Buren paced the desolate corridors of his castle with the like a caged beast. It was the second week of his house arrest, and he had run out of things to occupy his mind with by day two. Now, the only way to stay ahead of the onslaught of terrors and regrets seeping into his consciousness was to keep physically moving. It was still night, and he had to keep an especially hasty speed, so the images of his visions did not catch up to him in his waking hours — a phenomenon that was becoming distressingly frequent.

His recent induction as a Knight had paradoxically brought his progress to a complete halt, rather than facilitating a swift ascent through the ranks as he had anticipated. The King, whose sobriety was fleeting, remained obstinately opposed to granting him any significant position within an institution beyond the Treaty's purview, where his actions couldn't be meticulously monitored and controlled. Buren discerned the underlying motives of the monarch, who was eager to eliminate any individual not firmly subdued under his rule, particularly one who was garnering a heroic reputation anew. Given the public declarations of inclination from both the King and the High Reverend, neither could retreat from their demands without a significant loss of face, making the ongoing negotiations a complex and strenuous endeavor as their emissaries strived to forge a mutually acceptable compromise.

Buren wasn't allowed anywhere near the discussions, They had confined him within his castle to await their conclusion, under the vigilant eyes of both the royal guards and the Faith's Inquisitors. Any attempt to escape this surveillance would be perilously risky. Consequently, he was compelled to maintain a façade of devout adherence to the Faith's doctrines even within the sanctity of his home, even going so far as to perform the practices behind the locked door of his quarters, as the Inquisitors were known to have eyes on even the smallest mouseholes.

However, his elevated status was not devoid of perks. Entrusted with the task of propagating the Faith's influence, he regained his former privileges pertaining to the castle and its associated responsibilities. Buren recognized this as yet another test of his allegiance: any deviation from the expected path would provide grounds for stripping him of his title, and they could then vilify him even more vehemently than before, or blackmail him by threatening to do so. It was a delicate balance he had to strike.

They hadn't expected him to do away with the whorehouses, gambling and arena battles, much to the surprise of the citizens of the capital. Buren attributed this leniency to the substantial tithes he had arranged through Flynn prior to his novitiate. Each considerable donation was accompanied by a note, explicitly detailing what manner of establishment was to be thanked for the donation, a gesture that likely assuaged the consciences of even the most pious followers. The funds, they rationalized, could be channeled towards alleviating the hardships of the era.

Moreover, Buren surmised that the Faith had discerned the potential benefits of the vices that pervaded the city. The ensuing guilt and distress fostered by indulgence in alcohol, violence, and debauchery drove individuals into the welcoming arms of the Faith in significant numbers. Consequently, the Eastern District continued to thrive as a hub of decadence, a seething cauldron of excesses and carnal pursuits, with all the decadence and body fluids that entailed.

He rounded a sharp corner and nearly collided with an Inquisitor, unmistakable with the symbols of eyes embroidered on his robes and the distinctive helmet, which bore not the visage of weeping, but was sculpted into a judgmental stare, characterized by a furrowed, wrinkled brow and a stern, unyielding line for a mouth. The sentinel remained stationary, his gaze tracking Buren with an unsettling focus as he maneuvered around him. "Creeps," he mused internally. He had frequently burst out of rooms only to find one of them with their ear pressed against the door. And those were merely the instances he was aware of. At Buren's command, the ornate Antediluvian furnishings had been transported to Inanna's wing of the castle, despite her opposition. Buren was glad to see them go, as the heavy draperies and carvings had offered the stalkers ample room to hide behind, in addition to not being to his taste.

The deprivation of sleep left him in a perpetual state of hunger. He detoured to the pantry for a pre-dawn snack, discovering a plate arranged with slices of meat, cheese, and a handful of peanuts, as the servants had grown accustomed to his erratic schedule. The ready availability of meals, coupled with his confined indoor wanderings, had facilitated the return of some lost weight, a transition he considered beneficial to his health. He ingested the food with mechanical motions before retreating to his personal sanctuary.

Within the solitude of his quarters, he resumed a recently adopted ritual, reaching for a quill and a sheet of vellum. He poised the quill above the inkwell, deliberately avoiding contact with the faintly luminescent liquid within, a concoction derived from minerals sourced from the northern territories.

"Dearest Azure," he began, his quill dancing in the air above the parchment, leaving no trace upon the pristine surface. " I know my previous letter and the news of my actions that might have reached the Grove must have come as a shock to you and all the Dryads. I assure you, it is all a ruse, an act I must perform as a part of my mission. The moment I no longer depend on the resources and influence garnered from the Faith, I intend to leave them behind, striving to eradicate their presence from these lands, now that I have glimpsed their true nature and ambitions. Sadly, that day is yet to come.

Just know that, while every move, every word and every action I have to currently take is a lie, my feelings for you are genuine, as is my wish to accept your earlier offer of coming to live in nearness to you. The better I play my part as a zealous warrior of the Faith, the sooner all this shall be over and then we can get on with our lives.

With lov—"

He ceased his phantom inscription abruptly, a sudden unease settling within him. Expressing his feelings in this manner, even when it was just practice for the real event, felt improper. Not enough. His gaze fell upon the blank vellum. As long as he lived there he could never send such a message, as his keepers would intercept and read it. It seemed prudent not to even commit the words to paper in case he was interrupted unexpectedly, or the pressure of the quill inadvertently indent his sentiments upon the sheet beneath.

The crushing solitude, exacerbated by Anod's loss, had only intensified his longing for Azure. His ultimate aspiration, once this perilous journey reached its culmination, was to be reunited with her. As with all his objectives, meticulous planning and rehearsal were essential to its realization. Crafting the perfect justification for his apparent betrayal was merely another stratagem in his arsenal.

No further letters had arrived from her since he dispatched that missive laden with vitriol, phrases borrowed verbatim from the Faith's fiery sermons, and a vehement declaration of his newfound enmity towards her kind. He had crammed in all the exaggerations he thought he could get away with without appearing to parody his cause, while embedding subtle nods to their past adventures where they had needed to use subterfuge to survive. The missive was a precarious gambit, aiming to convince the ones keeping watch on him of his fervor while hinting to Azure that he did not mean the words put down, but could not be sure if he had succeeded in either.

A sense of movement at the edge of his vison made him glance absentmindedly in that direction.

In the next heartbeat, he found himself recoiling violently, his chair crashing backward as he retreated across the floor in a frantic scramble. An eyeblink, and whatever he had seen, oozing and twisting into his room directly from the grotesque depths of his nightmares, was gone. He closed his eyes, rested the back of his head on the cool stone floor for a moment.

"Stopped for too long," he thought. "Need to keep moving. Stay focused."

As sleep deprived as he was, even the hard floor seemed inviting. He figured he would gather his strength for just a second, promising himself renewed energy for the ongoing battle against his mind's demons.

Drowning, he gasped for air.

He shot up from the water, moving on pure instinct.

A shrill laughter guided him to the present, tethering him back to reality, back to the confines of his chamber.

He turned, cold water cascading from his sodden hair and beard, to find Inanna brandishing a pitcher with a mischievous grin. "Rise and shine, lover," she chimed melodically. He swept his drenched hair away from his face, his voice tinged with irritation, "You shouldn't be here."

She feigned a pout, her voice dripping with faux concern, "But it's only natural for a girl to fret over her betrothed. You've never been this tardy, so I came to check if you had finally died in your sleep. Bad dreams can do that to you, you know."

He cast a weary glance towards the window, noting the morning light filtering through.

"Too drained to even dream anymore," he brooded.

She tilted her head, her voice adopting a teasing lilt, "I do wonder how dear Flynnie-bunnie turned out so well, having only you as a role model."

