Chapter 58, v. 2

Diantha walked out of the bathroom after misremembering what she would wear for the day. Resting was not her strength; it rattled her entire system. Diantha ran on adrenaline for weeks at a time, and resting was like a hitch on a pathway that flipped over the carriage. She never rested more than once a week. This week, however, she laid down twice for Iris. She had grown accustomed to catering to Iris’s wishes; they were always small and cute, like having her hair dried with a towel or combed, or she would ask her to rest a little. The things that she never did for anyone, but Iris, she knew this was due to her powerlessness and the inevitability of Iris’s fate. It was an inevitable fate that someone of Diantha’s stature was too insignificant to change. Somewhere in her heart, she dreaded that what Ilona offered was true. Only a peaceful ending would Iris have was Ilona taking it.

As she walked out, her eyes landed on Iris, hugging a pillow, looking lost. She had convinced Iris to stay one more day because she somehow believed in superstition when it came to Iris’s life. On the eighth day after the night of the Devil, every wanderer’s neck hangs on the scythe of the reaper. Iris was a wanderer; every person who stepped inside the labyrinth was a wanderer. Today was the eighth day, and with how many prophecies surrounded Iris, Diantha did not desire to test the truth behind them.

“Iris?” Diantha called, somewhat confused. After a moment, Iris turned and asked, “What were you doing?”

“I don’t know." Iris paused. “The pillow smells like you and..." She paused again and sighed, “I don’t know... I want to rest for the rest of the day… I don’t know."

"Perhaps you’re under the weather. I will check if you've got a fever,” Diantha replied as she searched her clothes. “Once I have changed."

…

Diantha walked out, this time dressed in a white suit. She found Iris pacing around the room, looking extremely calm. “How are you feeling, Iris?” Diantha asked, pondering if she should check her fever or not. Iris being less than normal renders traditional means of assessing health completely pointless.

“I am fine,” Iris replied as she stopped her march. She fell on the bed again. “The count will be here today?" Iris questioned.

"No." Diantha received a letter last night stating something went awry in their travel and that Griesha would be delayed by a week or more. “He’s not going to be here for another week."

“I see. What will you do now?"

“I have uncountable things to attend to. Today, I’ll return to Sanfroid and reestablish my control over the territory. The knights have recovered; I’ll start recruitment in the sangfroid to minimize the damage done by Laurent’s little puppet."

“I will accompany you,” Iris said, suddenly feeling energetic. “When will you leave?"

“About an hour after having breakfast,” Dianth replied. Iris did not sit with them at the breakfast table. Iris did not eat, and she understood that it was awkward to have someone on the table but not eating, so she did not come down till they were done. “I’ll come and pick you up."

“Are you going in the carriage?"

“Yes,” Diantha answered. Until she made motor vehicles customary, the carriage was her only means.

“I have created a flying thing; we can go in that,” Iris replied.

“Sure,” Diantha said with a smile. She had seen how busy all of them were all week preparing for that. She wouldn’t say she was not a little curious as to what it was. “I’ll dispatch the knight, and then we can leave."

Diantha left the room after receiving a hum-affirmation. She did, however, pick up Winny. To say she was not the cutest cat in the world would be blasphemous, even if the ever-present lack of life made her a little harrowing. “Good morning, Winny."

Diantha, of course, did not even receive a glance from her. She knew Winny still had some form of emotion, intelligence, or instincts. The day Iris was coughing in the bathroom, Diantha would’ve never found Iris—if not for Winny knocking on the door. There was something; she knew not what. It made Winny all the more scary. There was something hidden beneath what Iris called a husk, something Iris was unaware of.

“Are you still inside, the real Winny?” Diantha asked as she patted her kitten’s back. She reached down into the main hall and found Ianthe.

“Good morning, Ianthe,” Diantha said with a warm smile. “What are you doing?"

“Good morning, Lady Ilona,” Ianthe replied, a little reserved. She stood from her seat as she replied. “I am waiting for Hecate."

“I’ve said it already; don’t feel compelled to abide by courtesy. You’ll stay here for a long time. It would be stifling to have someone so tense. Relax. We are all family here, including you,” Diantha paused, noting Ianthe becoming more tense at her words. She stopped herself from sighing, lest it give Ianthe the wrong impression. “Walk with me to the table."

Ianthe politely affirmed and followed a step behind her. Diantha wondered who taught her courtesy. Diantha stopped, letting Ianthe mindlessly step ahead of her. She stopped and panicked. Diantha chuckled. “I said walk with me, not behind me. You’re not my maid or knight. You do not need to follow their courtesy. And hold Winny for me."

