Dawn, that state of being neither day nor night; of being something eternally new, was an infernal balancing act to pull off. Stray too far towards the Sunside pole and the daylight was strong enough to erode mountains. In the other direction of Icetide, vast expanses of glacier and gloom silently waited to chill any foolish soul that ventured there. But here, in the temperate belt where either the boldly brave or damnably stupid dwelled, the sun stayed relatively dormant on the horizon. Never fully rising to become day, never truly settling into night. Everything living here had built their lives on a blade's edge.
And mayhap under other circumstances, one would be hard-pressed to describe the palace halls of Dawn as anything less than pleasing. Majestic, gilded pillars of stone fashioned like trees and upheld the hall's second story. Above the gathered crowds, they blossomed into the vaulted arches where fluttering pennants of many colors and symbols hung under a mosaic of stained glass. Colors, in those areas that met with ample sunlight, were hushed into ethereal cream tones, but within the softer shadows, vibrancy and gilded glimmering was king.
Amid this beauty stirred the strange ecosystem of partygoers, diplomats, and peers of the realm that morphed from one abstract splotch to another. Each lost in a sea of others. Too loud at times if one wanted to make a relaxed conversation. Not that a tranquil hall would have stopped those present from occasionally screeching something barbed from behind a barricade of attractive smiles.
It was all still comparatively new, both the grand hall surrounding them and his own experience with diplomatic affairs. Even at a few decades of age, he, Prince Vennan Adharaid—or Adhar as he preferred—still felt overwhelmed by all of it. The dais, and the realm's power it reflected, masterfully struck an equilibrium between the extremes that characterized the domain of Dawn. To anyone who had been invited onto it at all, it was a statement. If it were a message of friendship or proof their people would not be destroyed, he couldn't say for sure. Knowing his Coronal mother, mayhap both.
Adhar himself was not quite so wise or dignified or even as skilled in the saddle or with spells. His strengths rested in the pursuit of life, delighting in the richness of nature and joint fellowship with others. Unfortunately, having a Coronal for a mother meant unwanted obligations would thwart those efforts frequently. Alas, he had discovered a place for himself in defending their people and living up to his family's ancient calling to connect the nobility and the commons. It had earned Adhar his mother's praise and also her veiled criticism toward his reputation for going about it licentiously.
In defense of him and the partners he had swooned, he was at least attractive. Tall, at least when compared to others of his species. That put him around the height of your average-to-short human. He sported umber-reddish hair tied into a short wolf-tail, light grey circles in the middle of his ebony eyes, shared his mother's sculpted complexion and was muscularly lean. Like all laressians, his ears tapered and twitched about intuitively—something that always seemed to entertain the humans he met. The Prince was distinctively adorned in the chivalric teals and golden livery of an officer's uniform and had no problem standing out in the crowd even without the verbose flamboyancy needed to compete otherwise.
"What kind of answer is that? Did you not understand the context, or were you confused as to what was being asked?" Dallia tilted her head. She was a beautiful human female just as new to adulthood as he was, despite the difference of how their respective people measured time around their shared sun.
Adhar idly touched at his chest, feeling for his father's pendant trapped beneath the layers of fabric. "I understood the question. All of it. I also know the man I want to be."
She frowned and softly kicked at the marble floor. Adhar glanced away, letting his eyes roam the crowds behind them. Mayhap steal one more look at a handsome lordling or find where that cute serving maid had gone—that one with onyx hair he believed to have a wonderfully impish flickering about her gaze.
"So then, given the question," Circe spoke up, "would that make you the honest man? Or the gullible one?" Circe was more simply dressed then Dallia, but the wit concealed behind her eyes was considerably sharper.
So be it.
Adhar dug into a pouch and brought his hand to bear before them, displaying a small seedling pinched delicately between two fingers. As if on command, a fissure worked across the seedling's cell, allowing it to stretch out, to yawn as it awoke. Its rapidly growing petals met the purifying glow of morning light, causing the flower to swiftly bloom into its dazzling mix of beige and alabaster pigments. Intricately grown, proud, yet ethereal. Its ghostly roots had woven through each other and back across the stem, making it look like a work of gilded art—if one had disregarded how it was magically doomed to a self-devouring destiny.
"Beautiful," Dallia exclaimed.
He moved to place the flower between her brown curls. She grasped his hand with a grin and plucked the delicate blossom from it.
Adhar pursed his lips and glanced back at Circe to answer her challenge. "Well, if you speak falsehood to any plant or beast, will they believe you? Will they murmur one back? Perhaps lying should not come as naturally as you excuse it to be?"
Dallia was still looking at the flower, rolling it in her grasp. "Is this why you are a Prince of the Leaves?"
"Naturally." Adhar gave her a dimpled grin. He shifted closer and guided her hand, flower in tow, to her hair. "There may be many gardeners who would be delighted to show you how a flower blooms under their touch, Mam'selle, but I wield a finer mastery over my craft than all of them."
"Uh-huh." Circe folded her arms, unamused.
"I see you ladies require a demonstration—"
"On the contrary." The Coronal's sharp eyes cut through him from across the dais, like a warning shot to not get any closer. "That is not where a Prince's service to his realm lies."
So much for that.
The Coronal herself, Vennan Syhrel, echoed the projected strength of Dawn. A decorated turban of red and gold enveloped her hair and neck, covering her red-turning-silver hair that was so prominent among their family. The headdress was crowned with shimmering jewels that swooped down the sides and swayed back up in beaded loops. Ornate patterns of white ink dotted her muscular limbs, emulating the heavenly evening sky across her skin in harmonious opposition to the lighter tones of her clothing. A light silk mantle draped around her shoulders, its pinkish reds and warm violets vying for dominance with every shift in the stoic sunrise. The Coronal's elegant vestment concealed a feather-scaled cuirass she had not the trust the give up, even here. A sword that was as much the Coronal's right as any throne was fastened easily at her hip, and her hand rarely departed its vicinity.
Lord Mirrack, the leader of the human delegates, casually paced closer to his sovereign mother. He towered over her, remarkably close and imposing. Adhar saw his mother's spymaster put a supportive hand on her back in response. "Oh, don't take the actions of the young so seriously. I know it's hard not to, still growing into your sovereignty yourself." Mirrack clasped his hands in front of him. "But you need not enforce presentations with us. One day you'll be a true enough ruler, it will not matter."
"Today." Syhrel folded her arms. If he was awaiting her to take a step back, she didn't. Her eyes locked with his.
Mirrack chuckled, backing up first. "Oh, right, you don't have nights here. A very amusing joke, my lady." He turned to Vhasden and with mirth spread his palms out to his sides. "I can't wait to share that bit of humor back home!"
He felt Dallia wrap her weight around his arm. "What if you steal us away, you know, for a dance?" She winked.
