Faywyn, 4th Moon, 11th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos
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Triumphant was the return of the Bloody Gryphon.
Word of Lord Tristan’s humbling defeat in the now-dubbed ‘Valley of Lordly Reproach’ had flown faster than the man himself, carried by the messenger bird that bore Levi’s proclamation of victory. Against all odds, the bird had evaded the falcons and storms that haunted these lands, arriving in Faywyn with news that set the town ablaze with hope. The threat of siege, of slaughter, of the Lion’s wrath, had hung over the people like a storm cloud, but now, they gathered along the road in droves, their faces alight with disbelief and joy.
The clamour of the marketplace fell silent. Merchants abandoned their stalls, the blacksmith left his hammer mid-swing, and bakers their dough half-kneaded. Children, caught in boisterous games, paused to join the throng. The people of Faywyn—young and old, rich and poor—lined the road to greet their lord. As Levi’s company rode through the heart of the town, the crowd surged forward, a sea of eager faces and outstretched hands. Some reached for the hem of his cloak, others for his boots, their voices a cacophony of gratitude and awe.
“The ancestors’ grace upon thee, my lord!” cried an old woman, her back bent with age but her spirit unyielding. She clutched her cloak in her trembling hands. “Thou hast delivered us from the Lion’s maw, as a shepherd doth shield his flock from wolves!”
Levi drew his destrier to a halt and dismounted, his boots crunching against the rain-kissed ground. He approached her, his expression warm, and clasped her hands gently. “Nay, good mother,” he said, his voice rich and clear, carrying easily over the murmuring crowd. “The strength of Faywyn hath delivered us all. Ye held fast through trial and fear, and for that, I give thanks. This victory is yours as much as mine, for we are one people, bound by faith and fortitude.”
A cheer erupted from the crowd, swelling like thunder. Tears streamed down the faces of some, while others laughed, their burdens lifted by their lord’s words. Levi mounted once more and continued toward Faywyn’s Fort, the soldiers who had accompanied him home riding close behind. The rest of his host, burdened with the spoils of war, trailed far behind under Ser Justin’s command, their arrival still days away.
At the gates of the fort, Levi was greeted by Ser Robert, the steward, who bowed low before him. “My lord,” Robert said, his tone reverent. “By your command, a feast has been prepared in honour of your victory. The great hall awaits thee, and all within Faywyn shall break bread this night, to honour thy triumph and the courage of our sons.”
Levi turned to the knights and soldiers behind him, their bloodied tabards and weary faces betraying the toll of battle. He raised his voice, strong and unyielding, so all might hear. “Hear that? Tonight, my braves, we shall feast as one! To honour the fallen, to celebrate the living, and to cherish the peace hard-won by thy valour. To Faywyn!”
“To Faywyn!” they roared in reply, their voices echoing through the town. The gates swung open, and the crowd surged forward, sweeping into the keep with a fervour unmatched.
The great hall was alive with song and laughter, the tables laden with roasted meats, steaming loaves, and jugs of mulled wine. The hearth blazed bright, casting a golden glow over the revelers. nobles and peasants sat side by side, their differences forgotten in the warmth of shared triumph. Cups clinked, voices rose in bawdy tunes, and the night wore on, the fire crackling merrily as the hall brimmed with life.
As the hour grew late and the revelry began to ebb, Levi stood once more, his goblet raised high. The murmurs of the crowd stilled, and all eyes turned to him. “This day,” he began, his voice cutting through the silence, “we have earned our rest. But let us not grow complacent. The Lion’s march upon Faywyn was not merely a battle; it was a warning. Though we have triumphed this day, our duty is not yet done. The lands beyond our borders must learn that such folly will not go unpunished. Together, we shall rise to meet whatever may come—and together, we shall prevail!”
The hall erupted in cheers, the people’s spirits soaring. Drunk and fed, the people cheered, their spirits resolute, for they knew in their hearts their lord spoke true. Duke Tristan’s grasping was a slight that would not go unpunished…
For who led them but the Bloody Gryphon, vengeful, cunning in battle and ever victorious.
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The firelight from the hearth danced upon the stone walls of the study, casting long shadows as Levi stood by the window, cradling a goblet of wine. Outside, the revelry of his victory continued unabated, the laughter and song of Faywyn’s people rising faintly from the streets below. He stared out, bleary-eyed, his thoughts hazy yet triumphant. Behind him, a soft voice interrupted his reverie.
"You look abhorrently pleased with yourself," Princess Iris remarked, her tone sharp yet restrained. She stood framed in the doorway, her arms crossed, a contrast of regal composure and simmering disdain.
