“Walk the same tale over and over."

The ire of beasts burns through the veins in his wrists, blood pumping, red and angry; he is filled with savagery, but the moment breathes the same air as Adrian he feels himself deflate. His morals, his wounds, what did they matter? Where was his wrath now? It is so no use to turn them away from him, when the darkness behind his own eyelids will not offer respite. He sees their face so clearly there, anger and disappointment staring back at him, and feels his hand tremble with weakness; fingers slipping from the warmth of his mouth, sticky and wet and shaking. He wishes he'd taken a bite, ripped a piece of them off as punishment. What right had he to touch them?

"Why… Why didn't you—" he swallows and the words die in the well of his throat, choke, weak and restless, fading in the corridors of his mind with all other things that went unspoken between them. I'm sorry. I love you. Please don't hurt yourself. Make it stop. "What was it about me…" he can't bring himself to ask—it is too late now, anyway. She's mad, he's angry, and there's nothing to be done with the wreckage that was left of them, and at the end of each day only one thought remains: I miss you. Echoed over and over, until he had driven himself insane. "Stop…" another plea—the honesty that spills from their tongue so disarming, the offering so cruel. He lowers his head, tired and weak; he feels his heartbeat dimmer than it was before. His diseased mind cannot play catch up—not with Adrian. They are a constant turmoil, filling every crevice of him with doubt, with uncertainty; he stumbles, catching himself on their shoulder, one large hand gripping for balance, the other clutching at the fabric above their sternum as old wounds stirred back to life. He wondered if this was how his father felt, just before—"I do—I do miss you... I do—" His shoulders roll forward, draped in ebony, hunched over them like a creature as his breath grows ragged; he is like a dog, kicked over and over again, dragging himself back to their feet. "I'm sorry..." the tall thing looming above them whispers, wounded. "I'm sorry for everything—I'm sorry, my little one," he tumbles—falls with a muffled thump, kneeling against the dirt under the force of their wrath, only then he is smaller, more malleable, less shadow.

oh, how easy he makes it sometimes. one look is enough to hear threats that sound all to sweet coming from him. maybe that's exactly what he wants. one of those 'punishments' for being disorderly that brings a certain flutter to his core. he knows it's not right. he knows it's not appropriate. and yet... brows twitch in surprise, eyes wide with a few little words dancing on the tip of his tongue, itching to be let out.

does sheng realize what he sounds like when he says those words? does he understand how one as delusional as this bard could interpret these sentences? the idea that he is all but clueless to his own charm makes him even more charming. and taliesin decides he will not let him know. instead, he will simply sit there, and enjoy the haze of his own delusions. "you want to make my decisions for me?" good luck with that, he thinks. "what do I get in return?" as always, he must make everything into a business transaction. "for being obedient, I mean." it's all hypothetical, of course. taliesin only behaves for himself. anyone that tries to control him will find that it all depends on whether he allows them to. "right. so, next time I choose my company for the night, I shall come to you beforehand. makes perfect sense."

before he knows, the dumpling is shoved inside his mouth, and tal recoils, squeezing his eyes shut. he should've bit the general's finger for doing that. he still might. he pulls a face as he's chewing, quickly, just to defy sheng at any moment, before swallowing hard. he takes a breath, and before he can speak, the general says his name, and he's taken aback.

the question is awaited with a surprising silence from the bard, as if uttering his full name like that has enchanted him. and then, a different sort of silence falls between them. trust? does rook of the thieves' court trust the demon general? the answer is an obvious no. the two are natural enemies. but does taliesin trust sheng? taliesin, who is deathly afraid of being a burden? who makes everything into a joke?

A chopstick is pointed at him accusatorily—"I want you to make good decisions," he clarified, so confident his offer was not only reasonable but kind. "And I do not trust you to do that by yourself... you can't even pick a healthy meal for dinner." what hope is there, then, for him to pick a proper mate? Of course his happiness is important too... but what about his safety? Who would guard his heart if he didn't? Taliesin was his friend—begrudgingly, he could admit that to himself; he did not wish for him to fall for one who treated him as lesser, or played his heart like a fiddle under the guise of providing thrill and excitement. Selfishly, he knew he'd rest easier at night too, knowing there was someone taking care of them so they'd not try to ride a minotaur or swim in mermaid infested waters on a whim.

"Maybe I could choose someone..." he muses, entirely dismissing his bargain. "I think I could find someone with infinite patience among my men..." Perhaps not. Though, it'd be easier to use his authority to threaten them into behaving well. "Oi! Oi..." as always, he pulls him out of his thoughts, interrupting his line of thought. "I said slow—tch... why are you so stubborn?" he moves his hand in a sharp gesture, as if to thwack him again—but doesn't. More empty threats, and now he's watching his throat bob intently, as if afraid he would actually choke. Will he give him not a moment of peace?