"A dance would have too much cultural significance." A grand and vigorous dance between partners was, historically, how a Prince or Princess of the Dawn would signal to the rest of the court they had found a worthy match. It signaled the moment for any last ditched schemes of love and discrediting had to begin immediately, or risk accusations of plotting against the royal family after the marriage.
Dallia rolled her eyes. "Ughh, I have already spent too much of my youth listening to old people dully talk about nothing important."
He heard Rhom, his human squire and dressed in the livery of Dawn, huff from behind him. "There's only a few in all the realms who could hope to slip past the spymaster. And as soon as she knows, the Coronal would too."
Adhar's eyes shot to the figure spoken of, who was busy watching everything but him and his immediate companions. She hadn't looked their way all 'evening' — a relief. A lifeless body of arcane and bone, Nyhlaphir looked as ambiguous and intimidating as she was ancient. And dead.
It never sat well with Adhar—or anyone he knew for that matter—that necromancy was used to preserve a woman already animated unnaturally longer than she should have ever lived. Some, himself included, wondered if his mother had grown to grieve the decision to check death from claiming her friend. Nyhlaphir had died about the same time Adhar had been born, sacrificed in an unholy ritual to an atrocious deity—and mayhap that was why his mother had chosen the reckless way of saving the soul from a fate far worse. For that act, he had never seen the spymaster show an inkling of happiness or affection, even to her longtime friend and disciple, his mother. He shivered whenever he found himself in her presence, and it never got any easier. Who wouldn't grow uneasy when faced with an unnatural horror? With Nyhla's left arm severed just above the elbow, an unhealed cut around her neck, and a shawl of dark furs drooping heavily over her figure that would make it unbearably hot for anyone who wasn't a cold corpse, the least intimidating feature about the woman was her inanimate eyes that had dulled to resemble the white of a human's.
"Then we don't sneak." His bodyguard and best friend, Joren, leaned in and caused Dallia to startle. Unlike them, he was the only one in attire that could pass for both court and ordinary life. A remnant from a life as one of Nyhla's agents.
Dallia turned her head down at Adhar. "What does he mean?"
"That we find a way to wrap this up with a happy ending." Adhar gave her a comforting smirk she took as invitation to lean even more against him.
"Whose?" Vhasden was surprisingly challenging.
Adhar and his peers all turned their heads in the same moment, back to the dominate discussion. Their eyes darted as each worked to piece together what they had missed.
Mirrack cocked his head forward like a poet to their audience. "I'm of course speaking of arms. War. And a demon, banished by the mercy of fortune."
"A demon? You must be mistaken." The pleasant expression of the charming and ever-cordial Vhasden, his mother's other crucial advisor, slipped. He wore creamy white leathers that, fashionably subtle, marked him as the wealthiest lord across numerous realms. He sported a mane of hair and light violet amidst his inkwell eyes. The man was preeminent amongst the endless line of admirers vying for Syhrel's hand, and the most trusted among any of her officials, save Nyhla. He had raised Adhar like a son in Alaion's vacancy. Tutoring the Prince on courtly customs, swordplay, economics, sorcery—everything Adhar knew about being a Prince of the Dawn came from the man's astute research and excellent understanding of good civility. To hear shock, and even a hint of distress in his voice, was unsettling.
Mirrack solemnly nodded. "I see you recall the ignoble urchin, Hesaphae?"
"Unfortunately, she is known to us." Syhrel remained stoic, but there was something else in there too, a sadness — a failing.
He wasn't used to seeing his mother express such feelings. Ever. He knew a little, but his lack of knowledge about what had transpired with the demon only added to his sense of uneasiness. Then he caught his breath. Did the humans catch that vulnerability just as he did?
"Before she escaped her chains, she mentioned to another slave about wanting to free her home. She means to raise an army among her kinfolk," Mirrack gravely eyed everyone in turn. "But fear not, Coronal, no one wants to see a demon queen on the throne of Dawn. You have our aid."
Adhar shook his head. "The conflict with the Vilhai is long over. They have no army to raise."
"Over? How can it be over if those demons are still there?" Dallia tugged from his arm.
That question took him aback. The wording, 'still there' reverberated in his thoughts like a warning bell, and the floor felt like it had dropped out from under him.
"Ending the conflict was my mother's first act as Coronal decades ago." He didn't turn to look at her.
Syhrel stepped forward without missing a beat. "And now the Vilhai enjoy the rights and freedoms of Dawn, same as all who dwell here."
Thank the Gods his mother was here. He didn't feel he commanded the level of diplomatic tact this was demanding of him, but just once he wished he didn't need her riding to his rescue.
She then trained her crisp focus on Mirrack. "Your information must be wrong. Hesapahe was disowned by her kin and never close with them."
"That doesn't make them any less of a threat. Merely one we might have neglected for too long." Vhasden placed his hands on his hips.
His words were left to marinate in silence.
As the grimace melted, Vhasden leered at Nyhla. "You should have ended her when she was still a babe."
Nyhla gave a duelist's nod, and her usually impassive features glowed oddly with a mother's pride.
"My dear Syhrel, we must act swiftly if we are going to stop her." Vhasden shifted closer to the Coronal's side.
From behind them, Rhom shuffled his feet against the marbled dais. "There aren't that many demons in the Lunar Realms. If her insurrection began there, how are the Vilhai who reside here related?"
Joren leaned over. "A note that could bring searches down on all non-laressian residents here, like yourself. I know you're still new to this, but try to stay silent."
"A demon is a demon. You cannot change what is under their hide," Circe added, loudly and without worry if anyone overheard.
Fortunately, his mother was busy looking Vhasden dead in the eyes. "And what would you have me do? Terror should not uphold the law."
"No? Prison, fines, restrictions of freedom, it's all based on the fear of State-sanctified discipline," Mirrack brandished and hammered his hands together like a lecturer.
Syhrel whirled on the human lord. She knocked Mirrack's hands away with a single backhanded flourish and locked her stone-cold eyes with his. She was already famed for having fought her exploitative nobles tooth and nail over such issues early in her reign, and for being ready to defend her legacy.
"You mean, you don't?" Mirrack faltered under her gaze. "What kind of realm are you governing here?"
Vhasden planted a grip on the Coronal's shoulder. "You'll have to forgive our fair Coronal. She's a soft heart." He pulled her back a step.
Mirrack presented Vhasden with a pleasant smile. "Oh. Of course, my friend. My forgiveness will always be bestowed liberally. If the lady Coronal can't stomach rounding them up into camps to be quick about the problem, might I suggest economics. The invisible hand of the free market is also the patient man's—"
"I will not permit any of my people to be murdered, by sword or by ledger." The Coronal cut her way to stand immediately in front of the human lord.