Buren's expression soured further at her jibe. Despite Flynn's initial adherence to his directive to avoid Inanna, she had skillfully manipulated the young squire, exploiting his sense of duty and gradually reclaiming her influence over him, essentially reinstating him as her devoted protector. Flynn had attempted to conceal this development upon Buren's unexpected return to the castle, but Inanna reveled in flaunting her triumph, the nauseatingly sweet pet name just another facet of her manipulative game.

With a fluid grace, she moved towards the exit, casting a seductive glance over her shapely shoulder. "I couldn't care less about your solitary habits, but do try to maintain a semblance of dignity in public. Being linked to you is sufficiently humiliating without the world witnessing you wallowing on the floor like the dog you are."

As she departed, Buren changed into fresh attire - soft leather trousers paired with a fur-collared vest layered over a tunic. His next destination was the dining hall, where a proper breakfast awaited. There, he found Flynn, ready as ever and brimming with eagerness, ready to commence the day's duties.

"The Grand Championship of the Arena is really blowing up," Flynn remarked, extending a sheaf of papers towards Buren, documents detailing the swelling debts recorded by the bookmakers. "If this keeps up, we stand to make a fortune, even after appeasing the Crown and the Faith with their respective shares. What should we do with the money? During your absence, there were numerous entreaties for aid - shelters, sustenance for the destitute, perhaps we could-"

"Save it," Buren cut in sharply, his voice brooking no argument. "Stash it away. We're going to funds in the future."

Flynn's brow furrowed in confusion. "For what purpose?"

"For whatever becomes necessary," Buren replied, his tone final, leaving no room for further queries. Flynn, unable to formulate a diplomatic response, let the matter rest.

Buren rose and, with a subtle inclination of his head, a silent command, beckoned Flynn to follow. The squire perked up and followed eagerly, as Buren knew he would. Buren was well aware that Flynn viewed these training sessions as a sign of progressing to more advanced levels, a notion that always cheered the boy up. While there was some truth to Flynn's perception, the primary motive behind the intensified training was Buren's need to utilize their confined time constructively.

In these trying times, allies were scarce. Buren recognized the necessity of fostering strength and resilience in the few he could rely upon. It also kept Flynnat a distance from Inanna's manipulative grasp. Despite his stern demeanor, Buren harbored a burgeoning pride for Flynn's unwavering dedication and growth. Their training sessions occasionally granted him a respite from his incessant turmoil, a fact he staunchly refrained from vocalizing, even to himself. Attachment, he knew, was a luxury they could ill afford, a lesson life had imparted upon him, time and time again.

Upon reaching their customary training ground in the cellar, they armed themselves with blunted swords. At Buren's signal, Flynn launched into a fervent assault, employing the stances and techniques imparted by his mentor. Buren's teachings lacked all mention of etiquette and ceremonies that often accompanied swordsmanship, as those would not keep one alive. Quite the contrary. Flynn's expression had been worth seeing when his master had told him that, as long as there was something on the line other than glory, to respond to a bow with a decapitation and to flaunting sword-swirling by knocking away the weapon, with the hand still holding it, if possible.

Today's session was designed to test Flynn's endurance, to cultivate his ability to sustain maximum effort over extended periods. As Flynn's energy waned, evidenced by his labored breaths and the sheen of sweat coating his skin, Buren relentlessly urged him forward. Utilizing the Gauntlet to parry each blow, Buren encouraged Flynn to unleash his full strength without reservation.

Flynn's legs faltered, his sword descending to his knees. Buren's voice rang out, a clarion call amidst the clanging of steel. "Persist, Flynn!" he bellowed, his voice echoing ominously in the confined space. " You aren't done yet! Holding out for a few seconds longer can mean life and death."

Flynn groaned but hoisted the blade once more, launching himself into the fray with renewed determination. The cycle of exhaustion and encouragement persisted, with Buren ceaselessly fueling the fire of Flynn's resolve.

"Think of all the people you're fighting for! Are you going to let them down!" Buren exclaimed, adeptly deflecting the ensuing blows. "They're going to think you didn't care enough to protect them if you lose. You're going to let them die thinking that?"

A primal roar erupted from Flynn as he intensified his onslaught, sweat cascading down his visage and saturating his garment.

" We fight to save everyone, to stop the darkness that threatens to engulf this world. What is your fleeting agony compared to the potential sea of blood and tears that will inundate these lands if we fail? You have no right to give up!"

Driven by Buren's impassioned words, Flynn persevered, even as a vacant expression clouded his eyes, reminiscent of one entrapped in a somnambulistic state. His complexion morphed from a fiery red to a pallid hue, eventually adopting a sickly greenish tinge. After enduring several more minutes of this brutal regimen, Flynn's body betrayed him, vomiting up the contents of his stomach, gave a few more swings which made Buren almost smile with pride, and finally succumbed to the overwhelming exhaustion, his form crumpling to the stone floor.

As Flynn lay there, heaving and retching, Buren retrieved a bucket filled with water and a ladle that had been stationed in a corner of the room. With gentle precision, he guided water to Flynn's parched lips and doused him to alleviate the heat that engulfed him. Gradually, Flynn's breath regained a semblance of normalcy.

Flynn's voice emerged weak and fragmented, his eyes widening with a flicker of panic. "I-I didn't lose consciousness, did I?"

"You did," Buren affirmed, his voice carrying a note of pride.

A grimace marred Flynn's features. "I apologize. I vow to surpass my limits next time."

"You did good," Buren reassured him, his stern face softening.

Flynn's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Truly?"

"Indeed. You pushed yourself to the brink. Not many can do that. In a life-or-death situation, the one who's capable of that, lives."

Flynn could only muster a thoughtful, "Huh," in response.

With a comforting squeeze to Flynn's shoulder, a gesture that elicited a radiant smile from the young squire, Buren rose to his feet. " We'll have another go when you're ready," he declared.

Flynn's smile vanished.

After a few laborious minutes, Flynn managed to hoist himself upright, albeit with legs that threatened to buckle beneath him. Seeking to divert attention from his evident instability, he ventured a hurried inquiry, " Is that what keeps you going? The conviction that safeguarding others is more important than your own life?"

Buren offered a nonchalant shrug But his pupil seemed to yearn for an answer, so he humored the lad. "Not everyone, but as many as I can."

"But how do you discern who to save?" Flynn pressed, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"By counting. The largest advantage wins," Buren explained.

"But suppose you have to choose between a smaller contingent of farmers and a larger assembly of beggars. The farmers could potentially nourish a multitude in the future, whereas the beggars might not be able to sustain even themselves. What then?"

"Depends on the situation. For example, if we have to defend a walled city, surrounded by an enemy army, the farmers will be useless without their lands, while the beggars might have intricate knowledge about the city streets which could help in the fight if the attackers make it inside. If only one group could be allowed within the walls, it could well be the beggars."

"But what if-"

Buren silenced him with a dismissive gesture. Such discussions, revolving around unequivocal truths, were futile.

Undeterred, Flynn ventured further, his voice tinged with a hint of reverence, "But sir, why then do not all who profess righteousness adhere to your principles?"

Buren's answer was swift and unyielding, a reflection of his hardened resolve. "Out of weakness, or miscalculation, or they're lying."

Flynn's eyes widened, his expression morphing into one of sheer admiration. "Such unwavering integrity is the hallmark of a true noble, sir. I aspire to cultivate such a virtue within myself, to mirror your steadfastness."

"Shows what you know," Buren thought. He adopted a ready stance for combat. Flynn, albeit reluctantly, mirrored his posture. With a nod from Buren, the squire launched himself forward once more.

Several grueling exchanges later, Buren found himself assisting a staggering Flynn, supporting him with a firm arm encircling his back as they navigated towards his chamber. The moment Buren withdrew his support, Flynn collapsed onto his bed, a picture of utter exhaustion.

