#thread: lenore

Lenore plucked two goblets from a tray, politely inclining her head towards the servant. She carefully balanced the beverages as she walked through the room, crimson sloshing inside the cup but never making it past the rim. When she’d been but a maiden on the cusp of blooming, she had carefully balanced a pile of books atop her head, learning to maneuver her body with a dancer’s deft grace. She’d walked circle after circle in the library, ignoring the ache of her feet and the growing fatigue in her shoulders, honing her body into a practiced tool beneath her lady mother’s exacting eye. To let yourself be seen stumbling was to surrender control, and to surrender control was to invite in chaos. Lenore had carved out every ounce of weakness and had filled the hollows left behind with tempered iron, a delicate framework woven through her bones, veiled beneath pale flesh and tranquil features, but ever-present. She disliked feeling vulnerable. She disliked being bade to bend, and yet she had, and she would do so again. If the situation demanded she spill a truth and take a stranger into her confidence, then she would. If the council demanded more blood, she would shed her own. Never uttering a word of complaint. Such was their game: pretending to be obedient while sharpening your nails beneath a table. Baring your neck before the blade but never taking your eye off the handle.

If anyone understood this, it would be her fellow whisper-weaver. Lenore decided now was the time to speak again, now that they’d both been at the mercy of a power beyond them. Weakened, bared flesh, and both bled of a secret. Lenore would take the risk of revealing weakness if it meant she could needle Amarei in return. She did not reveal her presence once near, merely took the seat beside the other woman as if it belonged to her. She placed the two cups on the table and reached for the drink Lady Velwyrn had been nursing like comfort. She deposited the almost empty cup out of reach and slid the new one in front of her. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you are sulking.” Lenore turned her body towards the other woman, leaning her arm on the back of the chair. “Or are you simply not in the mood for dancing, Lady Amarei?” A beat. “A shame if so; I was looking forward to our next.”

Lenore drifted amidst the sea of silks like a siren. Not one adorned with shimmering scales and seaweed, but rising above the humdrum with an elegance bringing to mind wind and feathers. Strings wove through the air, tangling with laughter, while the scent of freshly roasted meats and golden-crusted pastries accompanied the revelry. She shook her head at an offer of refreshments and sidestepped a clumsy attempt at conversation with a slight shake of her head—polite yet firm. The pale blue of her gaze cast about, descending over the gathered heads of Velkynar’s finest like a sheer veil.

Once she found the outline of the man she’d sought, her eyes sharpened. Without ever betraying her intent to outsiders, she followed him around the room. When he made his way to a quieter corner, she struck. Lenore brushed her fingers against his sleeve, not intimately, but proprietarily. A quiet demand. Her eyes hooked into Varyn’s, then flicked to the entrance. Then, she left him behind, trusting that he at least knew not to follow behind her too closely. Trusting that he would follow.

Lenore left the grand hall and found a secluded corridor. She did not look back. She led Varyn even further, through winding halls, finally slipping into a small tearoom. 

“Close the door,” Lenore said quietly. She turned. She took him in. She made him wait. Finally, she gave him a rare cold smile that did not reach her eyes. “Apologies if I took you away from more important matters. I know you have been busy as of late, and I would not impose on you more than I already have.” She crossed the room and took a seat on one of the settees. The other man was not invited to sit next to her. Crossing her legs, Lenore leaned back, placing one arm over the back of the settee. Elegance in repose. “I’ve recently had the most illuminating conversation with Lady Velwyrn.” Her voice never rose beyond the conversational. "She made quite clear where you and I stood.”

Seated in a windowed nook, Lenore appeared separate from the world around her. Her dark hair enshrouded her features as she drew patterns in the condensation that misted the glass. Small sigils lost to time that she had discovered during her month-long seclusion in Yverhald Keep. She had spent weeks plunging into the written word, devouring every scrap of literature she could get her hands on and drinking in the ink like wine. Hoping beyond reason that some small morsel of information might find its way to her. Anything to keep her mind occupied. Anything to avert her gaze from Arun as he stood guard, silent. But House Kaelvorn was not known for its wealth or literacy, and her family's archives had provided her with nothing but absence, lining the parchment where knowledge should dwell, nesting within the fractures that had formed within her.

Her fingertip drew lines into meaning, small loops resembling an ancient warding sigil, though Lenore no longer believed protection could come from anywhere other than within. Her gaze shifted to the glass, where a shadow approached, its tall reflection engulfing her drawing until only its silhouette filled her vision. Something cold pricked the delicate skin of her neck. Lenore drew a breath, turned her face to the intruder, and stilled completely. 

“Lord Garramoth?”

Lenore’s mask of the night possessed the delicacy of a distant star as she glided through the throng. Unbothered by the wind and bend of bodies around her, untouched by the chorus of viols and voices and vices. Eyes locked forward, piercing beyond the merriment until they caught on an unexpected catch. Mentally, she rifled through her collection of etchings. Storm-black hair and comely features. A voice akin to a lark’s lilt. Completely unknown, aside from a series of brief exchanges whose essence she’d long forgotten, remembering only the use they’d served. Would now serve once more, the most tenuous of connections brokered upon a shared passion; for they both preferred the smaller winged creatures that roamed their lands.  She pivoted, as if this had been her design all along, a step well-rehearsed. Lenore cut through the crowd like a slender blade, sharpness buried beneath silk, and paused before the Lady Velwyrn. She curtsied, candlelight nesting in the hollow of her collarbones, deep enough to be respectful, but not so low as to risk an accusation of flattery. She turned towards the man Lady Amarei had been conversing with and dismissed him with a flick of her eye. “You teeter on the edge of courtesy, my lord.” A moment of silence held taut. “Clearly, the lady does not wish to partake in the pleasure of your company.” She held his gaze with placid patience until he flushed and moved away, uttering a faint apology. Only then did her gaze shift back to her fellow Drakathar. “At last you have descended from the skies,” Lenore said serenely, “and here the scavengers come.” A pause. “I suppose we should not blame them; they are but a simple breed.”

