"Hm... That's hella weird. Wooldnae ye say, Miss Coo Tittes?"

Legien nodded, her eyes scanning the rows of tomes that lined the walls of Maester Fraud's library. The room was steeped in the musty scent of old parchment, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of pages turned by unseen hands. Though grudgingly, Noira couldn't help but admit that the old fool had indeed amassed an impressive collection. The books covered a myriad of subjects, though most delved deeply into history and the arcane.

"Is something troubling you, Lady Noira?" Fraud asked, his voice laced with concern as his brow furrowed.

"Dae ye nae fin' it strange?" Noira murmured, her fingers brushing lightly over the spine of a heavy tome before closing it with a quiet thud. She returned the book to its place, turning slowly to face the Maester, her gaze sharp and probing. "At thes book is written in th' sam leid as yoors?"

Fraud blinked, the realization hitting him like a jolt. How had he missed that? His heart pounded in his chest as he hurried to his desk, hands trembling as he retrieved a book from his private collection—a gift from Lord Blackblood. He scanned the familiar script, his breath catching in his throat. It was the same language and the same characters as those of the Empire.

"How could I have overlooked this?" he whispered, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Probably auld age," Noira remarked, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

Fraud chuckled, though the sound was hollow, tinged with a creeping unease. "Perhaps," he conceded, but his mind was already elsewhere, pulled back into the past.

His thoughts drifted to his humble beginnings in Frosthaven, a land of relentless winters and hardy, stoic farmers. Born to a modest family, Fraud had never imagined he would one day study magic at the Empire's prestigious College. But the late Lord of Frosthaven, Alaric's father, had seen something in him, something worth nurturing. With the lord's generous support, Fraud had pursued his studies with a fervor, vowing to return and repay the kindness. Yet the lord had only smiled, suggesting that Fraud's actual duty lay with the people of Frosthaven, not with him.

The gods had favored him, he thought. Frosthaven thrived under his guidance, and its people survived the brutal winters year after year. And yet, a gnawing regret lingered in his heart. He had desperately wished he could have thanked Alaric's father before it was too late.

"With respect, Lady Noira and Lady Legien," Fraud began, offering a small, deferential bow, "may I ask a question? It concerns your house and your husband, the Stellarborne."

"Gang oan," Noira allowed, her expression unreadable, her eyes glittering with something he couldn't quite place.

Fraud hesitated, his throat tightening as the words formed. "The book—Word History 101—which Lord Blackblood and his aide, Mnemon, generously provided, does not mention the House of Blackblood. Nor is the word recorded anywhere in our history."

His voice dropped to a near whisper, disbelief coloring his tone. "The historical records stop at the year 2077. And if your husband's race and house are as powerful as they seem, why are they absent from all records? I've searched... but it's as if they were ghosts."

"And yet," he continued, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of his desk, "all his gifts are inscribed in the same language as the Empire's, even down to their system of numerics and mathematics."

Noira's smile was faint, almost wistful, as she twirled a finger thoughtfully. "Ah," she mused softly. "A story, if ye wull. Th' Stellarborne, despite thair vast knowledge 'n' power, sought tae uncover th' ultimate truth behind creation. Thay succeeded... 'n' that wis thair downfall."

Fraud's heart skipped a beat, a chill running down his spine. A creeping dread settled in his chest as her words sank in. "Ye ken th' saying, 'stare intae th' abyss, 'n' it wull goup back at you,' dinnae ye, auld goat?" Noira inquired.

"Yes," he replied, barely able to suppress a shiver. "Too many times, my lady. It is the curse of seeking truth."

Noira nodded, her smile lingering despite the darkness of the tale she was weaving. "Indeed. Efter that fateful discovery, thair society wis consumed by th' revelation. Th' Stellarborne chose mass suicide ower bidyin wi' th' burden o' that truth; ainlie yin survived. Th' First o' Blackblood."

Fraud felt the dread tighten its grip on him. Mass suicide? What kind of horrifying truth could drive an entire race to such despair?

"Lady Noira, you must be jesting," he stammered, shaking his head as if to dispel the horrific image. "Surely, they would not—"

Ah kid ye nae," Noira interrupted, her voice laced with a hint of dark amusement. " That's th' story. 'n' lik' mah hubby, Ah dinnae lie." She shrugged, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. " Ah mean—why lie whin mortals ur aye in denial whin faced wi' th' truth?"

"So, Lord Blackblood was a mortal, true to his word?"

"Naaaaaaah~," Noira waved her hand dismissively, a casual flick of the wrist. Legien, standing beside her, merely shook her head in silent agreement. " Weel... He wis mortal, flesh 'n' blood, aye. Bit tae lump him in wi' ye lot? Overgrown, hairless monkeys wha cannae even barely dicht yer ain bahookie daily?" She scoffed, her eyes narrowing with barely concealed contempt. "That wid be a kist insult tae mah dear hubby."

