Legacy Lost

[wangxiuming]

Part 14: Orelia

Marpenoth 25, 1351

It was time for the final vote.

This conclusive vote, this singular action, would at last determine who would ascend to the head of House Vale. Admittedly, their House was a small kingdom, still burgeoning, still growing in status. But it was a kingdom nonetheless, a demesne and dominion whose resources could be used, its connections leveraged, its influence swayed to see the realization of long-awaited goals.

This last conclave would decide, after weeks of uncertainty, just who would sit upon its throne. Who would wear the crown. Would it be Orelia, the rightful heir, beloved by the father and respected by all the city? … or would it be Omerion, the upstart and usurper, loathed and reviled by all who crossed his path?

No, Orelia thought to herself. Not all. Omerion was reviled by all but one:

Odette.

Orelia's thoughts drifted once more to her middle sister as she sat and waited just outside the war room. Odette, the prim and proper sister, whose personality stood absent Octavia’s joviality, Osric’s naivete, and Omerion’s thuggishness. Odette, the haughty one, whose eyes cast downwards upon any who trespassed the standards of decorum and yet failed to do so for the most egregious of propriety’s offenders. Odette, whose loyalty to Omerion could only have been borne from their true and genuine blood tie, their shared father and mother a curious rarity within House Vale.

They had always been close, poisoning each others’ minds in a circular loop against any they saw as a rival. Omerion valued Odette for her unflinching fealty, and often, her considered counsel. Odette tolerated her brother’s brutish behavior, because he was a protector that she otherwise had never known. Certainly their father had never served that role. No, it had always been Omerion who guarded his blood sister against threats both physical and emotional.

Together, they formed a formidable alliance; Orelia questioned whether they might be closer than even Osric and Octavia had ever been. After all, what else could explain Odette’s unwavering support for a brother that otherwise represented everything Odette despised. Their allegiance to each other survived even Omerion’s defeat in a duel that arose from Odette’s challenge to an infamous luskan pirate. It was endlessly amusing that the only duel Omerion had ever lost, was one of Odette’s making.

Orelia wondered now if her half-sister had any idea that once more she would be the cause of Omerion’s downfall. She mused over whether she would be able to contain her joy at witnessing the destruction of their fraternal bond.

Omerion was the first of her siblings to arrive for the last of the votes; Captain Cedain and his men had already entered the chamber, taking their positions along the corners of the room and guarding the entrance. Her rebellious brother threw a contemptuous smile her way as he strode into the war room. Victory painted itself across like a flag on his pig-like snout. He was so sure he was about to win. Orelia could barely wait for the moment when she would prove him wrong.

Osric arrived next, offering a small smile of support before he too entered the chamber to await the proceedings. She returned the smile, despite the fact she had not totally forgotten the fiasco he accomplished with his failed duel, but now was not the time to begrudge him that. She had to look to the future, to the time after these matters of succession were concluded. She still needed allies; even if this one had withered of usefulness at this particular moment in time, he could yet prove invaluable in the future.

Everything was going to plan. Odette would typically have come with her blood brother, but Orelia had rewarded one of the kitchen staff handsomely to ensure she would not. She needed to speak with her half-sister alone, and that would not happen as long as Omerion stood by her side. But a spilled cup of wine upon a fine dress would be enough to separate the pair for just a moment. It was all she needed.

Fifteen minutes later and perfectly on cue, her middle sister approached in a huff, wearing a dress completely different than the one Orelia had seen her in that morning. Her stride was limited by her attire, which seemed constructed tightly enough not to allow its wearer to take long strides. Instead, she inched forward like a snail. Moving to bar Odette’s passage was almost too easy.

“What now?” Odette groaned. “First that clumsy serving girl ruins my finest silk dress. Now you stand in my path … in an attempt to what?”

“I merely wish to speak, Sister.” Orelia smiled. “You have been quite difficult to reach, despite the fact that we share an estate.”

“Speak to me after the contest, when Omerion has been elevated to Head of the House.” Odette moved to weave past her, but Orelia grabbed her by the wrist.

“I think not.”

“What are you going to do Orelia?” Odette scoffed. “Intimidate me? Threaten me? There’s nothing you can say or do that will change my loyalties. Omerion has won this contest. By getting rid of Olivere, you’ve conceded as much. It’s too late for regrets now.”

She didn’t know. She had no idea what was coming!

Orelia smiled, wide and confident.

“I agree. It is far too late for regret.”

Ten Minutes Later

They were six once, but now they were four.

Orelia took in the sight of what remained of her so-called family, gathered around a familiar table, all of them waiting with bated breath. Only three of her half-siblings remained. Omerion. Odette. Osric. None of them mattered. Orelia was the Head of House Vale, and she would prove it here and now, with unquestionable certainty, with this last demonstration of her guile.

She glanced to Captain Cedain, nodding as he gripped his still-sheathed weapon. She did not expect Omerion to take this well.

“Your attempts to stall this proceeding are quite amusing,” said Omerion. “But I think we have indulged your delays long enough.”

He didn’t know. He still thought he was about to win! Orelia forced herself to quash a delighted smile from her face. She did not want to give anything away. She wanted to see her brother’s face as the realization struck him. After everything the man had put her through these last weeks, she wanted to know his disbelief. She wanted to taste his despair.

“You’re right, of course. Let us proceed to the vote. We shall announce them as we did before.”

“Get on with it then.”

Orelia could not deny a smile then. He ushers himself to his own defeat!

“As you wish,” she replied, rising to her feet. “My vote is for myself.”

Omerion wasted no time in mirroring her action. “And mine is for myself.”

All eyes turned to Odette. With the rest of their siblings either neutralized, exiled or incapacitated, Odette’s vote was the only one to remain. Her vote would decide everything. Orelia focused upon her sister, who for once shied away from the spotlight, squirming under the attention of the entire room.

“Well?” asked Omerion, annoyed at the delay. “Odette. Speak your vote and let this come to conclusion.”

“Yes, Odette,” agreed Orelia. “Let us bring this to its rightful end.”

The once haughty Odette Vale glanced around the table, and Orelia could see how the pride had been stripped from her eyes. The words she had planned to hear, the ones she had longed awaited, at last slipped from her sister’s tongue, quiet but definitive.

“... I withdraw from this vote.”

The whole room gasped.

Orelia saw Osric’s eyes widen; he was surprised, even knowing Orelia’s plan. That was his folly. His unlearned naivete. He expected Odette would remain loyal to Omerion, no matter the price. No matter the cost. But Orelia had long since learned that if there was one thing that could shatter fraternal fealty, or even filial piety … it was self preservation.

Moments Earlier

“Make your point,” said Odette. “Or let me pass, Sister.”

Orelia withdrew a scroll of parchment from her sleeve and handed it to her sister. “I think things will become clear, after you’ve read this.”

“What is it?” Odette asked, accepting the parchment from her hands with a suspicious frown. Her expression was not long-lived, however. Soon, it was replaced with shock and terror. Orelia watched the blood drain from her sister’s face and her lips and chin tremble as she struggled to bring words to voice.

“ … h-how did you get this?”

“You recognize your own words then?”

“How?” her sister pressed.

“Is that truly what matters to you?” asked Orelia. “I think perhaps all you need to know is that I have the original message. This transcription was meant only to prove my possession.”

Fury and fear splayed itself across Odette’s face in equal measure. “... it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t prove anything with it.”

“Is proof what matters now? You had no trouble supporting Omerion in his attempt to slander me. But if you must insist on proof, perhaps you should know that I have his correspondence to you as well.”

What bluster Odette could still achieve withered and died at that very moment.

Orelia smiled.

“Set aside what Neverwinter’s court will think of you once they learn of your illicit affair, what will Omerion think?”

Dumbfounded silence was her sister’s only reply.

“He does not know, aye?” asked Orelia. “He did not know at whom he threw himself to defend your honor all those months ago. He did not know that he sacrificed his status as an undefeated duelist for a lie. He does not know that the man who so soundly defeated him, the man who you claimed had assaulted you … is in fact your lover.”

“I wondered why you so insisted on keeping Killian Thane’s attack upon you a secret. On your insistence, only father, Omerion and I had any idea of what you purported had transpired. Rather … we only knew your deceptions. You alone knew the truth.”

“Do you think he will forgive you once I show him the evidence? Do you think he will care for you as he always has? You must not be sure … or you would have told him by now, yes? That you would hide it from him - you of all people, you who are his loyal counselor, his faithful ally, his beloved sister - says as much as your deafening silence now.”

Odette finally found her tongue. “Is that what you plan to do? Tell him unless I cast my vote for you? What do you think will happen when I betray him for you?! There is no greater crime I could commit against him!”

“Perhaps not … but this is a close second, don’t you think? And I do not ask you to vote for me. I merely ask you to withdraw.”

“A withdrawal at this point is the same as a vote for you. Three ties, Sister, and House Vale remains yours.”

“It is symbolic difference, I will concede that. But perhaps we ought revisit that thing we set aside. You have long prided yourself as a starlet among Neverwinter’s Court. What do you think will happen to that status once your secret is outed? Love with a Luskan pirate? You’ll be lucky if they let you clean the steps of Castle Never with your tongue, that’s the closest you’ll ever get to relevance among the nobility again!”

Her sister quavered under her prophecy, and in that moment, Orelia knew she had won.

“So. I ask you merely to judge the scales. You will lose Omerion either way. But with me, you will at least retain your dignity.”

Odette hissed, hurling a word meant to denigrate, to shame ... and yet all the while her voice was filled with defeat.

Orelia only smiled. “Call me whatever you want. But do what is best for yourself.”

The Present

“... I withdraw from this vote,” Odette repeated.

Orelia indulged herself now, allowed her mouth to spread wide in jubilant victory. The vote was a tie, but she now had three of them, three ties to secure her succession. She had won! House Vale - rightfully so - was once more and unquestionably hers.

Omerion stood flabbergasted for a long moment, unable to believe what had just transpired. When he finally spoke, it was coupled with a rage and fire Orelia had never seen. “What are you doing, Odette?!”

For the third time, Orelia’s middle sister repeated those sweet words that delivered victory to rightful hands. “I withdraw from this vote.”

“You can’t!” screamed Omerion. “You won’t! Not when I’m this close to winning! Not when I’m this close to showing Father what a mistake he made overlooking me!”

“She did,” said Orelia, euphoria cresting upon her face. This was better than sex. This was better than anything. That taste of victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. The smell of blood upon the air as she snuffed out a hated rival’s hope to glory. “I’ve won, Brother! Three ties! Three ties and the House is mine!”

“What does she have on you, Odette?!” snarled Omerion. “Why do you betray me now?! You are my sister, my true sister, blood of my blood! I do not accept this!”

Odette looked away, brushing tears from her eyes. Orelia wanted to laugh so desperately. She wanted them to know the extent of their defeat. After all the anguish they had caused, she was glad they were ruined. She reveled in their agony!

“At last, the contest is over. House Vale is Orelia’s. Finally, this is settled.” Osric stood as well, his voice more collected than Orelia would have thought. Almost … numb.

Why did he not rejoice with her? Why did he not see the beauty of this success?

“No. No, no, no. NO!”

Omerion’s hands leaped to the hilt of his blade, unsheathing it so violently the air screamed. He pointed it then to Orelia. “You think you’ve won?! You think I’ll let this stand?!”

All the guards lept instantly to attention, unsheathing their blades in a whirlwind of movement.

“You don’t have a choice!” said Orelia. “Honor the terms of this contest, Omerion, or I will have you bound and dragged to the Hall of Justice!”

“You will give me what I want Orelia!” he screamed as he advanced on her position. “You will give me everything!”

She burst out laughing. His flailing was almost comical. He truly didn’t realize the depths of his defeat. “Captain Cedain! My brother threatens the life of the heir apparent to House Vale! Seize him! Don’t let him escape!”

Orelia would see her brother in chains. She would see him stripped of everything he held dear. This accursed half-brother of hers, this thorn in her side who dared to think he could supplant her, he would at last receive his just due. Nothing could save him, no one, not a single --

None of the guards moved an inch from their positions.

Why didn’t they move?

They looked upon Omerion and it was his turn to smile, cruel and mocking, perfect teeth bared like fangs. He jerked his head toward her, and suddenly nothing made sense.

They laid their hands upon her, brutish thugs she once thought loyal to House Vale, led by Captain Cedain. In seconds, she found herself on her knees, arms tied behind her back. Osric and Odette joined her moments later. Osric struggled, fighting against his bindings, but against the master-of-arms, he was no match. Odette wept, a look of disgusting helplessness magnified by her simpering pleadings. Only Orelia knelt in silence, but it was a quiet borne of confusion and a desperate attempt to make sense of where she had gone wrong.

She didn’t understand. She had won. She won!

Omerion continued his advance upon her. “What do you think of my trump card, Orelia? I never was one to smith words or devise elaborate plans. No. I value the simplicity of force. And I understand the power of coin.”

She ignored him. “Captain? What are you doing?”

Captain Cedain stared down at her, cold and as immovable as stone. “Forgive me, my lady. Lord Omerion’s promises were quite a bit more generous than yours.”

“You damnable traitor!”

“Now, now, Sister,” said Omerion. “If you had not eliminated Olivere, I might not have been able to afford the loyalty of our dear master-at-arms. If you really need someone to blame, perhaps you should cast your eyes inward.”

He held out a hand. One of the guardsman filled it quickly with a scroll of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a quill.

“You’ve won the contest, Orelia. You’ve earned your lawful succession. Now, you will bequeath it to me … or you will die, along with the rest of your siblings.”

He placed the bottle of ink and the quill before her on the ground, and then unfurled the parchment for her to read. Hatred and disgust almost prevented her eyes from scanning the words before her, but she forced herself to focus. Whoever scribed the agreement had the penmanship of an overgrown child and all the eloquence of a thick-headed dolt, but the intent and meaning were clear enough. Signing the accord would relinquish everything Orelia had just won and name Omerion as head of her House.

“You won’t get away with this!” shouted Osric. “When Castle Never hears of this -- when the Hall of Justice receives word -- they will strike any accord executed under duress!”

Omerion smirked. “And how exactly do you imagine they will receive word of anything that has transpired today? No whispers will leave the estate, my coin has bought their silence.”

“Lady Kerilyn is scheduled to meet me here within a week,” said Orelia. “She will see through this treachery.”

“ … guests and visitors will be turned away as part of the period of mourning I will declare after word spreads that our poor, sweet Octavia has passed.”

Osric bull-rushed Omerion, charging forward with so much fury that it took three of Cedain’s men to finally drag him down. “You won’t touch a single hair on her head! Have you not done enough to her?! Leave her out of this!”

“I’ve not done a single thing to her, yet. But if you wish Octavia - or any of you, for that matter - to survive this ordeal, you will ensure Orelia complies with my wishes.”

The wheels within Orelia’s mind spun, calculating odds, searching for alternatives, seeking out the best stratagems they could. There was no denying the grave danger she, Osric, and Octavia now faced. She had no doubt that Omerion would slay them all. If he truly had bought the silence of all the estate’s staff, there would be no contesting her treacherous brother’s claims. Octavia would be the simplest. Smothered beneath a pillow, poison in her food and drink. Osric he could bloody, and protest innocence through self defense. All the court knew how they hated each other. As for Orelia … she did not want to imagine what sickening depths Omerion would sink to exact his vengeance upon her.

No. Now was not the time to quibble over a legacy. Now was the time to fight for survival.

… or was it? Perhaps … just perhaps, there was still a chance she could do both.

“Stay your hand, Omerion,” said Orelia. “You hold all the cards now, that much is true. But I offer you one last bargain.”

“Always the plots, Sister. What do you think you have that is worth anything to me now?”

“I can sign your accord willingly, and if asked, I can attest to its validity.”

Her brother countered all too quickly. “A dead tongue can serve the same purpose.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not if you do not want a cloud of suspicion to hang over this ascension of yours for the rest of your life. You could kill us all and claim innocence all the while, that is true … but the nobles are no fools, Omerion. They will suspect, they will whisper, and with you, they will always doubt your position.”

“On the other hand,” she continued. “… if I willingly concede to you before Castle Never and its court … no one would ever question your title.”

Omerion paused, a faint smile dancing upon his lips as he considered her words. She could see the wheels spinning in his mind too, slow and languorous as they were. There was truth in what she said, and he would recognize it eventually.

Finally, he spoke. “And what would you ask of me, for this … generous concession?”

“One last duel with Osric. You win, I give you everything you want, and you need not slaughter your whole family to get it. He wins … and the House remains mine.”

Omerion chuckled loudly, its tone cruel and haughty. “You are willing to place your fate in his hands once more? Has he done something to earn this faith since the last duel? Or is this truly a final ploy by a desperate woman seeking salvation where there is none?”

Even Osric looked uncertain, his eyes fraught with worry. “Sister, are you sure --?”

She nodded to silence her youngest brother. Everything would hinge on this moment. She could not be the one to suggest the last critical term, this crucial clause that would be key to defeating Omerion once and for all. She need Omerion to do it. She could no longer trust him to honor any deal after all, not after Captain Cedain’s treachery. There was nothing stopping him from reenacting this very plot on the chance that he did lose this second duel to Osric. No. This final suggestion had to be made, and it was Omerion who had to make it.

She watched as he considered her for a seemingly endless moment. He glanced between her and Osric, and even briefly to Odette, whose tears still stained her cheeks and whose whimpers punctuated the silence. He looked upon them all with disgust, disdain, distrust.

But he still agreed. “Very well then. I will indulge you this one last game. But there is one more term I shall add to this duel. Agree to it, and you’ll have your duel on the morrow.”

“What is it?” Orelia asked with bated breath.

He smiled. “ … it shall be to the death.”

“ … Sister?” asked Osric, panic setting into his eyes.

She ignored him. She ignored everything. All her attention was on Omerion. All her drive was to see him dead.

“Done.”

She ignored Osric’s flabbergasted stare. She ignored Odette’s whimpering. She ignored even the surprise upon Omerion's face, who doubtless had not thought she would agree to such a term. His eyes, formerly sinister in their victory, turned now to disbelief. She ignored it all. There was only one thing to do now.

There was only one to whom she could turn.

[wangxiuming]

Part 15: Osric

That Evening

Cedain’s men dumped Osric and his eldest sister in the nearest empty bedchamber. Odette had remained behind with Omerion. Osric wondered if she would survive her betrayal. Once more he was faced with the prospect of losing a sister. Some might argue that she was merely another half-sibling to him, but he had never lent much credence to the thought that they were anything but a family even despite having different mothers. Neither had he forgotten how it was Odette who had interceded on his behalf against a belligerent Omerion just a few days ago.

Even if he did not care for her personality, she was still his blood.

He peered out the singular - but large - window in the room. The horizon had just begun to swallow the sun and its light. The estate gardens sprawled out before him, all flickering shadows and silhouettes, a void of light and color. They reflected something in him … a hopelessness and defeat he had not known in all his years of existence. There was no chance he could defeat Omerion. Even if he had Cunning. Even if he had the most powerful and magical weapon in all the land, he was no match for his brother’s skill. He knew that now. To think otherwise was folly.

Why did Orelia volunteer him to this impossible task?

His thoughts turned to escape. There was no hope that Orelia could win the House now. Not if Omerion had bought the loyalty of the guardsmen and was willing to use force to achieve his ends. Not if all of Orelia’s chances rested upon the doomed prospect of him defeating Omerion in a duel to the death. No. Flight was their only option. Perhaps they could seek shelter with an allied noble house and appeal their case to Castle Never. Perhaps the Hall of Justice would intervene.

He shook his head by reflex. All of that could come later. What mattered now was saving Octavia and then fleeing their home.

The chamber he found himself in was located on the third floor of the estate - jumping out the window was out of the question. He glanced back to the door. He had not heard footsteps after Cedain’s men had locked them within the room; the two guards that escorted them here must have remained behind to guard the room and prevent exactly what he was planning. He might have been able to take one … but two? He would need Orelia’s help for that, and even then, it was a long shot.

At last, his attention fell to his sister. He had to admit, he was half-hoping she would propose solution to their predicament. She had a knack for this sort of thing; seizing victory from the jaws of defeat was entirely her forte. The answer was usually pulled from a rabbit’s hat, so simple upon afterthought, but it was always Orelia who would put miracle into motion.

Given their circumstances, however, he suspected even his sister would be hard-pressed to save them now.

What he did not expect was for her to descend into a wordless frenzy. She hurled herself at what little furniture remained in the room, digging through armoires, desk drawers, and anything else that might shelter secrets. As she moved to the nearby desk, her eyes lit up as she she rifled through weathered parchment and ancient curios. Some items like candles she set aside carefully, while others she discarded like trash.

Osric could see no method to his sister’s madness, and merely watched her work in silence. When curiosity finally overwhelmed bewilderment, he asked, “What are you doing?” She offered no reply, continuing her work as if compelled by some unseen force.

He was tired of being ignored. But now was not the time to quarrel. His mind returned to his own task. Perhaps he could use the bedsheets to craft a makeshift rope? His eyes leaped to the bed, only to be dismayed to find that the mattress had been stripped of its linens.

Only then did he realize what room now imprisoned them. This was the room their father had chosen to take his own life. Here, he had hung himself from the neck by sheets transformed into a noose. He should have recognized it immediately. A portrait of Rodric and his children hung across from the door. Seven faces, smiling down upon him in cruel mockery of what their family had become. So many of them were ghosts now: lords and ladies made into shadows and exiles by their own doing.

He wondered whether Orelia knew where they were. His eyes darted to her figure once more; she had found a cache of makeup and now busied herself drawing curious circles upon the large vanity mirror that rested upon the desk.

What was she doing?

“Sister?”

Finally she responded. “Everything will be clear soon. You’ll see.”

“Sister, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can defeat Omerion.” He swallowed. “I … I know I can’t. We need to figure out a way to get Octavia and get out of here.”

“You probably think I’m sacrificing you in this duel. Trust me, Brother. I’m not. I’m going to ensure that you win.”

Orelia was going mad. Being outmaneuvered by Omerion could not have been an easy thing to swallow. That was the only explanation for this crazed behavior.

“What are you talking about?”

Her words came like a deluge now, manic in their delivery. “You’ll see. It’s the secret that Father shared only with me. The secret of our family’s rise to nobility. Did you never wonder how it was Father ascended from a simple merchant into a noble lord so quickly? It takes years, sometimes decades - generations even - for most families. Not for us … not for us.”

Osric blinked rapidly. “What does this have to do with anything? How is this supposed to win an impossible duel?”

She beckoned him over, waving her hand impatiently as he complied.

“You know Father’s history,” she continued, barely acknowledging his questions. “You know he was a simple trader in pelts and furs before he managed his own ascension. How do you think such a man as he might have become a nobleman within this city without aid?”

