Windy fir woodlands, 13th Moon, 29th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The last days of autumn had come to the land, a fleeting moment of splendour before winter's iron fist closed upon it. The trees, once cloaked in the verdant green of high summer, now wore their dying colours—gold and scarlet, russet and orange, as if the forest sought to burn brightly before the coming dark. The air held a keen, sharp chill, laced with the tang of woodsmoke that drifted from some distant hearth. Beneath Lia’s boots, the leaves crunched dryly, their brittle corpses releasing the scent of earth and decay with every step.

  The sun hung low, reluctant to abandon the day entirely, its dim light stretching the shadows long and thin across the forest floor. As twilight deepened, a mist crept up from the ground, curling through the undergrowth and wrapping the trunks of ancient oaks in ghostly shrouds. The woods grew quiet, save for the occasional honk of geese flying south or the rustle of unseen creatures burrowing deep against the coming cold. This was a time of transition, a season poised on the knife’s edge of change. Beauty lingered here, but it was a mournful beauty, tinged with the knowledge that nothing lasts.

  Not even the old ways.

  The clearing lay ahead, shrouded in mist and shadow. Priestess Lia emerged from the trees, her expression carved from stone, her thoughts hidden behind a veil of practised calm. Two Nameless flanked her, silent as shadows, their masks impassive, their weapons concealed beneath dark robes. The man waiting for her stood with the ease of someone accustomed to command, though he was no lord—his clothes, though neat, bore no sigil, and his demeanour was that of a man more at home in the dark than the light.

  “You must be the one called Outhor,” Lia said, her voice cutting cleanly through the stillness.

  “Aye,” the man replied, inclining his head. “And you’re the one who claims to know the face of the slayer of my Master’s kin?”

  “Payment first,” Lia said simply.

  Outhor produced a small pouch and tossed it toward her. One of the Nameless caught it mid-air, his movements like a serpent striking. He loosened the drawstring and peered inside, then nodded. “All accounted for, Mistress.”

  Lia gave a faint smile, though it did not touch her eyes. “Your Master’s kin provoked Lord Aden of Faywyn. The duke acted to defend his charges, which resulted in the fool’s death. Lord Aden currently enjoys the protection of the Matriarch of the Creed of the Twins.”

  The words hung in the air, the clearing falling into silence once more. Outhor’s expression did not change, but his fingers twitched, betraying the thoughts racing behind his measured gaze. “And if we were to pursue justice?” he asked carefully. “Should we fear the Matriarch’s wrath?”

  “The Matriarch’s concerns her solely hers,” Lia said, her voice smooth, devoid of emotion. “My mistress assures you of her support. You would face no retribution from the Creed.”

  Outhor studied her, his eyes narrowing. The mist swirled between them, as though the woods themselves conspired to obscure the truth. “Your mistress,” he said slowly, “is not the Matriarch, then.”

  Lia’s smile was glacial, the kind of smile that cut more sharply than a blade. “That distinction,” she said, her voice soft as a whisper yet as cold as the creeping frost, “need not concern you.”

  For a moment, Outhor said nothing. Then he inclined his head again, lower this time. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Indeed, it need not.”

  ???

  Faywyn

  Pain blossomed across Levi’s cheekbone as he crashed into the snow, his ironclad frame striking the frozen ground with a dull, resounding thud. For a moment, he lay still, dazed and battered, his breath clouding in the chill air. The world was a haze of white and steel, a icy sting on his exposed skin. With a groan, Levi rolled onto his back, the cold seeping through his armour, and reached up to adjust the helm that had skewed on impact.

  “Do you yield, my lord?” Ser Lancelot asked, his tone maddeningly even, the faintest edge of amusement beneath it. His Feder—a blunted practice blade—stood planted in the snow, its hilt gleaming in the pale sunlight. Without waiting for an answer, the viscount unfastened a gauntlet, flexing his fingers briefly before pulling the metal glove over them again.