"Goals of training: achieved," Buren mentally noted. He promptly instructed the attending servants to prepare a bath and nourishment for the weary squire, anticipating that the remainder of the day would be dedicated to Flynn's recovery.

As Buren exited the squire's quarters, his seneschal, a man of considerable girth, intercepted him with a respectful bow. "Sir, a group of petitioners eagerly await an audience with you."

Initially, Buren considered dismissing the request, entrusting the matter to his capable seneschal. However, he swiftly realized that this was exactly the kind of a situation the Inquisitors would follow closely to gauge how well he observed the Path of Penance. With a resigned sigh, he proceeded towards the meeting hall.

He entered at the back, to the left of the dais, settling into the throne that awaited him there. With a solemn nod to his attendants, the doors were opened, granting entry to the hopeful petitioners who sought his counsel.

Two men and a woman stepped hesitantly into the chamber, their stooped figures advancing with minuscule, tentative steps. Their arms were folded tightly against their chests, a protective barrier against the grandeur that surrounded them. Their eyes flicked nervously around the room, avoiding direct contact with Buren. They were garbed in the simple, threadbare attire typical of peasants, garments that bore the marks of countless days of labor.

As they neared the dais, the seneschal raised a commanding hand, halting their progress so abruptly that they nearly stumbled. "Present your grievances to his marquisate," the seneschal commanded, his voice echoing through the hall.

The first man, his hands white-knuckled as they clutched a tattered cap to his chest, stuttered, "We... we seek justice, sir."

"Has the party you accuse accompanied you here?" the seneschal inquired, his tone stern.

"No, sir," the man replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"The Marquis will only consider your case when both parties are present to state their accounts. If necessary, involve the guard in this matter."

"But... but the Marquis himself is the one we seek justice against," the peasant managed to utter, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and determination.

The seneschal's face contorted with disbelief and anger. "Preposterous!" he spat.

Buren's gaze swept over the room, taking in the servants who feigned busyness, and the Inquisitors who lurked in shadowy corners, silent witnesses ready to report every detail to their superiors. Even Inanna had emerged, her expression marred by irritation.

The peasant woman suddenly found her voice, her chin lifting defiantly. "It ain't false," she declared, her voice ringing with a newfound courage. "Perhaps it would have been, back when he was a beast. But not now, not since he has undergone purification to become a Knight."

The seneschal's fury escalated, his finger jabbing towards the exit as he shouted, "Enough of this insolence! Leave, at once!"

Yet, amidst the escalating chaos, Buren raised his arm in a slow, deliberate motion, commanding the attention of all present. His hand opened gracefully towards the petitioners, a silent invitation granting them the floor to speak their minds.

With a deep breath, the woman began her tale, her voice tinged with sorrow and bitterness. "When we were driven from our homes in the South, we sought refuge here, believing the Capital would offer sanctuary, that the Overseer would protect his people as King Devon once did. But instead, we found ourselves ensnared in a system that offered no escape, forced to toil endlessly or face starvation. The meager earnings from field labor were not enough to fill our bellies, yet we wanted nothing to do with the bars and brothels."

She paused, her voice breaking as she continued, "But our daughter saw no alternative, which must have been the whole point of the system, and sold her own body to provide for the rest of us."

Tears streamed unabated from the eyes of one of the men, presumably the girl's father, as he listened to the harrowing account.

Swallowing hard, the woman pressed on, her voice trembling yet resolute. "Then, one morning, she didn't return. We searched and searched, but found nothing. It took two days until the guard brough us word that she had been found dead, in a ditch. "

She paused, her voice choked with tears. "Our son sought answers, tracing her last known whereabouts to a brothel. There, he confronted the man last seen with her, a man who bore no remorse, only a smug, superior grin. Enraged, our son would have killed him then and there, but they talked him into challenging the killer into a duel in the arena. They told him that way he would not get in trouble with the guard!"

She faltered, her voice catching in her throat. With a few steadying breaths, she managed to regain her composure, her voice resuming its tremulous cadence. "The murderer toyed with him mercilessly. A nobleman skilled in swordsmanship, he took perverse pleasure in the uneven match against our son, whose hands were more accustomed to the humble labor of shovels and rakes. It was never a fair fight, and our son was bled and beaten; the killer would not finish the job. In the end, his arrogance proved the end of him. When he gloated, our son used his last strength to run his blade through his stomach. They both died the following day."

A hushed silence enveloped the assembly, punctuated only by the heart-wrenching sobs of the grieving family. The seneschal cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking, his voice tinged with feigned sympathy. "A most tragic tale, indeed. My deepest condolences. However, it seems the Overseer has never personally encountered you."

The woman's eyes flashed defiantly as she responded, "Perhaps not, but it was the sinister machinations he orchestrated, the predatory systems he established, that precipitated our suffering. Actions he committed because of dark impulses he has vowed to atone for. We are here to see him fulfill his vows to the Faith. We may be humble folk, but the Path of Penance recognizes no hierarchy. He cannot justly deny us."

Caught off guard, the seneschal could only muster a noncommittal grunt. He hurriedly ascended the dais, leaning in to urgently whisper in Buren's ear, "If you grant their request, it will open the floodgates to countless others seeking reparation. The ensuing demands would financially cripple us, jeopardizing the very foundation of this stronghold. You must nip this in the bud before it spirals out of control."

Buren stared him down, and with a tilt of his head prodded the steward to resume the dialogue. The seneschal hesitated, his disbelief evident, before reluctantly stepping down to address the petitioners once more.

"And what restitution do you seek from the Overseer? He cannot resurrect your lost children, and the real perpetrator has already met a just end."

The family grasped each other's hands in a show of solidarity, and replied, "We ask for a pension to rebuild our lives, to leave this wretched place and establish a new home where the remnants of our family have sought refuge. A modest livelihood amidst the company of our remaining kin."

The seneschal cast a surreptitious glance towards Buren, his head shaking almost imperceptibly. Buren reclined in his seat, his fingers interlocking in a contemplative gesture. He was caught in a precarious dilemma. Conceding to their request would undoubtedly unleash a torrent of similar claims, a financial maelstrom that threatened to engulf his resources, leaving him vulnerable to the demands of the Crown and the Faith, akin to being trapped between a giant and a manticore. But the peons were absolutely right in arguing that this was exactly the kind of transgression he would have to atone for. Ignoring their rightful claim would cast a shadow of doubt on his purported devotion, a risk he could ill afford when his ascendancy within the Faith was paramount, and time was of the essence.

All eyes were on him, a sea of expectant gazes awaiting his decree. With a deliberate grace, he leaned forward, beckoning the seneschal to approach. The man lumbered back to his side, leaning in to lend an attentive ear.

In a hushed tone, the castle's Overseer uttered a succinct sentence, a directive laden with unspoken implications. He reclined once more, his demeanor exuding an air of irrefutable finality. It took a moment for the seneschal to unravel the intricate tapestry woven within those few words, to grasp the depth of the strategy laid out before him. As comprehension dawned, his initial look of disbelief morphed into a smile of appeasement. He pivoted to face the petitioners, his hands rubbing together in anticipatory glee, his grin widening with a touch of smug satisfaction.

"Our esteemed lord has rendered his judgment," he announced, his voice echoing through the hall.

The peasants exchanged anxious glances, the terse deliberation leaving them on tenterhooks, their hearts teetering on the precipice of hope and despair. Had they made a grievous error coming here?

With a flourish, the seneschal continued, "In a display of boundless benevolence, the Marquis has chosen to grant your request."

