Thank you for the tag @frenchy-and-the-sea, and for sharing your own wonderful WIP (which curious folks can find HERE - seriously, GO FORTH AND ENJOY).
I’m currently trundling away at a new project, so I figured I’d just go ahead and post the (current) chapter 1!
I will tag: @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @dafan7711, @captainsaku, @rufinagertrude, @bladeverbena, @thefluffynug and anyone else who has something they want to share (just tag me so I can see it!)
Chapter 1 (1800 words)
For many centuries, the blessed temple of Callifae, the Broken Bride, stood proudly atop its noble grassy plateau. The goddess, whose likeness emerged, brilliant, from the forward face of the temple, cast her watchful gaze over the quiet city of Vezarine with eyes of smooth, pale stone. When the sun set on a clear day, there was said to be a moment when those all-seeing eyes shone with a honey light; a perfect imitation of the goddess’ golden stare.
On this day, the second of Torrens, night had already arrived. The sun - gentler, now, against the summer-scorched earth - had vanished long ago. But still, the Bride’s eyes glowed.
Vezarine was burning.
In the warren of streets below, a cloaked figure peeled out of an alleyway. His chest rose and fell in a rough, staccato rhythm - the breaths of someone who had been running, climbing, hiding, fighting, for far too long.
The wide, two-storey building behind Xaraan was already blazing. Its wood groaned and cracked in the heat, slowly buckling beneath the weight of itself like a body held up by broken legs. Backing further into the street’s exposed centre, his footsteps crunched against a thick coating of ash and blood. When the upper storey gave way with a shudder that shook the ground beneath him, he simply watched, silent. Cold. It had been a workshop, once. A tannery, if the smell was any indication. A smell like cooked fat and burning hair.
Sivaan, the third of the sister-moons, hung low in the sky. She joined the fire to bathe the city red. The raid was almost done.
He had to move quickly.
---
Elsewhere in the ashen streets, a lone figure stood among the licking flames, the crimson mantle of her station whipping out behind her, tossed by the wind and smoke. Beneath her heels, the cobbles were stained black. Narrow rivulets trickled along the grooves in the stonework, drawn towards its gutters by the street’s gentle curve. Calayne, the Scythe of Erentis, watched the pattern as it slowly spread from the soles of her feet.
She was where she belonged. The poison at the centre of the web.
A sharp signal - her raised fist - led to a pattern of blasted horns, their low, reverberating sound rolling through the broken city like thunder. Irethani soldiers began to flood back onto the main streets, peeling out of buildings and alleyways, some wiping blades on their dark cloaks, others pleased by the gore trailing in their wake. A patrol group joked lightly beneath the red moon’s gaze; playful remarks about how considerate she was, to mask the worst of the stains. We have become too used to this, Calayne thought as her soldiers swept past, saluting, smiling at their conquest. It was not the first time such treacherous words had crossed her mind. They were as dangerous as any blade. She would do well to keep them sheathed.
“Scythe?”
Calayne released a slow, calm breath. Soon. Soon she would be rid of it all. The blood. The guilt.
That wretched name.
For now, she turned towards the familiar voice. Her dark hair, long and grey as night, swept past her face. “Report, Xaraan.”
Xaraan, the last of her officers, hesitated at her tone before snapping quickly to attention, right fist upturned against his stomach. “The city has fallen, Scy---ah, Overseer. Those who did not raise weapons against us have been gathered in the square by the catchers. Vezarine’s leader and high priest have barricaded themselves in the temple, along with their servants and a large number of cityfolk.” He hesitated, his luminous eyes flicking towards the statue of the goddess. “Should we send the burners?”
His question was first met with silence. How many this time? She had been informed before embarking that Vezarine was home to thousands. Then, after a sharp demand, Xaraan confirmed the estimated body count. It placed the dead, alone, at about the same number. The pleasure in his voice would have encouraged her, once. She would have basked in it.
Instead, she frowned into the smouldering dark. The numbers the Rhaiz had given her had been wrong.
She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. Never again.
“Forget the temple. Give the signal to retreat.” She was careful to keep her voice flat. Expressionless. Fire, its smoke thick and dark, licked from rooftops in the distance. “We are done here.”
Xaraan, perhaps misreading her soberness, suddenly remembered proper protocol. Hurriedly, he placed himself directly in front of her, his feet in line with hers. As one might expect after a raid, the man was dishevelled, his light hair tangled at his shoulders, blood streaked across the front of his leathers. The dark markings that streaked down past his eyes in a mimicry of spilled ink only made the wideness of his gaze - its faint luminosity - more pronounced. He is still young, she thought absently. Then, that very same realisation struck her like a blow to the chest.
Had she not noticed that before?
“Overseer… the prisoners?” There was an edge to his voice, now. Uncertain. Fearful. That was the trouble of a man in his position. Even if he felt he knew the answer to his question, he was forced to risk her ire by asking it anyway.
This time, however, he could breathe freely. “Take the ones already gathered in the square. Leave the rest to sweep the ashes.” It was, truly, the least she could do. For Vezarine, yes, but also for her own soldiers. Unfortunately, she doubted it would be enough of an offering to spare them from the Rhaiz’s anger, once the dust had settled. She had been carving away at their leader’s patience for over five seasons. What might have once been a victory in his eyes was now a failure. Another bleeding gash to be stemmed.
Of course, Calayne was far too valuable to use as salve for his wounded pride.
No. She would dig her fingers in and tear.
In front of her, Xaraan - a far more likely sacrifice - hesitated, his amber eyes widening, betraying his surprise. Fool that he was, he had always worn his heart on his sleeve. It was a dangerous place, to keep such a vital thing. “But... Rhaiz Sathan’s orders were to take as many---”
Her patience was nearing its end. She cut him off with a glare.
“The Rhaiz’s orders have changed.”
A gust of hot wind blew past them both, forcing Xaraan to flinch and blink away the ash and dust. Distracted, his hand raised in front of his face, he made his first mistake. “I -- they have? I didn’t hear any...”
He stopped himself before she even had to speak. Of course, it was already far too late. A year or two ago, he would have been dead where he stood. The Scythe of Erentis had not earned her name for leniency.
“You are not in a position to be informed of anything.” Calayne’s gaze sliced across, ending his next sentence before it began. It carried with it a terrible, icy anger. The one that had borne her through decades of conquest. The one that had lifted her all the way to commander, then higher again to overseer. It gave weight to the words she spoke next, each laden with implication. “Do I need to remind you of your place?”
It was difficult to tell when one of the Irethani felt true fear. The other denizens of Erentis had developed noticeable tells for such things; vast swathes of their skin drained of colour, their voices shattered like glass, their bodies reshaped in ways that were impossible to ignore. But for her people, it was a subtle thing, best told by the lips. Xaraan’s, for example, had just turned a sickly pale shade of grey, his dark blood fleeing towards his stammering heart. “No, Overseer.” His gaze quickly fell to her feet, hands pressed hard to the tops of his thighs. A child’s trick to conceal a tremor. “I will sound the victory. Give your orders to the patrols.”
She made Xaraan spend a few more moments writhing beneath her stare. He had begun to question her more and more of late. Perhaps she had been a fool to allow such insubordination to fester and embolden him to the point of recklessness. It would see him killed under another’s command. Anger tightened her fists at her sides, but this time it was not a weapon to be aimed. No - it seemed her distractions had been as dangerous as her actions. For too long, her mind had been... elsewhere.
It remained a poor excuse for such carelessness.
Eventually, she released him from her glare with a sharp nod. “Go. Deliver my order.”
Xaraan’s relief was palpable. He exhaled it in a shaky rush. “Yes. Of course.” He gave a final salute, then turned to flee. But just when she believed their conversation over, the young man hesitated. Turned halfway back, his pale hair whipping in the fire-lit air. “The Rhaiz will be pleased with your victory today, Overseer.”
Calayne did not even have time to sharply repeat her order before he turned on heel and vanished into the thickening smoke. Sycophant, she thought at his retreating back, but swallowed the word like bitter tonic. It was self-preservation, obvious and infuriating, and nothing more. She should not scorn him for that.
The Rhaiz will be pleased with your victory today.
Calayne’s gaze lowered, drifting to a body discarded by the roadside. Human, she believed. Male, broad of stature, perhaps in the middle of his lifespan. He was sprawled, half out of his doorway, head resting in a dark pool where his home met the city street. A few feet away was an old scythe, flecked with blood on its curved edge. A common farming tool, raised as a weapon against an army. He had managed a single swing – one futile strike – before it had been kicked from his grasp and his throat opened to the night.
