αέναος

dependent mumu blog for nocturniafm

[aenaos]

✦ The Winter Crow: Lady Lenore Kaelvorn of Yverhald Keep;  whether her end be defined by the rise or fall, take flight she must  

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✦ The Gilded Lost Knight: Lord Hiran Tripathi of Solari Sanctum; how can a knight truly serve when his sole devotion lies with a dead man? 

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written with devotion by Verona for @nocturniafm

AC thread tracker

✦ Lenore: 2/2

✦ Hiran: 2/2

[talesinrequiem]

yes, a blade would be good. no matter that she had a knight sworn to her. knights were weak in their devotion to people. bound by honor and rules of their own making or some order they pretend is more important than the people around them. morella could not understand many things about softness or enjoy the connection most of those around her did, but she did know this – for her sister the world would burn. she did not trust a knight to do the same.

“finally,” she murmured softly, before taking a large bite and finishing the meat handed to her, tearing it from the wooden skewer. but keeping the skewer itself. one could never have too many sharp objects in her opinion. waiting for ysolde to leave, morella chewed quietly, already scanning the market for options of dagger and quickly deciding that perhaps one she already had would be best. though, in her opinion, axes were still best.

“what brought this on?” she questioned quietly as her hand maiden walked ahead. “i agree you should have one, but i have been saying such for some time. why now?” it wouldn't do to hold suspicions over what her sister may be hiding from her. like a heart beat that needed to end.

[aenaos]

Lenore’s lips curved slightly as Morella added the skewer to her ever-growing collection of weaponry. Her sharp little magpie of a sister. She would have to pay a visit to the steward of Elaris Keep before they departed. It had become habit to ask whether any cutlery or other pointed implements had gone missing during their stay; Lenore was no stranger to exchanging coin in return for silence.

“Little dragon…” Stepping closer, Lenore brushed a stray lock out of her sister’s face, as unruly as she was. Her fingertips rested gently against Morella’s cheek for a moment. “I do not like to trouble you, but no lies will ever come between us. What I am about to tell you will, no doubt, send your blood racing. Please, do not heed its call until I have explained myself.” She dropped her hand, her gaze sliding toward the silhouette of her handmaid until a sea of fabric swallowed it. She waited a moment or two more; then her full attention returned to Morella. “I miscalculated and prodded another kind of dragon.”

Slowly, Lenore pulled down her collar, just enough to reveal a pale sliver of skin dappled with bruises. “My asset acted out against me. Some beasts only obey the rule of teeth. The lash more than the leash. When he snaps at me again, I will not be so merciful.” Her eyes remained on Morella, pale and blue like the deepest winter. “But I will never gain his obeisance if I send others to do my chastising.”

[prophcsy]

For once, beric did not answer immediately, his gaze remained fixed on her as she spoke, watching every layer peel away until there was very little left of the woman who so often hid behind wit and misdirection. he listened without interruption.,without rescue, without offering her an easier path back toward safety. when she finished, silence settled between them. “there you are,” the words came quietly but not triumphant, nor not cruel, simply certain. his gaze drifted briefly toward the city below before returning to her once more. “all this time you've insisted on turning everything into a game because games have rules,” a faint pause followed. “winners, losers, excuses,” the corner of his mouth curved faintly. “if things go poorly, you tell yourself none of it mattered.” slowly, beric stepped closer again, not enough to trap her, just enough that she could not pretend he was speaking to anyone else, “and now you're angry because i've refused to play by them.” his attention lingered on her face. on the hurt she was trying and failing to disguise, for the first time that evening there was no amusement in him at all.

“you say i treat you like a diversion,” his voice lowered, “lenore, if that were true, i would have never joined you on this balcony to begin with,” the words settled between them with dangerous honesty. “you speak of half measures as though i'm the one insisting on them. have you ever once asked anything of me?” a beat passed, “truly asked?” his gaze never left hers. “because you've spent months telling me what this isn't,” another step, “what it cannot be. what it should not be. what neither of us mean to one another.” his jaw tightened faintly before easing again. “and now you're standing here angry that i listened,” something sharpened beneath his calm, not quite anger but conviction. “if you want distance, i'll give it to you.” he said. “if you want friendship, you'll have it. if you want me gone, say the word and i'll walk away tonight,” silence stretched between them. “but if that's not what you want, then for once in your life stop hiding behind riddles and ask for it, ”his gaze held hers without unwavering, “ask.”

[aenaos]

His words undid her. She felt the fracture form slowly, take root inside her body, splinter by splinter, until the truth spilled from her. She had feared the pain, the raw ruin of it. Instead, an exquisite ache spread through her veins, like a hunger on the edge of being sated, hot and excruciating. She had not lost him yet. He had become something she feared losing. How sweet this felt. How awful. Without thought, Lenore stepped toward him, one hand rising, her palm splaying over that revered rhythm beneath his ribs. The warm solidity of him steadied her. The knowledge that he was here, still, despite her many cruelties. Her excuses. Her riddles. “You know.” The plea came out unguarded, fierce, unbridled. “You must know. No matter the many lies I have dressed as truths. Have I not returned to you, time and time again?” Her fingers tightened over his heart, then released, easing as though afraid to puncture it. “Are you not the only man who has ever touched me?” The truth continued to flow, a flood she could not stop, she herself unmoored and adrift in its wake. “Have I not been, unspeakably, irrevocably, yours in every way that matters?”

“Beric,” his name left her in a trembling breath. “My lies are many, but so are my truths, no matter whether or not you care about them. Because I think of you far more than I should. I look for you in every room I enter. I miss you in every quiet moment." Her eyes were clearer and bluer than they'd ever been. "Even when you are here, some part of me already does, knowing I will have to part from you, knowing I will try again to sever you from me, to escape you, all because I fear what I feel for you.” Her eyes closed briefly. “That you make me feel at all. But I cannot fight it any longer. In truth, do not wish to, for the cost is too high.” Her fingertips found his jaw, a feather-light touch, lingering. “Please.” She leaned her forehead against his, their breaths tangling, blending, becoming one, inseparable. “Keep me. Have me. Hold me. I am asking. Be mine.”

[prophcsy]

For a moment, seraphyna simply stared at him as the tears continued to fall silently down her face, but she no longer seemed aware of them. every word he spoke settled somewhere deep inside her chest, she had thought herself familiar with grief. thought she understood what it meant to lose something precious. the white oak had taught her that. but those wounds had been inflicted by cruelty, by fate, by forces beyond her control. this was different, this was hiran standing before her and choosing to leave. a faint shake moved through her as she lowered her gaze. she wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this could not possibly be for both their sakes when she felt as though she could scarcely breathe. but the words never came. they remained trapped somewhere behind the ache in her throat. because beneath all the confusion and heartbreak sat one terrible truth. he had already made his choice.

“it won't,” she whispered at last as her voice trembled despite every effort to steady it. slowly her eyes lifted back to him, “you keep saying it will pass, but it won't.” another tear slipped free, “i lost my home, i lost centuries of knowledge in a single night.” her throat tightened painfully. “and somehow this hurts more.” the admission left her feeling exposed and vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be before. for a moment she looked away toward the memorials surrounding them, toward the names carved into stone. anything to escape the sight of him looking at her with that awful gentleness. “i don't understand,” she admitted quietly. “perhaps one day i will. perhaps one day i'll understand why this had to happen. but today i don't.” her voice faltered. “today it just hurts, and you're the reason why it hurts.” something in her expression broke, because she had never wanted another world, she had wanted this one with him. slowly, reluctantly, she took a step back and it felt like tearing something from her own chest but she did it anyway. “i won't ask you to stay,” she said at last, though her voice nearly broke around the words. “because i love you enough to respect your choice.” for a moment she simply looked at him, memorizing him. mourning him while he still stood before her. “go on then, go.”

