his beloved wept on the shoulder of
his bond-brother—for grief, for comfort.
But in that comfort, a line was crossed—
one that could not be unmade.
A choice dressed in necessity,
wrapped in reason,
justified by a betrayal long in bloom.
It is said she was the closest.
The one who held his true name in her throat—
as retreat, as balm.
But the balm soured.
And it killed.
When word of his flame reached home,
she did not rise to meet it.
She called it heresy.
She watched it burn from afar,
and cursed its breath.
The Forest does not lie.
It keeps no secrets.
And the Vowed remember.
So it was that the prince returned—
not to her arms,
but to root and soil.
To wild truth.
Reborn,
because she let the man die.
The great House Deau was already awake. Stewards hurried through stone halls. Pages darted across courtyards with errands in hand. Breakfast—prepared for takeaway, as befitted Durde, a workday—wafted warmly through the kitchens.
In the Deau household, the mood was light. Quietly thankful. The servants had long known they were fortunate. Lords could be cruel. Their own was not. So they moved with purpose, making sure he saw it. Respect, returned for respect given.
Then the knocker sounded.
Not a door knock—the knocker. Forged in the Golden Age. When struck, it sent a subtle thrum through every sub-building and channel of the estate, even those hidden across the city street.
Few used it.
Most came and went through servant paths or quiet side doors. But this… this was no servant.
Only nobles. Only Heralds. Only WISPs.
Only someone who came with authority would announce themselves as such.
Margo, the First of the House, took a deep breath as she smoothed her dress and glanced in the mirror before making her way to the grand foyer.
The doorman had already announced Herald Leon Pyri—supposed bond-brother to their Lord Chen, though everyone saw the way Pyri looked at their mistress. Others saw, too, how—at times—she looked back.
“Politics. Let them all suffocate on them,” she thought to herself. A thought she often had with these kinds of guests.
But then her heart twinged as a softer, older thought intruded:
“Poor, poor master. Does he not know the spiders that infest his bed?”
She pushed the sentiment down, donned the proper mask, and greeted him with a polished smile.
“Lord Pyri, always a pleasure to be graced by your presence, lord. The mistress will receive you in her study today. This way, if you please.”
The sitting room had been chosen with care. Semi-public, adjacent to the grand hall, it also served as Cindra’s lesson space during the day. Not too private—appropriate for a waiting wife receiving a friend.
Plausible. Respectable. That was what mattered. Appearances.
“Leon,” she said as she turned to face him, “again you come…”
She let the pause breathe—teasing, familiar.
Normally, he’d smirk. Offer something sweet. This time, he didn’t.
His eyes scanned the room first, then settled on her. No tray. No box.
She blinked. Straightened, slightly.
“No cookies today?” she asked, lighter than she felt.
“No,” he said. “Not today, Leah.”
His tone was somber—serious in a way she wasn’t used to.
Not from him. Not toward her.
“What ails you, my lord?” she asked, letting her hand rest lightly on his arm—just enough to comfort.
He hesitated. Just a beat.
“I…” The word caught—fragile. Then he steadied. Composed.
“I have news, Leah. About Chen.”
“Oh.” She tried for poise, for irony. Failed.
“Good news… yes?”
But her heart already knew.
She hadn’t heard from him in days. And he was due. Always punctual. Always checking in.
Leon lowered his gaze.
“I’m afraid not, Leah.”
A knot formed in his throat—but he pressed on.
“Our Chen… he is lost to us.”
Then, softer. Too soft.
“Dearest.”
“Nonsense! Kildra—she can resurrect him. It’s what she does.”
Silence.
Leon only shook his head.
Each second without an answer crushed her a little more.
“That’s her only fucking job, Leon…”
Her voice cracked. The tears came, fast and sharp, as she fought to hold them back.
“She has to.”
“She’s lost to us too, Leah.
What’s left of her is a shell.
Just an eternal bird—trapped in a cage of her own design.
A song with no verses.
A god… stuck in hell.”
Leah looked up sharply, fire in her eyes.
“God? There are no gods, Leon. Just derelict tech no one remembered to shut off.”
Leon flinched, just barely.
But he didn’t recoil. He understood. He felt it too.
The loss of Chen—of a Herald, of a bonded WISP—
It wasn’t just personal.