The sting of the cut burned on the underside of Calayne’s arm. Her dagger still dripped a slow, pensive red. She had not planned to kill that night.
“You are more deserving of the name,” she murmured to the corpse. Yes. The Scythe of Vezarine. Had he lived, had his aim been true, perhaps it might have been so. Perhaps it might have been better for them both, if a new legend had been born from these ashes.
Something like an invisible chain tightened around her neck, heavy and cold. She turned away from the corpse to face the smouldering city.
Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 4 #Fictober20 prompt.
Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction)
Characters: Delver & Sylda
Warnings: Language
____________________________
Where in the Divider’s name could she have run off to?
Muttering darkly, Delver peered down another alley, shook his head, and continued onward, boots scuffing against the dust and grit that coated Yelen’s streets. When he’d left Sylda, she’d been half-dead at best, barely able to move, her body a mess of hastily bandaged injuries and deeper, less visible pains. It wasn’t that he blamed her for taking off the second his back was turned; all things considered, it was fair enough. Waking up to a complete stranger eating soup beside her bed - especially a man from the Allied Kingdoms - would be alarming at the best of times. But particularly for a young woman who had spent her previous waking moments hanging by the neck in the gallows courtyard. How she had managed to get out of bed, yet alone sneak out the second storey window, was nothing short of baffling.
Or it would have been, if he hadn’t already witnessed her do far stranger things.
Whoever she was - whatever she was - he needed to find her. Apparently, convincing her to uproot her entire life and travel the length of the continent alone with him was going to be difficult.
Who knew.
Alleys and side streets drifted past as Delver continued his nighttime hunt, the middle moon, Rhana, kind enough to bathe the streets in her pale blue glow. Part of Delver knew what he was doing was foolish. His innkeeper, after some creative haggling that left Delver short an iron drem and his belt knife, had offered vague directions towards a section of the city infamous for housing thieves and cutthroats. Apparently, it was an area civilians knew to avoid, especially after dark. Which just happened to be the exact place a runaway thief like Sylda was likely to go.
Of course, that meant Delver had to follow, and despite it being a well-lit evening, he couldn’t keep his gaze from snapping towards every faint movement in the corner of his vision. This particular tangle of streets would make the perfect site for an ambush.
It was going to be a long night.
What if she’d collapsed in an alley, somewhere? Divider, he hoped not. Burnout was a severe risk among thaumists - even highly trained ones. If she pushed herself too hard too soon, it could be enough to succeed where the gallows had failed.
After his wanderings along the main road bore no fruit, Delver sucked in a breath, shoved aside his self-preservation instinct, and began to search the side streets. The even narrower alleys, swathed in a near impenetrable darkness, could wait until he was truly desperate.
Of course, as he was quick to discover, even the side streets held their dangers.
“Well, what’ve we got here? You’re a long way from home.”
Delver came to a sharp halt as a voice carried up the street behind him. Turning, he found himself approached by two figures, one as tall as he was, the other about a half-head shorter. They ambled almost casually, which seemed an odd tactic for a robbery. Or a murder. That or he posed so little threat that they were happy to take things slow.
How thoughtful.
“Easy,” Delver said, swapping to the local dialect, hoping its might earn him some kind of favour. He raised his hands, proving he was unarmed, although he doubted it made much difference. “I’m looking for a friend, not for trouble,”
As expected, the tall one snorted. “Right.” He gestured to his partner. “He your friend?”
Delver blinked. “No?”
“What about me?”
“Ah, no.”
“Well...” The shorter one smiled and drew a knife from his belt. “Then I guess you’ve got trouble.”
Great. Thieves and fucking comedians to boot. He must truly be the unluckiest man alive.
Sighing, Delver lowered his hands. “I guess I do.” He made a show of stretching his back, using the movement to quickly scan the nearby alleys. There didn’t seem to be any more movement. The two of them must have been running as a pair, probably on the way back from an unsuccessful hunt somewhere else in the city. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to just leave me alone?”
The tall one shrugged. “You could try. Most folks do.”
“I take it that didn’t stop you before?”
“Nope.”
Delver sniffed. “Fair enough.” He went to put his hands in his pockets, only to find a second knife being thrust menacingly towards him. Jaw tight, he froze, then returned his hands to their former position. “Listen - I’m only here because I’m looking for a woman.”
“Yeah? Ain’t we all.”
“No, not like… her name is Syldana.”
There was a pause. The pair shared a glance, brows raised, their knives still raised threateningly. “Hey, wait,” said the taller one slowly. His dark gaze drifted back to Delver. “You the one that bought her off the rope?”
Realistically, telling the truth could go one of two ways. Luckily, Delver had always been a gambling man. “I am,” he replied, raising his chin, doing his best to look more important than he was.
Again, the two shared a look. Then, the smaller one grinned, crooked teeth flashing.
“Well, you’ve got more coin than brains, dontcha?”
Exhaling, Delver closed his eyes. Of course it went the wrong way.
The taller one stepped forward this time, boots crunching, advancing until he was almost within arm’s reach. “It’s our lucky day, Raoul. C’mon. Let’s clean his pockets.”
Well, there was no helping it. Shoulders stiff, hands still raised, Delver waited as the man started patting down his sides, hunting for hidden pockets, jewellery, treasures sewn into the lining. His knife hovered menacingly by Delver’s throat at first, so close that when he swallowed, he could feel the steel brushing against his skin. But the man was distracted, busy running a rough hand down the side of Delver’s leg. The knife wavered… pressed closer for a moment… started to dip away…
The second he had an opening, Delver swung, cracking the man across the temple with his elbow. He went down with a shocked yelp, red dust springing up around him. The knife skidded from his hand, but Delver was already moving, dancing out of his reach and away from his partner, who appeared to still be processing what had just happened.
“Krom!” the short one cried eventually, then turned a hateful glare on Delver. “You bastard - get back here!”
“Alright, alright. Just take it easy.” Delver continued retreating, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Reaching back, he slid a wooden rod from his waistband, its twelve inch length concealed beneath his loose shirt. Just as well Krom hadn’t gotten too handsy, or he would have easily found it. With a jerk of the wrist, Delver extended the weapon to the side, doubling its length, then twisted to lock it in place. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Krom was already getting to his feet and Raoul had seemingly regained his addled wits. “How about we all just walk away?” Delver pressed, eyes flicking between the pair. “No one has to get hurt.”
Their response was simple enough.
Grunting, Delver ducked to the side, the sound of Raoul’s dagger whipping past his ear barely registering as he swung the rod, striking the shorter man across the back. The thief grunted, the momentum of his overeager lunge sending him stumbling past, buying Delver a few seconds to plan his next move.
Or it would have, if there weren’t two of them.
A low grunt gave Krom away, but only barely. Heart lurching, Delver whipped around, his movement unnaturally fast. As he spun, something inside him burned away, the sensation sending a shiver of discomfort racing through his body. Still, he managed to slap Krom’s fist aside and follow through, ramming the end of the rod into his gut. It’s been too long since I did this, Delver thought, breathing hard, hands trembling slightly as he backed away from his assailants. He’d grown too reliant on the anchor fastened to his wrist; too willing to use its reserve of thaumic essence than tap into his own. Now the disc was empty - possibly even broken. He was on his own.
The rod, handy though it was, wasn’t doing the damage he needed. Even with its unnaturally hardened wood, the two thieves just weren’t staying down. He was starting to think the obscene amount he paid for it in Tel Shival might have been a mistake. However, before Delver had time to dwell on his poor financial decisions, he found himself accosted once more.
One knife, one fist, two angry men. Delver wasn’t a fighter. Not really. As Krom swung a punch at his stomach, Raoul darted forward, slashing at him from the side. He could only hope to stop one of them, so he swung the rod towards the dagger, barely catching it before it sunk into his shoulder. That left him open to Krom, and he acted on sheer reflex. Concentrating, sucking in a breath, Delver reached for the hum that resonated inside his body. Then, without the time or practice necessary for any finesse, he dragged it all to one spot at the center of his torso.
Krom’s fist connected.
And the bones in his hand shattered.
The man’s scream was enough to curdle Delver’s blood. Cradling his hand, at least three fingers bent at jarringly unnatural angles, Krom stumbled away, tears pricking his eyes, a string of panicked curses bubbling from his lips. “Y-Y-You! You rat-bloody-bastard!” He groaned loudly, sounding almost nauseous as he curled over his ruined hand. “K-King’s eyes as m... my fucking witness... I’ll kill you!”
