Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #15: The Great Betrayer]

Log Date: 1/18/12764

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka, Raikaron Syntaritov

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Estate Grounds

11:16am SGT

Gritting my teeth, I grip the scraggly stump of a dead bush, and yank it once more.

Roots grind and snap, but it only comes out of the flowerbed slightly. Most of it remains anchored by the root network, and after another few seconds of straining and trying to rip it up, I let go and brace myself on my knees. After catching my breath, I grab the hoe and size up the roots that have been exposed, then start hacking at them with the garden implement.

I’ve been doing groundskeeping for the House for almost a week now, ever since I’d returned from my misadventure on Vinnei. After being rescued, I’d only gotten a day to convalesce; after that, Danya had put me to work on groundskeeping from dawn to dusk. Though she’d never stated as much, I knew it was punishment for the trouble I’d gotten into, and for what it had cost Raikaron to bail me out of it.

But I didn’t complain.

It’s miserable work. Groundskeeping in the middle of winter is frigid, and the whole time, you’re ripping up shrubbery or foliage that didn’t survive the freeze. At the end of every day you’re sore and stiff, and not even a shower can wash away the dirt and stains that have worked their way into the creases of your skin. Your fingers and feet get numb and tired as you’re working in the cold all day, and you start to develop blisters from the handles of the tools you’re using. And if they don’t give you blisters, then they’ll give you splinters, which are damn near impossible to pick out of your skin when your fingers are as stiff and cold as they are.

Groundskeeping in the winter is a good way to punish someone.

I was exhausted at the end of every day, and I dreaded getting up in the morning, knowing I had to leave the warmth of my bed to go out into the freezing cold and start ripping up ornamental shrubs. The labor left me so tired that even if I wanted to do other things, I didn’t have the energy to do them. At the end of the day, I only stayed awake by taking a shower first, then eating dinner and collapsing into bed. If I ate dinner first, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay awake long enough to make it to the shower.

Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention; looking up, I can see that the groundskeeping staff are smirking through the window at me, sipping on tea and hot cocoa in the warmth of the House. My punishment had been their reprieve, and they were clearly savoring it. For them, seeing a high-ranking demon like me get humbled, having to get my hands dirty with the grunt work, was a dish sweeter than any dessert.

I do my best to ignore them, ducking my head back down and hacking away at the roots of the shrub I’m trying to tear up. The first few times it’d been embarrassing, but five days on, I didn’t even care anymore. I still had hours left to go before dusk, and I couldn’t afford to waste energy being anxious over what other people thought of me. If they wanted to waste their time standing at the window looking smug, then they were free do so.

As for me, I would keep working, and hope that when Raikaron recovered, he would be lenient with me.

Jayta’s Journal

It is an odd thing to be grateful for punishment, but it does happen sometimes. Such as in my case.

It was not that I enjoyed the punishment; I did not, and most well-adjusted individuals don’t. I didn’t take pleasure from it. But I was grateful for it, because it meant that I was worth keeping around. It meant that I was not beyond redemption. If they did not care to keep me around, then they would not have bothered with punishing me — they would’ve discarded me, cast me off.

So it often went with punishment. It was a corrective measure, employed only for assets which were worth the trouble. When one finds themselves grateful for a punishment, it is usually because there was something worse waiting in the wings, disciplinary action that is more permanent or final than the proposed punishment. It is usually not gratitude for the punishment itself, but for the lenience that the punishment represents, relative to other, more drastic courses of action.

And in my case, manual labor was, as punishments go, a vastly generous sentence relative to what Raikaron could’ve done to me.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Estate Grounds

4:17pm SGT

The one advantage of groundskeeping in winter was that dawn came late, and dusk arrived early. And since I was tasked with working the grounds from dawn til dusk, my days were never more than nine hours long. Had I been hit with this punishment in the summer, I would be out here for thirteen, fourteen hours every day.

I’m busy pruning one of the low, hunched trees in the front yard when I see what looks like a garbage truck pull up on the road outside the estate’s grounds, stopping outside the open gates. The rear of the truck cranks open, revealing that it’s half-full of demons, and someone is thrown onto the ground outside the gates. Once that’s done, the back of truck cranks shut again, taking off back down the road leading through the hills without any further explanation.

Stepping away from the tree that I’m trimming, I peer down the main path and the gates. The demon on the ground starts to get up, shaking his head as he glares back down the road at the departing garbage truck. As I continue watching, I realize the mannerisms, the build, the hair and the shoulders all look familiar.

It’s Harro.

