K E I R

Strigoi ༒︎ Bard ༒︎ Mercenary

[keirmorozov]

THE OBSERVER

BIOGRAPHY | SKELETON | PINTEREST | MOODBOARDS | WANTED

[fractured-artemisia]

“Any insult is certainly blunted by your genteel choice of words,” was Artemisia’s response. His words were those of insults, but she doubted his intention was as such; not because of the good humor that was present, but because she doubted he had developed enough of an investment in her to put forth the effort to truly wound her. She followed him easily, shoulders at ease and her head often turned to gaze upon one feature of the home after another. 

Artemisia noticed the scents, recognized them. Silently, she wondered what work Keir dedicated himself to within these walls–other than striking unlikely deals for unfortunate wretches like herself. She refrained from asking. She possessed no small suspicion that she would learn more about the bard from observation than she ever might by asking outright. These observations were as much her tools as poisonous blooms and tinctures, even if they were not the ones that had gifted her with a sort of infamy.

She was still as he faced her, her eyes set upon him. If he did not mean to intimidate her, then she would not cow like some begging dog. It was beneath her, and she doubted he was the type to gain any satisfaction from it on top of that. “And what reaps your trust, Lord Morozov?” she questioned, but he held her jaw between his fingers a moment later, rendering her silent. Her blood pulsed only slightly faster beneath her skin, palpable to his heightened senses–alert, attentive, but not necessarily fearful. He might sense the manner in which the ghost of his breath woke her nerves, lighting up the same synapsis in her brain that a prey animal possessed, though she neither fawned nor fled. 

As he released her, she barely moved a fraction of an inch. “Am I to use it in privacy, or will you remain as an audience?” she questioned, lifting a brow. His speech had, of course, been impactful. But they were already on the same page.

[keirmorozov]

"Trust is a fool's currency," Keir answered, stepping back to reclaim some distance. He'd learned this early. Trust had cost him men, allies, lovers... in Lysara, it was the first thing bartered and the last thing returned. He'd seen it sold for gold, traded for safety, and shattered for ambition. Even among his own at the Harmonium, the language of loyalty was written in deceit. The bard preferred contracts over vows and yet, standing before Artemisia, he felt the old, irritating flicker of wanting to believe in someone.

The echo of her pulse hummed beneath his fingers as he turned, enough to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't meet people who spoke to him like this often. Fewer still who made him pause before walking away.

"There will be someone waiting outside shortly," he countered, tone smoothing into its usual cadence. "She'll bring you fresh clothes and see you to your quarters once they're prepared." Candlelight caught the planes of Artemisia's face, highlighting a sharpness that'd survived captivity and humiliation. He could hear her blood coursing beneath the grime, and it stirred something in him that felt dangerously close to hunger.

The week's absence pressed in on him: the long, cold negotiations in the lower courts, the stale scent of others' fear. He hadn't fed properly in days. "Rest while you can. We've an early start ahead." Something in him tightened, an uninvited flicker of concern. Ridiculous, really. She'd survived far worse than a night in his home. "Try not to burn the place down,” he said over his shoulder as he retreated.

Keir exhaled as the bathroom door clicked shut. He should've kept moving, yet the soft splash of water made him hesitate. He'd ignored her question, but in truth, his imagination was far more indulgent than his eye.

[fractured-artemisia]

Artemisia did not shrink or stray from her gaze upon Keir, even as his eyes narrowed and reflected the flicker of the various sconces and braziers around the property. When he began to respond, she tilted her head slightly and postured herself squarely with him to indicate her full, undivided attention. “Then this will be an advantageous partnership for the both of us, won’t it?” she posited, wholly satisfied with his assurance. 

She stepped inside, two sets of echoing footsteps and the padding of large paws filling the space with a newfound harmony. She suspected the windows would be a vision in the morning with true sun filtering through the soldered shards of dyed glass. But the moonlight reflected upon them with its own certain charm–she had suspicions on Keir’s lineage, and wondered silently if she might become more acquainted with the beams of the moon rather than the rays of the sun in time. 

“It seems the novelty of your lovely entry way has lost its luster with dear Valentjin,” Artemisia observed. “I intend to appreciate it in equal measure as it deserves. As will the rest of Melody Hall I presume.” Homes such as this did not merely come together without forethought and design–and countless hours of craftsmanship.