Normally, Delver would have had a snarky remark for that. You’ll have to catch me first. Tell The Errant King I said hello. Try aiming a little higher next time. But instead, he found himself also staggering, heart pounding, head spinning. Almost immediately after Krom’s fist connected with his stomach, the area briefly hard enough to rival stone, Delver had lost his concentration. What remained of his essence suddenly dispersed, like a cloud collapsing under its own weight into a fine mist. He could barely feel its hum now. It was weak. Very weak.
I need to get out of here.
Sweating, Delver backpedaled, stumbled on a broken cobble, and barely caught himself against a nearby wall. His arms were shaking something terrible, the rod in his grasp wavering laughably as he brandished it between himself and the advancing Raoul. “Last chance,” he rasped, blinking, fighting to clear his vision. And to think he’d been worried about Sylda pushing herself too hard. Divider’s Own, he was a fool. If he burned out now, that was it. He was a dead man.
“Y-You’re one of those freaks,” Raoul spat. He was shaking too, although for a very different reason. “A fucking aberration's what you are!”
On a regular day, Delver would have been impressed that Raoul even knew such a long word. But as it was, he could barely keep his feet under him, familiar shivers starting to tingle across his skin. That damn girl, he thought, an irrational anger washing over him as his remaining attacker warily advanced. She just couldn’t stay put for one night. Couldn’t even do me that one fucking favour after I---
“Raoul - stop!”
Suddenly, there was another body in front of him. Short. Brown haired. Familiar.
Delver stared, speechless. He must be dreaming. Or dead. Or both.
With a knife in each hand, Sylda jabbed one towards Raoul, who had halted mid-step, eyes wide. She was still injured, the bandages around her wrists, stomach, and throat all stained brown from old blood.
But she was there. Awake. Alive.
“Enough,” Sylda continued, her voice surprisingly firm. Far stronger than it had been just a few hours ago. “He’s with me.”
“Ahh…” Raoul glanced back at Krom, who was clearly the leader of the pair. Unfortunately, he found him barely conscious, slumped against the wall of a boarded up building. No help there. Slowly, he turned back to reassess the situation for himself. An aberration and a miracle, both apparently on the same side.
What would he do...
“He’s your friend, is he Sylda?” Clearing his throat, Raoul’s eyes flicked to Delver. “Why, ah… why didn’t you say so?”
Delver blinked. He almost argued, then realised that this was his way out.
“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry?”
Huffing, Raoul rolled his eyes. Despite his over-performance, it was no small relief when he sheathed his knife and took a step away. “Gotta keep a better eye on your friends, girl. Nearly killed this one. He doesn’t belong here.”
Sylda just nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” There was a pause. “Uh… what happened to Krom?”
The man in question had started whimpering, rocking slightly, hand curled against his chest.
“He punched a wall,” Delver said hurriedly, then shot a meaningful look at Raoul. The other man, clearly looking for someone to follow, nodded.
“Oh, yeah. Got a mean temper, he does. Really shouldn’t let it get the better of him like this.”
Sylda glanced back, and Delver nodded sagely.
While it was pretty obvious that Sylda wasn’t buying their composite lie, it didn’t really matter. Sighing, she lowered her blades and shook her head. “Fine. You’d better get him back to the nest. Davros has been asking about you two.”
Raoul stiffened. “He has? Did he say...”
Dizzy and about one sharp turn away from throwing up on his shoes, Delver let the rest of the conversation wash past him, focusing on his breathing, willing his body to comply. With the threat apparently over, he twisted the rod, the two halves sliding back into themselves. By the time he’d managed to stow it away again, Raoul and Krom were already limping away down one of the nearby alleys, their forms vanishing into the heavy dark.
“You’ve...” Delver coughed, throat painfully dry. Another fun side-effect. “You’ve got some timing.”
Sylda just exhaled, clearly as relieved as he was. She turned, regarding him for a moment; his clammy skin, his shaking hands, his over-reliance on the wall. Then she reached up, fingertips brushing over the bandage he’d wrapped carefully around her neck earlier that day. As she did, her expression softened.
“Guess I could say the same about you, huh?” Slowly, she moved closer, concern tinging her round face. “Are you okay?”
Delver grunted, offering a conciliatory nod. As much as he’d been cursing her just a few moments ago, he had to admit, she had practically saved his life. Which meant…
“I suppose this makes us even.” Delver chuckled weakly, tipping his head back against the crumbling stone, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. “A life for a life. Pretty fair trade, if you ask me.”
Sylda hummed, and the pair lapsed into a strange, heavy silence. They both knew it wasn’t the same. Not really. What Delver had done - reckless and archaic and irrational - went a little beyond intervening in an alleyway brawl. When he’d saved her life, she’d been a stranger. A murderer hanging for her crime before a crowd of thousands.
But, as it turned out, they were both willing to ignore that fact. At least for now.
“Come on,” Sylda said softly, her voice coaxing Delver’s eyes to open once more. Blurry at the edges, she held out her arm - an offer of support. It was a gesture of peace, even if only temporary. “We’d better get out of here. I’ve... got some questions.”
Nodding, pulling in one last steadying breath, Delver didn’t even have to swallow his pride for once. He just accepted the offer.
Rules: Post the last line you wrote from any WIP and tag the same number of people as there are words.
Okay so off the bat, I won’t be tagging that many people! I also tend to post 2-3 sentences because I’m a sucker for context. Sooo... here are the last few sentences of Chapter 1 of my current WIP:
Something like an invisible chain tightened around her neck, heavy and cold. She turned away from the corpse to face the smouldering city.
He should have stayed inside.
I will tag: @frenchy-and-the-sea, @captainsaku, @rufinagertrude, @lavellanlove, @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @livjnoodles and anyone else who would like to share something they are working on!
So this started as a sappy meme prompt about two people touching forward and the stubborn one whispering ‘I missed you’, then turned into a 2200 word monster. Because apparently I have no chill. Who knew.
This is quite spoilery, so if anyone cares about that, read at your own risk!
-------------------
Everything had happened too quickly. Too quickly for Adiran to pause and think. Too quickly for his mind to catch up with what he was seeing, yet alone what he was doing. Now, as waves beat against the ship’s hull, the lights of Vetrose grew smaller and smaller until they were no more than pinpricks on the horizon. Hundreds of tiny, earth-bound stars. All his life, Adiran had never seen those lights slip into the distance like that. It had always been the other way around; always been the lights of Talvera’s capital rising to meet him as he returned from a day on the road, lanterns bleeding life into streets and windows.
Would he ever see those lights again?
Movement to his right caught his attention. Riin was sweating, his skin ashen, his body wracked with tremors. He was trying to heal. Or at least, that’s what Adiran assumed was happening. He didn’t know enough about the Kyriin, yet alone the black-eyed krea morei, to say for certain. All he knew was that Riin had burned through what little strength he had left during their escape from the palace. Divider, just thinking about how close they had come to being caught sent a chill down Adiran’s spine. If he hadn’t called in his favour with Crosus - if the Northerner hadn’t come through for them and carried Riin from the upper city to the docks - they might not have made it at all.
A familiar sensation, like a hand closing around his throat, sent his heart into a stammer. With a shaky gasp, Adiran reached up, knotting his fingers in his sweat-damp hair. Stop it. You idiot. You’re out. No one caught you. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine.
For now.
Deep down, Adiran knew that the King and Queen would hunt for them. Try to spin their escape as some kind of kidnapping; anything not to lose face in the spiteful eye of the court. But there was more to it than that. A missing prince warranted a bitter, desperate search - one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. The fact that they were actually after Riin didn’t matter. All Talvera would see were two panicked parents. Not monsters chasing what he had stolen from them.
No.
The thought - that single word - arrived so hard and so bitter that Adiran could taste it on his tongue. No. He hadn’t stolen a damn thing. They had no contract. No claim. No right to Riin, as man or soldier or prisoner. No one did.
I should have seen him off. I should have insisted. Made sure he...
Guilt, like a restless snake, twisted inside Adiran, hollowing out a pit in his stomach. Divider, he’d let a full season pass in a self-absorbed haze, barely looking up from his own loneliness. If he’d just been paying attention, he might have realised something wasn’t right. He might have been able to...