[aenaos]

He did not dare return her scrutiny. He did not need to. Even before their parting, her face had been forever enshrined in his memory. Forever precious. Forever revered. No sooner could he forget it than he could forget the sight of his homeland. The sound of her name. The scent of her body. The song of her voice. He would keep this, and no more. Already, he had stolen too many pieces of her, plundered from her so many treasures, things she had thought she had given freely, but had been taken from her under false oath. He had grasped her heart in the palm of his hand and had marred it with cruelty. He had taken her body in the midst of his lust and had soiled it with his touch. What he could return, he had, but he knew a crime could not be undone by the transgressor's regret. Instead, he would prove his love, the only way he knew how, by releasing her from her obligations to him and leaving her to seek a better life elsewhere, without him. He would salt the earth behind him and never let anything grow there again, for he would never love another. For without her, the man ceased to exist. He would die with their love, gasping, bleeding, and from this last and final sin, only the knight would return.

No more words left his lips. No more assurances or excuses. Leaving her with his silence would be his last gift. So he turned away. He walked. Step by step, he wrote his own ruin, the ending of a love that, for one brilliant moment, had seemed so enduring it might outlive the stars. But perhaps, those things most fleeting, most ephemeral, were made all the more beautiful because they ended at the pinnacle. A lie he would tell himself until the falsehood became truth. His spine held straight, his gait smooth, a lion in everything but name, voluntarily returning to his cage. With each heartbeat, her name pulsed like an open wound. Seraphyna. Seraphyna. Seraphyna. But he could not look back. She had told him to leave, and he, ever the supplicant to her desires, would obey. The grass swayed beneath his feet. A bird cawed far on high. The moon silvered the edges of the pool he passed, so very like her eyes. Hiran swallowed. Her eyes… A shuddering gasp. His body swayed, hands reaching for any support, finding only the cold stone of a person long perished. He hunched over, breath leaving him in long exhales as he fought the sorrow that threatened to drown him. His lungs burned with the effort. Hiran’s lips began to move, though later he could not remember what he had whispered. A lover’s prayer or a knight’s vow? Or perhaps still the chant of her name, over and over, like a dying man’s final gasp. The night held silent witness, enfolding him closely in a cool embrace, until he found the strength to move on. And leave behind his heart.

[prodigxlis]

Cian fidgeted, as if a boy again rather than the man that had so severely spoken but a moment ago. “Wait.” He called. Graced Lenore with a look of apology, a small bow of his head that promised further explanation later. But then he moved quickly—walked forward to Sheng, hand closing gently around the man’s forearm, leading him then further into the darkness beyond the balcony and into the candle-lit shade.

Cian let go as he disappeared into the entryway of what must be his personal rooms, and then returned with a box of ebony, upon it carved a ruby-eyed crane. It was long enough for it to seem unwieldy even when held in his long limbs, but he did not struggle with it, besides moving with a slight limp.

He came closer, until the box and a few breaths was the only space between them. His words started a murmur, only for Sheng to hear. “I prepared this gift for you.” Cian had commissioned it upon his return to Sheer Castle from his visit to Perrelor Keep, having turned the thought in his head quietly the entire ride on the way back. Their arguments had been no obstacle to its completion—if anything, Cian had wished to gift it before leaving Braxigar, only to find such a feat impossible to fulfill. The box had gone the distance with them to Heliophra, and then, had been stored in his room, unsure if it would ever meet the hands of the man to whom it had been meant to be for, unsure if he was dishonoring himself and his sorrow for caring about such a thing through it all still.

It was no delicate thing, but it felt brittle in Cian’s hands.

“Here. Take this.” It is shoved into Sheng’s arms gracelessly, as if it burned. “When you promised me, you—you did not know this is what it would come to. You couldn’t have, you must’ve thought me quite different indeed.” His smile was rueful, wistful, and for a moment Cian too, grieved, the image he must’ve been. But the truth of him was one that wielded a knife, ready to snap the thread he had slowly wound around Sheng upon his command. “So open it and find it wanting, or terrible for what it asks for, for what it means. Shatter it if you will—break it into pieces and remold it. Throw it into the seas. I will understand the meaning, and ask you for nothing. But otherwise—Otherwise,” Cian closed his eyes for a moment, and when they reopen, he seems haunted and lost and desperate, all brought into one. “I know myself enough.” Raw, voice wretched. “I will not allow you to go after this.”

Cian had spoken true. This bond would not break, not even through distance nor the passing of the ages that lay before them. It was bound into Cian’s soul. But the physicality of it, the way it was tangible rather than merely a sweet dream—Cian had been numbed by grief. It would perhaps be the only moment where the cut of the limb would not feel tantamount to death. The ghost of it would haunt him, and he would grasp at it in the night like a fleeting wisp, and he would let it turn all in his mouth to ash as the loss lingered among what seemed to be the firsts of many others and never the last. But Cian was already turning more alike a doll. Let him be human for one last time, then, and sever this bond while he was still made of flesh. Otherwise the growing steel of him would close around Sheng like a shackle, never knowing if the man would've ever freely chosen this rotten face of his.

@decthless

[decthless]

Do not turn from us, she coos too sweetly, and it feels tight as rope around the delicate skin of his throat; the scar tissue underneath raw and begging for more all at once. Is this the price of belonging? To lose oneself completely until no sliver of you is left? Is this the cure for loneliness? To abandon any solid ground beneath your feet? Is this what it feels to be loved? To see the glinting edge of a knife and hold it to your open chest, trusting it will not slice you to ribbons?

"Don't…" the slightest growl of a wounded animal erupts from him, warning, resentfulness, jealousy, madness; it swelled in his throat until he could not breathe. "Do not pretend this is anything other than what it is. Or that my words are ever what you came seeking when you came to me." there was no shortage of men whose words could shape into guidance for her, he is certain—she had not come for the man. They had never lied to each other before. Why start now? Was she scared? She did not seem to. Perhaps she should be.

The barely contained rage in the crimson of his eyes swirls violently, madness clashing against madness, spikes of delirium threatening to consume him as the ghost of paranoia whispered with his own voice in the shell of his ear: this is what your hands are for, this is what they have always been for; there are no dandelions to be plucked in a warm summer night, no tree to rest beneath its shadow, no wounded birds to be cradled between them; there is only this, war and death and blood. Have you not asked for this? Have you not begged for this? Have you not begged for this?

The long shadow of him outstretched through the walls like a monstrous thing, his eyes would not move from hers even as the boy carried him—his scowl carved out of wood, stern, rigid, his jaw was set, his brow was creased, and the dark whisper of his garments as he was pulled—as he was lead away by force, felt like the howling of a brewing storm preparing to tear through the stone and swallow the place whole. And then what would they do? Was to slaughter every councilmen, every greedy, seeking contestant, destroy the very foundations of this place so they saw reason?

If he stood still, it's because time stood still with him—this hard, immovable thing. Unflinching, and cold, and retreating into the dark corners of himself like a wounded wolf. He came back to him limping—his lamb—no, not a lamb, something else. Something he could not see. Did not want to see. The object lands awkwardly in his arms. Sheng catches it more out of instinct than intention, gaze dropping immediately to whatever burden Cian has thrust upon him now, holds it there, fingers tightening fractionally around its edges as his other hand latched to the side of his neck—sore muscles snapping, joints popping, as if something was trying to claw out. Cian, Cian… he occupied his every thought for so long. Had he? Was it him or the image of him fluttering in the back of his skull? Had he imagined him? Had he dreamed him up? Conjured the image of him in a feverish moment of despair and clung to tightly to realize? It seems he had. It seems he had.

