αέναος

she is close by. could she be any of the guests he's memorized the silhouettes of? or is she hidden, somewhere in the labyrinth, a dark corner, where she awaits any who stumble into her web? think, taliesin. treading deeper into the maze narrows down his escape plans to two. if he has to fight his way out, then so be it. he begins to follow her, gaze flitting between their surroundings, and potential routes to run. scaling the wall would take too much time. he'd have to hide first. the blade he's hidden in his robes is pulled out and slid into the bracer on his wrist as he continues to go after her.

She hears the faintest sound of metal sliding home. The sound sends a shiver racing down her spine, and with it, a sliver of clarity. Witty, daring, cunning. Knows which questions to ask and which roles to play, ever-masked, as sleek as an eel gliding downriver. Intent on uprooting the spider from her nest. Honored guest, royal and jester, and everything sharp in between.

...Very well.

She leads him to the heart of her home, down the serpentine paths and flower-choked halls, while the moonlight above sifts through the canopy, clean and merciless as a blade. Her hand trails along the ivy, which shifts at her familiar touch, alive and responsive, tangling enchanted messages woven through vein and root. Her guards will not be far. Nor will the labyrinth as it breathes and watches, ever hungry, petals of orange blossom drifting down like a signal. They brush her shoulders as she walks.

Finally, she turns, veiled in their fragrance, shrouded in shadow, and says, "Here we are." The softness glides from her face, dissolves like rain, and beneath it lies nothing but calculation. "Forgive me. Had I known who you were, I would have been more accommodating." Her voice is thin, her words many-legged. "But you came all this way to see me, little king, and I am most flattered." Lenyra takes a half-step forward, not to threaten, but to inform. "I warn you, however, that it will take much more than that pitiful blade to reach my throat."

Love is a scarce resource, and he dreads the thought of being alone. He wanders into the dark like a wounded sylph, without home, without aim, drifting through the haze of his late-night madness, shoulders hunched into a regrettable posture; sniffling, wiping away tears as they well in his eyes, hoping to be obscured, cradled by the veil of darkness stretching endlessly ahead while his bare feet pad across the cool grass.

Who would love him, then? Who would shield him? Who else would foolishly agree to shoulder the burden of him? Helpless thing, he was—how he loathed this pale, gilded carcass; this crippling weakness, this pale flesh rotting around his bones, these lungs, useless, useless! Failing him with every breath—what was he, if not deserving of cruelty, if not deserving of mockery and—

"Eek—!"

Her head feels stuffed. Each time the boy shrieks, her thoughts flutter into the air like feathers. They move in time with his breaths. Up and down, back and forth. There is a faint humming. The sound moves, and she follows it, trailing her head down the boy's chest in a slow drag of hair like river weed. She presses an ear to the vessel of his ribs and listens to the bees trapped within, his pulse buzzing angrily, wishing to break free of its cage. Nao swallows another lungful, rust trickling back down her throat and into her belly, which growls with hunger. She can taste it on her tongue. Ozone before the crack of thunder. The primordial longing of the flame for the wick. Water bubbling from a spring. Magic. So much of it. He is a pitcher stuffed to the brim, overflowing, a veritable cornucopia of milk and honey. Just a bite, a nibble. Nao licks her lips, but then she looks up and forgets her appetite.

He is beautiful.

Not in the way Nayuta is—no one could ever be as fair as she—but delectable to the eye. Enough to sate. She doesn't really want to do anything. Just wants to watch. And so she does, resting her chin on his chest, her eyes large and liquid and dark, like freshly wetted inkstones. Hello, she thinks. My name is Nao. I am quite adrift, but I mean no harm. The boy looks back at her, tears drying on his cheeks. He looks upset. She has upset him. Nao opens her mouth to speak, but only a low whine comes out. Her lungs are on the verge of failing her. Her mind races. What can she do? She thinks of the cat that once nursed her babies outside her cell and finds herself crawling closer. She licks the salt from his face, laving him with her tongue as the mother cat once did her kittens. Nuzzles his temple with her nose. Her breath smells of overripe fruit, sweetness and decay. She believes she may be dying again. With the last of her energy expended, Nao slumps down once more, her lips shaping a name over and over.

Nayuta. Nayuta. Nayuta.

She hopes the boy will feel less sad now. That is not a bad reason to return to existence, is it? To have kept his sorrows company? But she had really hoped to see her Yuty again, at least once, kiss her cheek and hold her hand. Tell her it's not her fault. That in the end, she chose.

what rook wants, however, is a name. an associate. a location. anything that would get him closer to the spider. he wouldn't need to go himself. he could send one of his trusted spies to do the job. this sad little masked boy would be swallowed by the streets of aurea forever.

the hostess doesn't feel inclined to tell him anything, and it's starting to irritate him. why protect her? why protect him from her? he is of no consequence to her. he is a lowly guest of a guest down on his luck, no influence, no power for her to exploit. the best a lady of her station could do with him is give him what he wants regardless of the certain doom she sends him into. unless she's grown fond of him.

she asks for a name, and he feels the walls closing around him. not because he doesn't have a name, but because he's feeling the opportunity to get closer to her slipping away. "it is not only under your roof." he rises from his seat, "she knows how to make him go away. she knows how to make me disappear from under their noses. could you do that for me? would you keep me safe? what would you ask for in exchange?" he shakes his head, stepping to the side. "it was a mistake, coming here."