A soft groan, lower than the protests of the ship’s aging wood, pulled Adiran from his thoughts. He looked up, heart stammering to a near-halt as he leaned over the makeshift bed. Hope, like baited breath, knotted at the back of his throat.
“Riin?”
The Kyriin’s brow was tense; a furrowed echo of a deeper pain. Agony was etched in every line of his face; every clenched muscle. In any other moment, Adiran might have taken him for having a bad dream. A true, burning nightmare.
Maybe he was. Certainly no one would blame him.
“Hey…” Adiran hated the way he sounded. Hated the way his voice felt so hollow. Uncertain. Afraid. Weak. But instead of flinching from it like a hand from a flame, he forced himself to move closer. To reach out and rest his hand over Riin’s. “Can you hear me?”
Adiran knew it was a long-shot. Even before, back in the palace undercroft, Riin’s lucidity had been a short-lived, flickering thing, erratic as a candle on a windowsill. Divider, Adiran would never forget the way Riin had looked at him, when he’d forced his way through the cell door. His eyes, framed by dark circles and bled half-way black, had seared into him like hot iron. Thick blood, dark as pitch, was dried in layers on his skin; had soaked into his ruined clothes. It was impossible to tell how long it had been there.
Adiran wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, when he hit the bottom of those uneven stairs. All he knew for certain was that, after that heart-stopping moment of recognition, Riin had hated him.
And he’d had every reason to.
Sitting there, his hand a feeble warmth against Riin’s icy skin, a new fear slowly crawled its way up from the bottom of Adiran’s chest. In the frantic mess of unlocking chains and checking wounds, Riin had clearly set aside any mistrust for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim. Even if came at the hands of someone he despised. The entire time, he’d barely spoken to Adiran. But the first words he’d said had been a knife to the gut.
So, it was all true. He’d gave a bitter laugh. Or was it broken? I wondered how long it would take for them to send you here.
He should have said something. Thinking back, he needed to have said something. But he hadn’t. In the moment, he’d been too focused on escape. Too terrified that Lirea would betray him, and the palace guard would come flooding in like rats to a carcass. There hadn’t been time for reassurances, or the truth, or---
“You’re... hurt...”
Adiran jolted, nearly losing his balance between the narrow crate and the uncertain sway of the ship. Riin’s voice was raw, ragged from screaming his pain and fury to unfeeling stone. The words were barely able to cross the narrow distance between them. He was awake, watching him feverishly, one eye a clear amber, the other drenched in shadow. A dark stain, like spilled ink, spread from the inner corner to the furthest edge of his iris.
There he was, with one foot in the grave, worrying about everyone but himself.
“What? Are you s---” To Adiran’s surprise, his voice hitched. Once the shock had passed, he cleared his throat sharply. “Are you serious? Fuck how I am. I’m nothing. I’m fine. I’m…” Slowly, he realised that Riin’s eyes had drifted down to where their hands were resting, one atop the other. Without intending to, Adiran’s fingers had somehow managed to avoid the ruined skin ringing Riin’s wrist. In a rush, he realised he’d never actually seen Riin bruise before, yet alone bleed. It was childish - sheer foolishness - but he hadn’t actually thought it was possible. Even after eight years of sparring together - eight years of swords and sand - he had been convinced Riin was untouchable. Invincible.
But in the wrong hands - hands willing to scrape and grind - even the strongest stone would eventually break.
Riin’s breathing was shallow. Worryingly so. Still, he forced himself to speak, the words limping from his lips. “N-No... you’re not f---.”
---“Stop.” Adiran barely recognised his own voice, pleading and pathetic. All of a sudden, he was a child again, curled in the corner of his room, his first bruise blossoming on his upper arm. “Damn it, Riin - don’t. Don’t make this about me. Not now. You… you’re…”
He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t say them. What could he possibly say? You’re hurt? You’re shaking? You’re terrifying me?
“You’re crying.”
Adiran froze. His awareness, weaponised over the past hours like an out-turned blade, faltered at Riin’s words. Then, slowly, it angled inward. In that hanging silence, his sense of self slipped back beneath his skin, and Adiran finally realised that yes. He was.
“I’m not... it’s nothing.” Roughly, he pressed the heel of his free hand to both eyes, swiping away the offending tears. There was too much to say. Too many emotions pushing against this skull, ravaging his chest, crowding his throat. “I’m just… I...” Like betrayal, a sob broke past his defenses, weak from exhaustion. Weak from relief. “I’m sorry. Riin, I’m so f-fucking sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think...”
The shame was too much. Adiran cracked. Curved forward. Buried his face in his hand and just cried. It was all too much, but at the same time nowhere near enough, as though he was deep inside his body and outside and around it all at once. He knew he had to stop. That this wasn’t the time. His guilt wouldn’t help anyone, yet alone Riin. It was just another burden; a capstone atop the torture he had already endured. Divider, Adiran didn’t even know what he had been through. The extent of the pain he was in. How deep those wounds truly ran. But he knew what he should have said, back when he had first laid eyes on his friend in that dark cell. When he’d first seen the blood, smelled the sour sweat, tasted the rot on the back of his tongue. An apology was not enough. He knew that. No words could ever undo what had been done. But Divider, that didn’t make it any less of the truth.
If Riin let him, he’d spend the rest of his life proving it. It was the least he could do for the only man he’d ever called friend.
Suddenly, Adiran felt a pressure on top of his hand. Heavy, but without force. Without roughness. Part of him knew that, if Riin had the strength, he would have squeezed. Maybe in reassurance. Maybe in forgiveness. Maybe just in tribute to the bond they had shared; one that had surely been severed, now. But, when Adiran finally looked up, only one thing had truly changed. Riin’s gaze was resting on him. Quiet. Pained. Feverish. Relieved.
But the hate, seared so clearly and so terribly into Adiran’s memory, was gone.
“I knew,” Riin breathed. “I knew y---AH!” Suddenly, he cried out, arching, gritting his teeth as his upper body spasmed. Maybe it was a fit. Maybe it was pieces of bone snapping back into place beneath his skin. Regardless, all Adiran could do was look on, horrified, and hold his hand through it, wishing feverishly that he knew how to make it stop. It passed in seconds that felt like minutes. It left Riin gasping, shaking, tangled in his thin blanket, skin soaked with sweat. Just as Adiran was about to scramble to his feet and call for help, Riin’s weak voice reached out from the bed, like a hand snagging the corner of his shirt.
“I-I knew you couldn’t have… they said... so many things. But I didn’t...”
Adiran just nodded, not quite understanding. almost afraid to. Just thinking about what Riin might have been told - things to make him break - turned Adiran’s stomach. Cheeks damp, throat tight, Adiran just shifted closer instead, his thumb stroking the back of Riin’s hand in a feeble attempt to smooth away the pain. “Whatever those bastards told you, they were lying,” he said, because he desperately needed him to hear it. To know it the way Adiran knew every line of Riin’s face. Every scar on his hands. “I swear on my life, Riin, if I’d known…”
Slowly, Adiran trailed off. Partly because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. If he’d known… then what? How would he have stopped it? Would he have challenged the King and Queen - his own family? Would he have kicked and screamed and threatened his way into his own set of shackles?
He didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe they would have both found themselves in chains, Inquisitors cutting bored slices from their skin. Just the thought of it was enough to turn Adiran’s stomach. If he’d been there - if he’d been forced to watch... Divider, he would have told them anything. Anything to make them stop.
Would Riin have broken his oath and done the same?
Luckily, there was no immediate pressure for Adiran to finish his hanging sentence. At some point in the silence, Riin’s breathing had slowed its pace into something halfway resembling sleep. His hand lay limp in Adiran’s, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to untangle their fingers. Not just yet.
Instead, Adiran hesitated, then leaned forward until their faces were just inches apart. Slowly, tiredly, he closed his eyes, exhaled, and gently rested his forehead against Riin’s. Their lashes brushed, their breath mingled, and just for a moment, he let himself feel it. Really feel it. Just for long enough to remind him that the man he cared for more than anyone else was really, truly there. Beaten and bruised. Alive and wonderful.
“I missed you,” Adiran breathed. The confession fell from his lips more easily than his own name. And, for the first time, he didn’t care if anyone heard him say it.
Day 6 of @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, as well as the Fictober20 prompt. This one takes place some time after the final round of the Red Fury, and basically continues from THIS piece I wrote a while ago.
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Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction)
Character(s): Riin & Crosus.