Without saying anything, he opens the box—he does, and he finds the sword within as if he had already known what was there, waiting there, waiting for the shape of his arm to extend itself and be meld with it. Was this what this was? How foolish he had been, to think his hands could be sought for anything tender, to think they could hold or cradle or console; he had her own for that, daintier and softer, and smooth. How terribly hope he had been, to think they could serve any other purpose than this.There is no room for grief in this room, but he grieves nonetheless. "Is this what you want from me?" he smiles, but it is absent of joy. He does not wait for the unsatisfying answer to settle between them—there is no need. He knows his place, he has always known his place.

Very well, then, he thinks to himself. Very well. His hand move to cradle the head of the lost, desperate thing before him—but his fingers recoil before coming into contact with his skin. It was not solace he sought from him, not what he need it.

"You would place yourself upon this altar of your own making, and call it virtue. You'd delude yourself into thinking this is anything other than than what it is, and ask me to stand watch of your undoing?" the stretch of his mouth wants to be amused, and yet he cannot find the sentiment within, no matter how deeply he seeks. "Lenore!" he calls loudly, the thunderous clap of his voice wanting to summon her like a wraith into existence, like a demon you call to only when needed.

"Very well, Cian," he stripped his name of fondness, for once, but could not strip the fondness of his eyes, nor his touch as it clasped his shoulders. "I made a promise to your mother once—while she grieved day and night without end, while she wept over your unconscious body—I swore that you would return, and when you did, I would never let any harm come to you again. You should know, I intent to keep it… even if you hate it. Even if you hate me for it." he was a sin eater, a recipient hollowed, made to hold hatred and resentment within, so it would not bleed onto others; if that is what he needed, he would swallow his too. He pulled out the sword with a sharp, cutting sssshlink of metal slicing through the air, and gripped him harder—he was waiting for her to show. This was meant to the three of them; it had always been the three of them, he only didn't know it yet, had he?

"I will give you a chance, then," he brought the grip of the sword to the boy's hands, he gripped it tightly, covering it with his own, guiding it to his chest and pressing the weight of it into it. "You want this? More than anything? You want to be yielded? A knife in her hands? This is what things that are yielded do—let me teach you this final lesson, then," he should know, shouldn't he? "Go on. Prove it to me that you're serious about this. I'm giving you a chance—you won't get a second one." he leans close enough for the warmth of his breath to touch his lips, the determination of his grip unyielding. "Start with me," he's earned this much hadn't he? "Because if you don't—I will throw you over my shoulder and drag you out of here myself." his eyes swivel sideways, searching for the shape of her. "Lenore!" he barks. "Tell him. You know I mean it… so, tell him what to do."

@aenaos

[aenaos]

“I am here,” came a voice from the doorway. Lenore stepped into the room, parting the shadows that clustered there—where she had been concealed from view. For one usually so very still, she moved quicker than one might expect. A spill of red silk, sweeping across the stone, carried her to Sheng. Her hands moved swiftly, svelte fingers closing around the blade’s edge. More crimson now welled through her grasp, threading through her fingers, coating the steel, trickling to the floor in a slow rhythm. For a moment, everything grew silent, as if the room held its breath.

Then, Lenore shifted her gaze, sending Sheng a look that might have cleaved a lesser man in two. “And where exactly,” she said coolly, “would you take him? To another hollow, where no one will offer you succor nor shelter, or to Braxigar, where death lies dormant below the soil? Do you truly believe there is any corner on this earth where the end shall not find you?” Her fingers tightened around the cutting edge. More blood wept across the steel. “No. Instead, you would make him your murderer, and portray this as sacrifice instead of what it truly is—an escape. If you intend to leave, do it yourself. Face it. Own it. But do not pretend this is anything but the flight of a desperate man who would abandon the person he claims to love most, all the while framing him for his sin.”

Her attention turned to Cian for a heartbeat as she said, with merciless calm, “As for you, do not move. An inch.”

A beat, and her eyes flickered back to Sheng. “Did you suffer some sort of egotistical delusion that you were the only sword master left in this realm? As if a hired blade is not a dime a dozen? As if our lord here does not have hundreds of soldiers at his beck and call? Gifted or not?” Her voice cut close then, like a shard of ice. “Gifted or not, you are but a man. A mere man—but one whom I believed I could trust with the protection of all I hold dear. Hate me, blame me, curse my name. I care not. I will bear your contempt, and bear it gladly. But do not think for a moment that my faith comes so easily, or can be discarded on a whim. I will not let you.”

Lenore took a breath, anchoring herself inward, returning control to her voice. “Now, I need you both to drop this blade, and then take a step back, so we may discuss this civilly—preferably before I bleed out all over this lovely carpet.”

@prodigxlis

[prophcsy]

His gaze remained fixed on her face as the realization settled, watching it arrive piece by piece. whatever wound had opened behind her eyes had come from something else entirely, from the conclusion she had drawn for herself. the corner of his mouth lost what little amusement had been there before. his attention lingered on the brief pressure of her hands against his chest before they fell away. then on the strange stillness that followed. for the first time since climbing onto the balcony, silence stretched between them without either of them attempting to sharpen it into a weapon. “have i?” the question came quietly. his arm remained resting against the banister beside her, though the sense of confinement had disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. beric studied her for another moment, eyes tracing the carefully blank expression she wore now. there was something almost familiar about it, the sort of mask people reached for when they cared considerably more than they wished to admit. “i think you've mistaken me for someone interested in winning,” his voice remained even, absent of mockery. “that tends to be the problem with games. eventually people convince themselves there has to be a victor.”

beric's gaze shifted briefly toward the lantern lit city before settling on her once more. “you keep speaking as though this conversation was a hunt, or a contest,” his head tilted slightly. “i don't particularly care whether you've missed me. i don't care whether i occupy your thoughts. and i certainly don't care about proving that i do.” for the first time, something closer to honesty touched his expression. “if i wanted your attention, lenore, i would have it as you would have mine if you wanted it.” the observation settled between them without arrogance. “the mistake you're making is assuming indifference and possession are the only two choices available,” the corner of his mouth curved faintly, though there was little humor in it now. “perhaps i never intended to keep you,” a beat passed, “that doesn't mean i wanted to lose you either,” another beat, “though if your conclusion from all this is that i've somehow outplayed you,” he added, dry amusement finally returning to his voice, “then i fear you've learned very little from your exemplary teacher after all, little bird.”

[aenaos]

“Stop.” 

She wanted cruelty. She wanted him to sharpen his words, carve her open, and leave her as drained and as hollow as she felt. Instead, he offered her morsels and presented them as a feast. “Stop,” she sighed again. Her eyes closed briefly. “I tire of this charade. All of this mummery.” The look she finally graced him with lacked the sharpness, the wit, the cunning. The blue had edged into a pale reflection of itself. “This may not be a game or a contest, yet I always feel as if I am the one who is losing. Little pieces of me, one by one, delivered into your hands—and what do you do with them? Nothing.” She did not retreat, merely stepped out of reach, and turned, and looked into the deep black night, strewn with small lights like fading embers. “You say I’m yours, then treat me as a minor diversion at best. You say you do not want to lose me, and yet you explain to me all the ways in which you do not care to keep me.” The faintest curve touched her lips, there for but a moment. “Of how little you truly esteem me.”

She drifted closer to the banister, her fingertips finding the faint, time-worn grooves in the stone. Her silhouette, backlit by the rising moon, seemed only half-spun, not of this earth. “This is not a game,” she said quietly. “But there is no truth here either, on either of our parts. Pretense—and for what? We both know exactly what this is, and what it is not.” Her voice faltered, the first sign of anything beneath the cold porcelain. “It will never be more than a half-measure. A connection that lives in the spaces between two breaths, and only there. A thought not worth voicing.” Her face turned halfway towards him, angled in shadow and silver. “A glance, a moment, a brief lapse. Nothing more. Only a fool would believe otherwise. Rest assured, I will not repeat that mistake with you again.”

