Vol. 2 Ch. 27 Be kinder (Draft)

Author's Note:

Recurring Characters:

Gale Butcher: The bandit leader that Peter killed recently.
Aldemar: The captain of the Holy Knights in Rosefall.
Alselma: Arch Priestess of Avaris in Rosefall.
Lady Nyara: Arch cultist of Abyss in Rosefall.
Lorenthar: The Vampire.
Viscount Garridan Vauclain: Viscount of Rosefall
Bors: The butler of the Viscount of Rosefall.

Recap:

Finally, Nyara exhaled. It sounded like wind sliding through bone.

…End of Author Notes...

...

“What about the plan?” she asked softly.

“They’ve no clue. All they know is about a hungry vampire. It’ll be a long leap for them to conclude that you’re involved.” He said. “I thought it was still best to report.”

Her eyes moved to him, causing a drop of sweat to slide across Lorenthar’s neck.

“You thought…correctly…for once.” She said.

Lorenthar said nothing. A lesser creature might have bowed in gratitude for such a scrap of mercy. He stood perfectly still.

Nyara turned back toward the statue, her eyes trailing along the carved stone trident. “We cannot afford to fail. Try to find out who killed the thrall, and if you can’t, make sure that the ignorant remain ignorant about the plan.”

“It shall be done,” he said.

“Lorenthar,” she smiled sweetly. “Make sure this doesn’t become a habit. Abyss wouldn’t mind taking you in her embrace if it happens again.”

…

The carriage wheels creaked over the cobblestone streets of Rosefall, muffled by enchantments etched into the chassis by the enchanter. Outside, the city blossomed with joy and excitement about the upcoming festival. Decorations were present everywhere in the street. Laughter echoed from nearby courtyards, mingling with the scent of sweetbread and spiced wine.

But within the carriage, the air was heavy.

Anselma Kaelisdottir sat with her back straight, hands folded neatly over her lap, eyes fixed on the passing city through the narrow window.

Opposite her sat Aldemar Thorrikson, arms resting on his knees, his brow drawn in a tight, pensive line. A thin crease formed at the corner of his mouth, the only outward sign of his unease.

The silence between them wasn’t strained. It was contemplative.

“This feels like a calm before the storm,” Anselma said finally, her voice soft but firm, eyes still on the street.”

“I know,” Aldemar replied, nodding his head. “The Gale Butcher was strong… but he was a known threat. Predictable, in his way. This vampire, on the other hand…”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t have a clue about him. And those two men who took down the bandit? At least one of them has to be beyond level 200.”

“This doesn’t bode well for the upcoming Solace, Aldemar.” Anselma closed her eyes for a second, her fingers tightening slightly around the prayer beads in her lap. “The timing is too perfect. People like that don’t just appear near Rosefall a week before the ceremony.”

She opened her eyes again, and they were sharp as steel beneath the sunlight. “Increase the security of the cathedral. Quietly. I don’t want to cause panic or disrupt the festival. But the guards must be alert, and the inner sanctum must be watched at all hours.”

Aldemar gave a firm nod. “Understood. I’ll assign trusted knights only.”

Anselma’s voice dropped slightly. “We must be prepared for the worst. If these newcomers are not here by accident… they could be after the saint candidate.”

…

Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows, falling squarely across the study room. Dust motes danced lazily in the golden light, but the warmth never reached the man behind the desk.

Viscount Garridan sat in a darkwood chair, fingers steepled under his chin. Shelves lined the walls, filled with magical tomes, historical records and relics of his ancestry—enchanted swords, full-body mitril armour that his grandfather wore in a battle a century ago, artefacts of various kinds, spell scrolls, and a painting of his father looming over the fireplace. The scent of oiled leather and old paper mingled with something more delicate: a floral note, the same fragrance his eldest daughter gifted him once. He’d insisted on it for the room.