Diantha was not a preacher of courtesy; one could even say she lacked interest in it. To her, it was a waste of time that could be spent better on other things. Things worth spending time on, but she never went with the thought of abolishing it. That would be foolish—it was a requirement. A foundation of society and rules, of Civilisation and her status.

She had to draw a line between who held the power and who didn’t. She wanted her people to feel safe, and for that, they must have as much respect for her as love. If people lacked respect or fear, something other rulers used, then the reign would not be absolute. Someone would soon become rambunctious enough to question her authority. Thus, her state still needed the same degree of courtesy as other states desired. That courtesy was not expected of people who lived with her, like Hecate, Felix, or even Jasper—outside for official matters. To this day, she has only succeeded in having Hecate drop the courtesy.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Are you feeling at peace here?” Diantha asked.

“I am,” Ianthe replied, almost mechanically. “Both Hecate and Iris are great people to spend time with, and people here are very nice and kind."

“That’s a relief to hear; things have been a mess since the day of the tournament, and then there is Iris and the incident—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have sent you.” She assumed it would be a one-sided shutdown, and sending Ianthe would have her spirit lift from a victory. Of course, the only thing that truly happened was that Ianthe was left in a puddle of blood. Diantha’s fist clenched.

“No, it’s not your fault. None could’ve seen something like that descend upon us; if anything, your foresight of having Iris place a weaver’s orb on my hand saved many people." Ianthe sounded scared at her apology. "And I was the one who agreed."

“Because of all this, I haven’t been able to find time for a conversation with you." Not that she did not talk with Ianthe. But it had barely lasted for a minute or two. Still, Iantha being here for about two weeks and having not once had a much-needed conversation made Diantha feel like she was cheating, focusing her whole attention on Iris, which was false. She was not.

Diantha took her seat, gesturing for Iantha to sit. Diantha sat in the head’s position. Rationally, it was Ilona who should sit there. Diantha had once offered her, but Ilona denied it, stating she was a guest.

After a moment, Hecate arrived and wished her good morning. Ilona arrived, and then they had breakfast. Diantha offered Hecate and Ianthe to accompany her to the Sangfroid, which, to her surprise, they refused. Not that Diantha was upset at that; seeing them busy with their things was warming, even if concerning. Hecate's left on her own device never went well for Lancaster’s estate. Last time, she melted the front street, and shops were closed for weeks. Diantha had to compensate for that as well as fix the road. That, too, was endearing in its way. It made Hecate feel more alive and happy than she was.

Diantha then had a conversation with Clara about establishing Knight’s Petrol, among other things. And they did come to a solution that would make things clear. However, that would require Iris’s assistance. Diantha dreaded that—needing Iris’s help. She did not know what would tick her off as being used; Diantha was the one to blame for that. A sensitive conversation. But for the sake of efficiency, she would ask Iris’s help.

At present, there were six knight commanders in sangfroid—three of Lambert, two of Hestia, and She had one. It was due to the inspector’s intervention. Now that he was removed and she had control, she would take over the knight’s legion of Sangfroid. At least, until the Emperor decided to appoint a new inspector, which should be after she had purged both Lambert and Laurent's houses from existence.

She should’ve returned to her room to wake up Iris, but that was not where she went. Instead, Diantha returned to her office. It was still as cold, damp, and dim as ever. The light barely peaked through the creases of the windowsill. Today, she was not here for work. There were other secrets this office held. The office that every Lancaster head has used despite being cramped and unworthy of their status. This place held far too many secrets to allow outsiders to lay a hand on it. There were a few secrets of Diantha’s own that she would take to her grave without ever whispering them in anyone’s ears.

She stood in front of the mirror. It was as tall as her. The mirror’s height changed and matched the current head of Lancaster House. Diantha took a deep breath and stepped closer, taking off the gloves. Her eyes shimmered in blue light, and soon her ungloved hand as well—The Magic of Grace Lancaster.

Diantha placed her empirical hand on the crystal white mirror—it sank in and rippled like a pond. She continued inside. Slowly, her whole body went inside, and the office returned to its dim and boring state.

Diantha stood on top of a stairway made of polished wood, and the ceiling was barely above her height. Narrow, and smelled musty. The path below was lit by blue stones inlaid in gaps between giant grey rocks used to create the walls.

Diantha reached out to the side and picked up a walking cane. Coffee-coloured body with a blue orb at the head, wrapped in black wings. It fit her hand perfectly.

Dianthe began to descend the stairs, making a clicking sound using the cane with each step.

