Fantasy All's Fair

[Conifer]

It strangely helped for Cyeria to lay her thinking bare between them; Remin knew that she was good at all of this - the strategizing, the planning. War. - but it made it more and more evident that her going wasn't purely a reckless endeavor. It was , of course, but every ounce of planning they did made it not be that, and so hopefully if they planned enough, by the time Cyeria was leaving for Werough, this whole thing wouldn't leave Remin feeling as overwhelmed and nervous as it did. (Partially, she feels she deserves this. So many of her people had to say goodbye to loved ones to the war, and so many of them didn't come home. In all likelihood, Cyeria would come back to her, unharmed, and would only be gone a few weeks at most. What Remin was going to face was literally a drop compared to what the majority of Athea had dealt with. She deserves to have to face this; she, really, deserves worse.)

"You're not abandoning me." She says - words that are true if one relies entirely upon fact, but saying them...well. She glances away. Her words are true, but there holds some tiny scrap of emotional lie to the response. So, to reinforce the former, she repeats them again: "This isn't abandonment. You're tending to the kingdom in the way that you feel is necessary for you to do, just as I would do, just as any proper ruler would do." Their methods were different, but both coming from their best guesses at what was right. "As much as I hate it." She looks back at Cyeria, reaching to take and squeeze her hand. "I'm proud of you." She can, at least, say that part entirely honestly.

"I guess we have some work to do." Remin sighs softly. "I'm sure Oren will come find us when the woman's up to speaking with us, but I'll send someone with the message for him to do so anyways. Until then...there's a fight to prepare for."

 

[Aerynth]

"And I am proud of you as well," Cyreia said, strangely moved. "It probably doesn't mean much, but it puts me at ease that I can just... disappear for an extended period of time and know that everything will be in perfect order when I return." That, too, was new. Being able to rely on someone to such an extent? Unthinkable, or at least it had felt that way before all of this. Before meeting Remin. In that moment, it was difficult to imagine she could love a person more fully, more intensely, but-- this was no time to get wrapped up in her feelings. Remin had been right; they had work to do. A lot of it, in fact. "And yes, we should commence with the preparations. I trust that you'll handle the advisers?" Even if they had reached some sort of uneasy truce, Cyreia still didn't like dealing with them and it bled through all of their interactions. It was better for everyone involved, really, to have Remin break the news to them. "I'll take care of... well, everything I mentioned earlier, and also some things I didn't mention." There were so, so many of them, after all, that remembering them off the top of her head would be little more than exercise in futility.

And so Cyreia delved into the war preparations once again. It didn't even take much effort; she had done it so, so many times before that the process felt entirely automatic by now. To be frank, it didn't even feel real. Just a few weeks ago, she had been thinking of putting her sword down, and it had looked like a real possibility. Like something within her reach. Now, though? Another war was waiting on their doorstep; more bloodshed, more destruction, more opportunities to die. (Even if Cyreia had assured Remin that she would return to her, she was aware that her promise might go unfulfilled. Skill, unfortunately, couldn't determine the outcome. Not fully. It could help tip the scales in her favor, but no amount of planning could eliminate the luck factor entirely. She had been very lucky so far, though statistically speaking, that was bound to change one day. Would it happen during this campaign? God, she had no idea.) There was no point in pondering over problems that didn't exist yet, of course. Such thoughts would only erode her composure, which would, in turn, increase the odds of her messing up. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, really; many good commanders had fallen victim to overthinking. Oh, if only knowing that could turn off her fears somehow. Fears? Yes, that was what she felt now, Cyreia supposed. It only made sense that having something to lose would result in her being a bit afraid. Well, maybe more than just a bit. What if Remin's predictions had been correct? What if she would really never see her again?

That was probably the reason Cyreia turned to painting in her free time. As hectic as the planning phase was, there were also situations when she could do nothing but wait, so she... well, she decided to fulfill at least one promise to her wife before leaving for war. Bets should be honored, after all, and since there might not be an opportunity for her to do it later, postponing it didn't seem like a wise idea.

And so, one night, Cyreia led Remin to her office. ("I need to show you something and no, I won't tell you what it is. It's a surprise.") When they entered, she lifted a cloth off a stand to reveal a picture. It was a ridiculous thing - basically just random black shapes on a white canvas, full of stains that suggested that the painter had never worked with water colors before - but that didn't matter. Remin had specified that she wanted terrible art and Cyreia certainly wasn't afraid to deliver. "My masterpiece," she beamed at her. "I call it 'I Could Not Fall Asleep, So I Decided To Fullfil My Old Promise To My Beatiful Wife.'" Hopefully Remin wouldn't see it as her saying goodbye, even if that was what it essentially was. Maybe it was selfish of her, but Cyreia didn't want it to be sad and tearful. She wanted... what, exactly? A resolution? Perhaps.

 

[Conifer]

If the past while had been busy, then the next few days were even busier. It was tricky to try and plan for a war, or whatever this might become, while attempting to not let the rumor of what was happening escape the castle walls. Surely the Weroughians knew they were going to react, but...it would be best for them to not know exactly when, or what they came prepared for. That, on top of securing scouts to go find out what they were getting into, was a lot alone. It was another series of long days for the both of them, only really seeing each other in quick bursts in the halls, or before they both fell asleep. Remin hoped that this wasn't what their entire relationship would become. It was...strange, to miss someone who was in the same building as you, and it was strange to miss someone at all who wasn't her parents, but Remin found herself doing both.

Thus, it was more than welcome and a little exciting when Cyeria approached her and asked her to follow. Remin couldn't remember the last time that she'd been surprised. Well, that wasn't true. There had been an immense amount of surprises in the past year or so, but none of them had been very good surprises. Following Cyeria through the halls to some long-unused room that had been dedicated as Cyeria's office didn't fill her with the sense of dread that usually accompanied the most recent surprises. She had no idea what to expect, and even once they entered the room, that didn't alleviate until Cyeria pulled the shroud away from the prize.

The painting was truly awful, and Remin said as much, beaming. "That's the worst thing I've ever seen in my entire life." She laughs as she approaches to get a better look at the broad, clumsy strokes, the staining, the places where the paint had run into long, streaky drips. Gods, she's never seen something more perfect. Terrible and perfect. "We should hang it in the great hall," She looks back towards Cyeria, only half joking. What would whoever came to see them think? Would they like it, simply because of where it hung? Would they think it was the work of some great master of the arts?Not that Cyeria wasn't, of course. This was nothing short of a masterpiece. "Or the dining room. Or a guest room, of guests that we decide that we particularly dislike, and then ask them what they think of your painting." Remin's not truly as good as she tries to be - that much is evident to herself by the delight she'd get out of seeing some noble search for polite words for this disaster on canvas.