Awkwardly, he feels himself adjusting his posture, put on this vulnerable spot with nobody to blame but himself—his mind rushes back to the nymph he'd failed to rescue, his own passiveness a poison, his naivete a weapon he had handed them too easily—over and over he'd failed them. He did not wish to fail Taliesin too. "It's occurred to me lately, perhaps... I'm not... very good at... being a friend," the words are dragged out like grovel—it was not a lack of will to adhere to the role, but a lack of understanding in how to do so—the other children had always kept their distances, Lian, with sunshine in his smile, in his eyes, lit up the room, and had always been better at that—making himself approachable, making it easy for people to confide in him. He had never learned. He felt like rusted machinery, moving stuffily, stumbling over his own feet, his own words, in his feeble attempt to harness trust. "I know trust my sword..." Of course he would keep him safe—but that was a given, wasn't it? "But... what about the man carrying it?" he dares ask, something timid in how softly the question lands. "Do you... trust him too?" there is a subtle, barely contained eagerness behind his inquiry—he wants to hear a yes, yet part of him holds back, as though he is unsure if he will, if he even deserves to.

The groundskeeper twitches in the grass, wheezing through the hole in his throat.It is a cry like that of a wounded bird, shrill and mournful all at once. Nao kneels, half-blinded by the sweltering sphere in the sky, a globe fat with light dripping from the heavens. Like the groundskeeper's blood that dyes the blades of grass scarlet-sweet. Planting her one hand beside his head, she leans close and tries to shape her words into some simulacrum of meaning while her eyes well with salt.

"S…o….." A glob of blood makes its way up her throat. She spits it out, the fweeeepp followed by a wet splack. Her eardrums hum with the sound. It is all so new. So much of it. All those experiences, stolen from her for too long.

"Soo……"

A gasp. A moan. His? Hers?

"Sooooooooo…………………"

She coughs, splattering his face with blood. On instinct, her good hand—no, her only hand—reaches out to wipe the red liquid away, and down she goes. The world tilts in a blur of azure and greenery, specks of light blurring before her eyes, and then she is on her back. Like a turtle, she thinks. The one someone poked with a stick once, until Yuta said... what did Yuta say...? Where did Yuta go?

If she is her, and she is here, then where is she?

Nao turns her head, tendrils of inky hair plastered to her temple, and sees that the groundskeeper has died. His mouth is open. She gets up. Closes it. She sucks in air. Expels it. "Sor..."

The cherry tree is pink, its petals lush as an open mouth. Nao takes a running leap and delights in the whoosh of air across her skin, in the way her feet know exactly where to land. The branch creaks beneath her weight, but does not give. With her teeth, she adjusts the stolen robe. It is a heavy thing, all gray cloth, the sort of heavy wool meant for an Aurean shepherd. Not that Aurea has shepherds. But she imagines it is the sort of thing they would wear. Hidden beneath the foliage, she waits, and waits, and waits. Once the sun has descended, she will continue her voyage. No, odyssey. That has a nicer ring to it.

After all, her harbor awaits.

Sister-sweet, heart-root, blood-rot.

She is waiting. She must be.

A soft sound. A whisper of silk. Nao sees him then: the boy, the doll, the pale bird. He drifts, he flies, he floats. As he moves through the garden, so does she, climbing from branch to branch, bending her joints into angles once deemed impossible. Making herself smaller, a cluster of not-girl. He has the longest hair she has ever seen, even longer than hers, and a thousand times silkier. When he drifts farther from her sight, her neck cranes out to follow, vertebrae creaking. Perhaps he feels her gaze. Perhaps he likes this pink tree too.

Whatever the reason, he nears again, but she does not move back beneath the canopy. She leans forward, just a little closer. Too close.

Punishment follows swiftly as Nao falls like a leaf in autumn. They collide violently, her knee finding a rib, her head slamming into his.

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—!"

A fair brow arches by a fraction as the serpent regarded the gesture for a long, contemplative moment before gliding forward, cool scales whispering across embroidered silk until her narrow head rested delicately against the offered finger. Hydra was in a rare good mood today—or, she had found someone who matched her temperament. Her tongue flickered once, twice, tasting the air around Lethe before settling comfortably with a satisfied little coil, finding kinship in a stranger. So curious.

ah,  the  eggshell  has  cracked.  it  had  not  been  kastor's  intention.  for  all  his  clumsiness  and  fat-fingered  carelessness,  he  does  not  set  out  into  the  world  to  cause  harm.  he  is  the  only  intended  victim  of  his  malice,  and  even  then,  it  is  cloaked  under  a  shroud  of  indulgence.  and  moreover,  his  duties  where  the  younger  kwon  are  concerned  center  entirely  around  preservation  —  mostly  of  the  body,  though  it  would  not  be  much  of  a  stretch  to  imagine  the  mind  included  as  well.  if  haneul  had  wanted  their  younger  brother  disciplined,  he  did  not  think  they  would  hesitate  to  say  so.  but  kas  did  think  that  he  would  be  the  last  person  they'd  turn  to,  if  that  was  the  case. 