[springscngs]

"you speak as if i should be glad to remain ignorant." whatever ending she would allude to, whatever truth, amarei had every intention of facing it unflinchingly. for a suspended moment, she held lenore's gaze. her own narrowed, assessing, and at last, glimmering with something akin to dark amusement. a fragment of a thought skimmed across, transient, unexplored. when had she last wept? "do you think so little of my constitution?"

the future was all that was worth pursuing. she hummed, faintly, in agreement and brief contemplation. she would not allow her mind to linger upon efigenia's unhinging, not now. "i would find concern in your demeanour, were you to temper your observations for my comfort, after everything." amarei answered. "candour can be its own kindness."

conscious of being observed, she remained assured, finding a certain ease in being looked upon by lenore -- measured, but not diminished. seen. when the snap of her fan should have arrested attention, amarei's focus seemed to drift elsewhere, lost to sweet laughter as she levered herself onto one elbow. "i can assure you, neither i nor varyn would have bound ourselves to abstinence." she corrected, not bluntly, merely unadorned. "a marriage that is only a front, where carnal desires will inevitably be indulged elsewhere, requires transparent communication -- or it is set to invite scandal. communication has not exactly been our forte." a half-smile. "i am all the more relieved that we have found a language we are both proficient in, at last."

there was the vein of tenderness, still. to find it in varyn had been a heartening turn, indeed. "tender, to my own surprise." her smile lifted, albeit with a reluctance that suggested an undercurrent of something unspoken -- something she knew would not elude lenore. "i suppose i am pleased, yes." a breath, as she found lenore's gaze. a rudimentary lesson, but it was a lesson she had learned well: never avert your eyes. tell your truths and your lies in equal measure. "i am not accustomed to wearing happiness openly."

[aenaos]

“On the contrary.” Lenore met Amarei’s gaze, still yet attentive in that subtle way of hers. “I expect few things in this world would reduce you to tears, as I believe that while you feel deeply, you know very well when and how to show it.” The observation landed without weight, stripped of formal niceties, yet that in of itself was the kindness between them. A beat, and then her lips curved into something almost gentle. “Then I will continue offering them, and value yours in turn.”

Amarei's laughter rang like a bell once more, high and clear. The sound pulled at her attention the same way one might follow a trail of wildflowers across a meadow—not so much to pluck them as to appreciate the journey.

“A pragmatist through and through.” Lenore unfurled the fan again, slicing silently and swiftly through the air. “I have always wondered why people value such pleasures enough to risk what they've built,” she ruminated softly. “What it is we seek in one another. Warmth? Satisfaction? A more elusive reason? Why would the gods craft us seperately, and then condemn us to seek completion in another’s arms?” A glint of distant recollection flickered across her gaze, like a pebble skimming a pond, visible only for a fleeting moment. “And do any of us succeed?”

As stated, Amarei did not offer her sentiments without first carefully refining them into a design befitting her audience. Lenore held no illusions about her role as a spectator. On the contrary, she had always appreciated the craftsmanship more than the message—held a soft spot for careful truths shaped into elegant compositions.

And so, she would lend her ear. Lenore said nothing, merely tilted her head, eyes glinting above the fan.

She was listening.

[prophcsy]

The corner of beric's mouth moved faintly at that, not quite amusement. certainly but not surrender. “is that what you think?” his gaze remained fixed upon her as she spoke lingering on every carefully chosen word, every dismissal offered only after she had ensured he was listening. for someone supposedly bored lenore invested a remarkable amount of effort into proving it. his fingers released the curl slowly. “you mistake restraint for uncertainty.” the observation came quietly, the distance between them had already narrowed, now it vanished entirely. one step, then another, until the banister rested against her and there was nowhere left for the conversation to retreat. beric's gaze lowered briefly to the hand smoothing the front of his tunic before returning to her face, he could smell jasmine. feel the warmth of heliophra lingering in the night air around them. “you came here to play,” he echoed. “and yet you've spent this entire conversation trying to convince me you don't care who wins.”

his hand settled lightly against the stone railing beside her, trapping nothing and yet somehow making the space feel smaller all the same. “i've never understood why you insist on lying about the things you're worst at hiding.” for the first time his attention drifted from her eyes to the curve of her jaw, the line of her throat, then back again. “and as for my prey,” his voice lowered. “you've made the mistake of assuming capture was ever the goal.” before she could twist the conversation into another circle, beric leaned forward, nor to claim her lips. not enough to give her the victory of calling it romance. instead his mouth brushed briefly against the side of her neck, a fleeting touch that lingered only long enough to steal the next clever remark from her tongue. then he withdrew, his gaze settled on hers once more. “there.” the faintest trace of amusement appeared. “are you entertained now, little bird?”

[aenaos]

The realization came slowly, the way one does not always feel the blow at first, only the echo resounding through the ache that follows. This close, she could sense that familiar warmth she had come to recognize as uniquely his, his solid presence, his masculine scent. He hardly touched her. His lips skimmed the side of her neck, too brief to be called a kiss at all, and yet her pulse hummed beneath his mouth. Lenore stifled the gasp, her hands coming to rest against his chest, but only for a moment. Then the awareness sank in, and sank far deeper than expected, and her touch fell away.

“You’ve made the mistake of assuming capture was ever the goal.”

"You never meant it."

He had said it in so many words, and she, drunk on her own imagined power, had not listened. He had not missed her. Did not care if she missed him. Nor had he any intention of keeping her. Tonight he was not even playing, not truly. Instead, he indulged her, like some spoiled pet circling his lap. She should have felt freed at the thought. Instead, something sharp lodged within her. In that moment, she felt inexplicably very young and very foolish, and then she felt nothing at all. Lenore’s face did not change, devoid of color, blank to the point of unease. That, in itself, was the tell. Not composure. Not control. Absence. “Entertained,” she repeated quietly, without inflection. “No. No, I’m afraid not.” The light from below caught her profile, so still she seemed carved from the same pale stone that surrounded them. “As for lying…” A slow blink. “I lie far less than you would think.” A breath, her chest barely rising. “But you’re right, I lack your proficiency when it comes to these sorts of games.” Her gaze lowered, impassive, to the arm half-caging her against him, then drifted to the depths below, then finally to the unguarded skin of his throat. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek instead, her lips cool against his skin. “Thank you. You've been an exemplary teacher.”

[prophcsy]

For a moment seraphyna did not understand even the words reached her and she heard them. she understood every single one individually and yet together they refused to make sense. the lanterns blurred as she realized only distantly that tears had begun falling down her face, one after another. silent. steady. his fingers closed around her wrist and she let him move her hand away, not because she wanted to release him but because suddenly she could not seem to make her body obey her at all. the heaviness in her chest became something else, something sharp, something sickening. it stole the breath from her lungs. when he dropped her hand the absence felt physical, like a wound. seraphyna stared at him, at the bow, at the distance he had placed between them. at the stranger standing where the man she loved had been only moments before. her head moved slowly. once. twice. a silent denial. silver eyes remained fixed upon him as more tears spilled freely down her cheeks. “don't.” the word barely emerged, broken as she swallowed hard.

every sentence she attempted seemed to collapse somewhere behind her ribs, she wanted to tell him he was wrong, wanted to ask what duty demanded this. wanted to remind him of every promise they had made beneath moonlight and prayer and hope. wanted to ask why she had not been worth fighting for, instead she only stood there trembling her hands slowly curling into themselves. “please...” the word escaped before she could stop the, small, humiliating, honest. for the first time in her life seraphyna understood why grief drove people to their knees. the urge struck her so suddenly it frightened her, to beg. to bargain. to offer him anything if only he would take the words back, but she could not. she could barely breathe, “you don't mean that,” another tear slipped free, then another as her voice shook violently now. “you can't,” because the alternative was unbearable, because if he meant it, then every future she had quietly built around him had just died. and unlike the white oak, unlike the scrolls, unlike the home she had lost, there would be no ashes left to gather afterward, only emptiness. her gaze searched his face desperately, looking for something. anything. the man she loved or the warmth, or any sign of hesitation. “hiran...” his name broke apart on her tongue and for the first time since the white oak burned, seraphyna tethalune looked utterly helpless.