Mirrack looked disgusted. "Murdered? Is that any way to converse with a man who only desires to support you? Help you to police your realm from the lawlessness and disorder that's clearly seized it?"
"We're not your colony to police."
Mirrack's eyes narrowed. "I try. You know I really do try with you people."
"And you represent the ideal of a patient man," Vhasden calmly cut in before Syhrel could make a retort.
Mirrack looked at the two for a long moment and nodded. "That. That I do." He waved his forefinger in the air in acknowledgment. "Oh very well, my dear Coronal, would you not agree that with great power comes greater responsibility? That the strong have a right, a license, to intercede on behalf of those less fortunate? Well, part of that means that as the most prominent power in the realms, we have a responsibility to assist those unable, or unwilling, as the case may be."
Adhar slowly blinked, taking solace in those dark flashes when he could tune out the world. It was exhausting how often he heard unsolicited advice given to the sovereign of Dawn about how to govern her own Realm. He didn't envy it.
"And to be held at the mercy of your 'charity.'" Syhrel wrapped her sword hand around the hilt of the blade she wore.
The fracture in Mirrack's patience was noticeable. He pushed closer to her and pronounced in a deliberate, menacing tone. "Why must you make this so difficult? You can trust us; we are truly an exceptional realm. There's none stronger. But if you don't abide by our guidance, your people will turn on you. The deficit of commerce will starve them, and then we'll have no alternative but to intercede to re-establish the rule of law over your petty failed regime here. I've witnessed it a hundred times before. Just take our aid now, I beg it of you. For your people's well-being."
Syhrel's delicate mask, that stoic facade of confidence and composure, never wavered as she backed down. Adhar understood his mother better than that, however, and likened the movement to a predator deciding if she craved having the hunt all to herself, or if she should share.
"Good girl." Mirrack grinned from ear to ear.
She just smiled back. Cordially. Behind those patient, silvery eyes, in a part of her most fortunately never had to see, the predator had made its decision. Likely had formed it long ago and had found soothing pleasure from it in this trying moment.
Adhar took a deep breath and touched the pendant under his shirt and tunic. "And what 'aid' can you contribute on that front? This hellion has already outdone you on several occasions."
It was a serious inquiry, but Mirrack immediately spun on his heel, angling towards the Prince nonetheless. "And we bested you, lest you misremember your burning halls, or are you under the delusion this pretty heap of carved stone is Eos?"
That was not how he intended this to go, but there was a certain amount of enjoyment in invoking that reaction. He shrugged his shoulders. "Cannons outranged bows. What's your excuse for succumbing to, what? A ye-heigh petty fiendish pipsqueak?" The Prince presented a gesture of height that was almost childish. He didn't know how tall the demoness was, and honestly, didn't care.
Behind Mirrack, his mother shook her head almost imperceptibly. Her eyes were more forceful in their warning.
Yet it was Nyhla's steady and raspy voice that addressed him as she folded her boney hands together. "Must you reject every narrative presented to you? Temper yourself, my Prince; it only leads to aught."
Adhar stared at Nyhla as his mind processed the advice.
"Yes, yes. Listen to your spymaster, boy. It was her throat Hesaphae cut!" Mirrack leaned forward, eyes glistening. "I thought this particular succubus was better known to your court?"
Adhar had to tear his eyes away from their lock on Nyhla. Syhrel was still stoic, but Mirrack had turned to Vhasden with animated vigor.
Vhasden took a slow, controlled breath. "It's not a history we speak extensively about. Adhar, her wicked machinations go beyond the physical harm of murder and anarchy. She once attempted to scry for Alaion, using an old pendant of his. Those efforts made it painful for our beloved Coronal to accept the death of your father."
"She was only a child that wanted to help. And so certain of it. I made the mistake of believing her." Syhrel's arms criss-crossed in somber reflection.
"Oh, how awful!" Dallia moped beside him.
Adhar made sure his eyes didn't roll.
Circe sighed. "A painful lesson learned. What a horrible person to have ever considered an ally."
"Alas she doesn't have allies anymore. Now she has accomplices!" Mirrack slammed the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. "Anyone caught standing in solidarity with her, or assisting her in any way, are criminal. If you do not make an example of them now, more will follow." He wagged a firm finger at Syhrel. "Mark my advice, more will follow."
"Adhar and his men can hunt her down." Vhasden tilted his head towards the Prince. "I've instructed him well, and he's advanced further than any I've had the honor of cultivating before."
Mirrack eyed the Prince up and down. The human's fingers stroked the sides of his mouth as the long moment passed. "I suppose if he is as great as he's boasting..."
His mother didn't look pleased with the possibility. "And what of the lives of my people in the path of this inquisition?"
"What of them?" Mirrack's brow furrowed. "We'll end the threat she poses, and they will be safe from demonic machinations and dangers. Simple as that."
Adhar discerned what his mother was getting at. "Our realm, our justice." He spread his arms to the side, open and agreeable, but Mirrack was shaking his head. The man wanted more. "If Hesaphae eludes my grasp, confirming she is indeed somewhere in Dawn—which you have not established—only then will you be given the leeway to assist in hunting her. Until then, you will not deploy any of your men on our lands. Is this something we can agree to?"
That stayed any retort Mirrack had lined up.
"How can you still not want our help?" Dallia tilted her head and locked her big brown eyes on him.
Adhar turned to her. "If we are to be allies, should we not have the chance to present you our merits?" He winked at the final word.
Dallia reddened. "Oh. Oh yes. Yes, please."
"Not so fast," Mirrack stepped in. "Such details need to be concluded by real statesmen." He turned to Syhrel, "Forgive my daughter's careless utterances. She does not have the authority to accede to such a proposition, yet I'm sure we can ascertain common ground in the idea."
Adhar pressed his lips together, amused. Nonetheless, this was an opportunity. He looked around at his companions and the two female humans mingled amidst them. With a roll of his hand, he motioned away from the dais and suggested in a low voice, "Shall we? While they're boring each other."
Adhar's personal circle and the two flirts left the dais promptly. Adhar had anticipated an objection, but none of the older members of state ultimately lifted a finger or voice to stop them.
As eager as he was to saddle his unicorn mare to begin his pursuit of Hesaphae, he still had to entertain Dawn's current guests. And he wanted to have some fun on that count; it could be weeks before the hunt was over and he was back at the palace once more.
That was the thing with the hunt. Once it began, the most formidable creatures did not remain the prey. He didn't know how long he had before this monster would strike. And judging by the wound left on Nyhla's still-walking corpse, she wouldn't hesitate to dig her claws into his throat. It would be dangerous. He wanted to enjoy this last 'night' when partners could frolic carefree, and there was no requirement to set traps before laying down to rest.