“Allow me to assure you, I am a worthwhile investment and not a gamble,” she responded to his comment on his lack of preparation. She was keen enough to understand by the lack of furnished quarters that he had approached the idea of her patronage with a mind not yet made up. Artemisia despised disappointing others, and further abhorred personal failure. “First you make your hesitation plain and then you, albeit very politely, insinuate I am odious to you.” She had certainly seen better days than the condition she was in now, on the other side of her imprisonment. “Lead the way, then.”

[keirmorozov]

"I'm nothing if not polite," Keir said, a low laugh escaping before he could stifle it. The sound surprised even him. He gestured for Artemisia to follow, turning sharply on his heel. They crossed the atrium, their footsteps swallowed by its vastness. As they climbed the staircase, the scent of old paper and candle wax thickened—an aroma that clung to every inch of the north wing. He breathed it in, cherishing its familiarity. As a boy, all pale limbs and quiet despair, Keir's only refuge was in the orphanage's library. The others swore he haunted it, a ghost among the shelves.

Upstairs, portraits watched from their gilded frames and rows of burgundy curtains muffled the world outside. Keir's expression stayed composed as he slowed before an arched doorway. "It's just through here," he said, fingers reaching for the brass handle. A shadow of thought crossed his face, gone before he turned to face her.

"In Eterna, you must know that truth carries little weight. It's not who you are that matters, but what others believe when they look at you. You could wear a crown and still be treated as a commoner if they decide that's what you are." He swung open the door and the scent of jasmine oil enveloped them. "Our work here will depend on illusion. To strike unseen, you must first be believed harmless. To kill without question, you must be trusted."

His fingers found her chin, guiding her face upward until the candlelight caught her eyes. Even shrouded in dirt and grime, Artemisia was beautiful. Beauty, he suspected, was her least dangerous trait. "So I don’t need your assurances," he whispered, his breath brushing her skin. "I need you adaptable. Besides," his thumb grazed her jaw, "do I look like a man who gambles?"

Keir released her and stepped aside. "Please, use what you need."

[keirmorozov]

WANTED CONNECTIONS ༒︎ The Progeny

[keirmorozov]

who: @moon-hwa where: keir's home when: a while back

Keir plucked a scrap of lace from the balustrade. When Moon had come to stay at his manor, tucked in Eterna's forest-dense northwest, they'd wreaked havoc through its halls. The memory of her pressed against him in the same cloth, her breath ragged as he let go of the control he prided himself on, was a reminder of how easily desire could suffocate a man's reason.

Weeks passed, and Moon's games grew bolder, leaving him to prowl the wreckage of his home. She delighted in pushing his every boundary; and he, to his own fault, had allowed it. Now, as he stood amid the chaos left behind, the Maestro felt a faint flicker of regret. Not for what they’d done, but for the focus and peace it'd cost him.

Keir tucked the panties into his pocket, weariness flashing across his features. A trial awaited in Lórien’dal and his shadows whispered that the accused could serve his cause. If the intel proved true, he couldn't afford to bring an asset back to Melody Hall only for Moon to tear them to pieces.

Light poured through the glass dome above the atrium, scattering purple and gold across the marble floor as Keir descended the stairs and paused at its centre.

"Moon-Hwa!"

[fractured-artemisia]

Artemisia easily predicted the promise of Keir’s word. She would wait until such an oat was put to the test to decide whether or not she believed him. Many had made pacts with her before, often in exchange for her lethal tinctures. All had kept their word except for one. Artemisia moved through the world with an understanding of the importance of discretion and pledges. However, she now knew better than to solidify such dealings in words alone. All of this in mind coupled with the graveness and directness Keir had placed the salvation of his contract before her rather than the noose, she suspected Keir was true to his word. Artemisia was wordless as she tore her eyes from the handsome view of the manor and studied the glint in his eyes. She said nothing more on the matter. 

“You have hired me for a skillset I already possess and utilize,” she reminded him. She was no street urchin he took pity on, no uncut gem. She was a master of her deadly craft and her discovery had been due to the failure of two tempestuous, spoiled heirs, not due to the hesitation of her own hand. “Risk and I are old friends.” 

She had expected a paw, but the coarse fur of Valentjin’s muzzle was a suitable alternative. A thin, adoring smile slipped from Artemisia’s otherwise trained stony expression. Perhaps Valentjin was not as well diversely trained as she had initially expected, but it appeared the pair were fast friends. Training the wolf-dog to shake, roll over, and anything else that pleased Artemisia would likely prove to be a worthwhile pastime between their shared master’s need to call upon her for services. Her nails–which she could scarcely wait to purge the dirt and grime from the nailbeds of and polish with some lovely hue–scratched under Valentjin’s chin as they became fast friends. 