The  more  time  Lenore  spent  in  Moira  Castle,  the  more  she  came  to  think  of  it  as  a  great  stone  beast,  slumbering  on  top  of  a  hoard  of  broken  crowns  and  discarded  lives.  The  hidden  passageways  branching  all  over  would  be  its  arteries:  servants  rushing  through  with  all  it  needed  to  thrive,  frantic  yet  measured,  a  consistent  rush  that  followed  its  own  flow.  At  night,  the  Velkynar  would  fill  the  halls  and  wander  the  skeleton  of  its  sweeping  archways  and  slender  spires,  but  when  morrowlight  streaked  across  the  battlements,  the  castle's  pulse  would  slow.  Servant  and  noble  alike  would  seek  the  comfort  of  their  bed,  and  Lenore  would  swoop  from  her  perch  to  extract  the  marrow  from  its  bones. 

Having  gathered  her  fill,  she  traversed  the  dark  without  a  single  lantern  for  company.  With  her  fingertips,  she  counted  the  notches  in  the  walls,  a  map  without  sight.  Her  steps  were  small  but  certain.  She  found  the  outline  of  a  hidden  door  and  stepped  through,  sharp  eyes  sweeping  the  hall.  Devoid  of  jewelry  and  splendor,  Lenore  cloaked  herself  in  silver  silence,  her  fluid  form  a  waning  silhouette.  Light-footed,  she  made  her  way  back  to  her  quarters.  Recently,  she’d  discovered  a  shortcut  through  an  abandoned  sitting  room.  As  she  walked  the  length  of  the  room,  a  beam  of  sunlight  fractured  through  the  window.   Someone  had  moved  the  curtains.  It  could  have  been  anyone—some  curious  visitor,  a  pair  of  lovers,  or  an  overeager  maid.  Nevertheless, the sight caused Lenore to pause abruptly. She  more  felt  than  heard  the  breath  behind  her,  moving  the  small  strands  of  hair  tucked  behind  her  ear.  Her  pulse  crested.  Her  breath  splintered.  Lenore  remembered  Liege  Malaric’s  hand  on  hers.  How  quickly  it  had  happened.  Like  before,  she  didn’t  scream.  Instead,  she  receded  into  herself.  Fingers  retreated  into  her  sleeve  and  closed  around  the  handle.  She  pivoted.  Steel  sliced  the  air.  Deep  blue,  like  the  current  of  a  sunless  ocean,  halted  it. Her  stolen  blade  stopped  a  hair’s  breadth  away  from  Lord  Verathorm’s  flesh. 

In  that  moment,  Lenore’s  face  resembled  a  delicate  death  mask,  ice  blue  and  alabaster.  Though  a  shuddering  breath  was  wrung  from  her  lungs,  her  eyes  wide  with  terror,  she  remained  motionless.  Then,  wordlessly,  she  pressed  the  edge  of  the  knife  to  his  throat,  unblinking.

As  far  as  all  were  concerned,  the  heiress  of  House  Kaelvorn  had  locked  herself  in  her  quarters  after  her  traumatic  ordeal.  Even  her  own  kin  had  only  caught  the  barest  of  glimpses:  the  slip  of  a  dressing  gown,  the  sound  of  a  door  opening,  a  breakfast  tray  emptied.  A  bloodlet  ghost,  trailing  quiet  footsteps  in  the  dark.  A  perfect  concealment,  enabling  her  to  be  in two  places  at  once.

The  lockdown  had  lifted  in  the  early  hours,  and  she'd  moved  immediately.

Lenore  stroked  the  plain  furs  atop  the  bed.  How  entirely  expected of him.  Her  dark  curls  were  covered  with  a  servant's  cap,  her  clothes  plain  and  simple;  it  was  ridiculous  how  easily  she'd  slipped  beneath  notice  when  lacking  her  noble  plumage.  All  she'd  needed  was  her  own  breakfast  tray,  a  slumped  posture,  and  some  general  knowledge  of  all  the  dimly  lit  corners  within  the  keep.

A  soft  intake  of  breath  alerted  her  to  a  body  emerging  from  sleep.  Lenore  softly  stepped  towards  the  bedside  table  and  poured  a  cup  of  strong  tea,  then  returned  to  the  edge  of  the  bed.  Patiently,  she  waited  for  his  eyes  to  flutter  open,  her  face  smooth  and  unmarked  by  emotion.

When  Lenore  finally  slipped  into  slumber,  her  dreams  depicted  a  barren  valley  wreathed  in  dying  light.  Ash  drifted  from  the  sky  and  coated  rotting  flesh  as  they  shuffled  forward,  sentient,  snarling.

She  awoke  with  death's  frigid  grip  around  her  throat.  On  the  side  table  beside  her  bed,  the  remnants  of  a  candle  wick  smoldered.  Moonlight  splintered  through  the  curtains.  How  long  had  she  slept?  Lying  on  her  side,  Lenore  slipped  a  letter  opener  from  beneath  her  pillow  and  contemplated  the  improvised  blade.  Too  long  had  she  depended  on  Arun  for  safety.  She  had  always  trusted  the  Tripathi  knight  to  keep  her  safe,  but  he  had  been  unable  to  help  her  when  danger  had  struck.  She  needed  her  own  tools.  She  needed  her  sister.