She lit a match and then several candles she had placed around the mirror. Their glow lit the room in an unnatural light, much too red even in consideration of the sunset.

“He made friends,” Osric replied, frowning as his eyes leaped to the curious candleflames. He still didn’t understand what was happening. “He leveraged his contacts. He proved himself valuable to--”

“Do you think a mere trader would be able to make the friends such a rise in status would require, simply by wishing it? No, Osric. Those friends were the fruits of his bargain.”

An unnatural coolness settled into the room, despite the city’s natural anathema to winter. Osric half expected the guards outside to storm in and demand an end to the ruckus, to smother the candles or to gag them both. Yet somehow they seemed unable to hear or sense anything out of the ordinary, leaving both Osric and Orelia to bicker unmolested.

“You’re not making any sense.”

“There are beings in this world, Brother. Otherworldly entities, creatures of mystical and supernatural power. Some call them fey. Faerie. The Seelie and their anathema.”

Osric stared at his sister, uncertain of whether her words left her lips in a humorless prank. She continued her scrawl upon the mirror, oblivious to his disbelief, tracing rouge into what could only be described arcane symbols.

The sun seemed to pause in its descent, hanging in the air, refusing to be devoured behind the horizon.

“You don’t mean to suggest that Father made a bargain with such a --”

“I don’t suggest. I know. He told me so himself.”

“When did he tell you this?” he pressed. “After the madness had set in? Is this tale you espouse to truth one spoken from a tongue loosened in lunacy?”

“I will show you. I will prove it to you. And then you will have what you need.”

His nose twitched. The air filled with curious scent. Blood and the odor of rotting carcasses assailed his nostrils, only to then be ameliorated by the smell of flowers in bloom. He glanced to the window. They had not opened it. Where had the smell come from?

Why did the sun not set?

“Lady of Dusk,” Orelia whispered into the air. “Your supplicants come before you in need. Appear before us, that we may gaze upon your countenance and know its majesty.”

“You’ve gone mad … this is madness --”

But his objections crumbled to ash in his mouth as he watched the runes scribed upon the mirror glow a hideous and effervescent scarlet. Suddenly, the mirror rippled like a droplet of water upon a still lake, and for a flash, he saw something impossible.

The mirror bore no reflection any longer, but a vision, of a blood-red forest and a luminescent figure shrouded in shadow.

“Look in the mirror, Brother!” Orelia laughed, elated by the success of her ritual. “She’s coming for us! We can still win! I can still be head of this House!”

[wangxiuming]

Interlude

Deep within the heart of a frozen forest, a glade of haunting mystery isolated itself in ancient magic and forbidden ritual. Most knew better than to trespass here, where the color of the flora mutated from frostbitten greens into the many hues of blood. Scarlet leaves and branches twisted into unnatural tapestries that hung from an indeterminate canopy above. Only the trunks of the forest’s silver birch trees provided any relief from the deluge of red; they stood like carcass bones, picked clean by vultures.

Here, sheltered by twisted sorcery and corrupted spirits, a creature of both carnal and delicate beauty made her home.

Gossamer wings adorned her back, shimmering against a setting sun that brought light only in fractured columns through the forest ceiling. Lustrous silks draped her body, reflecting the motes of ether that permeated the air. Neither the blood nor decay of the glade left any stain upon the white fabric of her dress. Her skin was smooth except for the protrusions of bone along her limbs and torso that traced the curvature of her figure and formed a set of skeletal bracers and anklets. Ivory antlers sprouted and contorted themselves into the fashion of a crown that settled upon her hairless head.

Her smile radiated the haughtiness common to so many of her court.

Buit it was not pride that drew her jubilation this evening. Rather, it was the discovery she had just made staring down at one of the many reflecting pools within her sanctuary.

Though the corpses of small animals littering its edge spoke volumes to its toxicity, the water within the pool was crisp and clear. Curiously enough, the reflection it presented was not of the creature herself, but rather that of a human man, one that she recognized. He had grown, had changed. His dress had turned regal since she last laid eyes upon him; gone were the ragged leathers and torn tunics that once were the extent of his wardrobe. Now, bright cloths and cloaks wrapped themselves around his shoulders. Fine jewelry circled his fingers and forehead.

She recognized him even despite the many years they had been separated. She knew him, even through his opulent finery. She longed for him, even despite his abandonment, as a mother would her prodigal son. As a lover would her star-crossed beloved.

Now that she had found him, they could finally be reunited.

Without warning, the creature plunged herself headfirst into the pool, diving deep into its waters and leaving the glade to be drowned in the myriad colors of impending dusk. It would have been beautiful, had any been foolish enough to bear witness.

In that way, it was like its mistress.

[wangxiuming]

Part 16: The Lady of Dusk

Marpenoth 25, 1351

As the frenzy of the water abated and the froth upon her eyes dispersed, she took a moment to appreciate her newfound surroundings. They appeared a sort of mortal bedroom, one sheltering those with means and wealth. The bed itself was conspicuously absent of sheets. The sun had paused in its descent, bathing the room in a warm glow, and a light autumn breeze tracked cool air within the chambers.

She pushed her head, arms and torso through a large vanity mirror that sat upon a dressing table; the rest of her body still floated in the pool within her glade. Water escaped via the mirror’s glass, pouring out in tiny waves and yet leaving the candles at the base of the mirror undoused.

The wall beside her carried a large portrait of a family she recognized instantly. A father surrounded by six children. She knew them all, though it was the father that she knew best. He was her first, the one that heralded all the rest.

Before her, two of the children stood, nervous trepidation playing upon their faces. She recognized both: Orelia and Osric. The daughter she knew more intimately than the son, but perhaps that would soon be rectified. She could think of no other reason why they would call to her. They looked both young and at once far older than when she had last seen them. It seemed recent trials had taken their toll.

The daughter spoke first. “We beseech you --”

The creature held up her hand and silence once more joined the sunset in filling the room.

She dragged the rest of her body through the mirror-made-portal, her body limber and lithe, trailing water that seemed to evaporate the moment it left her form. At last she found her footing, stepping off the desk that held her entry, stretching to her full height. She towered over the mortal creatures before her, whose gaze upon her felt like those of humbled pets before a fickle mistress. She would indulge them their humility. After all, their very being was lesser than hers.

The daughter sank to her knees. “We implore you. Grant unto us your power.”

The son stood silent, bewildered, disbelieving. It was so amusing. He truly did not understand. He truly had known nothing of her.

The creature wanted to laugh. A part of her wanted them to drown in her revelry, to be deafened by her jubilation, to bear witness to her full glory. The other part knew that it was not time. They were not ready, certainly not the son. The beautiful son of Rodric Vale, the youngest and the most naive. He did not yet know the taste of her upon his tongue.

“Sister … what madness have you dragged me into?” he asked, more a whisper than a question.

“She is how Father ascended to nobility, Oz,” said the daughter. “The powers she granted, the magic she bestowed. The silver tongue he cultivated would not have bloomed without her gifts. With them, he swayed intransigent hearts and impassive minds. House Shara would never have allowed Father that first opportunity if he had not plied them with charms borne of her touch.”

Though the daugher maintained an air of calm now, the creature could sense in the mortal woman panic, a desperation that she had never seen before. It was beautiful to gaze upon. Gone was that prideful assurance that once accented her every word, every action, every thought. Urgent emotion replaced stoic poise. The daughter was on the verge of losing everything.

The son shook his head, his own desperation not to confront the truth apparent on every line of his face.

“Need you more evidence? How do you think Father courted so many wives?” pressed the daughter. “Did you not notice that each of them stood a station above the last? Why do you think Father remarried so often and so quickly, discarding memories of his late companions like used parchment?”

The son stood torn between diverting his attention to the creature and yet listening to his sister’s ramblings. The daughter, on the other hand, seemed to launch into a tirade, one that she must have desperately wished to speak, practiced even, knowing that the truth must someday be revealed. This was that day. The creature would indulge her this exposition. If this was to be her last day alive, it might be her only remaining opportunity.

“Could it be that he held affection only for my mother, the one wife he truly loved? He never had time for any of you. Not the wives that followed my mother. Not the progeny from those unions.”

The son stammered an answer. “You were his favorite. He … he was too busy, too much demanded his time for him to--”

“No, Osric. You’ve always been so forgiving of him. But you should know the truth.”

“It was because none of you were more than stepping stones for him. Whatever affection he might have possessed for any of you extended only as far as the political capital you secured for him. He knew the heirs sired from these sham unions only as means to secure alliances.”

The Lady of Dusk licked her lips. The horror painted upon the son’s expression was almost too delicious.

“Why are you telling me this?!”

“I tell you this because I want you to know that I am Father’s one and only heir! I am the one he groomed. I am the one he loved. By all rights, succession should be mine.”

The creature smiled. The daughter was becoming more entertaining by the second.

“I tell you this, because I want you to know, I am not like Father. I cared for you. I raised you. I taught you everything you know. You might have only been a tool for some, but to me, you are my Brother.”

Such sweet words. The creature wondered if the daughter had ever believed them.

“I tell you this, because you are now my last chance. You are the last hope of our Family. If you do not want Omerion to seize control, if you want to keep Octavia safe … you will do this for me.”

“Do what?” breathed the son. “I don’t understand any of this. This has to be some … some delusion! Some deception! Father was mad in the end, you know this, don’t you? Why would you believe this … creature?”

“I believe it because I have seen her power firsthand. I believe it … because it is the last chance we have to save our family from ruin. Petition her, Osric. Petition her for her power! See what Father received, taste what he tasted, know what he knew.”

The son turned to the Lady of Dusk at last, attention paid in full, focus offered singularly to her form. One of her delicate fingers tipped the boy’s chin upwards so that she could look into his eyes. They were a crisp gray, a surprising mix of darkness and light, simultaneously a sunset and sunrise, emptied of color, void of saturation. They were beautiful, the whites pure, the irises flecked as though painted. They were like his Father’s, those stark gray eyes she had looked into so long ago and had never forgotten.

The ones she stared into now reflected fear. Trepidation. Anxiety. But that was not all. There was a hint of something else there as well: defiance. The brashness that led him to challenge a superior duelist. The heart that sought to keep his family together, in spite of all that it had already lost.

She could smell it on him. She could taste him in the air, her tongue flicking from her mouth to savor his scent.

The sun refused to set. Twilight bathed them all in dancing color. The daughter shrunk back to settle in violet and cerulean shadows. In contrast, her brother stood haloed in warm tones of scarlet and ochre, still as a statue.

“Do you know me?” the creature whispered.

The son shook his head ever so slightly. “Y-your voice. It’s --”

She smiled. It was not the first time the sound of her speech drove mortal creatures to curiosity, or even insanity. The Father himself had said it reminded him of fireflies for some reason, as though each syllable she spoke was intoned with a different sound.

“I have been known by many names. Many titles. To your father, I was the Lady of Dusk.”

“You knew him, my lady?” he asked, the honorific pouring from his mouth as if by reflex. “He accepted … whatever it is you offered him?”

She leaned downward to inspect him like he was a curio in a merchant’s stall. “You are so alike. He too knew the value of decorum.”

His instinct was to retreat, and she could see him to start to do so now. She would not allow it. Not now, not when she finally could see him face to face, truth to truth. Scarlet vines sprouted seemingly from the air and wrapped themselves around the man’s wrists, his ankles, his neck. They drew taut by her will.

He struggled against the bindings, but her magic would not waver against such futility.

Panic set into his eyes. “Release me!”

His sister merely watched in silence.

The Lady of Dusk considered the son’s request carefully for a long moment, her eyes like a ravenous hyena upon a carrion feast, devouring the image of him bound and helpless before her. He was beautiful like this, certainly more so than so many of his kind. A wicked smile splayed itself upon her face, purposeful in its expression. She wanted him to understand his situation. She wanted him to know that it was her whims that mattered here, not his.

The fear upon his countenance confirmed it.

When at last she undid her magic, it was surprise that first replaced that fear upon his face as he rubbed his wrists from where her crimson chains had tied them. “ ... thank you.” Those words were like honey to her ears. He now knew both how powerful she was, and yet how helpful she could be. How compliant.

The son straightened his tunic and brushed a few scarlet leaves from his clothing before offering a hesitant glance back to her. “What did you give my father?” he asked, as his eyes danced around the room in search for more of her magic. He would never spot it of course. Her invocations were not so plebian to be so easily discerned.

“What he asked for, son of Vale,” came her amused reply.

“What did he ask for?” he pressed.

Her smile widened. “A silver tongue that would buckle the knees of allies, enemies, and lovers alike. A personality that could turn the angriest of foes docile and charm the garments off the most prudish of potential conquests. Unparalleled beauty, such that even the most faithful of mortal matrimony’s slaves would turn their eyes to linger upon him.”

The son glanced to the daughter. She nodded but once.

“You gave him all that?” he asked, once he turned back to her.

“All that and more. Not all at once, of course. Slowly, over the years. As he mastered each of his powers, I would grant him more.”

“ … and you did this … out of the kindness of your heart?”

At this she had to laugh. It was a melodic sound - or so the Father had told her - entrancing in its tonal harmonies, like a chorus of cicadas far in the distance, singing for the world to hear.

The son’s crestfallen expression assured her that he was not so naive.

“What did you want from him?”

“Nothing that was unfair,” she whispered. “Nothing that was beyond him. I demanded his loyalty. I required of him service. And to ensure such, I asked that he bind himself to me.”

The son’s confusion made itself plain at that last term. “What does that mean?”

“I am no demon or devil. I am no creature of law that might negotiate a pact upon parchment and blood. But that does not mean the gifts I offer come free of charge.”

“What price do you ask?” the son asked again. “What price did my father pay?”

Once more the Lady of Dusk smiled. “ … those are not the same question.”

“Have you come to play semantics?” he asked, as a flash of annoyance crossed his face. That too was beautiful, to see the emotion crease his features and distort their natural state. She hoped she would one day see that face in all its many masks: of anger, and joy, and lust, and agony. She wished to know them all.

To him, she shook her head in response. “Your father paid a different price than the one he promised.”

Brother glanced once more to sister, but this time even she looked befuddled. Of course she did. She did not know the extent of it. Whatever she had learned of the Father’s bargain with Dusk had come from his delusion.

“My lady, I beg you. Make plain your thoughts.”

A wave of humor crested over her heart. “I will indulge you what promises he made me. He promised allegiance. He promised to face my foes with me. He promised to aid me in my eternal struggle.”

She paused briefly to consider her next words. “ … it seems he died before he could fulfill that oath.”

“That is what you will ask of me?” asked the son. “That I fight your battles?”

“It is not an unfair request, is it?” she asked quietly. “I lend you aid in yours, such that you might lend aid in mine?”

“Who do you fight?”

She smiled once more. “All in good time. Let us focus on your duel first.”

The son frowned, but seemed to know better than to press the matter. “And what can you give me that would aid in a duel? I don’t expect Omerion will be susceptible to a silver tongue or to my charms, no matter how powerful you might make them.”

She giggled. “No. The lout will require more than a deft hand, won’t he?”

If either the son or the daughter were surprised that the Lady of Dusk knew of their brother, they did an impressive job not to show it.

“I can give you speed beyond even the fastest of your number. I can give you sight beyond sight, such that even the falcons that soar overhead cannot rival your precision. I can give you my favor, such that fortune ever sways in your direction.”

The son hesitated. “ … that will be enough to defeat him?”

She answered in truth. “Of that, I can not know.”

“What choice do we have, Brother?” hissed the daughter.

“You want me to do this,” said the son. “Even knowing that I would be bound to this Lady of Dusk … for who knows how long?”

“Forever,” the creature replied immediately. It was important he know the truth from her lips.

The son nodded, and looked once more upon his sister. “Forever, it seems. Until I die, I will be bound to her. You would ask this of me?”

The Lady of Dusk did not correct his misstatement. She wanted him to know she had spoken true, but his failure to understand was not her problem to rectify.

The daughter glanced between them only briefly before focusing all her attention upon her brother. “Do this for me, Osric. Do this for me, your sister, who has cared for you all your life. Do this to keep Omerion from tarnishing Father’s legacy. Do this … to save Octavia.”

The creature saw those last words convince him. The son loved his sisters, and he loved the incapacitated beyond even the rest. He would do anything to save her. His urgency was entrancing and remarkable; with one name, the daughter had wiped away all hesitation, all caution, all apprehension.

She watched as he took a deep breath and nodded, turning away from his sister to gaze upon her towering regality.

“What do I need to do?”

He was hers.

She sank down to his level, and as she did so, her form shrank as well. No longer did she loom over him. Instead, she strode forward and pressed her near naked body against his, pushing her curves up and upon him, wrapping her limbs around his, pressing the spurs of bone around her joints into his flesh. His initial reaction was to squirm against the sudden and painfully sensual embrace; he struggled to free himself, mouth opening to object. She silenced him with a finger to his lips, a smile painted upon her face to reassure, her words turned to whisper in his ear.

“You wish my power?”

Trapped within her grasp, the son could not even speak his reply. Once more he nodded, the fear in his eyes mixed with determination and dread in equal measure.

“You are willing to pay the price?”

Once more he nodded. The creature smiled. Every incline of his head ushered him down a path he could not retrace.

"You will bind yourself to me, from now until eternity?”

Once more - one final time - he nodded.

It was all that she needed.

The Lady of Dusk removed her finger from his lips before pressing her own upon them, surging her tongue to lap at his, breathing her essence into him. He gagged and choked as her magic spilled into his belly and she marveled at the curiosity. The others - the ones that came before - they had always betrayed their base needs at this stage, but this son of Vale seemed to have none. It was earthly desire that made the process smooth, but this one struggled and strained and gasped for breath even as the magic surged into every fiber of his being.

His sister watched in breathless awe, not a word from her otherwise prolific tongue.

As the last of her gift infused him, the son’s eyes glowed a brilliant hue of crimson. The sun basked him in a radiant halo of gold, offsetting the violet and azure shadows that swallowed the rest of the room. His struggles ceased and he lifted into the air of his own accord, power circulating through his entire form like blood visible beneath his skin. His eyes drowned in amber honey. His face twisted into a wide and delirious smile. The creature reflected it in her own victorious expression.

He knew the extent of her power now. He had tasted it for himself.

The son hovered in the air for a long moment before the ritual finally completed and he descended to the earth once more. At last it was done. She freed him from her grasp, stepping away to allow the mortal to support himself once more. He swayed upon his feet, drunk on maddening medley of magic and euphoria. And then he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

The sister whispered by her side. “It’s done then? Will it be enough?”

A wicked smile was the Lady of Dusk’s only reply.

[wangxiuming]

Part 17: Osric

Marpenoth 26, 1351

When Osric woke the next day, the sun had already begun its descent from its apex in the sky. There was no trace of the Lady of Dusk, no sign that she had ever even been within the room. Still trapped in their miniature prison, Orelia hovered over him, anxious and frustrated. Even now, to see his sister like this unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He longed for the days when her steady hand and reasoned counsel won the day, and his instinct was to reach out to her and offer aid, as though he might restore those days of old with some fleeting gesture.

Before he could, it all came rushing back. The Lady of Dusk. The magic she gave. The pact he had bound.

He felt no different now. In fact, he felt so much the same as before - as helpless and powerless as he ever was - that for a second he wondered if it had all been some terrible dream. That thought was banished the moment he moistened his lips and the taste of the fey creature reignited upon his tongue. He would never forget the moment she bound her mouth to his and filled his gullet with sorcery; the fear that overtook him as he choked upon air and ether still echoed in his breast.

The creature had given him no clue as to her own motivations or hint to what battles she intended for him to fight on her behalf. To be bound to such a thing … no, he had been wrong just now. He felt completely different. There was an unseemliness, an uncleanliness about him that he had never experienced in his life. And somehow he suspected no amount of water or soap would be able to wash it away.

“You’re finally awake,” snapped Orelia. “Did you really need to indulge your beauty sleep today, of all days? Omerion’s come twice, looking to settle this duel. I was afraid he was going to strike you dead as you slept.”

Osric thought he could hear a coat of annoyance paint over his sister’s words, and he bristled against it. Did she really mean to castigate him after everything he had just done for her? After he had pledged his lifetime to that sinister fey on her behalf?

He shuddered as he remembered his own impotence in the creature’s embrace. Her lips had tasted like poison, and he could not help but wonder if the magic that now infused his every cell might also taint him, marking him like a cancer for the rest of his days.

“Don’t just stare at me, Osric. You need to get ready. Omerion could be back any second and you’ll need to be prepared to face him when he does. There won’t be Tyrrans to hold the contest to fairness, or Ilmateri to see to your wounds, not this time.”

Was that all she cared about? His attempt to salvage what dignity remained with him was the only reason he did not verbalize the question, but he could not hold back the tirade that welled in the back of his throat. “ … I don’t know what she did to me. I don’t know what magic she gave me. What do you want me to do, Sister? How am I supposed to defeat Omerion when I don’t know --”

“Figure it out.”

The callousness of Orelia’s tone stole what speech remained on his tongue. He stared at her in disbelief, uncertain whether she meant her own words to be some joke that he did not understand. Time made their meaning clear. It did not concern her in the slightest that he had just bound himself to another fickle mistress. To Orelia, all that mattered was that he win this duel.

They are all cut from the same cloth! Don’t let them take advantage of you! Don’t let yourself be a pawn!

Olivere’s words reverberated through his core, and he knew then that he had failed his middle brother in more ways than one.

“ … do you care at all what happens to me?”

“Stop wasting time. You need to decipher whatever magicks the fey witch granted you so that you can use them against Omerion.”

“Answer me, Sister. Answer my question.”

“A ridiculous question that merits no response.” Orelia snorted with derision.

Anger washed over him in waves. “Am I just a tool to you? To be used, and sacrificed and discarded as your whims see fit?!”

“We don’t have time for this! Omerion could return--”

He cut her off before she could deflect his query again. “Make time! Answer me, or I will forfeit the duel as soon as he steps through that door!”

It was Orelia’s turn for anger now; he could see it spark in her eyes and flush through her face, flaring her nostrils and whitening her knuckles. How like Omerion she had become. How could he not have seen it before? Or had she always been like this, and it was Osric’s eyes that finally adjusted to his own skewed perspective and latent biases?

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t test me, Sister.”

Her words turned dangerously quiet. “After everything that’s happened … you would betray me again?”

“I never betrayed --”

“You needlessly sacrificed your vote to appease your need of revenge! In this contest, there are few greater betrayals you could have committed!”

“I am not you, Orelia! I am not a coward! I was not about to let Omerion get away with what he did to Octavia, just because you did not think you had enough evidence! I saw him flee her room. I saw him sneer in victory. I was not going to just sit and accept that outrage!”