 

[Aerynth]

"Bold words," Cyreia chuckled. "You've also seen my dancing, remember? Perhaps that's what I should paint next; me as I attempt to dance. Awfulness contained within awfulness." It was so strangely easy to forget about the trials that awaited them and just... breathe. To laugh with Remin, if only for a moment. Wouldn't it be nice if she could enjoy that tiny bit of peace even during the war? Cyreia couldn't help but toy with the idea - with the idea of bringing her along, of waking up by her side every day as she had grown to expect - yet the fantasy was shortlived. Never in her life would she endanger Remin like that. Not so pointlessly at the very least. Her wife would stay within the castle walls, she would be safe here and that had to be enough. It wasn't like the sword techniques Cyreia had taught her would save her; she didn't have the stamina or the mindset to handle extensive fighting, and it could very well come down to that. Exposing her to such a situation would have been downright selfish.

"That we really should do," Cyreia said with a smile. "We could also make a tradition of gifting these pictures to people who spite us. We'd make it clear that it was me who painted it, too, so they couldn't say anything bad about it." God, these scenarios felt so distant with the promise of war hanging in the air. The conflict probably wouldn't last long - rebellions rarely did, especially when they were so small in scale - but still. Pranking their guests was maybe the last thing on her mind right now. That also made it... appealing, though. Or perhaps it wasn't the act itself as much as this steadfast conviction that they did have a future? A life to come back to? "Not this one, though. This one belongs to you exclusively, my love." Cyreia leaned forward, cupped her face and kissed her softly. "I'll miss you," she admitted after a few seconds of reluctance. "But maybe I can take my paiting tools with me and paint a few new pictures for you while I'm there. I think I've read somewhere that adverse conditions are great for art. They're supposed to be very inspiring. Perhaps I'll be able to express something deep about life in such stimulating environment."

 

[Conifer]

"I'll miss you, as well." She admits, almost reluctant to say the words. It tinged this whole gift bittersweet. What would she do, if Cyeria didn't return? She'd be left with little but this painting as proof of anything. She couldn't grieve, not really - though, what would be the point in hiding it any longer? Let the kingdom know her affections had betrayed them; the king would be dead and it hardly would matter. Tears sting at her eyes and she makes an attempt to clear them away without Cyeria noticing, but one falls fat and heavy down her cheek anyways. Cyeria was going to come back. This was nothing compared to all the battles she'd fought before, and Remin knew how competent and capable she was. Prophesying doom would only allow it a way in, and they'd both only suffer for it. "My soldier," She says softly, quietly, despite. "You have no choice but to come back to me safely. Orders from your queen. I love you." There's been traded 'my loves', and what had been said before, and all the implications of her admission that wasn't really admitting to anything new, but the words still felt heavy and important against Remin's tongue. She didn't want to regret having not said it plain. Even if Cyeria suffered no harm, it would still be - as her wife had put so lightly, - a 'stimulating enviroment'. She hoped that her words would offer some amount of peace among all that.

 

[Aerynth]

'I love you.' Hearing that should have been a milestone in their relationship - something to celebrate, really - but somehow, it only deepened her sorrow. Remin wouldn't have said it if it hadn't been for the dangers she was about to face, that much was incredibly obvious, and-- well. Let's just say that Cyreia had pictured this moment differently. There had been no one specific scenario she had considered to be ideal, though all of her daydreams had involved the two of them being happy and comfortable and not pressured by the circumstances and this was... very much not that. Desperation soured it for her a bit. Still, despite her own conflicted feelings, Cyreia smiled gently and wiped her tears away. It may not have been a perfect moment, but very few moments were and that had never stopped her from appreciating them. Besides, she had to be strong for Remin. That rare display of fragility? That was her cue to support her. It would solve exactly nothing, after all, if both of them broke down in tears. (As easy as it would have been. God, did she want to cry, perhaps more than she had wanted in her entire life, but she bit her cheek until that impulse drowned in pain.) "I know," Cyreia said, and it was true. She had known for a while now even if Remin had been less than direct about it in the past. Why? Out of stubbornness, maybe? Well, it didn't really matter; not now and, to be frank, not even then. It wasn't like this confession really changed anything. Her wife hadn't loved her any less before and didn't love her more for it. "I love you, too, and I also wouldn't dare to disobey my queen's orders. Or my wife's orders, for that matter. That's possibly even more relevant than you being my queen. I promised to make your wishes come true at the altar, didn't I?" She had made so many promises to so many different people that it was impossible to remember them all at this point, but that one? That one she intended to keep.

Cyreia couldn't stop herself from kissing her again; it was a desperate, all-consuming thing this time, and that was probably the reason she missed the knocking on the door. The door opened silently, too, so it took a surprised 'aah' for Cyreia to register the presence of a young maid. She practically leapt away from Remin, her cheeks burning, though, of course, the maneuver did very little to hide what exactly had been happening there.

"I--I'm verry sorry, your highnesses," the woman stammered, "I didn't know. Had I known, I would have..."

"No, that's fine," Cyreia said, trying her best to sound dignified and failing at that quite spectacularly. God, they really should have locked the door before... before doing things like that. "What did you want?"

"Umm. Master Oren sent me for you. The-- the messenger woke up. She's wiling to speak, too, but if you're preoccupied... It can wait, I think."

 

[Conifer]

"We'll- we'll see to him now." Remin stammered a reply, but for once, Cyeria was the one more in control of the situation than she was. Deep dread swept through her; they weren't doing anything wrong, not really, it was just a kiss, but-- but, gods, she could just die. It'd be a welcome development. What was the maid thinking? Was she thinking the two of them terrible? Did she think Remin a traitor, too? Gods, she was, though, wasn't she? Werough was only proof of that. Her people, as complicated as that relationship was. They didn't know their king as Remin did, and they couldn't possibly understand, but...that understanding was her letting them down, wasn't it? Remin fought to keep her breathing steady. It was fine. She would speak to the maid, she would do whatever she had to to keep her from gossiping among the staff. She could handle this and no one would have to know anything. All the woman knew was this one kiss - this could have been their first, for all she was aware. Something ill-advised and experimental, before the king left to fight. It had admittedly been a bit too fond and intense for that to be the excuse, the lie, but maybe she hadn't seen enough to know that? "We weren't preoccupied. Nothing was happening. Whatever you think you may have seen-...it's best not to spread misinformation." She says, face red, eyes wide; the panic in her isn't subtle. She swallows hard; her throat feels thick. Her words are a clumsy abuse of power and she hates them but she needs them.