“We all have our flaws, don’t we?” she asked Valentjin in an adoring voice, dismissing Keir’s light criticism.  Artemisia floated up the stairs behind Keir, such ornate entry ways and grandiose estates not entirely new to her. She knew how to pass through these places, though her role in years past had been to float from the hand of one rich noble to the next to charm them for whatever advantage they might bleed out for her or her sisters. “What a boon not to be led through the servants quarters,” she said lightly, though the keen look she gave him was one that asked an important question she did not bother to veil: Would it be prudent not to get used to such treatment, or shall we share this hall pretending to be equals?

[keirmorozov]

Her quip stilled him. Keir's black eyes narrowed, shadows catching in their depths. As though he'd heard the question behind her words, he answered without hesitation. "Allow me to be clear. Within these walls, you walk as my equal." For all the wealth carved into the stone, the Maestro had never forgotten his own meagre beginnings—broken and tormented, made to feel less than before he'd even learned to speak. Such memories had long hardened him, but he refused to let anyone in his employ endure the same cruelty.

Keir turned and pressed his hands against the oak doors. They yielded with a groan, revealing the heart of Melody Hall. Moonlight spilled across a vast atrium from stained glass above. Divinities gazed down from the frescoed ceiling, their painted forms stirring. Marble stretched beneath their feet in pale, polished veins, and columns clad in hand-chiseled ivy framed the octagonal room—a deliberate echo of the greenery outside. At its centre, a sweeping staircase climbed toward the gallery, its balustrade gleaming like onyx. For the first time in days, a measure of calm seeped into the vampire's frame. This was his dominion and it continued to hold firm against the chaos outside.

"Welcome," he nodded, motioning for Artemisia to enter. Valentjin padded past them with a huff, his large claws clicking against the floor. Stifling a laugh, Keir's hand dropped to the beast's head in a practiced scratch, though his thoughts travelled elsewhere… a room hadn't been prepared for her.

When he'd left for Lóren’dal, Keir hadn't been sure the Abelen trial would sway him. Nor whether she'd agree to stand at his side after the fact. "It seems I've been caught unprepared," he said, a faint curl at the edge of his mouth. "Indulge me a short while to remedy that. Until then, you may make use of my bath. Consider it an act of mercy for the both of us."

[fantasyblr]

BEN BARNES as THE DARKLING SHADOW AND BONE 1.07

[fractured-artemisia]

The journey might have been improved by a weighty novel, Artemisia thought in silence. Keir, though not unpleasant, did not seem up to the task of being a conversationalist and at several intervals she thought he might nod off at any moment. Of course, he didn’t. But she could not help but wonder if he suffered a similar anxious boredom under the metronome of hoof falls and creaking wheels. Most of the villages they passed could be synonymous with the next, few features distinguishing one from the next until the minute details accumulated into entirely new scenery. It was much better than the inside of a cell. 

“And what is the name of this home?” Artemisia questioned, gathering herself. She could only assume an esteemed bard and master of the Game had an estate with a name that matched rank with their station. 

She appreciated the ivy as she peered out the carriage window. To Artemisia, ivy was something that bloomed with a marked sort of permanence. Stability. The only thing stable in her life for some time had been her own resourcefulness and ruthlessness. While her situation was far from ideal, she hoped the ivy was symbolic of a beneficial shift in fate. “I suppose it must if I am to assist you with your blackest of business ventures,” she stated aloud before looking at him directly again. “So I will trust and insist this house keep me safe. And that you will, too, as the head of it.” 

With careful footing, she followed him out of the carriage, pausing as she set foot on solid ground once more. She watched the rather enormous canine vault from the front of the manor and in their general direction. Its lack of raised hackles and the absence of bared teeth informed her that Valentjin was not one of the woodland creatures she ought to fear, but rather one that was domesticated, meant to be a companion, and dangerous only when provoked. How lucky to find a kindred spirit in this manner so quickly. She assumed the great wolf-dog was trained as she held out a thin, pale hand, expectant that a paw would be offered to shake. “You might have cut a better deal with me had you sent him to negotiate our treaty rather than representing yourself, you know.”

