a liar, a thief, utterly without conscience.

Javier De Leon’s was a heart that beat with unrelenting humanity. A provocation that came from De Leon’s before him, and the young Duke’s natural inclination to the human condition. He found peace in the company of high-spirited children, gregarious farm hands, and fast-talking merchants. He wept when a black sheep strayed from its shepherd, or when they a senior member of his council. Javier is connected and grounded, by the highest of virtues; love, honor, and respect. He lives his life by it. And on the days when the mantle of ‘Duke’ weighed heavy, and uncertainty encompasses him. He reminds himself of those unquestionable truths, and finds himself steadied. Perhaps if his were a more gracious heart, he could find room to empathize with the likes of Kieran Devereux. Some anecdote from his mother about no man, woman, or being was born cruel. It’s made, from blood and sweat. Form great tragedy and suffering.

For a moment, he entertains it dutifully. Dissecting his adversary, as the imagination reels. What conditions one, to build a life around theft and sorrow? His blinding privilege makes him aware that his position is unlike most. Javier De Leon would always hold wealth, power, and position. He would always know love, because he’s had nothing but love in his life. Yet even as he contemplates it (only for a moment - he was no philosopher, after all), Javier lands on the same universal truth. It was nothing but weakness and greed. It accomplished nothing and advanced nothing. No, thieves like Kieran did not steal from the well-to-do to provide for the impoverished (as the Pirate Lord was wrought to do). He took from those with less, and cut them down a size. In every respect, it’s an inexcusable cruelty. And yet, he smiles and preens. An easy disposition of a man who did not carry the weight of it on his broad shoulders.

“Quite the contrary,” he corrects through gritted teeth, barely flinching as Kieran’s hand is placed atop his. The tension of his fingernails digging into his skin, earning nothing but a kiss of the man’s teeth. “The welfare of my people is, and has always been, the most pressing of matters.” Some sins could only be forgiven, not forgotten. Yet the thief does not even warrant that notion, nor does Kieran seem prepared to ask for it. “Though I doubt that’s any of your comprehension.” Such that it was, he smirks in return, tightening the coil of his hand around Kieran’s shoulder. “What’s that old cliche? No honor among thieves.” He cants his head sideways, brows furrowed in mocking thought. “That’s a bit above your pay grade, isn’t it? Affairs of state are hardly in the same league as your enterprises.” Never the less, he emits a sardonic laugh. “But because you’re so curious. My answer is this…” Javier releases his shoulder altogether, and instead, pushes closer. Warm breath exchanged as dark eyes come lit with a threat. “I’m on the side which protects my people.” He sneers. “Your sins may be acquitted by a higher law. But make no mistake,” Javier shrugs. “I intend to make you pay for it all the same.”

.

Watching as he got under the duke’s skin was better than any other form of entertainment at the party. It would be difficult to find two people more different than Javier De Leon and Kieran Devereux. The Fairwinder’s heart bled with humanity, while the mercenary’s had been drained of such compassion long ago. Javier basked in the glow of the sun while Kieran lurked within the shadows. If one was day then the other was surely night. For as much as the nobles tried to maintain an air of composure at all times, Javier was an easy man to read. From the tense stance of his body to the venom that drips from his words, Kieran had truly earned the the man’s cordial hatred. Not that he minded—there were far more dangerous people to receive threats from than the duke of sunshine and sheep. 

“Ah, perhaps, but color me intrigued,” A chuckle slips past his lips, an expression matching that of Javier’s mocking smugness. Being told he wasn’t of high enough standing to involve himself with politics—even if it was because of his profession this time—was nothing new. Typically he didn’t care much for what happened in the upper rings of Ashbourne society. Unless it directly effected him or his work, he saw little reason to pay any mind to diplomacy and law. Stone Garden was neutral in its loyalties and Kieran was his homeland incarnate. His sins weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he stood tall in spite of it. Under the mountains, if you couldn’t bear the weight of what it took to survive, you would surely crumble. 