"I...understand, my queen," The woman agrees slowly, her own face tinged red. "I'll tell Master Oren that you'll be joining him shortly?"

Remin just manages a nod, and the door closes back behind the maid. Remin makes her way to a mirror, giving herself something to focus on for a moment. "We'd best go quickly." She murmurs as she tucks hair behind her ears with hands that shake more than she'd like, though she wants to hide her face instead of showing more of it. Gods, can't she just keep it together? It was nothing. It was barely anything. (It's the kiss in the room in the inn all over again, her own self betraying her better interests. She hopes that Cyeria might not notice it, this time, or at least won't take the whole thing so poorly. It had all worked out in the end, but that hiccup didn't need to be repeated). "Come on, then." She heads towards the door in a rush, not pausing for a moment to let Cyeria notice her state if she hasn't already.

 

[Aerynth]

Once again, Remin's reaction didn't escape her. She knew her too well for that and, besides, the panic wasn't exactly subtle. Just about anybody would have seen that. There was an impulse to wrap her in her arms, to try and melt the anxiety in kisses, though-- kisses had gotten them in this mess in the first place, hadn't they? It was unlikely that someone would walk in on them twice in a short succesion, true, but the incident had killed the mood and something told her that Remin wouldn't appreciate it, either. It just... didn't seem appropriate. Overlooking her state looked just as bad to her, however, so Cyreia caressed her shoulder softly. "Yes, we shouldn't linger here for long. But Remin? Breathe. It'll be fine, really. I... honestly doubt that they didn't already suspect us of being close, so it's not like she saw anything particularly shocking. We may be able to fool all the lords and ladies, but not our servants. They know how much time we spend together." All those breakfasts and stolen moments? It was impossible for at least one of them not to notice, and rumors traveled fast. Perhaps they had even spoken about it to the guards who had accompanied them on the trip; the guards knew about them for sure and probably maintained friendly relations with the staff, too, so it only made sense that they'd share all the juicy gossip. Should it bother her more than it did? Maybe, but Cyreia didn't think that the servants were especially dangerous. They treated them fairly, after all, and none of them would benefit from dragging their names through mud. "It's fine," she repeated. "We're safe. You're safe. But yes, let's go. I'm very interested in what the messenger has to say."

They found their way into Oren's office once again; it looked almost the same as it had when they had visited it a few weeks ago, except that there was a bed near the wall now. His most important patient rested in it, Cyreia supposed.

"Hello, Oren," she said as they entered. "I heard that our guest is awake?"

"Greetings, your highnesses. And yes, you heard right."

The messenger stirred underneath the blanket when she heard their voices, stirred and tried to sit, but Oren held her down. "No, don't get any ideas. I'm sure that the king and queen understand that you need to rest. Save the formalities for later."

"Yes," Cyreia nodded, "absolutely. Don't over-exert yourself, please. We don't need you collapsing again." She brought two chairs close to the bed - one for her and one for Remin - and sat down. The woman, she noticed right away, still looked awful. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin reminded her of parchment more than anything else, but the glint in her eyes spoke of determination. Determination and sharpness.

"What's your name?" Cyreia asked.

"Velka, your highness."

"Alright, Velka. What happened to you?" That looked like the logical place to start. Her affliction was clearly of magical origin and, as with any battle, relevant information was the only thing that could give them a tactical advantage here.

"The bastards cursed me," Velka practically spat out. "Me and my entire squad. I was the only one who made it beyond the borders of Werough." Ah, curses. Of course, why not. It probably shouldn't surprise her this type of magic existed, too, but for some reason it did. That only went to show just how naive she still was, really.

"Lovely. What exactly can curses do and is there any way to counteract them?" Cyreia looked at Remin first, then at Oren.

 

[Conifer]

Cyeria's words were much less comfort in practice than they were in theory, but Remin appreciated her attempts all the same. She knew she had a point; they hadn't been open, but they hadn't been subtle, with their breakfasts in their room and the inevitable fondness in their tones while they spoke to one another even in public. But that wasn't the problem; everything that could stem from those was simply theory. Hearsay. Rumor. This was...much more solidly real. By the time they reached Oren's office, though, Remin was much more under control. Not feeling entirely level, but more in control, and that's all she needed to be to handle this.

"Asking what curses can do is similar to asking what the weather can do." Oren replies, after Cyeria spoke to the woman, moving his desk chair so that he can sit nearer the bed and the three of them. "It has limits, but it's also wildly unpredictable and surprising." He sits, leaning forwards, his elbows braced on his knees. "But they can be counteracted, yes. I have some skill messing around with them, and have gotten Miss Velka's under control, but I haven't rid her of it entirely." Oren reaches out to pull at a bit of blanket, unfolding where it's gotten twisted near the edge of the bed. His face is plain and open, as it usually is, but there's a marked exhaustion to him, worse than usual. It's been a long few days of work for him as well, keeping her alive. "My skills don't lie there, and unfortunately, not with Maric or the ones you've been working with either, your highness."

"Curses are a specialty, generally." Remin agrees softly. "They're not....bad. Not always. Curses are- magic that's directed at people. Specific people, for specific purposes. Some healing magics are curses."

"Only technically." Oren lightly protests. "There's what curses are, and what curses are...assumed to be. Whatever you're assuming curses to be, my king, is that. No one's going to call healing a curse, unless it comes with some terrible drawback, which...admittedly I've delved into once or twice, but only with consent, and only through necessity."

"Well, this wasn't with consent." Velka says, voice just as acidic as before - she knows well that she's not adding anything to the conversation, really, but her anger and fright and weariness are palpable and she needs to do something with them. "I don't know what's happened with the rest of my lot. Dead, I assume. They hit us running. One spellcaster, maybe two. We were trying to get out, get that letter to you - or at least out, to someone who could post it. Travelling at night, mostly, but we got cocky and pushed on. We got tired, we got stupid, we got hit."

 

[Aerynth]

Great, Cyreia thought, this is like the Vestat situation all over again. They knew that there was a threat and knew that it could potentially cost them their lives, but the sheer number of variables prevented them from taking any meaningful precautions. Would quick thinking save her again? Cyreia certainly hoped so because she had nothing else at her disposal. And speaking of quick thinking... "I assume, then, that those spells require physical proximity? And that it's impossible to curse many people at once." Despite knowing next to nothing about that type of magic, she saw no logical way for these conditions not to be true. If her enemies could curse her from afar, surely they would have done just that; it would have been a safe, clean method of getting rid of the usurper. Similarly, if curses could fell entire armies, Athea would never have lost to Eupriunia.