Fraud didn't fully grasp the term "monkeys," but the disdain dripping from her words was unmistakable. He felt a flicker of irritation but quickly buried it. The House of Blackblood was shrouded in mystery, wielding power that defied comprehension. Challenging them would be reckless and break the vow he had sworn to the late Lord of Frosthaven—something he couldn't afford to do.

"You seem almost cheerful about the Stellarborne's downfall, my Lady," Fraud ventured cautiously. Despite the tragic tale, neither Noira nor Legien had shown a flicker of sorrow.

Noira's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Running awa' instead o' facing th' fankle thay created? That's a biiiiiiiiig minus point in mah book. Guid pumpin' riddance." She sighed then, a dramatic, exaggerated breath that bordered on the theatrical. " Weel, at least thair legacy bides oan thro' mah hubby. Sae, aye, thir's th' silver lining. "

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Anyway," she continued, her tone shifting to something almost contemplative, " Th' First survived coz she chose a different path an' becam an ootcest amang 'er ain fowk. th' black sheep ay 'er kind—hence th' nam Blackblood."

Fraud leaned forward slightly, drawn deeper into the story despite himself. Noira's apparent disdain for the Stellarborne didn't align with the depth of knowledge she possessed about their history.

"It's also a reminder ay 'er pest sins, alang wi' lae ay th' Twal Heids," Noira added, her voice softening into something more ominous.

Fraud blinked, taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

Noira merely shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Whit? did ye hink anyain sane woods carry 'at nam withit reason?"

"But what kind of sins would force a line of family to warrant such a name?" Fraud pressed, curiosity gnawing at him.

She responded with a soft, almost eerie chuckle that sent a shiver crawling down his spine. " Ah'll lae 'at tae yer imagination"

"But..." She raised a finger, her eyes gleaming with a secret knowledge. " Since Alaric—mair likely his bloodline—has... connections wi' heem, Ah'll spaur ye a lil detail."

'Connections?' Fraud thought, his mind racing. Did the old lords and ladies of Stormraven have such ties with the House of Blackblood?

Noira's voice cut through his thoughts. "Th' meanin' behin' Blackblood is huir uv a simple, auld goat.." Her tone was almost teasing as she approached his work desk. She picked up the nearby quill, dipping it into the inkwell. As the ink met the paper, she drew an unsettling image—a fetus, monstrous and cradled like a newborn.

"Demon of the blackest womb," she whispered with a sudden tone change, her words lingering in the air like a bad omen.

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

Fraud followed his guest along the battlements, the clashing of steel growing louder with each step. Anxiety gnawed at the maester as he imagined the report he would have to deliver to Lord Stormraven. Lord Blackblood was a dangerous variable—an enigma shrouded in unsettling rumors. The ladies had divulged little about his personal history, speaking only of the ancient legacies of House Blackblood and Stellarborne. Their advanced technology, immense wealth, and formidable soldiers were no mere illusions or exaggerated tales. This was no fleeting encounter with the arrogant elves flaunting their magic or the dwarves with their mastery of crafts from his days at the College. No, this was something far worse—infinitely worse.

The sound of steel clashing grew deafening as they reached the yard, where the ladies stood, keenly observing the sparring ring. Young John was in the midst of an impressive display, holding his own against two seasoned men-at-arms, perhaps three if the man cradling his ribs was any indication. The bout concluded swiftly—a misjudged swing, and John, the heir of Frosthaven, capitalized with a blow that sent one man sprawling, then swiftly turned his sword to the throat of the last man standing—Donald, if Fraud remembered correctly. The heir basked in the crowd's cheers, the triumph evident in his stance. Even to Luwin's untrained eye, it was clear that John had trained rigorously under Bjorn's tutelage.

Applause echoed through the yard as the cheers began to fade. John's gaze then shifted to the ladies standing beside Fraud.

"Enjoy the show, Ladies of Blackblood?" His voice carried a hint of pride.

Noira merely shrugged while Legien remained expressionless. "Child's play at best," Noira remarked dismissively.

John's frown deepened at her words. "Excuse me?"

There was a sharpness in his tone that made the old maester's blood run cold. But Noira continued, unperturbed. "Ye heard me," she said with a light scoff. "Child's play. Yer footwork is sloppy; ye barely move. Yer strikes ur inefficient, an' ye cannae e'en reid yer opponent's body leid. But a win is a win, Ah suppose."

John's eyes narrowed. "You speak as if you know the blade well," he retorted, raising the point of his sword towards her. "I would ask for proof."

Fraud's heart pounded in his chest, drowning out the crowd's murmurs. He saw a fleeting look of pity cross Legien's face, and panic seized him. "Lady Noira, I apologize for—"

But Noira cut him off, her voice shifting to the prior unsettlingly calm tone. "The child invited me to dance. It would be rude of me to decline." Her smile never wavered.