With how close they now stood, someone looking upon the pair from afar might think that something entirely different was occurring. The faint smell of alcohol latched itself onto Javier’s breath, mingling with the honeyed scent Kieran guessed he probably always carried with him. When Javier pressed forward, Kieran stood his ground. The mercenary was unrelenting and would not show any sign that he would back down from the confrontation. Instead, a smirk creeps its way across his lips as he brushes off the duke’s threat, “Is that a promise, your grace?” Most would not consider provoking a the ruler of a duchy a wise course of action, but Kieran was confident that he could escape any plans Javier might have for him. That, and he really just wanted to see how far he could push the duke before he snapped. 

There was a steady stream of bruised and defeated competitors who found their way to the Sacred Wood’s prized exhibition. All of whom, bemoaned a tale of a fierce competitor that left them worse for wear. Violence for violence’s sake always unnerved Ophelia Nnadi. Rightly so, when her entire profession was built to do good - not harm. However, any entrepreneurial mind could see the benefit to it; as evidenced by the hefty sums of gold that her healing agents and energizing elixirs demanded. For the betterment of the Sacred Wood, Ophelia thinks wisely. Best one not get too defensive about where the funds came from, and focus instead on what could be accomplished with it. What was the saying? The thing about dirty gold? It was still gold. A poignant thought that riddles her active mind, as she leads the curious attendees through an exhibition. A favor to her own Duchy, who needed to appear somewhat amenable to the Kingdom’s request. At least this way, the secrets and powers of the Sacred Wood would remain under lock and key.

Still - it was growing tiresome. Her energy is not as it once was, since she’d come to recognize her illness. While her elixirs managed to hide such a fate, it was best not to test it with so much of the day left unaccounted for. Not to mention, a grand ball that demanded attendance and energy. She abandons her post, relegating it to a fellow healer, when whispers of a victor catch her ear. It would appear that the festivities of Ravenpeak’s competitive exhibition had come to a close. Whoever it was that claimed the title would surely carry a hefty sum, and a self-satisfied expression. And yet, it’s not what she expects, as the claimed victor with his unmistakable pouch of gold steps into the ethereal tent. Ophelia’s was a sharp mind with an eye for details, and a penchant for memory. She would never forget a patient. If she did, it certainly would not be the mysterious and dangerous Kieran Devereux. He appears startled by her, the bravado of his win momentarily interrupted by her presence. Men never did take to vulnerability, and a famed man of loose morals such as he appeared to take that sentiment to heart.

She nods, subtle and accepting, as she cants her head to one of the private sections of the expansive tent. “Allow me to take a look, won’t you?” Ophelia murmurs, an open invitation as she leads him to the private sections. Even from a cursory glance, his injuries appeared minor enough. But her treatments worked best when handled by a healer, and she finds herself in a unique position. A rare opportunity to speak with a man of his trade, who would undoubtedly carry some sentiment towards her. A life for a life, as it were. She gently tugs at the beige curtains, drawing them for privacy. A hand placed upon a vial of ointment, as she settles into a seat across from him. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Kieran?” Ophelia remarks silently, as she gestures to his sleeve. “If you would - this will go faster if you’ll allow me to treat you myself.” A shallow breath, as she unscrews the vial. “You’ve made a name for yourself.” She says, lacking in judgement. “I see that new lease on life I gave you worked itself out.”

.

Vulnerability found no residence in Kieran. At a young age he’d learned that exposed hearts were easily pierced in the cave lands, and the weak do not survive. So he turned his bones to iron and welded them into a cage around his heart. They kept the gloomy beast within his chest contained and guarded. Kieran took great pride in only relying upon himself. He seldom accepted any help offered to him, preferring to do things entirely on his own. If something went wrong he would only have himself to blame, but at least it never left him feeling in debt to anyone. When Kieran looked over Ophelia, all he saw was someone he owed. She had saved his life—an act that no amount of gratitude or money could repay in his eyes. He hated it. Hated that she had seen him in such a vulnerable state. Despised that someone held his fate in their hands. And unnerved that, even for a moment, there’d been a part of him that enjoyed being taken care of. 