The door clicked shut behind the tall figure who had just entered. Bors moved to the side and gave a small nod. Another man followed behind, looking much coarser and harsher, but still having the brains to give the viscount a proper bow.

He was a lean, tall man, with eyes like chipped slate beneath a dark hood. His clothes, though cleaner than streetwear, still bore the loose drape and dagger-bulk of a man used to slitting throats, not sipping fancy wine.

The viscount’s eyes flicked up, slow and deliberate. “You’re late.”

Marrek—leader of the Thorns—shrugged, straightening into casual insolence. “Had to take the long way around. Religious nutjobs were patrolling with the guards. I didn’t want to take any chances with the faithful, especially not when they’re twitchy before Solace.”

“A smart decision,” Garridan said, voice smooth as aged wine. He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “I summoned for this explicit reason.”

Marrek didn’t sit. He glanced at the chair, then back at Garridan with a faint, unreadable smile. “When the Viscount of Rosefall sends word personally, I know it’s not a social call.”

Garridan raised a brow but said nothing about the lack of courtesy. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him.

“Things have suddenly gotten tricky,” he said, voice smooth as aged wine. “Gale Butcher is most likely dead. Did you know that he recently became a vampire’s thrall?”

“What happens outside of the city is none of my business,” Marrek shook his head.

“Well, it should be now,” Garridan said, picking up a cane and tapping it once against the floor for emphasis. “This vampire business and the unidentified men who killed the bandit had the arch priestess alarmed.”

A long pause followed as the nobleman allowed the gang leader some time to contemplate his words.

“Tell everyone under you to keep their head down until things calm down a bit,” Garridan said, his face expressionless. “I’ve no control over them, so don’t expect me to save your men from their wrath if you end up becoming their targets.”

Marrek’s smirk vanished. “We’ll be careful. I’m not eager to end up on a pyre just because some idiots don’t know when to keep their knives sheathed.”

Garridan gave a slow nod, tapping the cane once more. “Good. That’s why I let you build your little thorn patch under my rose garden. But order… is balance. When blood is spilt without permission, that balance falters. I’ll not like it if that happens because the Thorns can’t keep to the shadows when told.”

Marrek inclined his head, expression tight. “Understood.”

Garridan watched him closely, eyes sharp as razors behind his composed façade. “And if the vampire shows again, don’t engage. You’re never a match for Gale Butcher. Just let the holy knights deal with him.”

“I’d rather lose a dozen blades than alert something that might dig deeper than either of us can afford,” Marrek said, voice low.

The viscount gave a thin smile. “You can go then.”

Marrek gave a slight bow, turned, and walked toward the door. Bors was already there, silent as always, opening it for him without a word.

As the gang leader disappeared into the hallway, Garridan remained seated, one hand resting on the head of his cane. He smiled and then turned his eyes to the miniature portrait near his father’s picture. A younger version of himself stood beside a refined woman with dark auburn hair and calm eyes, her hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a golden-haired girl. His eldest. A perfect heir, obedient and graceful.

“She will carry my family name forward,” he murmured to the air. “Not like the other one.”

He leaned back into the chair, fingers drumming the cane’s polished head in thought.

…

(Some rooms away)

“It wasn’t yours. How dare you!” Linetta snapped, her voice pitched high with frustration. The younger of the two sisters stood near the armoire, palms rolled into fists, jaw clenched in anger. “Just because Father praises you doesn’t mean you’ve the right to cut my dresses.”

Elouen, seated near the hearth with a book resting on her lap, didn’t even flinch. “You insulted me in front of the servants. Don’t act innocent now,” she said coolly, turning a page.

“I didn’t,” Linetta stepped forward, face flushed. “They laughed because the teacher asked you a question and you couldn’t answer.”

Elouen looked up slowly, her blue eyes calm and unreadable. “I’d have answered it, but you just had to shame me by answering it first—even when you weren’t even asked.”