"That's correct," Oren nodded. "Generally speaking, the effect of a curse gets weaker the further away the target gets from the caster. That's why I was able to save Velka. Whoever sent that curse after her, they stayed in Werough. There are other limitations as well, though I'm not aware of the details as it's not my area of expertise."

"I... suppose that's better than nothing," Cyreia said. "I can work with that." The time of her departure was getting uncomfortably close, though it wasn't too late to go to the library and research the matter, if only superficially. Perhaps she could discover something relevant within the old, crumbling pages. And if not? Well, at least she could sleep soundly at night, knowing that she had exhausted all the options instead of just... opting to risk her life blindly as she had done so many times before.

"I'm sorry about your loss," she said to Velka, her tone full of sincerity. Losing one's brothers in arms was something Cyreia could relate to; even if she didn't remember their faces by now, the emptiness did gnaw at her still. These things never truly went away, it seemed. "I can promise you with certainty that those responsible will pay for their crimes. We won't bother you for long as we don't wish to disrupt your recovery, but could you... tell us what is happening in Werough exactly?" The letter had clearly been written in haste and, as such, only contained the briefest of descriptions. It was little more than 'please send help', in fact. Knowing a bit more than that would help them immensely.

"What's happening is that people finally got fed up with everything," the woman frowned. "We had few reasons to love the capital even before your coronation, your highness, and that was the last straw." The 'your highness' sounded a little too sarcastic to be entirely sincere, but Cyreia paid it no mind. It wasn't like she cared for titles much and, well, Velka had almost died while delivering an important message. Small transgressions against etiquette could be forgiven in this case.

"What's the context here?" Cyreia asked. "I know that the region... faced significant difficulties, but I don't know the details, I'm afraid." History, after all, was important; especially since they were going to become the primary target for all the old resentment. Resentment that had been festering for years now.

 

[Conifer]

Remin shifted uncomfortably as Velka offered up an answer to Cyeria's question. None of it was her doing, obviously - it wasn't even her parent's doing, but none of that mattered terribly, did it? It was all just a nebulous concept to anyone not directly involved in it. They were the crown, regardless of who wore it, and their choices stretched past their lifetimes. The fact that she hadn't had hand in it - and that she'd barely even had the crown, officially, for a few months - meant very little, Remin was sure.

"You lot," Velka says, with barely tempered venom, "Took advantage of us after a season of bad harvests, bad drought, bad all of it. We'd--" She catches herself, eyeing the three of them suspiciously before continuing. "-done something to vex a god, and suffered for it. We asked for loans, paid back in full when we got ourselves sorted, and next thing you knew, we were paying taxes to a crown that we wanted nothin' to do with. Now, we're more friends with Athea than your people, highness, but doesn't mean we liked it. Or wanted it. And it's a cycle after that, right? We pay, you take, we try to get out of the deal since we don't need or want your useless help, you give some thinly veiled threats. We stay. We pay, you take. Endless. Tolerable until now, but - look, sure, you might be great, highness, but it's the concept of it. We're already tied to one kingdom we don't want. Now that one's tied to a bunch of blasphemers and heretics."

"Werough's relationship with the gods is...more devoted than you'd find most places in Athea," Oren offers up, explanation for Cyeria - Remin's about to do the same, but staying quiet in this moment seems to be the way to not upset Valka further.

"It was enough to stay with Athea, where they're just- parties and blessings." Valka continues. "It was an insult. But you cast them aside entirely, Eupriunian, and you sit on the throne we're governed by."

 

[Aerynth]

Blasphemers and heretics? Alright, that was a first. Cyreia looked thoroughly unimpressed by Velka's little outburst, though she said nothing. A more passionate follower of the Eupriunian faith likely wouldn't have been able to hold back, but-- well, things not of this world mattered very little to her. There was no point to worrying about the next life when this one already consumed all of her energy quite effectively. Come to think of it, that technically made her a heretic even under the Eupriunian rules, didn't it? Chastising Velka for an assessment that wasn't even incorrect seemed especially pointless. One thing, however, bothered her a little. "I don't think we cast away anyone," Cyreia couldn't help herself in the end. "There was never a point in time in which we didn't have our nameless god."

"Of course that you'd think that," Velka sat up despite Oren's protests, fire in her eyes, "but that's only because you erased them from your history. Forgot about them. You can rest assured, though, that they didn't forget about you."

Oh, so she was one of those people. Cyreia tried not to roll her eyes, she really did, but being lectured about her own country's history by a foreigner? That was a difficult pill to swallow and some of that annoyance did seep through. "Alright," she raised her hands in a defensive gesture, "let's... let's just not talk about that." Certain arguments could only ever be won by refusing to participate in the first place and Cyreia had an inkling that this was going to be one of those cases. Besides, they had more pressing issues to deal with than bizarre religious debates. "It is quite obvious that you hold little love for us. Why, then, do you ask for help?" Was she mocking her with that question? No, not really-- it probably did insult her because, well, everything seemingly did, but it wasn't her intent to do so. More than anything else, Cyreia felt curious as to what had motivated her to disregard her pride and come here. What if Remin had been right? What if the messenger and her friends really had set some elaborate trap for her to walk into?

It was Velka's turn to roll her eyes now. "If it was up to me, I wouldn't be asking, trust me. It brings me great dishonor. I only do so on behalf of my lady. She's the rightful ruler of our land and her brother - the bastard - used the situation against her. His ideals are just, don't get me wrong, but stripping her of her birthright is even lower than serving blasphemers. He forgot his place."

I see, I see. Family problems, then. Those tended to be ugly, especially when access to power was involved. Blood ties only seemed to make the conflicts more intense for some reason. Perhaps because of the bitterness of the betrayal? Cyreia had no idea; at times, people worked in mysterious ways. "What do we know about the local rulers? About lady Beleret and her brother?"

 

[Conifer]

Velka doesn't leave space for anyone but herself to answer, obviously not trusting any of the other people in the room to describe the woman that she and her company had risked their lives for. "My lady is an incredible woman." She says, as if someone had claimed otherwise, quick and defensive and taking far too much energy from her if the way that Oren speaks up quietly is any indication:

"Miss Velka, don't push yourself. Here," He shifts her pillow, bracing it against the wall so that she can sit up while not having to fulling support herself. She's reluctant to be taken care of in this way, that much is obvious, but she allows herself to be adjusted until the healer's content. "We're among allies, the lot of us."