It was a blow to the foundation of belief itself.
The tears halted.
Leah stood taller—chin high, spine straight.
“I refuse this,” she said, voice cold now, sharpening with each syllable.
“This reeks of WISP politics. Some maneuver.
Did Divan put you up to this, Leon?”
“No,” he said quickly, almost pleading. “Never, Leah.”
Her lips tightened. Then, suddenly—
“No. I can prove this heresy,” she muttered, the last word almost swallowed.
And with that, she turned—nearly sprinting toward her private sitting room, where the true terminal waited.
Leon followed without hesitation—half watchful, half admiring.
She moved like fury wrapped in silk, hips swaying with every sharp stride.
He told himself he was her shield. That he was here to protect her—from the world… and from herself.
Leah entered like a storm breaking over stone.
Two servants—a maid and a messenger, both Telle assets—looked up in alarm.
Anger. Fear. Grief. Each emotion carved plain across her face as she reached the terminal in the center of the room.
“Out! Everyone out!” she barked.
They obeyed at once, nearly crashing into the Herald’s broad chest as he followed just behind her. Leon caught the door and swung it shut behind them with a quiet finality.
“Com-pu-ter, connect: terminal CZ013,” she snapped, barely pausing for breath.
The screen flared to life.
Inside the cockpit of Chen’s ship: empty. Desolate. Shadows lay thick across the console like a burial shroud. Her stomach dropped at the sight of the void.
“Com-pu-ter, connect: terminal CA001,” she ordered again—this time shrill, panicked—desperate to reach his personal data-pad, the one sewn into his uniform sleeve.
Another flicker. Another screen.
But this time, only the hollow ping of failure.
'***Connection failed. No response.***'
Unbeknownst to her, Gloria had reassembled that device days ago—optimizing its functions, cleansing it of embedded malware. Whatever signal Leah sought would never come through.
“No…” she whispered—then louder, “No!”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Her knees gave out beneath her. She crumpled to the floor in silence, save for the sound of her breath—breaking.
Leon hovered, torn. He knew what he wanted to do. But what was the right move now?
“You’re too passive, kid. You wait, they kill you. You want control? You make the move.”
Chen’s voice. From years ago.
“Don’t wait for their attack. That’s the same as dying standing up.”
Leon could still see him—dual daggers in hand, circling, sharp grin on his face.
“Same goes off the battlefield too. You want something? You take the moment. Make it yours.”
Leon breathed out.
“I have to make it happen. Take the moment.”
He looked down at Leah.
“Yes.”
Leon knelt beside her and drew her into an embrace—firm, steady, almost protective. His hand moved along her back, slow and measured, the way a lover might, though he wore the mask of comfort.
“It’s all right, love,” he whispered. “I’m here now.”
His cheek brushed hers as he leaned in—close, too close—but not enough to be refused. He murmured soft things, quiet assurances, just intimate enough to feel personal… just distant enough to pass as comfort.
Leah knew exactly what he was doing.
Now? she thought, anger flaring beneath the sorrow. He doesn’t even give the moment a breath?
But then came the counter-thought—soothing, self-spun.
He’s known for a while, she told herself. Had time to grieve. To process. He’s only here now because he wanted to be strong for me.
That’s what she told herself, anyway.
His cheek brushed against hers. Just barely. A breath of warmth in a room turned cold.
Then came the kisses—gentle, tentative—like one might offer a child after a nightmare. Not lecherous. Not yet. Just… comfort, in the shape of something more.
She hated to admit it, but they helped her.
And if they helped her… maybe they’d help him too.
Small kisses. Light kisses. Given and received.
They rose together, lips never parting—grief poured into grief, need tangled in need.
Kisses turned urgent. Clothes, careless.
Leon held her tight as they moved, not toward healing, but toward silence. Toward the only release either of them knew how to offer.
They found the back of the room. The daybed.
The soft thud of bodies. No ceremony. No words.
No fear of consequence—because there were none now.
She had already justified it.
Chen was gone.
This was the cleanest path forward.
The simplest way to remain lady of the house—of two houses, now.
With Leon, she preserved her access, her standing, her power.
And as a widow, she would not need to remarry.
No need to breach the sacred contract of matrimony.
No need to violate the rarer contract of heraldry.