[keirmorozov]

"You have my word," Keir replied, pausing to watch her take in the manor as though she might divine his secrets from the ivy and stone. His tone was light, but there was a flash of something more in his eyes. He'd always protected what was his, and Artemisia was an asset now, whether she liked the term or not.

"But," he went on, his voice dipping lower, "I'd be lying if I promised you safety without condition. My work isn't gentle, and those who move against me are rarely courteous. The walls will shield you, yes, but they can't protect you from what it means to live this life. There's risk here, Artemisia."

Valentjin's paws thudded against the earth, the creature's hulking frame a blur of grey and cream in the dim light as he bounded towards them. The wolf-dog circled once, brushing past Keir's coat before approaching Artemisia with an inquisitive nose. When she held out her hand, Keir watched with interest as Valentjin sniffed it, then placed his massive head in her palm as though accepting a silent pact.

Keir allowed himself a quiet huff of amusement. He prided himself on his judge of character, but this display only confirmed his first impression. It was reason enough to wade into Elvhen law. "I don't doubt it, but not before redecorating the carriage floor. Best to leave the diplomacy to me, unless you like to travel with the scent of vomit."

Keir took the stairs with the ease of someone long accustomed to this place, pausing at the landing so she could take it all in. Valentjin padded beside him, silent but watchful of his master. "Welcome to Melody Hall." Named in honour of the Grand Maestro of the Harmonium, Keir couldn’t help but smile at the thought of his mentor.

[fractured-artemisia]

Artemisia had been reared on stories of strigoi and dhampir, and of other members of the undead. They were tales that spoke of inflated abilities, unyielding influence, and impossible strength. This, paired with the gravitas with which Keir carried himself, suggested to her that the lord carried either the status of the Harmonium or influence within the game. She had met enough of the type and too often they posited themselves as the figureheads of some sort of salvation. She turned the finely lacquered fountain pen over in her hand pretending to examine it to disguise her disappointment that her life had once again led her to reliance as such a uniquely resourced man.

The sound of footfall in the hallway garnered her attention, too. She maintained Keir’s gaze, committing his instruction to memory, including in the insinuated and you speak to no one. Artemisia had little desire to speak to such ilk as the guards and sentries that oversaw the prison, though a slight hint of entertainment colored her features as he mentioned the rat. “Perhaps we can send one of your shadowy corvids to apologize on my behalf,” she proposed flippantly as she took her place behind him–two paces. 

By the time the door swung open and the light was cast upon the pair within the chamber, Artemisia had assumed her role. Her eyes averted, her tongue fell silent, and she assumed her status as Keir’s shadow for the time being–two paces behind, compliant, attached. Her footsteps mirrored his as he instructed, but she did not miss the silent attention that fell upon the writing instrument she held. Later, in whatever sort of bedchambers Keir chose to set aside from her she would examine the pen further, but now was not the time to bask in the correctness of her suspicions. 

“Let’s not sell the skin before we’ve caught the bear,” Artemisia half-chided two paces from his back. The words were quiet, meant solely for his ears, and not devoid of gratitude or mirth. But there was much more to learn. The carriage would be a key starting point, and she examined the outside for any visual clues that might nod toward her new benefactor and whatever fate he had in store for her. Within the carriage Artemisia was amenable to allow the first few miles to pass in silence, and twice as willing to allow Keir to be the first to speak. To the Faiman, waiting to see what he deemed important enough to break the silence would glean insight into what he upheld as vital.

[keirmorozov]

The carriage waited, its dark wood polished to a sheen, the door engraved with an inverted fleur-de-lis. The driver inclined his head without a word, clearly expecting the pair. "Wise words." Keir nodded, extending his hand to the Faiman as if she were a visiting dignitary, not a fugitive, before stepping in after her.

As they departed Lórien'dal, Keir's gaze fixed on the shifting tapestry of Lysara beyond the carriage window. Trots over level ground alternated with slow trudges uphill and then careful shuffles down. They passed through villages washed in pale blue, crossed crumbling bridges, and watched the hillside turn flaming yellow under the setting sun. He could feel Artemisia measuring him, weighing a silence punctuated by the jingle of harness bells. Keir reclined against the leather, eyes half-shut, and let it stretch for as long as the road permitted. He hadn't fed in days, preoccupied with arranging her escape, and weariness had begun to creep in.

