“Oh my dear don’t act so tense, sit, sit,” the woman said, gesturing her hands to the hay-stuffed bed. “I’m not going to kill you. If anything you would be the one—”

  “Hello Myrian,” interrupted the rogue as he sat down on the bed, beginning to loosen the various belts and straps holding together his patchwork ensemble of steel and leather armor. “You’re far from the Eimon Isles, very far.”

  The rogue looked out a small window near the bedside. A ray of pale morning light illuminated the room’s interior. It was a quaint yet decorous chamber—the bed was strewn with soft silk sheets, an ornately-carved stand was situated in the corner, and a polished stone fireplace sat at the far end.

  “Oh I’ve long since abandoned those awful specks of land,” said the woman, slowly sitting down on the bed next to him, her soft dress lightly brushing against his arm. “It only took a matter of weeks after your foolish mess at Baron Elsur's courtly feast for him to feel threatened by the mere presence of me—it was absolutely silly, the whole thing.”

  “It wasn’t foolish, Myrian, and it wasn’t silly,” said the rogue as he laid his blade and scabbard against the stand. “I had no choice.”

  “Aw, my poor boy,” said Myrian condescendingly, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Those words have been said a thousand times by men invoking their personal ethics—I had no choice. You did though, didn’t you? Of course, we all do. No one forced your hand on those guards, no one told you to cut them down. Don’t play the determinist’s game whenever you feel like a gallant knight. The entire feast and ceremony could have gone along fine without the added garnish of flourishing steel and flying blood. I must say you made it exciting, my dear, you really did.”

  “What do you want Myrian?” said the rogue, looking into her eyes, an intense green, specks of sunlit dust floating in front of them. “I don’t know if I have the time or patience to rehash our frolicking adventures with that cult-crazed baron.”

  Myrian edged herself closer to him on the bed, lifting her hand up to his face.

  “What a lovely little token you have there,” she said, moving the tip of her index finger down the raised edges of his scar, tracing it from his temple to chin. “Not a blade, no, it’s too vicious, too uneven—a banshee perhaps?”

  The rogue smiled, he admired her intelligence, her curiosity—he always had.

  “No, close,” the rogue said, pivoting his body to face her. “It was a harbinger from the Bone Valley outside of Enderith. They’re fast—nearly got my eye. I was actually afraid I wouldn’t escape that one.”

  “My, you’ve been busy,” Myrian replied with a coy smile. “Harbingers, Enderith. Now here in Etka—Gods, are you homeless, a beggar with a sword?”

  The rogue paused for a moment, looking at her face. It was still soft, delicate, youthful. She hadn’t aged. He sighed.

  “Myrian, since the last time you saw me—”

  “Running out of Baron Elsur’s court with that thing drenched in blood,” she pointed to his sheathed sword. “I don’t blame you for what you did, Romulus. I love what you are. You’re not cold and uncaring in the realm of the elite—you still have your sense of morality, something most men abandon in the courts. You aren't one of those toady little noblemen and women with fake smiles—you don’t sway like some limp reed to the winds of political favor. You're different Romulus.”

  Romulus was silent. He had not heard his name for several years.

  “The name?”

  “Yes, the name,” Romulus replied.

  “A delightfully gorgeous name, so much better than the gruel out here in the Far Country—Dackmum, Balbin, Ergmul—they all sound like some sort of wart or rash.”

  Romulus softly laughed but then became silent again.

  “Romulus the Wicked,” he said with a slight eye roll. “Romulus the Manic Priest, Romulus the Crazed, Romulus the Mad. Not so charming when paired off with those lovely titles.”

  Both of them were silent for a moment. Romulus glanced back over at his sword.

  “You know I wasn’t going to stand idle while the baron burned those poor girls over the coal pit,” said Romulus, still looking at the blade. “Hell, one of those girls was nine, nine-years-old. Yet people only hear half the story, and tales of a wild priest butchering a court of innocents apparently is more intriguing than the truth.”

  “Romulus, oh Romulus, you have too much of a heart for the palaces—evil kings, corrupt lords, barons persuaded by blood cults. You really should expect it all when you give a man chests of coin, a tall throne, and battalions of blades at his command. Especially when it’s all unearned. When a child inherits the throne, his realm becomes his playpen. Such privileges either make a man evil or insane—in the rare case you get what the folk call ‘a good lord’ or ‘a virtuous king,’ but they all have their flaws, their scandals. Trust me, I would know.”

  “You’re right," said Romulus while staring blankly forward, losing himself to old memories. "All you and I were supposed to do in the Eimon Isles was slay an archdemon for Baron Elsur. In return, he rewards us with a courtly feast...that fucking feast. I didn’t expect it to end with the burning of sacrifices. Seven virgins in white to Balith the Devourer, what horse shit, cultist horse shit. Ideas, Myrian, ideas can poison a mind—accept one deranged premise about the world, the heavens, human value, love, and suddenly your mind can become enslaved to some hideous ideology.”

  Myrian’s eyes began to well up with tears, but she held her composure.

  “Do you, do you..." Myrian stuttered nervously. "Oh Romulus, my precious Romulus, do you want to know what happened to those virgins after you left?”