[aenaos]

His eyes darkened as he looked at her, as if all feeling had slowly bled from his body, drop by drop. If only he deserved such a mercy. If only he could cut out his own heart and deliver it to her, like an offering on an altar, then fall beside it and be done with it all. Instead, he drank in her anguish. Let the grief sink into his marrow like cold iron. He had never flinched away from pain, and hers he would be honored to carry like a scar. The sight of her tear-stained face would follow him into his exile away from her—that lonely wilderness his life would once again become, and rightly so. His fault. His penance. “Seraphyna.” His voice was almost gentle, the softest kind of cruelty as he smothered what had once lived between them. “There is nothing you can do. The fault is entirely mine.” He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still. “I truly thought—” His voice faltered slightly. “I thought it would be enough.”

She looked so small, so helpless. Behind his back, his fingers twitched. His entire body strained against the effort as he fought his limbs from reaching for her. It was unnatural; his every instinct screamed at him to hold her, to shield her from every hurt, dry her tears. His jaw clenched with the effort of keeping himself at bay, but this only made him seem sterner, sharper. The hollows beneath his eyes deepened; his mouth tightened into a thin line. “I feel your pain,” he continued. “But understand, I do this for both our sakes. Someday soon, all of this will feel like a distant memory.” The lie sat ill on his tongue. He had no doubt she would forget him, would perhaps even grow to hate him, but he would never be so blessed. Let him be cursed. Let him be haunted by the thought of his broken heart, so he would know what he fought for, so he would always carry some part of her with him—even if the only thing he would now hold was the shape of her absence. “It will pass.” His throat tightened, and he forced down a breath before adding, low and even, “I am not worth your tears.” He inclined his head again, finally breaking their gaze. His hair fell across his eyes, just enough to shield the slight spasm that crossed his face. When he looked up again, only discipline remained.

“Maybe in another world, in another life…” He shook his head. “But not this one.”

[prophcsy]

His gaze never left her, not when she spoke of blood, nor when she spoke of fools, nor even when she offered that careful lie and dressed it in enough truth to make it difficult to separate one from the other. for a moment, silence settled between them once more. the warm heliophrian wind stirred the loose fabric of his sleeves, carrying distant music from somewhere below. “no,” he said at last, voice low and even. “i don't think that's all you can do.” his attention lingered on her fingers where they tightened briefly against the stone before relaxing again. “in fact, i suspect you're capable of considerably more than most people realize.” there was no flattery in the observation, if anything it sounded like recognition. then came the rest, the wanting, the pining, the insult. beric allowed every possibility to hang between them without rushing to catch a single one.

for the first time, something faintly thoughtful crossed his expression. “maybe,” the word arrived calmly. “though if that was your attempt at convincing me you've spent the last month longing dramatically from a mountain window, i fear you'll have to work harder.” the corner of his mouth curved slightly. “i've always found you capable of more convincing lies than that.” his gaze followed her as she turned away, dismissing him as though she had not spent the last several minutes doing the exact opposite. “you think i'm asking the wrong question,” a small pause followed as he stepped closer. hunter to his prey. “i don't particularly care whether you missed me, lenore.” quieter now as his hand lifted to coil a curl on his finger. “because for someone who insists none of this matters, you spend an awful lot of time trying to convince me otherwise.”

[aenaos]

Lenore seemed to have developed a habit of starting games she could not win. How many times had she tried to string him up, only for him to entrap her instead? She let the silence stretch between them, half-noose, half-chain, while she smiled faintly, her eyes devoid of mirth. “You flatter me.” Lifting her head slightly, she took a deep breath, registering the barest trace of honeysuckle in the air, cloying and sweet in the cool night. In the distance, the music lingered on a single trembling chord. “Whether or not I am capable of more, the true question is whether I will.” Her voice was its own hushed melody, a silver bell. “Instead, I am here, speaking with you in circles again, and gaining little that is of use to me.” From her periphery, she watched his eyes cloud. They were still the deepest blue she had ever seen. Lenore wanted to lean in, to read his thoughts, to unspool him, to learn him. Why could she never tell what he was thinking? Perhaps if she finally could, she would grow tired of him, and then this affliction would cease.

More words. He curled a lock around his finger, and she let him. Something inside her coiled in answer, cold and dangerous. “The image does not appeal to you? What a pity.” She met his eyes and did not blink. “I made the lie pretty, just for you. Of course, I should have known better.” Her finger traced the edge of the banister, discovering the invisible grooves worn by time into the stone. “You like raw truths you can cut your teeth on.” She let the words settle before continuing. “You know what amuses me most about you, wolf? How you seem to enjoy the hunt, and yet, once you seemingly have captured your prey, you do not seem quite to know what to do with it.” Her hand lifted then, smoothing a wrinkle from his tunic with a feather-light touch. “I did not come here to convince you. I came here to play.” A soft sigh left her lips, scented faintly like jasmine. “But you have bored me.”

[prophcsy]

The words struck harder than they should have. for a moment seraphyna simply stared at him because love was not something hiran had ever spoken of like this. not like a farewell, or like a eulogy spoken over something not yet dead. the heaviness in her chest deepened, grew even. his voice carried grief where warmth should have been and suddenly she hated it, hated the distance in it. hated the careful way he looked at her as though she were already becoming a memory. when he stepped away, instinct moved faster than thought. “no.” the word left her softly, breathlessly, as panic began to settle in. her hand caught the sleeve of his tunic before he could put more distance between them. for perhaps the first time since he had arrived, composure slipped. silver eyes searched his face desperately now, glossed with something dangerously close to tears. “hiran, stop.”

her grip tightened only slightly. as though she feared letting go would somehow allow him to disappear entirely. “what are you talking about?” the question came quieter this time, less patient and more frightened. because some terrible part of her already knew this conversation was no longer about promises, or hope, or philosophy. it was about them and she did not understand why. “why are you speaking to me as though something has already happened?” her voice faltered despite herself. “as though you've already decided something and i'm the last person being told.” the lantern light flickered across her features, illuminating the growing distress she could no longer entirely hide. her chest felt tight, every answer he gave seemed only to create more questions. seraphyna shook her head once. “you're frightening me.” the admission emerged barely above a whisper, honest in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. her gaze never left his. “please.” the word caught painfully in her throat. “tell me what you mean.”

[aenaos]

Stop, she said. Pleaded. He could not. Because he was the one who had done this, he who had sworn her only the greatest happiness, and yet had already brought her such sorrow that she had been reduced to weeping at a single phrase. The sound of it carved into him, a quiet, unbearable thing. Something inside him hardened all the same, a final, desperate defense rising up against her so he would not collapse at her feet. If he let even a shred of feeling in now, he knew he would never leave. He would stay with her forever, surrender entirely, and continue to taint her with his unworthy hands until their love blackened like overripe fruit and fell, spoiled beyond saving. She would either come to despise him once she realized his failings, or she would perish because of them, and then the world would truly burn, for he would be the one to set the pyre. So instead, for her, for the realm, for his oath, he would kill his heart. Murder their love. Once, he would have crawled through glass to reach her, died a thousand deaths to hold her hand. Now he would suffer her parting instead, sever himself from her, and suffer the gaping wound of her absence.