Kieran followed her to a secluded area of the tent in silent compliance. His wounds from the competition were all minor and surely curable by a simple remedy, but it was clear that Ophelia had her own motivations for pulling him away from the public. Why get him alone if she had no need to speak in private? Amber eyes flickered around the room, instinctively looking for anything out of the ordinary. Places someone could be hiding, alternative entrances, items that could be utilized as weapons. It was a smaller room—probably somewhere they could bring people with greater injuries or ailments than what he’d suffered. 

“Indeed it has,” Kieran nodded, his voice as quiet as hers, though not nearly as soft. He untied the cuff of his billowy shirt and rolled the sleeve up his arm so she could treat the wound visible through a cut in the fabric. As much as he would rather have taken the vial from her and walked out of the tent, he had a feeling that she wouldn’t let him go quite so easily. Kieran wondered how much Ophelia knew about him. The night they first met he hadn’t been conscious enough to answer any questions he may have had about him, and even when he was well enough to talk he’d still refused to discuss anything but the details of his unfortunate minotaur encounter. Was she speaking now of the competition he’d just won, or about his career in general? 

His jaw clenched as she mentioned the ‘new lease on life’ she gave him. Kieran resented the idea of anyone having power over whether he lived or died. He was the one thing in life he could control. The thought that he was only still alive because Ophelia made it so didn’t sit well with him. “Yes, it would seem that way,” Off to the side his hand flexed as he pushed down any frustration he felt towards being completely at her mercy in the past. “I once again extend my deepest gratitude to you in that regard.” Hopefully this little healing session wouldn’t take too long and they would part ways soon.

It’s a gnawing suspicion that coaxes him into a preemptive removal of his silk mask. Critical eyes of Earthy brown fixated on the sharp features and the ever-present darkness that loomed from the strange figure. No one would call the Duke of the Fairwinds the most clever of Duchies; the intellectual Yasmin and strategic Louisa could fight over the honor amongst themselves. But there was a reason he had come as far as he did; instinct. Javier would credit the De Leon genealogy for bequeathing him with such talents. Few could survive off instinct alone, unless they knew how to weaponize it wisely. Something that the De Leon dynasty did, in nine-folds. With Javier, as the latest link in an ancient chair. It’s a prevailing twist to his stomach and warmth to his blood, that keeps him intrigued. He was a friendly sort, but not one to draw out a seemingly baseless conversation.

No, his senses determined that there was more to the strange man of onyx and ebony than met the eye. He shows his own cards, a King of Clubs, as the black mask comes undone. There’s a spark of recognition that colors the other man’s features. A bated breathe that’s followed with a bow of mockery. It’s all the confirmation Javier needs, to place a name to the man in question - Kieran Devereux. A famed thief, heralded in the deplorable Cave Lands as if he earned some sort of honorific. As if his trade was not in the swindling of good, honest work to turn a profit. Javier had come across many thieves in his long rule as the Duke of the Fairwinds. While some might consider his moral laws bordering on righteous, Javier always erred on the side of compassion. Empathy and care - it was the foundation of his rule, and his people could speak to it.

But Kieran Devereux was, by every assessment, undeserving of empathy. Pieces of the case almost came together, but missed to paint a coherent picture. No judge or jury would rightfully convict Kieran without proof, but Javier knew just by the keen smirk on his angular face and the eye witnesses that it was true. Fairwinders were not dishonest by nature. Forgiving to a fault, and would attempt to see the thief’s cruel action as some sort of mistake. But they pointed their finger, and the result? A disappointing turn around, where justice lost by virtue of technicality.  Ultimately, the price was paid by the beloved farmers of the outskirts of La Tierra Ventosa. A number of small families whose livelihoods had never recovered, even after the Lord’s generosity in his favors and loans.

“I can be full of surprises.” Don’t let the even-keeled, high-spirited delivery fool you. It’s drenched in poison and dipped in foreboding resentment. A tenseness of his jaw, a the mocking bow only doubles-down on his opinion of the thief. Lacking in moral fiber or apology. “Come now, surely you know the value of overcoming expectations, Mister Devereux.” He lifts his brow with aristocratic ease. “Most would’ve expected you to be a filthy, reckless, and sloppy thief.” He cants his head sideways. “But as it turns out, you were anything but a thief. Isn’t that right? Just as innocent as any man in this room.” Sarcasm palpable, as he adjusts the ruby ring against his pinky finger.