When the strigoi spoke at last, light bloomed between the distant trees. "Welcome home," Keir said softly. The horses slowed as they turned beneath an arching gate of wrought iron. A manor stood beyond it, its stone façade half-swallowed by ivy. Lamps burned in the windows, while thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys into the bruised sky.

Gravel crunched as they rolled to a stop in the courtyard. "Please trust that this house will keep you safe," he gestured. The line was almost perfunctory, yet as he studied Artemisia's profile, he wondered how it struck her ears. It'd be convenient if she believed his assurance, that the vine-strangled walls of his house could stand between her and the madness unravelling in Eterna. They both knew safety was a fool's promise, but for as long as she remained in his employment, he'd do his best to uphold it.

"Do be mindful of the woods. Dangerous creatures lurk there." A howl erupted, and before the carriage door had fully swung open, a massive wolf-dog came bounding down the stairs. "Artemisia, may I introduce you to Valentijn?"

[truthfulbelladona]

“Life does not revolve around work, does it?” Belladona teases him, knowing that neither of them believe her words nor the sentiment they espouse. She does not allow many to truly know her, but even a peripheral acquaintance with her character demonstrates altogether too easily that her work dictates her actions more often than not. Any deeper prying would demonstrate that her life is consumed by her work, but that is a level of knowledge of her person that she has not allowed many to be aware of. 

Keir, as pleasurable of a company that he is, is not among the few that are aware how truly and deeply workaholic she can be. So she plays the game, pretends she is not nearly as addicted to her work as she is, and shrugs playfully as she drinks more of her wine. 

“He had been imprisoned for far too long, forced to live a life beneath him,” Belladona says, primly and vaguely. She is aware of whom he is referring, but the walls have ears, and this is not her establishment. “Did you?”

[keirmorozov]

Belladona's jest about life beyond work rang hollow in his ears, but he didn't challenge her on it. Keir recognised obsession all too well. They were both bound to their causes, whether they admitted it or not.

The strigoi leaned back in his chair, letting the din of the club swirl around him. His indulgent mask was only ever that: a mask. The weight of Valerius' name, albeit unspoken, settled heavy in his chest. Panic bred chaos, and chaos gave fertile ground for dissent. He'd already heard whispers spreading through the courts, the merchants' halls, the slums: if one such as Valerius Noctis could escape, what else would the Tower fail to contain?

Keir let none of that turmoil reach his expression. Instead, his gaze slid back to her. "Did I? No. One man's freedom, however deserved, can unravel a dozen accords. Every ruling family, every Magistrate, every whore with ambition will question Lysara's security now. A realm runs on perception, not truth."

[fractured-artemisia]

She was pleased with the ease at which he agreed. Details were important, but these were to be this man’s marks, not her own. It was better that she knew as little as possible. Artemisia was not a pitying or merciful person, but certain circumstances could lead her to producing a tincture less lethal than it ought to be to leave a target’s fate to chance, or to craft a poison that drew out suffering when an immediate end was what was demanded. Though she was not a merciful creature, she could make up for the lack of virtue in spades in cruelty, and she was not an infallible creature. 

“How kind. You really shouldn’t have troubled yourself on my account,” she leveraged back at him, casual as the oldest of friends making small talk over tea. Artemisia did not waver from the gaze, though she did wait for a pen to be placed in her hand. “How exciting–to be sought after by you and to be chased by them. Doom does seem to make one popular.” 

The woman chewed the inside of her cheek as she read the name he scrawled on the parchment. Keir, or Lord Morozov? She supposed the pair would need to make a decision on the matter later given his polite insistence on urgency. The pen, when she took it from him, was as cold as it would have been if she plucked it from the desk rather than from the hand of a living, warm-blooded signer. This realization flickered on her features for a moment, but she wasted little time before she committed her name to the contract. 

“What would your contribution to that conversation be?” she asked, almost entertained as she capped the fountain pen and held it back for him. “Are you sure we don’t have time for me to pack my things? I’ve grown rather attached to a crust of moldy bread and one rat in particular back in my cell.” Gallows humor was much more preferable than the gallows themselves. It was also a suitable distraction from the fact that she knew she had signed her life to a contract that she would not know the full extent of until she was placed directly at the crossroad of fulfilling it. But that was for another time.

She stood finally, a brow lifted as she waited for further instruction. Keir seemed confident they would be in the clear walking out in broad daylight the way he spoke.

[keirmorozov]

Keir's brows lifted a fraction, as though he found the prospect of being interrogated faintly amusing. "They'll question themselves before they question me," he assured, his black eyes fixed on his new ward. "Keep the pen."