His voice strikes a chord of sympathy in her. It echoes faintly in her own as she speaks. "You enter my garden reeking of desperation. Far too eager to sell yourself. That is not the lure you think it is." Lenyra knows an owner's cruelty, has felt the blow, has tasted the iron in her mouth. Liar or not, he is reaching for something, and she knows that feeling intimately. And so, she considers granting him the cruel mercy he desires, a dagger for a kiss, a harbor to fall into and never return from. Those most ravenous for change are often of the greatest use to her. She shapes their hunger into a tool befitting her needs while feeding them only morsels. "But not to me, then. Very well. I will not deprive a man of his choices."

The words flow like sorrow, yet trickle down like poison. She can't have him run, so she makes herself the bending reed, beckoning her prey closer to the pool. Whatever fangs hide beneath his mask will be no match for her own venom, not here, in her dew-webbed domain. Lenyra steps back in a murmur of moonlit silk, her shape slight as a willow. "She will not appreciate the disturbance, but she is close by." Closer than he thinks. She smooths her skirt, fingers tracing the outline of the thin knife she swiped from her fruit platter. "I tried..." With those words, she steps into the labyrinth, the shadows swallowing her whole. One thread is all a spider needs. Whether he follows or not, she already has his scent.

nayuta  believes  with  questionable  certainty  that  this  is  the  longest  they  have  ever  looked  upon  lenyra's  face.  they  could  be  called  goodsisters,  yes,  but  it  is  in  name  only.  nayuta  has  already  had  a  sister,  but  she  is  long  gone,  and  they  would  never  wish  her  fate  upon  another.  miseries  abounded  in  this  world;  they,  at  the  very  least,  would  be  more  discerning  with  the  ones  they  enacted.  and  perhaps  they  would  be  well  within  their  rights  to  visit  some  kind  of  vengeance  for  the  smaller  ones  the  woman  had  subjected  them  to  throughout  their  graceful  orbit  around  the  caelestis  star.  'twas  not  an  accurate  reading  —  but  the  wedding  and  funeral  left  nayuta  with  a  bitter  taste  in  their  mouth  despite  the  delicacies  offered  therein.  bumping  shoulders  with  their  husband  and  cracking  wise  in  hushed  tones  was  not  quite  a  salve,  nor  could  it  even  be  called  an  ointment.  as  it  is,  their  depiction  of  their  goodsister  can  be  considered  a  gift  in  its  verisimilitudes,  calculated  to  draw  the  viewer  in  as  the subject  bird-women  did  to  their  sailor  thralls.

❝  many  thanks  for  the  kind  words.  ❞  they've  been  told  before  that  pleasantries  sound  empty  on  their  tongue.  indeed  they  must  be,  for  the  genuine  ones  they've  offered  number  few  and  far  between.  surely  the  lithe-tongued  weaver  is  not  so  unfamiliar,  with  neither  nayuta's  criticism  in  particular  nor  its  twins  bound  for  other  souls.  bluntness  was  their  answering  shield,  a  solid  brick  wall  rather  than  many-holed  filament.  ❝  you  are  not  the  first  to  render  them.  would  that  we  behaved  as  family  ought  ❞  —  laughable,  considering  the  frostfolk  who  had  sculpted  them  —  ❝  you  may  have  come  to  the  realization  sooner.  ❞  there  is  no  accusation  in  their  intent,  though  they  would  not  deny  a  stone  was  cast.

turning  the  sketch  around,  they  rub  dark  smudges  onto  the  rag  hanging  off  a  hook,  screwed  into  the  lectern's  side.  it  is  a  superfluous  habit,  given  the  black-dyed  muslin  already  coating  their  arms  up  to  the  elbows,  but  a  soothing  one  all  the  same.  a  gesture  of  finality  and  a  job  well  done.  or,  in  this  case,  one  yet  to  come.  ❝  have  you  possessed  this  treasure  for  long  ?  you  needn't  have  waited  for  the  scriptorium  to  open  to  the  public,  if  so.  your  goodbrother  can  attest  to  my  generosity,  though  perhaps  he  might  object  to  my  taking  my  work  home.  ❞  a  slight  raise  to  their  chin,  a  downward  tilt  of  their  gaze.  forever  a  yukimoto,  made  for  snowcapped  peaks.  ❝  but  you  needn't  worry.  my  diligence  does  not  differentiate  between  mandate  and  favor.  ❞  for  there  have  ever  been  so  very  few  of  the  latter.