He carefully took her wrist, as though it might shatter, as though he might, removing her touch from his sleeve. “Seraphyna, it’s over.” The words fell from his mouth like sulfur, a confession phrased as penance. “I cannot be with you.” Quickly, almost reflexively, Hiran dropped her hand, as if her touch itself were poison. “It was unfair of me to promise you my heart, when in truth it was never mine to give.” His eyes lifted to her, smothered, deadened, devoid of feeling. “I made a mistake and made you suffer for it.” His words came out neatly, almost courteous, as if he had rehearsed them for many nights. “I thought I could be both man and knight, but I forgot myself, my duty, and I cannot betray my name.” He bowed then, deeply, formally. “I cannot ask for your forgiveness,” he whispered, the slightest fracture in his voice, “but I hope one day you will come to understand.”

[insatiabilitics]

𝖜𝖍𝖔: efigenia velwyrn && OPEN [capping at 5] 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊: a balcony within elaris keep 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖓: within 48hrs of hollows/houses arriving

.✦ ݁˖ ⸻ Efigenia sat precariously close to the edge of the balcony's precipice. It felt as though if she leaned far enough, she could spill out over the side and the stars would carry her afloat, their essence burning brightly, starkly, madly, within the evening sky. She'd barely spent her time in Heliophra, the golden sands and ivory pillars the complete antithesis to the grayscale of her home within Drakathar. One of her pets was perched upon her knee, the beetle chittering into the quiet buzz of the night. She had tossed everything to the wayside by throwing her name into the battle for Chosen - a losing battle - but one she fought madly to entertain. Her sister had chosen a life within Vexmarsh, a deliberate act of silence against Efigenia for all her recklessness. She was ruling lady of the house and though she had opened the door for Amarei to walk away, a means of refuge against Graveholt, the silence screamed louder than ever before.

Though she heard the other approach, she did not address them directly, speaking to the beetle which was one of the only one's left within the empty embrace of Graveholt; it made sense she would not leave them behind in her journey to Elaris Keep.

" Who will be next to fall ? " Cooed to the creature perched on her leg, her eyes finally wandered to the one who joined her on the balcony. " Who joins the Lady of Sheer Castle in her sacrifice ? " An inappropriate laugh escaped her for if Efigenia was to meet the hands of death before her name was offered vengeance then all would be for naught.

[aenaos]

Lenore drifted closer. The hem of her dress whispered against the stone as she moved. Her sleeves hung silently at her sides, hiding her fingers, a wingspan held close to her body. She cocked her head, features blank, devoid of color.

The story would go thus: Lady Efigenia Velwyrn, moon-drunk, maddened, had leapt into the air. Naturally, she had laughed the entire way down. Lenore could almost see it, how for a moment, caught within the spill of her dark skirts, she would become a thing of flight and beauty, hair caught in the wind like ink in water, before the night grasped at her ankles and pulled her into the abyss.

She stepped closer. Her hand lifted, only to find the balcony’s edge instead. “The slaughter is yet to start, Lady Velwyrn. First come the rites.” Lenore stepped beside her, crossing her arms upon the banister. “All sacrifice must be accompanied by ceremony,” she added softly, almost like a lullaby sung to a maddened child. “Else it is only butchery.” She took note of the small creature cradled in the woman’s lap, spoken to like a nursed babe. Fascinating. Such a tangled mind she seemed to have tonight, so ripe for the plucking. “You seem most devoted.”

[prodigxlis]

Cian had shut himself in a birdcage of his own making—golden gilded crystal windows, tall and open to the night sky; distance, from the world outside. A necessity due to his own brittleness, waiting for the craftsmanship of Lenore’s hands to fill the cracks of him with her stalwart silver. But now, here is a man that could break past those walls and shatter him with nothing but a whisper. Cian had gifted him that power as if it were nothing but a common flower, after all, and had done so with glad hands.

Sheng had never been one that Cian had ever feared, not until now. And so the soft words are an absolution, one that he is slow to trust—not due to the man’s own faults, but his own desperate desire for them making him doubt it being so easily got. It is the touch that breaks through the madness. Cian does not stand, but rather turns his head and allows himself to burrow into the safety of Sheng’s arms. He hides there, breathes him in, lets the comfort of it drown him enough until the dam within him overflows and snaps. Cian does not shake nor sob, but his eyes well up with practiced silence, leaving tear-tracks over Sheng’s heart.

He is peeled raw in front of Lenore. That, in itself, is more soothing than their shared quietude had been. If she were to find him wanting now, it would be for the whole of him. There would be no ambiguity to hide behind, and no more to give.

If the world was kinder, he could hide in that safety forever, and yet, it is not. Still, he lingers as he looks up, meeting Sheng’s crimson eyes with his bloody own. “There is nothing to forgive.” Rather than to cut, Sheng had come to mend. This is a bond that Cian would not allow to break.

Already he had prepared himself to cross the boundary and had been interrupted mid-step. Now, they would both be witness. Cian stands—leaving both their affections behind as he walks further into the balcony, now with the background of the nearby stars. “My father has refused to see me.” A pause. “And all I've got are news, twisted as they have passed through countless hands. I am ignorant to what he plans, and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out. When I took to the title of Council Lord, I did so believing that I would turn what is considered a weakness within Braxigar into a strength without. Let my meekness match theirs, so that they would find me an equal, and finally understand.” He turns to them. His voice breaks at the admittance that follows. “I was wrong.”

Weakness, it had remained. No longer. Cian’s gaze hardens.“I am no old fool, set in my ways out of pride and stubbornness. If this method does not work, then I must find another. These killers have furthered their reach, and now they tear into our flesh and render us into nothing. They’ve lit a pyre which they wish to use to drown us in the darkness it casts; for our foes dwell in the shadows, speak in whispers, linger in the walls—but so do you.” He steps forward, towards her. “Lenore.”It had always been her. Cian would learn to walk with the wind of the storm that would follow her. “They have tipped the scales in their favor through blood and fear. Let my weight be the one that brings the balance.”

He bows, deep and supplicant. “Let me be your hands in the light.”

@decthless

[decthless]

The sorrow of him ravages him, silent and stifled against his sternum where it should be deafening, where it should pour like a diluvium and wreck the very foundations of the keep; still he ushers him into the safe confinements of him, into the space he had cleaved open inside his chest for him to inhabit, into cage he had made of himself for shield him from the mindless, hungry teeth of the world too eager to clamp around anything tender and soft. He holds his hair like some tether—cheek brushing against his tremble, fingertips aching, winding the brown curls of his in a quiet, soothing grip. He wanted to take his heart in his hands, hide it away from the rest world like gold.

There's nothing to forgive.

Wasn't there? He had failed, he realizes now, as he watches his body grow cold and his posture rigid. Not the boy he loved—but the vestiges of something he had failed to keep safe. That was always the point, wasn't it? Of every compromise, every cruelty, every stain upon his conscience—he had endured them with grace, bowing his head for every lash feasted on nothing but darkness for years—it would all be worth it if people like him, if he should never have to carry such burdens. But now he asks to be a scythe, asks to be yielded. Will that hand reap life too? Will it cast others into damnation? Will it stain red with sins he cannot wash away?

He wants to warn him: once you cross over, there are things in the darkness that can keep your heart from ever feeling the light again.

But he would not heed his warning, would he?

He watches Cian slip away from him little by little, gone, drifting, and he knows he has failed, in every way there was to fail. He lets go, fingers curling reflexively at his side, old scars pull taut beneath pale skin. He is a night that raves and moans, restless, uneasy, filled with dread—the loss of purpose leaves him without aim, floating in the emptiness of himself. He says nothing more, not a word, not a sound, and the way his hand falls feels final, an unspoken relinquishing hope as he surrendered to his own quietude, his head turns from her, from him, a final act of resignation.