The steps outside grew heavier. Keir straightened, slipping into the posture of a man with nothing to conceal. His gaze flicked briefly to the door, then returned to the faiman. "You'll walk two paces behind me," he instructed quietly, as if addressing a pupil at the Harmonium. After pulling his gloves back on, he folded the contract with surgical precision and tucked it into the inner lining of his coat. "I'd say your rat will forgive you."

One hand brushed against the latch, easing the door open into the dimly lit corridor. The guard rounded the corner. His lantern swung low, its light catching on Artemisia's face. For a heartbeat his expression tensed, recognition flickering. The strigoi didn't slow, didn't even incline his head. Authority radiated from his bearing as he walked forward, the kind that required neither introduction nor explanation.

The young man's eyes dipped to the pen. A Maestro's pen. The kind reserved for the College's highest ranks, its lacquer gleaming unmistakably in the soft glow. The tension bled from his frame. He stepped aside without a word, head lowering in deference. Whatever he thought he saw, he chose to believe it was his error, not theirs. Court business. Too high for him to question.

"See? A little faith is all it takes," Keir murmured, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. He didn't look back. By the east gate, a carriage would be waiting; if the guards continued to keep their distance, they'd be home before dusk.

[moon-hwa]

As the curtains closed around them, she arched a brow - leave it to a bard to engage in such theatrics. The booth still wasn't as private as she normally preferred, but it would do - for now. She watched as he slowly sunk to the floor, like an animal about to prowl for prey. "For all your acting prowess, you're doing a poor job pretending you didn't miss me." His hands were already all over her, a fact she wanted to poke further fun of. She certainly would have, if she didn't know him well - if she didn't know that every touch was deliberate, purposeful. Her skin, already flushed from the alcohol in her veins, turned to searing underneath his lips. Part of her, warm and relaxed from the wine, wanted to sink back against the velvet cushions and let him have his way, but the other part of her enjoyed foiling plans far too much. It was practically her favorite past time.

"If you've thoughts of teasing me, I regret to inform you Queen's have little tolerance for such frivolity." Moon raised a foot, planting the sharp heel of her shoe onto Keir's chest. She pressed - not too hard, but just enough to hurt slightly - and to keep him from moving any higher up her other leg. There was a glint of metal underneath her dress, the movement revealing a dagger strapped to her thigh. It'd been coated in holy water, of course, for only the ignorant would waltz into a den of vampires improperly armed. She knew Keir was dangerous - in more ways than one - but that only made him more magnetic.

She gazed down upon him, "Plus, you've wined me, but you haven't dined me. I arrived with the quite the appetite, you know." Perhaps it was bold of her to speak hunger as a living being amongst the blood-thirsty dead, but he'd be wise to satiate her first, if she demanded it. If only she was forthcoming as to what she craved.

[keirmorozov]

"You wound me," Keir murmured, his voice low, as though her stiletto could pierce pride before flesh. "You've crossed oceans to find stimulating company, yet here you are, measuring my worth in dinner courses." His eyes flicked to the dagger, lingering not on the blade but the way the strap hugged her thigh. He leaned forward just enough that the heel dug harder into him. "You know, it works better if you get close enough to use it."

He didn't remove Moon's foot; the power play pleased him. Instead, his hands traced a slow, knowing path along her calf, a cartographer mapping familiar territory. Keir's smile lingered, but the sharpness in his gaze softened into something more considerate. Food. Not the Veil of Veins' finest offering, and they both knew it. Here, appetites were sated in other ways.

"I suppose," he said, his tone conceding, "that I've been remiss in my hosting." The strigoi shifted, letting her heel slide from his chest as he rose in one smooth motion, never breaking eye contact. When he stood, the height difference returned to his advantage. Like a gentleman, he offered his hand. "Come. There'll be something for you upstairs in the Bazaar."

[fractured-artemisia]

“I’m not certain I would go that far,” Artemisia mumbled, her eyes still studying the text scrawled upon the page. “They’re certainly fond of their diatribes.” She abandoned the parchment and looked back to the man. She appreciated that he bent to her request. Playing games of cat and mouse and dancing around the truth would accomplish little to nothing. She was glad he saw it that way as well. He might have been able to hear the slight elevation of her heart rate as he agreed to state things as they were, anticipation gripping her rather than any sort of excitement. 

