who: @intothewylde when and where: rain house, one of the wylde siblings threw a birthday feast that resulted in many stormlanders attending - soon, wylliam quickly realised this feast was more than just a birthday gathering.
the door thudded shut behind them, and the weight of the evening fell heavily on wylliam swann’s shoulders. the laughter and chatter from the feast had faded, leaving the room cloaked in an uneasy silence. he stayed still for a moment, staring at the now-empty table, the remnants of wine and crumbs scattered across the polished wood like evidence of the stormlanders’ schemes. his jaw tightened, and his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his tunic, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing.
he turned to morgan wylde, one of his oldest and closest friends, though in this moment, wylliam wasn’t sure he recognised him. his words came out measured but strained, the irritation in his voice barely masked. he was never one to stop himself from sounding blunt, and in this moment where wylliam's mind had been working on what felt like overdrive for the past hour in trying to refute his peers sat around a table, he finally felt as though he were at the end of his tether. “why?” he began, his gaze fixed on the floor before flicking up to meet morgan's gaze, putting down his goblet with a heavy, defeated thud. “why would you let them speak of such things here, under your roof, like it’s some sort of... celebration? as if we’re conspirators huddled in a corner?”
his fingers moved to adjust the spectacles perched on his nose, a gesture more of habit than necessity. “do you know what this looks like, morgan? do you know what they’ll say if word of this reaches the capital? if he hears?” wylliam didn’t need to say who he meant. the king’s shadow loomed large over every decision made in the stormlands. he began pacing, slow and deliberate, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. “you think this is clever, don’t you? getting everyone to fall in line behind akhirah—making him the first lamb to the slaughter, so the rest of you can gauge the reaction before you follow suit.” his voice sharpened, though it didn’t rise. wylliam never raised his voice. “it’s cowardly. and reckless. and dangerous.”
he stopped suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “you know i agree with you. you know i think the tax is too much, that celtigar has pushed too far, but this?” he gestured toward the empty room, as if the lingering shadows still held the echoes of their earlier conversation. “this is not the way.” his hands dropped to his sides, and he exhaled a sharp breath. “and do you know the worst of it, morgan? i sat there, silent, because it was clear—painfully clear—that i don’t represent the stormlands anymore. not to them. not even to you, it seems.” his voice faltered, but only slightly, before he looked morgan in the eye once more.
“when did you all decide that? before or after you decided to fling yourselves off an apparent cliff?”