he called out. “If there is, are you OK?”
The enemy ship was burning, the enemy was finally going down. Ismael was incandescently glorious in the middle of it. They were all tired, exhaustion seeping into the very marrow of their bones. They were all half-drunk from it, the whole ordeal of the drawn-out battle. Their victory was now viscerally within reach. They could taste it; their imminent triumph sent a sharp zing through the tongue sending a shiver right down to the toes. Yet, they’d prevailed, beating an unlikely enemy, making it out alive!
It was at that moment.
Between one heart beat and the next, within the blink of an eye, a split-second change brought it all crashing down.
Down. Down. Down.
Ismael was cut down.
They could only watch. Some saw it happening before it did. Some didn’t understand what the fuck was going on when they were already sailing away.
The goddamn hero, the phoenix who never would be again, the man burnt it all to crisp, going out with a crazed grin on his lips. It’d be his way or no way, even if it was death.
But it was death.
Final.
Irreversible.
A done fucking deal.
What was, was. What was lost was gone. It’d never be there again.
Ismael was gone.
The worst thing?
It didn’t matter that what he did was downright legendary. No one else would hear his story. No one else would care about it. To anyone else, it’d just be an unfortunate loss, a ‘prized’ human being lost to some ‘no-name, backwater pirates’. What Ismael did didn’t affect the fight against the Dark Elves, so no one else would think it relevant.
Well. There was still them.
Arlen didn’t think he could forget. Days and nights after the fight, he was tormented by that one final scene. That indescribably heart-wrenching feeling of being as high up as the heavens, then incomprehensibly, the world tilted side-ways, and they found they were – not even in something recognizable as hell; instead, they were sent careening out into the fucking unknown of who-the-fuck-knows-where.
Arlen was glad everyone else was just as out of it as he was. They all had the time to lick their wounds in their own way. No one bothered him, he bothered no one. No one even had time to ‘understand’ or whatever else, they just dealt with it each on their own.
Then came the news from out-of-fucking-nowhere.
The world turned, was sucked into itself, and spat back out – similar, but recognizably not the same.
They’d be getting a new human charge.
Was this supposed to be a goddamned replacement? Ismael couldn’t be replaced.
It rankled, but Arlen hated that it also gave some sort of hope – because that meant he was fine with it, as long as there was a juiced-up magic powerhouse to give it meaning.
It was too fucking confusing to think about, as he had such violently conflicting feelings about it all. So, he didn’t. They’d get to meet them right away, so this wasn’t the time to be a sour-puss about it.
Instead, he focused on the promise of treasure hunting with a single-minded zeal.
When the two new folks showed up on the pier, Arlen very intentionally didn’t think about it as the crew getting another human. Cause it was like thinking of a person as just a shiny new trinket being there instead of the one they’d lost-
Yeah. No.
It was just two folks who’d join them on a treasure hunt. One of them happened to be human, sure. But that was all.
“Hey, guys!” Smiling felt weird – he wasn’t sure it looked right, but he ignored that. He waved at the new arrivals from where he was leaning against the gunwale. Then, he swung over, clung over the edge for a heart-racing moment, kicked off against the side of the ship, and lunged to land onto the docks. That small, nonsensical athletic stunt was enough to make his grin a bit more genuine, a small spark of life emerging from depths unknown.
He stood up from his crouch, dusting himself off. “There’s breakfast, alright; you’re just in time,” he turned to the demihuman. The lion demi at least spoke. The human looked like he didn’t even want to be there. Arlen smothered a frown. It’s not his fault.
To Zion, he said, “We usually eat out and about whenever we dock. Besides,” the enthusiasm was starting to take hold, “no way to go on an adventure on an empty stomach.” The sly smirk alluded to and teased at greatness ahead. There would be, there had to be. "Oh, and it's Arlen, by the way."
Arlen is shocked at Ismael's death, and isn't a fan of the idea of a replacement human. He represses his grief and confusion and conflict, and faces the promise of treasure hunting head on with relentless cheer.
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