“A good thing to be, what with all the changes coming about… I wouldn’t wish to be a lowly thief, at a time when the Ashworth’s have decided to strengthen the rule of law.” And because his arrogance and temperament cannot help itself, he grins - the toothy, charming smile of which Javier De Leon was known for. “Then again,” he scoffs, placing an unwelcome hand against Kieran’s shoulder. “Perhaps then true justice could be served.” Javier whispers vehemently.

.

No one would call Kieran Devereux a good man by any meaning of the word. Praised in his own homeland for his ruthlessness, among the other Duchies he was condemned. Not that he blamed them. The acts he committed were deplorable, he could admit that. But Kieran viewed himself as merely a means to someone else’s end. He was just a tool to be used by the highest bidder. 'Don’t shoot the messenger’ seemed an applicable phrase, in his opinion. Honorable folk like Fairwinders lacked an understanding of what life was truly like in Stone Garden. They basked in the sun of their prosperous land, oblivious to the hardships that dwellers of the cave lands endured every day. Fortunate to not know what it was like to be born at the bottom of the barrel in a dog eat dog world. It was why his people paid such respect to those who managed to claw their way to the top. Who had what it took to thrive an such an unforgiving environment. It was why people like Duchess Louisa Macaulay or Lord Rowan Scott had amassed such a following—they carved their own success into the caverns with shrewd minds and cunning hearts. 

Kieran cared not if people empathized with him. He did not believe himself to be worthy of kindness, and thus let words that fell from sharpened tongues slide right off his back. Whether or not people liked him didn’t change his life. Duke Javier could despise Kieran all he wanted—his hate alone was not enough to convict the mercenary. The case from which the duke’s detestation stemmed from was one of the few times Kieran had worried that he wouldn’t get off scot free. It had been a strange job—stealing a plethora of valuables from multiple homes all in one night on short notice was not an especially easy task—but fortunately he’d ended up acquitted. Their key witness could not confidently identify Kieran as the shadowy figure they’d seen that night and the stolen property could not be found anywhere in connection with him. That was because it had gone from his hands straight into the possession of the merchant to hired him—not that he could tell anyone that though. Even if he did, he doubted Javier’s judgement of him would change. He’d still be an unforgiveable thief in the duke’s eyes, regardless of if he’d kept what he stole.

If Javier thought his words would hurt Kieran’s ego, he was sadly mistaken. The mercenary had heard far worse in his lifetime and pride mattered little to him. “Careful, your grace, keep talking like that and you just might make me blush,” Kieran smirked, as if he was oblivious to what the duke truly spoke of. 

“True justice,” A murmur of a chuckle slipped past his lips. If he wasn’t worried about the merchant from years ago dragging Kieran down with her, he’d advise Javier that ‘true ‘justice’ could most likely still be found within the vaults of Emilia Hidalgo. He placed his own hand atop the unwelcome one that held onto his shoulder, nails and callouses lightly grazing the softer skin of the noble. “Come now, I’m sure you have far more pressing matters to worry about. Especially in light of the Queens’ announcement—or have the Fairwinds finally turned their neutrality into support for the kingdom?” It was no secret which duchies were for and which were against the kingdom. For all the differences between the two men, they both heralded from lands that claimed neutrality. 

After an opulent affair like the grand ball, the underworld’s after party felt like coming home. Kieran would chose the company of lowly thieves and killers over the likes of high society any day. He cared very little for the pomp and circumstance that the nobility were so accustomed to. Why would he, when such refinement had been kept out of his grasp for years. It still was, in a way. No matter how much wealth he amassed, it would always be considered ‘new’ money. Each coin worked for—no matter how he got it—rather than inherited. Among nobles, lineage was everything. It gifted them privileges and power regardless of if they were worthy. A man who came from nothing would always be deemed of little importance. A no one compared to their family trees that went back generations. Stone Garden was his mother, raising him on her dark streets, and greed was his father, ruling his motivations. Kieran was born in the bottom of the barrel and destined to remain there. A fate he’d determined to make the best of long ago. 