Levi turned, a faint smile blooming on his lips as he leaned lazily against the sill. “Ah, the princess graces me with her presence,” he slurred lightly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “Though I suspect it is not to join in the merriment.”
Iris raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And here I thought victory would sober you.”
His smile widened as he took another sip of his wine. “You’re just as quick to insult now as you were when we last sparred in the training yard.” He gestured with his goblet. “What was it you you said to me then? Ah, yes—You want to do battle with the Lion? With that paltry sum you call an army? The gall!’”
For a moment, Iris’s composure faltered, realization flickering in her eyes. “You recall words spoken in jest,” she replied, her tone clipped. “It seems the tales are true—you hold grudges tighter than a miser holds his gold.”
“A grudge?” Levi chuckled, setting the goblet on a nearby table. “No, my dear princess. Merely a potent memory. Had you plotted against me, perhaps I’d have cause for vengeance. But enough of that—tell me, what brings you here tonight, when the rest of Faywyn sings my praises?”
For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken intent. Iris’s gaze wavered before she drew a breath, her voice steady yet tinged with reluctance. “You once asked me if I desired to rule. I do. But more than that, I desire to see my father freed from Hertalean chains, to see him return to his rightful place upon his throne.”
Levi’s smile turned wolfish. “Ah,” he said softly, with mock reverence. “You’ve come to beg for my aid at last. An auspicious day indeed!”
Iris’s jaw tightened, her distaste evident. “You are insufferable,” she snapped, glaring at him.
“Perhaps,” Levi replied, his tone unbothered, “but I warned you there would be a toll to pay when you came to me. Are you prepared to hear my terms?”
“What do you want?” Iris asked, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Levi tilted his head, studying her with amusement. “What else would I want, Princess, but a Queen?”
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“...Pardon?”
“Do you not understand?” Levi leaned forward, his tone light but laced with intent. “You are beautiful, regal, and your lineage impeccable. Few in this realm rival you. Surely, it wouldn’t be beneath me to take you as my Lady-wife. ”
Iris’s expression hardened, a mixture of disbelief and outrage. “You presume too much, my lord,” she said icily. “To think one victory entitles you to my hand.”
“This is no negotiation,” Levi replied, his smile fading into something calmer. “It is the cost of what you ask. I do not act out of charity, Princess. You should know that by now.”
Before she could retort, a knock sounded at the door. Levi glanced up, his gaze falling on Malina, dressed in a simple cotton shift that clung loosely to her frame. She hesitated, her eyes flicking between Levi and Iris.
“My lord,” Malina said softly, “is this a bad time?”
Iris’s expression twisted with distaste as she turned toward the door. “Ah, your wench has arrived,” she sneered. “I’ll leave you to your evening pleasures, my lord. This has been a waste of my time.”
With a swirl of skirts, Iris stormed from the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Levi watched her go, his expression unreadable, before turning his attention back to Malina, who lingered awkwardly in the doorway.
“What do you want?” he asked, his tone flat.
Malina stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. Without a word, she began to unfasten the ties of her shift, letting it fall in a whisper of fabric to the floor. She stood bare before him, her expression one of steely resolve.
“...I don’t recall telling you to do that,” Levi remarked, raising an eyebrow.
“I know,” Malina replied, her voice firm despite the flush rising in her cheeks. She stepped forward, taking his discarded goblet, filling it anew, and drinking deeply before refilling it and offering it back to him.
“I beg you,” she said, her voice trembling only slightly, “stop tormenting my family. Every day I visit you and return with my maidenhead intact, my father and brother spiral further into misery. Even my mother, who loathes you, has begun to worry. They fear what will happen if I don’t earn your affection. Today, you returned victorious from a battle my father was certain would lead to your demise, and in despair, my brother nearly hung himself…
“My father bargained to see me by your side for a reason. I cannot continue to fail him. Surely, I’m not so unattractive that you wouldn’t sard me despite being so deep in your cups?”
Levi simply stared at her for a long moment, then his smile returned as he took the cup from her hands and drained it in a single gulp.
“...I must admit, you make a compelling case,” he said before tossing the cup aside and grabbing Malina by the waist, pulling her into his arms. “Still,” he continued jokingly, “how long will you deny the fire that burns in your loins for me? Simply declaring your desire for me would have been so much easier than this, no?”
To that, Malina scoffed, drawing more amusement than ire. Casually, Levi began divesting himself of his garments before pinning her against the table.
“...I-I thought it was beneath a man of your stature to take a mere servant in this manner, My Lord?” Malina quipped, her words punctuated by a gasp as she felt the pain of her maidenhood breaking.
“Shush, woman.” Levi, amused, said before seizing her lips with his in a half-hearted attempt to silence her. Defiant, Malina fought back his encroaching tongue with hers, and in time, they both were consumed by the fire they had ignited..