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When Riin walked into the South Gate tavern near the outskirts of Vetrose, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. All around him, bodies were pressed close around tables, hunched over dice, deep in conversation, laughing raucously as they poured ales and wines and harder drinks down their throats.
Nose wrinkling, Riin slipped inside as casually as he could, doing his best not to stand out among the distracted patrons. Which was surprisingly difficult, all things considered. He’d put on quite a show in the arena, and already, eyes were fixing on him, flicking away the moment he looked. Idiot, he chided himself as he sidled between chairs and tables, stopping abruptly as a waitress cut past, a tray of thick brown stew balanced on one hand. He’d spent almost a full ten years in Talvera without revealing what he could truly do. Now, it seemed to be all anyone spoke about. The demand for him to compete in the arena - to engage in a friendly fight with a champion from one of the noble houses - had become incessant. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he refused, a new offer always presented itself the following day, the wording more insistent, the payment higher. Do us this one favour, before you depart for your homeland.
Huffing, Riin managed to pause in an empty space and scanned the room. It didn’t matter how much they offered, he could not be bought. He was a Kyriin; a soldier representing his people, acting on behalf of Kal-Kriyan interests. He was not a spectacle to be gawked at and gambled on.
It was a concept Talverans didn’t seem to understand. Not fully, at least.
A boisterous shout from his right drew Riin’s attention, his gaze snapping across. A drunken man stood, albeit barely, a card in one hand, a tankard in the other. Liquid sloshed dangerously as he ranted at the other players around the table, accusations of cheating and trickery being thrown back and forth among the competitors.
Luckily, seated at a table just past them, was the man Riin was looking for.
Crosus grinned wide, spotting him at the same time, his huge hands wrapped around a flagon. A collection of admirers crowded him on either side, partially obscuring him from view, explaining why Riin hadn’t been able to spot the giant sooner. As he approached, Riin glanced between Crosus and his companions, brow tensing into an uncertain frown. This… wasn’t what he’d been expecting. When he’d received the man’s message, he had assumed they would be speaking alone.
Luckily, Crosus either read the misgiving on Riin’s face or never intended for his sycophants to remain in the first place. Before Riin reached the table, Crosus was already shooing them away with his bear-like hand. “Right then, off with you lot,” he said. When the demand was met with hesitation - even disappointed whines - he tossed a small pouch of coins to one of young men with a good-natured wink. “Enough of that. Tavern’s got plenty of room elsewhere. Go on - get yourselves drunk on a champion’s coin.”
Apparently, all was forgiven. There was a collective whooping - loud and sudden enough to almost startle Riin into taking a step back. Bodies pushed past him, the men and women seeming utterly unaware of his presence as they rushed towards the bar.
“That was… quite a crowd,” Riin said as he finally approached the table. He paused, then gestured to one of the newly vacated seats. “May I?”
“Sure,” the big man drawled, raising a bushy brow. “Didn’t ask you here just to make you stand all evening, black-eyes.”
Riin’s shoulders tensed, but he hurried to mask it by sitting down, resting his forearms on the table. Unfortunately, as he feared, Crosus far from an unobservant man.
“No good?” the northerner asked, and to his credit, he seemed genuine. “Sorry. Heard folk calling you that lately. Figured it was proper.” He snorted, bringing his flagon to his lips. “Should’ve known it was probably an insult. Fucking Talverans…”
Riin had to admit, the man was oddly disarming. And relatable. So much so that he found himself relaxing into a smile, offering a resigned shrug of his own. “It’s not an insult. Just…” He hesitated, but decided it didn’t hurt to share. “I’d hoped no one would find out. That’s all.” He huffed. “I was so close, too. Being called that name just reminds me of my own failure.”
Crosus grunted. “Yeah. That kind of fame’s more trouble than it’s worth, isn’t it?” Raising a hand, he flagged one of the waitstaff, who seemed to have been loitering nearby. “You - yeah lad, you. Bring my friend here some of the good stuff.” He paused, glancing at his own drink. “Another for me, too.” Again, he tossed a small pouch of coins, the scrawny young man catching it between shaking, over-eager palms before scurrying away. Crosus just smirked, leaning in, brown eyes gleaming wickedly. “Turns out, tipping well gets you special treatment.” He leaned back again, laughing, and slapped the table with a thunderous palm. “Who knew, huh?”
Every soul in Talvera, Riin thought, amused. But he just shared in the man’s laughter, enjoying the luxury of being away from the palace. Of not having to second-guess every move he made. Soon, he had a drink in his hand, and before he knew it, half of it had already vanished. “I can see why you would come to a place like this,” Riin remarked loudly, fighting to raise his voice over the din. He glanced around, noticing a large number of watchful eyes flicking back and forth towards their table. “Being champion has made you well-sought.”
“Hey now - three time champion,” Crosus corrected, then chuckled. “The first time wasn’t nearly this rewarding. That said, they’re not all looking at me either. What you did out there?” He huffed, nodding to himself. “That was impressive.”
Riin just stared at his hands, wrapped firmly around his drink. It hadn’t felt impressive. He took another long, deep pull to delay responding. He could remember the moment so clearly, as though it had happened that morning instead of over a turn ago. When he’d seen Crosus land that blow… when Adiran had gone down and couldn’t get up again… he’d just...
“It was panic,” Riin said suddenly. He looked up at Crosus, mouth twisting into a rueful smile. “Not something I would call impressive.”
“Maybe,” the man agreed slowly, then shrugged. “Not sure your princeling would feel the same way, though.” Hesitating, Crosus sat back a little, taking a moment to regard Riin carefully. “I, ah... take it there’s no hard feelings about all of that?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Crosus barked a laugh. “True enough.” Then he jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “But you wouldn’t be the first person I’ve gone drinking with to tried to kill me after. Got my eye on you, Kyriin.”
A smile tugged at Riin’s lips. “I take it those men are no longer with us?”
“Who said anything about men?”
Riin grinned as Crosus bellowed a laugh, raising his flagon in makeshift salute. “Ahh... all the same,” he continued after draining another full mug’s worth of dark ale and setting it down with a thud, “wanted to thank you for what you did. Saving the princeling’s life.”
That was enough to stop Riin mid-drink. He lowered his flagon, eyes fixed questioningly on Crosus. “Thank me? Why?”
What did Crosus have to thank him for? As far as he knew, he’d done nothing to help the man. In truth, he’d barely even acknowledged him, when he’d leapt the barrier and rushed the arena. The most he’d done was shove him aside, sending him sprawling in the sand. In truth, all he remembered clearly from that moment was Adiran, lying there, suffocating inside his crushed plate...
“I know why people watch that tournament. The Red Fury...” Crosus' voice was softer, stirring Riin from his thoughts. The man’s mouth twisted, expression grim. “Everyone in that crowd wanted blood. Especially the ones who would never admit it. Must make them feel better about themselves, to watch good men die before their time. Your princeling…” Sighing, Crosus reached up, running a hand down his face. “I’ve killed plenty, Kyriin. Right bastards, most of them. But taking that young man’s life for a crowd? For sport?” Grunting, he just shook his head. “No. I have enough people looking at me like I’m no better than a wild beast. Don’t want to start believing it myself. I never meant for it to go that far.”
Stunned into silence for a moment, all Riin could do was look at the man - really look at him. The boisterous personality, the bellowing laugh, the tangle of dark hair that framed his face. For all of his strength, deep down, Crosus doubted himself. Who he was. What people thought of him. What he thought of himself.
It was something Riin understood all too well.
“Adir---” Riin caught himself quickly, “Prince Adiran knew the risks, Crosus. A fight is a fight, and it would be foolish to treat it as anything else. Even if I had not been able to…” Shei-tar’s gaze, the thought alone was enough to turn his stomach. He cleared his throat roughly. “The prince does not resent you. In truth, you might be one of the few men he actually respects.” He caught Crosus’ gaze. Held it. “As for me... I saw you by his side.”
Another memory, clear as day, flashed behind Riin’s eyes. It was of Crosus, crouched beside Adiran, a lone shape in the middle of the arena. It was of the crowd, roaring their shock, their approval, their delight at the blow that had flung Adiran, bodily, over and past the red-marked ring. It was of Crosus’ large hands, frantic but ineffective, tugging at the suffocating prince’s ruined plate...
Crosus just raised his brows. “You did, did you?” When Riin met his gaze and nodded, he gave another low grunt. “Huh. You know, most folk thought I was trying to finish him off. Already had three offer to buy me a drink for it.”
