“I cannot believe the High King let you off easy, El!” Melara laughed as they clanked their drinks together. Eldric had ordered a water. Melara had indulged in some ale. Thoramak’s was full of patrons, music, and drink on this fine evening. They sat by a window with a view of the city port. The sun had fallen just moments prior, but the yard of ships was more like one of the grave. The sailors, save a select few who would watch over their ships, had taken to the land for the eve. Moonlight twinkled emphatically off the void-dark waters, its source hanging low and large in the sky above. Elfden had snuck up on them like a knife in the knight. The days could be volatile in terms of weather, though the nights were crisp and cool. Scents of mulled wine permeated throughout the city this time of year. Scarves, cloaks, and wools found their way out of the wardrobe. Eldric wished he could wear normal wools, but his father was Whelin Rosamund. The son of Whelin Rosamund was expected to wear the finest silk fashions at all times. Whelin was one of the richest lords in the realm, after all. Allfather forbid El wear some wools.

Moping would get him nowhere. Silk robes and silk cloaks had become all the rage amongst the nobility. Eldric wore both. The main bits of the outfit were purple, the primary color of his house. The hems held a bit of colorful trim; off white, the secondary color of his house. Their sigil was nowhere to be seen, thank the Mother. When the Lord Poe raised his father to the status of lord, the man had picked the rose to be his sigil. A rose. Their guards bore shields with flowers on them. Men died in service to the roses of the Hallows. Eldric would not die for the most noble of sigils. He would not die for a flower.

Luckily, he would not die at all. At least for today. The High King had astutely realized Eldric had not participated in the Prince’s nonsense. Edwyn had cast the spell. Alexander had thrown the knife. Eldric had sat and watched like the son of a banker should; with a sheer interest in the preservation of his own skin. Eldric had, in a way, been rewarded. The usual grouping in with those two had not occurred. There had been no guilt by association. The High King had dismissed him, and that was enough reason to celebrate for a thousand nights over.

“I was so sure His Grace would have me bottled in with them. He always does. I will thank every god tonight, I will.”

“Even Null?”

“Aye. She resurrected my faith in my own luck, she did.” They both laughed, smashed their glasses together, and drank again.

“It’s odd though, is it not?”

“What is, sister?” She was his elder sister, there was no doubt. None would confuse the two. They shared features no other house in Mithrock could boast. Light brown skin, bright blue eyes, hair whiter than chalk, and pointed elven ears. They were half-elves, half-Solrusian, half-noble in the eyes of some folks. Their father, a full blooded elf, had married a Solrusian woman. Most were repulsed by anyone with the blood of Samara, the Calamity, the Devil Who Walked Upon Sphoros. Their father had loved one. As had they. Not a day passed where Eldric did not think of Olivya Rosamund. Their eldest sister, Anara, held a darker complexion than the four younger siblings. She looked much like their mother.

“A Day of Welcome,” she answered. “In Elfden. When we just had one three months ago in Attonden. Like usual.”

Most had found the proclamation of another welcoming odd. Eldric had chalked it all up to Haryn not being the most traditional of kings, even if the tradition was one the king had started himself.

“It is odd,” Eldric agreed, taking another sip of his water. “The High King is an odd man.”

“Odd, yes.” Melara rolled her eyes. “Odd enough to let the throne pass to Edwyn rather than furthering his branch of the Maran line. Odd enough to maintain absolute privacy most days. I reckon he could be odd enough to defy his own traditions. It all just seems so…”

“Odd?” Eldric asked.

She smirked, her blue eyes rolling again.

“Aye, sweet brother. Odd. Everything is just off a bit. Those bastards of the Hand have me on edge.”

“Who cares if they are-“

“I do not care if they are bastards. You know that. I care that Joanna is taking her wyvern for rides around the city when even the Declans are not allowed to. I am worried about Horace openly using his father’s name despite no legitimization from the High King. I am surprised, as they have been so meek for so long. The Hand has led them by the throats. I wonder what he is planning, is all.”

“Even if he is planning something with the bastards, he does not have Yoric or Valora. If he does not have the Prince’s half-brother or his own niece, he does not have much to work with. Just a bunch of scattered pieces on a game board.”

“We do not know if he has them or not.”

“No one has heard from Val in ages. Yoric would not have anything to do with Elias’s nonsense. The man killed his father, sister.”

“Aye, and we are well aware just how much stock Yoric put into his father.”

A good point. Eldric had not known Yoric as well as Melara, though he was positive the wayward bastard would not touch this current predicament with a harpy’s claw. His sister knew this too, but she was obviously worried. The whole thing was likely just a bit of posturing. This would not be the first time the Hand tried to swing his cock around in order to test how tightly the High King held his leash. All of it was a bunch of nonsense Eldric had no time to worry about. Well, he had the time. He just wished to spend it on other things. Things like Alisia and how to put her down lightly.