After five minutes of climbing down, she reached the base. A massive gate stood. Diantha pulled open the wooden door and beheld the breathtaking sight. A cemetery—the actual cemetery of the nobles of Gracia. There was one outside, but it did not have any bodies executed by her.

Diantha grinned as she walked between the aisles of graves, each with a name and their crimes. Of course, Grave Stone was not big enough to note all the heinous acts, so Diantha only listed the ones that sent them to death row. Most of what was listed were committed against civilians, which—according to the Empire’s laws—was not a crime worthy of even prison time. The empire placed a high value on blood, with royal blood coming in first, followed by Grand Nobles/ Dukes, and then the rest of the nobles in the Hierarchy. Anyone doing something to someone of lower status was a lesser crime.

Diantha’s grin widened with each name she read. She, sadly, did not have time to read each of the names, so she satisfied herself with the ones that were on the path while she made her way to the mortuary. Her kane thumped into the damp, dead grass as she walked forward.

The mortuary was finely made, with marble flooring, lights, and a coloured wall. It was a habitable house, even by a noble’s standard. In the main hall, there was a portrait of a man—Dale Lancaster. He had short, white hair and a long beard. A frown on his face, as if chiding her for doing something wrong. The eyes, Diantha felt, were looking down on her.

She, of course, never felt pressured by someone’s aura, especially the dead. Her eyes wandered down, and she left the portrait. Her eyes met the eyes of the man who sat on a chair, nailed with thousands of black nails that burned with ashen flames. The eyes were the same as the one in the portrait. On a closer look, he was exactly the same man, but skinny, broken and sewn, and with skin eating away at the bones. Hairs had long left the body. Only his nails were his hair.

“Greetings—Dad,” Diantha muttered, sweetly, unlike herself, like a twisted psychopath who just found the next target.

The dead body shook. Was it fear? Diantha wondered; the thought was hilarious—a dead body feeling fear.

“Are you afraid?” Diantha questioned innocently, her grin twisting into a vile leer. Her hand on her cane tightened as she walked in. She grabbed it with enough force that her hand began to shake. “Oh, don’t be. It's not like you’re alive to feel the pain, right?"

Diantha raised the cane and slammed it on the head of the dead father. She ignored the rattled dead body and looked at the mightier lord of Lancaster, once the Grand Duke.

“Do you know why I’m here, Dear Father?” She asked, her expression returning to normal. “Of course, a retarded human like you wouldn’t. I shall tell you myself."

“Today, I will snatch the reign of Sangfroid from the Empire’s hands. Do you know how many generations it has?"

“You don’t?” Diantha asked, curiously as if talking to a non-existent ghost. “I will tell you—since the time the empire conquered the Nation of Gracia.”

"Oh, is that smell of incompetence?" Diantha slammed the cane on the dead body again, earning a moan. “Don’t be jealous; it’s unfair that Mother never blessed you with my genius; had she, you would’ve done better." Diantha paused a thoughtful expression on her face. She tossed the cane into the air, grabbed it from its tail, and slammed the hard orb into the dead body’s head.

“ARGH!!” The body rolled on the floor, shoved away from its luxurious chair.

“Or not. I mean, how many generations did you ungrateful gluttonous bastards have—to do something? Yet you all did not even create a rock that would’ve made my task easier,” Diantha slammed the orb again, and her hand shook at the impact. “It could’ve been so much easier." She struck the dead body again, “If you had just—” and again, “just—had made minimal effort to make Gracia a better place. But no! All you Lancaster’s bastards ever did was eat, rape, and ravage the weak. If only, I had saved Mother’s soul like yours, it could’ve been much more relieving.” Diantha sighed as the cane fell from her shaking hand. It was red, stinging like a bee had stung it. Her face was completely red, and she was breathing haggardly. She fell to the floor, staring at the broken and twisted corpse, whimpering in pain.

After a deep breath, she stood up, "I just wanted to let you know that I have done something that all you worthless harlots couldn’t in centuries." She spat on the body before picking up the cane.

“Yirti,” Diantha called calmly. Yirtri was the caretaker of this place.

“I am here, my lady,” said a genderless voice as a shadow manifested from the corner.

“Make sure this bastard does not go to the afterlife. I only have one thing to do to relieve my frustration,” Diantha ordered coldly and turned. Sighed. She was not proud of herself for this, but this was the only thing that released some of her stress. Stress from not sleeping for weeks. The stress from working every moment of her life. The stress of Iris’s fate, of Hecate’s condition, of what next Laurent would do, how many people were dying from hert, what the Emperor was doing, and what would happen if she died. Being a powerless human was a stress of its own.