She remembers her goodsister's features well. An implacable mask passing for a true face, all those fine lines painted with brushstrokes that hide the ever-shifting creature below. She is a snow-carved pillar standing apart from the crowd, seemingly exempt from their petty rivalries and glorious riches, only ever coming to life when her goodbrother's whispers brush her ears, as if it is only his breath that animates her. The way magi weave spells into statues, leashing them to do their bidding while the stone remains ever unaware. She is nothing to Lenyra, a bystander and puppet to Leonidas' cruelty. Perhaps this would have roused pity in her, were it not for the memory of her wedding. When they had draped her in ivory and saffron, crowned her with a wreath of myrtle and orange blossoms, and sent her into Lucan's arms like a prize pig to the slaughter. When, beneath her second veil of tears, she had glanced at them both and seen their gleeful smiles and vulture's claws, turning a wedding feast she had never desired into their private banquet of bones.

Does she think Lenyra does not recognize the barb's sting? Between the two of them, it is she who has walked the coal path, who picked the tender skin from her heels until it burned no longer, until she could walk into flame and tame it with naught but a kind word. Veiled insinuations meant to wound no longer reach her. "An error we must rectify, sister," Lenyra affirms. "Few things in life matter as much as kin and kindred." Her gaze follows Nayuta as she cleans her hands. Were it that simple. They are all bound to the Caelestis, and none of their ledgers will ever be free of that stain. Lenyra lets the silence stretch after the question, lets the seconds drift by as though underwater, while she tilts her head and graces the other woman with a smile that is more pyrite than gold. When she finally speaks, she does not blink. "I am not prone to asking for favors without offering something in return. In my experience, that soon becomes a dangerous habit."

Her hand reaches toward the tome, a finger settling just above the inked drawing and tapping twice. "But you went above and beyond, which I consider worthy of recompense." She reaches into the pearl-beaded purse hanging from her belt and produces a plain pouch, its clumsy embroidery weathered with time, barely legible. 那由多. Another treasure. A poisoned apple. A small vengeance inflicted upon her goodsister for a girl long gone. "I believe this is yours?" She slides the pouch across the desk. "I am not sure of its value..." Her voice lilts, siren-sweet. "But I do know one should never grow careless with things that belong to them." Inside nestles a small hay doll, the kind children make. Her agents plucked it from the aftermath of violence, where three lost their lives, seemingly shred apart by animals even though they were found deep within the city. An odd scene to be linked to, and a fortunate thing Lenyra obtained the evidence instead. Too fortunate.

Was that what they were? A tale to be written and rewritten in a the eyes of others to amuse themselves? Did it truly look so strange for a creature such as he to search solace in her company? "Then forgive your general for speaking so brazenly, Lady of Delights..." his head inclines towards her, pulled naturally into her orbit in a gesture that teeters somewhere between courtesy and intimacy. "But I think you are much more than just that." Perhaps not to the untrained eye—to those cemented in too much judgement to make room for curiosity, but he does. He thinks he does—see her, that is; beyond the veils of hedonism, beyond the facade of indifference she wears. He was certain no mask could be worn for long without wearing traces on one's skin... just as he was certain there was much more to her than she had ever been given credit for. There is a pause, thoughtful, hesitant, as though he weighs each word before offering it at her alter. "You, my lady, are clever as a fox, is what you are..." Much clever than he, who would've not thought to take advantage of such rumors, but put his ego first where it had no place being. Every time he comes, she teaches him something new. The corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly, unveiling the faintest flicker of amusement beneath his usual solemn expression. "Wise well beyond your years." He adds, his perilous gaze steady upon her. "If the magistrates possessed any sense, they would put you in charge." he'd much happier serving under her, he thinks. Though much of her remains a mystery, somehow he had faith she would be neither as wasteful, nor as mercurial as the lot of them.

He laughs, and his throat bobs—a rare sound, gravely and harsh from misuse. It catches in his throat before settling into an easy exhale, and for a fleeting instant he feels unburdened of the weight of his responsibilities. "Perhaps it is you who's shrunken a few inches," he teases back, the jest is dry, understated, with enough warmth behind it for her to recognize his feeble attempts at being playful.

"Mm..." an agreeable nod follows, the well-behaved, dutiful son living within those bones of his still. "Then you should be the one to trim it," a faint smile touches his lips. "I trust your hand to be gentle with me." It had been some time since he had asked Lian for a trim—surely his baby brother would not be too upset to delegate such boring duties onto the hands of another, would he?

Silence settles comfortably between them, his eyes hesitant to even look, as though that in itself was a kind of betrayal. "Mm…" he is shy; all these years, and Sheng is still much too timid to approach—the answer, if you could call it that, is nothing but a quiet, agreeable hum, afraid to exist, to be heard, to be acknowledged. "Perhaps..." his eyes drift toward the gardens beyond, to the wisps of fair locks caught in a playful breeze, the the sweetened air, imbibed in the scent of mischeif and ripe fruit, moonlight spilling across winding paths and rustling hedges as the moths flutter in the endless blue.