The surge of emotions that goes through me is uncontrollable; I drop the shears as my body convulses, twisting and morphing into my demon manifest as rage rips through me. I catch my breath as I finish transforming, bracing on my knees as I watch him start through the gates and down the path leading to the House. I’ve been working all day, and I’m sore and tired and numb and blistered and cold.

But seeing Harro show up at the gates of the House, the rage I’m feeling is starting to warm me up and give me a fresh burst of energy.

Leaving my shears and wheelbarrow behind, I walk out onto the path, headed straight for him. As I go, I rip the shotgun charm off my bracelet, the weapon expanding to full size in my hands. He’s too busy wiping trash muck off himself to notice me coming to meet him on the path; he only looks up when he hears the sound of the shotgun being pumped. His eyes go wide when he sees me raising the shotgun.

“Jayta, wait—”

klikBANG

The cone of superheated plasma slams into his chest, knocking him off the path and flat on his back on the dead grass. I was too far away to hit him with a concentrated blast, so it’s only scorched him instead of punching clean through him. Something I intend to correct as I continue marching towards him, pumping the shotgun to fill the chamber with more superheated plasma.

At the chikchak, Harro seems to realize I’m not here to talk. He convulses on the ground, his body thickening and expanding into his hellhound manifest, thickly muscled and covered in dense fur. I’m all too familiar with how durable this form is, given his bedroom performance — something that just makes me boiling mad when I think about it.

I can’t believe I let this traitorous piece of shit between my sheets.

I start to raise the shotgun as Harro’s manacles flare to life around his wrists, and he swings one arm towards me as the orange chains start to manifest from them. I don’t realize how long they are until it's too late, and the links whip into the side of my head, sending me staggering sideways with my ears ringing and my vision blurring.

As I’m recovering from that, he scrambles to his feet and starts to sprint towards me; I swing my shotgun around and pull the trigger in a wild shot. It manages to clip him, taking a chunk out of his shoulder and cauterizing it in the process. It doesn’t stop him, though, and he swings his other arm out, the chain attached to his manacle wrapping around my neck. Before I can pull it off, he yanks it downwards, slamming me to the ground on my front. I fumble to get up, only for a padded foot to slam down on my head between my horns, crushing my face into the cold grass as I scream into the dirt.

“Yesu christi, you’re a big pain in the ass for someone so small.” he pants as I scrabble in the grass, trying to push up, then grab his ankle and try to shift his foot off my head. “Where do you get off, thinkin’ you can gun me down just for setting foot on the grounds?”

I can’t answer with my face buried in the ground, and it’s also hard to breathe down here, and I’m goddamn pissed that he’s got his foot planted on my head, pinning me down. I don’t even have to think about my manacles; I can feel them manifesting around my wrist as I will my hands to heat up, aiming to cook his ankle the same way I cooked the face of that elf that tried to kidnap my brother on Charisto.

“Oh, that’s cute.” Harro says. “You think you can burn me out? There’s a chainlink for that, it’s called heat tolerance. Guess the red bastard hasn’t given you that one yet.”

I feel one of his massive pawhands clutch around the end of one of my horns before he takes his foot off my head. I cry out as he lifts me by that horn, holding me in the air; all my weight is being held by that point, putting a painful amount of pressure on where that horn connects to my skull. I flare my wings, flapping them and trying to alleviate the pressure on that horn, since my digitigrade feet are dangling inches over the ground from where he’s holding me in the air.

“Now if you’d just let me talk, I was going to tell you that it wasn’t anything personal—”

I peel back my lips and scream at him, unsheathing the wicked black claws of my right hand and raking them across his face. I don’t want to think; I don’t want to feel; I don’t want to talk things out. I just want this bastard to suffer for abandoning me.

He staggers as my claws rip gashes across his face, swearing. “Fumruckin’— mother of god, you little blondes are always psychotic bitches!” Swatting my arm away, he lets go of my horn at the same time that he clamps both of his massive paws around my ribcage, squeezing as he bares his teeth and snarls at me. “Would’ve just let the skinny strawberry have you if I’d known back then you were going to be this much trouble!”

Gritting my teeth, I growl down at him. “Yeah? Because I would’ve been better off with him! He’s not a coward like you; he actually came back for me!”

Harro snorts. “Like that’s supposed to mean shit? He’s a goddamn demon lord. The skinny little shit has more power than everyone in the House combined. That doesn’t make him brave.”

“Maybe not. But he came back for me.” I snarl. “You didn’t even try.”