  “No, I never want to know.”

  “It’s been nearly a decade, can you live without the truth?”

  “The truth doesn’t matter here,” said Romulus, his face contorted with frustration. “Those girls wanted to die, they thought themselves the eternal brides of Balith. If I ended up saving their souls, to them it would be a grave sin on my part. I would be a wretched heathen in their eyes. Dead or alive, the tragedy remains. Either way, I’m still Romulus the Crazed to many.”

  Myrian sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, feeling his breathing as it moved his body. She gave him a moment to recollect himself. She could sense the rage he still held for the past.

  “Romulus,” Myrian said, placing her hand on his. “I’m going to spare you the banal advice of ‘you’re more than what the world thinks,’ or some other drivel."

  "That's fair—drivel rarely soothes me."

  "So, my dear Romulus, what in the Infernal Planes are you doing here?”

  “You first,” said Romulus as he looked down at her hand resting on his—nearly half the size. “That quiet and concerned act of yours at Osto’s side was impressive. An entertaining counterpart to his lordship’s blathering drunkenness.”

  “You think so? It’s worked so far.”

  “And Mona, Lady Mona—lovely name.”

  “Thank you. It actually was my grandmother’s name—an awful lady she was, but her name, I always loved it. After I was banished from Baron Elsur’s court I sought to pave a new life for myself, so I supposed a new name seemed fitting. I desired a life that wasn’t so bogged down in the High Temple’s obsession with ridding the world of aberrations. Demons, the undead, I grew tired of it all—I really did. And I assumed with the Temple gone I was no longer tied to such a fate. So here I am, my life my own, my fate on my terms, my whims.

  “Why Etka, then, why Osto? What are you doing here? This place isn’t exactly a high court—there are no princes for you to seduce or wealthy dukes to gerrymander favors from.”

  “Ha,” Myrian playfully scoffed with a large smile, her dimples showing. “I’ve only ever seduced one prince, and that was a while ago. I apparently got a large estate on the Essolian coast out of the whole affair. That poor boy is probably still waiting for me to arrive there.”

  “And Osto,” said Romulus, an eyebrow raised.

  “Osto, seduced? No! Gods, Romulus, I’m not that lecherous and I’m not that desperate,” said Myrian, playfully shoving Romulus. “But to answer your question—well first—let me tell you how I got here. Like I said, after the fiasco at the feast, Baron Elsur decided he didn’t want anyone from the Temple in his court ever again. So I was banished. Of course, being an educated priestess from the High Temple’s Order of the Arcane, I was insulted, I may have even passively threatened him with some hex—naturally, I never would do such a thing, but it’s entertaining to watch a person’s reaction after you imply that you might turn them into a slug or worm. So I fled to the streets. I was a beggar for a number of weeks, then a miracle worker, healing the sores, the wounds, the misaligned bones of Eimon Isle’s peasantry. I met a lovely duke during one of my healings in a town market—”

  “Of course you did,” interrupted Romulus.

  “Pipe down, I couldn’t help myself. My beauty, my charm, it is merely the stars’ fault—oh how I’m cursed!” exclaimed Myrian with a cheeky smile. “So I stayed with him at his estate. The poor man died on a hunting trip. A herd of stags trampled him to death. I inherited a large portion of his wealth. Then, I traveled, I saw the world. I met fire breathers from the Daksiin shores, mounted wild mares in the Bedol Valleys, and much more. I did so much, Romulus. I wish you could have been there, I really do. I felt thoroughly cultured after my years of expeditions. Then a castellan from Myrcia took me in—made me his personal mage, much like I am now for Osto. I would heal his injuries, aid him with my wisdom, help rid curses from his land, inform him of the whereabouts of certain aberrations and how to vanquish them. I must admit that over time I fell for him. He looks very much like you, you know.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Fell for him? Love?”

  “Perhaps that's what it's called—he was just so kind to me. He cared for me, he didn’t treat me as a mere asset to his rulership. And he is young, handsome, a former knight.”

  “Knight, huh?”

  “Oh, please Romulus, not all knights are the bastards you imagine them to be.”

  “Most are—sometimes generalizations are perfectly justified, Myrian.”

  Myrian paused, sighed, and looked away from Romulus.

  “Romulus, my dear Romulus, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “What?”

  “Well, Romulus, I suppose I need to be honest,” Myrian said, her expression anxious. “This castellan, Sir Jakob Fransil—he had a sister. Her name was Ovylia. A tragic girl she was. She was ill, very ill. She would have delusions, see things that weren’t there. Her mother and father scolded her often, thought she had been bewitched or had fallen victim to some wicked possession. She ran away from her family when she was barely fourteen, found work on the streets. She became a prostitute.”

  “Wait, Myrian, is she—”

  “Osto’s lover from Alfare,” interrupted Myrian, her face overcome with regret. “Romulus, you really shouldn’t be here.”

  “What else?” demanded Romulus. “There’s something else to this story, Myrian. I can tell. I know you.”

  “Romulus.”

  “Myrian.”

  She leaned in close to him, resting her small white hand against his chest.

