ππππ: 25th of Maccius
πππππ: The Summer Palace
ππππππ: Closed, @iseultrayne
With zero leads and a mind devoid of any rhyme or reason regarding the explosion that had played out in the streets of Val Faim, the Chevalier finds himself returning to his chambers at the Palace at the end of one of his patrols. He wishes β hopes β that either Adraste or Medraut have had better luck, though he doubts it, not because theyβre not capable but because the city seems to be closing itself further and further right in front of Rothβs eyes. Roth wanders the halls of the Palace as if waiting for the universe β in all its grandeur and chaos β to give him something.
And something, the universe gives him, though itβs not what he wished for.Β
That something is the glimpse of a pair of eyes across the Palaceβs entrance, through the figures of the many Courtiers that had come for one reason or the other. Empty, devoid of any emotion, there is a familiarity that runs down Rothβs spine and, at the same time, his chest tightens and the back of his mind lights up at the attempt to place those dark eyes. Before he can think about it, though, his feet start following the unknown personβs steps and itβs only when they turn again and the Chevalier catches another glimpse of their eyes through the holes of the mask that his memory comes back to life.Β
Anger roars inside of him, burning him from the inside out. A memory, long buried, resurfaces and Roth canβt help but close his hand into a tight fist, wanting what heβs longed for right there and then. Now he knows where he recognises those eyes from. Now he knows what heβs promised Estelle as she bled out in his arms.
Roth follows, predator and prey, and he canβt see nor hear anything else as he follows the assassin through the crowded room and onto more deserted halls. Questions run through his mind as, step after step, he finds himself walking further away from the crowd and closer to the person that had taken Estelle away from him. What was an assassin doing in the Palace? How did they get through the guards and made themselves seem so comfortable wandering the halls that are not meant for those like them?
As soon as he finds himself and his target virtually alone in a hallway, Roth makes a move. A low growl escapes him as he reaches for the assassin and with one hand he reaches for the dagger on his right side and the other he uses to turn the assassin around, pressing his forearm against his chest. Then, as quick as lightning, his blade, along his own shielded forearm, is pressed against the otherβs neck, about to break the skin and draw blood. Roth wants it to draw blood, blinded by a rage he swears he never felt before not even when stabbed by Cassian.Β
βHere to kill someone, assassin?β He speaks through gritted teeth; thereβs no doubt in his mind his recent run-in with Cassian has somewhat contributed to everything inside his chest thatβs threatening to swallow him whole at that moment. Anger at himself or anyone else, he doesnβt know. But, right there and then, itβs fury he feels towards the faceless assassin.Β βTake everything away from another person?β Just like he had taken Estelle away from him, a would-be new family with a woman his young heart had deeply loved.
It bears remembering that the last time Iseult had encountered Roth, they were two very different people. A young chevalier and inexperienced assassin did not a fair match make, but they'd managed, the two of them. In fact, they'd barely faced off at all. It was more a thing of passing shipsβ Roth not privy to the terrible deed Rayne had done until it was already in stone. It wasn't all as it seemed, of course. Rayne had been sent for the noble Estelle, as one in a line of many young underworlders champing at the bit for a chance. Rayne had been the youngling awarded the contract (awarded, was the term. As if rot could be reward)β and they'd, to put it carefully, made a butchery of it. It was a time when Rayne could still count their kills on one hand and their clean ones on half as much. It was a time before they'd had the luxury of keeping their own code to their kills. A time before their skill paved the way to their acclaim, and their will the way to their effect.
Shaky handed, a mere rookie, they'd been compromised before they'd had the chance to aim true. To make it quick, make it as painless as they'd come to master. So they'd left this mark bleeding out. Had made off just as Roth came careening around the corner. Had heard how he screamed his anguish well enough to store the notes to memory. To hear it again, then, in the voice that splintered at them, now. To taste, as fresh as if it were yesterday, the regret that'd always glazed that job.
When Roth cornered them, they were ready. All down that hallway they'd been ready. Live and breathe the underworld long enough and being followed is something you feel in the bones, in the blood. Halfway down the hall's length they'd chanced a glance into one of the gleaming shields mounting the wall. Had gauged the shape of their pursuer in its reflection and prepared themself.
The chevalier's forearm connects with the assassin's chest. Iseult's shoulders find the wall. But as Roth's blade skims their neck, threatening, Iseult's turns up one of their own in the same fleeting moment. Where they find his daggerβs edge at their throat, Roth will find theirs at his ribs. Aimed careful, true, to a mark that'd spell an end just as quick. A stalemate made fast.
"Couldn't be farther, actually," Iseult drawls in careful reply. Tilting the mask enough to affix him with that stare. "You'll find I'm in the market of preservation, for the moment." Their eyes roll from his hand, down to their own. "And that weΒ may be in the market for a truce. Cut, and I cut. Cut, and the empress finds her hound has ruined her hallway, and in no honorable act at that. Cut, and you fall just the same." Yet you'll stay down, is the detail Iseult omits. "βAnd for what measure of justice? I may be your thorn, chevalier, but I was never the root. Do you understand?"