To temper my lingering resentment, Riatna proved an engaging conversationalist. We had yet to exhaust the details of our visit to Bernan. The poor sisters had not ventured far since being tasked with my care, so any part of the tale held a certain fascination for the young woman. She expressed admiration for Princess’s boldness in proposing a wager with Lord Faringoth when the military man questioned our abilities with the brush. Sixteen royal seals were not trifles, lending weight to our struggle against the magian apostate and underscoring the magnitude of what we had lost.

  Temptation loomed large to reveal more of the events at Lady Telenhart’s estate, particularly with such an eager, innocent audience, but Princess’s stern warnings were enough to deter me. Rascal nonetheless divined that Tirrha and Princess were no longer at odds, and she found relief in the resolution.

  The lockdown stretched on, long enough for us to miss the evening prayer—a grievous first for Rascal. Princess and I, intimately attuned to that sacred hour due to our affliction, felt the disruption reverberate through us. Riatna must have noticed, to some degree, as I spoke one moment and Princess the next, yet true to her easygoing nature, the change of vernacular and personality troubled the maiden not.

  The sun’s prayer, supposedly, could be offered from anywhere, provided one faced the open sky, recited the hymn in a chapel dedicated to Ivinis, or held a symbolic figurine nearby. Yet in the washroom, none of these options were available—not even a window large enough to glimpse the heavens. Rascal grew increasingly anxious, fearing divine wrath for the omission. Princess, as the duty of an elder sister demanded, offered reassurance, reminding her that I had been unable to attend ceremonies for most of my life, suffering no consequences beyond those already imposed upon me.

  The signal for lifting the martial law protocol resonated throughout the manor—a trumpet of war blaring a resounding note, followed by the clatter of soldiers in gleaming breastplates making their rounds. They knocked on doors, loudly proclaiming that all was now safe, and that the resumption of regular activities was permitted.

  With the entire household crammed into confined quarters, a flood of bodies surged into the hallways—a gathering of sorts, as a hundred voices clamored in speculation over what had transpired. The servants were the first to disperse, resuming their duties as the chain of command reasserted itself.

  Once the court had vented its immediate concerns, it became apparent that crowding in a narrow corridor like penned animals was far from decorous. Gradually, the halls were emptied, all trusting explanations would soon follow.

  Despite the brief chaos, Fermina was not difficult to locate. We greeted her but could not engage freely in conversation until we were safely removed from the inquisitive murmurs of countless nobles prying for information.

  Supper was imminent, yet there were far too few chairs in the grand dining hall to accommodate us all; the lockdown had disrupted the meticulously planned schedule. My father would, of course, preside at the center of the table, and we were prioritized by rank. Those of us whose importance did not guarantee a seat of honor chose to forego the uncertainty, opting for a later seating.

  We wandered aimlessly, each of us curious about how the others had passed the time during our enforced separation. Fermina’s time at the manor had been uneventful, though her recounting was never dull; her melodic voice imbued even the most mundane events with a certain charm. She also bore news—rumors had spread among the servants and reached the ears of the Lords and Ladies. According to the gossip, which Fermina dismissed as frivolous, a witch had infiltrated the mansion, cursing the staff and compelling them to commit unspeakable acts under the cover of night. Some even tied the tale to my supposed death.

  To Princess and me, the origins of such tales were obvious, and she would be prudent to avoid drawing attention to them. With Rascal’s eager help, we swiftly shifted the conversation to Princess’s altercation with Chelyo. Fermina, despite her aversion to discussions of crime and violence, was eager for every detail.

  “You should never have entered that establishment if it seemed suspicious, Aufelia,” Fermina scolded us in hindsight. She was right; we ought to have fled when we saw Chelyo’s dismal underground lair, bereft of doors and shrouded in gloom.

  “He… he seemed like a frail, old man. I would have never thought that he was a… a-and Fermina! He knew things about me! Things I had never told anyone! I know now that it was a trick, but listening to him, I could not help myself,” Princess offered a pitiable justification.

  “It was probably a curse. He bewitched you,” Rascal contributed, her voice soft, as if expecting not to be heard. “But for real, not like the dumb talk about the witch going around,” she said, feigning a lack of credence to the rumors.