the  other's  clipped  tones  bring  nary  a  blink  to  kastor's  face.  he's  heard  it  all  before,  those  silvery  barbs  meant  to  hook  and  catch,  to  tear  worse  coming  out  for  all  the  harm  they'd  already  done  going  in.  an  admirable  effort,  if  weeping  with  adolescence.  on  someone  less  self-flagellatory  and  more  self-important,  it  may  even  have  been  good  practice.  as  it  is,  his  charge's  words  bounce  off  of  him  like  droplets  of  rain  on  plate,  making  tiny  little  dinks  that  sound  melodic  to  a  romantic  ear.  kas  will  always  be  unmatched  in  the  contest  of  loathing  him  the  worst.  it  just  so  happens  that  the  list  of  participants  grows  ever  longer  with  each  passing  day.  and  in  this  instance,  there  is  pedigree  in  the  petulance.  it  is  the  biting  perfume  of  cardamom,  the  buttery  aroma  of  iris,  the  mortal  sensuousness  of  ambergris,  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of  common  wretches  such  as  he,  whose  noses  grew  blind  to  the  stench  of  fertilizer  and  rot  and  who  dreaded  rain  for  the  fetor  it  would  spring.  he  had  allowed  himself  to  grow  unfamiliar  with  parsing  through  such  highborn  acrimony  (  because,  of  course,  only  the  most  useless  things  were  easiest  to  forget  )  and  yet  he  feels  the  need  to  dredge  it  up  somehow.

❝  forgive  me,  m'lord.  i  spoke  out  of  turn.  ❞  such  an  abrupt  about-face  can  only  appear  insincere,  barely  salvaged  in  a  lowered  gaze  and  hands  folded  benignly  at  his  front.  he  takes  the  opportunity  in  the  angle  of  his  head  to  give  himself  a  quick,  discreet  sniff,  and  is  met  with  a  sourness  that  makes  his  own  nose  wrinkle.  generously,  he  moves  a  step  away,  though  he  remains  close  enough  to  intervene  in  unlikely  circumstances.  ❝  in  your  unestimable  wisdom,  you  must  know  there  is  only  so  much  i  can  truly  enjoy.  creature  comforts  best  suited  to  men  such  as  i,  who  can  only  laugh  when  we've  little  else  with  which  to  fill  our  mouths.  ❞  he  allows  himself  a  wry  tilt,  because  he  can  only  manage  a  handful  of  virtues,  and  temperance  has  never  been  one  of  them.  ❝  i  confess,  i  do  not  mind  being  much  of  a  joke.  when  you've  worn  as  many  hats  as  i  have,  you  may  find  that  it  is  a  comfortable  enough  one.  keeps  the  ears  warm.  though,  i  suppose  one's  already  been  tailored  for  you.  better  than  having  to  scrounge  off  the  floor  like  the  rest  of  us.  ❞

let  him  get  it  out  of  his  system,  for  kwon  baeksa  would  be  hard  pressed  to  find  a  better  target  than  kastor  hywel.  he  can  count  on  one  hand  the  number  of  times  retaliation  has  ever  crossed  his  mind.  ❝  i  don't  believe  i've  ever  mentioned  it  before,  but  i  come  from  a  hunting  village,  little  kwon.  ❞  the  endearment  had,  until  then,  only  lived  in  his  head.  it  may  have  been  a  mistake  to  bring  it  to  light,  though  it  is  too  late  to  snatch  it  back  now.  ❝  i  learned  to  kill  mercifully  before  i  learned  my  letters.  and  after  that,  i  learned  to  make  every  use  of  the  animal  so  that  nothing  went  to  waste.  mercy  does  not  end  at  the  slaying,  as  it  goes.  perhaps  you  might  surprise  h  —  ❞  a  quiet  chuckle  escapes  kas,  a  conciliatory  placation  following  the  ascent  of  his  brows.  ❝  i  mean,  our…  mutual  acquaintance  with  such  a  lesson.  ❞

Little Kwon. Little Kwon? What right had he to make him sound soft and small and helpless on his tongue? Was it pity that compelled him, or the urge to mock? Baeksa rejects both as if scorched; he wants to throw up, forgets to breathe, holding so still, he thinks for a moment he might be just another piece of furniture, with bones jutting, and skin stretched taut over them, as though it wants to tear at the seams of this detestable body. And even the soft, rhythmic hiss of serpents weaving through shadow is of no comfort to his jealous heart, their narrow heads lifting in quiet uncertainty, sensing the subtle fracture beneath their master's facade. Golden eyes remain fixed upon Kastor, fury barely contained, stripped of their earlier amusement as he claws at his own arm, tearing at skin tissues unkindly—cruel, even towards himself, when he cannot tear at anything else; blood gathers, warm between his fingers, dripping to the floor.

