Though none born and raised in Grēdôcava were equipped to comprehend it, the arrays that lit Haldenhwīlō through the days and dimmed its streets through the nights mimicked the cycle of a sunlit surface to an intimidating degree of accuracy.
Ġemyndwiċċe Munnehilde Welforstōd’s own secondhand memories of that blurred into each other, but the similarities were there. Haldenhwīlō’s false, unseen sun was retreating, bathing the slope that led to its main gate in waves of orange, purple, and red. The smallest spark of ire was enkindled anew within her chest—how dare they not appreciate such a sight?—before she pounced upon it with the full weight of her Resilience-turned-Willpower.
“We are nearly there,” the Sect’s Executor reminded her with a soft unspoken whisper through their connection. He was more to her than that, but beneath her hood, she simply nodded. This was not a recreational outing—though she allowed herself to indulge in taking in the sights regardless. The path was nearly barren, the stones under them so thoroughly eroded that its status as a human-made road appeared dubious to Munnehilde.
Their destination was an equally paultry thing, little more than a wicket gate carved into ancient stone, with two leaning towers flanking it. Only one group stood before them, a family of four that was already being let in—few people lingered beyond the gates this far into the year, as The Snow approached. Only those whose travels were gravely delayed would be caught outside an established settlement. Munnehilde had learned this and more through her years.
Their equicervi were summoned creatures, brought forth by an item her dear Executor owned. Caring for any real beast of burden was far more of a hassle than their lifestyle permitted, even with the Sect’s servants at their disposal, so the attention these false creatures drew to them was naught but a small price to pay for the convenience.
A guard’s casque poked out from the right tower’s loophole, serving only to showcase just how decrepit the structure was—most of his body was visible through the broken window. “State your business!”
Munnehilde held her tongue, and with that, the urge to reach into him and make him clear the way for them without a word.
She reminded herself that she had learned this.
And more.
No, she would wait for the Sect’s Executor to handle this.
“We represent the Peregrine Wheels Sect,” the Sect’s Executor declared. “We bring news for Steyg hlāford, which we are to deliver to him in person with haste.”
Munnehilde had never quite liked how the Grēdôcavan nation so easily used such terms—they were not even of their own making!—even when most of her own people no longer did. She did not fault Grēdôcava for being a melting pot of remnants from the Devils’ Kingdom, but she could never forgive the Principality’s hypocrisy.
“Will your abhorrence of Lord Heinrich Steyg be a problem?”
The softest hint of concern marked the message, and Munnehilde had to suppress the urge to react. She had learned that people—even her lover—could be easily swayed by the pettiest of their feelings, but his worries that she may have that same flaw never ceased to irk her.
“Fie! Of course not.”
“Just checking.”
His fleeting smirk told her all she needed to know.
The guard who had first called out to them had sunken deeper into the tiny tower—perhaps descended from it, as Munnehilde could no longer detect him with her eyes alone. His mind was all that remained in her senses, a dim candle in a sea of stone. She kept her distance, looking only as deeply as she had to in order to avoid losing track of him.
Munnehilde sensed no doubt from the guard as to why they were here—only vexation at their presence. Steyg was not fond of guests, this she knew.
But who would deny an envoy from a sect that boasted the leadership of an Executor?
And they know not the man himself is here, even.
The sound of metal clicking against itself, and something unlatching, reached her ears, and she remained on the prowl, ready to strike should the faintest sign of aggression greet her.
“Come in, honorable ones,” the guard spoke as he waved for their mounts to cross the gate. Up close, that armor of his looked even worse. It was most certainly ceremonial rather than functional, and presumable years of mortals trying to maintain it left it with cracks that had been filled in with what appeared to be resin of all things.
Munnehilde grimaced, her disgust no longer something she would bother to hide. She understood this penchant for loathing people she had not once met was unseemly, but the head of the House that stewarded the settlement likely deserved it. If he were good at that which he was meant to do, should these guards not have better gear?
The guard led the way as their equicervi made short work of the equally eroded roads within the settlement. People bustled by in pregnant silence, the tension within it palpable enough that Munnehilde need not pry into anyone’s emotional state to notice.
She had learned much of mortal settlements since her own exile—even prior to her arrival at the sect. Townspeople were meant to be loud, brimming with life, and eager to share details from their otherwise boring lives. Gossip and small talk were the lifeblood of mortal society.
Silence, in any form, was always a sign of oddity.
“Was he expecting us?” Munnehilde asked of her love.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly, eyes set on the road before them. “He should not be.”
“Then this must simply be how things are here.”
“The possibility remains that news of us did travel this fast, and mortals are quick to fear.”