It has always been thus. He stretches his hand towards the spider and trusts her not to bite. She presses her fingers against the demon's brow and does not burn. Is this kinship, then, to sit with your jagged edges pressed tightly together without being cut? Lenyra watches him from the corner of her eye, her observation washing over the other not like a rush of water, but as a cooling balm instead. Slow and languid, without intrusion. She notes when his eyes drift shut, too open, too comfortable. A man sits beside her, with open fists made for striking, but she does not fear them, and that was not always so. True, he is still a lion laying his maned head upon her lap, paws tucked beneath his body, the promise of violence present in the strength of his limbs and the bellows of his lungs, but she can look upon him with proffered softness without play-acting. That too was not always so. Her lip twitches. "Of course. Few in this world deserve such a boon as your trust. I would not waste it."

Clever as a sphinx, but much prettier, Lucan used to say, in those early, joyous days. The precious months when she was a wife and not a workhorse, and he had taken her on a tour of the city's thermae. They had supped each eve on oysters, which he would feed her from his plate, telling her the world was a pearl for the taking. In the end, I took it, she thinks, but not for you. She blinks away the memory. Not the time nor place. Yet she thinks of Lucan more often nowadays. How can she not? With those dreams... Lenyra leans closer, veiled in a fragrance of cedar and jasmine, and focuses on Sheng's features. If only I'd married you instead, she thinks, not for the first time. It is an idle thought, not a true wish, one made for simpler times and a simpler woman. Her place is not in the marital bed, but at the zenith of where the moon meets the mountain, fate-weaver and light-eater. At Sheng's admission, the corners of her eyes crinkle with true delight, not merely the mirror of it. "Do you propose I take the highest seat for myself? It is a long way up, but an even longer way down." Her voice shifts into a teasing note. "Especially for us little ones." Her hand rises once more to weave a lock of hair around her fingers, quick and efficient as a spider's stride. "Would you catch me, General?"

it is a compelling game he plays. speaking out loud something profound and from his heart, something he could only do when he's not acting like himself. the hostess doesn't know him. may never see him again after tonight. and yet, their conversation will stay with him for years to come, he thinks.

there's a change in the air, which he suspected would happen once he uttered the question. it was said in a risky way. bluntly, even, for the boy he plays the role of knows not how much danger he may put not only himself, but her as well. he reminds himself to act taken aback as she leans in closer to him, he himself pressing up against the armrest. it's a shame he forgets to act with his eyes too, his calm gaze betraying the frightened body language he's exhibiting.

"...so you do know of her." his voice drops, but only for a second before it's back to the light one of his designated role for the night. "please, my lady, he's a monster! I wish t-to escape the role I was forced into. I desire a new role. one that she may bestow upon me."

Presumptuous little thing. He plays the desperate ingénue well, she will give him that. But as his words reverberate down her web, the spider listens only to the pulse beneath. She measures the rhythm of his lie. Unweaves the discordant notes hidden within. It's the little things: the hitch in his voice, the absence of dread in his gaze, the previous intelligence that ill matches his supposed foolishness.

In response, Lenyra brushes a finger against her lower lip, as though in thought. He has come into her house, drunk her wine, eaten from her table, and now he has lied to her. Her eyes close briefly. She sighs. "I do."

Lenyra turns, her gaze drifting towards the labyrinth. Shadows gather in the angles of her face, shrouding her expression. "You would trade one pair of chains for another? Who is to say hers will be any looser?" Her voice dips into a softer register, half pity, a caress strung like a noose. "Who is to say her protection does not come with a price?" Her hand rises to twist the ring upon her finger, a nervous gesture. "I would not have you make the mistake I did..." As she looks back over her shoulder, melancholy wells in her eyes like water. "Let me be the one to help instead. Tell me who has harmed you. I will not allow such barbarity beneath my roof."

if only, his pursuit for the night were naught but search for pleasure. if only, he was just one of the small-folk, taken and used by those in power, desiring to taste something sweet, just for tonight, before having to wake up into the nightmare of existence again. if only, he were that... boring.

"I'd heard tale of a woman." he reminds himself that he is playing a role. naive, wanting, destitute. no clue of how much of a risk it may be, to speak of her. "one that offers help to folk like..." a soft smile, hidden behind the mask, "like me. in exchange for whispers." gloved fingers in his lap begin to fidget, feigning a set of nerves coming over this poor lost little bird he's playing the role of. "...is she here, perhaps?"

Your eyes are the color of rich earth, Lenyra thinks. You do not understand what it is to be barren soil. No love can take root here; it was torn from me a long time ago. "Are you a romantic, stranger, or is this your poet's soul speaking?" The words lilt, light and teasing. "With a mere phrase, you've cut to the heart of it. I no longer seek such pleasures. If it is destined, Fortune will guide what I desire to me." She speaks from the heart now, but she longs not for a loving touch, but a sharp knife aimed at his throat. Her creator. Her enemy.