No need to explain.
It was, in truth, a perfect transaction.
Leon got what he wanted.
She got what she needed.
And the price? Small enough.
Her heart had already collapsed at the terminal.
What remained was only the void.
Her emotions were dead now, and this—this physical act—was the only thing that made her body feel alive.
She would damn anyone who tried to take that from her too.
Leon stood beneath the towering portrait of Chen that hung high along the north wall. He reached up, fingertips grazing the frame, attempting to straighten what he imagined was a lean to the right.
Marlo stood silently at his side.
Silent in voice. Loud in judgment.
For a week now, he had come every day. Stayed too long. Touched too much. Walked these halls like they were already his.
And she had said nothing.
But the disgust had grown roots.
Watching him—and the mistress (no, not mistress anymore. Harlot. The master’s harlot)—vanish into the master suite for hours each night had turned her stomach. Not even the ritual sparring after supper could shake her revulsion.
When the Lord returned, she would tell him.
Even if it split the house. Even if it started a war.
The master had to know.
"This may need to come down. It's not settling correctly" Leon said just staring at the portrait.
“I shall make a note of it, lord,” she replied—flat, formal, and just sharp enough to be noticed.
“Marla,” Leon said, glancing down at the shorter steward, “there’s no need to escort me. I’m more family than guest here.”
“Yes, lord. Unfortunately, Master Chen was always quite strict on matters of protocol,” she replied, meeting his eyes without a blink.
“Oh. I see.” He smiled, slow and tight. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
“Very good, lord.”
They made their way toward the greater common room off the sitting room, where Leah and Cindra were seated.
More precisely, Leah was speaking at Cindra, her voice smooth and practiced, while her daughter offered only curt nods or short replies.
Leon entered with casual bravado.
“Leah, seems my access is restricted to guest now,” he said, grinning like he’d shared a joke only he found amusing.
Cindra turned. Her tone was flat, her expression curled in revolt.
“Mother. Is his presence now a daily ritual?”
Then, eyes narrowing, she looked directly at him.
“Don’t you have a home?”
Leon raised a brow, but said nothing.
“It’s called being a guest, Cindra,” Leah snapped, too quickly.
“Now apologize.”
Cindra didn’t blink.
“For what? Asking two valid questions?”
Her gaze stayed locked on her mother—fierce, unyielding.
Leah felt it: that look.
It was his—Chen’s. That quiet blaze of moral certainty that made nuance feel like cowardice.
She masked the ache behind stillness.
“It’s too soon for this.” The thought was sharp, bitter.
“The conclave isn’t until tomorrow. That’s when they’ll hear of my love’s fate. That’s when the mourning becomes real. Until then… I still have control. I still have time.”
She looked at her daughter—not the child, not anymore, but the young woman taking shape before her.
“So strong, my poor girl. So much fire. But how strong will you be without that shield—without a name that commands silence? That’s what this one is for, little one.”
Her eyes flicked to Leon, now leaning slightly against the armrest, comfortable in her space.
She already resented him for it. And yet—she had placed him there.
And now, Cindra saw it too.
“Yes,” Leah said, in that cold, sterile tone she reserved for Telle business.
“Now apologize,” she repeated—more forcefully than intended, her self-control slipping for just a breath. The girl knew how to needle her. Knew exactly where to strike.
“Of course, Mother.”
Cindra turned to face the smirking man, tone measured, crystalline with contempt.
“I apologize for insulting my mother’s consort and lover while my father is merely… out of the house.”
She let the pause hang—long enough for the meaning to curdle.
“If ever you require a wet towel or a hot tub brought to your suite after your next cavort, please inform the servants. We’ll be sure to treat our guest with the highest esteem.”
The silence that followed was not confusion. It was impact.
Leon blinked. The smirk vanished.
Cindra smiled sweetly, then turned to face her mother.
Leah’s face had darkened—flushed deep violet against her usual mocha hue. Rage had pooled in her cheeks, but her eyes were glassy with something else. Shame. Loss.
“Was that acceptable, Mother?” Cindra asked, innocent in tone, lethal in intent.
“How dare you—” Leah began, voice rising—
“How dare I?” Cindra cut her off, loud enough to silence the room.
“How dare you!”