“Hearing of envoys from the sect should have made streets busy with the curious,” Munnehilde disagreed. “I suspect there is something afoot.”
“If there is, it hardly matters. Lord Heinrich is not long for this world.”
She did not see a point in pressing the matter further—he wasn’t wrong. Chances were, Steyg would not be leaving this meeting alive.
Executing a coup on a distant settlement had never been among Munnehilde’s list of desires or plans in life, but she found she looked forward to it after seeing what Haldenhwīlō had to offer—or more accurately, how little it did.
As they approached Steyg’s pathetic excuse of a castle, Munnehilde went over both what the Executor had told her and what she could grasp from the guard’s knowledge without alerting him as to her actions.
The Affinity the bearers of a name as unfortunate as Steyg were known for was {Thread}, and they had once been renowned for their ability to stitch all sorts of broken magic into something that could once again be functional. The latest generations were but a shadow of that, left with little but remnants of long-lost techniques that faltered under the weight of secrecy, even among family members. Most noble Houses were like that, or so Munnehilde had been told—travelers from the East often called such Houses ‘the children of something’.
They were the descendants of something they could neither understand nor live up to, yet still demanded the privileges of.
As for the so-called hlāford who called Haldenhwīlō his domain in present times, Heinrich Steyg was nothing special. He had ascended to his seat of power after the death of his father in the type of hunting accident so stereotypically mortal that had Munnehilde convinced it had to be some hidden rite of passage for these noble families.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Steyg was a reveler with the administrative capacities of a drunken scout, yet far from the most egregious example of mismanagement among those who controlled settlements. Oh, she disliked him on principle and more so by the second, but so would anyone who researched men like him. There was no doubt about it, if even an outsider like Munnehilde could feel this way.
As for the guard leading them to the castle… her first brushes against the guard's mind gave her a few glimpses into the man's identity. For one, he was called Adalhard—one of those names that made it really hard to tell whether he'd been named that because the name itself was fairly ancient even if slightly uncommon, or because his parents had been the Grēdôcavan royalist sort.
Adalhard idolized his Lord, a sharp contrast to what Munnehilde thought reasonable. Surely, someone who did not even deign to outfit his men in proper armor should not have their support.
And so, she wove little more than a spark of her own disdain into a seed, sprinkling in some of her ideals on how Haldenhwīlō should be managed. Munnehilde planted that seed deep within Adalhard's mind—it would not sprout now, but it would soon.
In the coming months, it would serve them to keep such enforcers from being too hung up on their Lord's demise, anyway. This wasn't something she needed to justify to herself—it came as easily as breathing—but she pushed the explanation towards the Executor regardless.
He did not react.
Adalhard knocked on the door only once before a deep voice boomed. “Come in.”
As they stepped into the room, the scent of spices and excessive alcohol filled Munnehilde's nostrils. Only one man sat at the table, yet a half-eaten feast was laid out—Steyg must have taken this at least seriously enough to have dismissed his company. A swift probe of the area confirmed this to her, as she detected no minds nearby save for the four of them. What a treat.
“These are the envoys from the Peregrine Wheels we sent word about,” the guard announced.
“What may be so urgent that they must visit this far into The Cold, one wonders,” the bearded Lord said, as if they weren't in the room. “We shall see. Leave us, Adalhard.”
“Very well, my Lord. I shall linger outside,” the guard said as he gave a polite nod and shut the door behind him.
Munnehilde wasted no time cutting Adalhard's perception of sound from the room off. Though they could handle him easily, things did always go smoother when no interruptions were allowed.
The Lord did not move from his seat at the table, raising his gobblet. “Steyg hlāford at your service.”
“Rīsan ambaht,” the Sect's Executor introduced himself with a bow and a title that was nearly offensive given his actual status. “And Welforstōd ambaht with me.”
Munnehilde mimicked his bow. She did not find playing the part of a lowly envoy to be degrading, but getting to the part where they tore this man apart already would have been a more pleasing endeavor.
“But we've little time for platitudes, Steyg.”
The temperature within the room seemed to rise all of a sudden—the Lord scowled, looking to the sides as if seeking the source of this newfound heat.
It was then that Otto Rīsan smiled. “Were you aware your spymaster has been stiffing our sect?”
Matching his smile, Munnehilde tipped her head. She looked into Steyg's pale eyes as they widened, watched him grow paler as she savored the shock that went through him.
The statement had surprised him—not the accusation of his spymaster stiffing people, but the implication that a direct subordinate of his had become cross with them.
“This is my first time hearing of this, honorable ones,” Steyg said. Where his introduction had been quite jovial, his voice now carried an edge of trepidation. “He serves me, yes, but I am not privy to his independent business, to the information he brokers—any misdeeds would be his doing, alone.”