"Shut up..." he spews, voice shaking, but barely louder than a murmur. His throat feels tight; the buzzing in his ears grows louder. "...Shut up!" yell louder, claw harder, tear yourself to ribbons, sweet coos of dissonant madness lick at the back of his skull, in his own voice. He thinks he is better than you. No. No, that isn't what he said. Then why does it sound like it? Stop it, stop it! "Do not presume to know me." the growl rips through him, unnervingly low, as if the young Kwon is lost in an argument with himself. One serpent ventures too close, brushing against the silk pooled around his ankles in quiet reassurance, and Baeksa startles as though burned—his foot lashes out before thought can catch it, sending the little creature skittering helplessly across polished stone. Another recoils at the sharp hiss that tears itself from somewhere deep within his throat, disappearing beneath a cabinet with frightened haste. His gaze lowers, bony fingers slipping into the silk of his hair, clutching, ripping through a bundle of hair as they vanished, something wounded flickering across his face before being buried beneath practiced composure. He smooths trembling fingers through the length of his pale hair once, twice, three times—again and again, until not a single strand dares sit out of place. "Aha..." a laugh chokes in his throat, yellow hues trembling, as if about to spill, fixed on the gleaming floor. "They're so terribly disobedient..."

With measured elegance the young lord rises, stumbles, as if disoriented, drifting like the pale ghost of a boy toward the nearest sideboard where crystal decanters gleam beneath candlelight, where ruby liquor catches the light and he fills a glass nearly to its brim, spilling it all over his hands, all over the floor. His constitution had never tolerated spirits; everyone in the estate knew as much—what of it? It will make the feeling stop. Is that not why Kastor indulges? Perhaps then, he would indulge too. Would he be more likable for it? More worthy of affection? The physicians scolded him, but he could not hear their nagging voices now. Haneul confiscated bottles whenever they found them—locked it all away, knowing well of his sibling's temperament; but his father was not as careful. Baeksa knew precisely how ill it would make him, he drinks it anyway—the burn forces tears into his eyes, body recoiling beneath expensive silk, fingers whitening around the crystal stem before he calmly pours himself another. Disgusting. Another. The glass cracks between the grip of his hand; he does not rush, something ceremonial about the way he doses his own self-harm, each swallow a quiet defiance, an assertion of territory reclaimed, ensuring the reigns of control remain within his clutches, that his pain belongs to himself, if nothing else does.

Tenderly, bony fingers slip between his own—cold, so cold. He feels a cold shiver climb up his spine, skin on skin, the intimacy of it alone ravaged him. "Do you think I can think of anything but you all day?" Confessions pour directly into his ear in quiet, shameful whispers as he moves a hand to contour the delicate shape of his ear, brushing the hair off his face with all the tenderness of a lover. "What do you make of me, Adrian? Do you think I do not miss you? That I do not go mad with worry—that I don't agonize over every second I spend out of your reach for fear of what you might—" his jaw grips with tension and he cuts himself off with bated breath, refusing to step into the horrible truth of that reality. He could not bear it—he could not bear the thought of them being laid upon an altar of their own grief and gutted.

Stop this. Stop this, his throat swells with the unspoken pleas of a desperate man. You are going to die, and I'm going to be left to mourn you; I will go mad from the loss of you, I cannot live in a world emptied of you.

"Stop. Just... stop. Stop all this," he is a wretched thing, isn't he? Stomping over the tatters of his pride, begging openly, shamelessly; has he no sense of decorum? Does this despair knows no end? Hunger claws at the well of his throat and here he is, begging for him again, uselessly, pitifully—im a voice he can scarcely recognize as his own. "Stop. Just please... stop." the wolf's lament turns mournful on his tongue, teeth ravenous and aching to tear into his garments; a labored breath quivers on his lips as his forehead falls, pressing to the back of his head in quiet defeat, that cold, cadaveous hand of his reaching beyond the grave this boy had made of his body—creeping up the length of his throat to ensnare it, close around it with the barely contained urge to squeeze and hold it—hold him—still. Was he mad to think such things? To want him so desperately it turned his breaths ragged?

I love you—why is my love not enough, you selfish, cruel fool? Abandon this revenge—abandon this vendetta, and all the parts of you it will take—give them to me instead.

Liar. Liar. Cruel liar he is... he is abashed at his own weakness, his own desire to crumble, to believe them, as they willingly crawl inside the confines of him—unwrapping those bandages so clumsily, as though there could ever be anything but distance between them. Liar. He wants to hear them anyways. The sound of their voice is a nose around his throat and he wants it tighter, ans he wants to live and die by his hands and his hands only.