The change is immediate. The slight levity dissipates like mist, and her eyes shift into a shade that catches the light yet reflects nothing. She becomes motionless, eerily so. "I see." After a beat, Lenyra steps forward, noting the slight difference in their heights. One arm leans on the carved armest behind him. She brings her face close, her whisper brushes the wood of his mask. "Noble guest, if you chase such dangerous pleasures, then it will be on your own head." Another beat, and then she leans back, releasing him. "This is meant to be a place where we escape our roles. The woman of whom you speak is no exception. Even posing such a question here places me in peril, do you understand?" Lenyra steps back and shakes her head. "If I am to risk her ire, then so be it. But first, tell me what trouble you are in. At least give me that."

Lenyra watches him swell with some unnamed emotion from the edge of her vision. There is a taste in the air; petrichor before the storm; the wet scent of salt before the flood. The man beside her is a wineskin filled to bursting. He is adept at hiding his emotions, however, so Lenyra knows only of the fracture's existence and cannot make rhyme nor reason of it. All she has are his words, splintered into meaning, to be puzzled back into a whole. "I've heard tales," she starts gently, her voice woven with spider silk. "Of the burden your people bear with each captured memory. Yours is a noble profession. But the worthiness of your work does not excuse the sacrifices it asks of you." She places the poisoned offering at his feet, like a date dusted with hemlock. Then comes the question: "Pilfered? An interesting choice of words. Not exchanged, not given, but taken?"

She does not ask further, lets the words linger in the air like the blossom smoke. He will answer, or he will not, and even in the silence she will read meaning.

Emeric's chuckle is laced with iron thread, something that tightens instead of releases. Lenyra leans forward slightly, gossamer silk gathering at her elbows like clustered webs. "You are bold tonight." One brow arches. "I do not mislike it. Though I am unsure whether you wish to injure or question." Their gazes lock in a collision of blue, though there is no violence in it, at least not on her behalf. Quite the opposite. He has finally made himself interesting.

"Do you see impermanence as a fault? It is true I cannot offer any lasting satisfaction, but I have never claimed to. Few things in life are permanent. What pleases a man today might grieve him tomorrow. I offer no mooring, only a stop along the way. For some, that is enough. For you, it is not. And so, you have set yourself apart from us." Lenyra leans back again, supple and fluid in her repose. "But as long as you're here, I will make the journey with you." Another pause. Then truth, exchanged like a coin, polished and perfect. "My dear Emeric, I would offer you entire years if I could. If I did not value the person they have made of me. If I did not need their lessons."

Her gaze drifts to the labyrinth. "Wouldn't you? Have you never been tempted to ask a token for yourself?"

Lenyra imagines digging a nail into the fey creature. She wants to peel away his skin like birch bark and trace the rings etched within, decipher the truth with her fingertips. "Ah, of course," she says, wiping away the beads of tears welling beneath her eyes. "As you wish. Will you not even take some water? You must be parched, you poor thing." She shakes her head, curls tousling artfully over her shoulder, strewn with pearls that catch the light like morning dew. "I shall not impose on you, then."

Their giggle chimes, bell-like, and she feels something inside her tighten. It feels familiar, a shard of mirror glass presented as the whole. Another one of Aulus' creatures, unaware that his hand has already begun their fracturing. She feels his presence here like a hand wrapped around her throat. His and Lucan's.

Brushing away another stray tear, she nods. "I never thought otherwise." By which she means she never thought herself safe. Others have perished since then, for it is true that the first spill of blood is the most difficult, but they are the only specters that cling to her. Even in death, they stake their claim. She knows it every time her name is called, sung, praised.

Caelestis.

Bartered. Bought. Marked.

She cannot escape Lucan; she cannot wash away the soot of his touch, the memory of his hands bruising her skin. "Indeed, if even my husband was not safe within the city's walls, then who else is?" Her voice weaves the spell, intent to choke. "Such dangerous times we find ourselves in."

Hands settling in her lap, Lenyra allows herself the comfort of a single breath, drawing out the moment as her mind races. "The fault is mine, I'm afraid. Many petitioners come to my doors on nights such as these, disturbing the peace of my guests. Thus, I have instructed my servants to let no one enter, no matter their station or professed intent." Her eyes flick upwards in a sliverlet of blue. "You would not believe the lies they tell. Even so, I apologize. They should have informed me."

Even now they walk the thin rope without falling; they are the eternal passive observer, showing neither allegiance nor weakness. Haneul Kwon possesses the substance of unyielding iron, and their eyes form the hard cut of obsidian—they cannot be bled. And so, they rest at the center of her web without fear of her bite.

Lenyra tilts her head ever so slightly. "Perhaps, though only rarely does worship endure unseen. The true fervency of a ritual swells until it bursts, then trickles to an audience like water through a crack in a vase." A faint curve of her mouth. "That is why a priest needs his congregation. That is why a martyr's death must always be witnessed."