The moon paints him in melancholy's image, perched high in the skies, and like Cian, entirely out of his reach; the pale ghost of his face full of woe, absent of mirth. His heart bleeding, aching, pinned to his throat. He can taste bile, in his head a pounding of a drum, and his rage—his rage will not slumber, but it feels deflated as his shoulders curl inward, spine wilted with defeat, his mouth was a smear of seeping sadness. It seemed to invade every part of him, down to his very marrow. He mourns him like wolves mourn their own, standing over their bloodied caress, howling in grief. Where was he when their innocence was torn asunder?

I am ignorant to what he plans, he says. and neither do I have the luxury to wait for him to deign to let us find out.

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of the sentiment. Did he not know? How could he not know? He could tell him now.

He'd scorch the earth searching for what he lost. And if he could not find it, he'd scorch it all the same, for daring to deny him. He would have done the same, he almost had. A man driven mad with grief, a man willing to burn the world down for the one person they care about—that's a man he could understand.

He is smiling—but it's a beast's baring teeth, soulless, quiet footsteps leading him to a deserted corner of the opposing side of where the shadows could cloak him in their familiar embrace. He leans there, without speaking, hunched, where bloody eyes can wander off into the darkness, hands gripping at the railing. For the first time he feels tired, alone. That crippling, aching loneliness that had crawled into him during his years of isolation crawls back to him, reminding him it never left. How could he forget it? The dry, sharp exhale is almost laugh, dead too soon, a chill against the warm weather as the wind rustles with the inky blackness of his hair.

@aenaos

[aenaos]

He approached, her lamb with carmine slaughter in his eyes, the blood-cost that would now surely follow in their wake, for no good intentions ever came without sacrifice. But he was right about one thing. His hands would remain as pristine as the day he first came into this world, screaming into an endless night, lungs bellowing the promise of survival. That would be his role, his oath: the man who dipped the world into baptismal waters and, willing or not, would bring on rebirth, no matter the pains of growing, the ache of that first gasp into new tomorrows. For he had sacrifice writ inside the script of his veins, a prodigal prince in everything but name, and she would be his inkwell, his quill, to tell the tale of him until they both lay buried beneath the same banner, if it ever came to such tragic endings. She would carry the stain, the blot, sully her good name to keep his rejoiced on others’ lips. For he’d seen her. He’d chosen her, just as surely as she had chosen him. All along, she’d thought herself the servant, but here he was, lowering himself before her. He would lower himself in the dust for her sake, if need be, and that is why she would elevate him from the rabble. Because of all those born to grander names, only he understood that nobility came with obligation, would lash his flesh for the good of them all.

Lenore said nothing, an effigy carved from ivory and slashed with blood, the maroon of her dress pooling at his feet like a spreading stain. She took his hand, larger in hers, etched with calluses, yet handled with a reverence reserved for sacred vessels. She pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “My lord.” Her eyes lifted, silvered in the night. “My crown.” A step closer. Her other hand reached out to briefly caress the line of his jaw. “We shall serve each other, and with it all of Nocturnia.” She loved him, she knew then. A pure sort of love, that of one kindred heart to another, bound in a purpose larger than themselves. As a brother, as a king, as a destiny. “I will be the shadow to your light, your knife in the dark.” Her voice did not raise. Her words carried no excess. Only certainty.

Lenore held his eyes for a moment, as serene as a spill of moonlight. “The work will be heavy, we may yet suffer greatly in our pursuit, and there will be no reward at the end.” She continued, voice steady. “No laurel wreaths, no songs of victory, no praise nor thanks. We will not deserve such graces, Cian. We will need to make ourselves undeserving, do you understand? Once we do this, the world that comes to pass… it may well be that there will be no place for us there.” She did not speak for Cian’s sake then, but for another’s. Her monster had turned to stone, a memorial monolith, a cenotaph. She watched the sepulcher of his form, the weight engraved into his bones in the form of their names. While they had chosen their path, he had been dragged into its depths. Her warning came as close to an apology as she would ever give.

Love was the death of duty, so the common saying went. But Sheng’s love had become his death, and now he would be resurrected unto duty. Cian had been the knife sliding between his ribs, and Lenore the hand that had held him down during it all. And so, she stepped towards him, carefully, the way one tried not to spook an animal in the process of succumbing to his wounds. “Sheng.” Her voice was a soft cruelty. “Do not turn from us.” Her hand, gently beckoning. “Please, come here. Speak.” Perhaps she was wrong, she reflected. Perhaps Sheng himself was the rib, parted from them, their third, to be hewn into a better shape. She could do that for him. For them all.

@prodigxlis

[talesinrequiem]

even in darkness, the heat of the still permeated everything in heliophra. something that had her yearning for him. it wasn’t the only time she had thought such in the little time they had been in the hollow. but this wasn’t necessarily a new feeling. everywhere they traveled as of late, left her wanting. wanting to be with vryn, in the wild. free. no care in the world but their own survival. as taste of blood on her tongue. viscera on her hands.

but…

she walked shortly behind her sister through the market. quietly keeping an eye on her and ysolde as she often did most days. a loss of someone high in the chain of hollows danced across her mind. with her sister’s plans there were enemies that could not be seen. morella would not allow her sister to be caught unawares. even with her dedication in this mission, she was tempted by the vendor as well. perhaps she could not be hunting on her own or with her preferred partner… she could certainly enjoy a bounty from another with the right coin.

sharps eyes watched lenore pay for three skewers. three. a soft sound danced in her chest that wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear when frozen eyes met their match in morella’s. for a moment, she feigned indifference for a beat. soon her feet carried her close to her sister, reaching for her hand that held the skewer meant for her.

“thank you sister.” she murmured in a silent sort of happiness. spice meat was always delicious. no matter the area they travelled. one saving grace really. taking a bite, she chewed quietly, allowing her eyes to dart between the other in nora’s hand and her sister’s eyes. expectantly she waited for her elder to also take a bite before she took a second…

[aenaos]

Lenore took a small bite, the meat so tender it seemed to dissolve upon her tongue. She did not often indulge in such visceral pleasures, yet her sister, blood of her bone, seemed wont to draw out these small excesses. They had been less shaped by girlhood than forged into their respective armors, one of silk and one of steel; and yet, beneath the iron in their mouths, the taste of youth still lingered. For instance: Lenore’s favored honey cakes, neatly sliced into six, passed between them in equal measure. They would chew in tandem, ensuring not a single crumb went undivided. Every bounty was savored in slow indulgence. It was not their habit to hurry—not when the sisters possessed the self-control of those thrice their age. Not with Lenore’s quick tongue and Morella’s quicker feet. They had been born into a world they knew to be dying, and so took from it no more than it granted—only what they might coax from it themselves, through patient, steady hands, like the wind that carved through mountain stone.

Taking another bite, her teeth closing neatly around the fat without spilling a drop, Lenore chewed in thought. She swallowed, then said, “I thought I should buy a blade.” She spoke as one might remark upon the choosing of a ribbon. “Your expertise would be most appreciated. Ysolde?” Her handmaid stepped closer, deep brown eyes quiet, attentive. “Perhaps you might go on ahead and continue our other shopping?”