He turns them—abruptly, unceremoniously; he cannot look at that face, he cannot look without falling to his knees, and so he restrains their wrist with one hand so they will not turn back again, so they will not make him look upon that face again and make him question his faith.

Can he not see it? How meaningless that word was on their treacherous tongue? "Liar," the general accuses without remorse, sharp and unyielding as he pulls their body into himself. "I should rip this lying tongue of yours for such brazen insolence..." had he told herself this lie enough times that he himself had come to believe it too? No—no, they were not sorry. "Stop lying," he demands without meaning it—he wants to hear it. All of their lies, all of their conniving, untruthful words. Filling his head. Driving him crazy. A quiet, simmering fever climbs up his spine as he grips that throat and releases, pushing two fingers between those supple, hateful lips, silencing that mouth before it enraged him beyond redemption. "Haven't I earned even a sliver of you? After everything?"

it is moments like this, when taliesin manages to crack that hard shell sheng puts up and finds something gooey, warm, and syrupy inside that he can't get enough of. "but you play it so well--!" his tone is almost like a melody, accompanied by a purr-like hum. if the bard had a tail, it would be long and curled up in sheng's lap, as if he was just a stray cat the general pitied enough to feed for the night.

"are you calling me clever?" the corners of his lips stretch into a devious smirk, as he has successfully omitted that attribute just to hear it from sheng's mouth. "have you ever thought that perhaps I relish in running? feeling the rush of danger? the relief of seeing you at the top of the stairs, my hero, my stone wall?" ah... there's the title of his next song. his smile drops, though his amusement does not. it is simply his skill in acting that helps him change his expression into something more disappointed, with brows knitted together, and lower lip jutting out ever-so-slightly. "oh... so I'm only work for you... I understand." he looks away, as if heartbroken.

it doesn't last long, though. not when sheng's body language tastes so delicious as he tenses up, and... is that a flush of cheeks he sees? tal moves an index finger and a thumb over to his other arm, pinching himself as if he was trying to wake up from whatever dream he's fallen into. he is brought back into reality. not by the pinch, but by the enormous hand of the general smacking him in the head once more. tal bursts out laughing, getting another idea that might get him more than just a smack. but he cannot simply keep it in.... not when the reward might be the best thing he's ever seen!

his hair is brushed behind his ear, and tal only gives a breath's moment to enjoy is to the fullest before he speaks again. "he is quite boring, I'm afraid. not nearly as stimulating as I'd hoped. I prefer someone stronger. more captivating. bigger."

to ask him not to be reckless is as if asking the rain not to fall or the sun not to shine. damn near impossible. tal only knows how to live the way he always has. in danger.

Oh, he's not answering that. It's a trap. There's no right answer; one answer will have him preening the whole night, the other will have him pouting—either will have him in an undesirable position. The general adjusts his sleeve instead—pausing, contemplating eating—then those jeweled eyes move to him instead. "I will gag you." he knows what he's thinking—chasing him around, plucking strings, singing some romantic lullaby to test his patience. "A lot of work." he adds, and conceals his affections in what goes unspoken—safer that way; least he finds another dagger aimed at the soft center of his heart. He does not know how many more blows it can take before he can feel his pulse slow.

"Your preferences are bad. You shouldn't be allowed to make decisions," he makes bad decisions, and his priorities are ill-suited for a long, happy life, he concludes. "I'll look into them. Next time come to me first." So objective and deadpan even as they talk about love affairs; he's truly helpless, isn't he? Trying to assign order to matters of the heart, as if it were not blind and deaf to every warning; it would be better that way—can't he see? He could prevent his heartache, even if he could not prevent his own. Won't he let him just take care of him? He'd come to him wouldn't he? He wouldn't lie to him, would he? Was there something about him that made him feel... unsafe to come to? Did he do too much? Too little? Did anything he did mattered, at all?

The voices in the well of his mind get meaner, toothed; he shoves the dumpling into the bard's mouth—unceremoniously, carelessly, biting back the fleeting urge to lighten up, laugh in that way that makes him feel more jovial at the way it makes him look like a chipmunk—chubby. It reminds of Lian's face, cradled between his large hands, protesting every pinch with all the strained tolerance of a small kitten who wants to bite. His gloved fingers furl and unfurl from holding back these lighter emotions inside, pushing his brows into a frown instead. "Chew. Slowly... don't choke." there's a flash of worry there, as though he's a baby—over-worrying at every opportunity. Don't they know Taliesin's survival skills far superseded his own when it came to this?

He wipes the crumbs with his sleeve, plucking another dumpling with his chopsticks and dumping it into his plate before he's done chewing—he doesn't touch the food. Maybe he forgets. Was he ever hungry? Did he ever actually eat or just made everyone think that he did? Did his shoulders ever drop? Did the tension ever leave him in an exhale?

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?"