The woman was a good match. The best of matches, really. Her house’s shattered reputation left her in an undesirable spot with the larger houses of the realm, though House Alden was still a multitude of stations above House Rosamund. She seemed to really like him. Eldric really, really wanted to like Alisia Alden. Life would be much easier if he liked Alisia Alden.

Eldric really, really struggled to like Alisia Alden.

He liked her well enough as a friend and a colleague. She was smart, good at guiding her peers to think like her, and was doing a genuinely fine job of picking up the tatters that the Anomalous Branch of House Alden had left her with.

“Are you nervous too, brother?”

“Aye. About different things, but I am.” Eldric stood, reaching for his silk cloak and wrapping it around his shoulders. The garments would not help much with the cold. All the better. The chill would help him think. “Join me for a walk, sister?”

- - - -

Melara walked side by side with her younger brother. The port was empty. Elfden signaled the nearing of Wintertide. Waves splashed against the wooden piers, droplets soaking into her scarf. Few wanted to deal with breezes delivered directly by the ocean itself. Eldric, unfortunately, was not one of the few.

“Do not give me that look, Mel. At least you get to wear wools.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Thousands would wear those silks of yours if given the chance.”

“Fine. I would trade with them.”

She believed he would, too. Melara was not Whelin’s heir, therefor she could afford to wear wools in the night when few eyes would find them. Eldric, though he was lucky to be the heir solely due to the cock between his legs, was unlucky when it came to colder nights such as this.

“You are the one who chose to come out here, brother.”

“I know. I am sorry for whining a bit.”

Now that is odd.

Eldric very rarely apologized. He would complain about his station day in and out knowing full well how envious Melara was of it. He did not care much, as he was envious of her station himself. Eldric had no interest in being Whelin’s heir. He had little interest in responsibility of any kind. He liked to spend his time telling stories, reading folktales, and spreading joy to those around him with his jokes and wit. While he was resigned to his duty, he would not do it happily. A great deal of complaining would be involved.

He would not apologize for any of the above.

“Something has you worried, El?”

“All of it, sister. The posturing. The silks. The lording myself around like my words mean more than those of others. Following father’s wishes even though I recognize him less and less with each passing day. Our cunt of a stepmother.” El’s hands tightened into fists. Posture stiff, he turned to her, eyes as serious as Melara had ever seen. He looked like the heir to House Rosamund. Not her little brother. Not one waiting for their father to croak in order to assume his title. Not one who would complain about his duties.

“I am going to abdicate. Disinherit myself. Whatever the term is for one who one who has not yet assumed their inheritance. Dispossess? Disown? Either, and, or.”

“You cannot just-“ The realization hit her like wyvern fire. “You WHAT? You cannot disinherit yourself!”

“I can, sister. Mithrocki laws are quite clear on the matter.”

“You would leave Yurel in charge! He is a boy!”

“I would convince father to leave you in charge. You are much more suited for it than I.”

“You, what? Huh?”

“The only one who does not see it is father, and he married Joanna Poe so all of his judgments fall under suspicion-“

Melara stuck her hand out toward her brother’s chest, gesturing for him to shut up for a moment. Understanding, he cut off his verbal train of thought. El nodded, looking out to the ocean and its waves. Mel did the same, watching as the water slammed against ships and danced with the sands on the beach. Their mother had loved the water. Years had passed since her death. Melara still saw her in everything. It was hard not to when water made up half the world. It was hard when you lived your life with love and your heart and the person who taught you how to was gone.

Love. Anara, their eldest sister. She who had taken their mother’s loss the hardest. Shutting herself in her room. Talking to no one save her betrothed. Yurel and Lavender. The twins. Both so young when their mother died. They missed her, and they exhibited behaviors typical to those who lose their mothers early on. Eldric. Her younger brother. Her best friend. His decisions would throw the house into disarray. So much instability. Too much. Could she guide them through it? Was she capable of leading them through their turmoil?

Aye.

She nodded. El looked to her, seemingly understanding her silent resolve. She would lead them. The road would be tough, but she was designed for the work. Not born for it. No. That was Eldric. She was a woman. A woman was not born to lead in Mithrock.

She could live to lead, though. No laws denied her of that.

“Bit of a cold night for you fancy folks, eh?”

Melara quickly turned around, her right hand going for one of her daggers. A smooth hand held her by the chin, pale white skin gleaming. Nails sharp as knives threatened to dig into her jaw. She looked over to Eldric. A man much larger than Eldric held him by the neck. Mel’s hand jerked and she felt a tear in her arm followed by the warmth of her own blood. She screamed, and the nails at her jaw sunk in, blood pouring out from five different holes.

