Maeve arrived back at the keep under her own power. She'd fished her blade out of the waters and powered back. Her gown was a wreck but covered her modesty. If anything, it appeared to have taken the most damage of all.

The keep was remarkably intact. The Harkleys must never have received any warning. As she approached, her attendants, hale and whole, gathered around to fuss. They always fussed. She caught the eye of the woman she was looking for after twice fighting free of the flock, who did not seem to understand that the last thing she wanted was to be bathed and pampered.

Her governess, Madame Rensliegh, met her gaze. A nod between them signalled the deed was done, but the simmering energy that thrummed within Maeve was not quelled. Something about that must have bled out, as rather than immediately start debriefing her, Rensliegh fell into step beside her.

The governess’s presence was a hawk among pigeons, the attendants flapping away before they caught her attention.

"Where are we going, my lady?" The voice was precise, like a scalpel.

"To the suite where this all began. There's something of great importance there," Maeve responded, receiving only a nod in return.

Rensliegh’s lack of follow-up questions was unusual. The woman lived up to her raptor-like appearance, spotting weakness and diving upon it in a split second. Why she didn't tear at her now was unknown, but not having to dodge the questions allowed Maeve to keep her focus on the tempest howling inside.

Maeve couldn't get her former fiancé’s words out of her head. She'd lived for years under the weight of her past failures, her initial rapid rise through the ranks stalling at the peak of Bronze. Many she'd once left in the dust now strode ahead, each adding another stone to the crushing load.

Her failure was absolute. It squeezed the joy and thrill of cultivation from her. She was certain it could not be overcome.

Until now. Regus, that insipid little perfumier, was stuck at peak Wood, poisoned by his own family to stagnate there, used as a bargaining chip, and treated worse than she could imagine. Only he had won.

It wasn't false bravado—he truly believed, even as he wept literal tears of blood, that he’d won. The logical part of her wanted to prove he was right, that he hadn't confounded and tricked her. The storm in her hearth, though, wanted to see his will through.

They pounded through the grey stone keep, the runes flaring from containing the magics within. She could see the husk of the 'chapel' through some of the windows. Even with layers of protection, it still made her shudder. Filthy 'Divine' cultivators.

From the minimal damage to the spirit wood-panelled halls, it seemed that only the weakest of their entourage had escaped. Anyone at Iron would've taken out chunks of masonry too. Here and there, scars marred the lovely dark wood, but a team was already going through, repairing what they could.

"Thanks to you stopping Squire Harkley from warning them, the ambush was flawless. They were deep in their cups and unprepared for our attack. Only some servants were outside of the spell runes." As if sensing her gaze, Rensliegh filled in the blanks for her.

"I didn't stop the Squire from doing anything. He never intended to tell them a thing." She didn’t keep things from her governess, one of her staunchest allies.

"You know this how?"

"I spoke with him before his elders on Albion activated the blood curse on him. He was less their supporter than I."

"You don't fear this was a deception because?"

"I aim to prove it with my actions now, but I'm already of the opinion he was telling the truth." She’d felt it, the truth of his words when the smoke parted. "He laughed when he was cursed."

"A madman then."

"No, terribly sane. In his mind, the day was won. He defined what it meant to win this day, and he felt even with his death he'd achieved that. He imagined himself a blade at the right time in the right place. He wished to die free, and he wished to bring harm to the Harkleys. He achieved both."

"A free death is worth something indeed." Madame Rensliegh frowned as they rounded the corner. Maeve heard it a moment later—the shrieks of laughter, the shrill, reedy whine that marked the presence of the Twins. "They should not be here."

Maeve did not pause. She powered on, her heart in her throat. The Twins ruined all they touched. She threw open the door to find the pair of them poring over her things. Helene looked up and scowled.

"Margarette, you lost the bet. She is alive."

"She looks half-dead. Maybe if we wait a while, she'll keel over," the other harpy screeched.

Rensliegh seethed in the corridor. Unless a specific set of circumstances was met—mostly revolving around the amount of blood lost—she was banned from interceding in ‘family squabbles’. In the past, her hovering only added to the shame Maeve felt, but this time, it was a comfort.

Maeve strode into the room, ignoring the pathetic insults, ignoring that they’d trashed her things, ignoring the faces they pulled. None of it was important. All of that was nothing but a way to distract her, to stop her blade from finding the right place and right time to strike. She could feel her glamour twitch, the statement resonating with her hearth.

She threw aside the mess, ignoring that too. What was important was the vial of perfume. Talking to them, caring about them—that was losing. Only the vial could get her the win. Complete his triumph and cement her own.

"Cousin, you're ignoring us. It is rude to do so to your betters." The twins tittered, seemingly amused by their total lack of wit. Maeve knew they had surpassed her, both having reached low Iron rank. They'd been poor losers when she’d been powering ahead and were worse winners.

She stamped out the thought. They weren't winning. They’d still be like this no matter how far they rose. Nasal, horse-faced oafs.