"We only want to understand so that we may help," Remin says, a little hesitant to say anything; most Velka's ire seems directed at Cyeria, but the look she receives as a result makes her sure of the fact that Cyeria's not the only one she holds something against.

"Sure. Yeah." She scoffs lightly, shaking her head, but moves on. "Lady Beleret's...impossible to describe. And she's a powerful seer - all the more reason her place on the throne is deserved, besides by blood. She knows what will lead us to success. This whole mess will not, in most the variations of it that she's been able to sense out. Her brother doesn't care to listen. He wants the throne. He's selfish and stubborn. He...wouldn't rule poorly, though; their ideals are similar enough, they're both capable enough to follow them, but that isn't the point of why I'm here. The point is that Isabelle belongs on the throne, and this little fit of his needs stamped out."

"They've been in contention for...as long as they've been alive." Remin offers, wanting to provide more..information than opinion, though Valka seems to be content with combining the two. "Lady Beleret's place is rightful, though, according to Werough tradition. He's - to my knowledge- not attempted a full-on coup-"

"Not something like this," Velka agrees.

"But there's been threats of it since the rule passed to this current generation."

 

[Aerynth]

To be entirely honest? Cyreia didn't care in the slightest whether lady Beleret's claim was more rightful than her brother's or vice versa. It didn't matter. What mattered was that Isabelle supported her rule - more or less - while her brother defied it openly. She may as well have been a common herdswoman and Cyreia would have taken her side in this dispute. Still, saying that aloud probably... wouldn't be the wisest choice here. Not in front of Velka at the very least. The woman looked half-dead, but if the passion in her voice was anything to go by, she wouldn't hesitate to challenge her to a duel to defend her lady's honor right here and now. If nothing else, she thought, lady Beleret certainly knew how to inspire loyalty in her subjects. (In those who hadn't betrayed her for her brother for that matter.) "Laws must be respected," she said in the end, "and as such, I will help your lady reclaim her rightful throne." For a moment, Cyreia felt tempted to add a comment or two about them receiving their 'useless help,' but she bit her tongue. It wasn't worth it, really. Those who allowed their egos to stand in their way deserved to fail.

"How much support does he have among your people?" she proceeded to ask.

"Wellan's treachery is... quite popular," Velka admitted reluctantly. "His empty promises swayed a lot of impressionable minds. He must have done something to manipulate the public opinion, too, because I simply don't believe that so many people would go against lady Beleret willingly."

"So we can expect our enemies to be everywhere," Cyreia concluded, "and civilians will oppose us to the best of their ability, too." Great, just great. That was the worst kind of warfare imaginable, really. Letting Werough go almost seemed like a good idea now, though of course they couldn't afford to do that. There was no way it wouldn't trigger something larger; something that would spiral out of control very quickly. No, they had to nip this in the bud.

"Not everywhere," Velka protested. "Lady Beleret still has faithful allies. Some of them live on the borders of the region and they will provide help when you arrive."

"As they should." God, Cyreia could already feel the approaching headache. Something told her that many, many headaches would be born of this mess before it was solved. She wanted to leave, leave and forget all of this, but her duties wouldn't just disappear if she ignored them. Unfortunately, it didn't work like that. The realm would still continue to crumble even if she averted her eyes and stuck her fingers in her ears.

"Alright, I have a few more questions. Lady Beleret's brother-- Wellan, was it?"

Velka nodded wordlessly.

"How experienced is he at warfare? What kind of magic does he wield? And as for the lady herself, just how dangerous her situation is? What I mean to ask is, how long will she last in her castle? Is it fortified enough?" The real question underneath all of her queries was: 'How reckless do we have to be to have a shot at saving her?'

 

[Conifer]

"When I left her, there were twelve warriors defending her specifically, and another dozen and a half defending the ways into the castle. Safe enough for a short time. Time we're using up sitting around." Velka replies shortly. "But the keep's fortified well. There's food and supplies enough to last them a year. Previously he hasn't specifically made attempts on her life, but...this time, I doubt he has any restraint." She makes a face of disgust at the thoughts of Wellan's antics. "He knows strategy, and has our milita at his back. Not all agree with him, I'm sure, but they follow him like the lot of cowards they are. He's got little magic himself - my Lady's got the gifts for that - but my people don't go without. The gods have blessed many in the militia with gifts so we might smite who we must."

"I would assume it was like fighting Atheans in general." Remin says, reluctantly, though she focuses on Cyeria. "You're versed well enough in that. Though, I wouldn't be shocked if they borrowed some Eurpiunian defense methods."

"Our methods are our own, your highness." She spits.

"--yes, of course." She runs a hand through her hair, sighing. "I simply mean that they may use magic more defensively as well as offensively."

 

[Aerynth]

"We're not just sitting around," Cyreia said, her tone sharp. Calling her a blasphemer was one thing, but doubting her skills? Now that touched a nerve. "Marching with an army isn't as simple as... deciding to go, and then doing just that right away," she explained. "All the preparations are underway, though, and we should be able to depart shortly. I'm just trying to get a sense of what's happening in the meantime to ensure that we'll emerge victorious."

"Hmpf. I can serve as your guide, if you so desire," Velka offered. "Only a trueborn daughter of Werough can understand the land and its people."

"Absolutely not," Oren said. Cyreia had never heard him speak in such a serious tone before, yet he wore it with such confidence that she believed him every single word. "As your healer, I won't allow you to return home just yet. Not when the one who cast the curse is still there. I didn't save your life just for you to turn around and make all that effort meaningless."

"Oren is right, Velka," Cyreia intervened before she could protest. "I'm sure that your lady doesn't wish for your death and that's the only thing that awaits you there. You've done more than enough, both in delivering the message and sharing the details. Thank you." Everything about the woman rubbed her the wrong way, certainly, but-- she had been genuinely helpful, all things considered. Thanking her was just basic decency. Decency that was probably wasted on her judging by the stare she gave her, though she didn't care about that. Her standards, after all, were her own. How other people reacted to them wasn't her problem.