And there was other work to do before setting off. The Prince would need to get into Hesaphae's mind. Grasp how this monster thought, what she was capable of, and everything she fancied and feared.
She might be mad in the wits, but there had to be some level of logic to construct such grand delusions.
Her murder of Nyhla had happened somewhere in the initial construction of these halls. When brought to task, Hesaphae had accused a quarter of his mother's court of conspiracy while proclaiming her own innocence. When that failed, she had managed to escape not just the Grand Keep that housed the palace, but the city itself and the justice of her death warrant.
It would be quite the hunt.
They exited the royal hall that held the antechamber and poured into the inner courtyard.
"I want to talk to her!" A loud-mouthed human shoved at the peacekeeper who refused to move aside. He wore a ceremonial dress uniform that was somewhat out of date for an officer of Dawn. What's more, Adhar recognized the heraldry and colors—this man had fought beside his mother in the Hallowed Wars to reclaim Dawn.
The peacekeepers that barred him had only red shawls and crimson plumes shared between them; otherwise, they represented entirely different communities in their own right. One was attempting to share refreshments and pleasantries with the man until a representative of Syhrel's higher government became free to address his needs.
Joren must have caught Adhar looking at the man. He murmured to the Prince, "We should keep moving."
"No, no, I want to hear what this is about." Dallia redoubled her pace to the head of the group.
That was a grave idea. Adhar glanced in her direction and—
"Excuse me, sir?"
Too late.
Adhar hastened to the front of the group. "What passes here?"
The grizzled veteran turned to study the Prince and the human woman that gripped his arm when he came up beside her. While the man and Dallia were both human-kind, their kinship ended there. He didn't do much to check his sneer at seeing her on Adhar's arm. The stare he gave the Prince cut deep. "My boy. My boy never came home. He served in your unit when you went North, but never marched homeward."
Adhar blinked. This was absolutely not the discussion he desired to have in front of two delegates from the Lunar Realms. His mind raced, but all he could offer was a slow and shaky, "I'm sorry for your loss."
The man's eyes narrowed. He drove two fingers against Adhar's chest rapidly. "My loss? My loss?" he resounded in a sullen tone. "What was it you bought with my loss? With his life?"
Adhar didn't know how to respond to that. His mother would, Vhasden would, but Adhar? His mouth struggled, but no words formed.
"Was it worth it? Whatever hill he died on?"
The Prince grimaced. "That's for us to make it so. Every day." He craved to point out that he didn't know the man's name and thus wouldn't know where or how his son had fallen, although the painful truth was that he had a possible suspect in mind. One who had died to save the rest of a secretive expedition into the frozen wastes of Icetide—not to the North—albeit, he couldn't tell the man any of that even if his suspicion was correct.
"Then, why don't you? Why doesn't she? She made a promise that our people would be equals."
Oh. So there was more to this. It felt as if Alaion's pendant had grown heavier. The promise that brought the humans of Dawn into the war in the first place. A new society where all were equal. A world, they were still trying to build in all fairness. The man wanted the sacrifice to be meaningful, given he didn't—couldn't—know anyone else on the expedition or its purpose. "Has not my mother elevated many humans to positions in power?"
"Having some humans in power doesn't make it any less oppressive for the rest of us." That was not the response Adhar had been hoping for, nor was it something he could easily refute. "I fought alongside your mother in the war, but what has changed? We've only traded one lord for another."
The old veteran spat at him, and Adhar paced backward.
"All so you can play the whore for outsiders." The man pointed viciously at the steadfast Dallia and Circe. "Who would enslave us, laressian and human alike, all in the name of their profit. Equally oppressed was not the equality we had in mind." The man flung his hands up. He spun on his heel, leaving a trail of verbal curses in his wake.
Circe had her eyes on Adhar.
"Nothing I can do for him." Adhar's shoulders slumped. "I don't have the power to change what he wants to be changed."
Rhom broke ranks with the group, considerately slipping past Adhar and the girls to follow the man into the masses. He stopped the vet with a hand on the shoulder, and the two began to exchange words. Between the still roaring crowd and the distance, anything stated was utterly drowned out.
"But you're a prince," Dallia pointed out.
Adhar nodded quietly and turned to her. "My mother has won the office since its reestablishment, but our Coronals are elected. My only power comes from my rank in the army."
Circe wasted no time. "Not a real Prince of the Dawn? So you can't just order it and 'so shall it be'?" She parodied a look of disappointment. "That's a pity."
Dallia peered up at him. "Then why doesn't she change it?"
"Politics," Joren answered. "You can't keep the rich and powerful satisfied if you make them share."
Before him, Adhar saw the vet abruptly clutch Rhom. With blinding speed, he wrapped his arms around the squire and patted the man on the back as if they were old friends.
Rhom leisurely made his way back to the group.
"That was impressive. What did you say to him?" Adhar clapped a hand on his squire's shoulder.
"I told him to go home and mourn his son, and reassured him that a better world is still possible."
Circe furrowed her brow. "What can a squire promise that a prince cannot?"
Rhom fumbled with the red bracelet on his wrist. "Solidarity." He shrugged as they advanced through large oaken doors on the flanks and into the corridors.
Circe huffed. "With the peasantry? What a way to inspire cowardice in rule."
A human love song was echoing through the hall, with verses spun by a musician the humans had brought with them. "And see here the truth of your heart, as the wild stars in your eyes shine and when we shall share more than wine, know then, Dearest, that you are mine."
"And see here the truth of your heart. Be not some puppet on a string, stand tall, and you'll be your own king. Then on your hand, I'll place my ring." From all the corners of the hall, the song's score swelled, and the singer's tone dropped to a romantic murmuring.
And then, as prideful musicians and partygoers are prone to, a verse from another song blared out over the human's melody. "No one can number the sorrowful tears cried when Eos fell; of martyrs lost, and loved ones died. Yet under her banner, we, unbroken, still dwell. Hail Syhrel, Queen of Heaven and Queen of Hell!"
Circe, he noticed, cringed.
The noise of the celebration slowly dwindled as they left the roaring crowds behind them. Corridors of pillars, fashioned to resemble the trunks of trees and crowned with living vines, welcoming birds' nests and modest fruits in their branches with orbs that cast faint reflections of light into the shadows stretching before them. Great works of art, ranging from paintings to sculpture to tapestries, were installed between the pillars. The celebration centered on the halls and courtyards, but the entire palace was decorated—albeit for a separate occasion. The anniversary of the Long Eve, a dire time in their history, was nearly upon them.
It wasn't a celebrated time of the year so much as a period of contemplation, although the people partook in whatever practices worked for them. This time of year, the branches also held dangling masks and turnips carved with both frightful and welcoming faces—depending on the artist's take of their ancestor's spirits. Anything to keep the dead placated or too terrified to cross the veil.