The Lord of Thieves knew as well as he the nature of their world. That in order to survive in Stone Garden, one must cast aside their morals and do whatever they can to get by. To thrive in such an environment took a truly cunning mind and ruthless heart. Someone unafraid to do whatever it took to get ahead. This fact could be said of both Rowan Scott and Kieran Devereux. Once pitted as rivals for the title of Lord, the tension between them had dissipated after he stepped aside. Rowan flourished under the power and risk that came with the role, but Kieran saw it as a load of responsibility he could not add to what he already carried on his shoulders. Now the two were tentative allies. 

Rowan, alongside the Pirate Lord, were responsible for putting together the little soiree after the ball. With liquor stolen right underneath the palace guards’ noses, concoctions that could make even the most austere of folk lose their inhibitions, and company more lively than the crowd twice its size the previous evening, it was a night of vice that Kieran reveled in. A breath of familiarity after the week’s more dignified festivities. When Rowan came his way he raised a glass in greeting. “I see even when you leave the caves, the caves do not leave you,” He spoke in reference to the sharp metal and gemstones that adorned their attire. 

Kieran didn’t go out of his way looking for opportunities to show off, but he couldn’t resist a good competition when the occasion arose—especially when a prize was involved. Ravenpeak’s exhibition at the festival felt like it was made for him. A competition where he was rewarded for fighting people? Say less. Alongside by some of the kingdom’s best soldiers who wanted to prove themselves and underdogs who just wanted the gold prize, Kieran eliminated every opponent placed in front of him with ease. He excelled at sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat was his field of expertise. Jousting was the only area of the competition he was uncertain about, but either he was better than he thought he was or luck was on his side for once. Given his track record, Kieran was inclined to believe it was the former.

With an uncharacteristically large smile on his face and more than enough gold to last him the rest of the festival, he left the competition grounds in search of the Sacred Wood’s exhibition. A couple wounds littered his body that he would rather buy a remedy for than wait around for them to heal on their own. He’d heard that they were teaching inquisitive folk how to blend remedies of their own in addition to selling their highly sought after elixirs and potions. It had to have been at least a year since he ventured back into the enchanted wood of the west. A badly ended job that left him gravely injured the last time he was there had kept him from going back for quite a while—he didn’t have to worry about running into minotaurs in any of the other dukedoms.

He stepped up to the tent, his eyes downwards as he counted out a few coins. “Do you have any remedies for sale? Just something for...” Kieran’s voice trailed off as his glanced upward and froze. It took a lot to catch the mercenary off guard, but seeing the woman who had saved his life that fateful night in the Sacred Wood standing before him was certainly enough to accomplish such a task. She’d healed him in the dead of night even though he hadn’t the means to properly pay her at the time. There were very few people who had seen Kieran had his most vulnerable and Ophelia was on that short list. He did his best to shake off the surprise, “—for minor injuries.”

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲

It was not moral virtue that made the Fairwinds Duke condemn vice. But a question of the motivations that rested behind it. Amidst the brigade of fast talking thieves and sinister mercenaries, Javier finds himself tuned to listen and empathize. The Lord understood his privilege - the ninth Duke of a prestigious and formidable line of De Leon’s. Yet he made an effort to see beyond his own lens, and nodded in anonymous agreement when he heard of desperate tales. Stories of doing what was necessary, to provide and protect. It’s what’s allowed Javier to accept his guild master’s unsavory practices, as evil necessities for the greater good. Yet it was the individualistic, the greedy, and the conceited that made his blood turn warm with fury. Those who considered themselves a cut above the company, and paid little mind to the ruined lives in their wake.