[moonvcils]

it was strange, to not leave his quarters in search of the kaelvorn heir and have to consider his every move. to not look over his shoulder and ensure there was no one following, or paying attention too closely. if there was any positive to the truth being exposed regarding their relationship, it was that he no longer had to move with paranoia. and it seemed the same could be said for their staff. when he sought out lenore at the kaelvorn lodging, one of her attendants did not bother to hide where she had snuck off to.

when he approached the pond, varyn couldn't help but feel for a moment like he was back at vexmarsh. near the uncharacteristically warm waters that surrounded his home. at her invitation, varyn did not hesitate to sit down and dip his fingers into the pond. it was refreshing in this heat. something he had grown used to experiencing when he visited heliophra in the past. specifically that of crowreach. "you know i can never turn you down, lenore." he said, looking towards the woman he had grown to think of as not only an ally, but a friend. "and it's not just because you terrify me," he joked, with a laugh. knowing her well enough, knowing how she was often steps ahead of the rest, he only asked, "what are your thoughts?"

[aenaos]

“That is because you’ve always known what’s in your best interests, Varyn,” Lenore replied lightly, the soft tenor of her voice woven with the barest trace of mirth. Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers with languid observation, his posture bearing a comfort he had not usually worn in her presence. Another change among many, something to be folded away for later recollection. For a moment, she said nothing, lifting one foot slightly out of the water and watching liquid beads of moonlight glide down the slope of her ankle.

Finally, her gaze shifted, misted with thought. “I have been considering how best to move forward.” Each word was slow and measured. “I need not state the obvious. Vaelor Malaric on the throne could potentially cause us further trouble, for we still cannot tell where he stands, and I doubt he will share his confidence with you anytime soon, despite your cordial connection.” Her voice lowered. “A crown-wearer’s wife may hold no title of her own, but she does hold his heart and ear.” Her attention returned to the water then, as if she might read the future in its mirror, or at least glean her friend-turned-enemy's thoughts. “Did you know your sister-in-law-to-be would apply? If you did not, that is no fault of yours, but it would give me cause for concern.” Her eyes lifted again. “The intentions of your marriage were to unite your houses, after all—to stand as one against those who might act against you.”

[prophcsy]

For the first time, something closer to genuine amusement touched beric's expression, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “how reassuring.” his gaze lingered on her as she spoke, settling for a moment on the faint curve of her smile before drifting back toward the lanterns below. “i'd hate to think i had inspired cowardice.” the reply came calmly, absent of any real concern for the threat itself. at the mention of the council, however, his attention returned fully to her. he listened, allowing the words to settle between them. “perhaps.” he did not dismiss the observation, nor did he entirely agree with it. “though people spend so much time studying the throne that they forget to watch the ones circling it.” a small pause followed, thoughtful. his gaze drifted briefly toward the garden below before returning to her once more. “you included.” there was no accusation in the words. if anything, they sounded almost curious. as though he had noticed something and was waiting to see whether she would notice it too.

beric's eyes narrowed faintly, not in irritation, but in consideration, as though he were examining something from a different angle now. “missed you?” he repeated, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “i don't recall saying that.” the wind shifted between them, carrying distant music from somewhere far below. for a moment he said nothing, only held her gaze with that same patient attentiveness. “though i find it interesting that your mind arrived there before mine did.” his head tilted slightly. “did you want me to miss you, little bird?” the question settled between them, lingering longer than it should have. not because he expected an answer, but because he wanted to watch what she did with it. his gaze remained steady upon hers, unhurried, predatory in the way wolves often appeared most dangerous when standing perfectly still. “or have i misunderstood?” quieter now, though no less deliberate. “because for someone who claims not to care for crowns, councils, or the people chasing either, you seem remarkably interested in where my attention rests.”

[aenaos]

Lenore grew still. Beric had phrased his observation with idle curiosity, but she knew better than to trust his calm. She knew exactly the sharpness that lingered beneath, had more than once needled it to the surface, played with it, courted it despite her better instincts. She did not hide her face, keeping her eyes on his, the blue edging into something deeper, less the ice of winter and more the mist rolling through the mountains—fleeting and unknowable. “Blood has been shed in pursuit of that throne.” Her chin inclined by a fraction. “All our lives forever changed by the event, no matter if we think ourselves above it.” For the first time in months, she remembered the warm, sticky liquid painting her skin, the wet slice of the knife, the Chosen’s bodies strewn like discarded offal. “Only a fool would avert their eye now, at this pivotal moment. So yes, I am watching carefully.” A beat, then the lie, phrased like an afterthought: “It’s all I can do.”

Her fingers tightened against the stone for a moment, but only a moment. Then a soft laugh escaped her, light, airy. “That’s not an answer, Beric,” Lenore began, eerily feeling as if she were treading darker waters, trying her best not to let the depths take her, even as she knew she chose the plunge. He would not master her. “Maybe I did,” she continued softly, her voice like watered silk. “Maybe I wanted you sick with want.” Her eyes met his, unblinking, while she leaned in just enough to close the distance without bridging the gap completely, as if the wolf’s teeth were of no concern to her. “Maybe I’m insulted by how you did not come to see me, after all you said to me in Vallarion.” Her breath wove between them. “Maybe I pined for you myself, all alone in those distant mountains.” A moment passed, and then she turned away with deliberate dismissal. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Please. You can do better than that."

[prophcsy]

Seraphyna fell silent. for a moment, only the lantern light moved between them, flickering softly across pale stone and memorial faces carved into eternity. her gaze followed his briefly toward the statues before returning to him once more. whatever answer she had expected, it had not been this. the crease between her brows deepened faintly. she could feel the fracture beneath his words now. not the shape of it. not yet. but enough to know it was there. “neither is a simple thing,” she answered quietly. her voice carried no judgment. only thought. for a moment she lowered her eyes, considering the question with the same care she might have given a prayer. “but i think breaking one's word is the greater sin.” the admission came softly, without hesitation.

when her gaze lifted again, it settled fully upon him. “hope is not a kindness we should fear giving.” a small pause followed. the warm breeze stirred loose strands of silver hair across her shoulder. “sometimes promises cannot be kept through no fault of our own. sometimes circumstances change. sometimes fate is cruel.” there was something sad in that. something born from recent months. from scrolls reduced to ash. from homes lost overnight. from names now carved into stone around them. “but to abandon a promise before it is tested...” her voice softened further. “to decide for someone else that hope is not worth having...” seraphyna shook her head gently. “i do not think i could call that mercy, but cowardice draped in silk.” her gaze lingered on him with concern. searching. “if i gave someone my word, hiran, i would rather fail trying to keep it than surrender it before the day arrived.” a small silence settled between them.

[aenaos]

Each word was another arrowpoint delved deep into his flesh. Fate. Abandonment. Cowardice. Once more, she proved herself the better between the two of them. By all rights, the balm of her voice should have salved his fears instead of pulling at the fragile stitching that kept his composure together. “I know you would, Sera. You would never turn from a promise, no matter how much it might cost you to keep it.” His eyes remained on the hollow faces of the long-dead. His mind lingered on the dusted remains of all he'd once worshipped. “It is why I love you.” Warmth should have touched his voice, the carnelian of his eyes, as it had so often in her presence. Instead, his voice spoke as if grieving, and his gaze held the hue of cooled amber. “Even now, with what the world has taken from you, you hold onto hope. Your faith remains strong.” Nothing would break her spirit, he knew, not even him. She would endure. She would survive. She would come out stronger.

At last, he turned his face toward her, a careful mask replacing the man she knew. Beneath it, his heart slammed against his ribs in a manic rhythm. The realization descended like a hammer’s blow. He was a man of empty vows, a knight made of tin, who would choose a woman over his world, even if it burned—let alone that she might burn with it. He had coveted. He had taken what could never have belonged to him, for it was not for him to want such things, especially not her—she who was more precious to him than the stars and moon. His hand reached out again, his thumb stroking her cheek once. Selfishly, he would steal this last moment and safeguard it forevermore. A moment that lived on a single breath, the most precious one he would ever take. Then he stepped away. “I truly am sorry.”