“No, not a coward, but a fool! You challenged Omerion to a duel you could not win! You besmirched our House’s name and gave Omerion all the leverage he needed to push me to such dire straits! You failed, Osric. And your failures compound by the moment.”

The conviction in her words was undeniable; she meant and believed everything she spoke. The castigations. The lamentations. The resentment. He had damaged her chances in the contest, it was true. He could not refute those claims and in hearing them spoken aloud, lobbed at him like explosive accusations, he could but fall silent.

But it was only for a moment. A moment in which he reflected on everything that had transpired over the last two weeks.

“ … I didn’t lose you the contest, Orelia. The game was rigged from the start. Omerion outplayed you. You didn’t expect the lengths he would go to claim this House for his own. Do not put that on me. You miscalculated.”

And that, she could not disclaim either.

They fell to silence again, staring at each other with embittered eyes.

It was Orelia who spoke first.

“ … think back and really consider how much I’ve done for you, Brother. Who was it that shielded you from the brunt of Omerion’s wrath time and again? Who was it that quashed those rumors of your scandalous indiscretions, so that you would not be made laughingstock at court? Who was it that bought safe passage for your precious Tristane out of the city?”

Osric could not deny the truth in these words either. But he hated that she would pull these old shames out like daggers to fling at him.

“ … this is your chance to save me, Osric,” his sister continued. “After everything I’ve done for you … you owe me this.”

Orelia was right. She had helped him. She had protected him. Time and again it was Orelia who had saved the day. But he had always believed her efforts to be those of a beloved sister, nurturing a younger brother. Not favors to be traded and called.

“ … did you ever care about any of us?” he asked again, his tone quiet but pleading. When she did not respond, his voice cracked in sorrow and desperation. “ … can you not even muster a lie?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “If that will speed your resolve to do what must be done, I can speak the words. I can offer the assurance you crave. But I think we both know that they will ring hollow upon your ears.”

Her words tightened his chest and tore at his heart. To know in certainty that a sister he had revered for so many years thought of him no more than pawn in her games, an instrument to be manipulated for her own gain … it was unbearable. He turned away so that she would not see the quiver of his lips or the tear that he deftly wiped from his cheek. He would not give her any more of his humiliation.

“You will help me,” she said. “You will defeat Omerion.”

They were not questions. They were statements of fact, and for just a second Osric seethed at the notion that he would do anything to help a sister - this woman he barely recognized - do anything. It was not so much the notion that he would comply with her wishes that angered him, so much as it was the dogged assurance in her voice. She knew him so well, and where once he took pride and joy in being her favored little brother, now his stomach churned at the thought. Or rather, it roared against that truth. Only Octavia knew Osric better, and she --

-- she was still in Omerion’s hands.

Osric understood then why Orelia was so certain - even after declaring the truth of her apathy towards him - that he would help her. Octavia. He could not leave Octavia’s fate to his eldest brother. Not after what he had done. Whatever Orelia was, she was not a monster like him. She had not driven any of her siblings to insanity.

He nodded to his eldest sister at last, repeating her words reluctantly. “I will help you. For Octavia, I will defeat Omerion.”

The corners of Orelia’s lips twitched upwards, and once more Osric felt a sharp pang in his breast, crying out for him to rebel against his sister’s wishes. Still, his need to see Octavia to safety overwhelmed that instinct and he suppressed the disgust that subsumed him.

“You know what that means, yes?” Orelia asked.

He stared at his sister blankly. What else did she want from him? “I will fight for you. I will fight for this House to rest upon your shoulders.”

“It’s a duel to the death. It’s not just a fight for me, Brother. You have to kill him.”

The gravity of what that meant did not hit him until just that moment. Up until now, he had assumed he would be fighting to defend his own life; taking Omerion’s had not even entered the equation.

“That’s … you really want me to kill him? Why can’t I force him to yield?”

Orelia spat. “Do you think he and Cedain will be content to honor such a defeat? No. If they were willing to resort to such extremes in this contest, there will be nothing to stop them from trying another coup. There’s only one way to prevent that: Omerion needs to die.”

He could not hide the hesitation from his voice. “He … he is our brother ...”

“Why do you shy away from this?” she interjected. “Were you not the one to challenge him to a duel over what he did to Octavia?!”

“I wanted him brought to justice, not … not dead. Octavia … she wouldn’t have wanted him dead.”

“Do you think Omerion has even a fraction of your mercy? Do you think he will hesitate to kill you for even a second? You are all that stands between him and his attempt to spit upon our Father’s legacy. You are the only thing keeping him from everything he wants. He will gut you like an animal and watch as you rot from atop his throne!”

Osric could not deny the truth his sister’s words, and yet thinking on Octavia, he could not ignore that nagging feeling that she would want him to find another way.

“Sister, don’t you think our family has been through enough? Octavia’s madness … Olivere’s exile. Father’s suicide. Do you really want to add another death to--”

“Don’t you lay this at my feet, Osric! This isn’t my doing; this was never what I wanted. Omerion is the cause of everything that’s happened the last few weeks! If he had not challenged my succession, none of it would’ve happened!”

He shook his head. “You didn’t start it, but do you have to finish it like this this? There has to be another way to stop Omerion without having to kill him. You know how much I loathe him, Sister … but he is still our family.”

“Allow me to assure you … he will not return that generous sentiment. If you face him with anything less than cold steel in your heart … you will lose. You will be killed. You will fail me again.”

The feeling he felt surge in his blood then was unfamiliar, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. For a second, he thought it might be the Lady of Dusk’s power revealing itself, bubbling to the surface. It took him a moment longer to finally understand what it really was. Anger. Hatred. Emotions he generally despised, but now, for the first time, they were directed at Orelia.

She truly was not the woman he had believed her to be. How high he had built her pedestal … and how far she had fallen from it.

“You must unravel the secrets of your power, Brother,” pressed Orelia. “That is our last chance, our last hope. You must --”

The door to their solitary room swung open. Omerion, flanked by Captain Cedain and a group of their men strode into the room. The momentum of Omerion’s gait never wavered as he advanced on their sister and delivered a brutal smack across her face with the back of his hand. The blow was strong enough that she collapsed to the ground, an involuntary cry of pain and shock loosing from her lips.

Before Osric could react, the guards had seized him by the shoulder and arms, and his struggle to free himself yielded nothing but a knife pressed to his throat. He could do nothing but watch as Orelia struggled to her feet, the back of her hand lifted to her mouth to smear a trail of blood upon her lips. The hatred in her eyes was like nothing Osric had ever seen from her - not even when her betrothal to a young Leilon lord had been broken. It had been all fire and fury then, but he saw no passion in her anger now. It was cold, unyielding … resolute.

She really did want Omerion dead.

“I knew you were lying,” said Omerion. “Asleep past noon - like I didn’t know you were plotting against me this whole time.”

“Is there someone else we should plot against?” asked Orelia defiantly.

“Always the viper’s tongue. Always the quick wit. You both really take me for a fool, don’t you? Because I’m not as sharp, not as prone to your machinations. Let me ask you … what have your little maneuvers brought you here? What do you think they will gain you when one of you is dead on the floor, and the other has nothing but her tongue to lap at her tears?”

“The only tears I will be shedding, Omerion, are the crocodile tears I will oblige myself to show at your funeral.”

At that Omerion burst out with laughter. “Now I truly am curious to see what sorcery you have imbued our dear Oz with, that he might possibly stand a chance against me. What say you, Brother? The duel’s waiting for us, but I have the time ... care to unleash some of it now?”

Osric half-expected the magic to burst forth from his hands then and there. How good it would feel to see the look on Omerion’s face when he revealed that he had indeed acquired new power. He wanted it, craved it, even and for a moment he understood Orelia’s hatred.

But nothing happened. No sparks of power flashed from his fingertips, no eldritch energies coalesced before him. No supernatural strength or invisible wards infused his body. There was nothing.

“No?” asked Omerion into the silence. “I suppose I won’t have to wait long regardless.”

“ … what have you done with Octavia?” Osric asked.

Omerion smirked. “If only you were so considerate of me, Brother … perhaps today would be quite different.”

“Where is she?” he pressed. “Is she being cared for?”

“Relax, brother. I went to see her just a few moments ago. She’s fine. Nothing’s changed. Her spittle is still filled with incomprehensible drivel. Although …”

Osric waited with baited breath for his brother to complete his thought.

“She did mumble something curious.”

It was Orelia’s turn to frown. “What?”

“A curious limerick. I wonder … was it you that taught her to whisper these little tricks in her madness?”

“What did she say?” asked Osric.

Omerion paused as he considered, trying genuinely to remember the message. “It went something like … Five little lordlings, settling old scores. Ambition felled one, and then there were four. Four little lordlings, never to be free … shame broke one, and then there were three …”

Ambition felled one. Shame broke one. What was this? Was Octavia lucid? Could she understand what was happening? Ambition … that could point to Olivere’s folly, his mistake that would lead to his exile. As to shame … that had to be Odette’s failure. Osric did not know all the details of how Orelia had convinced their middle sister to withdraw from the final vote, but he knew humiliation played a part in it.

“What else did she say?” Osric asked. “What else?!”

“As if you don’t know already,” hissed Omerion. “You planted these words upon her tongue, didn’t you? You seek to use her to unsettle me before the duel. I see through your plots!”

“This wasn’t us, Brother. Octavia, she could be --”

“I won’t hear anymore of your lies. Cedain! Drag them to the courtyard and ensure we are not disturbed. The duel begins. House Vale will be mine!”

No.

There wasn’t enough time. He hadn’t even learned what power the Lady of Dusk had granted. He had no chance to practice it, no opportunity to master it. No ability even to summon it to use. What was he going to do? How could he possibly win?

As Cedain escorted Orelia by the arm forward, her gaze locked upon his own, eyes focused and resolute. The message she wished to convey was clear, even despite not having words upon which to be carried. Their conversation had done nothing to ameliorate her fury. If anything, Omerion’s actions just now had only renewed a vigorous abhorrence in her. The look she gave Osric was meant to steel his own resolve.

He looked away as the rest of Cedain’s men pushed him after his sister; ushered forward by Cedain, Orelia could only break their mutual glance and step toward their fate. Osric was thankful to be freed of her probing eyes, but his hesitation to acquiesce to her wishes were no longer due to her request for fratricide.

Rather, he was no longer certain he would not be its victim.

[wangxiuming]

Part 18: Osric

Marpenoth 26, 1351

On Omerion’s orders, Captain Cedain and his men marched Osric and his sister to the same courtyard in the estate’s gardens where the first duel had taken place. Orelia had been right, much to Osric’s chagrin. No clerics had been summoned to preside over the battle this day, and there were no healers on hand to tend wounds. Their brother intended to keep true to his word; this was to be a battle to the death.

Odette sat upon a nearby bench, stripped of her typical finery and dressed instead in rags more fitting a scullery maid. Tears streamed down her face, emphasized by what appeared to be a palm-shaped bruise on her cheek. Two guards hovered over her, one of whom rested his gauntleted hand on her shoulder as if to keep her in place.

She glanced at Osric as he was shoved into the center of the dueling perimeter - leftover from the last battle - but their eyes did not meet for long. She tore her gaze away and cast it to the ground. Osric did not blame her. Orelia was in part responsible for her current condition and he was their older sister’s staunchest ally; he had no doubt that she hated them both with every fiber of her being.

Still, he was glad to see she had survived Omerion’s wrath.

Cedain forced Orelia onto the same bench as Odette as Omerion marched onto the dueling ground. “You are certain you wish our dearest little brother to face me again, Orelia?” he called out. “The House is already mine, with or without you. You could make this easy and just give me your blessing willingly. Osric can walk away from this battle; you can save his life.”

Orelia glared at him. “The bargain is struck,” she hissed. “Or are you too much of a coward to honor your own words?”

There was no attempt at diplomacy in that challenge. They all knew Omerion to be an oathbreaker now. No, she wanted to infuriate him. To goad him into battle. She did not care whether Osric was ready. She did not care if he lost his life or not. As long as he gave her a fighting chance at her goal, he was disposable.

“You asked for this.” Omerion smirked, jerking his head at Cedain.

The master at arms nodded, then retrieved and tossed a blade in Osric’s direction, sending it flying to the dirt at his feet.

Osric picked the weapon up from the ground, recognizing with slow horror that the weapon with which they meant for him to fight was merely a training sword with dulled edges. There was no chance he would be able to cut through anything with this; he would have better luck using it to tenderize meat. Not only did Omerion prevent him from using Cunning, he intended to keep Osric from using a real weapon.

Omerion was leaving nothing to chance. He meant to secure victory through any means possible. Orelia was right about him. There was nothing to which he would not stoop.

“Brother, this --”

“Unhappy with your selection of weapons? Shall I have Captain Cedain show you the assortment you will be offered? I assure you … they will all be of equally high caliber.”

Osric could not keep a grimace from his face. There was no point in exchanging his blunted sword if Omerion intended to limit him to training weapons. He could contest the point, demand to be brought Cunning … but he suspected that effort would fall only on deaf ears and worse, would highlight his own failings as a duelist.

He glanced to Orelia, but her attention was focused on Omerion like a hawk upon its prey, eyes narrowed in readiness to strike, fingers curling against her sides into cruel talons. It was curious; He was to be her weapon against their upstart brother, but she looked as though she wanted to join the battlefield herself.

Realizing he would receive no further aid from his sister, he gripped his training blade more tightly in his hand and looked to his opponent. Omerion grinned, a smile wide and crazed in terrifying reflection of the expression he had seen upon Orelia not too long ago. Olivere’s words once more resonated in his head; his siblings were more alike than each would ever admit.

“What’s the matter, Oz?” asked Omerion with a sneer. “Where is your confidence? Where is your bravado? Or do you know in the heart of your hearts what must be the outcome of this contest?”

“You’ve always underestimated me, Brother.”

“And yet even the highest of your estimations would not place you as victor over me.” Omerion chuckled. “Is that what saps the blood from your face? Or is it knowing that your beloved sister has thrown you away in a doomed bid to cling to relevance?”

Orelia called out from her seat. “Don’t listen to him, Osric! Steel your resolve! Do what must be done!”

Don’t listen to him? For once, Omerion had not lied. For once, the words that tumbled from his treacherous tongue were filled with truth. It was his sister that had deceived him all these years; she used him like a pawn now, sacrificing him for a ploy she could not know would succeed. All those years he spent looking up to her … he had been nothing but a fool.

“For once, no retort? Osric … have you finally seen the light?”

“Osric!” Orelia shouted his name but Omerion waved a hand and Cedain’s men advanced on her, menace in their eyes.

“Be silent or I will have you gagged, Sister!” barked Omerion. “I am sharing a conversation with dear Osric. Your twisted tongue is not welcome.”

Osric looked to his sisters, huddled on the bench. Odette had wiped the tears from her face, but her gaze remained rooted to the ground, as though she no longer had the face to look up. Orelia, on the other hand, stared at both him and Omerion, eyes widening in apprehension and fear. Did she realize her mistake? he wondered. Did she think she could lift the curtains on a lifetime’s worth of theater and expect there to be no consequences?

He could feel Omerion’s eyes on him, could sense that his eldest brother saw an opportunity. “You need not pay for Orelia’s mistakes, Osric. Join me now. Attest to Orelia’s abdication and we can forgo this duel.”

Was that really an option? A week ago and he would never have considered it, but now …

A part of him wanted to accept out of sheer rage at Orelia’s deceptions. A part of him wanted to end the cruel play their family had become. He could do it like this, could betray Orelia and dash her hopes upon the dirt such that they would never be restored, staining their relationship forever like red wine on a tapestry. It would ruin what chance he had at keeping Orelia as a confidant, but what chance did he have at that anyway? They would all come out alive. No one else would have to die for this succession conflict. Omerion would rule, but what remained of their family would survive.

Omerion would rule.

Osric’s thoughts turned to what that idea would truly mean: they would be a family terrorized by a monster made flesh, hostage to his every whim and desire. Omerion was willing to put them all to the sword to satisfy his lust for power. If he was given the succession, there was no guarantee he would not employ these underhanded tactics again should any of his siblings ever defy him. He had proven he could not be trusted to hold to his word. He had proven that there was nothing to which he would not sink to get what he wanted. Orelia was right about that. Whatever crimes she had committed, this conflict was not of her making. In that she was innocent.

“Remember Octavia,” Orelia spoke in an audible whisper. “Remember what he did to her!”

He had not forgotten. He would never forget. The thought surged fresh fire into his veins. Whatever Orelia had done was no match to the atrocity Omerion must have committed. Osric could only imagine the terror his brother must have invoked upon Octavia in order to incapacitate her so fully. Thinking about his youngest sister’s last moment of rationality, that final second where she might have still been processing what was happening to her, sent his heart into his throat. What fear she must have felt. What terror. The overwhelming nightmares that would swallow the rest of her existence were all Omerion’s doing.

To be betrayed by one who shared her blood … it was unforgivable.

“Well?” asked Omerion. “What say you?”

He didn’t say a thing at all in response and instead lunged forward with his blade. Dulled though it was, it would have to do. His attack was quick and took his brother by surprise - he could see it in the widening of his brother’s eyes - but Omerion’s reflexes were faster still. In a flash, Viper was out. At the last moment, Omerion parried Osric’s piercing strike and dashed to counter.

Osric half-expected the guards to advance on him, but none of them even moved an inch. In fact, some of them even looked bored. Only Cedain placed a hand to the hilt at his belt, but Omerion dismissed his caution with a wave of his hand. Despite the fact that Osric’s attack was a thin line from an assassination attempt, they all expected Osric to lose. They all expected Omerion to soundly defeat him.

He could not prove them right. He would show them all - Cedain, Omerion, Orelia - that he was not a pawn. He was not being discarded. If he was to die this day, it would not be as some lamb to the slaughter. It would be as a warrior.

Omerion laughed. “So eager to meet your fate! You had your chance at mercy Osric - do not claim I did not offer it to you!”

Osric rushed forward, jabbing his blunted weapon at whatever vulnerable points he could find: Omerion’s face, his neck, his chest. Neither one of them were armored - Omerion had the dignity not to seek an unfair advantage that way, at least. If Osric could catch his brother by surprise, knock the wind from his breath, stun him, perhaps he could still win this. All thoughts of whether or not to kill Omerion fled his mind - there was no time to give them purchase. He had time only to act and react, to attack and to parry, to charge and to retreat.

Omerion roared, parrying each of Osric’s frantic blows with an uncanny precision. A pause in Osric’s flurry gave his brother all he needed to seize the momentum. He whirled Viper in a deadly flourish and then delivered a rapid series of cuts with the tip of his blade. Osric felt his feet stumble backward, instinctively trying to keep the vitriol-coated weapon as far from his flesh as possible. Sensing he was about to back into a garden pool, he dodged aside at the last moment; the movement was sloppy and awkward - Omerion’s blade caught Osric’s arm and carved into his flesh, the acid of its enchantment amplifying the pain a hundred-fold.

Osric screamed. Omerion smiled, wide and haughty, but just for a second. His smile faded and soon there was only loathing in his expression, punctuated by the spittle flying from his mouth.

“That sting is but a fraction of the pain I endured in this household! That burn is but pale imitation of Father’s constant rejection, his endless effort to treat me like I was somehow second-class - like I was some bastard to be dismissed and forgotten - simply because I was not born to Orelia’s mother!”

Aggravation at Omerion’s whining proved a sufficient distraction to the pain. “WOE IS YOU! Do you think you were the only one Father ignored in favor of Orelia? Do you think he had time for any of the rest of us?! You are not the only one with resentments, Brother - but you are alone in the belief that they justify your entitlement!”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH! SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”

Fury subsumed Omerion and Osric felt a flash of morbid satisfaction; it turned quickly to regret as Omerion charged him, all caution abandoned, all reservation thrown to the wind. His brother’s attacks turned into wild and deadly slashes, arching downward from overhead at one moment, and then appearing out of nowhere to bisect him at the waist the next.

Osric was a strong enough duelist to see the openings left in the wake of his brother’s haphazard offensive, to see the missteps and vulnerabilities Omerion made with each stroke … but he was not yet good enough to take advantage of them. He did not have the speed, the reflexes, the strength to overturn Omerion’s raw power. He could only parry, dodge, duck, and deflect. And with each attack, his body grew more weary, the pain in his arm more sharp, the strain on his mind more arduous.

He had to do something to change the tide of the battle. Decorum and etiquette were the first to be discarded. There was no room for such noble niceties, not in this battle to the death. He rolled aside to avoid another thrust of Omerion’s blade, landing in a crouched position near a rock garden. His free hand dug into the sand; as Omerion charged forward to follow up on his attack, Osric flung a handful of the individually-imperceptible particles into Omerion’s face.

Pain compelled Omerion to rid his eyes of their intruders, forcing a momentary lull in his offensive. “Dirty coward! Treacherous snake!” His brother roared his agonized frustration as he wiped at his eyes. Osric paid no heed to any of the words - already, he was in the air, training sword angled to hack at Omerion’s head. If he could not cut into his brother, he would batter him until the man lost consciousness.

This was his chance!

Omerion’s preternatural senses stole his opportunity before he could drive the dulled edge of his weapon onto his opponent’s skull. At the last moment, he ceased his flailing, opening his bloodshot eyes wide and flicking his own weapon up in defense. Their weapons connected with a resounding clash, but Osric’s position in the air gave him no leverage to pivot or dodge. Omerion’s hand rushed forward, wrapping around his throat, grabbing him and slamming him to the earth. The impact knocked all the air out of his lungs and Osric lost his grip on his weapon; it flew from his hand, too far to be retrieved while he was pinned. Stars flashed before him like fireflies, obscuring the smile spreading across Omerion’s face, too wide and too cruel to be anything but a celebration of his victory.

“... I win.”

Omerion pointed Viper straight at his throat and Osric could feel the truth of those words in his heart. Anger and despair filled his breast in equal measure. He had failed again.

“ … do it then. Kill me. It will be a kinder fate than how you left Octavia.”

He saw a flash of annoyance rise in Omerion’s eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you, I did nothing to her?!”

Osric almost could not believe it. Still, Omerion denied his role in Octavia’s convalescence. On the precipice of killing his brother, he still could not admit to his crime against his sister. The gall. The sheer stubbornness. Osric could not take it. He could swallow being used, could swallow being sacrificed. Killed. But he would not accept this. He would not eat this.

Pure, unadulterated rage filled his blood. He knew Omerion could end him in an instant, but he did not care. He would sooner be dead than let his brother deflect responsibility for his actions a second longer. His hands lunged out, even as he watched Omerion thrust downward with his blade, a flash of fear in those haughty eyes. Did the accusations finally hit home? Had Osric’s wrath finally made their point?