Lenyra does not plan to climb a pyre. But she will build one. Normally, she would take her time. Wind her narrative with spider silk. But urgency has taken root within her, and her fingers move through their craft quicker than usual.

Her dark eyelashes fan her cheeks as she looks down. Her words are as precise as a needle through cloth. "You were too young, of course, to have witnessed it." For a moment she imagines the lamb's pristine coat, its wet nose, its limpid eyes filled with trust. The silver knife descending in a sliver of light. The babe bleating as its parents crumple to the floor, life seeping from them with every stolen heartbeat.

"They were led to their slaughter by a rope they did not see, strung by those who had much to gain from it. But so many hands were present in that room, and so many eyes, all failing to catch a single detail. Blinded by shock, no doubt." Lenyra bites down on another grape, the white pillar of her throat bobbing as she swallows. She lets the words settle while the cries of the labyrinth continue to crest and fall, soft strings drifting through the music. Only when the lyre strains its final tune does she speak again.

"The Magisterium's finest. Unable to solve the murder of one of their own in broad daylight."

The narrative Lenyra wove promptly tangles and knots as he misses her hints and stumbles into a sordid tale of his own. In response, she leans her head against her palm, fingers reaching up to smooth the thin veins webbing over her temple. Sweet, dumb boy.

"Thank you, Lian," Lenyra replies, low and even. Her eyes drift to a nearby table, where a pair of dice players peer at her with judgment. "I knew I could count on you." Her gaze returns to his open palm, resting over his open heart. Vows roll so easily off his tongue. A thing to be noted. Brushing another errant curl beneath her veil, she adds, "A friend of sorts." Her contact is supposed to bring new information on the sudden levies constricting commerce on Weaver's Street. She suspects one of the merchants there desires a monopoly and has struck a bargain with a local administrator. Such clear evidence of back-alley diplomacy would be a useful thread to keep up her sleeve.

But tonight she will go home without either arms or means, and with a detour added to her schedule. "I fear I've been abandoned tonight, cara, left to my own company." She grants him a luminous smile, her ivory teeth like pearls, moonlike melancholy inlaid with forbearance. "Instead of the wind, would you be my anchor and stay with me?" Her hand settles over his for a brief moment, then returns to her lap. The gesture is a clear signal. Her contact, having just entered, stills in the doorway. He immediately turns and slips back into the night. Now she must strip the loom and begin anew.

A soft breath escapes her that isn't quite a laugh. "Flattering, but few things are. It is true pride myself on offering my guests only the finest delicacies, but were I to eat such fare myself each day, my coffers would soon be emptied." In private, she prefers the simple bounties of the earth: the golden crust of freshly baked bread, the earthy flavor of nuts, the slow-dripping sweetness of honey, and the dark mouths of figs.

"Hm?" Lenyra cocks her head, her eyes finding Lian's "friends" over his shoulder once more. They may be of the genuine sort, but she has not lived this long by overestimating the kindness of others. "What sort of songs?" Sheng does not know. Sheng... might tear apart the lower city brick by brick if he did, so for all their sakes, she will keep her silence. "I will take 'not half-bad' over 'not very good'." Her voice ripples between them, faintly teasing. "And once you return, you may regale me with a song, so I know whether or not I have a future performer on my hands."

she rewards him with a light laugh, one that sounds like something he would chase with another jest, were he not here for another purpose. perhaps another time. the hostess has turned out to be quite the companion on this warm night. "I suppose I was a hungry child." a lie, as he hadn't seen stars until he was well in his adult years. his role for tonight may be a guest of a guest, a plaything for a politician, perhaps, with humble beginnings, one that does not seek the same pleasures as those that wield more power.

she speaks, and he wonders whether she believes her own words. or whether she utters whatever she thinks her conversation partner might like to hear. perhaps it is both, as it is the same for him.

the cake is finished, and he turns halfway, giving her his full attention. "is there a reason why you do not participate, then? are you waiting for someone worthy of your desires?" he trails off, pointedly looking off towards the sounds of revelry. "perhaps that is what I seek as well. someone worthy..." a glance back, "will you help me in my search?"

In Aurea, a hungry child who survives to adulthood becomes either a sycophant or a survivor. The slight irreverence with which this man speaks suggests he is the latter. Good. Sycophants were plentiful and scurried to her side like mice, feeding on scraps of favor and squeaking whatever flatteries their betters wished to hear. To Lenyra, there exist a fine line between selling oneself and buying into one's own sophistry, and a long way down.

Lenyra cocks her head, considering. "Worthy enough to replace my husband, perhaps." She twists the ring on her finger. Her voice shifts, soft as a sigh, fragrant with the perfume she dabs along her collarbone and the inside of her wrists. "Though he is long gone, and our bed has grown cold since, I have not found his equal."

A spider in a garden, pretending to be a rose, must take care in how she speaks. Were she to leap at every vibration, her prey would soon scurry back into the dark and leave her to her hunger. This man may serve use. So, she must move with softened words, become the foxglove that hides poison within its bell.