Typically, the outside gusts that swiftly fled before the sun's relentless heat would hit the magical wards and slow to a tender airflow that kept the palace comfortable and their roaring melody changed to be more pleasing to the ears—a natural orchestra that never grew tired or lacked creativity. Now it had gone dreary as if the spirits had given their low choir a song.
Adhar took the lead into the corridor. "Strength comes from the masses. From each other. To quote my father."
Circe eyed him. "Does it?"
"Is that an altar to…?" Dallia paused, nibbling at her lip before barging her way into the first chamber they passed. "...the Masked Gods?"
Adhar nodded, pleased that she knew that much. The triptych altarpiece occupied the room's back wall, depicting all the winged and masked personalities of the pantheon, their iconography bold and clear to see, watching—possibly commanding—the dancing characters in the center. "A map of the realms." He pointed. "Day, Night, Dawn."
Day, a bright and proper lad swinging between twin brothers clad in white and gold respectively; Night, in her faintly phosphorescent dress of icy darkness, eternally deciding which of the three luminous brothers she aspired to dance with next; Dawn was shown to be a feminine vae, always facing the sole brother closest to the center.
He noticed that Dallia only glanced briefly at the trio, her eyes going instead to the figures at the fringes of the dance, the ones from the Lunar Realms. These were presented as human children skipping around a pregnant mother in a misty golden gown.
"My Kaslión." She sounded like she was quoting from rote memory. "With her spinning rings. The twins, Irasil and Itris swaying together. Shy Atora in his fur coat. Magnificent Orelia carrying baskets of grains and berries."
He noticed her brow furrow at the strewn corpse also exhibited among them, pierced by an arrow from the laressian god of death and war and abandoned to be tidally sundered into dust among the sea of stars.
He didn't offer up that bit of dark history.
Circe tenderly guided the younger woman out of the chamber. "If that proverb were true, none of us would need the Gods. Yours, or the One."
They passed a simplistic red banner of strips and shredded material, sewn back together into a discolored flag. Painstakingly petrified and warded, given the dangerous hazardous material that made up the artwork.
Dallia and Circe glanced at the exhibition with a subtle mix of dread and disgust, speeding up their pace.
But Adhar had always found himself uplifted here. The survivors of Eos had cut and fashioned bandages from anything they could to help the wounded. Including the banners. Every silver and gold banner from the Hallowed War to reclaim Dawn, every house pennant, every bit of cloth that carried the seal of the realm, was dyed horrific red in the blood of the wounded and soon-to-be martyrs before long. Shared blood, indistinguishable, spilled by laressians and humans alike. He beamed. "Mayhap we don't."
Circe inclined her head. "How did your father die?"
"Why do you care?" He cocked an eyebrow.
Circe paused in front of a statue of Syhrel, and everyone followed suit. "I want to know if they burned him as a heretic for these beliefs."
Dallia's face drooped. "Circe! You can't just say something like that." She hid her face in her hands as her skin reddened. "Adhar, I'm so sorry."
She turned from the Prince, not daring to make eye contact, and glanced around as she dragged her hands down her face. Dallia stood with her back to him, facing the sculpture of Syhrel drawing her sickle-shaped sword and poised to hold it high over her head. From beneath, the laressian God of war and death pushed the blade through the stone. His followers, a penumbral court of individuals cloaked in fur, hides, and sown-skin surrounded Syhrel like onlookers to a handfasting.
Adhar stepped up behind Dallia, encompassing her in his arms. "Quite alright. She's only blowing what I stated out of all proportion."
A haunt of microraptors snarling their way into the hard shell of a crab echoed from somewhere off in the labyrinth of branches.
Circe planted her hands on her hips. "Then, what is the proper conclusion to draw?"
Dallia slipped out of his hold to traverse further down the hall and study a massive fresco.
The Prince shrugged and sauntered after Dallia.
"Then what is the proper conclusion to draw?" Circe repeated.
He ignored her—giving her the satisfaction of heated response wasn't worth it—as he came to gaze upon the piece that captivated Dallia's attention.
A ring of Vilhai danced their circle, wearing red cloth over their features with flora springing up from under their feet, as they toiled over some spell. Some had the bat-like wings and horns the humans might have expected in their dealings with Hesaphae, but several had feathered wings similar to the birds of the air or the wings of butterflies. In their midst was a cluster of human children—a boy with a black band across his face with blood seeping from where his eyes should have been beneath it, another lithe limbed boy with huge hand marks around his neck, a girl with a shredded dress and a babe in her arms, and another lass who was busy creating a massive five-pointed star in the soil with a black-hilt knife. They bore the red cloth too, a clear sign they were ensorcelled never to desire a return to their homes.
It was how humanity had come to inhabit Dawn, or so the myth went.
Dallia turned her head toward Circe. "Why not conclude they have faith in their community? I can see how that could be beautiful."
"And yet..." Circe closed the distance and took a glance at the fresco. "If you look closely enough, you can detect the rot of it."
Adhar silently clenched his fists when she wasn't looking, but he did catch Dallia shooting Circe a glare as sharp as a dagger.
They two women whispered something between themselves. He couldn't make it out.
The party proceeded to a junction, greeted by a grand relief of the last known Prince of the Dawn who actually belonged to the royal family. The God of Death and War, name unknown to all but his followers, was returning the Prince's broken body to the world, and into the arms of Death's unwilling consort who awaited him with a sword-steel crown in hand.
"I'm sorry Adhar, I don't mean to sound so crass." Circe opened her hands condescendingly wide as she led, guided down the next corridor by Adhar's directions. "We worry you might get hurt."
Joren coughed up a laugh. "By what?"
Circe shrugged. "How would I know? They're his beliefs, not mine. I don't know how your vicious Gods would react to being told they're not needed." She gestured at the winged figure of the laressian deity towering over the familiar figures—he was too young to give his likeness to the old Prince when it was sculpted, so Vhasden was employed instead. Death's consort was modeled after Nyhla, of course. She sighed. "And belief always comes before actions. Just look at Hesaphae. She wouldn't be such a danger if she didn't believe something dangerous first."
Adhar chortled. Obviously.
Thankfully, they had arrived. His chamber door was unadorned and didn't stand out from the others arranged down the corridor. All the residential chambers at the palace were identical, from the Coronal’s to the peacekeepers’, and they all had the autonomy to determine what chamber best accommodated them. Some picked chambers closer to the great hall or their respective offices. Others for their magnificent views, or to be close to a family member who also lived in the palace. He had selected this room for the artwork that beset it.
The sculpture watching on the other side of the hall depicted none other than Alaion, his father. The man looked weary in his frayed tunic with his slovenly short curls matted together. A humble vaen girl, a child really, was assisting him in adjusting a sling around his broken sword arm as he sang words that stone could not record.