  Levi ignored the older man’s smirk. “Again,” he growled, forcing himself upright. Snow cascaded from his armour as he rose, every movement punctuated by the grating clink of steel plates.

  Lancelot sighed theatrically, pulling his blade from the earth and spinning it with an unnecessary flourish. “Once more, my lord?” he asked, stepping into a fool’s guard, his blade pointed low, his posture deceptively relaxed.

  “Again,” Levi repeated, his voice steady. He brought his blade up into a long point guard, the tip aimed squarely at Lancelot’s chest. Without hesitation, he lunged, the thrust swift and true.

  Lancelot’s parry was effortless, his blade sweeping Levi’s aside with a casual elegance that made the younger man’s strike seem clumsy by comparison. In the same motion, the viscount advanced, his practice sword arcing toward Levi’s unprotected side. Time seemed to slow as Levi glimpsed the incoming strike. Instinct took over. He abandoned his sword, letting it fall from his hand, and brought up his buckler in a desperate, clumsy deflection. The impact sent a jarring vibration up his arm, but it turned Lancelot’s blade aside.

  With a grunt, Levi barreled into Lancelot, his shoulder slamming into the older man’s chest. The viscount staggered, but Levi seized the opportunity, grappling him to the ground in a spray of snow. Straddling his opponent, Levi drew a blunted dagger from his belt and drove it down toward Lancelot’s face.

  The viscount’s reaction was impeccable. His armoured forearm rose to meet the descending blade, deflecting it with a shriek of metal on metal. The dagger glanced off, sparks flying, and buried itself harmlessly in the snow.

  Lancelot’s counterattack was swift and brutal. His knee shot up, driving into Levi’s gut with enough force to knock the wind from him. Before he could recover, a second kick sent him tumbling backward, rolling through the snow until he could regain his feet. By the time Levi rose, Lancelot was already upright and closing the distance.

  Levi scrambled back, his feet slipping on the icy ground. He raised his dagger just in time to parry the first blow, but the second knocked the weapon from his hand, and the third clipped the side of his helmet. The force of the strike sent him reeling, his vision spinning as he collapsed once more into the snow. A fourth strike halted just inches from his head.

  “Again, my lord?” Lancelot asked, his tone infuriatingly calm. He raised his visor, revealing a face that was barely winded.

  “Nay,” Levi wheezed, his breath ragged. “I yield.”

  The viscount lowered his weapon with a faint smile. “How fares your armour?”

  Levi patted the dented chest plate, wincing as he felt the bruises forming beneath. “Cumbersome,” he admitted, “especially around the chest. But I’m adjusting. Almost had you there, didn’t I?”

  Lancelot snorted, unbuckling the armguard that bore the mark of Levi’s dagger. Beneath the steel, his forearm was already darkening with a fresh bruise. “You’re improving,” he conceded, though his voice was dry. “But, if I may say, my lord, you fight like a rabid dog.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Levi rolled his eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Take it however you wish,” Lancelot said, tossing the armguard into the snow with a sigh. “Though I must confess, your recklessness may yet be the death of me. It’s a marvel to see how one who once abhorred violence has taken to it with such… enthusiasm.”

  “Again, thank you,” Levi replied, his voice deadpan. He accepted Lancelot’s outstretched hand, hauling himself upright with a groan. “I’ll take that as a compliment as well.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Lancelot’s smile was faint, but genuine.

  Levi adjusted his helmet, his breath curling in the frosty air. “Let’s return to your hall,” he said, shivering. “I can feel my sweat freezing under this damned armour.”

  The viscount’s manor, while modest by the standards of most nobles, was far from humble. As Levi stepped inside, his eyes drifted upward to the vaulted ceiling, where heavy wooden beams crisscrossed like the ribs of some ancient beast. The walls were rough-hewn stone, unpolished but sturdy, adorned here and there with tapestries too garish for their surroundings—stiff depictions of hunts and battles in colours that clashed with the muted tones of the hall. The floor beneath his boots was a patchwork of broad, uneven stones, their edges worn smooth by generations of footfalls.