For whatever reason, that shocked Riin. “What?” He rose half-way out of his chair, heat and anger rising like a storm beneath his skin. “Who? Show me.”
“Easy,” Crosus said, voice concerned. He rested a large hand on Riin’s shoulder, urging him to sit down. “Relax. It’s nothing personal against your prince. Just their small way of spitting in the eye of that shit they call a King.”
Somehow, that didn’t comfort Riin. The indignation he felt on Adiran’s behalf rose like bile up the back of his throat. But at the same time... he supposed he could empathise. He’d like nothing more than to spit in the King’s eye himself, if he knew no one else would have to suffer for it.
Slowly, he complied with Crosus’ request, sitting back down, catching his flagon as the northerner slid it back towards him. He took another drink, still bitter. Still sure he hated the idea of people wishing harm on Adiran just to hurt his father. “The prince,” was all he said after a moment, feeling strangely tired. Simply correcting Crosus was easier than acknowledging the rest of what he’d just said. “Adiran is the prince, not my prince.”
If he’d bothered to look up from his ale, Riin would have seen Crosus raise a dark brow at that. Would have seen the way he smirked slightly and shook his head. Instead, the only thing Riin caught was his final, amiable shrug.
“As you say,” Crosus replied. Then he sent for another round.
Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 5 #Fictober20 prompt. This one was, ah... a fair bit harder to merge. But I did my best!
This piece is set about 10 years prior to the events in Stonebreaker, focusing on the aftermath of the War of Chains (I might include it as a flashback or an interlude between parts - I have yet to decide).
The pale stone walls of the war room seemed too bright that morning. Garish, pristine, uncompromising. Perhaps it was fitting, given the group that currently crowded around the replica map. The undulating landscape of central Peiora was crafted with minute and painstaking detail, spanning from Talvera all the way to the Bleakwood. It used to be the map that encompassed all of the Allied Kingdoms. Now Valcreta, the City of Artifice, stood like a stain at the southwestern corner. A reminder of their failure.
Breathing out, Dassian Varo, War King of Signea, High King of the Allied Kingdoms, found himself staring at that spot. One of the mapmakers had painted the area gold, the colour used to denote Khathi Empire territory. It was recently done; the paint was still tacky, its damp gleam visible in the mid-morning light.
Where had we gone so wrong?
Of course, Dassian knew. He knew when the decree had been passed, though he had been too much of a fool to admit it. The idea of it - freedom for the bondsmen throughout the Allied Kingdoms - had been something he had supported for years. Decades, even, though perhaps he had been less vocal in his youth. Less self-assured. Less powerful.
Divider’s Own, what he would give, now, for even half the confidence he used to have.
Deep down, Dassian had known it wasn’t truly about freedom. It never had been. But his doubts at the time had simply been outweighed by his belief that, sometimes, intentions didn’t matter. What mattered was the result. It was hard to imagine that any man or woman, when freed from their chains, would care about whether it was done for the ‘right’ reason. All that mattered was that it had happened. Their lives were now their own, to do with as they pleased.
Or, at least, that had been the ideal, sold to them just under two years ago. It had been the start of Felling, when High King Leoric had called a meeting of the rulers. He remembered it vividly - the trees had just started to change, soft leaves turning crisp, red bleeding into green...
“Your Majesty?”
Stirring, Dassian blinked and tore his gaze from the map. Crowded around the table stood his closest advisors. They were the only people, so soon after ascending to the throne, that he was willing to trust.
To his right stood Faldoran Crestus, his well-cared sword eternally strapped to his side. Dressed in a thick doublet, the courtly attire was barely able to contain his powerful form; an incongruity that only emphasised the man’s obvious discomfort. Recently promoted to Marshal, he was now expected to attend all meetings pertaining to Signea and her defense - a fact that, upon its discovery, had twisted his scarred face into a perpetual frown. They did not always agree on matters, but Faldoran was the only man Dassian could have chosen for such a vital position. The only man he trusted to replace him.
Next to Faldoran, a wooden writing board resting along her forearm, was Alessia Torvul, the former king’s Cipher. The woman, with pale Talveran skin and copper hair, was a handful of years his senior, and carried each of them with pride. She met Dassian’s gaze without a moment’s hesitation, green eyes calm. Knowing. Encouraging. Most had assumed he would not trust her, given her proximity to King Leoric and his family. They had assumed he would petition other Cipher families for a replacement.
They had assumed wrong.
Finally, a short man stood on Dassian’s left, his brown hair thinning, his stomach straining against a dark leather belt. As though sensing Dassian’s thoughts on him, he cleared his throat. “Ah, if you please, your Majesty. With Valcreta being... u-um… well, I how should I put this---”
---“Unacceptable,” Dassian snapped, dark eyes flashing dangerously as they cut across to the man. “Try again.”
Hemlan stiffened, mouth dropping open in shock. Dassian had expected that response from him. He’d always been spineless. But Alessia’s frown, scalding him with disapproval from halfway across the room, was his cue that he had genuinely misstepped.
Stop it. You need these people on your side. All of them.
Sighing, Dassian leaned forward, pressing his hands to the lacquered edge of the table. “I apologise, Hemlan. Please, just... say what you mean.” Divider, he was tired. It didn’t seem to matter how much he slept. Not that he slept well, alone in a room large enough to house an entire platoon. “King Leoric may have ruled by platitudes, but I have no patience for them.”
Even as the words left his lips, Dassian winced, wishing he could take them back. There he went again. It was never wise to disparage a fallen monarch; certainly not before his funeral had even taken place. This meeting was a mistake. He should have waited another day. Divider, he was almost too exhausted to even feel ashamed of himself.
Almost.
“This has been… a trying campaign, your Majesty. A few improprieties behind closed doors are to be expected.” To his surprise, the timidity in Hemlan’s voice had all but vanished, even after the undeserved reprimand. By the time Dassian looked back at the man, his entire demeanour had already shifted. He stood straighter now, pale gaze regarding the map, the thumb of his right hand hooked into his belt. Bemused, Dassian sent a questioning look to Alessia, who simply shrugged, a faint smile tinging her lips.
I see.
He’d always wondered how a man like Hemlan had found his way into a position as coveted as Court Advisor. In truth, he was only even present at Alessia’s insistence. Whenever he had spoken to Hemlan in the past, the man had been a stuttering mess, barely making eye contact, frustrating him with his sweating and apologising and bumbling until…
Dassian froze.
… until he had told Hemlan whatever he wanted to know, just to make him leave.
“If I may,” Hemlan continued, tugging Dassian from his quiet revelation, “it is important that we discuss the potential of a Khathi assault. With Valcreta now a viable waypoint for their army and their knowledge of our weakened forces, the threat is greater now than it has been since the conception of the Allied Kingdoms.”
The Allied Kingdoms. Their formation had been a defensive maneuver, spurred by King Leoric at the beginning of this reign. That had to have been, what… twenty years ago? More?
Where had the time gone?
“Have the armies patrol the western border,” Dassian said. “I trust we still have the numbers for that?”
Faldoran nodded, arms folded, the heavy shelf of his brow almost casting a shadow over his eyes. “We do. But I wouldn’t waste any soldiers down by Tel Shival.” He leaned forward, tapping a gloved finger on the swath of blue directly east of their current location. “The Pale’s still swollen from the thaw up north, so all those feeders running into the marsh will be full to bursting.” He shook his head, straightening. “No - there’s no fear of an army getting through that way. Not at this time of year.”
It was true enough. Even their own army had been forced to swing north, bypassing the Crossroads, adding a full two-turns to their journey. In any other circumstance, ten days would have felt like nothing. But among exhausted soldiers, wounded, hungry, battle-worn…
Alessia shifted her footing. “If I may? It would still be beneficial to build more outposts along the southern outskirts. If nothing else, we will find ourselves better positioned once the weather changes.” She glanced at Faldoran, who just grunted, then returned her attention to Dassian. “If we cannot spare soldiers for the task, I imagine there are a number among the recently liberated seeking paid work.”
“Yes. Good. See it done.” As Dassian replied, he noticed that Alessia was actually transcribing the discussion, her quill scratching away over the parchment with her usual ruthless efficiency. Of course. This is all official, now.
However, more importantly, Alessia had raised a valid point. In Dassian’s opinion - one he shared with many - the handling of the bondsmen had been one of Leoric’s greatest failings. Of all the kingdoms who had implemented the decree, the High King himself had taken the most indolent approach. He had simply declared the owning and trading of bondsmen a criminal offense, signed a few papers, and considered the matter resolved. Even back then, he had already been fixated on the war with Valcreta - the war he knew was coming. He’d lost sight of his own citizens at the very moment they needed him most.