A collective gasp reverberated through the chamber, the peasants' faces mirroring the shock mirrored in the faces of the assembled crowd. Inanna's visage twisted into a scowl, a dark cloud amidst the burgeoning hope.

"Glory to the Hero of the Grey Battle," the peasants erupted in jubilant praise, their voices intertwining in a chorus of gratitude. "All hail the Faith! We shall spread word of his unparalleled generosity and the purity of his spirit throughout the city."

The seneschal's sly smile widened, a serpent basking in the sun. "I'm afraid there will be no time for such proclamations," he interjected, his voice dripping with faux regret.

Confusion marred the peasants' joyous expressions, their elation giving way to bewilderment.

"The Marquis insists that you embark on your journey to your new home forthwith, to escape the haunting shadows of this place that harbors such grim memories for you. Lingering here would only serve to exacerbate your anguish."

Buren, not typically one to indulge in the art of eloquence, found himself admiring the seneschal's adept turns of phrase. The man, a creature sculpted by the intrigues of the court, navigated the political labyrinth with the cunning of a seasoned fox. He had astutely perceived the multifaceted solution encapsulated in Buren's command, a resolution that adeptly addressed all concerns.

The father, his face now devoid of tears, nodded in understanding. "We are most grateful. Might we inquire as to the location of our new abode?"

The seneschal gestured expansively, his voice taking on a grandiose tone. "To the Northeast, in a village recently liberated from the clutches of a heretical sect by the Marquis himself. A land ripe with opportunity, eagerly awaiting the arrival of diligent hands to nurture it back to prosperity."

"To put it mildly," Buren thought. The villagers in the north clung desperately to the belief that the Faith would provide for them, a naive hope that had seen their productivity plummet to dismal levels. News from that remote area had become a rarity, the once bustling trade routes now forsaken, leaving the village isolated and forgotten. It was the perfect place to send those he wished to silence, a quiet corner where their voices would be swallowed by the wilderness.

The family's faces transformed, their initial joy giving way to a palpable apprehension. "North? We've never ventured that far, I'm not certain..."

The seneschal interjected, his voice dripping with feigned astonishment. "Do you find the generous gift from your lord lacking?" His eyes narrowed, a predatory glint surfacing as he continued, "You dare to covet more, even when bestowed with such bounty?"

"No, no, not at all," they stammered, their faces a canvas of fear and humility. "We are but humble folk, accepting all with the gratitude as the Faith teaches us."

In the periphery, Inanna's smile bore the predatory satisfaction of a cat toying with a cornered mouse.

With a grandiose gesture, the seneschal proclaimed, "Then it is settled." His forefinger traced elaborate circles in the air as he beckoned a guard. "See them to the stables and ready a carriage with provisions for their journey. We shall not detain our subjects a moment longer."

The guards guided the hesitant family from the hall, their steps echoing a reluctant farewell. The Inquisitors lingered, their scrutinizing gaze lingering on Buren before they retreated into the shadowy corridors.

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"An adept maneuver, sir," the seneschal praised, his voice tinged with genuine admiration. Buren dismissed him with a curt nod, his patience wearing thin under the weight of the day's scrutiny. Inanna fell into step beside him, her pace effortlessly matching his.

"I must admit, for a moment I feared you would further sully your stature by yielding to their pleas," she remarked, her voice a venomous hiss. "Though, a more fitting response would have been to sever their heads, don't you think?"

A curl of disdain marred Buren's lip, some of his revulsion breaking through his barrier of self-control.

"In the lands of Xu-Nammu, such vermin would never even grace the presence of the ruling family, let alone demand recompense. The air there remains untainted by the likes of them," she continued, her tone dripping with contempt.

Buren's silence only fueled her ire, her face contorting with rage. "You truly fail to grasp your position, castoff. When I grace you with my attention or critique, it is your duty to receive it with gratitude."

Her sigh was a tempest of frustration, her words a storm of disdain. "I suggest you abstain from tonight's festivities. Your presence would only sully the elegance and sophistication of the evening."

Buren's thoughts echoed with silent agreement. He had already resolved to stay clear of her little clique anyways.

"But do cleanse yourself before mingling with the guests, lest you—"

Without a word, Buren rounded the corner, leaving her mid-sentence. Her indignant shriek echoed behind him, a futile attempt to reclaim her wounded pride. Her dignity would not permit her to run after him.

For the next several hours, Buren immersed himself in the labyrinthine intricacies of governance, meticulously penning instructions for the foremen spearheading various public works in the Eastern District. He orchestrated taxation strategies to fund these ventures and more, a ceaseless dance of ink and parchment that consumed the afternoon.

The construction chiefs under his employ bombarded him with queries, seeking clarity on the ultimate goals of their labor. They were digging holes and erecting structures without a clear vision of the final outcome, a situation that threatened to undermine their efforts. They reported perceived errors, like excavating trenches for sewer systems only to fill them again without installing the necessary conduits. Buren urged them to adhere to the instructions, promising that the grand design would reveal itself in due time.

His bookkeepers expressed concerns over the convoluted and scarcely documented handling of his finances, fearing it might be construed as an attempt to conceal his true income. Buren assuaged their fears, assuring them that his personal ledger held the meticulous record of every transaction.

"Do not fret," he penned to a concerned official, "It is all according to plan. The full picture will reveal itself in due time."

Daily, he dispatched letters to the King and the High Reverend, a ritual to affirm his unwavering loyalty and pure intentions.

As evening draped its velvet cloak over the day, Buren retreated from his administrative duties, his stomach summoning him to dinner. He anticipated finding Flynn eagerly awaiting the first servings, but the young squire was conspicuously absent. To add to his dismay, his meal arrived undercooked, delivered with clumsy haste by a flustered servant.

"My deepest apologies, sir," the boy stuttered, "the Lady's soirée has commandeered the attention of the entire kitchen staff."

Buren's brow furrowed in annoyance. He hastily consumed his unsatisfactory meal before embarking on a search for Flynn, his intuition guiding him towards the opulent wing Inanna had claimed as her domain.

The transition into her territory was unmistakable. The austere stone corridors gave way to lavish tapestries and intricate carvings, a vivid display of wealth and power. Her personal guards, adorned with golden piercings and draped in flowing silks, smelling of perfume, stood sentinel at regular intervals, a testament to the grandeur she sought to project. Inanna was determined to showcase the superiority of even the lowest Antediluvian over the finest 'castoffs'.

Despite the guards' attempts to bar his passage, Buren pressed forward, his authority as the castle's lord granting him unhindered access. He stormed into Inanna's sanctuary, a room drowning in opulence with every surface adorned with ornate fabrics and sculptures. In one corner, a massive bed lay shrouded in veils and festooned with ceremonial trinkets. At the opposite end, a long table hosted Inanna and her guests, with Flynn standing uncomfortably at her side.

The assembly, a gathering of self-proclaimed Antediluvian enthusiasts, reveled in the grandeur Inanna orchestrated to celebrate their culture and her magnificence. A makeshift runway dominated the center of the room, where a woman adorned with grotesque golden spikes piercing her flesh made her entrance. The pins were driven all around the topside of her head, face, shoulders and upper arms. The nails were set so they rose directly upward and were more than a foot long. In the upper end of the pins, the heads of the nails had been done in the shape of blooming flowers, all gold. But that was not all: set on top of a harness tightened around the slave-woman head was a golden mask. The nails varied in length and were set so the 'flowers', standing side by side, formed a surface that portrayed the neck, shoulders and upper arms of a human figure, so the end result was such that the woman transformed into a mere vessel for this golden specter.

The guests lavished praise upon this living art installation, blind to the cruelty it represented. Buren, however, could not ignore the dark, seared flesh at the base of each spike, burned to cease the trickle of blood, a grim testament to the pain endured to create this macabre display.