“Oh boo hoo, I’m supposed to feel bad about that?” Harro scoffs. “You didn’t have to come, but you decided to. I should’ve known you couldn’t hack it, after I had to help you with that one task. I invited you along because I felt sorry for you.”

“Not sorry enough to come back for me, apparently.” I growl at him.

“It’s not my job to clean up your messes.” he growls back. “The weak don’t make it here, and you’re weak. It’s not my job to fight your battles when you’re too weak to win them.”

“No.” I seethe, working my tongue around my mouth. “That’s Raikaron’s job.”

With that, I spit down at him, nailing him square in the eye. He recoils at that, shaking his head back and forth, but he doesn’t let go; instead, his grip just tightens.

“Fine.” he snarls, glaring at me through one eye, the other squeezed shut. “You like the red bastard so much, he can clean you up once I’m done with you.”

I gasp as his pawhands tighten around my torso mercilessly; it feels like my ribs are going to snap inwards under the pressure and puncture my organs. I’m willing to bet he has a strength chainlink just like me, or even multiple, because he’s applying this pressure effortlessly. Even pushing on his arms and flapping my wings, there’s no way I can dislodge myself from his grip, and seeing how long his chains are, I know he must have other tricks up his sleeve. He’s got several feet of chain on each manacle; I’ve only got inches on mine. I can’t win this fight.

But we’re in hell and there’s no honor among demons, so I might as well get someone else to win it for me.

“RAIKARON!” I scream over my shoulder, directing it back towards the House. “HELP ME!”

Harro’s grip tightens after I scream over my shoulder, squeezing the rest of the breath out of me and preventing me from calling out again. All I can do is brace myself on his forearms, digging my claws into his fur, and swiping at his face when I can manage the strength for it. But it’s not stopping him; I can feel the blunt claws on his hands starting to rip through my work jacket and the shirt underneath, starting to cut into my skin even as he tries to collapse my ribcage.

It’s agonizing, and I can’t help letting out a single, high-pitched scream.

Almost as if in response, Harro staggers as something bowls into him underneath me. The brutal grip eases off a little, and before I can look down, a flurry of feathers and neon-dyed hair hurtles past me, latching onto one of Harro’s arms and biting into it. Then another, and another, starting to form a cacophony of frenzied shrieking and cawing.

It’s the harpies.

Harro staggers, one hand coming off me so he can reach down and start grabbing the girls, yanking them off and throwing them away. “Goddammit, you mangy little bitches! Gerroff me!” He kicks and stomps at the ones around his feet, but the ones he’s thrown away just get back up and into it, some jumping on his back and digging in their talons, while others grab his legs and arms, sinking their piranha teeth in.

When a whip cracks, lashing him hard enough to open a bloody gash in his thigh, he seems to hit his limit and switches gears. His grip on me tightens as he hurls me down at the ground like a newspaper that disgusts him; I flare my wings to try and slow myself, but I still hit hard, sharp pain going through my shoulder and hip. As I get my bearings, I can hear the harpies screeching and shouting, whipped up into a vicious frenzy; I roll over in time to see Harro grab another one and throw her off, then take in a deep breath.

Next thing he does exhale a stream of fire in a wild circle around himself.

The screaming and screeching of the harpies turns panicked as they scramble to get away from the flames, some of them avoiding it, but others getting clipped or doused in fire. I rush to scramble away as well, crawling across the ground as the grass burns behind me. As the harpies scatter away from him, Harro starts lashing out with his chains, whipping the girls in the back, or catching them around the neck with his chainlinks and yanking them back down into the burning grass. When he sees me crawling away, he turns and slings one of his chains at me, and I curl up on instinct, paralyzed by fear of pain.

I hear the crack of the chain striking, but the pain never arrives. Pulling my arms away from my head, I see that there’s a thin, wispy veil of dark gas enshrouding me, flowing from above; looking up, I see Danya towering over me in her demon manifest. Eight feet of imperious, foreboding austerity, the hem of her shadowy mantle drawn around me, shielding me within a curtain of darkness.

It looks like Harro is having second thoughts now that Danya has turned up, but he’s not given much time to consider them. Someone goes hurtling past Danya, and I don’t recognize who it is until I see the short sword belted across the back of her waist — it’s Aritska, the hawk harpy that serves as the captain of the whole group. She draw her sword reversehand as she vaults over a patch of burning grass, spinning in the air to bring it down in a slash that lands heavy on Harro’s shoulder and elicits a roar from him. He swings one of his chains at her as she lands, and she knocks it away before socking him square in the muzzle with her free hand. The blow to his sensitive nose has him staggering back, and while he’s jarred, she undercuts the pommel of her sword into the bottom of his jaw, throwing his head back and exposing his neck so she can slash her sword across it.