Of course, many of the former bondsmen were resourceful. Some grouped together, forming their own communities in the kingdom’s outskirts. Some stayed put, joining the more welcoming towns and cities where they had grown up or lived out a good portion of their lives. Some returned to their homelands, seeking families that may or may not still be waiting for them. But others? Others struggled, without property, without work, without support, cut off from their pasts, uncertain of the futures.
The rest just left Signea entirely, once they realised the extent to which the King had forgotten them.
To some, High King Leoric was beloved. To others, his shortcomings were simply too great and too many to overlook. Dassian had yet to decide in which camp he intended to raise his own flag.
Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and drew a deep, slow breath. He could feel the concerned gazes of his closed council on him, but chose to ignore them for the moment, collecting himself, gathering his thoughts. After all, Alessia and Faldoran had seen him in far worse states than this - recently, too.
And Hemlan?
Well, Hemlan seemed willing and able to adapt to whatever he needed, whenever he needed it. He had yet to decide if that was incredibly useful, or incredibly terrifying.
“Tell me,” Dassian said suddenly, “what are the people saying?”
At first, silence met his question. Alessia shifted, rolling back her shoulders, but seemed hesitant to respond. Even Faldoran somehow managed to look even more uncomfortable, his mouth drawn into a tense line.
That left Hemlan.
“It is… mixed, your Majesty,” the portly man began, clasping his hands behind his back. He kept his blue eyes fixed on the map, as though he somehow knew the last thing Dassian wanted was his scrutiny. “The sudden retreat from Valcreta was a surprise to many. Soldiers, common folk, and nobility alike.”
“Damn right it was,” Faldoran agreed, crossing his arms. “Had my work cut out for me, explaining that one to the soldiers. Reckon I got through to most of the ones that mattered, but…” He shrugged. “There’s always going to be mutterings. Just the way it goes.”
Dassian nodded stiffly. Of course he knew that. But still, somehow, he just wished he could make them see. Make them understand that it had to be done.
“Some call you a hero,” Hemlan continued, unfazed by the interruption. “Being named War King on the field of battle gained you favour among the more military-minded, as well as a number of noble families. But, as with all things, even the most valuable coin has two sides. Others call you a coward, some even going so far as to raise questions about the legitimacy of your ascension.”
“What?” Dassian stood up straight at that, alarmed. Not at the accusations of cowardice - he had expected those. Prepared for them. But the idea that he had somehow cheated his way to the throne? “There were witnesses present - several, high and low ranking alike. They have all made statements. On what grounds are they questioning it?”
“Unfounded grounds, your Majesty,” Hemlan replied quickly. “I apologise if I caused undue alarm. The accusations are not enough to pose any real threat, nor are they bold enough to outright denounce you...” He paused. Looking up, Hemlan studied Dassian’s face for a moment, gauging something. Then, he sucked in a breath, and added, “... yet. Right now, the war is still fresh, as is the memory of your coronation. It is important we continue to monitor these rumours, but at present, that is all they are.”
A cold feeling settled at the center of his chest. “At present,” Dassian repeated quietly. Divider...
Expression softening, Hemlan simply nodded. “At present, your Majesty.”
“We will be vigilant,” Alessia added, voice firm. “If the talk ever becomes serious enough to threaten your life or the stability of the kingdom, we will convene and act accordingly.”
Dassian nodded distractedly, then paused, realising something. She had stopped writing, leaving this part of their conversation off the official record.
So it’s that much of a concern, then.
“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Hemlan, report to me every second turn. I don’t want to find myself blindsided by any of this.” He shifted his gaze to Faldoran. “Marshal Crestus, meet with me this evening. We will discuss the fortification of the border in more detail then. For now, you are both dismissed.”
The two men nodded and took their leave, Faldoran snapping a sharp salute, Hemlan bowing low. That left him and Alessia, standing at opposite sides of the large map. Slowly, calmly, she went about organising her affairs, capping the small vial of ink, dabbing the tip of her quill against a piece of sponge inlaid in her writing board.
Dassian just watched her, silent, and waited for the inevitable.
“You can’t solve every problem in the kingdom on your first day, Dassian.” She glanced up, green eyes seeming to pierce right through him. They always did. “It will take many Kings - High, War, whatever you like - to fix the mistakes of the past twenty years. Even then, new ones will only rise to take their place.”
“Then what would you have me do?” he demanded. She had stood by him when so many had refused; believed him on the battlefield when his own men had started to doubt. Practically committed treason with him. He owed her more than he dared admit, but sometimes she drove him halfway mad. “Should I do nothing? Delegate my duties to others, like Leoric did? I can’t do that, Alessia. I’m not that kind of man.”
As he expected - as he feared - the Cipher just sighed. She didn’t seem disappointed. Not even angry or bitter. In fact, she almost seemed to have been expecting his exact response. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d written it down before he’d even said it. “Then it is something you will just have to learn, Dassian, whether you want to or not. That, and many other things.” She shook her head and stepped away from the map, angling towards the door. “Despite the way it is portrayed in the history books, ruling a kingdom is never done alone. The crown is a symbol. It is a kind of power, yes, but it is not absolute. You need to surround yourself with people. The right people.”
She began to walk out, shoes whispering over the floor tiles. “I’m not alone,” Dassian said as she passed by him, voice low, gaze averted. “I have you, don’t I? And Faldoran. Hemlan.”
Alessia paused. Just for a breath. “You do,” she said. “But we are not enough.”
With that, she bowed and left, her floor-length dress shifting gently with each step. Soon, the War King found himself alone once more, the light streaming in through the high windows suddenly too bright. Too damning, laying bare all of his flaws. There were certainly enough of them.
Rest, he thought, leaning his weight against the table, not quite trusting his legs to hold him. I just need to rest.
Then I can worry about fixing everything else in this damn kingdom.
Day 2 of @oc-growth-and-development’s OC-tober challenge and the @fictober-event. Another successful merging of the two prompts, which I think paired rather well today!
Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction)
Characters: Sylda & Valesha
Warnings: descriptions of blood, language
“Act natural. We’re being followed.”
Sylda’s spine stiffened, her shoulders rising, her grip on the leather-wrapped bundle tightening as she clutched it to her chest. “What?” she breathed. She didn’t dare speak louder than a whisper, ears straining, hairs rising on the back of her neck and arms. On either side, the walls of the buildings rose two storeys high, their crumbling stone and sun-bleached wood giving the alley a ghostly, forgotten appearance. It was unsettling at the best of times, yet alone in the middle of the night. “Val, you’d better not be messing with me. This isn’t funn--”
Beside her, Valesha continued her ambling stroll, one hand buried in her pocket, the other swinging casually by her side. Lanky, with knife-cropped hair and a face full of sharp angles, most readily mistook her for a young man. Wandering about after dark in her loose shirt and trousers only enhanced the effect. While Valesha’s posture gave nothing away, it was the look she shot, dark but burning like hot coals, that silenced Sylda mid-sentence.
“Shut up,” Val hissed. The hand in her pocket shifted slightly, adjusting its grip on something. “Behind us. Left side.” The silver light from Anayh, the smallest but brightest moon, cut the alley at an angle, illuminating the taller woman’s head and shoulder. “Just keep walking.”
Mustering the faintest of nods, Sylda did as she was told, continuing forward, heart stammering. Her arms and legs seemed to vibrate, palms sweating as nervous energy coursed through her. The awkward bundle pressed to her chest suddenly felt uncomfortably heavy. Uncomfortably obvious, like a beacon to every thief and cut-purse looking for an easy mark.
Gods above and below, why did we have to take the alleys?
It wasn’t their territory. The Copper Hawks owned the rooftops - everyone knew that. It made for risky travel and easy escapes, the two often balancing each other out among their less skilled members, but serving the veterans well. But some jobs didn’t lend themselves to running along ridges and leaping between eaves. This time, it was the weight of the parcel and the delicacy of its contents. One wrong step on a rooftop, and the entire job would have been for nothing. She didn’t even want to imagine Davros’ face if that happened. No, Sylda was not going back to the nest empty-handed. Not again.
Never again.
“Drop!”