It’s what allows Javier to tolerate the Lost Coasts’ tenuous balance, yet condemn Stone Garden’s outright greed. A question of the greater good, that none of its denizens could answer. Ironic, then, that he should find himself shoulder-to-shoulder with such a man. A quick glimpse at his wears and the subtle sheen of impressive jewels, made his homeland pronounced. The ostentatious choices of proud criminals, who wore it on their sleeve. The devil-may-care roll of his tongue, confirming such suspicions. There were many cultures represented in the Cave Lands, and his oozed of an English-Italian blend with a low brow tilt. Javier scoffs against his simple, black mask. Clean hands, with mild callouses from the fields, reaching for a refreshed goblet of ale. “Then I have achieved my purpose tonight.” Javier mutters, finding comfort that his mask has done its fabled task. While he’s certain that he is not the only nobleman in attendance, the Duke of such a prosperous land would undoubtedly turn heads.

Still - the notion of being an anonymous face splinters the nobleman’s ego. The slight condescension from the mysterious trader, ringing in his ears. He’s prepared to retort, when the casual nods and greetings of slew of familiar, Fairwinders pass by him. Even when masked, they could recognize their leader. He raises his glass, saluting them in their native tongue, only to turn back to the man in question. “Let’s make it one less, nameless man then.” His fingers reach for the corners of his mask, tugging it off his face. “How about now, brother?”

.

Kieran prided himself on typically remaining neutral when it came to his feelings about other people—something that made his job easier—but if there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was those who placed themselves on a pedestal of morality. The ones who knew nothing of having to fight for mere survival. Of wondering where the next meal would come from or for how long you’d have a roof over your head. They didn’t know what it was like being born into hardship, and yet still believed they had any right to dictate what was right and wrong. Which crimes were justified and which were not. A child on the streets snatching a coin purse or a father stealing bread for his starving family were blameless—but what happened when the poverty-stricken child grew into a fulltime thief and the father realized there were far easier, albeit less savory, ways to feed his family than leaving them to starve in the name of a noble pursuit? Then they were deemed immoral. 

He’d seen and experienced it time and time again. The self-proclaimed righteous citizens of Ashbourne justifying the crimes of those they pitied, but casting judgement on those same people who years later continued to work around the law to survive. Not just survive, but thrive. When one is born with nothing, why stop at just barely getting by? The world worked against them, so why should they be looked down upon for working against it as well? The truth was that the nobles only tolerated crime in the most desperate of situations. When it was only used as a means to survive another day and it did not interfere with their privileged lives. Kieran had spent his life fighting tooth and nail to survive, and refused to be shamed for wanting more than the bare minimum.

That being said, he didn’t go flaunting his newfound prosperity around like many others from the cave lands. In Stone Garden the wealthy wore jewels as casually as they breathed air and those who managed to rise above their station often copied their attitude of abundance. Kieran was one of the few who preferred to hide his fairly recent financial success in favor of saving his coin for the day that his worst fears might come to life. There were small indicators that he held some kind of wealth found throughout his attire—a small earring of citrine, gold sparingly threaded into embroidered cuffs, a few onyx rings—but it paled in comparison to what others at the party wore who he recognized heralded from his same duchy. 

Amber eyes narrowed as he watched the man interact with others from Fairwinds. Even without understanding what they were saying, Kieran could see they regarded him with an air of formality. A kind of respect typically reserved for those deemed best in their field—such as the party’s hosts—when it came to Ashbourne’s underworld. It made his idea of who the man might be seem less far-fetched than he thought. Something about that refined accent and proud posture rang a bell in his memories, but—

f u c k.

Of all the people to run into at the party for criminals, it had to be him. Duke Javier De Leon was not only Fairwinds’ beloved leader, his homeland’s pride and joy—he was also a massive thorn in Kieran’s side as of a few years back. Paid off by a bitter merchant who’d been rebuked by a few well-known farmers she wanted to trade with, Kieran had been instructed to the steal valuables she wanted from said farmers instead. Unfortunately the job hadn’t gone as smoothly as he hoped and he’d nearly been caught in the act. There was never enough evidence to place the crime on him, but the Duke had resented him ever since.

“What a surprise, Your Grace,” Kieran spoke with a flourish of a mock bow. “I must say, I hadn’t expected to be honored with the presence of the Fairwinds’ golden boy tonight.”

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝟎𝟏 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

Tell me that I'm cutthroat, I think you got your eyes closed. Feel the fear and swallow back the tears. Let weakness disappear. There's nobody but me here—the killer in the mirror.