No. Shimmering eldritch magic sprang from his fingertips and surged outwards, colliding straight into Omerion’s chest, knocking him back before the tip of his sword could pierce Osric’s throat. A cry of shock went up all around them, the loudest emitting from Omerion’s own mouth, but Osric’s focus would not be distracted. Finally, the Lady of Dusk’s bargain yielded fruit. Finally, he tapped into her power. It was intoxicating, filling his veins with adrenaline and confidence in equal measure.

He stood to his feet and advanced on his brother’s prone form. His quarry struggled on the ground to reach his blade. Osric directed a hand at Viper and another blast of magic knocked the blade far aside to land at Orelia’s feet.

“Sorcery!” hissed Omerion. “When did you --?!”

Osric conjured another glowing orb of violet energy in his hands, ready to devour Omerion’s form whole.

Omerion screamed, “Cedain, you fool! Defend me!”

But before Cedric Cedain could move an inch from his post, Orelia seized Viper from the ground and drove its blade straight into the man’s neck. The whole courtyard stood stunned as blood spurted in a wild geyser for just a second - enough to drench Osric’s sister in a thin layer viscous scarlet - before the weapon’s enchanted acid cauterized the wound. Moments later, Cedain collapsed - dead before he hit the ground.

Orelia didn’t bat an eye, turning instead to the remaining guards. Coated in Cedain’s blood, she took on the appearance of a banshee-like monster. She did not seem to mind; her voice quavered not a moment, but remained as stoic and commanding as ever as it barked out a threat to the rest of the courtyard..

“Captain Cedric Cedain proved himself a traitor and seditionist. His efforts to aid my brother Omerion in unseating me as Head of this noble House were entirely unlawful. If the rest of you do not wish to suffer his fate, you will stand down!”

With Omerion on the precipice of defeat and without Cedain to lead their insurrection, the guards fell to disarray, looking frantically between themselves in search of a proper answer.

“You owe your fealty to House Vale!” Orelia barked, her voice ringing out across the gardens . “I remain its leader! Submit!”

One by one, the guards bowed their heads and brought their gauntleted hands to their chests. One by one they offered their allegiance once more to Orelia.

“You scum!” Omerion screamed. “Filth! Worthless wretches, useless dregs!”

“Lock down the estate,” commanded Orelia. “Make sure no one enters or leaves without my permission.”

The guards were quick to follow her instructions now that she had reasserted herself. Soon, only she, Osric and Omerion remained within the gardens.

“You’re nothing but cheats and liars all of you,” said Omerion, his voice desperate and disbelieving. His eyes darted to and fro in search for a salvation that would not come. “I am the one who should be Head of this House. I am owed this! It is my due, my right! You cannot take it from me!”

“No,” agreed Orelia. “I cannot take from you what was never yours to begin with.”

“This all you have left,” said Osric. “Empty words.” He glanced to his hand; raw eldritch magic still swirled in his palm. This was the fey creature’s magic. This was the Lady of Dusk’s boon. He willed it to disperse and watched in fascination as it complied.

It had been enough after all.

“What are you doing?” asked Orelia sharply.

Osric turned to glance at her. “What do you mean. We’ve won. It’s over, Sister.”

“It’s not over until he’s dead.”

Omerion laughed, crazed and maniacal. “You were all so afraid of me … tell me Orelia is any better! Tell me she’s any more worthy, Osric!”

Their other sister screamed, sending a jolt of shock down Osric’s spine; he had almost forgotten Odette was still here. His middle sister raced forward to stand between Omerion and Orelia, her ragged arms stretched outward in a panicked attempt to shield him from further attack.

“No! It’s done, Orelia! You’ve won! This is enough, I beg of you! Please!”

“Orelia …” Osric started, but his eldest sister cut him off before he could speak another word.

“This duel is to the death. Until one of you dies, the matter is not settled.”

“You heard Odette. This rebellion is over, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Omerion?” Osric turned to his brother.

Still on the ground, his brother spat. “Look at the lengths she will go. What dark magicks did she force you to learn, Oz? What sinister forces did she ally herself with? No … I won’t allow someone like her to win. This will only be over when Orelia concedes to me. I will never stop fighting for what should be mine.”

“Omerion, please!” screamed Odette, losing what little remained of her image as a composed noblewoman as she whirled around to grasp at her beloved brother.

“You heard him, Osric,” said Orelia, her voice resolute. “This will never be over until he is dead. Octavia will never be safe. Do what must be done and end him!”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Osric, please!” begged Odette. “I saved you from him! You owe this to me! Spare Omerion’s life!”

“No,” Orelia hissed. “He is a threat as long as he lives.”

Osric glanced between Omerion and Odette on the floor before him and Orelia beside him. This was all that remained of House Vale. This was all the hope that was left for them. Two brothers. Two sisters. He recognized the cold judgment in Orelia’s words. He understood the implications of Omerion’s warning. The smart move was to eliminate him now before he could make himself a threat again. The smart move was to kill him before he could try something desperate that would ruin them all. But Osric stared at what remained of his family and all the resolve fled his heart.

Odette was right; he owed her this much, but it was more than simply the debt to her that stayed his hand. He could not execute his brother, no matter how he might hate him. No matter his crimes. He deserved to be imprisoned. He deserved incarceration.

Not death.

“He is a seditionist and a traitor. The Graycloaks can have him. Let Castle Never decide his fate.”

He turned to leave the tattered remains of his family behind, but Orelia seized him by the wrist and whispered, “No.”

“Orelia, stop!” Osric wrenched his hand free. “I’m not your pawn any longer. I won’t do your dirty work. If you want him dead so badly, do it yourself!”

A long pause followed before she answered. “ … that would be cold-blooded murder, even for a traitor like Omerion. No. I will not stain my hands to get rid of him.”

Still, she advanced on Omerion, Viper drawn. Odette sobbed with every step she took, “No! Sister, please, no!”

But instead of lifting the weapon to strike him down, she threw it at his feet. “The duel is not over. The terms are still in effect. Kill Osric, and I will concede the succession to you.”

Omerion's laughter was empty of any joy.

“You think me disingenuous?” asked Orelia with a cunning smile. “Have I broken a single one of my oaths? Have I done anything to suggest I will not honor the terms of this duel?”

Osric watched, stunned, as Omerion grabbed at Viper’s hilt, apprehensive and uncertain of Orelia’s intentions. Osric understood, though. She intended to see Omerion dead, and if she could not convince Osric to kill him, she would force him to do so by proxy.

As their sister retreated, Omerion grew enboldened, standing to his feet, shoving Odette aside with a thud. She collapsed to the ground with a terrified cry, even as Omerion advanced on Osric, flourishing his weapon. “I’m sorry, Brother. But it looks like our dear Orelia intends to see this performance come to a close.”

The magic was in his hands before he even realized it. “Stay back, Brother. Stand down. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Omerion, please!” Odette pleaded. “You don’t have to do this!”

“What else do I have left, Sister?!” screamed Omerion in retort, and for the first time, Osric heard pain in his voice, heard sorrow. “What else have you left me?!”

The sting of a sister’s betrayal. They both knew it now.

“I’m sorry, Brother. I’m sorry,” Odette whimpered.

“You were the one person who understood. You were the one person who was supposed to always have my back. We were family. We were blood!”

She nodded, wiping at tears that would not stop. “I know! I was wrong - I made a mistake! But you don’t have to do this! You don’t have to --”

Steel filled his voice. “Yes. I do.”

Osric watched as his brother lunged forward to attack. He watched as his own hands lifted - almost by their own accord - to defend himself. He watched as the magic poured from his fingertips by instinct, by reflex, surging outwards to lance into his brother’s charging figure, hitting him so hard that it knocked him off his feet and slammed him to the ground. The sickening sound of bones cracking filled his ears.

At last, he had won.

… so then why did it still feel like he lost?

“It’s not right. It’s … it’s not fair,” Omerion whispered, as he struggled in futility to get back up. Osric watched his brother gurgle his desperate injustices before even he finally realized that it was too late to make any of them right.

The last words Omerion uttered before his life ebbed away from him: “ … don’t hurt Odette.”

All Osric could hear after that was Odette’s agonized wail. All he could see afterward was Orelia’s face, still stained in blood, twist into a victorious smile. It was cruel, and mocking, and satisfied all at once.

[wangxiuming]

Part 19: Orelia

Marpenoth 29, 1351

For the first time in a month, Orelia woke to the sound of birds chattering outside her window.

Nightmares had plagued her sleep for the better part of the month. Her father appeared as slumber gripped her like a vise, arriving to lay blame at her feet for his death. Then Omerion came, clawing at her face and neck, trying to supplant her to satisfy his greed. Even Osric made appearances, pushing her from behind into an unfilled grave, his eyes filled to the brim with judgment. As if he had the right.

Osric certainly wouldn’t be able to judge her now. He was a kinslayer, even if that was by her making. Her father … she would leave him where he belonged, buried in the past. His lamentations had only her dreams to fall upon; no one else would pay heed. And as for Omerion … he would never pose a threat to her again.

His death was her crowning achievement.

Stress and restless nights had always woken her before dawn, but today, at last, she had enjoyed her sleep long into the morning. All because of her success. Her victory. How sweet it tasted upon her lips. How freeing it was to know she no longer had to contend with upstarts and traitors within her own House.

Three days after her youngest brother had killed their brother, Orelia continued to savor her own euphoria at having finally won. She had won. The words played in her mind over and over in glorious repetition. She had proven her prowess. She had shown all of Neverwinter that she was a force to be reckoned with. Hiccups aside, everything she had ever wanted as the head of House Vale’s was now hers.

They held a pauper’s funeral for the Omerion. The ceremony was ill-attended. None of his so-called friends had arrived to pay their respects; in the end, they were no more than leeches and parasites themselves. Only Orelia, Osric and Odette had showed up. Orelia had even arranged for Olivere’s exile to be set aside for the day - out of propriety, of course.

She fully expected her middle brother to be unable to arrive in time and indeed, he obliged. For that she was glad; she wanted the proceedings concluded, and had no desire to deal with the exile in person.

Omerion’s death secured Orelia’s position as House Vale’s uncontested leader. More than that, it gained her sympathy at court, where she seeded the tale of Omerion’s transgressions and lamented his failed revolution against her rightful rule. More than a few noblemen spoke out in favor of several of her proposed trade deals after learning the cruelty to which Omerion had subjected her as his hostage.

Their backing came with fortunate timing as Lady Kerilyn failed to make an appearance at court. Her voice - usually all that was needed to compel support - was noticeably and uncharacteristically absent. In fact, the Matron Lady missed their scheduled rendezvous earlier in the week as well. Messenger birds dispatched to House Kerilyn’s estate went unanswered. It was enough to draw Orelia’s concern - one of the few things that did in the immediate aftermath of Omerion’s death.

There were other significant matters she still had to deal with as well, the foremost of which were the rumors she expected would soon leak from the estate’s staff. Osric had slain Omerion with forbidden magic, and for a nobleman that had never once been known to have any affinity for the arcane, that was bound to raise unpleasant questions as to the origins of that power. Certainly the Tyrrans would not approve if they learned the truth. Neither would the lords and ladies at court; the entire lot were obsessively superstitious and never missed an opportunity to create pariahs of men they deemed to be beholden to unnatural power.

The last thing Orelia needed now was for Osric’s newfound power to become a source of such gossip; she was not about to let the House she had only just secured to fall victim to his tainted connection to the Lady of Dusk.

Sadly, there was not much she could do besides minimize the damage at this point. Though she had assembled the estate’s guards and had demanded secrecy from them all, she had little faith they would honor her command. Even those she believed to be earnest in their promise might loosen their lips if plied with enough alcohol or in exchange for coin. She had wanted to dismiss and replace them all for their part in Omerion’s insurgency, but that would only guarantee their tongues would spill the tale of how her brother had used dark magic to win his duel.

With the tale sure to spread, she knew of only one way to disassociate House Vale from the dark sorceries that would surely bring them to ruin if she did not act.

She did not expect Osric to take it well.

She rose and got dressed. Propriety told her that a full month had not yet passed since her father’s death, and so attire befitting a daughter in mourning would be expected, but she had long since grown weary of those drab colors and plain designs. She wanted to celebrate. She wanted to display her victory for all to see. And so she selected a brightly-colored dress rumored to be stylized in the fashions of Kara-Tur.

A knock on her bedroom door sounded out as she dug through her selection of jewelry, settling on a string of pearls with matching earrings. “Come in,” she called out, expecting her handmaiden to arrive shortly after.

Instead, Odette stepped into her room, dressed barely any better than she had been when Orelia last laid eyes upon her. They had not spoken or even seen each other since the duel, and Odette’s garb that day had been dishwasher rags. Now, she donned a burlap robe that did nothing to accentuate her features, but rather suggested a sack of potatoes with a head sticking out.

“Odette,” she greeted.

“Orelia,” her sister replied, coolly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“There is no pleasure to be had, Orelia. Only shame. Only regret.”

She frowned. What exactly did this half-sibling want? “If your purpose here is to lament the results of the duel, you might find more receptive ears elsewhere, Sister.”

“ … how like you,” Odette whispered in reply. “To not even concede this much for your vanquished foes.”

“I only suggest that there are others more suitable with whom you can commiserate the upstart’s defeat.”

“You mean his execution.”

Orelia felt her middle sister’s eyes narrow at her, but she did not care. “ … you don’t expect me to apologize for putting down traitor and usurper, do you?”

“He was defeated. Whatever sorcery you had Osric learn for the duel - it had already succeeded. He was disarmed.”

“The duel was to the death,” Orelia insisted. “The terms would not be met until --

“He was defeated!” Odette repeated. “It was over. You did not have to have him --”

She held up a hand to stay her sister’s passion. “You were there. You heard him. He would have never stopped trying to supplant me. What would you have done in my stead? Allowed a cancer into our House and act surprised when it proliferated and slew me? No! I excised it before it could do any more damage.”

Odette paused before responding. “ … you cannot even call him by his name, can you?”

Orelia frowned. She did not want to admit to that revelation, though she could not deny the truth in it. She did not want to name him. It painted her actions against him - even in her eyes - in a disagreeable light. It was easier to reference her late brother as the usurper, the upstart, the rebel - even to call him a cancer - rather than face him as a brother.

“ … what do you want, Sister?” she asked finally, lowering her eyes to gaze upon this rival she had faced off against so many times.

“I was the one who suggested the contest to him. Did you know that?”

Orelia snorted. “Was it also you who suggested that our brother should overthrow me by force if the contest did not favor him?”

“No. He did that because the last person he thought he could count on betrayed him. Because you made me betray him.”

“So now it’s my fault that he chose to rebel? Have you blame enough to cast upon all of Neverwinter? Has it ever been cast inward?”

Annoyance accompanied a shake of Odette’s head. “You’re twisting my words, as you always do, Sister. Always that viper’s tongue. Always the profound orator. Just listen for once, Orelia. Let me have my say.”

Orelia glared at her sister, but conceded the request. “If it will bring you a measure of solace … ”

The disgust on Odette’s face was palpable, but somehow it did not feel as satisfying seeing it now.

“I proposed the contest and its terms to Omerion. I did so suspecting all the while that he would lose at the first vote. Things went awry when Olivere made his play, but I want you to know, I started this all to help you, Sister.”

Orelia didn’t believe that for a second. “What kind of mental acrobatics does that kind of plotting require? You organized an effort to remove me from my seat as a way to help me?”

“Believe it or not, it’s the truth. I knew when Omerion launched into that tirade at Father’s funeral, that he would not give up until he had an outlet for his indignation. I thought the contest would be enough. I thought that if I alone voted with him, he would see the futility of his quest and abandon it. He was ready to do so. If Olivere had not given him that false hope, had not prodded him along …”

“You could have ended it! You could have voted against him!”

“He is -- he was -- my blood brother! I was the only ally he ever had! I was not about to take that away from him. Not … not until …”

Not until Orelia forced her to do so. She frowned deeply, uncertain of whether to believe this fantastical tail, but she couldn’t help but to feel a measure of truth in it. Odette would have no motivation to lie about such a thing now, not when Orelia’s position was no longer in danger.

“But you did. You made that choice, Odette. Not me.”

“ ... I let your words trick me. I thought that because I would lose Omerion either way, that to keep my secret would be the safer choice. Now my secret is safe, and Omerion is gone forever. Gone forever, because he thought I abandoned him in his hour of greatest need. I made the wrong choice. I know that now.”

Tears trailed down her sister’s cheek - as they did so often the last few days - and Orelia looked away. They had been rivals for so long, she no longer knew what to do for her sister’s grief.

“ … what I said was not untrue. You would have lost Omerion. If he had learned of your deception, of your affair … there is no question. He would have severed ties with you and you would still be less one brother.”

“That’s where you are wrong, Orelia. He might’ve hated me. He might never have spoken to me again. But while he lived, there was always a chance for forgiveness. For mercy. Now there is no chance for any of that. Now there is only my tears on his pauper’s grave. Time can heal wounds, but it cannot bring back the dead.”

“This is what you’ve come to tell me? That you would’ve done it differently if you could go back? That you would throw away your reputation for just the chance that you could salvage a relationship with … with that --” She wanted so badly to name him as the monster he was, but in the face of Odette’s mourning, she could not bring herself to do it.

“It is the first reason. The second is to warn you not to make my mistakes. And the last is to tell you that I am leaving.”

What right does she have to warn me about anything? I am the victor here. I am the one who won. Orelia frowned, forcing herself to disregard the sheer arrogance of her sister’s second purpose in favor of clarification on the third. “Leaving? What do you mean leaving? The city?”

“The estate. This place. This … is no longer a home. It is prison of mirrors, reflecting at me all my mistakes, all my misjudgments. All my remorse. I can’t be here anymore.”

Orelia considered for only a moment before coming to a conclusion on this turn of events: it did not matter to her at all. Odette was a known ally of Omerion’s; her departure from their home after his defeat would not rouse any undue suspicions.

“Where will you go?”

“The Ilmateri.” Her answer came without a single moment of hesitation. “I aim to take up the cloth. There is much I need to atone for.”

Orelia blinked in disbelief. She wanted to laugh out loud, though she managed to stifle her mirth just in time. Odette had always been the most supercilious of their family. To think her once haughty sister might now take vows as clergy? It was laughable.

“ … is that so? Perhaps we shall soon be seeking your services in aiding dear Octavia then.”

Odette stared at her quietly for a long moment. Then, she turned to depart.

Orelia couldn’t help herself. Could her sister really mean to relinquish her rights as a noble? “You’re going, just like that?”

“What else is there to say, Sister? You’ve won. Everything you’ve always wanted is yours. Control of the House. Octavia barely alive. Olivere exiled. Omerion, dead. Me, gone. What fate will befall Osric? No … I don’t want to know.”

Orelia narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know a thing about me, Odette.”

“Don’t I? Do you think Omerion was the only one who wore his resentment on his sleeves? He might’ve hated our father, but you’ve always hated us.”

“That’s a lie,” she replied, though even she could tell her protest lacked conviction.

Odette continued unabated. “You hated us, because we were not your true siblings. You hated us because Father cast your mother’s memory aside so quickly after her death to spawn us. You managed fooled Octavia and Osric, I’ll give you that. They were young enough not to recognize your deception when you began to watch over them. But Omerion and I always knew. Olivere probably did too.”

She was right, of course, and Orelia hated Odette for knowing it.

She hated them all, in some fashion or other. Perhaps not all the time, perhaps not with equal degrees of fervor … but it was there. She never really allowed herself to admit it until now, until Odette had thrown the accusation in her face … but with all of them about to be gone, there was no point to hide it to herself any longer. She despised her half-siblings. She loathed them.

And she was glad to be free of them.

“So there is nothing left to say," said Odette. "Everything you ever wanted is now yours, Orelia. I hope you enjoy that throne you’ve wiped clean of us. I wonder though, if you will ever be able to wipe clean the blood from your hands.”

Before she could reply, her sister was gone.

[wangxiuming]

Part 20: Orelia

Marpenoth 30, 1351

“Your carriage awaits, my lady.”

Four days after her rebellious brother had been executed - three days after receiving no word from one of her staunchest and most reliable allies - Orelia made preparations to visit House Kerilyn in person. It was unlike the Matron Lady to have missed appointments with her, much less attending court. It was enough to first make Orelia wonder if something unfortunate had befallen the older woman … and then to make her suspect that the curious silence was purposeful and that she had somehow lost the Matron Lady’s favor.

Could it be that Lady Kerilyn had gotten wind of the power Osric had used to win his duel? It was possible, she supposed, but even so, she did not think the noblewoman would have qualms about such a tactic. Not after the conversation they shared after visiting the Temple of Tyr. It made no sense that she would disavow her pupil after those revelations. Not unless there were other forces at play and no one else at court had uttered even an inkling that they might know the truth of what happened between the Vale children.

She grumbled inwardly. This was exactly the situation where she would have appreciated Lady Kerilyn’s insight. There was much Orelia wanted to discuss with her mentor, from Odette’s bewildering decision to abdicate her birthright and take up vows as a lay-sister to mulling next steps and anticipatory measures at court. It was a most inopportune time to lose her most-valued advisor. Of course, Kerilyn would have to choose now to go missing.

It had been over a month since she had made the journey across the noble district to visit her friend. During the past few weeks, Lady Kerilyn had always insisted that they meet either at House Vale or some other part of the city. It was unusual, given that House Kerilyn’s estate had been a frequent meeting spot in the past, so much so that Orelia found herself missing the Kerilyn’s chef. The man had a flair for crafting delectable pastries that she had not been able to enjoy since before her own father’s funeral.

She chose dusk to make her approach, surmising that it would be difficult to catch the Matron Lady in person if the noblewoman were called out on business during the day. She donned a simple dress and cloak, followed by layering a scarf atop the getup. Winter was fast approaching, and although Neverwinter was aptly named, the evenings could still be cool.

As she prepared to step into the carriage her footmen had prepared for her, two figures approached the estate. The first was a raven-haired young in an armor of black and gold - the colors of House Kerilyn. The second was an older gentleman Orelia immediately recognized as the Kerilyn seneschal, Gilderoy Thorne.

Perhaps she would have answers at last.

She beckoned her guards to allow them entry and offered the retainer a curt smile as he and his companion approached. “Sir Thorne. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“My lady Vale. Might I present to you Sir Caslian Swordborn, the Sword of Summer? He is a stalwart knight that has served House Kerilyn for many years.”

“An honor, my lady.” The knight bowed his head, offering a casual smile.

Orelia appraised the man briefly; she suspected he was around Osric’s age, but intensive training and a life of service no doubt contributed to his battle-hardened appearance. A glimmer of a smile was flashed to Caslian before she returned her attention to the older man beside him. “And what might I do for you gentlemen?”