He knew the melody was soothing because of the masterwork of the craftsman had captured an eloquence that was both sorrowfully pained and hinted at a struggling smile through a cut lip. Whoever this protegé was—her identity was lost to history; he had checked—had Alaion's sword holstered casually over her shoulder. A dinner, little more than a pomegranate, was put aside behind her. Scraps of a torn standard acted as a crude bandage across her right leg and ribs.
It was one of his favorite works of art, sculpted by a soldier-turned-artisan named Aeld Sidhanei from under his father's command who had survived long enough to see their new capital established. Adhar had spent his darkest 'days' and sleepless 'nights' around this icon, taking solace in the reassuring image of his father. He would pretend that Alaion was soothing them both with his verses. And in turn, he emptied his deepest feelings to the only other ones in the palace that weren't donning a damn veil over their emotions all the time—even if they were, ironically, made of stone.
There was even a counterpart painting to it: Syhrel holding a burial torch before a meadow dotted with gleaming pyres. The dead who had returned that eve would never arise again.
Most found this section of art a bit morbid or a haunting remembrance of the Long Eve, but he hadn't been alive during that time. He didn't have those nightmares. All he cared about was seeing his father depicted as—well, as Adhar dreamed he would have known him. No shining armor, blood-stained armaments, or modeled in a way that made him feel inadequate. Here, Alaion was singing. Singing something soothing to assuage the fears of those around him. There was an appreciation for life captured by the stone. And across from it, his mother stood to confront the realm's worried faces—and the audience was given a perspective from beside her, which was what he typically observed.
It was a dark time, yes—but he had found the light in it and had chosen to wake up to it every 'day'.
There was something unusual about it this time.
Left at the foundation of Alaion's statue was an ebony flower, utterly alien to him.
He wandered over to pick it up, rolling it in his hand for examination: A violet stem with hastate leaves and black obcordate petals that girded the red heart of the flower. He held it up so the others could see.
Naturally, Dallia stole it out of his grasp.
"Those flowers are a common welcome home gift on Kaslión and Irasil, but they're not native to Dawn as far as I know." Dallia peered at it more closely. "Wonder how it got here."
A welcome home gift.
Adhar reached back and grasped at Joren's hand as discreetly as he could. He held it firmly as the seconds piled on. It felt like an eternity, but he didn't let go. Rhom caught on too and laid a hand on Joren's shoulder.
Joren could have stayed perfectly tranquil throughout the whole exchange, just as he did with the veteran, but Adhar knew him intimately enough to know better than to let him continue to do so. Today had already been trying. He knew his friend would be hurting under his hardened facade. Joren was torn from his family at a young age by human slavers in the campaign that saw Eos fall to the united armies under Kaslión and rescued by Nyhla's band that would later become Dawn's legendary spy network. There had never been a reunion for him afterward—no welcome home. If his family was alive, no one could find them. Too few records survived, and the child Joren couldn't remember sufficient information about them or where he came from, and too much of the population had scattered, went missing forever, or were dead.
Finally, Joren squeezed his hand back, signaling he was well. Adhar released his reassuring grasp.
He looked up to discover Circe had her eyebrow raised.
"It would have to be someone from your delegation." Adhar swirled his hand towards her in emphasis.
Circe shook her head. "We didn't bring any such gifts."
"We can stay here and look around." Rhom pointed to Joren and himself. "See if the person left anything else behind to identify themselves."
Joren grimaced. "We shouldn't leave—"
"The Prince is safe; they'll be at the end of the hall, and we'd be right here. Let them miss out on our fun." Rhom put a hand on Joren's chest. Their sprouting affection was no secret to Adhar, who occasionally accompanied them.
Adhar took the key from its ring on his belt and unlocked the door with the familiar metallic click of the lock turning open.
He took a ceremonious bow before the noblewomen, a welcoming hand with the palm up outstretching toward the room.
His chamber was decorated in warmly stained fabrics, artwork, and decorated vases containing scores of flowering shrubs—a venerable garden in itself. A desk of decoratively engraved heartwood was pressed up against the wall with an oil lamp, ink, quill, a dish of incense, and a pair of riding gloves resting atop it. No parchment, of course, because he had painstakingly readied the room well in advance to thwart any prying guests that were expected to end up here. A feathered bed also carved and assembled of the same dark redwood, sized to fit two easy-going laressians, was installed under the thin and tall skylights facing the open terrace encircled by the palace. His armor rested upon a mannequin, with the officer's plums sweeping up from the helm cozily resting at its side.
All as it should be; All carefully postured to convey precisely the narrative Adhar wanted the women to bring back with them.
Humans and vae might seem similar at first glance but they couldn't produce offspring together, yet there were other dangers to be mindful of.
Adhar reached for a pinch of incense from his desk—cultivated heartwood, herbroots, and grounded leaves—and blew them into the air. With an arcane wave of his fingers, and the cloud of material turned into silvery thin wisps woven around by an invisible censer. He let the air currents envelop them and muttered an arcane blessing for the sequential part of the spell. Magic toyed with nature's equation that balanced matter, sound, and light; some casting required creativity or layering to achieve the desired result, such as his simple banishing spell to ward off pathogens. And not everything sought after, such as healing, was truly possible to achieve with magic. All the more reason to put one's safety first and not rely on vague hopes that magic could clean up the mess.
He plucked Dallia's hand from her side as she passed and drew it up to his lips for a tender kiss. A fragrance of lavender and cinnamon met him.
She pushed in close to him, teasing the strings of his tunic free.
Once she had those released, she got to work on the belt.
Adhar grinned like a heedless fool. He placed his hands over hers and helped unweave the sword belt, dropping it by the rest of his armor.
She proceeded to pull his tunic off and dropped it on the floor.
Dallia put a finger to his lips and took a step back. She cast the mysterious bloom to the floor, released her hairpins to let her shimmering brown hair cascade across her shoulders, and commenced with peeling away her outer garments. Slowly.
The Prince grinned, delighting in the spectacle.
And oh, was it a sight.
Then Circe's hands landed on his chest and pushed him backward onto the feathered bed. He had just enough time to catch himself on his elbows before Dallia, who had liberated herself from most of her attire, pounced.
Her kisses were tender. Delicate. Planted, as if they were a row of daisies, down the Prince's chest.
Adhar ran fingers across her silky cheek and lightly over her shoulder. The other hand made an arcane sign, propelling forth a gentle charge of cool air between them, and a rolling caress of goosebumps across her skin followed.
And why not? The expertise to reach into a person's soul and craft something unforgettable was the storyteller's art. What poet would dare deny that included love, and therefore, was fair game for theatrics?
Now Circe was on him too, fixing a finger under his chin and compelling him to lean forward.