"My father is dead." The bluntness of the sentiment feels bitter and unkind on the tongue; perhaps that is why it feels fitting. His father was never one for ceremony, or cushioning the blow, and so it is regurgitated unceremoniously, buried beneath the cold veil of indifference he has learned to don well, burying his grief where none could find. A lie, and a poor one at that. His father had been dead, yet Sheng carried his judgment in the marrow of his bones, consulted with a dead man before every choice as though the grave might answer, change the inevitable. How do I become something other than you? He'd ask the mirror, and hear only silence from the other end.

He doesn't ask again. Least he is reminded of his failure, as a friend, and as a general; they should keep each others secrets warm for the night, to make room for more pleasant conversation. Surely in her own ways... she must seek reprieve in the nights as well? He takes another piece of fruit between his fingers, if only to busy them, red rivulets spilling down bruised knuckles, calloused fingers, violent against the fair pallor of his skin. "Whatever he thought or didn't has long ceased to hold any weight. Least of all to you." What was it that he used to tell him? No man is infallible. Lenyra cloaked herself in hedonism but never partook. She offered him a fruit she herself didn't bite, dangling temptation while never succumbing. There was more to her that meets the eye, but he supposed she relied on that—underestimation. A self-assured foe was easy prey, after all, and she weaved her webs patiently, cautiously; perhaps it was foolish to believe the sincerity in her sentimentalism towards him—but he does. He would not deny that deny that he does. Whatever machinations happened behind the curtains, he trusts she would come to him if there was need for it.

The mandarin she leaves upon his plate receives a dubious glance—he has barely made a decent dent in the pomegranate, and already she seeks to feed him something else. Indulgence. He thinks of it, and he thinks of her. He feels like a boy being fussed over again, and wonders if she ever gets to feel like a girl—if she ever did.If someone had ever peeled her fruit for her, and made sure her plate was full. He pulls one of the halves apart, picking at the white filaments with meticulous care, and holds it out for her. "So, we are intriguing..." there is something almost humorous in in his cadence, though his voice betrays little of it. His red eyes remain linger on the soft ripples of her hair; he abstains from touch even when he craves it, and allows for her to take what her hands reach for instead. "I can't imagine the boredom it takes to conjure such mindless drivel." The mouths of Aurea's patricians flapped ceaselessly, and Sheng had long learned to let their words pass through him like wind through an open door. That Lenyra seemed equally unbothered should settle the matter, so he'd let it rest. At least until the latter ceased to be true.

He eats a segment of the mandarin while she toys with a lock of his dark hair, stealing glances from his peripheral, the shadow of a smile threatening to surface. "I suppose making myself scarce would be uncharitable, then." The concession comes quietly. Easily enough to be missed beneath the revelry surrounding them as the tension across his shoulders relents by a fraction—he will stay, until she has no use for him anymore.

"I thought you liked my hair." He spares a smile, fleeting, a hint of boyishness in the curve of his mouth flickering briefly before it disappears again. He does not recoil from her touch as he would most, not hers. There's trust in the way his weary head inclines, almost imperceptibly, into the hand at his cheek.

He often speaks as if he is a hammer seeking a nail, but she does not feel the blow as others would. Whatever heaviness shapes his words is for him to lash himself with, not to strike at others. Forever repentant for one imagined sin or another, he bathes his wounds in saltwater, and all she can do is salve the lesions whenever he allows it, and trace the red-lettered markings that phrase his guilt and pronounce them forgiven. I've known my fair share of the evil that walks this earth, she sometimes wishes to say, and you soar so highly above them all. But she does not, for he would not listen.

"I'm aware," Lenyra replies softly. At least you know where to find yours. "But that does not mean his legacy does not weigh on you, or that I would dishonor it." Lenyra watches Sheng tear his fruit into a glistening rupture and is suddenly struck with the desire to split open the sun itself and scorch away all that has harmed him. Them. This city is a gilded coffin harboring decay, and it has reduced everyone inside to carrion and scavenger. If she could, she would reduce it to sun-bleached bone, that another world might grow atop the old one. But no world will ever be better, and all she can do is weave a slightly different tomorrow. Not a kinder one. Not a more merciful one. But twined into a new shape.

"Yet the memory holds weight," Lenyra calmly corrects. "Memory is not only a burden. It is also a lesson." If not, all her days of servitude would have been for nothing. All that pain and blood would have been just another bruise fading into nonexistence, forgotten by the man who had caused it all. She will not allow such a thing. Every humiliation bestowed upon her she will return tenfold, or die trying.

The memory sharpens her enough for her next words to prick at the shell of the soldier beside her, who has done her no wrong, but was born into the same Aureate privilege that makes men monsters. "And your father was no stranger to indulgence himself, so another lesson can be found in that." Her voice is supple as flowing water, intended to drown, and just then Sheng offers her a sliver of orange. She looks at it, takes it, and tastes it. The poison dissolves on her tongue. The spider withdraws back into her webbing, soothed and shamed.