“It is more what Sir Swordborn might do for you, Lady Vale. My lord Kerilyn understands you are in need of a new master-at-arms. He thought Caslian here might serve as a suitable candidate.”

Orelia smirked. She had an inkling of what this was truly about. Still, she would indulge this little theater for the moment - at least until she could get to the bottom of why the Lady Kerilyn had been so absent in recent days.

“Is Lord Kerilyn returned from Waterdeep?” she asked.

“Just two days ago, my lady,” replied the retainer. “He heard about the trials your brother forced you to endure and he offers Sir Swordborn’s services as a gesture of good faith. Our Houses have ever been faithful allies, and he would like to offer assurances that Sir Swordborn will be one upon whom you can depend … unlike certain former occupants of his intended post. ”

She smiled, though she purposefully did not allow the expression to reach her eyes. “Indeed? And what does the Lady Kerilyn think of this?”

Caslian and Gilderoy shared a look. The latter turned and could not quite hide a quirking of his brow. “I am sure, my lady, that she --”

Orelia held up a hand. She had enough to guess at the truth. Lord Kerilyn’s return no doubt was the reason her mentor had been otherwise engaged. The pair had never gotten along; like most married nobles, their union had been forged for the purposes of securing a political alliance between their parents; there was no love lost between them. Orelia remembered distinctly that the Lady Kerilyn had despised her husband for two reasons: the first, the man’s utter lack of wit and bitingly dull intellect often made him more a liability than an asset. Secondly, despite the man’s faulty intellectual capacity, Lord Kerilyn insisted himself to be a masterful player of the noble’s game, and could not resist sticking his fingers in his wife’s affairs. It was why the Matron Lady indulged his indiscretions with other women; preoccupied with these distractions, he tended to leave her and her gambits well enough alone.

It now seemed he had returned to Neverwinter with newfound intent to meddle where his attention was unwelcome.

At this moment, Orelia had no doubt that this supposed ‘Sword of Summer’ was a spy dispatched by Lord Kerilyn, ostensibly to watch over Lady Kerilyn’s investment in House Vale. The knowledge of such a plot only affirmed Orelia’s decision to go visit House Kerilyn in person. There was much she wished to discuss with her old friend, not the least of which now was this new intruder in her estate and how best to deal with him. She might as well spend a moment with the Lord as well, to suss out his motivations in sending the knight and confirm her suspicions.

She turned back to address the two men before her. “I suppose I shall hear for myself anyway. I am on my way to House Kerilyn. I have some business with your masters. If you wish to join my entourage, Sir Thorne, I would welcome the company.”

Once more the pair shared a confused glance. Orelia frowned. Had they both lost their wits?

“Actually,” said Sir Thorne at last, inclining his balding head to indicate his regret, “My lady, there remain some errands I must attend on behalf of my lord.”

“So late in the evening? Very well then. I’ll not keep you from your duties.” She paused then, considering how best to deal with the spy. It would be an affront to Lord Kerilyn to dismiss this Caslian outright, only moments after he had stepped foot within the estate. No. She would have to indulge this intrusion for now. “Sir Swordborn, please await my return. I shall have attendants prepare quarters for you in the meantime.”

Servants scurried to do her bidding upon the jerk of her chin. The knight bowed his head. “Gratitude, my lady. I shall endeavor to earn your faith.”

Orelia could not help her eyes from a subtle narrowing as she appraised the man’s confident demeanor. She had not even agreed to the appointment yet. “Yes … well. We shall speak soon.”

She watched as Caslian was escorted into the estate proper as Sir Thorne made his retreat towards the market district. How very curious, she mused. She wondered what Lord Kerilyn might need done at such a late hour.

When they were both out of sight, she finally stepped into her carriage.

The journey to House Kerilyn was not long, but she preferred having a retinue of attendants and guards nearby when traveling in the evening. A recent spate of unexplained disappearances within Blacklake had led to widespread rumors of a serial murderer on the loose in the district, though thankfully, none of the victims thus far had been of noble status. Still, it never hurt to be careful. A few of the city guard, along with several mages of the Many-Starred Cloak, were reported missing, followed by several messengers and attendants. Orelia had briefly feared the Lady Kerilyn might have fallen victim to this string of crime, but she put that thought quickly to rest now. Gilderoy Thorne and his companion would not have come calling if their mistress had fallen victim to a kidnapper or murderer.

Neverwinter’s cobbled roads made for a fairly smooth journey. The sun was halfway past the horizon when they arrived at last at House Kerilyn’s estate, situated in one of the wealthiest and most prestigious streets of Neverwinter’s noble district. Orelia hoped that she too would be able to relocate House Vale here, one day. It would be a clear and indisputable sign of the success of her leadership.

After everything she had done to earn her place, she refused to content herself to mediocrity.

As she stepped out of the carriage, she wondered briefly if she had arrived at the right location. House Kerilyn was dressed top to bottom in the accouterments of mourning. Black and gray curtains dominated the windows, and even the banners bearing the family crest had been lowered to half-mast. Had someone in the family perished? That might also have explained Lady Kerilyn’s absence in the last few days, though Orelia had heard nothing of the sort in recent months whether from the Matron Lady herself or her contacts at court.

The fact that even now servants were already working to replace the curtains and restore the banners to the gold-frilled ones that bore the House’s sigil only drew more puzzlement from her. Perhaps her old friend had omitted this particular detail of her life in all their recent conversations, but that seemed unlikely. It could also be a recent death in the family, but then it would be odd that all signs of mourning would be removed so quickly.

Bewildered, she stepped up to the gate. A guard greeted her, a woman she only recognized by her homely appearance.

“My lady Vale. What brings you to House Kerilyn?”

“I wish to speak with the Lord and Lady of the House.”

“Of … of course, my lady. They are … expecting you?”

Orelia shook her head. “Not exactly. But the Lady Kerilyn will want to speak with me.”

“I … I see. Very well, come with me, my lady.”

Orelia paused, determined to sate her curiosity. “Has there been a death in the family?”

The guardswoman gave her an incredulous look, as if she did not understand why she was being queried. Orelia bit her lip in frustration. Had everyone from House Kerilyn lost their wits? What was going on?

She was about to launch into a sharp reprimand of the soldier in front of her when a carriage pulled up beside her own. Lord Kerilyn himself climbed out, brandishing a finely-sculpted cane and stroking his neatly trimmed beard. The man was nearing sixty, but still carried a look of distinguished regality. He was undoubtedly handsome in youth, blessed with a strong jaw and high cheekbones, as well as a rakish smile. Leathered skin and crow’s feet did their part to steal the man’s beauty, but much of it remained nonetheless.

“My lady Vale,” he greeted, flashing an inquisitive smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“My lord.” Orelia offered a polite curtsy. “I thought I would come thank you and your wife personally for your consideration of the welfare of my most humble house.”

The Lord arched an amused brow, and Orelia could not help her smile from souring into a grimace.

“Aye? Well … come in, come in. I shall fetch the girl so we can enjoy some tea together.”

The girl? Orelia had never heard the lord call her matronly friend in all the years they had known each other.

Lord Kerilyn led Orelia to the foyer, where she unwrapped her scarf and handed it over to an eager attendant. Her eyes peered about in hopes of glimpsing her matronly friend, to no avail. Instead, they found only more signs of mourning. The Kerilyn estate as Orelia remembered it was usually bustling with activity even at night; it now stood morbidly quiet. The servants spoke in low tones and quiet whispers. Few faces bore smiles - if they did, they were quickly wiped clean, as though extended cheer would not be appropriate.

What was going on? Lord Kerilyn was no paragon of virtue, but neither was he a particular tyrant. It couldn’t be his return that merited such behavior … could it?

The sun lingered at the horizon, pouring in warm rays of copper and gold.

The nervous-looking servant girl returned soon with a few delectable pastries that Orelia would normally have savored while waiting for Lord Kerilyn to summon his wife. Instead, she brushed them away, her appetite suddenly evaporating. Something felt … off … but she could not tell what it was that so drew her apprehension.

The lord returned alone, a regretful smile on her face. “It seems my fiance is otherwise preoccupied at the moment. She should be joining us shortly, however.”

“My lord?” What did he mean, fiance? He and the Lady Kerilyn had been married for decades.

His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. “Yes, my lady?”

Did he expect her to know what madness this was? “I don’t understand. Where is the Lady Kerilyn? I wish to speak with her.”

A frown overtook the older gentleman’s facade. “You did mean my soon-to-be bride, did you not?”

Confusion wracked Orelia’s mind. What was Lord Kerilyn rambling about? Soon-to-be bride? Fiance? And what was going on with the decor? The servant staff?

“My lord. Apologies, but I must ask - has there been a death in the family?”

Lord Kerilyn stared at her in wordless disbelief. Why did no one seem to understand her question? No … it was more like they expected her to know the answer. All of them - the guardswoman outside, Caslian Swordborn and Gilderoy Thorne. Now Lord Kerilyn. They all looked at her like this was supposed to make sense. But none of it did!

The pit she felt in her gut expanded, and suddenly instinct told her something was terribly wrong.

“Lord Kerilyn. Where is your wife?” she pressed. “Where is Lady Kerilyn?”

That look of incredulity only magnified upon the lord’s face. “My lady … my wife is dead. She joined Tyr at his side over a month ago. Just before your father, actually.”

No. It couldn’t be.

“That’s … that’s not possible. I saw her just a week ago.”

What sick joke was this?!

Lord Kerilyn shook his head, apparently having the same feeling. “Is this … some new game that Neverwinter’s courtiers play? If so … I must say, it is in extremely poor taste. You were at my wife’s funeral, lady Vale. You paid your respects and offered me consolation. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Her heart sunk into her stomach. Why did this sound so familiar? Why did his voice ring with truth?

Just then, a woman strode down the stairs to the upper floors of the estate and approached. Her gait was confident and familiar. Framed by the sunset, Orelia could only just barely make out her face. It was the Lady Kerilyn!

Had her husband been lying after all? She would recognize her friend anywhere; the Matron Lady wore that same autumn-colored gown she had chosen for their visit to the Temple of Tyr, except this time … this time …

With every step the older woman took, something about her form changed. It was hard to notice at first, but as Orelia watched the woman stride forward, she soon saw it clearly. She saw wrinkled skin turn smooth and taut. She saw sunspots and blemishes fade, crow’s feet melting away, the skin between them revitalizing as though restored to youth. The sagging and aged form of the Lady Kerilyn she knew was all but gone, and in her place, there was a young woman of delicate and yet carnal beauty.

Where once stood the Matron Lady, the Frog Crone, the Dowager Witch … now stood the Lady of Dusk.

It was only then that Orelia noticed that the sun once more refused to descend past the horizon and all she could do was gape.

Lord Kerilyn turned away from Orelia’s stunned and frozen form to greet his approaching bride. “Ah. You’ve come, darling? Might I introduce the Lady Orelia Vale? Lady Vale, please meet my betrothed … the Lady Camarine of Waterdeep, soon to be the next Lady Kerilyn. I realize it’s rather soon after my first wife’s passing, but when the heart wants what the heart wants ... ”

The Lady of Dusk’s smile was as seductive as it was sinister. She ambled up to Lord Kerilyn and entwined her arms with his, resting her face on his shoulder in a mockery of affection.“I think we’ve met, love. Though she knows me under a different name.”

“Very different …” Orelia murmured.

The lord did not seem to realize that it was a fey creature’s limbs that interlocked with his own. His eyes were blind to the truth, just as Orelia’s had been only moments ago.

The fey creature turned to Orelia, her smile widening into a mocking grin. “I did tell you that I have many titles …”

A chill jolted down her spine and finally, the spell was broken and Orelia understood.

It was true. The real Lady Kerilyn - the true friend and mentor that Orelia had known almost all her life - she had indeed perished over a month ago. Her death was a quiet thing, something that happened in the aged woman’s sleep. Just like that, she was gone. And Orelia had been heartbroken for days until she had found her father hanging from the rafters of her mother’s bedroom. And then … it was like she had completely forgotten the Matron Lady’s passing.

No. It was not that she forgot. Something - someone - had made her forget. Wiped clean her memory like a stain upon silverware.

The Lady of Dusk grinned, her expression simultaneously contemptuous and triumphant.

The woman she had met over the last month had not been Lady Kerilyn. Instead, she had been meeting with the Lady of Dusk this whole time, a fey villain masquerading as her ally. No wonder they had chosen avenues for their meetings outside of the Kerilyn estate. The creature no doubt did not want to arouse Orelia’s suspicion, for fear that it might break whatever sinister enchantment she had cast upon her. Ensorcelled by the Lady of Dusk’s magic, Orelia had become but a pawn. While she thought she was gaining valuable intelligence and counsel, she was instead being manipulated by this creature.

But why?

She turned to face her betrayer, but before she could speak a word, the “Lady Camarine” whispered in her betrothed’s ear. “I’d like to have a word in private with the young Lady Vale, love.”

“Of course, darling,” he replied, his voice a dead monotone as he departed the foyer, a blind puppet dancing to his strings. Orelia knew instantly that he too was under the Lady of Dusk’s mesmerizing spell. She wondered if that was how she sounded under the fey creature’s thrall as well.

“ … how?” she breathed, still struggling to grasp the magnitude of the Lady of Dusk’s treachery.

“Is it not obvious? Few can resist my charms, magical or otherwise.”

“You … toyed with my memory. Made me believe you were my friend. Why did you do this?” Orelia asked.

“Do you not know why?” returned the masked fey, her voice light and airy. It was clear the creature derived much delight from her confusion.

“I don’t,” said Orelia. “Tell me. Why pose as my mentor. Why make me believe you were someone who was dead? Why make me forget -- why do any of this?!”

The Lady of Dusk erupted in amused jubilation, her every snicker lighting another cinder in Orelia’s heart.

“I told you when you first summoned me, did I not? I told you when you bound yourself to me, when you accepted my gift and swore yourself to my service, that your father would pay a price for his abandonment.”

“What does that have to do with me? Father is already dead!”

The fey creature smiled for a long moment behind her human mask and did not answer.

Anger rapidly swallowed the whole of Orelia’s being. “Have you lost your tongue?! Answer me!”

Her wrath only seemed to gratify the creature further. “Do you think death was enough of a price? Do you think I would allow him to escape my grasp with such a light penalty? No, daughter of House Vale. Death was only the start. And for the rest, I needed you.”

“What did Rodric Vale prize above all else in his life, I wonder?” the Lady of Dusk continued. “What would he treasure so much that he would risk incurring my displeasure?”

“His legacy,” Orelia answered by instinct. “His name.”

Once more the creature giggled her amusement. “The words you speak are accurate, but not precise. My dear, he did not value his prestige, his nobility, his status - not as much as you think he did, anyway”

“Then what?” Orelia hissed, annoyed that the creature might dare to claim she knew her own father better than she did.

“It’s so simple … he treasured his children. His family. You and your kin are his true legacy.”

The revelation stunned her. Could it actually be true?

“Why do you think he kept your siblings at arm’s length? It is because he feared losing them to my wrath, the same way he lost all his wives. He groomed you, yes, because you were the oldest, because he knew somebody would have to take care of the rest. The rest he dared not let in, lest’ they draw my attention. He knew the price for abandoning my service and betrayal would be more than a single soul could pay.”

“He failed so thoroughly to protect them from that debt, Orelia. And you … you were instrumental in ensuring that price was paid in full.”

Orelia shivered despite the warmth of the setting sun upon her. Fear and loathing threatened to overwhelm her. Could her actions have been orchestrated so completely? Was she as much a puppet, a marionette, dancing on strings being tugged and twisted by this monstrosity?

The fey creature continued, reveling in victorious glee. “Rodric Vale treasured his family. Loved his children. He thought he could protect them from me … but look what has happened to them. One was slain by his own brother. One was brought low by shame. One was exiled by ambition. One was trapped in madness. And the rest … bound to me. Just as their father was.”

“What did you do?” Orelia breathed.

Once more, the Lady of Dusk smiled. Orelia hated that smile. No, it was more than that. She abhorred everything about the Lady of Dusk. She loathed her with every fiber of her being.

“What did I do? What did I do?” The creature mused audibly before erupting in jubilant laughter. “Think carefully, now! Who do you think is truly responsible for everything that has happened to the woe-begotten scions of House Vale?”

[wangxiuming]

Part 21: The Lady of Dusk

Five Days Prior - Marpenoth 25, 1351

“Will it be enough?” the daughter repeated.

The youngest son of House Vale sprawled out on the floor, unconscious, before the Lady of Dusk. He was the recipient of a near-infinite well of eldritch magic borne from their pact unbreakable. The Lady of Dusk used it to overwhelm him, to steal from him his consciousness. She wanted to see him like this: prone and vulnerable. She could end him so easily; his life was but a flickering candle-flame and she could snuff it out with a single breath. There was beauty in that, beauty in how ephemeral his mortal body could be.

But then ... she could empower that body as well. There was beauty in that too. Beauty in strength. And she could make him stronger than any that had come to her before.

Her smile never-waning, the Lady of Dusk looked down to the small, pitiful creature at her side: the eldest daughter of House Vale. There was a frazzled weariness in the way she held herself now - clearly, she had not slept in many hours. But that hunger in her eyes remained as pure as the Lady of Dusk had ever seen.

She answered the girl’s question. “Enough for a brother to kill a brother? I do believe it will be. Yes … enough for that.”

“You know what I mean. You know what I want.”

She did indeed know what the true question had been, but she enjoyed toying with the girl like this. Watching the girl pursue her succession was like watching cattle turn a millstone. “I promised it to you, did I not?”

“And yet it has been outside of my reach all this time,” the girl hissed. “One obstacle after another. Every turn another challenger. I was supposed to be Head of this House by now. I have goals I wish to which I need to set resources. I have gambits I would see executed. My patience wears thin --”

Cattle should not whine so much.

“You flatter me, my dear,” replied the creature, her voice contorted into a perfect performance of anger. “Do you think I control the whims of fate? Do you think I can compel the minds of your enemies such that they prostrate themselves before you without a second thought? If I could do that, my dear, I would have no need of our little bargain.”

The daughter demurred if only for a moment, and the Lady of Dusk smiled inwardly. Pulling this girl’s strings was so amusing, she almost could not contain her delight.

“... I will have it soon then?” the girl asked at last.

“Yes, my dear. Our bargain was not struck in vain. I remember what was said when you bound yourself to me. And I will see that you receive all that was promised.”

Seven Days Prior - Marpenoth 23, 1351

“As promised,” the Lady of Dusk whispered to the finely-dressed daughter beside her. “ … I have procured for you the key to defeating both Olivere and Omerion.”

They stood atop the steps leading to the massive ironwood doors of Castle Never. From here, the Lady of Dusk could see all of Neverwinter stretch out before them, from the Beggar’s Nest to Blacklake, a smorgasbord of mortal scum scurrying about a city heavy with its own filth. The city was filled with disgusting creatures that possessed no thoughts but how to sate themselves of their base desires. Even the one that stood beside her was not clean. It did not matter whether it was urine soaked rags, the finest silks or cold metal that wrapped itself around their bodies. Scum and vermin could dress themselves however they liked; it would not change what they were underneath.

The mortal girl’s eyes went wide as she read the frayed parchment before her. “These letters … addressed both to and from Odette. They are proof of her affair with that Luskan pirate … how did you obtain these, lady Kerilyn?”

How indeed. The girl still thought her to be the mentor she had lost to death but a few weeks prior. The shriveled form she assumed for the witless daughter’s benefit was bereft of physical beauty, but it more than compensated for such faults with its immense utility. The Lady of Dusk’s magic ensured that Orelia Vale would see her as a faithful and trustworthy ally, forgetting that she had buried that same woman only a few weeks ago. There would come a time she would dispel this daughter of Vale of that notion, but there were moves that still needed to be made.

She needed to maintain the charade for just a few days longer.

“Ah-ah,” she tittered as the daughter turned curious eyes upon her. “There are some secrets I would keep for myself.”

In truth, the acquisition of the letters was a simple matter. It was not hard when she could assume any form that she wanted. Who would object to a noblewoman entering her own quarters, perusing her own secret hiding spots to dig up buried treasure?

“Of course, my lady,” came the begrudging reply. “Regardless, with this, I can finally secure what is rightfully mine.”

The daughter’s unflinching need to confirm her succession made her so desperate, so easy to manipulate. It was endlessly amusing to see how the girl never once questioned what she had sacrificed for the sake of her craven aspirations. Her perspective was so limited, so minuscule; she saw only the pitfalls and threats that lurked among her mortal court and its meaningless games. Even now, she did not realize she had invited a lioness into her home, a lioness to deal with naught but rats. She welcomed a queen of predators to devour gnats, never asking what would become the next course.

Then again, why would the girl ask such a question, when her devourer came in the form of a trusted friend?

“Yes, sweet Orelia. You can have it all.”

Nine Days Prior - Marpenoth 21, 1351

“You can have it all, my lord Olivere,” said the Lady of Dusk, in a voice not her own. “ … as long as you are willing to reach for your ambitions.”

The middle son of House Vale turned to her, the Lady of Dusk, a fey creature of magnanimous power and saw only the mortal handmaiden Nyssa, a simpering servant that had served Orelia Vale faithfully for many years.

The corners of Olivere’s mouth turned downward, his brows furrowing as he appraised her in the serving girl’s skin, eyes seeking any clue upon her expression that might reveal the truth.

“I’ve wanted to ask … why have you been whispering in my ear, Nyssa? I thought you were my sister’s girl, through and through. Why come to me with this proposal?”

He was not so much a fool as the Lady of Dusk first thought him to be; his questions betrayed his suspicions. Orelia had not been wrong about him. Perhaps the handmaiden’s form had been a poor choice. The girl was not known to be an overly cerebral tactician.

Still, the Lady of Dusk did not think this son of Vale would ever guess at the truth.

“Why should it only be my lord’s noble brother or sister who comes out a victor from this … situation?” she asked. “My counsel is considered, Lord Vale. There is potential for you to leverage both --”

“I understand the concept behind your ploy, girl. It was one I came to myself. If I hold the deciding vote, both Orelia and Omerion will be beholden to me, that much is obvious. What I want to know is why you would wish to see their fates in my hands.”

The Lady of Dusk laughed through Nyssa’s, bubbling, childish voice. “House Vale is mine to elevate, as much as it is yours, my lord, as much as it is your siblings. By raising up any of its successors, I raise up House Vale. And perhaps, I harbor some hope that their successes might spill downward upon the shoulders that prop them up.”

A lie. But would it be enough to dissipate this lordling’s suspicions?