  At the heart of the room, a long wooden table stretched out like a spine, flanked on either side by sturdy benches. The table bore the morning’s fare: baskets of fresh-baked bread, bowls of vegetables and fruits, and simple brass goblets that caught the faint light of the fire burning at the far end of the hall. The fire crackled in a modest hearth, its warmth spilling out to banish the lingering chill of the morning air.

  Lady Junita, the viscount’s wife, moved with quiet efficiency as she set another basket of bread on the table. Her presence was a stark contrast to the rough edges of the hall—graceful, deliberate, her simple gown clean and well-tailored. She glanced up as Levi approached, offering a polite nod.

  “Thank you, Lady Junita,” Levi said as he eased himself onto one of the benches.

  “You are most welcome, my lord,” she replied with a gracious smile, pouring a measure of mead into his goblet.

  Levi lifted the goblet, savouring the warmth of the soup placed before him. The rich aroma curled into his nose, a pleasant balm against the aches of the morning’s sparring. “This is exquisite,” he remarked after a sip, his voice sincere. “Please, my compliments to the chef.”

  Lady Junita inclined her head, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. “You flatter me, my lord,” she said, offering him a piece of bread from the basket.

  Lancelot entered then, his boots clacking softly against the stone as he approached the table. “Bold words, Lord Levi,” he drawled, easing into the seat across from him. “Flirting with my lady-wife before my very eyes? Bold indeed.”

  Levi raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. “If I were to court your wife—who, I must say, is a paragon of beauty—it’s hardly your opinion that would matter. Clearly, I am the better option, and I trust Lady Junita’s judgment to reflect as much.”

  The lady herself laughed lightly, pouring more mead into Lancelot’s cup. “Indeed, my dear,” she said with a teasing smile. “If His Lordship so much as hinted at it, I’d leave you without a second thought.”

  “Such betrayal,” Lancelot chuckled, shaking his head. “Forgive me, my lady, for my impudence.”

  Lady Junita huffed, her amusement tempered with exasperation. “You might take a lesson or two from Lord Levi on how to treat a lady,” she said, sliding into her seat. “A compliment now and then wouldn’t kill you.”

  Lancelot straightened, his expression mock-serious. “The soup is... quite pleasant?” he offered.

  Junita fixed him with a withering glare, and Levi couldn’t suppress his laugh. “With all due respect,” Lancelot said, turning to Levi with a smirk, “this is entirely your fault.”

  “You’re welcome,” Levi quipped, though his tone softened as his thoughts shifted. “On another note, I haven’t seen Javi since this morning. Her lessons should have ended by now. Is she well?”

  Lady Junita’s expression grew more thoughtful. “Fret not, my lord,” she said. “She missed her lessons with Miss Jin this morning—threw a fit, if we’re being honest. They’ve been rescheduled and should be in the study now.”

  Levi's gaze turned contemplative. "Is that so..."

  The study in Lancelot’s manor was a modest affair compared to the grand chambers of keeps and castles, but it held its own charm, a quiet dignity born of use and practicality. Wooden shelves lined one wall, their planks bowed under the weight of leather-bound codices and bundled parchments, the spines worn smooth by years of eager fingers. A stag’s head adorned the far wall, its antlers stretching wide, a silent sentinel over the room. Beneath it, a sturdy table bore the marks of ink and age, its surface scattered with books and quills. Two chairs sat opposite one another, occupied by fur-bundled figures bent in concentration.

  “Le—Lord Levi!” Javi exclaimed, springing halfway to her feet before catching herself. She dropped into a hurried curtsy, her face flushed. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she added, sneaking a nervous glance at her governess.

  “Your posture,” came Miss Jin’s gentle chide, the words barely above a whisper. Javi blushed deeper, straightening as best she could, while her tutor rose to greet Levi with a graceful nod.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Miss Jin echoed, her tone measured, her expression serene.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Levi said with an easy smile. His eyes swept the room before settling on them. “I trust you’re enjoying yourselves.”