"Very well, then. I believe we've exhausted all the topics. I wish you speedy recovery, Velka." Cyreia stood up and bowed, then she headed outside. Once the door closed after them, a sigh escaped her lips. "I don't know how that's even possible, but I feel less prepared for the task than I did before." It was probably... well, all that strangely intense religious devotion. Cyreia hadn't encountered that side of Athea yet; not truly. So far, it had been more than enough to sort of stay away and let her people do their own thing, though that wouldn't work in Werough. It wasn't like she could stay away with a rebellion threatening to tear the region apart. "I've barely gotten used to the reality of being an usurper and now I'm also a heretic. It seems I have a lot of talents," she chuckled. "Really, though, how do I avoid insulting my allies? I still don't know your customs too well, particularly when it comes to religion. I imagine that not talking about it will serve me well, but are there... I don't know, little rituals everyone is expected to participate in? Or maybe some specific taboos that should never be broken? Anything that would out me as a foreigner." She wasn't supposed to come as Avther, after all, and her ignorance of the Athean ways could be dangerous.

 

[Conifer]

Remin gave Cyeria a tight smile as they exited the small, cluttered office, and in the mostly empty room they stood now, she reached out to gently squeeze Cyeria's hand before letting the touch drop away in case someone came by to see them. It was likely little comfort, but...there was only so much that either of them could do to make this situation any better right now besides just pressing on through it, until it was over and done with and they wouldn't have to think about or dread it anymore. She does, though, loop her arm through Cyeria's and begins to lead her off down the hall to somewhere were they could talk more openly - Remin's office was the nearest convenient place, and so she led them there as they talked.

"There'll be some grace for you, since this area - and most of the people you travel with - won't be as devoted as Werough is. Everyone will be insulting their sensibilities left and right; they won't notice a small slight in the scheme of things. It won't be a tell that you're not from here, at least." Remin assures her. "But most people you'll meet there will follow a pattern of prayer - in the morning, to Waara, for productivity and success and understanding throughout the day ahead, to Zeion or Mylene when the sun is at its highest point in the sky for luck and bountiful food, and Xyten before bed, for undisturbed sleep." She laughs softly. "There's...a lot that we don't do here, or at least, that my family doesn't do in daily life. There's a good amount of people in this area that do these daily prayers as well. Most just find time to pray to their chosen god during the day, though, or quick utterings to someone who might be useful for a task ahead. It may be worth finding someone you could supply as an answer if your chosen god is asked of you," She shrugs lightly. "But I'm not sure that's worth devoting time to right now. A safe bet would be Rend, who most soldiers have affinity towards - they have domain over noble deaths, ballads...soldierly pursuits."

 

[Aerynth]

Remin's words, at least, brought her some amount of peace. Sticking out like a sore thumb wasn't exactly something she needed on an undercover mission, after all. It was more than enough that she had to worry about... well, about not being identified as a woman. Not that that particular performance cost her any real effort at this point in her life, but still; the more complex her role, the greater the chance of failure. Keeping things simple was the safest choice here. "That sounds kind of like the god we worship," Cyreia noted when Remin recommended her Rend. Could they share some common roots? It was a heretical thought to be sure, but... it wasn't entirely impossible, was it? Athea and Eupriunia weren't too distant, at least not geographically, and one would be lead to assume that they had been exchanging ideas before the relations between the countries had soured. These things happened all the time. Had the exchange affected even this, though? And if so, whose deity had it been originally? Had Atheans accepted the Eupriunian god into their pantheon, or had Eupriunians adopted the one Athean god that fit their mindset? It didn't really matter, Cyreia supposed, and the truth was too distorted by the passage of time at this point, though it fascinated her nonetheless. Tiny tidbits like this showed that they were ultimately similar in spite of all the differences. That maybe, if they could look past all of the conflicts, the countries could potentially exist as allies. (Probably not in their lifetimes, though. Too much blood had been spilled.)

"And what about you, Remin?" Cyreia asked, not even trying to hide the curiosity in her voice. "Do you follow any of the gods?" She... hadn't really noticed her wife praying, though that didn't have to mean anything. Not necessarily. Faith could be a personal, quiet affair and it wouldn't surprise her at all if that was the case with Remin. The life of a monarch was so public, so accessible to everyone who expressed an interest in it that it made sense for her to keep this one thing private. "I... find it hard to believe in these things myself," Cyreia admitted. "Though I'm a difficult person in this regard. My first instinct is to doubt everything people tell me unless I can verify it."

 

[Conifer]

"The royal family officially follows Uais, who...he was a king, a very long time ago, supposedly. He led a bright and shining kingdom that we all hope to attain someday." She laughs a bit at herself, at the repeated and rehearsed phrasing, before continuing. "That being said," She replies. "I don't personally keep to a single god. They all have their purposes," It was, in its own right, a bit heretical herself, though Velka would hate her interpretation of religion to a vastly different end than she hated Eupriunia's. Remin couldn't blame her for that, though. Likely most of the population of Athea even imagined her more devoted than she was. There had been some of that in earnest in her youth, of course, but it had tempered over the years until it was just a bit more than an afterthought might be. "And I appreciate their stories as guidance, but...I guess I'm in much the same boat as you. It's hard to believe that we're worshipping anything but those stories anymore. I think they all existed at some point, or variations of them did, but it's been a long while since any Athean has proved a god to still be influencing us."

 

[Aerynth]

"That's an interesting way to look at it," Cyreia smiled. And frankly? It was also a bit of a relief. Not that it would have bothered her if Remin had been more devoted than she apparently was, but it could have potentially led to problems. Too many relationships were doomed to failure because of differences in faith; something about the topic was so divisive than the mild-mannered ones could fly into rage when someone contradicted their beliefs. It had to be the passion, she supposed. Passion could make people do things they normally wouldn't. Cyreia knew a thing or two about its power as well, didn't she? As such, judging them for it felt sort of hypocritical.

"I guess I understand, though. There's value in stories. We don't even get that in Eupriunia," she continued, her tone growing a bit indignant. "What we get instead is a healthy dose of propaganda." Nobody had ever identified it as such, at least not aloud, but that was exactly how it worked and Cyreia preferred to call a spade a spade. "They tell young, impressionable men that their god wants them to kill and that dying on the battlefield is the greatest honor imaginable. I get why they're doing it and, in a sense, it can even be good for the soldiers. A lot of them really do end up believing it and... well, I imagine that it makes things easier for them. They are less afraid of what's to come, so they perform better. It also gives them a sense of purpose; a sense of serving something much greater than they are. It didn't really work for me, though," Cyreia shrugged. "I always found it to be terribly condescending. I mean, we were risking our lives there and they were lying to us. When we fought, we did so to protect the country's interests, not to appease some nebulous god, and they couldn't even be honest about it." Cyreia paused for a second. At some point during her little speech, her hands had balled into fists and she only noticed that now. God, there was so much suppressed anger underneath. How much of it she still didn't know about? "Am I making at least some sense here? I can't tell what this sounds like from an outsider's perspective."