The storm in her hearth grew as she ignored them. Finding the perfume—that was the win. With it, she could set up her own revenge. She'd spent the last two years refusing help with the Twins and their ilk, always trying to handle things on her own, as a cultivator should. The sty they'd turned her room into, their pathetic bullying—all of it was just them opening their chests and exposing their hearts to the blade she just had to find.

Finally, she found it. It was presented in a small wooden box. She opened it to see the vial sitting there, a neat piece of shaped crystal holding an amber liquid within. Glamour rolled off of it. It was a princely gift. Magical perfumes were rare and expensive, requiring great alchemical skill, yet they still sold for less than other things an alchemist of that level might create. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now that she was looking for it, she could sense the memory crystal in the stopper. He hadn't been lying.

Like all bullies, the Twins could sense their moment to strike. They could tell what she cared about. Iron was on a whole other level than Bronze, and giggling Margie put this into practice, hurtling across the room as her clone looked on and laughed.

Maeve’s fighting senses twitched. Margie could and would smash it, destroying everything, wasting all of his work, taking her win, knocking aside this poised blade.

Stolen story; please report.

What did the win require? Getting this crystal to her grandmother—that was the win. What else did she need?

The bottle was heavy in her hand, and he had told her to make good use of it. Ripping off the stopper, she smashed the perfume bottle into the oncoming Margie. The pathetic woman, despite all her additional power, always lacked skill. Not expecting an attack, she screamed as the crystal exploded over her.

She fell, screaming, and the wave of magical perfume, no longer contained, hit them all like a hammer.

"Rensliegh, I have something of value for the family head," Maeve managed to choke out just as Helene rose like a fury from an ancient tale. Rensliegh arrived foot-first, kicking her into the far wall.

That was definitely a win.

----------------------------------------

Ten minutes later they stood in the main hall, facing an empty throne. It was simple in design, with a motif of ravens winding up the sides. As ever, Maeve tried to spot her grandmother's familiars, Eyeball and Peggy. They were always there somewhere.

Rensliegh hovered over her, not quite a hawk now, more a fretful hen. Unconcerned, Maeve stood tall and waited.

To her left, her cousins strutted about, while her uncle grimaced. He kept casting looks at her but wisely remained silent. His daughters refused to follow his example.

"You've done it now."

"Just because you were her favourite."

"Be quiet, girls." Uncle Jacobi was smarter than his progeny. He was watching her carefully, as if she were a puzzle he couldn't solve. A master tactician but a sloppy parent, his brows knit, unable to work out her angle.

His consternation was not helped by the fact his mother was being pulled here not to congratulate him on a task well done but due to some spat his daughters had dragged him into. He had to know that she'd never called on her grandmother's influence like this before. It was something she'd always avoided. It felt like admitting she was stuck. Like she needed help.

No, it didn't matter. She'd already won something this day. Margie and Helene were a mess.

"We're going to give you such a beating when this is done."

"Girls!"

"But Father—"

"You should listen to your father." A voice boomed, good-natured but powerful, and as the woman responsible stalked into the room, they all felt the pressure of her personal glamour. Margie let out a shrill meep in shock as everyone stood up straight. Privately, Maeve wondered how long her grandmother had been waiting around. It was daft to assume she was only there when you could see her.

"Now, now, what's all this? A great victory has been won this day, and yet you all look like someone’s shat on your dinner. And worse, it appears three of my lovely granddaughters have faced hardship this evening." Grandmother flopped onto the chair. She was a bear of a woman, heavily muscled and wrapped in furs like some barbarian of old. Lacking sleeves, her arms had lost none of their strength despite her hair being shot through with grey.

An affectation—her age was unknowable. At times she acted like a spoiled child, and at others, she felt as ancient as the Chox House of Renown itself. Maeve fought down the urge to explain herself. She was going to win, and the pressure to prove she wasn't a waste had faded. That didn't matter today.

As she settled in, Eyeball fluttered up to Maeve. The monocular raven, living up to his name, darted his one good eye about. When she didn't react, he began clacking his beak, trying to distract her—or perhaps trying to steal a treat. Her cousins grimaced at the obvious favour shown by the familiar.

One of the girls tried to speak, but Jacobi, his tactician’s instincts sensing an overwhelming defeat on the horizon, shushed her hard. He knew there was no way they could improve his situation.

Clearing his throat, he spoke. "Mother Chox, I wish to report that we have completed the task without a single casualty. Our foes in House Harkley are dead without exception. Essential to this task was Squire Maeve. When her betrothed came across the preparations, she managed to stop him from alerting his compatriots. Others who proved themselves in battle include..."

Jacobi continued to give a breakdown of the ambush. It was a masterstroke, a combination of poisons, surprise, martial grit, and a great deal of careful planning. For a moment, Maeve questioned why he'd give her credit before cursing herself.