More than a dozen minutes more would pass before Malina, dazed and conflicted, would finally exit the room.
✥✥✥
Helsbury - Verum
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King Lendar de Scymaester stood cloaked in shadow at the edge of the great hall, his face as unyielding as the stone pillars that framed the room. The flickering light of torches cast trembling shadows across the walls, reflecting the turmoil roiling within him. He had heard whispers—rumours carried by frightened tongues—but he had dismissed them, refusing to entertain the notion that such disgrace could take root in his house. Now, however, the truth lay before him, raw and unforgivable.
His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into flesh, drawing blood he scarcely noticed. A storm brewed within him, colder than any winter and far deadlier. This was no battlefield loss, no fortune squandered in folly. This was a wound far deeper—his blood, his legacy, tainted by betrayal so vile it turned his stomach.
Before him knelt his heir, Brandon, a basilisk of House de Scymaester. Chained to a post, the once-proud young man bore none of the regal air expected of him. His auburn hair hung in matted clumps, and his tunic, torn and filthy, barely hinted at the sigil of their house. Guards flanked him, their faces unreadable, their gazes fixed ahead, awaiting the king’s command.
“Brandon,” Lendar’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade. “Look at me.”
The prince raised his head, slowly, deliberately. His grey eyes met his father’s with a spark of defiance that had not yet been extinguished. “Father,” he said, the single word a challenge rather than a plea.
“How dare you.” The king’s voice was measured, calm, but it seethed with fury. “How dare you defile our name, disgrace this house, and taint our bloodline with your… abominations.”
Brandon held his father’s gaze, unflinching. “I love her.”
The words hung in the air like a curse. Lendar’s hand lashed out before thought could restrain him, the slap ringing through the hall like the crack of a whip. Brandon’s head snapped to the side, but when he looked back, his defiance burned brighter, unbroken.
“I care not what you call it,” Lendar spat. “You are a de Scymaester. You are my heir. You carry the weight of this house, its history, its future. You know what is at stake, yet you act like a reckless child, with no regard for the consequences.”
Brandon said nothing, his jaw tight, his silence a rebellion unto itself.
“Strip him,” Lendar commanded, stepping back. The guards hesitated, their discomfort palpable, but they obeyed, pulling the prince’s tunic from his body. His back, pale and unblemished, was soon bared to the room.
“Fifty lashes,” Lendar said, his voice colder than the stone beneath their feet.
The whip cracked through the air, the sound slicing through the silence as surely as it did flesh. Brandon’s body jolted with the first blow, but he made no sound. A second lash followed, then a third, each drawing fresh blood. The prince’s silence only deepened Lendar’s fury, the quiet mocking his authority.
As the whipping continued, the king’s attention slowly turned to his daughter, who attempted in vain to vanish into the shadows. Lendar’s gaze shifted to her, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something close to disgust, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Stupid wench.”
“He tried to rape me!” she cried, anger creeping into her voice. “How is this my shame to bear?”
“Silence!” Lendar’s voice thundered, silencing her protests. The whipping paused as every eye turned to the king. “You will speak only when spoken to.”
Alina’s hands trembled, but she straightened, meeting his gaze with a defiance that mirrored her brother’s. “I deserve to speak in defence of myself! I am not some common wench your stupid son can abuse without recourse! I am a de Scymaester as well!”
“Indeed you are,” Lendar said, his tone deadly quiet. “And as such, you will do your duty to this house.” His eyes bore into hers. “You will set sail for Quilton within the fortnight. I won’t allow you, in your vanity and stupidity, to despoil my heir and legacy.”
Alina’s eyes widened. “He tried to rape me!” she cried again in disbelief. “Yet he is the one being despoiled—”
“Silence!” Lendar growled. “Enough of your lies! Your marriage to Prince Everhard will proceed without delay. You will bear his children, and you will never again bring shame to this family. Understood?”
Tears welled in Alina’s eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.
“Get out of my sight,” the king said, turning his back on her.
Without hesitating, she stormed out of the hall, her footsteps echoing in the heavy silence. Lendar turned back to Brandon, who now slumped against the post, his back a tapestry of crimson welts. The defiance in his eyes remained, though dimmed by pain.
“Finish it,” the king ordered.
The whip cracked once more, but Lendar no longer watched. His thoughts raced ahead, calculating the steps he would take to salvage this… mess. His children had betrayed him, but he would not let their folly tarnish the legacy he had built.
King Lendar departed the chamber then, the weight of his crown pressing heavily upon him. His fury had cooled, but the resolve it left behind was colder still.
For the basilisk bends for no one. Nor does it ever forget.