Neither of those things were true: her hands were stained down to the bone and magistrates were not famous for their sense of mercy. It did not surprise her that he claimed he was as compromised as she was, though he did not elaborate if he wore the same shades of sins as she did. It didn’t matter–if she was meant to know, she would learn. And she was hardly in a predicament to judge him.  

Artemisia listened to his conditions and would not venture to speak what she thought: this was a better deal for her than it was for him. It likely didn’t need pointing out. Her breath caught for a moment–not resources to look after herself, but her sisters. Artemisia knew this would be making the best of a bad deal, and making out like the cat who got the cream at that. Even so, she had one preference she would vocalize.

“I have one condition,” she stated, meeting Keir’s eye with no sense of diffidence. “When you call for me, no questions. Your order is enough–I don’t want or require the comfort of moral platitudes or context. Name, place, manner. Nothing more.” She didn’t want to know–if this was to be her vocation, it was better to complete it as cleanly and straight forwardly as possible.

[keirmorozov]

Keir made it his business to know everything about his targets. What they feared in the dark. What made them weep. Their lovers, their grudges, their debts. Once he accepted a contract, he compiled a dossier so exact that he could often predict their final words. The strigoi preferred to work alone, for precision’s sake, but there'd been exceptions over the decades—only so many doors yielded to charm, rank, or disguise.

So Artemisia's condition? It was more than agreeable.

"No questions," Keir agreed, nodding once. His hands remained at his sides, but there was an undercurrent in his stance now, as if he'd stepped from the role of observer into something more dangerous. "Good thing I had your execution cancelled before we started our conversation," he said plainly, as though commenting on the weather. A faint curve ghosted his mouth as their eyes locked. His reflected the certainty of man who rarely gambled and lost.

He let that hang for a beat before continuing. "The magistrates are difficult bastards. Getting the annulment meant leaning on debts they’d rather forget." His gaze slid toward the corridor, before settling back on the Faiman. "But if a guard asks the wrong question, or one of the scribes wakes with a conscience, we'll lose our head start."

His hand brushed the contract on the table, turning it towards himself. "Regardless, it won’t be long before someone questions your absence from the death ledger." He reached into his coat and withdrew a fountain pen. No formal introduction had passed between them; the act of signing his full name was less formality than an intentional disclosure.

Slowly, he rotated the parchment back to her. Beyond the door, the muffled step of a patrol drew nearer. "Either we leave for Eterna right away, or you can explain to the next guard why you’re signing this instead of a confession."

[perioddramasource]

[fractured-artemisia]

The man was right–it wasn’t the crowd that moved Artemisia, it was the theater of death they demanded. They saw justice as something swift, punitive, and permanent. While she was not eager for the humiliation of the death match to the blade, it did at least promise a quick end to it all. Then there would be nothing the crowd could do to her. He seemed confident that the angry crowd, those who judged her, and those associated with her victims would be none the wiser to her disappearance. Artemisia suspected they would demand someone bleed for their idea of justice. She assumed he had a plan to make certain they were long gone before they were discovered to be missing in the first place. 

By accident, yes, but not her own. Artemisia had been painstakingly clear about the dosage required. The snivelling, impatient, and inattentive noble siblings who had botched their own coup were the source of the revelation. The Faiman herself had not been half as clumsy, except perhaps in her placing any faith in their abilities. “What type of man are you?” she asked as she met his eye. “And here you are, neither justifying nor explaining,” she muttered, averting her gaze only to pull the parchment from the table toward herself. Her eyes scanned the verbiage and she found little upon it except the disappearing of her name from further public record and a signing over of patronage. “I hold much better conversation than half of those employed at brothels,” she mumbled, returning the paper back to the center of the desk. She looked at Keir again and understood his meaning.

“Shall we stop pretending there is a reasonable alternative to me taking the olive branch you’re extending?” she suggested. They both knew her back was against the wall, but only she knew how deep the stakes ran of accepting her death. “It's all very polite, but I would prefer you name your requirements of me and your conditions plainly. What do you have to lose for doing so? The word of a murderer means nothing to the magistrates, and I’ll likely be dead before I have an opportunity to find one who would listen even if I don't have a taste for what you have on offer.”

[keirmorozov]

"They're not exactly there for the dialogue, are they?" Keir teased, noting the subtle shift in Artemisia's posture as she returned the parchment. He didn't answer her questions right away. There was a reason no one spoke of the Maestro's second life. Whispers may have drifted through the Harmonium's halls over the decades, but none had teeth. Not a soul alive could say, with proof or certainty, what he truly was.