"You are the general." Her voice shifts into true softness then, that of a mother's fingers brushing a brow. "And I am the lady of delights." Lenyra leans closer, a faint smile curving her mouth. "We play our parts, the audience leaves satisfied, and all is well beneath the heavens— as long as we don't look up." She leans back and brushes a lock from her temple. The slopes of her shoulders rise in a slender shrug like white-foamed waves. "Be glad they whisper. A reputation, false or otherwise, provides protection where anonymity does not." Her eyes sweep over Sheng in a once-over, her inspection swift but teasing. "Not that obscurity was ever in the cards for you. I do believe you've grown in size since we last met."

His head rests in the cradle of her palm. In response, her thumb brushes once along his cheek. "I do not like your hair, Sheng, I adore it. That does not mean a trim is not in order." Her words fill with quiet warmth, an ember within the hearth. "Haven't I taught you to always look your best?"

" then please, do indulge yourself. " spoken with his hidden longing that rose from his silent depths. like honey spilling from its comb. " i would quite like your curious hands. "  just as spike would like his hands trailing over her silken wilderness, her locks bespeckled under pearls. and as he sits in front of her, he watches how the silver spark of the moon kisses them like jewels, each and every single one of them catching the pale breath of the night. but the olive branch above them stirs, and their leaves whisper secrets of the odyssey he’s about to make.

" and you, my little spider, when you’re finished discovering me, i wonder with all that weaving, with all those clever little schemes of yours, whether you’ll realize i allowed you the first victory. "  for perhaps the wasp merely liked his threads pulled, tugged from the seams at the legs of an arachnid myth. she was a living echo, an ancient rite, adorned with the beauty that was not with the gentleness of spring, but with the cut of winter, for in her silence laid the depth of her elusive grace. but each tremor of his breath spears like an arrow's destined mark. for was he not a hunter of desire? fashioned from ancient clay, in ruin for her admirance. he would pull the moon from its celestial throne to spare her a closer look. " well earned? "  spike would have laughed if the moment allowed it. still, there’s a flash of his teeth, eyes squinting upon her like a blade that bore no simple hunger. " you and i both know i don’t like fences built around things that are meant to tempt. "

and the earth knew him well enough for that, for spike was nothing if not a tree made of pine, a living column of a silent shadow, a hound with his roots clung in the soil, clutching survival and stone alike, and the phantom taste of her wine, it seemed. " and you and i both know that i find that the platter tastes much sweeter when the chase makes me work for each bite. "  says he, purring around the shape of vine wrapped pillars, in pretense of being a humble warrior. and as the blossom of orange lofted, he turned into the hunter and hunted. the seeker and the sought. a patron of the wilderness and the chase. " so will you? make me work for it? "  spoken no louder than a mere breath.

his cerulean gaze does not stray from her, does not dare to seek refuge in the colored tiled floors beneath them, surrounded by little cracks of verdure. his grip tightens around her ankle the moment her touch finds his chin. her fragrant wrist, like a hidden garden, braided and veiled in myrtle and rose. his lungs pull the scent, indulging himself in the offering. still, his hand remains a vise, wrapped around her skin that surpasses possession, and it only betrays him as he finds himself boughing like an aged cedar towards her. when her dress lifts, it’s a dance of death. of a bloom of roses, yet the seeds were barely sown, and spike would pluck them still. unhouse them from their blossom, uproot them from the stem. he does not miss an inch of her pale flesh.

as the grape gets crushed, the hunter within him falls silent, and in his stillness, the woodland yields, yearning for a glimmer of light, of the ripened tyranny of the sun. hunger blooms within the pit of his belly, and as she lures the grape from ankle to knee, the trail is left like ivy ascending a sacred totem, or moss held fast upon mortar. but spike is a loyal hound, and when the hour calls for it, it demands for him by pulling at his spirit, and the hand of patience turns him docile. so he gives her a moment to withdraw, to place an interval to halt the spell between them. for was she not the work by the gods' own making, and was the will of them not crafted within her, bound by divinity itself?

it’s sudden; his tightened grip and the pull that brings her closer. not born of the rush of violence, where a beast may lay a claim, but as a starving wanderer, with equally as starving lips, still soft and velvet like, trailing a path from the ankle bone to her knee. it’s reverent, the arc of devotion, and as the juice expels itself to the faith of gravity, that too, he licks clean off.

with a mortal craft and earthly hands, the path he comes to trail above her knee becomes a splendor of myth; an unveiling of soft, pillowy thighs to his own vision. as his teeth come out, it grazes the skin, like sap on a bark, and as he bites the inner of her thigh, his hands slide higher, fingers digging into the soft give of her flesh as a mark is sucked. he comes to kiss it gently, only to soothe it, no more than a crest of a moon that would be spilled upon wildwood. spike’s hands are warm, a heavy contrast to the wet coolness against the air he leaves.