“You shut the fuck up now,” spoke a venomous voice. A woman by the sounds of it. “Shut the fuck up before I leak ya dry. Is he complying, Yesen?”

“Quiet as the Void, ma’am.” The voice that had broken their silence. “Not worried about this pup in the slightest.”

“Good. Now, young lady. Shut the fuck up or you will die. Your, whoever this is, will die with you. I got a lotta holes in you that I’m keeping from explodin’ all over the place. Nod if you understand.”

Mel attempted to nod her head, but the pain from moving into the nails forced a cry from her lips along with a bit of blood.

“Nevermind,” the woman said. “That’s on me. Don’t nod anymore. I see you get it. Smart girl.” Mel tried to assess their situation. Gathering information. Figure out what to do. Calm began to percolate through her mind. One breath in, one out. They were labored. They hurt more than any other she had taken in her life, but she breathed.

Even with the calm, she could make out nothing other the the pervasive, potent scent of blood which emanated from the woman who held her. Too dark. She could not see El anymore. Had they moved away? What had happened? Would he handle himself? Could he?

Push them away.

Her thoughts would have to wait. She could do nothing for her little brother if a running thought or two broke her concentration and got her killed. What to concentrate on, though? There was so little to go off of. The woman before her was almost entirely shrouded in black. Her arms were porcelain white. Similar to those from the Jade Isles. Her linen clothes could have been from anywhere. They provided her with no information. She could not even really examine how worn they were thanks to the darkness and the angle at which her head was being held. Only one piece of information mattered though. The blood. Its scent. The fact she was manipulating Melara’s. The blood pointed to one thing.

This woman was a Hemorian. Melara was bleeding. They were in the darkness.

Melara had lost any agency the moment the nails sunk into her.

The scent of blood intensified. Lines of it floated in the air before her, suspended by some power she did not totally understand. None of her own had been extracted yet. This belonged to the Hemorian in some capacity. She heard a bestial roar in the distance. A scream followed. She thought she saw lights. Oranges and yellows and blues. None of that mattered more than what was in front of her.

“Never done this before,” the woman spoke. Less venomous than before. Much more matter of fact. She now understood how much control she had under the situation. “Yesen said it would be instinctual. Just cut myself, suspend the blood, and then pull yours out-“

The inside of her head sounded like a river current. Her jaw erupted in pain. She tried to scream, but her mouth was held shut. The woman had crystallized some of the blood on her mouth, preventing her from opening it. All that would be heard was a muffled, guttural roar.

More colors appeared. Melara was lightheaded. Blood was leaving the holes in her jaw. Oxygen was escaping from her body with it. Breathing through her nose was not enough to keep up with what she was losing. Orbs of blue and white and yellow floated around her vision. Despite this, she could see the marvel before her.

Her blood sat as a floating stream, coiling with what she assumed to be the Hemorian’s blood in a helix-like pattern. The blood was mixing, slowly coming together; creating a hybrid between the two. Melara did not understand how she could tell the difference between the two, but she could. Even when they were fully bonded. Hemorian blood was red, just like that of a human. Despite that, Melara could look past the colors, her pain, and even the dark to differentiate between each and every little bit of blood.

Another pain emerged. She felt the blood being forcefully pushed back into the holes in her jaw. They entered with vigor and speed, without any care for Melara’s wellbeing. That was not the worst of it.

As the hybrid blood entered her, each vein it touched felt as though they were smothered in flame. She opened her mouth, feeling as her lips tore and stuck to the crystallized liquid. The pain was nothing compared to what was going on inside of her. The lack of air in her lungs did not stop her screams. She did not breathe. She sobbed, writhed, flailed her arms around as she dropped to the ground with a thud. Splinters from the piers entered her torn lips, her tongue, the roof of her mouth. She scratched at her arms, her legs. She grabbed at her ruined lips. She tried to pull the skin away, push the splinters further into her, create new rips. She tried to concentrate on the pains she created. They were blissful compared to the storm within.

A friend accompanied the pain. A growing, pervasive sensation that could only be the thoughts of the Hemorian. Melara could not understand how she knew this, but she understood this growing presence within her to be the will of her assailant. Melara understood her intent. Her past. She had come from the Frontier. A Pathfinder. The other man was a Lunemorian. A wolf man. They had come to Mithrock for the purpose of finding victims. Thralls who would listen to them. Manpower. This was not even some political scandal. All of this had been purely up to chance. She and Eldric were victims of the moment. That only made things worse. She wailed with equal bits sorrow and pain.

In her torturous state, she did not notice the arc of Yellow slashing through the Hemorian’s head. Melara noticed the disappearance of the woman’s will, though she did not understand that her assailant was dead. She could not hope for it. Would not. She would not hope for anything ever again.