Inanna's piercing gaze was the first to lock onto him, her position affording her a clear view of the entrance. Flynn, who had been entranced by her until that moment, followed the trajectory of her stare and stiffened, his face a canvas of conflicting emotions.

"Ah, look who it is," Inanna cooed, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Decided to grace us with your presence and absorb some semblance of culture, have you? I'm afraid you'll have to remain standing; my devoted admirers have claimed all available seats."

Buren's response was a cold, deliberate silence. His eyes, burning with a quiet intensity, found Flynn's. With a stern, yet subtle gesture, he indicated the exit, urging the young squire to extricate himself from the opulent farce that unfolded before them. But before they could retreat, Inanna sprang to her feet, her fingers closing around Flynn's arm with a grip that belied her delicate appearance.

"Oh, you can't leave now," she purred, her voice a siren's song woven with threads of manipulation. "This evening is precious to me, and I insist on sharing its sparkle with you."

Flynn's face turned a deep shade of crimson, his loyalty caught in the crossfire of conflicting allegiances. "I... I appreciate the invitation," he stammered, "but he is my mentor. I must heed his guidance."

Inanna's eyes narrowed, her voice taking on a sultry, yet sinister tone. "Perhaps it's time to sever those old ties, darling. You can learn combat from the head of my guards, get educated by my officials and learn culture—and other things—," she added, seductively, "directly from me. It will be far above anything he could provide you with." Her hand traced a tantalizing path down Flynn's arm, her intentions cloaked in a veil of seduction. "Imagine the heights we could reach together, the secrets I could unveil for you."

Flynn swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I cannot."

Before Inanna could weave more of her beguiling web, Buren intervened, his stride purposeful and unyielding. He grasped Flynn's other arm, his grip firm yet protective. Inanna responded with a venomous hiss, her true nature surfacing as she clung to her prize.

"If you truly valued his education, you would encourage him to broaden his horizons with us," she spat, pulling Flynn closer, her claws digging into his flesh.

Buren's muscles tensed, prepared to wrest Flynn from her predatory grasp, but a flicker of insight gave him pause. Trying to keep them separated like this was proving ineffective. Perhaps a change of tactics was in order. Releasing Flynn, Buren turned his attention to a young man seated nearby, a scion of a lesser noble house. The young man startled at the attention, and when Buren tilted his head to one side, the noble understood and leaped from his seat.

Buren settled into the vacated chair, his demeanor shifting to one of relaxed interest. He reached for an array of delicacies presented before him, consisting of small pieces of meat, fruit and cheeses skewered on sticks, savoring the intricate blend of flavors with a discerning palate.

Inanna's face contorted with rage, her voice a venomous whisper. "What do you think you're doing?"

Ignoring her, Buren leaned back, his attention now focused on the grotesque display on the catwalk. Another slave emerged, her body a canvas of suffering, adorned with golden pins that formed the illusion of a tiger prowling above her.

Inanna's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't play games. You're not here to appreciate the show."

Buren met her fiery gaze with icy calm.

"Perhaps he really is interested," Flynn chimed in hurriedly, a hopeful glint in his eyes. "Let's all spend the evening together."

"He was not summoned to this gathering," she muttered sullenly, albeit reclaiming her seat. Buren could see that his tactic was beginning to bear fruit; Flynn was consciously maintaining a distance from her, avoiding even the slightest glance in her direction.

The evening progressed with a parade of slaves, their flesh transformed into canvases for intricate golden masterpieces, leaving the audience in awe. To Buren, this grotesque exhibition was a vivid representation of the Antediluvian ethos: the slaves were mere objects, devoid of agency, their bodies manipulated at the whims of their masters, now serving as living vessels for grotesque artistry. The golden embellishments that adorned them varied from divine human likenesses to avian creatures, and even to sea beasts with gilded tentacles that seemed to writhe and coil with the strained movements of the burdened individuals beneath.

As the unsettling display concluded and the appetizers were no more, the servants ushered in the first course of the feast. A delicate array of meticulously prepared vegetables and venison graced the table, each morsel adorned with a spicy garnish that curled artistically atop the dish.

"Imported directly from the renowned granaries of Nammu-Thum," Inanna's attendant announced with a flourish. "Crafted to perfection by a culinary maestro specially brought here for this grand occasion." Accompanying the dish was a glass of pristine wine, its origins tracing back to the revered Apex Mountain vineyards.

With Inanna leading the way, the guests eagerly indulged in the culinary delights before them, each vying to shower the most effusive praise upon the exquisite fare.

"I presume such culinary artistry is a rarity in those backwoods of yours?" Inanna taunted Buren, her smile a twisted caricature of amusement.

Buren merely continued his meal, his expression unyielding. While the culinary craftsmanship and the burst of flavors were undeniable, the meager portion seemed more a tease than a substantial meal. In his eyes, food was, first and foremost, a fuel, not merely a spectacle for the senses.

She scowled at his obvious lack of appreciation.

"Naturally, even these delicacies cannot hold a candle to the culinary wonders of Nammu-Thum. The damp atmosphere of these lowlands has already sapped the ingredients of their vibrant essence, rendering them somewhat dull and uninspired."

With a dramatic gesture, she pushed her plate away, a signal for a servant to whisk it away hastily. Her disdain for the meal was as palpable as her growing frustration with Buren's unflappable demeanor, a crack in the facade of the grandiose evening she had orchestrated.

Course after course of mouthwatering masterpieces graced the table, each a demonstration of the finest ingredients and culinary skill. Yet, Buren partook in the feast with a mechanical detachment, his face a mask as he chewed and swallowed without the slightest hint of enjoyment or appreciation.

When the guest beside him inquired about his opinion on the food, he responded with a nonchalant shrug. His reaction remained unchanged even when asked about the spectacle they had witnessed earlier, a masterpiece of living artistry. Every attempt by the sycophantic attendees to indirectly laud Inanna through him met with the same impassive response.

However, their adulation fell on deaf ears, as Inanna's focus was solely fixated on Buren's blatant disregard for the evening's extravagance. Her frustration reached its zenith when the second dessert was served. In a fit of rage, she swept the plate off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The servants hurried to clean the debris, their bodies shrinking in an attempt to become as inconspicuous as possible, while the guests sat paralyzed, scared t to commence eating without their hostess' lead.

Regaining her composure, albeit with a fiery glare still directed at Buren, she fabricated an excuse for her outburst. "There was a hair in it," she lied, her voice dripping with venom. "Please, indulge yourself. It seems my appetite has forsaken me." The third dessert, which had been awaiting its grand entrance, was discreetly packed away by the judicious chefs, to be served at a later time.

The evening's entertainment progressed with a musical ensemble gracing the stage, their instruments - lyres and sitars - a showcase to the rich cultural heritage of Nammu-Thum. Their song, a melodious narrative in the complex and consonant-heavy language of the Antediluvians, filled the room. Buren, unfamiliar with the language, remained unresponsive to the performance.

"This melody narrates the tale of our forebears preserving the essence of humanity through their resilience," Inanna explained, her voice tinged with pride. Buren's only response was an eye roll, a gesture that did not escape her notice.

"I perceive that the depth of this song is lost on you," she remarked, her tone sharp and accusatory. Buren maintained his impassive facade, a smug satisfaction simmering beneath the surface. Accustomed to being the epicenter of adulation or swiftly punishing any perceived disrespect, Inanna found herself ensnared by his indifferent demeanor, her focus having shifted entirely from Flynn to Buren.

As the band concluded their performance, Buren seized the opportunity to escape to the balcony, seeking respite in the fresh air. The overpowering scent of exotic incense that pervaded the chamber had caused his nose to start running, something he had observed amongst several other guests as well, though none would dare voice their discomfort.