Her breath came fast now, chest rising, the edge of restraint breaking.
“You paraded him for years—always in Father’s shadow, always near. And now—now—you sleep with him openly while Father is just… away?”
Her voice cracked. Not weakness—pressure. She was still fighting to stay composed, but grief had found the cracks.
“You degrade him. You degrade this house.”
She was trembling now.
“You’re… you’re…” She searched for the word.
“You’re nothing more than a whore!”
Silence.
Then softer—but not weaker:
“And a whore who should remember that Father will hear about this.”
Marlo thought to herself:
What a brave child.
A small smile crept to her lips—pride quiet and private.
Then Leah snapped.
“Your father will never hear of this!”
Her voice rang sharp—too sharp. Something cracked beneath it.
“He’s dead, Cindra. And he will never return.”
She took a step forward now, gesturing behind her without looking.
“Leon is our new patron. Do you understand me? He will keep the other Houses from falling on this one. So—”
She pointed now, voice shaking with force.
“Apologize. And thank him for his worth.”
Marlo’s jaw sagged.
Her hands—once steeled in silent judgment—went slack.
Her heart broke in a single breath.
It all made sense now.
The looks. The silences. The door left open just enough.
And now the truth—spoken like a curse.
“No!” Cindra screamed, the word ripping from her throat.
“Father can’t be dead. That’s impossible!”
She pointed at Leah, trembling with fury.
“Only a witch like you would look for any reason to betray him!”
Her voice cracked—rage and grief warring inside her.
“You’ll see! I’ll find him!”
She turned and ran—up the main staircase, steps pounding like war drums on marble.
Her sobs echoed down the halls long after her figure vanished into the house.
An eerie silence hung in the air.
Then Leon broke it, voice light, almost amused:
“Marla, that portrait. It really should come down soon to fix the mounting. You agree now, don’t you?”
Marlo’s jaw tightened.
He knew her name. He always had.
He just liked to pretend otherwise.
“I… I shall see to it, my lord,” she said, barely choking back the acid.
She turned sharply and walked out—back ramrod straight, stomach twisted in revolt.
Leon sighed and adjusted his collar.
“I’m sorry it had to happen like this, Leah,” he said gently, stepping in.
He reached for her.
She didn’t stop him. But she didn’t move.
Not toward him. Not away.
“Mommy! Why is everyone crying here? What happened?”
Andrea walked in, clutching a worn teddy bear in one hand and a blinking mini-Calder tablet in the other.
Leah turned at the sound—face pale, hands trembling, eyes rimmed in red.
She stepped gently out of Leon’s embrace, the sudden motion almost startling him.
“An… Andrea…”
Her voice faltered, then found its note.
Soft. Sweet. Maternal.
“Honey… everyone in this house—from the servants to the lords,” she said, flicking a hand toward Leon without looking,
“we… we all love you, baby.”
Andrea beamed.
“Of course you do, Mother. I’m the belle of the ball!”
She twirled slightly, tablet dangling from one wrist.
“That’s what Daddy always says. Everyone loves me!” Andrea chirped, beaming.
“Ma’am!”
The moment snapped.
A messenger had slipped into the doorway—urgent, breathless.
Not unusual. Leah had a standing order: Telle runners were never to be stopped.
But the timing…
She moved toward him, ready to wave him off—
He held out a break-message envelope, the seal shimmering faintly.
“Emergency priority, ma’am,” he said quickly, reading the tension in the room.
He handed it off and disappeared just as fast.
Leah turned the envelope in her hands.
The crystal-woven seal cracked—softly—and dissolved, releasing the thin message inside.
It shimmered with active life, designed to degrade within moments.
She read the words once.
Chen found. Alive. Changed. No further detail.
Her breath hitched.
“Oh god…” she whispered, hands flying to her face.
Leon was on her in an instant.
“What is it?!”
Leah, trembling, handed him the fading slip.
So in the House of Deau they mourned,
and the mistress bound herself not to love,
but to ash and legacy.
While she chose silence,
the Forest chose truth.
Her prince had died.
Our prince lived still.
Lived in root and flame.
He walked again,
toward the place that once burned clean—
the Clearing, where saints were minted.
And the moment he crossed into it,
old alliances began to stir—
and split, as oak does.
A war in his memory
began again.