He accommodated, catching her lemon balm and honey scent.
Circe repaid him with a nibble on his lip, sweet and sharp.
Dallia gave a startled yelp, followed by a muted thud.
Adhar and Circe peered toward her only to find she had fallen onto the floor.
"Oh, oh you silly Prince," Dallia rubbed at where she had connected with the stone. To his surprise, she hadn't bothered to glance back up at him or Circe. "You don't have to hide your other girls under the bed."
Adhar blinked. "There's no one else in here."
He saw her bend over to get a better look at whatever, or whoever, she believed was beneath the bed. But there was no one there, so what was she looking at? "Aw, she's lovely. Look at those dark eyes and that lustrous black hair. You should come out and join us. We're quite accepting."
Adhar floundered. That couldn't be right. He leaned over when he saw Dallia reach under and extracted a vaen woman with onyx hair and the golden hue trappings of a public servant.
The stranger looked somewhat familiar.
He felt like he had caught a glimpse of earlier, but he saw many people at the celebration beforehand. Conservatively embellished for a vae of any gender with only red reeds bound in her onyx locks, but otherwise, she was essentially unnoteworthy in appearance. Rough and worn skin, small but healed cuts, and a faint hint of a limp in her right leg. Mayhap she could have been pretty even—if fate only had the compassion to spare her from a few more hardships.
His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing in here, miss?"
She answered with an unsure simper—revealing a long since mended split lip—and glanced around with eyes that were friendly to everyone like an innocent rabbit lost in unfamiliar fields. "Making sure everything was in order, for any guest you brought up. The coronal knew you would find a way."
Liar—About the first part at least.
And it didn't escape him that she neglected to provide a name. "By hiding under the bed?"
She crimsoned. "I was going to swing back later to provide entertainment—tumbling, dancing, singing—and then you showed up early." The woman unrolled her palms at her sides and shifted around, flustered, toward the door. "And I didn't want to startle you. You have my deepest apologies, my Prince." Her hands swept before her, wringing out the awkward guilt.
Like a displaced creature too shy to be adopted.
Which suggested she wasn't finished here, whatever her designs might be.
Adhar sidestepped to obstruct the door, cutting her movement off. The prolonged stillness spread between them, yet the cunning wits operating behind her eyes intimidated him.
Was she one of Nyhla's agents? From the cold realm of Night? Or Day, where the Hallowed War had begun their march ages ago? A local power? He doubted any of the human states would employ someone like her, especially if they had their spies already in his chamber—not that they had proven effective in acquiring anything they didn't previously know.
He noticed Circe tugging on Dallia's arm.
"No, I, I want to see what happens." Dallia slipped her limb clear of the grip.
Circe muttered something in Dallia's ear. Her eyes never left the newcomer as she stepped between her and Dallia.
Whatever she had picked up on had her on edge.
The mysterious woman tried to step to the other side of him, but again, he shifted to block her path of retreat.
"Uh..." The woman licked her lips, eyes still centered on Adhar, and took in a deep breath. Her voice was pleasant and rose in volume as she casually sang. "O, What knight comes but our errant flower? To save lonely damsels by the household, an' off the lesser dandy's tower, usin' his prancin' lance o' marigold!" Apprehensive and smitten as she was, it had taken her a few beats to find the rhythm. Like she didn't know the melody without music to help her out.
He advanced slowly, closing the space between them. "Not helping your case. I hate that song." Over the prior month or so, it enjoyed widespread reception in bars, taverns, canteens, street corners—everywhere. And he loathed it.
As he advanced, she moved back. He pressed toward her again. She didn't have ample room to continue moving backward and soon found her back against the bedpost. Her shoulders tensed in a flash of realization, and then everything about her demeanor changed. No more did she reminded him of a lost creature.
The woman's lips pursed into a roguish grin, and her smirk only grew as she took a staged bow. "Do you now? That's kind of you to say."
Adhar reached out to seize her wrist, and to his surprise, she didn't draw it out of the way or resist. The woman's hand remained clenched tight in a fist, but if she aspired to strike him, she wouldn't get any force behind it that way.
He reeled her in.
Only he had underestimated her. She presented her palm, and brilliant daylight drowned his vision as a booming blare disoriented him.
His world spun. Somewhere in the rear of his mind was a fearful realization: this woman had cast sophisticated magic without a reagent or drawing blood as a substitute. That shouldn't have been possible.
It pained him. Between the fast movement and trying to discern her, his watery eyes saw scarce more than white everywhere. He couldn't hear anything beyond a tumultuous, incessant ringing. But he had halted her by staying between her and the door.
As he recovered, he realized Dallia and Circe had bolted from the room.
That just left him, and whoever this woman was—and the damned ringing in his ears. He began to make out that she was once again pacing before him. Although this time she was side-faced and kept her body angled competently. Her feet moved like a dancer's, perpetually ready to ground themselves and to answer his every move. The woman's posture was relaxed but resolute—if he charged her, he would have difficulty merely knocking her over. It was a fighter's stance, no matter how she dressed it up in her non-verbal lies.
What kind of person learns to hide a fighter's footwork? Or to deceive without speaking?
"Oh-so-soon? Where are those sneers and jeers you proudly let us hear?" The singsong voice of the young woman yelled, assailing his ears as the ringing subsided. "Come on! Alone or en masse! Come on and face me like a lass!" She held her hands up, palms open, and eagerly beckoned the two fleeing humans to return.
Adhar had witnessed enough. He drew the dagger from his boot.
And the woman's eyes swelled with an excited gleam as she swept down to scoop his discarded tunic off the floor. She rolled it up swiftly, each end wrapped around a hand like a thick cord.
She presented him with an uncivil smirk that bared teeth. "Well, damn. I must say, not even roots set their bar that low—" A dainty nod towards the doorway. "Rather disappointed in how humans will fuck anything, aren't yo—oh, wrong person to ask."
He rolled his eyes. It wouldn't be long before Rhom and Joren stormed in to back him up. If anything, it should have occurred already.
Adhar caught a glimpse of a reflection in the vase of a flourishing shrubbery. Distorted though his view behind him was, he could make out Joren sprawling on the stone floor. And to his relief, he could make out no pooling of blood beneath his friend.
Rhom was occupying the doorway, rapping two fingers against his chest.
What was he—
His heart sank as Rhom left the doorway. Left Adhar alone with her. No help would come until Circe and Dallia, the two half-naked women racing through the palace, got help—Oh no.
This was turning into a diplomatic nightmare.
The Prince grinded his teeth. "Do I know you?"
Her face was lit up like a child being entreated to the realm's best jesters, food, and comedic revelry. "Last time we meet, you were sucking on a teat. I see you haven't grown any since then."
Adhar cocked his head. That didn't exactly narrow down the possibilities, but an unsettling inkling was growing by the insult.