Moments later, Inanna joined him, her voice quivering with suppressed rage. "If you intend to continue this charade of humiliation, you might as well leave," she spat, her anger palpable in the tense night air.

Buren remained unmoved, his gaze sweeping over the cityscape below. The distant districts lay shrouded in darkness, a stark contrast to the vibrant Eastern District, now a beacon of life and color, resounding with the harmonious blend of music and lively chatter that echoed from every corner.

Inanna's patience snapped, her high heels clattering against the stone floor in a display of petulant fury. "I am entitled to more than this cold, silent treatment. As my fiancé, my sole kin in this place, you owe me at least a semblance of respect and affection," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with desperation.

Buren finally turned to face her, his eyes scrutinizing her with a cold, analytical intensity.

"Not that it matters to me," she hastily appended, her voice tinged with a forced indifference. "But you ought to maintain a facade, act the obedient hound that you are, regardless of your true sentiments. The dignitaries who orchestrated this union back home would expect nothing less. That is the sole reason I mention it, nothing more."

She averted her gaze, her features momentarily softening under the flickering torchlight. It seemed, for a fleeting moment, that a blush had graced her cheeks. When her eyes met his once more, any hint of vulnerability had vanished, replaced by a sneer of disdain. With a swift, haughty turn, she retreated indoors, her steps echoing with a brisk, determined cadence. He trailed behind her shortly thereafter.

Upon his return, the room had transformed: the lights had been dimmed, concentrating their luminance upon the stage, which was now surrounded by a semi-circle of chairs. The once grand table had been removed, giving way to an intimate, theatre-like setting. The guests sat, like nailed, to their seats, their attention unwavering. As he entered, servants hurriedly guided him to his designated chair.

An elderly slave woman, the chief of Inanna's chambermaids, took center stage. She squinted against the glaring lights, her speech punctuated with hesitant pauses as she sought the right words, her accent thick and pronounced. "Next, our esteemed lady of the house will mesmerize you with a display of Antediluvian haute couture, a spectacle that promises to etch itself into your memories for a lifetime."

A round of applause echoed her words as she gracefully exited the stage. The band resumed, their melody now slow and sensuous, weaving a seductive tapestry of sound that enveloped the room.

With a flourish, the curtains at the stage's rear were drawn back, revealing Inanna in all her resplendent glory. She donned a monumental golden helmet, cylindrical in design, adorned with a crystalline visor that framed her face. Gems of various hues adorned its surface, glittering ominously under the stage lights. From its sides, elongated prongs extended, resembling the exaggerated spikes of a regal crown, their tips reaching skyward in a defiant display of opulence. Her gown, a cascade of dark blue fabric embellished with golden, red, and green gems, flowed gracefully to the floor. At her back, a fan of peacock feathers splayed out, forming a shimmering semi-circle that seemed to gaze intently at the captivated audience.

"This ensemble," the chambermaid elucidated, "draws inspiration from the revered ancestors of the Antediluvians. The headgear, a masterpiece crafted in the likeness of ancient sculptures, complements the gown, which embodies the celestial grandeur of the night sky, a realm believed to be governed by them."

Inanna pirouetted gracefully, her smile radiant and confident, before making a grand exit amidst a chorus of applause. The band heightened the intensity of their performance, filling the brief interlude with a crescendo of harmonious notes. Moments later, Inanna re-emerged, now adorned in a different, yet equally magnificent attire. Her new headpiece bore the visage of a stern, majestic figure, its sapphire eyes gazing down judgmentally upon the assembly. This monumental accessory extended down to her shoulders, providing stability to the towering structure. Thin strips of cloth, inscribed with Antediluvian script, draped her form, fluttering gracefully with each step.

"Behold," the chambermaid narrated with a flourish, "the traditional attire of an ambassador belonging to the ruling lineage. The headdress portrays the illustrious progenitor of the family, with the names of successive generations cascading down the flowing fabric. This attire signifies that the wearer embodies the entire lineage, acting and speaking only with the family's unanimous consent."

The audience responded with gasps of awe and admiration, their eyes fixed on the dazzling display before them. As Inanna retreated behind the curtain, her demeanor radiated increasing satisfaction, fueled by the adulation showered upon her. Buren, however, found the ostentatious display overbearing. In his eyes, the burden of leading a people did not necessitate such a cumbersome, bejeweled mantle. The true weight of responsibility, he mused, was felt in the depths of one's soul, not in the heaviness of gilded metals and precious stones.

The servants draped gossamer veils over the luminous orbs, plunging the chamber into a deep, sanguine hue that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The curtains at the stage's terminus quivered, heralding the emergence of a solitary leg, adorned in sheer, diaphanous stockings that promised secrets yet to be unveiled.

"And now, for the grand finale," the chambermaid proclaimed with a lascivious grin, "we present the epitome of allure, a high-ranking damsel from the esteemed pleasure class. Gentlemen, I urge you to remain seated, lest our vigilant eunuch guards be compelled to put you down."

With serpentine grace, she emerged from the billowing drapery, her form adorned in a translucent bodysuit that played a tantalizing game with the light, revealing intricate floral patterns at just the right angles. The garment clung to her like a second skin, cinching at the waist and accentuating the voluptuous curves of her bosom and hips, leaving little to the imagination with golden bands strategically placed to preserve a modicum of modesty.

A sudden dryness seized Buren's throat, a heat kindled within him, mirrored by the fervent reactions of the male spectators who erupted in a chorus of appreciative cheers and lascivious murmurs. Beside him, Flynn seemed entranced, his mouth hanging open in stunned admiration.

With hypnotic grace, she traversed the stage, her hips swaying in a dance of ancient allure. As she reached the platform's brink, she descended gracefully to all fours, her gaze lingering on Flynn before darting to Buren, a smug, knowing smile gracing her lips as she retreated from the spotlight, her performance etched into the minds of the beholders.

The night reached its crescendo with a pyrotechnic spectacle, a tradition that, as Inanna explained, usually followed ritual sacrifices in the sacred grounds of Apex Mountain, albeit sans the bloodshed on this occasion. The castle's turrets became launch pads for a symphony of fiery blossoms that erupted in the heavens, painting the night sky with ephemeral swirls of vibrant hues before fading into the darkness. As the spectacle waned, the guests began their exodus, each vying to outdo the other in their effusive praise of the Antediluvian grandeur. Buren, seizing a bottle of wine and reclaiming Flynn from the throng, made a swift departure. Inanna, now garbed in a different yet equally extravagant gown, met his gaze with an icy indifference, her lips sealed in a tight line of disapproval.

"I apologize, sir," Flynn stammered once they were alone, his voice tinged with regret. "But as the lady of the house, it wasn't within my rights to decline her summons."

Buren said nothing. Words had accomplished nothing so far. But he had other ideas. He guided Flynn to his chamber, his stern demeanor making it abundantly clear that the young squire was to remain confined for the night. With a crestfallen expression, Flynn complied, disappearing into the room with a heavy heart.

Buren took a long swig from the bottle, and instead of his quarters, headed back towards Inanna's chambers. His path was momentarily obstructed by the vigilant slave guards. Undeterred, he pushed past them, his resolve unyielding. The chamber had undergone a swift transformation, the remnants of the evening's festivities eradicated, leaving a space of intimate solitude. Inanna stood before a series of full-length mirrors, her reflection caught in a moment of vulnerable self-admiration, the pleasure class attire once again clinging to her form. A glass, half-filled, or more accurately half-emptied with wine, swayed precariously in her grasp, a telltale sign she had already indulged in the drink.

As he entered, her melancholy reflection morphed into a visage of surprise, her attempted indignation faltering under the weight of intoxication and an undercurrent of raw, unmasked emotion. The guards, paralyzed by their failure, stood rigid, their faces etched with fear.