If she looked past her self-obsession, his actions were totally expected. She had previously liked Jacobi before his daughters got involved. Now, with her anger at everything taking a backseat to her focus on this task, she was able to reevaluate him. He remained a useless parent, but if she thought about it, he was not one of those aiding her detractors. He'd trusted her with a key role, after all.

His report began to tail off. He looked back to her. "I was made aware just before this meeting that Squire Maeve returned from her task, and I believe she has uncovered some further assets that she wishes to make us aware of."

Taking her cue from him, Maeve began to speak.

"I feel the need to correct my uncle." She could see him and both girls flinch before she continued. "I believe that my chase of the Harkley Squire was not as critical as he implied. Instead, I commend him for the planning and execution."

Her uncle's mood had rocketed up and down with her sentence, ending with a small nod of appreciation.

"An odd correction. Do go on, Mads. Explain why." She winced at the nickname.

"Squire Harkley proved to be acting against his family. He took action to aid me when I fell through the ice while in pursuit of him. As I recovered before a fire, he explained that he only sought to get free of their influence. He also colluded to spread their secrets and do further damage to the Harkleys."

"He found a way to work around the blood curse?" her uncle asked, genuine curiosity painted across his face. She shook her head.

"No. Last I saw him, he was weeping and dribbling blood. He'd always known he'd die but chose to die free and felt he could score a ‘win’ over them with this." She held up the little stopper from the perfume bottle. Eyeball grabbed it from her hand and flew it up to her grandmother.

"That's why you attacked us? Some sob story from a Harkley." She didn’t care to look, to see which twin had just stepped in it. She was the favourite mostly because she could read the old monster's face as well, if not better, than those who'd been around for centuries. She recognised the look on her grandmother's face—a rare one. A look of wonder, which was swept away by the shrill squawk.

In a heartbeat, the vast hall felt far too small. No longer a feasting hall but just the six of them and Eyeball packed into a stuffy study. Her grandmother's voice shifted, quiet but everywhere in the crowded space.

"Rensliegh, I sense your glamour on my granddaughter. Care to explain?"

"Duchess Chox, I was assisting Maeve in retrieving the asset. We came to the suite to find these two tearing it apart. They expressed disappointment that their cousin had survived and discussed a bet about her survival. When Maeve ignored them to find the asset among the mess they'd made, they became more agitated. When the perfume vial was finally found, Margie tried to strike it, in an apparent peevish moment of spite. Maeve, sensing a threat to the asset, responded with appropriate force. She then announced the asset as of importance to you. This did not stop Helene from trying to attack her. That is when I struck Lady Helene."

"Is that true, Mads?" Maeve went to respond, to say some variation on it is but a spat between family or it is nothing I feel warrants your concern—a mantra she'd been repeating since the bullying started. Believing she had to force herself forward through sweat and tears. It was a hateful voice, one that chained her down by insisting that the only way to overcome her challenges was to surmount them alone.

"That is true, Grandmother," she replied, feeling the thrill through her body, the blade sliding in at just the right time to bring down that particular beast.

Silence fell in the hall. Their grandmother's pressure was all-consuming. They could only watch the crystal stopper dance as the old monster twirled it in her fingers.

"You two, do you know what this is?" She held up the crystal. The pair, seeing their father's pale face and sensing the waves of pressure, got it through their horse-shaped heads that this wasn't going to go their way. They couldn't even muster up a response, only shaking their heads.

"This crystal contains a hoard the like of which stirs even the interest of an old dragon like me. It's the Harkleys' alchemy secrets, their training regimen and mentors, information about family politics, maps of their castles, lists of their hunting grounds, and the list goes on. There's even notes on various family members’ preferred dances." She brought the little gem up to one ice-blue eye, letting silence fall back over the room.

Maeve fought the urge to let out an unladylike squeal. She'd won. The manic energy that had been powering her since she'd seen that blood-soaked face and heard his laugh turned into a calm lake. The blade he'd polished, with which he'd sought to take but a drop of blood, was now held by a giant able to wield it. The blood spilt would rush across Albion like a tide.

Mother Chox’s voice returned at barely a whisper, one you still felt in your bones.

"Our slaughter today was the opening of a war. A war we expect to be long and bloody, and this crystal may well speed its end. It will spare the lives of our friends, it will save members of your family, it is the work of someone who gave their life to undermining our foe, AND YOU WERE GOING TO DESTROY IT TO BULLY YOUR COUSIN!" Her bellow shook the room. The hall now felt like a cell, her displeasure echoing off each wall.

Despite the pressure, Maeve lost the thread of the speech. A laugh exploded from her lips. No matter the volume, no matter the glamour—right now, she was too full of joy.

Regus—no, the son of Gwendolyn Artoss—had been right. It was true madness to let others decide what success looked like. Especially when conquering the challenge you set yourself felt this good.

The blade, at the right time, in the right hands, aimed right, bit deep.

As she dissolved into a fit of laughter, her hearth roared, and she started to break through to Iron.