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.

The elder Zhou cracks an amused smile, the sharp smack against his hand making a loud sound—his grip forcibly yielding as he stifles a laugh; he looked amused, the reminiscences of war left behind at the doorstep as he allows his countenance to settle into something more youthful. Grouch as he might, his young brother already hand his own hand closed around his wrist before he could say think to protest—dragging him as he did as a child, by the sleeve, by the hand; tugging him along wherever he wished to go, always so unrelentingly determined to get his way, about everything. "You worry too much." he always had; gēge, you're hurt! Gēge let me patch you up! Gēge come see what I can do—And he let him. You spoil him, his father used to say. He knows it's true, but what was the harm in that? He loves him, he fights so he does not have to abandon his youth as he had; let him play and fuss as children do, let him run amok and bask in the sunlight and drink joyfully among friends. He was always such a cheerful child; if not for himself, he'd like to at least be able to provide his brother with some sense of normalcy. That is why he did not speak of such grim things—let those stay behind, at the threshold. He'd return to them soon enough. Today, he comes home to his brother, and reminds himself why every battle still holds meaning, why he continues fights, even if he cannot win them all.

"I'm fine... I've had worse paper cuts than this." he tries to reassure knowing it's futile as he dragged inside the house, dragged into the servants quarters—dragged and yanked and pulled like a rag doll. The emotions flash across his brother's face as transparent as a clear window; he tries, doesn't he? To swallow his pain, to pretend he was alright. "Hey," he reassures, his large hand coming to frame his jaw, threatening to cup all of his face within, his own head tilting, passive, docile. "You don't have to do that... I know you worry—" too much, at that. "It's not hurt... you have no reason to worry. Nothing bad is gonna happen... I promise. I don't break my promises, remember?" he taps his cheek—making a loud sound, harsher than he has to; teasing, because he knows it will distract him from whatever well his mind wants to descend to. Hopelessness doesn't suit him. "Yes..." he taunts, his expression giving away nothing, unless you knew what to search for between the cracks of docility peeking through. "—who do you think I go out visiting so often?" the corner of his mouth twitches, just once, then smooths itself over again.

"but we do. you more than I, in fact. being that tall is a deficit." his legs are being looked at, and he feels a rush of warmth traveling down from his cheeks, to his knees. he should kick him while he's looking. he should pull his dagger out and stick it into his thigh. he should bite him. he should... but he won't. he must choose his battles. and he has more advantage with his words than he does with his limbs.

"which one am I?" taliesin is clever enough not to give away too much of his talents. not that sheng would believe a loud-mouthed bard bragging about their skills anyway. "I'm the one that's fast." he says with a small shrug, "deft fingers and a sharp tongue made soft for those worthy." he pauses, gazing at the general for a moment before he scoots closer to him. "but strengths are boring. what are you weaknesses?" he asks in a jesting tone, though rook would be more than happy to know, should there be need of them in the coming days.

"Mhm..." hummed in a way that tells him he's entirely unconvinced, but deeply charmed by his refusal to relent. "Tell me that again when you need me to play stone wall between you and another scorned gentleman..." the corner of his eyes crinkle in a way they seldom do, filled with a fondness he dares not name, smiling without realizing.

"What about clever?" his brow hardens, feigning thought; he knows he is clever—they would not be friends if he was not. Clever, and remarkably persistent. "Are you not clever?" he teases. "I suppose if you were you wouldn't need to run as much as you do." he returns the jest in full, his tone more rigid and less easy on the tongue to match his posture. "Tch..." his weaknesses—he asks, as though he is not one of them. It's best he does not know, he is cocky enough as it is. "My inability to decline additional work, it seems..." would he ever grant him any rest? A dark eyebrow arches as he tells him so, pointedly, ignoring the way his lips have abandoned their sullen expression.

Immediately he tenses—and the bard gets a close view, front row seat to watch as embarrassment spread through him in a rosy flush. The man averts his eyes, for a moment, praying his discomfort was not too visible in vain, and then—thwack! Down comes that gloved hand again; his cheeks are pink. In spite of his reputation, the demon general seems to fluster rather easily when the subject shifts towards these unseemly topics. Perhaps he should be more forgiving—in a moment of guileless curiosity, he'd dared ask, after all. "Shameless..." the words drag between his teeth, rough like gravel in the back of his throat, and he coughs, taking a quiet moment to recompose, clearing his throat. "He's too boring for you, anyway... you'll find someone worthy," he added, eyes swiveling towards he desk, low and timid but not lacking in certainty—he'd entirely convinced himself Tal had a good heart, and deserved someone with an equally kind one to match. A gloved hand reaches, doting in the way it gently brushes the dyed hair off his face, tucking it behind the bard's ear. "Don't be so reckless next time, alright?"