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

John watched as Noira removed her coat with deliberate care, folding it neatly before handing it to the nearest guard. The crowd murmured in surprise when she declined the padded armor, stepping into the ring with nothing but the offered tourney sword. She examined the weapon with a disdainful expression before holding it up.

*CLANG*

With a simple flick of her finger, the entire blade shattered, crumbling away until only the hilt remained, which she discarded like a broken toy.

"I'm offended you'd give me such a pathetic sword."

The crowd fell silent, and Fraud felt his heart stutter. That was a Damascus steel blade—one of only twenty in the castle, reserved for Lord Alaric's finest warriors. And Noira had shattered it as if it were brittle ice.

"How about this?" Noira extended her right arm, tucking her left hand behind her back.

"Lady Noira, you can’t—" Fraud began, desperate to reason with her, but she silenced him with a shushing motion.

"Please, old goat. Only two people have ever managed to wound me—my dead sister and my dear husband." Her gaze fixed on John, distant and predatory, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Surely you don't mind losing to a woman in her twenties. And for your sake, guard your shoulder."

"What?" John blurted out, confusion clouding his features.

"Your left shoulder, brat. Guard it." Noira's tone was sharp, almost mocking. "Do you understand?"

Whatever reply John might have offered was cut short as a vague sensation of impact registered in his mind. There was no time to react, only the briefest acknowledgment of pain before the world seemed to collapse around him. His face felt as if it had been slammed against an anvil, the reverberations echoing through his skull and teeth. His vision blurred, and he struggled to stay upright as his breath came in short gasps. His sword had instinctively risen, yet it now rested uselessly against his shoulder. John hurtled backward before he could comprehend what had happened, crashing into the rock column behind him.

The ringing finally came to a stop. Only now did John realize he was surrounded by silence; the once-deafening shouts and jeers that had mercilessly battered his thoughts vanished like fleeting ghosts, leaving only the haunting echo of what had been. His gaze locked onto the faces before him, their expressions now tinged with a mix of fear and awe. The sight made his heart sink. Three guards had already stepped forward, their swords drawn in a protective stance around the son of their liege—a blatant display of loyalty that filled John with a deep, burning shame.

Noira, however, seemed utterly indifferent. With a flick of her wrist, she retrieved a cigarette case, the metallic click of it opening slicing through the quiet air. She took a long, deliberate drag, exhaling slowly as she shook her head in evident irritation. Then, without so much as a glance in their direction, she casually flung the guards aside as if they were mere nuisances. John forced himself to meet her gaze, her eyes now pools of cold, lifeless disappointment that seemed to pierce right through him.

"I was willing to overlook any mistakes your family made today," Noira began, her voice smooth yet cutting, unlike the gibberish accent she sounded before. "You can't expect someone to learn your culture in such a short time, after all."

Her words stung, each syllable cutting deeper than any blade could. "You know," she continued, her tone almost conversational, "he poured his heart into every gift he gave you and your sibling. He crafted each toy with his own hands, from the metalwork to the forging and assembling, down to the smallest detail. All by himself."

"And the manual," Noira added, her voice now laced with a quiet fury, "he carefully researched the best book, rewrote it in your language, and added illustrations to make it easier to understand. Yet here you stand, thinking his gift was nothing more than a child's book. What a disappointment you must think it is, right?"

"Forbid from speaking nor thinking ill of my dear husband, let alone do it in front of his wives. Such actions make me question your father's role in your upbringing. And if anything, only I have the privilege of ruling over him, so him to me."

She turned her back on him, issuing a final command with casual authority. "Have Fraud see to your arms. Be grateful it's me and not Legien. That girl would gladly turn this land of yours into a mountain of corpses."

As Noira walked away, John struggled to remain standing. Every breath was agony, his chest burning with a mixture of pain and humiliation. The crowd dissolved into a sea of blurred faces, and his heart pounding-drowned out the world around him. The hall seemed to melt into a bleak landscape of whites and grays. The only tangible thing left was the weight of the ruined sword in his hand and the sight of Noira's retreating figure.

In that moment of clarity, all thoughts fled, replaced by a primal urge. He didn't remember moving, nor did he recall raising his blade—only the overpowering need to act.

"JOHN!"

His father's voice pierced through the haze, jolting him back to reality. Fortunately, a hand suddenly was over his blade, halting his foolishness. Before him stood a demon, a crow perched ominously on his shoulder. A demon now stood between them with a massive crow perching on his shoulder. One hand restrained John's rage, while the other kept him from collapsing.

"Well, well, color me surprised," Noira's voice was laced with amusement as she clapped, her eyes shimmering with a twisted adoration as she looked past John, fixing her gaze on the demon. "Hello, dear eternal consort. Good to see you here, though you're—"

"Fashionably late. I know."