“How curious,” replied the middle son. “I have never heard you so eloquent.”

She smiled through the sycophant’s flesh. “One cannot be blamed for aspiring to her betters, can she?”

“Neither can one be trusted if those aspirations grow too bountiful.”

“You need not trust me, my lord Olivere. But my plan is sound. As you must know … or you would not have cast your support for lord Omerion in the first round of voting.”

The middle son shook his head. He was persistent. Perhaps she had misjudged him; she found that delightful. It was always gratifying to be surprised.

“That is all well and good … but I would have an answer to my question: what is it you seek from this contest? What is it that you want?”

The Lady of Dusk smiled behind her mask. Whether this middle son of Vale knew it or not, she was already getting what she wanted.

Ten Days Prior - Marpenoth 20, 1351

“What do you want?” asked the youngest of the Vale daughters. “If you think you can convince me to side with you, Omerion … after the way you treated Oz? No. I won’t do it.”

Octavia Vale stood before her at the door to her quarters. But where the naive girl thought she faced her oldest brother Omerion … there was only the Lady of Dusk.

She laughed through the filthy mortal shell that was Omerion Vale’s body. It reeked of odor and buried resentment alike, but the Lady of Dusk swallowed her disgust. She needed to play the part for now, needed to ensure every detail was precise and accurate. There was no room for there to be doubt. Omerion was to be guilty, and by her hand, he would be.

“I’m afraid you are to be the first casualty of this conflict, sweet girl.”

A flicker of fear flashed across the girl’s eyes, and the fey creature shuddered in pleasure.

“Omerion? What are you -- what are you talking about?”

The daughter’s voice trembled in growing apprehension. The subtle change in her intonations of each syllable that she spoke was like a haunting melody in the Lady of Dusk’s ears, powerful and enthralling.

She advanced, shoving the girl before her into her own room. No one was around to bear witness … but that would soon change. She grabbed hold of the girl by her shoulders. The youngest daughter of House Vale squirmed against her new prison, but Omerion’s hands were strong. They allowed the Lady of Dusk to hold the girl like a vise, pinning her in place, preventing any chance of escape.

“What are you doing?! Let go of me!”

“No, my dear,” she replied, her voice quiet and dangerous. “I want you to listen. Listen to this story I have to tell.”

She leaned forward and whispered into the girl’s ear:

Seven little lordlings, playing politics.
Dusk came for one, and then there were six.

Memories surged from the fey creature’s mouth into the mortal girl’s ear and suddenly, all the daughter’s effort to flee evaporated. She could see now, what the Lady of Dusk had done. She could see now, what she was going to do to all of them.

Six little lordlings, for power do they strive.
Madness swallowed one, and then there were five.

The girl’s eyes rolled upward into her head such that only the whites could be seen. Those widened, terrified orbs spasmed in their cages, spinning in all directions as their mortal mind tried to make sense of what the Lady of Dusk was showing to her. They were so beautiful, the fey creature had to stop herself from plucking them out to taste them.

Five little lordlings, settling old scores.
Ambition felled one, and then there were four.

The Lady of Dusk surged more visions into the girl’s mind, and the toll they exacted from the feeble daughter of Vale’s consciousness became more than clear. Her mouth opened slack-jawed, mouthing words too quiet to be heard, much less understood. Blood trickled down from the girl’s nostrils, saturating her lips, her teeth, her tongue. Tears welled at the corners of her still-white eyes and rolled down her cheeks in wordless despair.

Four little lordlings, never to be free.
Shame broke one, and then there were three.

Finally, a scream tilted on the precipice of the young woman’s lips, but the Lady of Dusk was not ready for that yet. She pressed her lips over the girl’s mouth and her cheeks swallowed one … two … three panicked cries for help. Nonplussed, the fey queen returned to her whispering. Each vision she imparted to the girl stole a piece of her sanity, and the Lady of Dusk was not yet done.

Three little lordlings, blind to what’s true.
Death claimed one, and then there were two.

She was too slow to catch the scream this time, and the girl’s voice erupted in an agonized wail. The Lady of Dusk didn’t bother to attempt to quash it. She had enough. It was enough. Instead, she amplified the sound so that it carried through the halls of the Vale estate, so that all would hear of Octavia Vale’s torment and know the crime that had been perpetrated.

Her hands released the young daughter’s shoulders. The girl crumpled to the floor, blabbering incoherently, her mind all but destroyed. A cruel smile splayed itself upon the fey creature’s expression; she could feel it, and she knew then that everything would be as she had planned.

Footsteps sounded out, racing toward her. She would have to time it carefully. She would need them to catch a glimpse of the crime.

Still in the form of Omerion Vale, she exited the quarters, leaving his youngest sister to writhe upon the ground, helpless to do anything but squirm. The sound of feet slamming against the floors told her two of her siblings had already come; the Lady of Dusk saw the youngest son turn the corner before she flashed a deliberately cruel smile in his direction. She saw his eyes widen in unadulterated fury and she knew then that it was all the evidence he would need to spur this game to its conclusion.

She moved to flee. He screamed, “Stop!” but the fey queen ignored him, fleeing down the aisle and turning a corner even as his footsteps charged ever forward. She laughed to herself. He would never catch her, even while she occupied this clumsy body.

“Osric!” The urgency in the voice of House Vale’s eldest daughter stole what momentum still powered the son’s footsteps.

In the distance, the fey creature heard the son cry out, “Did you see? Did you see Omerion!?”

She knew then that she had won. The youngest son would be the means by which she drove this story to its end. And like his father before him … he would be hers.

One Month Prior - Marpenoth 1, 1351

Once more, he was hers.

As the frenzy of the water abated and the froth upon her eyes dispersed, the Lady of Dusk took a moment to appreciate her newfound surroundings. Except … no. She did not care about any of that. She cared only about the man she saw before her.

He had changed. His dress had turned regal since she last laid eyes upon him; gone were the ragged leathers and torn tunics that once were the extent of his attire. Now, bright cloths and cloaks wrapped themselves around his shoulders. Fine jewelry circled his fingers and forehead.

He had aged. His raven-black hair was now streaked with gray. Wrinkles and sunspots marred what once was pristine flesh. Claws raked themselves at the corners of his eyes; she thought she saw a hint of wisdom in those beautiful spheres.

Then again, she had been told by someone close to him that he was fast losing his intellect … and that rot was already festering in the last remnants of his sanity.

His eyes lingered upon her in disbelieving - and unrepentant - surprise. “N-no. How did you -- how did you find me?!”

The Lady of Dusk laughed, cruel and victorious, before seizing the lord of House Vale by the throat. She drowned in the ecstasy of the myriad emotion that came with a confrontation with her prodigal son. The longing she had felt, not knowing his touch, his presence, his thoughts, or his desires … at last, it was sated. The indignation and betrayal that so drove her fury finally found an avenue for release. She would make Rodric Vale pay for abandoning her. She would make this putrid mortal creature regret scorning all she had done for him.

She had given him everything he had asked. Charm. Magic. Power. He returned her favor by throwing it in her face and reneging on his side of the bargain. He repaid her by attempting to escape her grasp.

He would never do so again.

The pathetic human lord squirmed in her grip, flailing paws clawing at the hand the Lady of Dusk used to lift him into the air. She choked him with only a singular grip, stealing from him his life’s breath with barely any effort.

His words came in breathless stutters. “My lady! My love! I beg of you! Have mercy!”

Mercy? She could be merciful, yes. She was still fond of this pitiful creature, even despite all he had done, like a mistress would feel for a disobedient pet. He had abandoned her … but if she wanted, she could find mercy in her heart.

She lowered him to the floor and watched as he hacked and coughed, hands clutching his neck where her hand had reddened his flesh.

She could offer clemency for this wayward son … but then, what would her fellow courtiers say? Hers was a court of autumn and sunsets, of twilight and dusk. It was closer to winter than it was to the summer. She made her proselytizations in the name of the Queen of Air and Darkness, not Titania. Mercy was a fickle indulgence of the summer court’s purview, not hers.

The Lady of Dusk forced her voice to quiet calm. “You abandoned me, sweet Rodric.”

“I … I …”

Still, he sought salvation through deception! Still, he could not admit his error! No. There was no mercy to be had here. There was only retribution.

“You abandoned me, and then you found some method to elude my sight. To escape my scrying. You barred me from this place and sought to keep from me all of your progeny. Why, sweet Rodric? Treacherous Rodric? Why, after all that I did for you?!”

“How did you break the spells? The Many-Starred Cloaks … they assured me, the magicks could not be broken from the other side!”

Delicious wrath swallowed all of her conscious thought once more. “Is that what you question now?! Is that what you really seek to answer?!”

At last, the foolish old man realized his mistake. “N-no! No, my lady! I was wrong. I should not have --”

“Why?!” She could not keep the pain from her voice. “ … why did you abandon me?”

His eyes pleaded for only a second before he could no longer face her. He turned away, dropping his gaze to the floor in unhidden shame.

Looking at him like this, kneeling on the ground, framed by a massive portrait of what appeared to be him surrounded by … by a family. Six children, their every smile a mocking jape delivered to her like a slap to the face.

“These? These … creatures are why you turned from me? You left me for these disgusting children you spawned with those harlots?”

The Lordling's voice rose in an agonized accusation. “You stole from me all of my wives! I wasn’t going to let you have my children too!”

He dared to lay recriminations at her feet?! “Those women were distractions! You had no need of them after you had secured their political capital for your paltry nobles’ games. What does it matter to you if they were removed?”

“I loved them! I loved them all! And you stole them from me, one by one. My lady, please! I have lost so much already! Have you not had vengeance enough to sate your belly?”

“You have the gall to ask me that. More than a decade, Rodric. That is how long your disloyalty has lasted. Your desertion. You bound yourself to a promise. I gave you everything you needed to ascend to this paltry political position, and you tried to take it without giving me my due. Denied it from me with coward’s magic. Abjurations and divinations and wards to keep me at bay. Me! The one to whom you owe everything!”

Rodric collapsed to his knees, weeping. “My lady, please … I take it back. I take it back! Take the magic, take it all, I don’t care. Just spare me. Spare my family!”

“You have the audacity to regret?! You have the impudence to lament!?” True anger set fire to the Lady of Dusk’s blood. How could he? How dare he express remorse for their pact? He was the first among the mortal dregs she had ever thought worthy. He was supposed to be her champion!

“My lady --”

“Ungrateful worm! You don’t have the right to take back our bargain. You are twenty years too late!!”

Fey magic exploded from her hands, conjuring twisting scarlet vines from the ceiling that shot downward to ensnare Rodric Vale by the throat. Once more, she lifted his body lifted into the air, watched as it contorted against her spell’s unrelenting grasp. He choked, crying out in breathless wheezes that could no more carry words than they could carry salvation. The vines drew taut. His flesh turned increasingly deep shades of blue. His feet struggled for purchase against empty air as her magic lifted him ever higher, the vines wrapping around his neck like a noose. He clawed at them in futility, his struggles growing ever weaker, ever more feeble. Soon, even his pathetic mewling stopped. Everything stopped.

His breath. His blood. His heartbeat. All of it was gone. Even her rage had at last dissipated. All that remained was a body hanging from a noose of scarlet vines, quiet, and still, and empty.

That would not do. The Lady of Dusk waved her hand and then suddenly the foliage of her magic turned into silken bedsheets. She thought he looked peaceful like this, a victim of his own hands. In a way, that was exactly what he had become.

The door to the room opened. A daughter walked in, slow and terrified, not wanting to look at either the fey creature that loomed over her or the body hanging in plain sight. “ … is it over?”

“As promised … your father’s death will appear to be by his own hand.”

The girl’s expression was a mixture of ambition and regret. Of simultaneous sadness and anticipation. They danced upon her face, fighting for control.

“ … what have I done? I … he’s really dead ...” Tears streamed down the girl’s face as she rushed to her father’s side. She was too short to untie the noose though. Too weak to pull him down. All she could do was stand and awkwardly clutch at his dangling legs. It was such a pathetic sight, the fey creature almost turned away out of embarrassment on their behalf.

Was this fool girl really among the reasons over which Rodric had chosen to forsake his mistress?

“Father, I’m so sorry.”

The Lady of Dusk felt a spark of annoyance in her breast. Why did all these mortals vacillate in retrospect of their own actions? And they called her kind fickle.

“Sorry? Why did you break his wards then?” she asked. “Was it not so that you could acquire all the power he possessed? Did you not tell me that he was going to lead your noble house to ruin? Did you not say that his mind was ebbing away like castles of sand against a tide?”

“But maybe he didn’t have to die ...”

“ … then summon the clerics,” she whispered in response.

The daughter’s response was a stunned, “ … what?”

The Lady of Dusk smiled once more. “You mortals have priests and healers, do you not? Divine worshipers, who might choose to restore life where it has been taken? The cost is great, or so I hear. Perhaps enough to set your House back a substantial amount of wealth. But if you truly want him back … you can make it happen, my dear. It is within your power, is it not?”

“It … it is …”

“Of course, when he’s back, you’ll no longer have what you want. Your noble House will no longer be yours to control. They will be your father’s again. Perhaps you will not want it anymore after it’s been emptied of its coffers. Perhaps you will be content to see your father drive whatever is left of this paltry estate into the dirt. Is that what you want now, my dear? Because that fate can still be yours, if you truly wish it.”

Tears still streaming down her cheeks, the daughter stood in overwhelmed silence, clearly torn between a heart’s desire and a daughter’s duty. The Lady of Dusk waited for the conflict to come to the resolution she anticipated. There was no other option, in truth. All she could not predict was how long it would take the girl to arrive at the decision she knew she must.

“ … I need to summon the clerics. They … they will have to perform last rites.”

The Lady of Dusk wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry out in joy. Rodric had abandoned her to save his family, and this is how they repaid him. There was justice in this. There was righteous retribution in such a fate.

But it also spurred a craving in the fey creature that she knew she would not be able to sate. Not until all of House Vale knew her wrath.

“Before you go, my dear. When you broke the wards your father put in place to mask your family from my sight, you asked me to demonstrate I could provide what you asked. I have delivered to you your succession. I have proven my power. Are you ready now? Do you finally see?”

The girl could not deny it. “I … I do.”

The Lady of Dusk strode forward and pressed her body against the daughter’s, pushing her curves up and upon her own, wrapping her limbs around hers, pressing the spurs of bone around her joints into her flesh. Her initial reaction was to squirm against the sudden and painfully sensual embrace; she struggled to free herself, mouth opening to object. The Lady of Dusk silenced the girl with a finger to her lips, a smile painted upon her face to reassure, her words turned to whisper in the girl’s ear.

“Then you wish my power?”

The eldest daughter of House Vale nodded, anticipation tinged only with a hint of trepidation in her eyes.

“You are willing to pay the price?”

Every incline of the young woman’s head ushered her down a path to which she could not escape.

“You will bind yourself to me, from now until eternity?”

The girl whispered, “I bind myself to you.”

The Lady of Dusk removed her finger from the girl’s lips before pressing her own upon them, surging her tongue forward, breathing fey essence down a mortal throat. The girl convulsed, heartbeat quickening, eyes widening. Those beautiful gray eyes. They reflected a myriad of emotion: lust, ambition, eager anticipation. The girl had craved this for so long. And the Lady of Dusk was only to happy to oblige.

Rodric’s death was only the beginning. This family for which he had abandoned his mistress, had rejected his pact, had forsaken his power … they would be the final sacrifice on the altar that was his remorse. This daughter was the first, but she would not be the last. Only when all of House Vale had been ruined would the Lady of Dusk be satisfied.

Only when they all paid their father’s debt, would his suffering finally be enough.

[wangxiuming]

Part 22: Orelia

Marpenoth 30, 1351

“It was you. It was you all this time, pulling the strings, playing us like marionettes! It was you who gave me all I needed to push Omerion to desperation’s edge. It was you who drove Octavia to madness. You tricked us, you deceived us all!”

The Lady of Dusk snickered in visible delight. “Yes, my dear. And it was you who brought me here.”

Orelia stood agape as she felt the truth of her fey mistress’ words crush upon her soul like a mountain from which she could never escape. She had done this. She was responsible for everything the Lady of Dusk had done. If she had not broken the wardings her father had cast, if she had not aspired to --

“Regret makes you look so much like your father,” whispered the Lady of Dusk, but even in a whisper, her words were deafening. “He wore that same expression as he told me of all his laments, all his woes that he had failed his family. His children. He wore that same face as tried to rescind his pact to save his legacy and as one of the very daughters he sought to keep from me betrayed him.”

“Why us? Why do this to your own supplicants?”

A cheshire grin distorted the Lady of Dusk’s primal beauty into an expression of sinister contempt. “Your father’s death was not enough for my vengeance to be complete. I needed to destroy the reasons for his betrayal. And I must say … things are going exceedingly well.”

“You … you’re a monster.” Orelia backed away, not realizing she was doing so until her back hit a wall.

The fey creature’s smile waned for just a second before she responded. “I never claimed otherwise. But you knew what I was before you called to me. Your father told you where he got his power. He must have shown you the magic that held me at bay. How else could you have broken them? How would you even have known to look for them?”

She could not face the truth. All this time she had thought she was playing a masterful game, when in reality she was only a pawn in this creature’s twisted manipulations. This creature to whom she had bound herself, to whom she had made her brother submit … she finally understood what she had done. She had walked blindly into its maw, all the while thinking its teeth would be her armor, never once considering that they could be brought down to gnaw upon her bones.

“What does it matter to you who I am or what I have done?” continued the Lady of Dusk. “You have what you wanted, everything I promised: your succession. Your power. What does it matter how they were attained? You were once content to accept this simple premise of our relationship.”

But it was different before. It was different because Orelia thought she was the one in control. She was supposed to be the one who had held all the cards, the one who made the most of her hand. Now, she was only a card, to be played and discarded and sacrificed at the whim of another.

She could not abide that. She would not! She did not sacrifice her father, her brothers, all her familial relationships just so she could become another’s pawn!

“Why do you now look upon me and recoil?” asked the fey creature. “Do not tell me you wish now to go the route of your father; have you not learned his lesson?”

Neither was she a fool. The Lady of Dusk was not a threat she could underestimate. The fey mistress had already proven she was not beyond destroying her supplicants. Orelia’s next steps would be crucial.

“I have, my lady. And I see now what you mean. It matters only that our bargain is fulfilled. I offer you my eternal gratitude, my boundless thanks for all that you have done for me.”

Her mistress giggled at the groveling. “Come now, my dear. The simpering is a bit beneath you, isn’t it? Would you even speak to your departed friend in such a fashion?”

In a flash, it was Lady Kerilyn before her once more, not the Lady of Dusk. The old woman strode to her side and brought a finger to tilt her head up so they could look each other in the eyes. Orelia saw what she had not been able to see for the last month. A streak of wildness, of primal frenzy, in those aged eyes that she would never have attributed to the real lady Kerilyn.

She jerked her head away from the doppelganger by reflex and in mere seconds, the aged varnish that was the facade of the Neverwinter noblewoman once more melted away to reveal the savage and sinister trickster beneath.

“My my. We are in a mood today.”

Orelia forced a smile. “My business here is concluded. Thank you for entertaining this meeting, my lady. I take my leave.”

She had not taken two steps before the unsettling voice behind her rang out after her. “Before you go, Lady Vale … there is one last thing we should discuss.”

Her body turned against her better judgment. “What is that, my lady?”

A malevolent snicker escaped the Lady of Dusk’s lips. “I can see the wheels turning behind your eyes. I can see that spark of treachery ignite in your soul, the same one your father indulged. Even now, your keen mind seeks an exit from what you bound.”

The hairs on the back of Orelia’s neck lifted as the monstrous fey loomed over her. She opened her mouth to speak and the taste of blood filled the air.

“No, my lady. That’s not --”

“Do not lie to me.”

She fell to silence, her mind racing for some idea, some ploy, some tactic that could see her to safety. If only she could find a moment to herself, to collect her thoughts, to come up with some stratagem to --

“Fear not, my dear. Another treachery would be all too dull to avenge, wouldn’t you agree? I think … something different would be more entertaining. A change to the terms of our bargain then. Do this one last thing for me, and it shall be complete.”

Orelia’s voice quavered against her will, giving way from anger to terror. “ … what do you want?”

The Lady of Dusk did not even need a moment’s thought before replying. “Your last remaining brother. Osric. Kill him. Kill him for me, and you shall be free of me. Kill him for me, I shall set you free from our pact.”

[wangxiuming]

Part 23: Osric

Marpenoth 30, 1351

“No, my lord. It appears Lady Octavia’s condition remains stable.”

Osric nodded to the acolyte Kistle, a grateful, if faint smile upon his lips. The Ilmateri bowed his head and quietly excused himself, leaving Osric by his sister’s bedside. She looked so calm today. Sometimes he could almost see peace behind those vacant eyes. Sometimes he could find hope.

Octavia was unharmed; that was all that mattered.

He then realized the sheer and utter emptiness of that sentiment. It was true, Omerion had not further damaged their sister as she lay a rambling and mindless invalid. But if not for him, she would not be where she was to start.

Osric hated his brother for that. So then … why did he feel so much guilt?

There was so much for which his brother needed to take the blame, not the least of which was his own death. If not for Omerion, Osric would not have the blood of his brother upon his hands. It wasn’t his fault. He had been cornered into dealing that final, killing blow. Omerion had forced his hand. Orelia had forced his hand. The blood that stained Osric’s fingertips wasn’t of his own doing. It was their fault, the result of their machinations. He was only their tool. He was only their pawn.

He kept repeating those words to himself, over and over. Before each night’s slumber and upon every waking dawn. He desperately needed to convince himself of those things he wished to be true. Sometimes he almost could. Sometimes they seemed as certain as fact, clear in the brightness of day, resounding truths that could not be denied.

If not for Omerion, their family would be whole. If not for Orelia, what remained of their father’s legacy would still be intact.

And still that throbbing persistence of shame, regret, remorse … it plagued him with every passing moment. Sometimes the words he repeated were hollow and empty and he could hear only a mocking excoriation from his eldest sister as he pleaded for forgiveness that could never come.

He could have found another way. He could have defied them. This was always his problem. He allowed himself to be deceived by their words, entangled in their plots, and soon he was nothing but a marionette on strings, dancing only in the footsteps he was allowed, pulled in directions he could not set for himself.

“No more,” he whispered, mostly to himself. But he was as uncertain about that resolution as he was about his guilt.

Osric turned away from his sleeping sister to look out the window. The sun had finally completed its descent beyond the horizon. The room was now lit only by candlelight. Outside, he could see the last vestiges of the city’s trade quarter conclude its business and retire to their evenings. Merchants returning to their families. Husbands to their wives. Children to their homes.

“ ... Oz?”