The ground feels liquid beneath his feet as he tries and fails to grasp her, tries and fails to hold her. His fingers flex but do not reach, paralyzed before her fury, her accusations. She is covered in resentment, scorned, wounded; had he wounded her? He did not mean to. He never means to—his hands were made to cradle her face between them, and his arms were made strong to cater to her every whim, but never to harm. Had he accused him unfairly? Had he tried to shift blame for his own daydreams? Perhaps he was at fault. Part of him urges to lower his head in shame, spew apologies until he fills her cup.

He does not.

She turns and he chases, with all the force of a whirlwind—he cannot stand the distance; he had endured it for too long. He should not have come. He should have chained himself to a wall, where his feet could not rush back to her. "My stubborn lord," he pressed himself to them from behind, hands like eels slithering down the length of his arms, making cuffs of his hands to ensnare their wrists. "The only nymph I want to chase after is you," surely she must know this; he pushes his fingers through her hands, opening them by force, closing the tips of her fingertips into his own palms so she may bruise him instead of herself, if she was so determined to be unmade. "Right here. In your accursed halls." he repeats, his own voice softened where his had turned to a hiss.

It is her home, her home! She barks, all teeth, with all the unyielding demand of a child who had been wronged, and his thumb hovers over the thin skin of his wrist, pressing to the pulse-point to feel the gentle thrumming underneath, responding to him.

The first invitation to visit an estate other than the Domerian’s comes to her rather— Unordinarily. It goes beyond the clear effort put into the selection of the paper, the ink, the scent, the wax, and the wording of the letter containing the invitation. Although, she must admit, she is rather curious about the individual who would craft an invitation to a complete stranger beginning with language as colorful as what she found in the letter itself (...The jasmines are in full bloom and made me think of you, let me extend an invitation into my private garden for the pleasure of welcoming you into the city…). It presents a rather lurid image, after all, and it speaks of the person writing the invitation and about how they seem to have a fondness for flowery language. 

Yet for all that the letter is elaborate in a way she hadn’t seen even back when her family had still considered themselves nobility and not refugees, it is not the most unordinary aspect of the message. 

It is the method of delivery. 

Now, Nike is not a stranger to the use of magic to deliver a message. Rather, she is very familiar with it. She used her own methods to communicate with her family whenever she stayed at the Llyr academy for long stretches of time, and students at the academy tended to use it to communicate with each other as well. The use of magic for communication is not in itself odd. It is something that can be used as a show of power as easily as it can be considered mundane. What turns the method of delivery for this specific letter odd is that it is delivered by an animal, and one that is not a familiar to boot. 

Cleonice thanks her lucky stars that she had seen the snake carrying the letter to her door a few seconds before Krat did, since it had given her a few extra seconds to dive forward and cup the creature on her hands before standing up and bringing it out of her familiar’s reach. Instinct, you see, still applies for familiars, and Krat has the particular tendency to want to chew on anything he deems food when he first lays his eyes on it. It’s a reactionary impulse and the margay can control himself once the first few seconds pass, but one she has to be keenly aware of for occasions such as this one.

Once the danger passes, Nike sighs in relief and reaches for the letter as the snake wraps around her wrist. And that is how she receives an invitation for tea from Lord Baeksa Kwon. Not necessarily outside her expectations, even if it is rather odd to draw the eyes from the House of Kwon so early into her stay. After all, even in the Isle of Llyr they hear about the magisters of Aurea, and the academy has always been interested in other scholars. She knows less about Lord Baeksa Kwon himself, but she supposes that is the sort of thing she will only discover at first meeting. 

Cleonice takes great pains to ensure she is dressed appropriately for the event, deciding to go for a dalmaticas, esoforions and a loros combination of a dark blue color rather than her usual robes. The detailing is done in a glittering inky color, with streaks of gold found throughout, as it is one of the dalmaticas she had embroidered herself once she had figured out how to ensure luminary script could be activated through embroidery. It seems like a good bait to set to draw the curiosity of a scholarly house, and she hopes the lord bites, because a connection to a scholarly house is exactly what she needs. The Kwon are more likely to have access to information regarding the barrier than other houses.

Arriving at the Kwon Estate on time, Nike examines her surroundings with veiled curiosity as she is led towards Lord Baeksa by one of the servants. The differences and similarities with the Domerian Estate are stark, and she wonders if they are a matter of preference, taste, or simply that the Domerian seem to appreciate living lavishly. With that thought in mind, she is led to where Lord Baeksa awaits her, and she falls into a curtsy to pay the proper respects before raising and offering him a gentle smile. 

“My thanks for the invitation,” she says. “I thought the method of delivery was rather charming.”