Then intruder came at him fast, the makeshift cord of his discarded tunic dancing between her hands as if it had a mind of its own. She encircled it around his dagger hand first, drawing it taut. He tossed the dagger to the opposite hand and shifted his weight around to pull her toward him—only to find his momentum utilized against him as she released him. She had stolen a few more steps closer toward the door.
Adhar twisted and flattened his back against the nearby wall. He felt himself thump against it.
She managed to evade being pinned against the wall somehow, but the elbow that came flying into his face immediately after was very solid.
When he took a step back, she advanced. When she shifted her weight, he countered. It was a dance, quick and tenacious between two skillful partners.
He could taste his blood coursing down his nose and lip from where she had hit him. Then she got between his defenses, turning his dagger aside with the back of her arm and enclosing the cloth cord about his free hand. With a prompt, unwelcomed twist, the Prince's blade clattered to the stone floor. She lost no time kicking it aside, well out of his reach.
Adhar gave her a duelist's nod. He had gotten a handle on how she fought and knew one suitable charge at the right moment was all he needed.
She started laughing. "Tis a boyish fowl in coronal flare, snaring lads and lasses whom believe he could never mock love's sweet, sweet tear." The woman presented him a mocking sneer married with jubilation. "What a lying ass, our Prince of Leaves!"
She rushed him, shoving his bewildered defenses aside and slamming him up against the wall. Most of his senses fled with the resounding thud. A hand pressed to his chest as her lips joined his, and planted a kiss.
The woman withdrew from his reach before he could collect his wits, licking her lips like she was attempting to assess a sip of wine. Her expression soured. "Meh." She wiped her lips on the back of her arm. "What do those pretty court whores see in you?"
She was good. Adhar would give her that—no, not in regards to the kiss; the damn nymph! Her talent in misdirection. He had almost missed that she had swiped his father's pendant right off his chest.
Almost.
Adhar swiftly pulled Alaion's adored shield down from its display from the wall. He wouldn't—couldn't—let her get away with that heirloom. Fortunately, for him, the living chambers didn't have much space to fight in, much less to get around someone without going through them.
The woman performed a clever feint to his right and then displaced her weight around to his other side, only to slam into the shield and be repelled. She retreated a few paces, a hand sliding slowly down her mouth as she studied the predicament.
She sprang forward, propelling herself off the wall to achieve more altitude. It wasn't enough to clear his height. Had he raised his shield to protect his face. She could have used it to get around him, but he angled the shield awkwardly and low—seizing the opportune moment to deliver a vicious push. She went soaring, crashing into the garden of plants and spilling containers of his seeds everywhere.
He was stronger, bigger, and she didn't have a way to get through the shield. She was trapped.
Adhar nevertheless found himself panting laboriously. The scents of sweat and tilled soil permeated the air. It had only been a long minute or two, but she was demanding every last bit of energy. Damn the morning's preparations, he wished he hadn't forgone his morning meal. "You should have come peacefully."
The intruder plucked the dark, exotic flower from the floor and delicately put it on his desk as she rose, trading it out for the pair of riding gloves she tucked into her belt. "Should? I Should?" She feigned a distressed smirk, unphased. "And here I was going to leave you with some dignity." She tsked, shaking her head and idly toyed with his discarded tunic still in her hands.
From the windows, Rhom's loud echoing voice emanated. "Guards! We've been attacked. Prepare two horses for immediate pursuit."
She smirked and ran fingers through her black hair, turning the locks reddish-gold as they passed — the same shade as his hair. Even her face appeared to take on some differences in form.
A shapeshifter!
The devilish being continued her song as she made the magical transformation to resemble more and more like him in all but the apparel she wore. "He'll plow his seed, promise a good run! Yet should you ask those souls a'grieved about the Dawn's ever-rising son, know the best part shall only be achieved—" a swift send-off salute—"coming after the Prince takes his leave!"
Adhar rushed her, not pausing to ascertain what mischief she had concocted.
He connected with her image, which evaporated in illusionary mists before him, and slammed into something hidden to his eyes half a meter beyond. That something bound itself around him before he could come to a halt. His vision swirled as the entire illusion staggered and collapsed in on itself, giving him a glimpse of the bat-winged woman that was tumbling into the bed with him.
This woman eerily resembled an artistic image of a vilhai female Dallia had shown him earlier.
Hesaphae.
Hesaphae was here? Wait—was that a tail coiled around him?
She dislodged the shield from his grasp, and he heard it crash to the stone floor. His mind began to distinguish between failing illusion and reality, only to find her on top of him. She was pinning him with her muscular legs and laughing hysterically.
He threw a punch at her face, if for no other reason to be rid of that accursed smirk.
She caught his fist with an open, calloused palm and twisted his left arm until it wouldn't bend any further. Her other hand swiftly wrapped the edge of a sheet around it in a quick binding. He brought his right hand around to dislodge her but Hesapahe snared that as well.
He rolled around, now pinning her to the bed. The sheets tangled around the pair as they tussled, further restricting their movements. Her tail loosened its grip on his waist and flailed about, lashing across his back like a whip.
Pain shot through him, but he wasn't about to let her go.
She attempted to twist and roll beneath him but to no avail. He clung to her lithe frame, making a keen mental note not to skimp on the restraints when they threw her into a dungeon cell.
She snagged his free hand, encasing it in the bedsheet with its counterpart. She nearly succeeded in throwing him off with his hands bound together. Adhar fought to keep her pinned beneath him, wrapping his bindings around her wrists.
She pivoted, clawing to be on top. One of her legs snaked itself around Adhar's and pinned it.He threw his weight to the side to shake her off. They toppled from the bed, tangled in constraining bedsheets, and crashed to the floor.
She was still under him, but now his back was to her.
Hesaphae, if it was indeed her, was fast. She accomplished wrapping an arm across his neck, strangling him while working to pin his other leg betwixt hers. But he still had one of her hands bound. He might be stronger and faster in general, but she had done a relentless job of limiting every advantage he had.
"Why? Why do this?" He fought to breathe easier. Struggled to pull the arm at his throat away. It was working. Little by little, it was working. "Not yet earned a statue in the hells?"
But that tail of hers meant she had one additional limb to bring into their tumbling then he did, and all his efforts to chase the damn thing continued to fall into disarray. Within a fleeting moment, she managed to free her other hand, the tail latched itself around his arm in turn—and any dream he had of stopping her. In a flash, he felt pressure on his neck from her fingers.
Hesaphae snickered. She knew it over too. Her hot breath swarmed over his ear. "I keep my promises."
He felt his father's pendant dangling against his skin from its place still clenched in her grasp, the edges of his consciousness rapidly turning dark.
Then the abyss seized him.