The voice was weak and parched, and yet familiar, but also not. He had not heard it in so many days. It had been denied to him.

Octavia.

He didn’t dare look. He didn’t want this to be a dream. He didn’t want to turn and look upon a sister restored, only to realize that the fulfillment of all his hopes came only in a fleeting illusion.

“... water. Can you ... water?”

It sounded so real, it was impossible not to look. And as Osric’s eyes turned once more to gaze upon his sister, what he saw was indeed everything he could have hoped.

“Octavia? You’re … you’re lucid?”

“ … water,” she breathed. Osric rushed to fill a cup from a nearby jug and bring it to her lips. She intercepted his hands, accepting the glass into her own before gently tilting its edge upon her lips. Water suffused her dry lips and she gulped at it greedily, throat working harder than it had in weeks to bring life’s liquid into her body.

Osric sat upon his sister’s bed and watched in stunned silence, in unbridled joy, in utter relief. This was no dream. It was real. He could see it. Could hear her voice, could feel her skin warm to his touch.

Finally, his sister set down the cup and turned to him, a weak but glad smile upon her countenance. “You’re here … you’re here. I’m so glad.”

“I’m here,” he repeated, wrapping his arms around her in a desperate embrace. How good it felt to feel her return the gesture. To feel her arms wrap around his back, to know that her actions were once more of her own volition. “I’ll always be here.”

Perhaps everything would turn out alright after all.

Octavia was quick to dismiss that dream.

“Brother … Omerion, he --”

Osric tore free from the embrace to look Octavia squarely in the eyes, holding her shoulders tightly with both hands.. He needed to know. He needed to know what Omerion had done. Perhaps hearing the horror from his sister’s mouth would be all he needed to at last put to rest the guilt he felt over his brother’s death. Perhaps knowing the extent of Omerion’s crimes would be that final medicine to cure him of his guilt-ridden malady.

“What did he do to you, Octavia? How did he do this?”

She shook her head and all the hair on his limbs stood on end as a devastating chill ran down his spine.

“ … it wasn’t him, Oz. It wasn’t Omerion.”

No. That couldn’t be true.

“Sister, I saw him leave your room after you screamed. I saw him flee. I saw him smile that wicked, cruel distortion of his lips. He enjoyed seeing you suffer!”

“It wore his face,” Octavia replied. “But it wasn’t him. It was … a creature in disguise. Its voice … like a thousand insects, buzzing at once, feeding words into my ear … into my mind … Brother … I saw what she did.”

This made no sense. Unless … Octavia was still mad. These were still the ramblings of a madwoman, of one who had lost all sense of reality. Osric felt the hope in his heart drop like a stone into his gut.

And then his sister whispered a name that convinced him beyond doubt that what she spoke was not the ravings of madness at all.

“The Lady of Dusk. A monster. An abomination made flesh. She did this to me. She tricked you, framed Omerion for her crime. She killed Father, Oz. He didn’t take his own life! It was all a deception! She’s been behind everything …”

Osric shook his head. “No … no, no no. No. That … that can’t be.”

He had bound himself to the Lady of Dusk. If what Octavia said was true … it would mean he had bound himself to the creature responsible for all the tragedy that had befallen their family!

“It is true, Oz. You have to believe me! But that’s not all … that monster’s arrival here … it wasn’t any accident. I saw it all in the visions the Lady of Dusk used to drive me to the brink of madness. Oz … listen to me. Orelia brought her here. It was Orelia.”

It was Orelia. It was always her. It was she who resorted to dark ritual and eldritch magic to bring about her victory. It was she who had chosen exile for a brother over mercy. It was Orelia who had demanded that Osric slay their own flesh and blood to satisfy her vengeance

And it was Orelia who had demanded that he pact himself to the Lady of Dusk.

“I didn’t want to believe it either,” Octavia whispered, tears welling at the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t want to believe that the sister that had cared for us all those years could have so betrayed us all … but it’s true. I’ve seen it, as clear as day, as bright as Selune and her tears in a cloudless night.”

“She never cared for us,” said Osric, his voice a toneless void. “We were always pawns to her.”

Octavia’s sorrow trailed down her cheeks. “ … you believe me then?”

He nodded. What else could he do? After everything he had learned, after everything that had happened over the past few weeks … he had no choice. This was the truth; he had no doubt. Orelia was responsible for bringing the Lady of Dusk into their lives. And that meant she was responsible for everything the Lady of Dusk had done. Their father's death. Octavia’s incapacitation. Olivere’s exile. Odette’s shame. Omerion’s execution. She was the one to blame for it all.

In a way, the revelation brought him a measure of calm. It gave him what he wanted. It absolved him of everything he needed in desperation to be absolved.

Still, knowing that it was his beloved eldest sister that had wrought such a treacherous fate upon their family shook him to his core. It hit him like a punch to the gut and left him reeling and stunned, so much so that he was uncertain whether he would ever recover.

“What are we going to do, Oz? We’re not safe here, not while Orelia is still here. Not while the Lady of Dusk is her ally … ”

Osric didn’t have an answer to that. He felt defeated. He felt drained of hope and warmth and emotion. He thought back to everything he had done for Orelia. He thought to how he had laid so many false accusations at his brother’s feet. Omerion hadn’t been the one who hurt Octavia. That was the work of the sister to whom he had cast his vote, the woman he had chosen to support.

How could he have been so thoroughly wrong?

“Oz?” Octavia’s voice was desperate and fearful. “Is she … here? Is she in the estate? Please, we have to figure out a plan. She’ll kill us both if she knows that we know. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it Brother. We can’t let that come true!”

“She left earlier. I don’t know where she is.”

“We need to … we need to leave or … but she’ll hunt us if she thinks we’ve fled. Oz … if she knows that we know, she’ll have us … she’ll have us killed.”

It was not a far leap. After everything Orelia had done to secure her position, she would not allow the truth of things to tear her down now. She could not risk having that truth exposed.

“Oz. What are we going to do?”

“ … I don’t know, sister. I don’t know anymore.”

Octavia gripped his hand in her own. It was surprisingly firm. Strong. Filled with conviction.

“I know the pact you bound. I saw it in the Lady of Dusk’s visions. But yours wasn’t the only one she bartered these last few weeks. Orelia bound one too.”

Osric blinked in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“She has been bound to the Lady of Dusk, just as you are, since Father’s death. All this time, she has possessed the same power you do.”

“ ... but that would mean …”

“It would mean she allowed you to pact yourself to that fey monster so you could fight her battles, all the while knowing she had the power to slay Omerion herself. She could have challenged him to the duel. She did not need to risk your life, Brother. But she made you the Lady of Dusk’s puppet so that she would not have to risk exposing her own dark connections.”

All this time, he had been the pinnacle of fools. All this time, he had been Orelia’s marionette.

“I know you know what we need to do,” Octavia continued. “In your heart of hearts, the answer is clear. You don’t want to do it, and I don’t either … but it has to be done. Oz … it’s us or her. We can’t let her get away with everything she’s done. And she won’t let us live knowing what we know. ”

Anger rose in his breast, the likes of which he had never before experienced.

“We have to kill her, Oz. We have to kill her before --”

“ -- who do you have to kill?”

An all-too familiar voice drew Osric’s attention away from Octavia, towards the sole entrance to her room. There, framed by the door, stood Orelia.

[wangxiuming]

Part 24: Osric

Marpenoth 30, 1351

Osric’s gaze landed upon his eldest sister as if for the very time in his life. Her eyes brimmed with hesitation and dread power in equal measure. Her hands leaked eldritch magic borne to the will of a fey mistress. Scarlet leaves seemed to pour down around her, only to disintegrate into the air; he watched them and wondered whether that was what his sister intended to do to her last brother.

“Don’t believe her, Osric,” Orelia whispered, eyes darting between him and the sister beside him, her mouth closing to an impenetrable line across her face. He too looked to Octavia, and what he saw broke his heart. The girl’s once beautiful face had been dessicated of any joy and all hope, replaced only by a facade of terror and dread.

Because of Orelia, fear was all that their family had left.

Osric turned back to his eldest sister, struggling to put into words all of his outrage, all of his emotion. “Don’t believe her?” he repeated with a mirthless chuckle. “Don’t believe her, when you’ve proven everything she said to be true?”

“She’s deceiving you!” Orelia protested. “She lies to you even now!”

“Did she lie about what you did to Father? About what you did to me?! You already possessed the Lady of Dusk’s power, but you chose to bind me to her as well, rather than face Omerion yourself! You sacrificed me for your reputation! You sacrificed Father for your succession! Is there anyone you won’t throw away for your own gain?!”

Tears streamed down his face, but he did not notice them until they were already down to his chin. He stood to his feet, putting himself between his eldest and youngest sisters. He watched as Orelia opened her mouth; no reply parted her lips. That was alright. Her expression was evidence enough of her guilt.

“Your words fail you at last, Sister,” he said. “Has the weight of your crimes finally become too much for your tongue to lift?”

Orelia’s eyes would not stop darting between Octavia and him, even despite their youngest sister’s fearful silence.

“I … I’ve made mistakes, Osric. Brother. I do not deny that. I harbor ambition. I nurse my own bitter acrimonies. I am only human! But everything I’ve done has been for the good of this house.”

Osric stared at his eldest sister, flabbergasted at her sheer audacity. “For the good of this house?! You’ve led this family to its ruin! Have you forgotten what has happened to us over the last month? One month, and our family is torn to shreds. All because of you!”

“No. No,” came her furious protest. “That was Father. He was the one that brought the Lady of Dusk into our lives in the first place. And he was going mad. You all knew it. She would’ve found him sooner or later--”

“So you decided to make it sooner?!”

Orelia’s words escaped her mouth in a frustrated wail, desperate to defend herself, helpless to succeed. “Do you think I do not know the role that I played?! Do you think I do not blame myself?! I was the cause of all of this. But I have lost too much now, I have sacrificed too much to go back!”

Fey power swept off her form in torrents. Osric summoned his own borrowed energy to his hand, a reflection of the same magic his sister now wielded. A power she had hidden from everyone, even after forcing him to become its slave.

How he hated her.

“You’ve sacrificed your soul to destroy your family. For what? For your paltry ambition. For your political ascension,” said Osric. “You are not worthy of this family’s name. You are not worthy to call yourself my sister, much less Father’s daughter!”

His eyes cast downward upon his sister and whatever shred of the admirable masquerade she once wore was pulled away; seeing her true visage reflected now curdled his blood. He had never abhorred anyone as much as he now did Orelia. Not Olivere. Not Omerion. Disgust welled at his throat and filled his veins at her very sight.

She shook her head in defiance. “I alone have the right! I alone have earned my place! There is no turning back. Don’t you see?! That was Father’s mistake! He thought he could escape his mistress, but it only brought her wrath down upon us!”

Osric steeled his heart for what he now realized must be done. Octavia was right; there was truly no saving their eldest sister. “You don’t expect me to let you get away with this.”

Orelia chuckled at that, but her laughter was empty of any mirth. Instead it filled with cold, calculating derision. Her voice resonated with power then, a perfect imitation of the Lady of Dusk’s own voice, chittering and echoing against itself like a swarm of flies in the air.

“Do you think that after everything I’ve done, I would allow you to dictate anything to me?”

He raised his hands to ready a defense, but Orelia was already surging her palms high into the air. Scarlet vines uprooted the floorboards of Octavia’s room in a wild attempt to ensnare Osric. They shot through the air like arrows, flying at him with impossible speed.

Apprehension gave way to instinct. In a flash, he darted to the side, empowered by his borrowed magic. Orelia snarled and launched a blast of eldritch energy at him. He ducked down at the last moment and returned the favor. Orelia launched another volley to counter. Violet magic collided against itself in an explosive blaze, sending Osric flying backward. The back of his head slammed against a tapestry hanging on Octavia’s wall; it was a poor cushion against the stone behind it. His vision blurred and filled with dark spots. Adrenaline was the only thing that kept him conscious, though his legs buckled beneath him and he sank to his knees.

As the dust cleared, he saw Orelia loom overhead. “You cannot best me, Brother. I have commanded this magic longer than you. I’ve learned tricks that are beyond your novice grasp.”

He snarled and surged his right hand upward, summoning all the power he could muster. But Orelia was too fast. She caught his wrist even as his fingertips were about to reach her chin. An inch more, and he would’ve succeeded, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

“Allow me to show you the newest one she taught me, for this very purpose.”

And then she whispered in his ear.

“Brother. My favorite Brother. You know that, right? That you’ve always been my favorite. The best that a sibling could be.”

Her eyes filled with scarlet energy. Her words buzzed with the manic fluttering of insect wings. And then it was like his mind was no longer his own.

Of course he knew he was her favorite. And she was his. Was … is?

Osric wanted to shake his head. He wanted to finish his strike, to resume the attack. But suddenly, everything within him lost all momentum. It was as though his heart stopped pumping blood through his veins. Something about her speech, about her voice, it was --

“You want to stop fighting me.”

For just a second, he felt his will surge forward in defiance of that ridiculous statement. In the next, it was as though a tide had crested and everything she said made more sense than anything he had ever heard before.

“ … you’re right,” came a dull monotone from his mouth. “We shouldn’t fight.”

Osric could still feel Octavia’s eyes upon them, her mouth gaping in stunned silence, her fragile form quaking in terror. He had to resist. He had to protect her.

He had to defeat Orelia.

… but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He didn’t need to. Orelia had been their matron guardian for all their lives. What would they need to fear from her?

“That’s the Oz I know,” his eldest sister said in that compelling voice of hers. “That’s the boy I raised. Come with me. Come along now.”

He felt himself stand. He felt his feet move forward after his eldest sister. They stepped into the hallway together. From there, she guided him to an all-too familiar room. The bedroom where their father had been murdered. She opened the door for him, a tragic smile playing upon her lips. He saw victory there. He saw arrogance. But there was a hint of regret, as well.

For just a second, he thought that remorse to be galling.

“You miss Father dearly, don’t you? And you’re wracked with guilt over what you did to Omerion.”

He nodded, even though a moment ago, admitting such to this sister would’ve been the last thing he wanted to do. Those objections were quiet now. They were overridden by an overwhelming sense of trust for his sister. He almost welcomed it. It was good to feel this for Orelia once more. To know her and have faith that everything she did was for his wellbeing.

“ … the sheets are loose. You want to gather them. Tear them into rope. Tie them into a noose.”

Spoken from Orelia’s tongue, there seemed to be no suggestion to which his body and mind would not comply. But why wouldn’t he agree to her suggestions? His legs took him to the bed, where his arms began to tear cloth into strips. His muscles strained, and the fabric tore.

A voice screamed in the back of his mind: I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this! But it was faint, no more than a flickering echo of a memory long forgotten. Why should he be concerned? Orelia was someone he had trusted all his life. Why should he fear what she planned for him?

His fingers tied the thick cloth together. His sister suggested without hesitation, “You want to hang it from the rafters,” and he agreed. That was the place for such things. Why tie a noose if you do not intend to hang it?

He pulled a chair out from under a desk and swung his own death overhead. He secured it, ensuring it would not come loose, not collapse beneath his weight. He prepared his own execution with a smile. All the while, that voice in the back of his head howled in agonized desperation.

Break free! Break free of this spell!

“I’m sorry it had to end like this, Brother. I truly wished you no harm in any of this … but the Lady of Dusk has offered me freedom from her machinations and this … this is the price.”

She can’t say it. She can’t even say what she’s doing!

The voice grew louder in his mind.

“You want to end the pain. You want to end it all. The games. The treachery. The loss. End it … and be free.”

It was Orelia’s voice that grew quiet. She spoke, but her eyes reflected none of the malice, none of the calculus that they typically possessed. Her voice lacked conviction; it was more like she was trying to convince herself.

“It’s tidier like this. My … my hands can stay clean. This is your own doing. That’s what they’ll say. And after everything that’s happened … who could blame you?”

Something snapped inside him.

“You have the temerity to claim your hands are clean?!”

Osric did not know whether it was the audacity of her words that freed him from her spell or if it was the sheer realization that she wanted to consign him to the same fate that she had done their Father. All he knew was that his rage could not be abated, could not be quelled by any magic, by any deception. He would not allow her to lie to him anymore!

He watched as Orelia stumbled back from her position, expression distorting in surprise. It did not take her long to recover. With focused intent, the whites of her eyes flushing a scarlet red. Her mouth moved to summon the magic once more, but it was too slow! Too late! Osric’s hands were already shooting outward, palms wide and soaked with eldritch magic. It surged out from him, charging toward Orelia’s form, too fast for her to defend, too swift to be denied. Violet light struck his sister in the gut, loosing an agonized scream from her lips before sending her careening back onto the naked mattress behind her.

Octavia appeared at his side, out of nowhere. He had almost forgotten she had awoken from her maddened state. She clutched his arm close to his body, using it to shield herself from their eldest sister. Her presence emboldened him, strengthening the draw of his power. More energy surged into his palms, even as Orelia stumbled to the ground, her legs almost buckling with the effort.

“Why can’t you ever make anything easy?!” shrieked Orelia.

“All I ever wanted to do was help you!” Osric retorted. “All I ever wanted was for you to succeed as head of this house! And you repay me with treachery after treachery! You used me against Omerion. You used me against all of our brethren. No more! I am your tool no longer!”

“Kill her, Oz!” came Octavia’s panicked whisper. “Kill her before she kills us!”

Orelia laughed with deranged glee as her eyes darted between him and their youngest sister. “Not my tool any longer? All you’ve done is switched mistresses!”

In the heat of the moment, Osric paid no heed to the meaning of Orelia’s accusation. “This is between us!”

“So be it!” Orelia spat. “If this is how you want to play it, I will oblige you!”

For a second, Osric wasn’t sure who Orelia was talking. But he had no more than a second to deliberate the matter. In the next, a blast of fey energy lanced toward him and Octavia with furious speed. He shoved Octavia to the ground and dodged aside as quickly as he could. His youngest sister screamed in pain as her knees collided with the floor, but all worry of her condition fled his mind as his focus turned to seeing them through the fight.

As Octavia scurried to hide beside the bed, Osric and Orelia circled each other like predators clashing over prey. Osric made the first move; he kicked the chair still sitting beneath the unused noose hanging from the rafters. It flew straight for her but she stopped it in its tracks with a concentrated burst of eldritch power. He charged her and he saw her eyes widen; she had expected him to continue their ranged volleys, but he knew he couldn’t win in a direct confrontation of magic. Not if she had a month’s experience over him under her belt.

No. Melee was his best chance. His charge earned him enough of an element of surprise such that his sister could not ready a defense in time. His body slammed into hers and he tackled her to the floor. He tried pinning his arms with his own, but her palms opened a spray of violet sparks upon him. Wincing through the pain, he grabbed an iron dagger from his boot. He meant to bring it to to his neck and force her to submit, but Orelia’s hand was already reaching for his throat.

If she unleashed an attack at this range, there was no way he would survive.

Before he could think, he plunged his dagger into Orelia’s open palm and a terrible, excruciating scream roared from her lungs. Blood spattered his tunic, his face, his hands, but he forced himself through the shock. He could not let up now. He could not let up for a second.

Osric wrenched his weapon free from Orelia’s bloodied hand, shut his ears to her wailing, and pressed the edge of the dagger into her neck.

At his side, her free hand had already welled a pool of magic meant to incinerate him. It sparkled and danced, painting the room in violent hues of red and orange. It filled the air with the smell of cinders and ash. But even with it already pooled … it would take Orelia a moment longer than he would need to slash her throat.

“ … you don’t want to try it.”

She stared up at him for a moment, disbelieving and defiant, but at long last, she conceded her defeat. Osric could see it in her eyes; she knew she was beaten. And with that realization, all of her will to fight, all of her collected power, dissipated into the ether. Her stare never wavered; only its expression. At last there was remorse. At last there was regret.

But he could no longer tell if any of that emotion was genuine. He could not trust her that this was not some final act of desperate theater, or if in defeat, she finally came to know the depths of her atrocities.

“ … what are you waiting for?” she asked, her voice quiet and devoid of hope. “Do it. End it.”

It sounded true. It sounded real.

Octavia tiptoed up to his side, her voice trembling in fear. “ … is it over?”

He wanted to reply that it was. He wanted to confirm for his beloved youngest sister that there was nothing left to fear. Orelia had surrendered. She had given up the fight. But in his heart, he feared that this battle between them would never be over until … unless …

“It’s not over until you kill me.”

It was Orelia’s voice, and it was those words that she chose to fill once more with the affection and the kindness that he had so missed hearing from her.

Tears streamed down his face as her speech confirmed the worst of his fears. “Why, Sister? Why does it have to be like this?”

Her head turned to stare wistfully at Octavia before she returned her gaze to him. “The Lady of Dusk won’t let there be any other outcome. One of us will destroy the other. That is our fate. That is our destiny.”

“No.” Osric shook his head. “We don’t have to comply, we don’t have to submit to her whims! Or to her twisted lies! We can resist her. We can fight her together!”

Orelia’s laughter was empty of any joy. “Are you blind? Have you not seen what she has wrought? This is what Father’s betrayal earned him. What do you think she will do to us if we turn on her?”

“So you’re just going to let her force us to kill each other?”

“ … what other outcome is there? At least this way, one of us can survive.”

Octavia broke her silence at last. “ … you’ll never stop coming for Osric, will you?”

Her voice sounded so strange. Hollow. Empty. What once was mirth had turned only to contempt. Osric could only guess that it was their circumstances that filled her with such melancholy. Even so, to hear her sister sound like this … it chilled him to his core.

He watched as Orelia turned her head to stare at Octavia. For a second, the corners of her lips twitched upwards, as if they were desperate to break into a mad smile.

“No,” she said at last. “I won’t.”

Octavia clutched Osric’s free arm. “You heard her. She’ll never stop. You have to end her, Osric. You have to kill her, to save us. To keep us safe from her machinations. To protect us from her manipulative nature. She’ll never stop. She admitted it herself! You don’t have a choice; she’s not giving you one.”

His soul ached with reluctance. Even knowing the truth of Octavia’s words, even hearing them spoken aloud, shone to the light of day, uncompromising and unflinching in their veracity … he didn’t want to do this thing that he knew by all rights he should.

“Think about how much she has hurt our family,” Octavia pressed, her whispers becoming ever more inflamed. “Think about what she has done. If you don’t do this, she’ll never pay for her crimes. Do it, Osric. Do it for Olivere and Odette, who’ve been stripped of their home and sent into exile. Do it for Omerion, and for Father. They would be alive today if not for Orelia’s ambition. Do it … do it for me. The madness she inflicted upon me by proxy. The devastation she wreaked on my mind, my soul ...”