  “Romulus,” said Myrian in a soft voice. “The undead child. I raised him from his grave.”

  “What?”

  “Jakob demanded it—justice, he called it. He knew what Osto had done. He knew Osto had taken advantage of his dear sister, tried to force her into his awful life at Etka. She couldn’t do it. He had forced tragedy on her poor soul.”

  “So you respond with a curse. Dammit, Myrian, necromancy!?”

  Tears began to well up in her eyes.

  “I was tasked with getting close to Osto, with becoming his mage, of learning what exactly happened to Jakob's beloved sister and...and discovering where the child was buried so I could raise him. Jakob thought it would be fitting, poetic even, for Osto to be slain by his own bastard, his own sin.”

  “So it’s vengeance on the behalf of Sir Jakob’s dead sister. What’s stopping me from telling Osto everything, from letting the word out?”

  “Please, Romulus, don’t!” Myrian nearly shouted. “In a sense I am merely fulfilling what the cosmos demands, a karmic justice. Who’s to say that the child wouldn’t have risen on his own had I not intervened? You know how these things work, Romulus—postmortem curses happen all the time as part of the natural order.”

  “We live in a fallen world, a corrupt world, Myrian. Aberrations aren’t natural—not quite a part of the Edenic fauna the philosophers and prophets write about.”

  “Romulus, please listen," said Myrian with desperation in her voice. "I swore to my love that I would do this, that I would deliver justice for his sister, and he chose this particular method of justice—a curse, an undead bastard.”

  “Necromancy, Myrian, it's pure necromancy—I thought the High Temple had instilled in you a sense of decency.”

  Myrian rotated her body slightly away from Romulus.

  “It was this once, I swear. I never plan on doing it again. But if we are to live in a fallen world, why not use its nature for our own ends? That’s what necromancy is, just teasing out the curses, the corruptions, already inherent in being.”

  "Don't you understand that this wraith is growing, becoming more dangerous each night. It will eat innocent villagers for strength. Hell, I saw it grow a pair of hind legs by just feasting on the remains of a horse. If I don't perform this ritual in time it would carve through the entire village to reach Osto, slaughtering innocent babes, mothers, children. And then what? You wash your hands clean of the blood, turn a blind eye to it all? And all for some pathetic warmth in your heart, for some fleeting surge of emotion you call love? Myrian, you're foolish, dangerously foolish."

  Myrian gave no response.

  “Myrian, look at yourself,” said Romulus, shaking his head. “Am I to believe that the clever, the witty, the intelligent, the beautiful Myrian the Mage has become so blinded by love that she has abandoned reason entirely?”

  Myrian remained completely silent and still, her pale cheeks slightly flushed red.

  “I’m going through with the ritual—I will destroy this creature,” said Romulus.

  “Why not let the wraith devour him? Etka will lose its tyrant, Jakob will have his justice, and the creature will disappear. Poof!”

  “Because I’m not a mercenary—I’m not going to coldly murder a man while he’s under the impression that he’s virtuously giving his blood for the village. Plus, I think he might deserve a chance at redemption. I’m letting Osto have that chance, the chance to be a hero for Etka, to shed away his old self.”

  “You really are a gallant knight,” said Myrian standing up from the bed. “Like I said, you have too much of a heart. Unwilling to slay a murderous lord because you’re afraid of robbing him from his chance at redemption. What does that even mean?”

  “It means I’m not going to slit his throat while his back is turned.”

  “Like you did to Baron Elsur’s guards at the feast?”

  “That’s different, you know it’s different.”

  “Is it?” Myrian said, placing her hands on her hips. “Were those men in need of redemption, my dear Romulus? Where was your heart when you decapitated one of them? Why didn’t you spare them, give them a chance?”

  “Shut up, Myrian,” Romulus said coldly. “I didn’t convince those men that they were doing something saintly, and then butchered them while they weren’t looking. I’m going through with the ritual. Osto may survive it, and the creature will vanish. You can’t stop me on this one Myrian.”

  Myrian was silent again, taken aback by his tone. He rarely spoke so harshly to her. He always was patient with her, delicate even.

  “Romulus,” said Myrian, breaking the silence.

  “What?”

  “Beautiful, Romulus.”

  “Beautiful what?”

  “You called me that, you never call me that.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, no more than a minute ago,” said Myrian, beginning to retrace his scar with her finger. “Do you remember the last time you said that to me.”

  “No,” feigned Romulus.

  “One of the upper balconies of the temple, a thin mist in the air, the moon was out—full, bright, yellow. Romulus, my dear Romulus, do you remember? You found me and held me. We couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen. I was crying—I didn’t want to be there, I was sold to the Temple by my family. They cast me out like a wild mutt just because I was an odd little girl—Gods, their reaction when they saw I could turn milk into wine and levitate animals. They looked at me as if I was a leper, someone to be rejected. Gifted children are not always loved.”

  Myrian caressed Romulus’ cheek with the back of her hand—his face uneven, unshaven, dirty.

  “I remember, Myrian. I remember that night.”

  “Thank you.”

  Myrian kissed Romulus’ cheek, and swiftly leaned away. Without a word, she left the room.