"You're right," he said at last. The sudden acquiescence was so out of place, it unsettled the room. "Let’s speak plainly, then." Keir returned to the hearth. With his back turned, he rolled up his starched sleeves and held his palms to the flames, as if the antechamber's chill had any effect on him.

"You're alive because I prefer you that way. Not because the magistrates found mercy, or because your hands are clean." In a land where death controlled the narrative of empires, Keir was its quietest author. He'd never breathed a word of his work to anyone. Not to allies. Not to lovers. Now, against every instinct, he was about to recite a single line of his own story.

"Neither are mine."

He turned, gesturing vaguely at the contract before continuing. "That document doesn't pardon you. It buries you. Artemisia dies today—legally and without ceremony. What happens after happens under my seal. The terms are straightforward. You vanish when I say vanish. You surface where I plant you. No messes. No unexpected loyalties. When you kill again, and I will ask you to, you'll do so with renewed purpose."

Keir approached her, each step measured, giving her time to consider the olive branch in its entirety. "In return, I will ensure you have ample resources to care for your own."

[fractured-artemisia]

One could stumble upon the room where the pair held an audience with one another and intuit which of the two held the upper hand based on body language alone. Artemisia might have minded, but she knew this was a circumstance in which pretending she had any leverage whatsoever would merely further showcase that she had no ground to stand on. She had no bargaining power. “And you are a brave man or a fool for denying them a satisfactory meal. That crowd has built a thirst for blood that demands to be slaked.” How might the man across from her meet their demand for a sacrifice, she wondered. But ultimately, if a bargain was struck, that would be his burden to sort out. “I chose it for discretion. Fame, nor its twin infamy, ever interested me. I only wished to help others.” And in what a wicked manner had she done so. 

Her storm blue eyes studied the flow of the tea he poured. Though she had no suspicion the brew was poisoned—he seemed too inspired for a trick so cheap as beat-them-at-their-own-games–she did not reach for it. The fragrant smell of something so fine settled easily into her memory backs. She longed for it. This was a situation in which it was not prudent to display a longing for anything. 

“The world has no shortage of women who bend and snap themselves into the shape of what is required of them,” Artemisia corrected. “I merely possess a more precise skillset than what is demanded of my counterparts.” 

She shifted only the angle of her head to watch him move toward the warmth of the fire, but she lost composure for a brief moment and nearly scoffed. “Moral clarity is a myth. Nearly any act is justifiable if you look at it in the right light.” She had not always believed this, but now? Now Artemisia required the adoption of this tenant as truth as a survival tactic. “Exactly how often do you find yourself in frequent need of a skillful hand to assist you with poisoning deaths?” With friends like this man, who needed enemies?

[keirmorozov]

The judge's gavel only confirmed what Keir had known since he arrived: Artemisia was guilty, but not in a way the court understood. Beneath her measured exterior was a truth that mirrored his own. To the world, Keir played the part of the Harmonium official—ambitious, exacting, too clever by half and twice as cold. In truth, he was still the boy who hid in the corners of dusty rooms, watching the world comfort a chosen few and discard the rest. Even cloaked in silk and silver, he despised those who built their empires on the backs of the overlooked.

"I don't fear them," he said, the edge of a smile curling at his mouth. "Any more than you do." The idea that he might face the crowd's wrath was almost laughable. Not a soul in Lóren'dal would suspect the Maestro's hand in her disappearance. True diplomacy needed no proclamations or paperwork—only suggestions, traded in candlelit corridors. Power, when wielded properly, left no fingerprints.

"Yet here you are, infamous by accident," Keir murmured, closing the space between them with ease. "There's no shortage of women who adapt. And no shortage of men who punish them anyway." He stopped just close enough to catch the scent of her pulse. It was lush and intoxicating, like crushed petals left in the sun.

"You're quite right. You're no tool, Artemisia," he said, exhaling. "If you were, I wouldn't waste time justifying a damn thing to you. Do you think I'm here because I need someone discreet with a vial? If that were all, I'd have stopped at the first brothel or backroom in Eterna." His brow furrowed slightly. "No, I'm in need of someone who understands that mercy and cruelty often wear the same face."

[gaybuckybarnesss]

BEN BARNES The Institute 1.03 "Graduation"