Her voice broke into quiet sobs, and Osric’s heart broke for her. Much as he wanted to keep what remained of their family together, he could not deny the truth of the words she spoke.

He knew what now had to be done.

It would be quick. Easy. Push the blade into flesh. Cut into a vital organ and in seconds, it would be over. Finally, it would be over.

And he would have one less sister.

Osric gripped the hilt of his dagger tight in his palm. It was a weapon his father had given him years ago, one he always kept tucked in his boot. The old man had made a point of mentioning it was comprised of cold iron. Osric had asked why at the time, but his father had evaded the question. Perhaps now, the answer would be made clear.

“Do it, Oz,” urged Octavia. “Make it quick.”

Orelia closed her eyes and steeled herself for the end. Osric lifted the weapon high above his head, blade pointed downward.

“Finish it,” whispered the voice beside him. “Save yourself.”

He wanted to close his eyes too. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to miss. He couldn’t afford a miscalculation.

“Save us. Do it, Osric! You can save us both!”

Osric could only pray that this would save them all.

He brought the blade down hard. He cringed as he felt it plunge into tender flesh, as blood spurted from an open wound, as a scream of agony erupted into his ears. He watched as Orelia’s eyes fluttered open, widening in disbelieving shock. He turned his head to see where his blow had landed, where he had directed it, free of any external compulsion or mental domination.

For just a second, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake. He glanced from Octavia’s gut, where the knife still lodged itself, to her anguished face of despair.

Cerulean blood poured from her lips.

Octavia stumbled backwards, but … no. It wasn’t Octavia at all. It couldn’t be her. Her form shimmered as she struggled to remain standing. With every breath she took, a piece of the illusion melted away. Gone were the locks of golden hair, replaced instead by a head as smooth as a babe’s skin. Gone were the soft brown eyes, ousted by orbs of furious scarlet. Gone was the innocence … swallowed instead by a form of delicate, carnal beauty. Of terrifying rage and vengeful insanity.

There stood the Lady of Dusk. His sister had not awakened from her madness after all. It had all been a lie. A beautiful one … but one he could not swallow any longer.

Osric’s stare was one of vindication as the Lady of Dusk gasped, clutching at the dagger still buried to the hilt into her abdomen. “Y-you … how?! How did you see through my spell?!”

“ … you don’t know Octavia like I do,” he replied, desperately trying to keep the anxiety from his voice. If this was not enough to dispatch the fey creature, he did not know what would be. “ … whatever Orelia might’ve done, Octavia would never have wanted to see her dead. Not really. Her heart is nothing like yours. Her soul is pure. She would never allow vengeance to consume her.”

The Lady of Dusk smirked, even as blood the color of the ocean continued to spilled from her mouth and from her wound. “It seems I’ve underestimated you and your sister both.”

“Octavia would’ve wanted mercy,” he replied. “She would’ve wanted forgiveness.”

Her response was only weakening laughter. “ … that I could be outmaneuvered by an idealist and a fool,” said the fey creature. Her legs gave out beneath her and she sank to the ground, even as she continued trying to prop herself up against the bed with futile effort. Her body began to distort, to fall apart like fat off the bone. The smell was putrid; Osric held his breath as he watched the Lady of Dusk degenerate. Skin and sinew and muscle and tendon alike; all of it melted to the floor.

He cast his gaze back to the only sister he had in the room, to Orelia, who remained on the floor, her eyes opened, disbelief brimming from their lids. He turned back to his fey mistress … but she was gone. Only a puddle of sapphire liquid remained, drowning a pile of ivory bones.

“Do you see, Orelia? Do you see now?”

His sister stumbled to her feet and then lifted her hands; for a second Osric thought she meant to continue her attack. But no magic came to her fingertips. No power wafted off of her any longer. Her expression reflected her incredulity; she stared down at her hands as if she could not understand why they were no longer shackled.

Osric lifted his own palms upward. He tried to conjure the magic … but nothing came. The power was gone. The Lady of Dusk was defeated. It was over.

He raced back to Octavia’s room.

There, he found his youngest sister lying in her bed, sleeping, blissfully unaware of anything that had taken place. He rushed to her side, grasping her shoulders, shaking her with reckless abandon, waiting with bated breath that she would wake at any moment and reveal she had been cured.

But she would not stir.

His heart sank. He hoped that this victory would have earned her a freedom from her condition as well. But it seemed, what was done was done. And nothing could take it back now.

“It was Octavia’s skin that she donned, wasn’t it?” asked Orelia, plodding up behind him, holding her belly with one hand. “That was how she chose to appear before you?”


Osric looked back to his eldest sister, and nodded. “ … did you know the whole time? Could you see through the illusion? Why didn’t you say something? Anything?”

“… I wanted to see if you could see through her lies. I wanted to know … I wanted to know if I was the only one so blinded to the truth.”

With that, Orelia burst into a sob and collapsed against Osric’s chest. He let her fall against him, his eldest sister weeping against him, the boy she had raised. He wrapped his arms around her, slow and awkward at first, but as her tears grew more bountiful, so did his embrace.

[wangxiuming]

Part 25: Osric

Uktar 5, 1351

“Thank you for doing this, Brother.”

Osric listened to Orelia’s words half-heartedly. Before him, a magnificent pinto horse snorted, its breath visible against the cool of the dawn air, its hooves plodding against the estate’s cobbled stone terrace restlessly. Osric wished he had the beast’s energy. It was a horrendous hour, but he had made a pact with his sister. Major moves on any of their part would best be avoided during the twilight hours. And in fact, the journey upon which he was about to embark would require a literal move.

He turned to offer a weak smile to his sister. “You will take care of Octavia? You will let me know how she is?”

“As agreed,” Orelia affirmed. “At least one letter a month. Don’t worry, Oz. If there’s anything you’ve shown me, it is that we are a family. We have to take care of each other. And we will. I will. Just like …. just like before.”

Osric’s smile widened by a tiny fraction, but in the back of his mind, he could not help wondering if he would have agreed to this, had the Lady of Dusk not been laid low before their very eyes.

Orelia had come to him a few days after their confrontation - she had given him that much of a courtesy at least - and with her, she had brought a compelling list of reasons he needed to leave the city. The circumstances of Omerion’s death were attracting unwelcome attention among some of their noble peers, and alarmingly, those most curious were those with the most influence among the City Watch and the Many-Starred Cloaks.

Even if he no longer possessed the Lady of Dusk’s power, it could be possible that the mages of that preeminent order would be able to discern the nature of that foul pact they had bound. There would be no telling what would happen if it became widely known that he had bargained with such a malevolent fey spirit. And since it was already widely known in the city that it was Osric who had slain his brother ...

Of course, the real reason Orelia wanted him gone was that he was now a political liability. She had her spoils; she did not need him tarnishing them by his presence, a presence that would now attract idle gossip and unwelcome recrimination. Orelia had not changed that much. And Osric would be a fool if he expected otherwise.

Still … a part of him wanted to go. It longed to be free of this place, of Neverwinter, a city that no longer felt like home. It was a prison now, filled with all the terrible memories of the last month. All the treachery. All the revelations of his family’s true nature. He did not want to linger here, where his mistakes and his naivete would haunt him with every step he took in his family’s estate. And without the Lady of Dusk to threaten Octavia’s health and safety, the last string that bound him to the city was cut. He could depart, confident that Orelia had no reason but to keep their sister safe.

He had said his farewells early in the morning, long before the sunrise. He wanted to say something, to commemorate the departure somehow, but as he sat in Octavia’s room with her, he found that his tongue had fallen to obsolescence. There were no words she would understand anyway, he told himself. No farewell that she would be able to comprehend as such.

A single tear rolling down her cheek was the only refutation he received.

“ -- and here is your escort,” said Orelia. Her words were paired with the clanking of metal boots against the ground.

“My lady. My lord.” Sir Caslian Swordborn greeted them both with a bow of his head and a casual smile. He was a handsome man, Osric could not help but to note, but he could not bring himself to fully trust the knight. He had discovered that Caslian had been dispatched by Lord Kerilyn to serve House Vale … and that meant there was the possibility that the man was once the Lady of Dusk’s proxy. Even with her death, he could not be certain his motivations were not still aligned with hers.


Still, that was all the more reason to get him as far away from Octavia as possible. If that meant leaving on an arduous sojourn with the man, that was what he would do.

“A formal introduction at last,” Osric said, offering a lukewarm smile that was only partially due to the early hour. “Well met, Sir Swordborn. Or do you prefer the Sword of Summer?”

The knight grinned. “Please, just call me Caslian. Your noble sister tells me we are to embark on a long journey. Did you have a destination in mind?”

Osric considered the question. In truth, he wanted only to be away; his thought was to make his way out of the city and see what happened from there.

“Waterdeep is lovely this time of year--” Orelia started to say, but Osric felt a sudden urge to refuse her suggestion. He was done being ordered around by her.

“Baldur’s Gate,” he said firmly, cutting off his sister. She demurred, though not without a glimmer of annoyance flashing across her face. Osric felt quietly pleased for only a second; the bitter joy defying his sister lent him flitted away moments later.

“Quite a long journey,” replied Caslian. “But my lady Orelia’s suggestion isn’t without merit. We’ll need to resupply, and I have friends in the area who could aid.”

Osric grimaced, but conceded the point. “Aye, true enough. It is along the way, I suppose.”

“ … one more thing,” pressed Orelia. “It would be prudent of you, Brother, to keep your identity hidden. One need not attract … unwelcome attention by announcing yourself over much.”

Caslian arched a skeptical brow. Orelia clearly had not informed him of anything that had happened.

Her request made a certain sense, Osric had to admit - the whole point of leaving Neverwinter was to lay low until the events of the last month no longer drew inquisitive eyes. Still, it was, effectively, a banishment from the house. To disclaim his nobility would make Osric little better than the common peasant. His fate was the same as Olivere’s now: another price to pay for his freedom.

But if this is what it would take, he swallowed it willingly.

“Give my regards to Lord Blackburn if you stop by Leilon as well,” said Orelia, smiling as she pressed herself close to him. He couldn’t tell if the gesture was genuine anymore, and she pretended not to notice the absence of returned affection. “I have other affairs to attend, but I wish you a safe journey, dearest Osric. And good Caslian, Do make sure you keep my brother safe.”

“Of course, my lady. Until next we meet.”

Osric watched as Orelia headed back toward the double doors that made up the estate’s entrance. Caslian seized upon the opportunity as soon as she was out of sight.

“ … rather a sparse farewell considering the length of our journey. Everything alright between you and the Lady Vale?”

The Lady Vale. His sister’s title rang hollow on his ears. She had gotten what she wanted after all. Her machinations had paid off.

All it cost was the lives of almost all of their family.

A horrible thought struck him then. What if this was all according to her plan? Orelia had gotten everything she wanted. An inherited throne, with none to contest her claims. There was no one to oppose her now, not even the Lady of Dusk. It hit Osric like a cold stone in his gut; had she planned for this all to happen? Was she the true enemy all along?

The thought lingered in his mind … and then passed. No. There was too much luck, happenstance, coincidence … too much for Orelia to have plotted this. She would not have allowed for so much uncertainty. She could not have anticipated that his own rage would spur him to challenge Omerion to that first duel, for instance. She was just as surprised as he was at Olivere’s betrayals and defections. He saw her face then, saw the shock, the surprise. It was just the same when Captain Cedain revealed his own treachery. She had not planned for that either.

Their final battle conflict nailed certainty into its coffin. Osric could tell, could see it in his sister’s eyes that day. She was convinced that only one of them would emerge from their conflict. She was certain that only one of them would survive the Lady of Dusk.

He had to admit, even he was surprised that she fell to a single blow. He half expected her to reveal unimaginable fey defenses. The other half of him expected the blow to lead to his own death. To watch the creature dissolve as she did … it was a miracle. The favor of Tyr. The blessing of Tymora.

“My lord?”

Osric started guiding his horse to the estate’s iron gates. Caslian followed without missing a beat, though Osric could feel inquisitive eyes on his back. He mustered words to drown the silence. “ … you probably shouldn’t call me that anymore. My sister’s right. There’s no point to leaving if I’m going to give the watchers a trail to follow.”

Caslian smirked. “Osric, then?”

Osric flinched as he heard his name spoken so brazenly, even though he himself had made the request. The reaction did not go unnoticed by the knight, who flashed an empathetic smile before speaking once more.

“ … clearly I’m still missing something. Is there a reason for all this cloak and dagger?”

The man certainly was inquisitive. Keeping him in the dark must have taken some effort on Orelia’s part--

“ ... the rumors are true then? You slew your brother with unnatural, borrowed power?”

Obviously, Orelia had not done a good enough job.

“Perhaps it is better that we keep our peace,” said Osric, barely louder than a whisper. “You have your oaths, yes? I would not have you violate them.”

“Ignorance is no defense to such,” Caslian countered in reply. “ … but I would hear the full story, if you’re willing to share it. The smattering of gossip I’ve heard probably does not do it justice.”

As they walked, Osric appraised Caslian once more, trying his best to decide whether it would be safe to tell the man the truth. To his surprise, the knight bore his scrutiny without a peep; he barely reacted to it, apart from offering an amused smirk. Through that humor, Osric could see an earnestness there that he so rarely saw amongst his noble peers. Those faces were mostly comprised of shrewd conspirators or chittering buffoons. Here was someone empty of treachery and intrigue. Here was someone honest … someone genuine.

Osric vacillated. A part of him wanted to share the tale. A part of him wanted to talk about everything that had happened. A month ago, and he would’ve spilled every word to Octavia within hours of it happening, but that was no longer an option. All he had now was Caslian.

But could he be trusted?

Mercifully, the knight spared him the decision. “ .. all in good time then. We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the road.”

“Aye,” Osric said. “Thank you.”

They reached the gates. The guards opened them and ushered them out without any fanfare. The streets of Neverwinter were only just coming alive with the bustle of the days activities. No one would notice a little lordling slip away at this hour. No one was present to see a man leave behind his birthright.

The sun was still trying to ascend above the horizon; it painted the world in the colors of dawn. Osric paused in his tracks. He soaked in this last view of the city, knowing it was possibly the last he would see of it for a long, long time. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smells of the waking metropolis, drowned himself in the sounds of a city coming to life.

“It’s a ghastly hour, but there’s some beauty to be had from it at least,” said Caslian.

Osric turned to face his companion and broke into a smile. It was beautiful. A new dawn, a new day. A new journey. A new venture. It was a time of beginnings, a blank slate, a fresh snow and empty canvas upon which he could decide his own destiny.

What the hell.

“ … did you really wish to hear the tale?”

Caslian nodded and grinned. “I do.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”

And so, as the sun rose overhead, Osric and his new companion made their way southward out of the city, the tale spoken from the little lord’s mouth as they traveled a last memento of everything he now left behind.

Artist: Jedd Chevrier

Octavia

She raced through a forest of blood and bone.

At every turn, a nightmare loomed. At every fork in her path, madness threatened to overwhelm her. She was lost in a sea of decay, where cresting waves ebbed away at the edges of her sanity and the tide brought in only terror.

In the distance she could hear familiar voices.

She could no longer place them, could no longer remember from whom they issued. Neither could she hear the words spoken. She called out to them in despair, hoping against reason that they might somehow hear her. That they might somehow save her.

They could not hear, or they did not choose to do so. None answered. None came for her.

In the distance, she heard her own voice ring out, absent her direction, deafening in its finality:

Two little lordlings, their legacy undone.
The first betrays the last, and then, only one.

She did not understand. She could not hope to do so.

All she could do was run.

Olivere

On board the Storm Wolf, Olivere stared out across the vast stretch of cresting waves before him. The sun had only just begun its ascent. It painted a black ocean into a diffused reflection of the sky - warm and pink and full of life.

The journey from Luskan back to Neverwinter would take several weeks by sea, even if Umberlee saw fit to spare the vessel her divine wrath. Weeks where the enemy could continue to plot and cement herself in her newly acquired position - the ill-gotten gains of a sibling rivalry gone terribly astray. His contacts had not failed him; they had sent word that Orelia had achieved her ambitions at last and that House Vale was now fully in her control.

Olivere could not let that stand.

Beneath his feat, the presence of Captain Meridan and his infamous Marauders reassured him that success was still in his reach. If cunning and intellect were not enough to achieve his ends, he would resort to force. If he could not oust Orelia in her political arena, he would change the field of play.

And if that field had to be bathed in blood … well, his eldest sister had already laid down a sanguine foundation.

Odette

Odette hovered over a basin of filthy water in her miniscule quarters, scrubbing her face with a dirty washcloth. Tears flowed freely from her eyes, even as she wiped them away. They were shed for everything she had lost, most of all for her family and for her dead brother. Whatever Omerion’s faults, he had always been loyal to her. Whatever his crimes, he had always protected her.

She had repaid him with treachery. And she would spend the rest of her life paying for that mistake.

A part of her wept for her noble privilege and all of its associated wealth and status. It was a small part, however. She had sworn to leave that life behind, and she meant to keep that promise. For Omerion. She could not fail him again.

As the sun ascended beyond the horizon, rays of light bathed her room, illuminating it in a warm glow. Her tears stopped, as they always did. Every day, they flowed less freely. Every day, her weeping turned less and less frequent. And always, afterwards, a curious sense of peace warmed her heart.

She looked out the sole window in her meager quarters and realized she had never felt so free.

Orelia

Orelia watched her brother depart from the grand window in her room.

She saw him pause just outside the gates and break into a smile as he faced his companion; a new life waited for him beyond the horizon. A curious sensation rose in her breast as she watched them go: envy.

She envied him his freedom. She craved his fresh start.

“My lady. The Watch has sent word. They mean to visit the estate before the sun sets this very day.”

Her handmaiden Nyssa approached from behind, bearing a message. Orelia read it impassively; she could not bring herself to care about such matters. Not when there were greater concerns at play.

She returned the parchment to her serving girl. “I’ll not have them traipse through the estate. Respond that I shall pay a visit to them at their headquarters when the sun reaches its apex in the sky and no sooner.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Nyssa hurried off, leaving her once more alone in her room, with nothing but her own thoughts for company. They inexorably turned to the events of the last month: her follies and failures; her mistakes.

All her life, she had thought herself cunning. She had believed herself to be a master player of the noble’s game and its niceties. Her father had taught her its moods, its quirks, and its gambits. Her ambition fueled her desire to learn. There were no waters she could not navigate within the political arena. She alone among her siblings could ride its waves and emerge standing.

Her expertise lent her pride, and in pride, she found arrogance. They formed a mask around her face, a blindfold through which she could not see; she did not even realize it had happened. Her skill had become a double-edged sword. It cut her enemies to shred, and she had forgotten to pay mind to how it tore down her caution.

That was what led her to believe she could woo a fey abomination and still hold the reins to her own destiny. She actually thought she could apply the rules of a noble’s game to that of a fey court.

How foolish. How naive.

So much had been made clear to her, but the lesson that stood out the most: her ambition was the source of all her woes. If she had only left well enough alone, none of this would have happened.

Her mask had become her crutch.

The guilt that had wrapped its tendrils around her heart now demanded that she make reparations. This was the best she could do for Osric. This was the most she could offer: a taste of freedom, something to be treasured, no matter how fleeting. No matter how illusory. No matter how she envied him for his blissful ignorance.

Orelia wondered if her brother knew the truth.

She stared at her palms. A long bath in saffron-infused waters had made them as immaculate as those of a newborn, but she knew that to be a lie. A deception. A facade. Beneath her pristine flesh, the blood of her father and her brothers stained her hands, and no amount of scrubbing would be able to wipe them clean.

And no amount of fighting would break the chains of scarlet vines tied around her wrists.

Breathlessly, she summoned her power, and it came, surging, shimmering in its violet thirst. With it came confirmation that their victory had been hollow. With it came despair that she would never be free.

Osric did not know. Orelia was sure of it. There was no chance he would have agreed to go if he knew their powers could be summoned once more - if he knew the Lady of Dusk remained alive. He would never trust Octavia to her if he did. She felt his bitter resentment in that last embrace; she knew in her heart that she would never hold the same place she once did in his. No matter what words of forgiveness Osric might have offered her, he would never really trust her again.

So this was her attempt to offer him redress. A taste of freedom, however long it lasted. However false it was at its core. And so long as they were apart … the Lady of Dusk could not pit them against each other.

Orelia balled her hands into fists and watched as the fey creature’s power evaporated into the air.

Just in time, as her handmaiden burst once more into the room. The panic on Nyssa’s face halted the rebuke on Orelia’s tongue. “My lady! The Watch, they’re already here, they’re outside the gates!”

Fear, envy, and longing threatened to overtake her, but instinct and innate reflex saved her. She remembered her many lessons. Poise in the face of pressure: that was essential for a noble of her station. There was always another move, another play, another gambit that could be played.

She offered a sullen smile before answering, “ … very well. I shall greet them in person.”

And as Orelia readied herself to receive her unwelcome visitors, she took a deep breath and once more donned her mask.

[wangxiuming]

Epilogue

Deep within the heart of a frozen forest, a glade of haunting mystery isolated itself in ancient magic and forbidden ritual. Most knew better than to trespass here, where the color of the flora mutated from frostbitten greens into the many hues of blood. Scarlet leaves and branches twisted into unnatural tapestries that hung from an indeterminate canopy above. Only the trunks of the forest’s silver birch trees provided any relief from the deluge of red; they stood like carcass bones, picked clean by vultures.

Here, sheltered by twisted sorcery and corrupted spirits, a creature of both primal and deliberate vengeance made her home.

Staring down through the reflecting pool beside her, she watched as the son departed his home with a new companion. Her hand traced the outline of a scar on her stomach, where the son had buried his dagger and marred her pristine beauty like none that had come before him. The wound had already healed, but her perception of the youngest scion of House Vale had forever been shattered.

The Lady of Dusk had never found anyone so intriguing.

Somehow, the son had seen through her deception. His father, his siblings … they had all succumbed to the illusions she had worn. But not this one. She thought she had pegged him for what he was - a naive, foolish child … but he had proven himself something more … it made him that much more appealing. That much more desirable.

If not for that desire, she would never have brooked the assault he laid upon her form.

Still, that he had turned on her only made the game more engaging. That he had tried to kill her, only made her want him more. To have someone like him as her slave … it made her giddy with anticipation.

To that end, she would send him a teacher in the guise of a friend. She already knew exactly whom she would choose. It would have to be him: the only one who could deliver the son to a mastery of the power that still burned within his soul, a power she had granted for a price that had yet to be fulfilled.

Her servant would make the son invincible. And the son would honor his debt.

He would be her champion ... whether he knew it or not.

THE END ...

\\To everyone who's read this, thank you! If you have constructive feedback, please do let me know. I am always hoping to improve and it would be much appreciated.