  Though she feigned indifference to the gossip, Rascal clearly believed in the witch’s presence, and the poor dear was terrified. She found solace only in Fermina’s patient denials, her older sister’s calm reason assuaging her fears. Fermina reassured her that witches were nothing more than superstition—ignorance perpetuated by the lower classes that should not trouble their betters.

  The term ‘witch’ was a mere pretext for those of lower standing—primarily women—to accuse others of wickedness without evidence. It justified the harshest punishments, from exile to execution. Witches were not magians, theurgists, alchemists, or the enigmatic ‘sahir’ of the Eastern Empire. No, witches were credited with a bewildering array of abilities: brewing potions, casting curses with a glance, commanding the elements, flying, altering the weather, shape-shifting, manipulating minds with gestures, stealing youth, and even killing by thought alone—such absurd notions were perpetuated through tales of cauldrons bubbling with lizard tails, spider legs, and other such nonsense.

  While it was technically possible that a practitioner of theurgy—aptly named the sins of the old ones—could have attained something resembling those powers, it was about as unlikely as finding a dragon, an elephant, or any other long-extinct creature. Such a versatile and powerful individual would not be a decrepit hag hiding in the woods, but a mighty monarch living in opulence, his or her name and talents feared far and wide.

  Yet none of these rational arguments would sway poor Rascal, whose irrational terror could only be soothed by Fermina’s loving reassurances. Our little Rascal was so credulous that Fermina confided her concern about having to share a bed with a whimpering Riatna the previous night.

  I could not resist making a crude yet undeniably humorous quip about all the sisters sharing their bed with someone that night, ensuring that Princess overheard me. Her flushed cheeks were a victory I found most satisfying.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  We rounded a corner, deep in conversation, and found ourselves confronted by a trio of young men poorly concealed behind the statue of an onyx stallion. We stood no more than a man’s height apart when our eyes met.

  It was clear we had interrupted them. They had been nudging one another, stifling laughter, and examining a pair of yellowed scrolls. One of them was none other than Tirrha’s brother, the future Duke of Grimesda, Gurrow Lunatora.

  Like his sister, the man had golden hair, though his was straight and cropped short, in contrast to Tirrha’s long, wavy locks. He was barely taller than his sister, and at eighteen years of age, he was, in my estimation, a complete simpleton. Not that he was stupid—no, that would have been a mercy, sparing the buffoon from his future duties—but he was unimaginative, dull, and utterly unremarkable. Gurrow lacked charisma and clung to others out of necessity. This was not merely my assessment, but a consensus to which I arrived by talking to my mother, who privately predicted Grimesda would soon lack an adequate ruler.

  “H-hey! What are you doing here, spying on us? We’re not doing anything!” Gurrow stammered reflexively, startled.

  The other two boys hastily concealed the scrolls behind their backs with amusing ineptitude. I glimpsed enough to recognize them and nearly laughed in disappointment. Those scrolls were none other than Lord Bantiful’s studies, famously titled The Chronicles of the Glass Woman.

  Lord Bantiful had been a prominent physician in his prime, and I had been fortunate to read some of his works. One of his labors of passion was the scrolls the boys had been admiring until we interrupted—they were a detailed compilation of fifteen years of observations regarding a woman with a rare disease that made her bones brittle as glass. It was a fascinating read, but what must have mattered to these young men was that Arsuna, ‘The Glass Woman’, appeared depicted repeatedly throughout her development from childhood to maturity, nude.

  Only four months ago, I had sent Fermina to the library in search of those very scrolls to clarify the effects of fractures at different life stages. Poor Fermina had scoured the shelves on separate occasions, returning empty-handed each time. Meanwhile, these miscreants had been hoarding those precious documents for their own gratification.

  “What are you doing here, anyway? Get out!” barked another boy, his hostility barely concealing his fear.

  This would be Kitaloran, a fifteen-year-old whose circumstances mirrored those of the de Irchard sisters. Unlike the sisters, however, his lands had been reclaimed by the Irghuminian armies, and he would soon assume governance once his education was deemed complete.

  The gigantic Kitaloran was reputed to be clever, with an excellent memory, ideally suited for bookkeeping. Unfortunately, he had neglected his studies to pursue his true passion—the Path of Steel. The boy’s overindulgence in martial pursuits was evident in his burly physique, more befitting a workhorse than a nobleman.