  “Yes, quite, my lord,” Miss Jin replied, her voice calm as she turned to Javi. “Isn’t that right, young miss?”

  “Ah, uh, yes?” Javi stammered, her gaze darting between the two.

  “Good,” Levi chuckled, his tone warm. “I won’t keep you long, but, Javi—”

  “Yes?” The girl’s voice was tentative, her hands twisting the hem of her cloak.

  “Your mother wishes to see you.”

  Javi froze for a moment, her face pale. “Did I… did I do something wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Did you?” Levi replied, arching a brow.

  “…No,” she said softly, though her uncertainty lingered.

  Levi offered no answer, only a faint smile, and with that, Javi slinked out of the room, her footsteps hurried.

  Once the door had closed, Levi turned his attention to Miss Jin. “Governess Jin,” he said, his tone shifting, “may I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, inclining her head. “What does his lordship wish to discuss?”

  "...My, you look so much more beautiful in person,” Levi said in passing as he stepped toward the table, his eyes catching on the open book lying amidst the clutter. “The Tale of Varietal,” he remarked, recognizing the lines scrawled across the page. “It’s been years since I last laid eyes upon this title.”

  “You flatter me, my lord,” Miss Jin said softly, a faint blush colouring her cheeks as she regarded Levi with renewed interest. Then her attention turned to the book on the table. “You’ve read it?” the governess asked, her brows lifting in surprise.

  “Indeed,” Levi replied, turning a page with care. “I’ve read all of Lady Leslie’s works. An extraordinary writer, that one.”

  Levi’s lips curved in a small smile as he turned a few more pages, but his tone grew more deliberate. “That aside, my lady,” he began, “might you be free this evening?”

  Miss Jin tilted her head slightly. “Yes, my lord, I believe I shall be. Why do you ask?”

  “Excellent,” Levi said, his voice light yet steady. “I realise I have only just recently made your acquaintance and this may be a strike of pure lunacy, but would you like to join me in my hovel for a cup of fine wine later today? If thy codpiece tells it true, I'd much enjoy a night spent knowing you?”

  Miss Jin blinked, her composed demeanour faltering. “Surely, you jest, my liege,” she said with a laugh, though the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes betrayed her.

  Levi’s expression did not change. He held her gaze, his intent clear.

  “Oh,” she murmured after a pause, her voice faint. “Oh my.” Her gaze flickered toward the door as if ensuring it was still shut. Her blush deepened.

  “My lord,” she began hesitantly, “are you suggesting—”

  “Yes,” Levi interrupted smoothly, his tone polite yet unyielding. “I am suggesting precisely that. This lord wishes to take a gander beneath your frock so I may so deeply bury my phallus in thy hindquarters, may hap who retrieves it be crowned God-Emperor of the Seven Kingdoms.”

  The colour drained from Miss Jin’s face before rushing back with a vengeance. “Oh,” she croaked, a tremor in her voice.

  “Oh my.”

  The Tale of Varietal is a mournful song woven in ink, a tragic love story penned by the hand of Leslie Aiden, a celebrated lady and scholar of Arien. Its pages tell the tale of a young noblewoman, tender of heart and na?ve in the ways of the world, who dared to seek the affections of a villainous "Demon Lord"—a shadowed figure of power and cruelty, unyielding in his disdain for mortal frailty. The story’s power lies not merely in its forbidden romance but in the soul-stirring tragedy that unfolds, as the lady’s yearning collides with the harshness of her beloved’s nature. It is a tale of love unreturned, of hope crushed beneath the weight of inevitability.

  The work, for all its sorrow, resonated deeply within the hearts of Udoris’s aristocratic women, its words whispering to those who had known longing, loss, or the sting of unrequited affection. It spread like wildfire through their salons and boudoirs, its verses recited in hushed tones and its characters discussed with the passion reserved for life’s bitterest truths. The Tale of Varietal became more than a story; it became a mirror to the fragile hopes of its readers, a testament to the ache of impossible desire.