“Curious, then,” the Executor leaned on a chair, his arms folding on its back before he rested his head upon them. “Anton Steyg is his name, a relative of yours. Oh!” Otto raised an eyebrow. “Was, I meant. I hear a most woeful fate has befallen him.”
“The Steyg House is a close-knit family,” Munnehilde added. Considering their Affinity, she believed this would fall under the definition of what mortals called puns, and so, a hint of pride swelled within her—she was being quite convincing in this act! “Do you take us for fools, little hlāford?”
“Not now, please,” Otto shot her a mildly exasperated look. She replied to it with the mental image of herself pouting, but took a step back. “I would ask such a question myself, in more polite terms. You see, Lord Heinrich Steyg, I find it hard to believe that we could remain in communication with a brother of yours for well over a year without your knowledge.”
“Anton is a private person. As I said, I do not pry,” the Lord insisted. His choice of present tense had Munnehilde raising an eyebrow, though she chose not to comment on it.
“It was always ‘more time is needed to gather information’, phrased in a dozen different ways. I'll give it to the man, he had his way with words. But when the Sect’s Executor himself demanded answers of us, after months upon months of fruitless payments? Nothing,” Otto practically hissed. “This wasn't even the first time your brother did this, no. He was quite prolific. After all, who would seek recompense from someone backed by one such as you?”
Oh, Munnehilde knew that to be true. She'd scoured Anton Steyg’s mind herself. It was a shame—sleazy as the man was, he was skilled as far as his chosen occupation went. She'd half a mind to simply change him to her liking—he would have made a good underling—but the spymaster had taken the quick way out.
The way only those who believed either a second chance through resurrection—or something beyond—awaited them could ever take.
It did surprise her that Heinrich Steyg did not counter Otto a second time, seemingly understanding he would not be believed no matter how hard he pushed his claims of ignorance. Instead, the Lord sighed. She could feel the resignation—a bitter sort—pulsing through his mind. He was growing to accept that denial would not get him out of this one, but he still believed he could buy his way out of this.
Munnehilde grinned.
Steyg met Otto's gaze. “Which reparations would the Peregrine Wheels Sect require of me?”
The Executor laughed then, a frightful thing. “I never tire of you people. Always thinking the worst that can happen is you get caught, and if you get caught, all you have to do is pay someone for it all to go away.”
Heinrich Steyg's lips thinned, but Munnehilde's thoughts were elsewhere—her love had given the signal.
“Do it.”
Munnehilde dove into the Lord with the full weight of {Psyche}, a kaleidoscope of colors in her vision. For an instant, she was him.
Born in luxury, raised for a title he took all too soon. A teenager lacking the understanding necessary to undertake the responsibilities that befell him.
She saw the underhanded dealings he hid. The siblings he loved. The strikes he crushed with an iron fist. The woman he never married. The joy he sucked out of the life of those he was meant to care for, because they inconvenienced him.
And the lovers he sent away today for their safety, afraid they might be caught in the crossfire should the sect wish him ill.
You have murdered Heinrich Steyg hlāford, a Level 129 acquaintance! [N/A {} - Weaver of Deceit {Thread} - N/A {} - Talemongering Truthseeker {Enargia}]
It was far from a worthy conquest for one such as her, to shatter the mind of a mere Hollow Core so thoroughly that his very soul detached.
Yet Munnehilde was not particularly strong, for all she tried to hide it from the world.
A victory was a victory.
“So it is done,” Otto spoke to her aloud for once.
“Yes,” Munnehilde nodded in turn. “I expected this to feel less… hollow.”
Otto sighed. He stepped forward, touching the slumped-over body. As it began to collapse in on itself, wisps of light slipped through his fingers. “I think I get what you mean. It wasn't as personal.”
“But it was necessary.”
“It was,” he agreed.
Munnehilde examined her enlarged hand. It had grown rugged, her fingers now thicker. They'd have to raid the Lord's wardrobe for this to truly work, but it would work out.
Both brothers had been involved in the trade, after all.
Reading her intent, Otto looked up once he'd inventoried the obit. “I can see his room from here. You'll have to take care of the guard, but getting there should not be an issue.”
“Good,” Munnehilde almost flinched at the sound of her new voice. Those foreign memories still swirled around her head, slowly crystallizing into a solid information base for this persona. The changes themselves were done, however.
She couldn't resist the urge to spin and curtsy at Otto, regardless of how ridiculous she likely looked with the late Lord’s form nearly tearing her cowl and gown to shreds. “Steyg hlāford, at your service!”
They laughed together for longer than reasonable, before they resumed their work.
Though most would remain none the wiser, the information circles of Haldenhwīlō and beyond had a new master.