  “We’re just passing through. We’ll leave you to your… activities,” Princess offered with an air of indifference as we continued on our way, feigning ignorance of the boys’ presence.

  “Oh? You lot panicked over nothing! It is merely the little chamber-maiden.” The third figure among them was none other than Arkin—my cousin. “What do we care what she thinks,” he said, though his hands hurriedly rolled the scrolls regardless.

  “Hmph!” Princess exclaimed, lifting her chin in a gesture of wounded pride, though she chose to ignore their provocation.

  “Come on, Arkin. No need to call her that,” Kitaloran interjected, his voice hushed and laden with caution.

  “Why do you care? You fancy her?” Gurrow teased immediately, nudging the broad-shouldered boy with a sly elbow. “Huh? Huh? Fancy the little chamber-maiden?”

  “Perhaps you would like her to clean your ‘chamber pot’?” Arkin followed up without hesitation, his tone brimming with vile insinuation. “I believe I have a spare silver in my pocket. She might do it for that much,” he added, dripping with contempt, further deepening my distaste for him.

  “How dare you!?”

  In a rare burst of righteous fury, Fermina surprised us all with her vehement cry of indignation. Her voice, though strident, carried a motherly firmness. She stepped forward, signaling her sisters to fall behind her. It was an unspoken command that admitted no argument.

  “We shall not be spoken to in such a manner, Arkin!” Fermina addressed him without the slightest trace of respect, for he had earned none beyond his family name—and even that carried little weight in the moment. “Apologize to Aufelia. At once.”

  For an agonizing moment, the world seemed to still, as though all present were locked in a tableau of tension. Arkin knew he had overstepped his bounds. He could boast of his superiority over Fermina or Princess all he wanted, but there were lines that could not be crossed, even by a Duke’s kin. A code of conduct governed such affairs, and if Arkin wished to maintain his standing in his uncle’s house, he had to adhere to it. Yet, it was clear he had no intention of retracting his words.

  “Piss off. Arkin already made it clear he does not care what you think,” Gurrow sneered, breaking the silence with brash insolence. He stepped toward Fermina, his hand poised to shove her aside.

  Princess intercepted with a swift slap, knocking his hand away. “Do not touch her!” she hissed, her fury abrasive and unyielding. I would have done precisely the same.

  Gurrow’s face contorted into a grimace, his teeth bared and brow furrowed, but then—just as swiftly—he broke into a smile. In a blur of motion, he lunged forward with a punch. The speed was too great for Princess to counter. Though he restrained himself, halting just before striking, Fermina flinched at the feint. She let out a startled cry, stepping back so quickly that she lost her footing and stumbled.

  “Fermina!” Rascal and Princess cried out in unison, rushing to catch her. Princess grabbed her arm, while Rascal steadied her by the hip. Together, they barely managed to prevent her from crashing onto the carpeted floor, which, though soft, still held the potential for injury.

  Arkin and Gurrow erupted in laughter, their voices echoing through the hall, while Kitaloran offered only a nervous smile. Gurrow turned his back on us, strolling back to his companions, where Arkin greeted him with a congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

  This was intolerable. My hands clenched into fists as I strode toward the villain. Words failed me, so consumed was I by fury. I tapped the brutish lout on the shoulder, the one who had dared cause Fermina such distress. He turned with a dull-witted “Huh?”—a sound more fitting for a beast of burden than a man.

  Without hesitation, I swung a left haymaker, my fist connecting squarely with his jaw. I had never struck another in such a manner before, but I could not allow this affront to stand. My blow landed true. Gurrow staggered back, his deficient head colliding with the horse statue they had been hiding behind, striking the nape of his neck. He gasped twice, his eyes wide with disbelief as he raised two fingers to his mouth, checking for blood.

  He was not the only one taken aback by my actions, as I could feel the stares of all present resting on me, not quite believing what they had just witnessed.

  “I… I…” Princess could barely articulate.

  She had no means to cope with the aftermath. Overcome with fear, Princess turned and fled down the hallway, her footsteps echoing in her haste. No one made a move to stop her.

  “Dubart!” she voiced while running, short of breath. “W-what did you make me do!?”

  Though uncertain whether she could hear me, I felt compelled to respond. “I… I can only apologize. It is no excuse, but I lost control and…”

  I could not even think of how to properly explain myself. Regardless, it was less a matter of what I had done and more of how I had done it.

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