 

[Conifer]

"It's easier to make it personal." She hums softly, reaching out to take Cyeria's hands, trying to draw some of that tension away from her. "You tell soldiers - you tell people - that they are wanted , and you make them believe it, and they'll do anything. It's terrible." She agrees. "It's manipulative. But it works." Remin squeezes her hands gently. "However, I'm very glad that you're simply too stubborn for it to work on you, my love." Is it wrong to joke now? No, she hopes not. It's only a joke in tone anyways. She means every word of it. "And I'm glad you're here now. You can tell our soldiers what they need to hear, not what we want them to for them to preform their reckless best."

"But," She drops Cyeria's hands reluctantly. "We've gotten off track. What's left to do to prepare? Maric promises we'll have the communication stones by the morning, and the men are armored and outfitted as best we can make them be." She didn't want this conversation to be back on track; idle talk of gods was nicer than the less-idle planning of storming into war. But war was time-sensitive. They could talk about stories and propaganda when Cyeria returned. Because she would. She would come back even if Remin had to go find her himself, and gods, she would. (Or, she'd want to. More practically, she'd send dozens of men after her, and suffer in the safety of the castle alone.)

 

[Aerynth]

"Oh, it did work on me," Cyreia assured her. "In the beginning, when I was younger and more naive. When I actually believed every word they said. Then I started comparing what they told me to what I saw and-- well, let's just say I was cured." It was... strangely freeing to be able to talk about her past experiences so openly, without embellishments and half-truths. In the past, her tongue had been tied; criticisms of this magnitude would have landed her in prison, commander or not. At least some of her subordinates must have seen through the ruse as well, she was sure of that, but they had had their roles to play and voicing the doubts had simply been too risky. Continuing to talk about this would have been nice, but Remin had a point; they still had much to take care of. Too much to engage in idle talk. As so many times before, their duties swallowed them and when they finally emerged, it was time for Cyreia to go.

"Farewell," she kissed Remin softly. The two of them were standing on a balcony and looking down on the courtyard where numerous wagons were being loaded, both with men and equipment. Cyreia should actually be among them, too, but... well, nobody really missed her. Not yet. And if they did? That still couldn't stop her from saying goodbye to her wife properly; no force in this world could. As much as she didn't want to admit it, these could very well be the last words they would ever exchange. Rushing it just wouldn't be fair to either of them. "I will be back as soon as I can. I'll talk to you whenever I can, too. Take care, my love." After that, Cyreia embraced her and held her, held her for so long it seemed it might never end, but eventually, it did.

Somewhat unexpectedly, traveling to Werough felt strangely bittersweet. The bitter part of it she had anticipated; they were going to war, after all, and any opportunities to rejoice were scarce. Remin's absence, too, only served to highlight how much she had grown attached to the other woman. More than once, Cyreia made an observation or had a random thought and said it aloud only to realize immediately after that her words went unnoticed. That Remin wasn't there. Despite being surrounded by thousands of men when it happened, she had never felt more lonely in her entire life. None of that was particularly surprising. What was surprising, however, was the deep sense of peace that came with not wearing the crown and people not calling her 'your highness'. She couldn't afford to be Cyreia, but she wasn't Avther, either, and cutting her ties to the man felt... oddly satisfying, really. Was it the burden of expectations attached to the famous war hero or her past in general that bothered her? She couldn't tell, but it didn't matter. The soldiers accepted her easily and, within few days, they were joking among one another as if they had grown up together. That aspect, at the very least, felt familiar. Friendships forged during wartime tended to be intense, if a bit superficial. They had to be; these people were expected to die for each other, after all.

Werough itself was shrouded in mystery, or at least it looked like that to Cyreia. It seemed as if they stepped into another land. The locals watched them with thinly veiled contempt and even when they weren't watching, it felt like something else always did. Was it magic or old gods? Could they perhaps be stronger in this forgotten part of the country where people believed in them? Cyreia came to the conclusion that she didn't want to know. "It's ridiculous here," she complained to Remin during one of their regular evening talks. "It feels like I'm fighting not only Wellan, but also people that are supposed to be on my side. We had a strategic meeting today and our alliance almost broke up because lord Gynsther and lady Yngran wanted to dedicate tomorrow's battle to a different god. Luckily, my absolute lack of care for that insulted them so much that they were able to bond over it and overcome their differences. So yes, tomorrow, we will fight our first real battle. Wish us luck, my love." Not that they would need it, really. Cyreia hadn't designed the plan with luck in mind; instead of charging to save lady Beleret directly, they would prepare the groundwork by defeating one of Wellan's major allies. Ideally Wellan wouldn't expect that, plus they would also use the pincer strategy. It was as safe as it got-- which, admittedly, didn't mean much in the context of a war. Oh well.

That night, Remin woke up with a strange sense of dread. Everything looked fine, but it very much didn't feel like that. And the strangest thing about it? It didn't even seem as if the anxiety belonged to her specifically. No, it felt as if something was trying to warn her.

 

[Conifer]

It was so hard to watch Cyeria go, but Remin forced herself to. There was some horrid, dreaded - if slim - chance that she wasn't going to return, and Remin wasn't going to allow herself to lose out on these last few looks at her love. They were nothing now, but...if the worst did happen, then she would treasure even the tiny blur on the horizon that was Cyeria horseback and leaving. She lingered there even a few moments longer, even then. Maybe Cyeria would change her mind. Maybe she'd re-appear back on the road. Maybe she would come home, and she would let Remin keep her safe the way she wanted to so badly. There was also the fleeting fanciful idea of mounting a horse and racing after them, but...Avther's was an easier face to remain unknown. Remin's had been on full view her entire life. Even if they hadn't seen her before in the flesh, there were drawings, there were paintings. She couldn't go. She'd endanger everyone if she did, and she'd endanger Cyeria especially. Still...watching her go was awful. The space where her heart sat felt hollow and empty, as if it had been pulled away from her just as Cyeria had been, and was riding away on the makeshift assemblage of carts and horses and men.