Towering pillars of pale marble stood untouched by time, an open courtyard doo opening to a koi pond, gardens of evergreen covered in pink petals; the trees had blossomed beautifully under his watchful eye, the grounds tended with almost obsessive care, any mistake was a good enough excuse for cruel punishment when the young Kwon was left by himself. Each path was deliberate, each blossom placed as though even nature itself had been forced into unruly submission to cater to his whims, his standards—it was quiet here, only the soft breeze and gentle rustle of leaves to keep him company. He enjoyed this place, his father never ventured this far.

Here, the young lord spends most of his days basking in the warmth of the sun filtered through the hazy clouds above, pale gold pouring down the length of his shoulders as he awaits for the arrival of his guest with all the patience of a man not used to being refused—no, not a man, a boy, masquerading as a sylph, draped in the softest silks and adorned in glittering gold, he embodied all the gilded rot of the city: tantalizing and beautiful, and gravely ill beneath the flesh; death-ridden, covered in the perfume of early spring and sickly sweet undertones of night-blooming jasmine, which carries in the fabric of his gowns, whisked into the air by a playful breeze.

He was raised as a pretty bird, happy to be in its cage, coddled and repeatedly told to ignore the problems that lurked beyond these walls—he looked so serene compared to the chaos outside, lounging lazily beneath the cherry tree, outstretching every limb towards the heavens in a lazy stretch like a pampered house cat; joints popping, bones shifting beneath the flesh; he sets his papers down as the voice pierces through his reveries—notes of spells written by a now dead magister, in a code he'd been attempting to decipher for days—old men held tightly to their old secrets, but he had made alarming progress already and had no intention to give up. Soon, he was confident he would get what he wanted. He always did.

Bracelets dangle from his wishbone ankles, clattering like cymbals as the boy pushes himself to his feet, heels padding across the soft grass with effortless elegance; an effervescent youthfulness spilling from him as he hurries over, robes draping down his body, pooling between his thighs as the purple sheen of his scaled hips catches the light, peeking sensually through the high slits of his robes.

"Wasn't it? My father insists on less accident-prone methods, but I find most people enjoy a little flair," Baeksa smiles, and his yellow eyes shifting towards the woman wondering what it was that she came seeking—he is only one of many of the serpents of Aurea, but if she keeps her eyes open, he is confident she'd spot the others, even if they did not have scales to show for it. Baeksa has played these games of since he was a child—learned to recognize ambition from miles away, lives and dies by the belief none goes to another without wanting something. The only question was always what—and it did not always come easy, but answers always unraveled before those who who were determined enough to insist on it. "Besides, peanut likes the exercise," Baeksa extends his arm towards her, then, poised and waiting. "This way," he gestures. "I've prepared some omija tea for us," he looks expectant, gold bracelets chiming softly as the young lord moved his hand to tuck away a blond lock, already taking proprietary hold of her arm with all the intimacy of a child eagerly welcoming a new playmate into the sandbox. "They tell me you're very smart… are you any good at strategy games?" he leans in to whisper, partially covering his mouth as if sharing a particularly naughty secret. "The servants think I don't know they always let me win…"

"have you ever considered that perhaps you're the one that has grown irrationally long legs?" at least, that is what tal has decided. he himself has perfectly proportionate limbs, compared to the general's tall build. "we all have our strengths and weaknesses. some of us are strong. some of us are fast. some of us are clever. we can't possibly excel at all of those." he keeps saying whatever comes to his mind as he is ushered to a table in the corner. he peeks at the foolishly placed coin purse at the edge of one of the table they pass, fingers itching to swiftly take it. alas... in the presence of sheng, he must play the bumbling bard. no extra coin for him today.

there's not one, but two pats on top of his head after that. as if sheng could read his mind and decided to praise him for his restraint. the gesture makes tal pause, and he is lucky that his knees went weak from that, as he gets to sit down with ease. he'll simply act like this didn't happen. even if sheng wouldn't know how to tell the difference between tal as he usually is, and tal flustered from a simple pat on the head. tal would know. and that is enough for him to try and hide it.

"You'd prefer we both suffer from a height deficit?" that's just counterproductive now, he thinks, instinctively glancing down at the bard's twiggy little legs. He was fast—he's give him that. On a good day, they could outrun him by a mile, he'd chased him enough times to know evading death was a skill Tal had long conquered. "We'd never ever reach anything." he concludes the thought unceremoniously with a dismissive flick of his wrist, tugging at his sleeves and dragging them up his wrist as he prepared for the meal, watching Tal with all the passiveness of a stone gargoyle perched in front of him, watching him amend his order like an overeager child—is it any wonder he smells like a dessert with all the sugar he consumes?

"...So which one are you?" he asks, teasing—and he should know better than to let the general's deadpan expression fool him. He's also giving him a free chance to brag—not too entirely unaware of it; perhaps it was he found it amusing to poke and prod him because he knew the boy has a tongue twice as sharp as his own—were he ever to actually wound his feelings, he'd be beyond petrified. But he hadn't been entirely convinced such a thing was possible.