Linetta’s hands trembled. “Oh, please! You sat there quietly for minutes. I’m not the villain here.”

Elouen closed the book softly and rose to her feet. She was taller by a little, but it felt like more in the silence. “You humiliated me,” she said, her voice as calm as ever, though her eyes sharpened. “So I returned the favour. That’s what our family does, doesn’t it?”

Linetta’s throat tightened. “You're just like him,” she whispered. “Cruel when no one’s watching. Smiling when they are.”

For a moment, pride flickered across Elouen’s face.

“Make sure this doesn’t happen again, little sister,” she murmured, brushing past her toward the door. “Next time it’ll be your hair.” She didn’t look back.

Linetta stared at the half-ruined dress still hanging in the armoire, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Then she turned sharply and yanked it down, as if by destroying what was left, she could hurt her sister back.

Linetta clutched the ruined dress to her chest as she hurried down the corridor, her bare feet silent against the carpeted floor. The portraits on the walls watched her pass—stoic Vauclains of generations past, all painted with the same proud posture, the same cold eyes.

She reached her mother’s room and knocked once before pushing the door open.

Lucia Vauclain sat by the window, embroidering a veil with fine golden thread. Sunlight streamed through the glass, falling on her auburn hair like the goddess's blessing. She looked up, her face warm but distant, as if always half-turned toward some thought Linetta couldn’t see.

“What is it, dear?” she asked gently.

Linetta stepped in, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “It’s Elouen. She ruined my dress—on purpose! She’s always so cruel to me, and no one ever says anything—”

Lucia sighed, setting the embroidery aside with the same delicate care she gave everything. “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “you’re well aware how hard it is for her.”

Linetta blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t show it, but she carries a lot,” Lidia said, standing and walking over. She touched Linetta’s cheek with a feather-light hand. “The expectations your father places on her… they weigh heavier than you know.”

“But—” Linetta’s voice cracked. “She cut my dress.”

“She made a mistake,” Lidia said, brushing a strand of hair behind Linetta’s ear. “Be the kinder one. Let it go. Sometimes, love means tolerating what we don’t understand.”

Linetta swallowed her protest, the fabric of the ruined dress crumpling tighter in her fists. She lowered her head, the heat in her eyes growing.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, barely a whisper.

As she turned to leave, Lidia called gently after her, “Be patient with her, Linetta. She needs you.”

But Linetta said nothing as she stepped out, the warmth of the room already vanishing behind her.

She wandered out into the inner courtyard, her mood still sour, her fists still clenched. The trimmed hedges and rose-laced trellises offered no comfort today. The scolding still echoed in her ears, bitter and undeserved.

By the fountain, a man in polished but worn armour stood waiting with a relaxed posture, arms crossed loosely. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back, and the fine lines around his eyes deepened as he gave her a gentle smile.

“Bad day, my lady?” he asked, his tone light but warm.

Linetta hesitated before answering. “Sir Dareth…” Her voice trailed off as she approached him. “It’s always the same. I’m told to be kind. Told to be patient. Even when she—” She bit back the rest and crossed her arms.

Sir Dareth Thorne, her assigned knight and guardian, nodded slowly. “Sometimes patience is the heavier sword to carry.” He studied her for a moment. “But the one who carries it grows stronger.”

“I don’t want to be patient. I want to be better. Stronger than her.”

He smiled at that. “Then let’s train. We’ll leave patience for later.”

Her eyes flicked up, wary but intrigued. “Spellwork?”

He tilted his head. “Unless you’d prefer a sword?”

“No… no, spells are fine,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips for the first time that day.

“Good,” he said. “We’ll start with manipulation exercises. If you’re going back to the capital in autumn, I want your form to impress your teachers.”

She followed him to the training lawn beyond the hedge, her pace a little lighter. For now, she could forget about ruined dresses and her unfair mother. For now, there was only magic, and the quiet reassurance of someone who believed in her.

…End of Chapter…