"A thousand apologies, my lady," one stammered, his voice trembling with trepidation. "He afforded us no opportunity to announce his arrival."

"He is the master of this domain, thus he may traverse it as he pleases," she declared, her voice echoing with a regal undertone that allowed the slaves to ease their rigid stance slightly.

"But there is no excuse for the two of you to enter without permission. I will deal with you in the morning." The men bowed with grim expressions, before retreating to their designated positions.

With a defiant tilt of her chin, she challenged him, her voice tinged with a mocking sweetness. "What brings you to my chambers at this late hour?" she queried, her eyes flickering with a curious flame. " It's the first time you've visited your bride? Are you here to issue further threats concerning Flynn?"

Buren mounted the few steps that led to the elevated platform where the ornate folding screen mirrors and her lavish bed resided. He became acutely aware of the height difference between them, a disparity that seemed more pronounced now that he confronted her directly. Moreover, her bare feet contrasted starkly with his heavy boots. He scrutinized her intently, attempting to peer beyond the myriad facades she donned. She responded with a flutter of nervous eyelashes, seeking solace in another sip of her wine.

"I suggest you articulate your intentions," she taunted, her hand finding a sassy perch upon her hip. "Lest a lady misconstrues your silence for something more... tantalizing."

He regarded her with a contemplative tilt of his head, a gesture she interpreted correctly, prompting her to elaborate with a theatrical flourish.

"A woman might misconstrue this as a sign of burgeoning interest, perhaps even a flicker of attraction," she exclaimed, her arms arching gracefully above her head before she spun around, presenting her back to him in a dramatic display of feigned indignation. "But such a notion is ludicrous, isn't it? Everyone knows you are wedded to your responsibilities, and with your newfound devotion to that barbaric faith, your virtues should be more chaste than ever."

She pivoted to face him, her feigned outrage dissipating swiftly as she found him standing mere inches away, his gaze still locked onto her with an intensity that seemed to pierce her very soul.

"Even if you harbored such sentiments," she stammered, retreating with hesitant steps, "they would undoubtedly be reserved for that forest enchantress you once cavorted with. That's what everybody says, you know. She is the one that got away, forever haunting your past, while I remain a mere stipulation in a binding contract."

With a gesture of disdain, she drained her glass, her expression souring. "Bah!"

In a swift movement, Buren seized her wrist, lifting her arm aloft. Her eyes widened in alarm, but her tension eased as he simply refilled her glass with the rich liquid from his own bottle, before partaking generously himself. A giggle escaped her, her demeanor shifting to one of playful amusement as she traced her finger along the glass's rim.

"I believe this is the inaugural gift I've received from you," she remarked, her voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "The wine, I mean. Unconventional, certainly, but it's a beginning, isn't it? You couldn't even muster the courtesy to correspond with me prior to my arrival, to herald our impending union. It's as if you harbored some shame."

His visage remained an enigma, a fortress of impassivity that betrayed no emotion. There had been too much on his mind at the time. And it was not like he had gotten a memo on how Antediluvian couplings worked.

She settled onto the expansive bed, her form sinking into the plush mattress. A somber silence enveloped her before she resumed, her voice now a soft, vulnerable whisper. "I am the bastard of my lineage. I presume you were unaware."

Indeed, he knew little of her personal history, save for the fact that the Antediluvian hierarchy deemed her a suitable match. It dawned on him that he had neglected to delve deeper into the background of his prospective bride.

"My birth is the union of a noble father and a mother from the pleasure caste. Initially destined to follow in her footsteps, fate had other plans. When my father's legitimate offspring proved to degenerates from birth, he was forced to acknowledge me to keep the line going. Still, he never truly accepted me."

A wistful smile graced her lips as she sipped her wine, her gaze drifting into the distance.

"All my life I've dreamt of doing him proud by bringing glory to the family. And of findings someone who accepted, even loved me. Always thought my best bet would be to marry up. My hopes were dashed first when I learn my husband was to be a cast-off, then a second time when he didn't care for me either."

It seemed she had harbored these confessions for a considerable time, and Buren deemed it wise to remain silent, offering her the space to unburden her soul.

"Yet here I am!" she proclaimed fervently. "This is the opportunity fate has bestowed upon me, and I intend to seize it with both hands. Perhaps, just perhaps, I can extend the grandeur of the Antediluvians to such an extent that its glory will illuminate even the summit of Apex Mountain. Then, they will have no choice but to acknowledge the prestige of my lineage."

She jabbed a finger against his chest, her words beginning to meld together in a slurred symphony. "If only you would harness the power that lies within your grasp! Instead, you've made yourself the guard dog of the weak and joined a cult that demands your obedience. It seems as though every choice you make is a deliberate attempt to undermine me."

She released a heavy sigh, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I yearn for the day you fully embrace your role as the Marquis, as you were destined to be."

She paused, her gaze drifting before she added softly, almost as an afterthought, "Or perhaps, assume the role of a devoted husband."

In a swift, decisive motion, Buren encompassed her delicate shoulders with his firm grasp, forcing her to meet his intense gaze. Her eyes widened, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her fortified exterior.

"No more roles," he declared.

A soft gasp escaped her, her cheeks blossoming into a deep crimson hue. "Just one stipulation," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Spare me the touch of that cold, metallic arm."

Heeding her request, he retracted his right arm, securing it behind his back. With his left, he drew her tantalizingly close, their breath mingling in the charged space between them.

"How can I trust that this isn't merely another performance?" she breathed, her voice tinged with a fragile hope.

With a heavy heart laden with conflicting emotions, Buren sealed the distance between them, his lips seeking solace in the warmth of hers. Partly because it was what he wanted. Or thought he wanted. But differently than she—hopefully—assumed. Thoughts of his own motivations rushed through his mind as he tried to make sense of it all. That was the majority of the reasons that had driven him to her room that night: infatuation and lust were supposedly simple and all-consuming, and he thirsted for something that would bury the thoughts tormenting him day and night. He wished for something simple and real, to feel real passion. In her presence, adorned in that provocative attire, he recognized her ability to ignite a primal hunger within any man, a hunger that threatened to consume him.

Yet, as he delved deeper into the kiss, he couldn't shake the nagging realization that even this moment was tainted by plans within plans, just another act in the neverending performance. He had to take in account that he and Azure might never be on speaking terms again, and having someone else to concentrate on just might make it tolerable. And, to the many observers within his walls, this might show that he had truly gotten over the Dryad, favoring a human over her, which was more acceptable. Although not as celebrated as celibacy, but even this imperfection in his devotion might work in his favor: they suspected him of faking his dedication, but who would think that he might come short on purpose? In the end, it all served his goal of getting to the mountain deep within the Ancient Forest, to protect the people of the lands.

And that's what he hated the most of it all.

Even in the throes of passion, he couldn't escape the relentless calculations, the strategies that dictated his every move.

His kiss grew violent, almost desperate, as he sought to lose himself in the raw intensity of the moment. She responded with equal fervor, her arms winding around his neck in a tight embrace. Breaking away only to catch a fleeting breath and to partake in the remnants of the wine, he then guided her onto the plush bed, his body hovering over hers in a display of raw, unbridled desire.

He pushed his tongue inside her mouth.

Images of Azure flashed in his mind.

He tore open her bodysuit, kissing her neck and breasts.

His brain worked on calculations of how much military strength might convince the Dryads to let him pass.

He slipped his left hand between her thighs.

A vision of the beings from his nightmares towering over the city appeared every time he even blinked.

He ceased his efforts and rolled off, lying down by her side, on his back. She blinked rapidly, surprised.

"That's it?" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with frustration and disappointment.