One bright spot in the next few days of this tedious wait was the conversations they could hold over the little magical stones - drilled onto cords to wear around their necks, for safe keeping. Remin waited for Cyeria to call; it was less an issue if Cyeria's voice crackled to life in the middle of something than if Remin's did. It didn't stop her from wanting, so badly, to speak with her nearly every moment that she could, but...holding the strangely warm stone in her palm and waiting for it to do anything besides sit heavy and silent there brought some amount of peace. Cyeria was just on the other side of it, regardless of where she truly was. The conversations were better, though, than this idle waiting - unless they existed on the precipice of battle. Then they were decidedly...still better, save for those fractions of the conversation. "All the luck to you." Remin responds, softly, and then, something that matters much more than luck; "I love you. Remember what I told you. Keep yourself safe above all else and return to me in at least mostly one piece." Their conversations couldn't be as long as either of them wanted them to be, unfortunately, and that one faded out quickly after that; it was too risky for Cyeria to be caught secretly talking to someone. But they were nice. More than nice. They were...necessary, if she was to get any sort of work done. It ended with a quiet request, though, of Cyeria to talk to her once the battle was over and done, just so she'd have some peace of mind. And, she supposed, something useful to tell the advisers and something comforting to tell Velka, but it was really herself she was concerned for.

The dread barely registered as anything worse than what she'd been handling since Cyeria left at first, and the sleeplessness equally so. It was hard to sleep, now, without the warmth and weight of Cyeria not in the same bed as her. As Remin lay in bed for a moment more, though, eyes reluctantly open and staring up towards the ceiling, that strange distinction of it not being her own settled into her skin. It felt strange and foreign, and...somewhat similar to her magic, quite honestly, the way it layered over her own self like a complicated mask. Remin sat up in the dark of her room, bare feet hitting the cold stone of the floor and hand going to the dagger (the one she had rather conveniently forgotten to return to Gregor Marsh, the one that made her feel even the tiniest bit more brave) that she'd kept beside her bed since Cyeria and her sword had left. Really, she would probably be a larger threat with a wooden training weapon still, but...it was likely nothing. It was probably nothing. The castle was, even now, well-guarded. "Cyeria," She whispers, still, into the stone around her neck. Maybe this dread is sensing something happening with her wife. They were fighting, after all, and she hadn't heard otherwise. Maybe something awful had happened, or was going to happen, and-- "Stay safe. I love you." It's quiet enough that Cyeria, perhaps, won't even hear it through her stone, but it's so loud in the uneasy silence of Remin's room.

 

[Aerynth]

The medallion around Remin's neck shimmered ever so slightly in response. "Huh?" Cyreia answered, sounding a bit muffled but otherwise fine. There was some background noise in the distance, though none of it sounded like the clashing of steel or agonized screams. They clearly weren't the sounds of battle; just... signs of normal activity, even if that activity seemed to be way more intense than most people would expect at this hour. Footsteps, different voices, someone close to her turning pages of a book quickly, that sort of thing. Apparently the war didn't allow them the luxury of night rest. "Can't sleep?" While Remin obviously couldn't see her, the tone of her voice gave it away that Cyreia was smiling.

"Don't worry, my love. It's going well. The poor lord sent most of his army elsewhere, mostly because we made him believe that that was where we'd attack, so capturing the castle won't be too difficult. Once we succeed, we'll have both fewer enemies to deal with and a valuable hostage. On top of that, I also managed not to join my men on the battlefield. I fully expect you to compensate me for my self-restraint when I return, too, because it's been exemplary so far. I'd much rather-- oh no," she groaned, "lady Yngran is heading my way and she looks very determined. It seems I won't be able to speak for a while. Bye for now. I love you." Cyreia didn't sever the connection, though, so Remin could hear the exchange that followed perfectly.

"Commander," the lady said, her voice indignant, "I've heard what you intend to do with lord Sreigh once we capture the castle. Is it true?"

"That... depends on what you heard, my lady?"

"That you wish to use him in negotiations, and that is dishonorable. It is not the way of Werough. He should hang just like Bynwren, the great betrayer, did."

Cyreia sighed deeply. "No. We're not going to execute people that are more useful to us alive."

"But our way--"

"The king's way is different and this is the king's army. Feel free to apply your own laws when lady Beleret's rule is reinstated; nobody will stop you then. In the meantime, though, you will do as I say."

"Hmpf. That softness of yours will be our downfall. Those people don't deserve mercy and gods will frown at you for granting it to them. They will take our victory away."

"For the last time, it's not about mercy, my lady. It's--"

Somehow, even though Remin had received her confirmation that Cyreia was fine, the feeling of dread didn't abate. It rose in her chest as if threatening to suffocate her; a tidal wave of anxiety carried within her own heartbeat. The shadows swirled strangely around their bed, almost as if guided by an intent, and before she could begin to realize what was happening, a ghostly pale hand reached from them. Reached after her and wrapped its icy cold fingers around her throat.

 

[Conifer]

Remin sat back into bed, her hand on the dagger loosening as she listened to Cyeria's conversation with the Lady Yngran. Her wife's reassurances had done enough to relax her for the moment; the quiet breaking of the nearly unnatural silence of the room brought most comfort than she could have hoped to get. Maybe that was it. Maybe she'd just grown unused to sleeping alone. Her mind was making monsters of shadows and quiet to fill in the spaces where Cyeria belonged. That was it. That had to be it. It was nothing more, nothing less. Even the strange feeling that came along with it existed only in her mind. It was mountains of molehills, and she should really just go back to sleep. If everything went as well as Cyeria had sounded confident it was, then...then she would be home soon. There was nothing to worry about.

Except there was. Even with this desperate reasoning away of her feers, they refused to lessen. If anything, they just got worse. What if it was a premonition of some sort? She'd never had that before, but she'd never had magic in this way before, either. Maybe the fight wasn't going to go as smoothly as Cyeria said. Maybe something terrible was going to happen, and it just hadn't happened yet? Gods, she wanted Yngran to leave. She needed to voice this to Cyeria. Maybe she'd been having these feelings, considering how her magic maybe-worked, and simply didn't want to voice them to Remin in fear of upsetting her. Maybe. But Yngran wouldn't stop talking, and she couldn't interrupt--

-but then the shadows. And the cold, freezing chill that swept through her, or the room, or both. And the hand on her throat, and her own hand grasping wildly at the dagger she'd nearly put down and waving it with the desperation of -- of, well, a woman with a strange hand grasping bruisingly tight at her neck. And the shriek she managed that to save pride she'd later tell herself was so that someone might hear and come running, but was, in the moment, just a startled and desperate sound. It all came so, so fast, and there was little she could do to stop it. Knives did nothing against unnatural shadows, and there was nothing to grasp, nothing to fight off, but Gods, she tried. Her other hand found the chilled wrist and pulled at it, trying to get some sort of freedom as she struggled against it.