Valesha’s voice was a whip, cracking through the alley. Immediately, Sylda threw herself forward, twisting mid-air to keep the satchel skyward. Her back struck the broken cobbles, a shock of pain ringing from her spine to her teeth as she clutched their prize to her chest, both arms wrapped over it like a scaly creshek guarding its egg. Inside, she felt something creak slightly, but nothing seemed to to crack of splinter. Maybe it was true what everyone said, and The Errant Queen really was watching over her.
Or maybe the goddess was just biding her time.
Even as Sylda fell, Valesha was moving. She spun, heel grinding against the ground, her hand a blur as it snapped from her pocket and sent something bright and curved whistling into the dark side of the alley. Sounds pierced the thrum in Sylda’s ears; a yelp of shock, a wet wheeze, boots scrabbling frantically over dust and stone. Valesha, now facing into the alley, already had the tip of another talon jutting from between her thumb and forefinger, arm poised for a second throw. Sylda used to fall asleep to the sound of her practicing, the thud of the curved metal biting into wood strangely comforting as she hit her mark over and over again.
This time was no exception.
As Valesha positioned herself in the center of the alley, Sylda pushed herself further towards the street, careful not to lose grip on the leather-wrapped bundle. Distance is your friend, girl. Find it. Strike from it. Flee towards it. Just past Val, two shapes were moving, one stumbling out of a side alley, the other hanging back, hesitant to follow. As one of the figures - a man with stringing black hair and a close-cropped beard - spilled into the light, he fell to his knees, hands groping at the side of his neck. Throat tight, Sylda could only watch as he tugged - once, twice, three times - the warning on her tongue unable to make it past her bloodless lips.
Don’t. Don’t try to pull it out.
On the fourth try, he succeeded. Val’s talon ripped free, the hook halfway up its length tearing through flesh, taking a chunk of his neck with it. The silver light made the blood appear black as it sprayed then pulsed in hideous gouts from the wound. The man, panicking, tried to stem the flow, but his hands were clumsy and shaking. It was over in seconds. With a final judder, fingers straining, eyes wide with shock, he slumped to the side. Limp. Lifeless.
There was still one more.
“Last chance, little rat.” Valesha’s voice was colder than the steel at her fingertips. She had never been a warm person, but something about her, half-washed in moonlight, a corpse framed by the stance of her legs, sent a shiver across Sylda’s skin. “Run back home before I change my mind.”
The sound of footsteps fading into the distance was Sylda’s only clue that their second tail had taken Valesha’s sage advice and fled. Breathing hard, she slowly struggled to her feet as Val knelt beside the dead body, hands patting along his limbs, hunting for hidden pockets, pieces of paper, something to sell. By the time Sylda was standing again, her breathing leveling out, Valesha had returned empty-handed, a sour look pinching her narrow face. “Fucker could have at least had some sicets on him,” she muttered, then held up her bloody talon. “Look at this shit. By the time we get back, it’ll be all dried on. I’ll be stuck for hours scratching it off.”
It was a little hard to feel sympathetic, all things considered. Luckily, Val never wanted anyone’s sympathy, yet alone Sylda’s. Muttering darkly, the woman shook it once, scattering tiny droplets on the alley wall, then shoved it back in her pocket. Lovely.
As Valesha beckoned her over to check the parcel, Sylda found her eyes drifting back to the corpse. She’d thought he was an old man, at first. The way he moved seemed stilted, like the grind had set itself deep in his bones. But up close, she could see she was wrong. Lying in a pool of black, his skin was still smooth, his hands dirty and stained but unmistakably youthful. If she had to guess, she might have placed him in his mid-twenties. Certainly no more than thirty dry seasons.
And now, he was dead.
She supposed it wasn’t so bad. Most barely made it halfway before meeting similarly ugly fates.
“Sylda?” Valesha’s voice tugged her attention away from the body. She was frowning, her dark brows angled sharply down as she readjusted the bundle’s leather wrapping. “What’s the matter with you? You’re acting like you’ve never seen blood before.”
Of course she had. As much as any of the others. Probably almost as much as Val, who had been in this business from the day she could walk. But, strangely, it wasn’t the dead man that had her so unsettled.
“You let the other one go.”
Val stepped back, jaw tightening, expression closing off. “So? Got a problem with that?”
They started walking again, faster than before, not wanting to linger. Even though most of the grey coats patrolling the streets turned a blind eye to murders among thieves, it was still never a good idea to be caught with a fresh body. You never knew when one of them might actually feel like doing their job. Swallowing, Sylda hurried to keep pace, Val’s long legs leaving her scampering.
“I just… didn’t expect it, that’s all.”
“Yeah? Why not.”
This was dangerous territory. Sylda had to choose her next words carefully unless she wanted to be sleeping alone for a turn or two. “It’s just… you always say that if you’re going to make a kill, you’ve gotta do it once and do it right. Mercy just seems…”
Sylda trailed off, knowing she was toeing a very fine line. Luckily, Valesha seemed strangely willing to continue the thread. “It seems like taking the easy way out.”
Feeling a little sheepish, Sylda just nodded. It wasn’t that she thought mercy was weak. It as just... unusual, given who they were. What they did.
“C’mon, Sylda.” Val shook her head sharply. It was clear she was still on edge, all senses on the look-out for trouble. “Killing some idiot in a back alley? That’s the easy part. That sorry bastard didn’t stand a chance. But knowing when to let them go…” Pausing to check their surroundings, the pair exited onto the street, crossing quickly before slipping into an even narrower alley on the other side. “Mercy’s a lot harder,” Val continued, finishing her thought as they made a left, then a sharp right, losing themselves in Yelen’s tangled warren.
In a way, Sylda supposed what she said made sense. Death was just death. Letting someone live had a lot more uncertainty involved.
“I guess he might be a problem, in the future.”
Val nodded. “He could be.”
Sylda glanced across, regarding her partner for a moment. The moon was higher now, and the shadows rushed to full the hollows of Val’s cheeks, making her appear unusually gaunt.
“But you don’t think he will, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why?” She adjusted her grip on the package, arms starting to ache now that the nervous energy had worn off. “I just don’t get it. How can you know something like that?”
“I never know. I just… get a feeling, sometimes.” As their surroundings grew more and more rundown, they slipped under a section of broken wall, only a few feet between its crumbling base and the dust-covered ground. Val paused on the other side to take the bundle from Sylda, allowing her to navigate the tight space. “This one tonight? He was just a fucking kid. Couldn’t have seen more than ten or eleven dry seasons.” She shrugged and, to Sylda’s quiet dismay, passed the bundle back once she was through the gap. Turning, thrusting her hand back in her pocket, Val led the through the abandoned building’s ground floor. “I guess I just ask myself: will killing this person make my life easier? If the answer is ‘no’, then...”
She shrugged, the gesture seeming to suggest the conversation was over.
Unfortunately, Sylda had always been good at ignoring those kinds of cues.
“What if he comes looking for you?”
Val scoffed, the sound echoing around the broken building. “Then he’s an idiot and I’ll go ahead and finish him off. But I really don’t see that happening. Do you?”
If he was as young as Val claimed, Sylda supposed she had a point. Besides, the kid hadn’t exactly caused them any trouble. Gods, he didn’t even bother trying to help his companion as he bled out in the alley. Knowing the way of the streets, there probably wasn’t any kind of bond between them. Just necessity. A set of eyes to watch your back, and report back if you die. Such was the way of things.
They walked in silence for a time, both women lost in their own thoughts. Sylda’s were split between her own doubts and the ache in her arms, but Val seemed unusually troubled. Her hand shifted in her pocket rhythmically, and Sylda could imagine the motion of her fingertips as they traced the talon’s wicked edge. One wrong move, and she’d be adding her own blood to the mix. She liked to play those sorts of games; test herself in strange, unsettling ways. Inevitably, she would slip up, then spend the rest of the evening glaring sullenly at her bandaged fingers.
Nope. Not on my watch.
“Well,” Sylda said, rolling her shoulders as they finally reached the last stretch of their journey, “I guess one good thing came of letting that kid go.”
“Oh yeah?” It was nice to hear a bit of humour back in Val’s voice. Her dark brown eyes flicked across. “And what’s that?”
A playful smile spreading across her face, Sylda nudged her with an elbow. “You don’t have to spend the night scratching blood off two talons.”
Rolling her eyes, Val groaned. But she slid her hand out of her pocket, reached across, and draped her arm over Sylda’s shoulders, so she figured her tasteless comment had been worth it.
“Wow. Morbid,” Val said. Then she grinned, and immediately set Sylda’s heart into an energetic flutter. “That’s why I like you.”