He released a weary sigh, his body a canvas of tension and unresolved desire.

With a huff, she sat upright, her voice adopting a stern, authoritative tone. "I mean to say, that's it! We shall not proceed any further until our union receives the official sanction, lest we invite trouble and disgrace."

He nodded in agreement, fully prepared to offer the same justification had he been pressed to explain his abrupt withdrawal.

With a resigned sigh, she gestured towards the exit, her voice devoid of its earlier warmth. "I believe it's time for you to depart." She avoided his gaze, reaching for a hairbrush to tame her disheveled locks. " You don't let anyone close when you're sleeping, right?"

He seized her shoulder gently, drawing her to recline beside him. Initially rigid, her body soon yielded, softening into his embrace with a kind of reluctant surrender.

"My mother once shared that a portion of her clientele sought the services of the more adept members of the pleasure caste primarily to secure a night of undisturbed slumber," she murmured, her voice a tender whisper in the dim room. She nestled her head against his chest, her breath warm against his skin. "Might you permit me to assist you in alleviating your nocturnal distress?"

His initial intention had been to wait for her to succumb to sleep before making a silent exit. However, as he pondered her offer, he found himself reconsidering.

With a hesitant nod, he acquiesced. She was already privy to his affliction, and his venture into her chamber had been spurred by a desperate yearning for a fragment of solace, a yearning that had thus far remained unfulfilled.

What more did he stand to lose?

In a state of semi-consciousness, he lifted his head slightly, The room was dim, but just enough light shone from behind the curtain for him to deduce it was already late morning. With a sigh, he allowed his head to sink back into the plush embrace of the pillow, succumbing once more to the lure of sleep.

But realization struck him like a bolt, propelling him into a seated position.

"Late morning?" he marveled. It had been ages he had managed to sleep so late. What astonished him further was the absence of the nightmarish visions that usually haunted his rest. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his sleep had been deep and rejuvenating, a phenomenon he had deemed unattainable. He had resigned himself to the belief that his only salvation lay in confronting and vanquishing the malevolent entities that plagued his dreams in the corporeal realm.

His gaze settled upon Inanna, who lay ensconced in the tendrils of sleep, a picture of serenity. He struggled to recall the specifics of the previous night, fragments of her soothing murmurs echoing in his mind as he drifted into slumber. In the soft morning light, her face bore no signs of distress, a faint smile gracing her lips, hinting at a tranquility that seemed almost foreign. A flicker of hope ignited within him, suggesting that perhaps salvation lay in the arms of this woman, whom he had unjustly dismissed until now.

Yet, he quickly averted his gaze, cautioning himself against premature optimism. One night of peace, however blissful, could not negate the gravity of the impending threat.

"No matter what Azure and Ano—the rest think, I know my visions to be more than dreams," he thought.

This brief respite had merely granted him renewed vigor to continue his crusade against the unseen adversaries.

Lying down once more, he found himself captivated by her visage, his face mere inches from hers as he lost himself in the study of her tranquil features. There was no urgency this morning, no impending duties to pull him away from this moment of quietude.

Eventually, her eyes fluttered open, a warm smile blossoming upon her lips as she met his intense gaze.

"Good morning," she greeted softly, her voice a melodious hum in the still room.

He responded with a simple nod, eliciting a playful shake of her head.

"Some like the sound of their own voice a bit too much, but you seem to be of the other extreme?" she teased, gracefully rising from the bed. She stretched languidly, her movements reminiscent of a feline, before gliding behind the mirrored room divider to attire herself. The delicate garment she had adorned for the night was cast aside, her silhouette, illuminated by the soft glow of a shinestone, casting tantalizing shadows that accentuated her voluptuous form.

"I trust I can anticipate your presence at forthcoming public events, sparing me the need to solicit Flynn's company once this house arrest is lifted?" she inquired, her voice carrying a hint of playful challenge.

Reemerging adorned in a gown of exquisite craftsmanship, she awaited his response. With a conceding nod, he agreed to her request.

A smile of genuine pleasure graced her lips. " Good. For me to dally with someone of his position was simply demeaning, even if it was only to get your attention."

Buren's expression momentarily hardened into a piercing glare before softening once more, morphing into a look of understanding. She had done what she had to advance her ambitions. Just like himself.

"A kindred spirit?" he dared to wonder, but buried the thought. It was too soon to indulge in fantasies of camaraderie and mutual understanding.

Their simultaneous entrance into the dining hall caused a flurry of heads to turn, only to hastily revert to their respective tasks, feigning nonchalance. Buren was acutely aware his many watchers would soon be getting early reports, but found himself indifferent to the scrutiny. As they settled at the table, Flynn greeted them with a palpable uncertainty, attempting to engage in casual conversation. Yet, his eyes betrayed him, flickering incessantly between Buren's intense gaze and Inanna's gentle smile, clearly withholding the true whirlpool of thoughts swirling within him.

To Buren, the morning meal seemed to possess an enhanced flavor, as though his senses, previously dulled by exhaustion, had been revitalized by the night's restorative slumber. He gestured fervently for the attendants to bring forth more bread and gravy, eagerly savoring every morsel, keen not to overlook a single droplet of the savory concoction that graced his platter. Every texture, every aroma seemed amplified, tantalizing his senses with an unprecedented intensity. Inanna, who might have previously chastised him for his lack of decorum, merely chuckled, delighting in her own selection of fruits and cheeses. Flynn, on the other hand, seemed to have lost his appetite entirely, his plate remaining untouched.

The seneschal, who had remained a silent sentinel in a secluded corner since their arrival, finally approached as they concluded their meal. He presented Buren with the day's agenda, elucidating on the finer details with meticulous precision.

"Your next task involves rectifying a series of logistical errors that have surpassed the capabilities of the officials to resolve independently," he informed, his tone tinged with a hint of exasperation. "A substantial consignment of tar, designated for the roofing projects in the western sector of the district, has mysteriously vanished. Furthermore, a clerical error involving a misplaced comma has resulted in a gross overdelivery of cooking oil to the castle."

Buren responded with a nonchalant grunt, his interest evidently waning.

"I understand that the intricacies of financial management may not be the most exhilarating aspect of your duties," the seneschal continued, a note of dry humor in his voice. "However, you have chosen to personally oversee the broader financial landscape."

Buren offered a terse nod in agreement, while Inanna did nothing to suppress an exaggerated eye roll.

"I believe it's time for me to take my leave before the mere contemplation of accounting induces some grey hairs," she quipped with a playful grimace. With a flirtatious blow of a kiss in Buren's direction, she gracefully exited the hall. Flynn, who had been silently observing the exchange, seemed to have turned a peculiar shade of pale yellow.

Once the seneschal had concluded his briefing, Buren dismissed him, leaving an awkward silence to settle between him and Flynn.

"Are you alright?" Buren inquired, his gaze fixed on the young squire.

Flynn nodded vigorously, his response coming a tad too swiftly. "Why would it bother me?"

"What?"

"The-," Flynn stuttered, struggling to articulate his thoughts.

" I was asking if you had recuperated from yesterday's training," Buren clarified, his expression unreadable.

"Oh. Ooooh," Flynn stammered, his eyes widening in realization. "Yes, I'm still slightly sore, but ready for action."

Buren acknowledged the response with a nod, just as their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, accompanied by a castle guard.

"A message for the Overseer," the courier announced, extending a letter adorned with the High Reverend's official seal. As Buren broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, his eyes widened in alarm, the contents of the message evidently unsettling.

"What's the matter?" Flynn queried, seizing the opportunity to divert the conversation.

"Complications," he muttered under his breath, his expression hardening.

Aloud, he commanded, "Fetch my gear, and wear your best as well.

We're going to the court."