And just like that, she’s ended the fight.

Harro staggers back, clutching the slash across his throat as his glowing manacles flicker. Aritska doesn’t follow, simply wiping off her blade on the thigh of her pants before sheathing it horizontally across her waist once more, waiting for Harro to drop. When he goes to his knees, trying to stem the blood spilling from his throat, she gives a single sharp whistle.

The harpies that had been scattered earlier start to converge on Harro again, the least-injured ones returning the fastest. He tries to swat them away with his free hand, but it’s clear his strength is waning, and they quickly pile onto him, screeching and shrieking as they go into a frenzy, talons and teeth tearing and ripping with wild abandon. I see Harro thrashing and kicking desperately, but don’t hear him roaring or screaming — I don’t think he can, with his throat slashed open. As blood, feathers, and flesh start to fly through the air, I look away, unable to stomach the sight.

“Aritska, I leave supervision of Harro’s punishment to you.” Danya says, her voice cold and cruel. “Once the task is finished, see to it that the girls’ injuries are tended to. Let me know if a hospital visit is required for any of them.”

Aritska turns her head without turning the rest of her body, and gives only a short, efficient nod, saying nothing. With that acknowledgement, I feel tendrils of darkness curl under my arms, gently pulling me to my feet as Danya’s mantle retreats from where it was curtained around me. Looking up, I can see Danya gazing down at me. “You will come with me. We will tend your injuries in the House.”

I nod, and don’t say anything. Danya turns and begins gliding back up the path to the House, and I limp along behind her, feeling my torso and hip ache with each step. I was already stiff and sore from a full day of groundskeeping, but the beatdown I’d just received made it hard to even walk. Still, as I glance over my shoulder at the mob of harpies swarming Harro, I feel a twinge of relief.

Being sore wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.

Jayta’s Journal

Punishment is meant to teach.

It is not, by any means, the ideal method for teaching morality. When we teach morality to others, it is taught by certain methods. There is demonstrative teaching, wherein we model ethical concepts to those who may be watching. There is experiential teaching, wherein we learn by putting those ethical concepts into practice in our own lives. And of course, there is punitive teaching, wherein negative reinforcement is used to as pushback to the violation of an ethical concept, so that the individual realizes that their actions contradict the norms and standards that make our society hospitable.

Ideally, teaching by negative reinforcement should only ever be a last resort, when demonstrative and experiential teaching have failed or otherwise not produced the desired result. But those that find themselves in hell are, in nearly all cases, far beyond the point where demonstrative or experiential teaching is either warranted or deserved. To that end, teaching, if there is any to be had in hell, is generally of the punitive strain.

Yet even then, whether or not the damned choose to learn from an education in suffering is entirely up to them.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Sick Room

4:41pm SGT

“Be aware, this will sting.” Danya say as she starts to wipe the scratches that Harro’s blunt claws had left on my back.

I grit my teeth. Currently I’m sitting on a padded physician’s bed, similar to the ones that you see in low-income hospitals. We’re in the sick room, which I guess is the House’s version of an infirmary. Glass cabinets line the walls, filled with all manner of medicine and other, considerably less scientific ingredients. I can even recognize some of the creature parts stored in liquid; it reminds me of the cabinets at my high school. One of the nurses there had also been a witch in the coven, and she kept some common witch remedies stored in the cabinets in the nurse’s room.

“You didn’t have to kill him.” I say between wipes of the wetted cloth that Danya’s dabbing across my back.

“Perhaps not, but I doubt he would’ve learned a lesson otherwise.” Danya replies, dropping the hem of my shirt so she can dab the cloth back in the bottle on the counter.

“For what good that’ll do.” I snort. “Pretty hard to learn a lesson if the lesson kills you.”

“That’s the only way anything sticks with Harro.” Danya says, lifting the back of my shirt again. “Honestly, we should’ve dragged it out longer than it was. It was practically a mercy with how quick it went.”

“Wait.” I say, looking over my shoulder. “He’s… dead, right?”

“Most people in Sjelefengsel are dead. You can still kill them. The dead ones will simply remanifest if their sentences are not completed.” Danya says, working her way to the scratches underneath my shoulderblades. “To be damned means you cannot escape this place. Die one death or die a thousand; none of them matter, and it will be just as painful every time. The only escape is completing your sentence — and if you are lucky, then dying repeatedly might be a part of it.”

I wince as Danya works one of my scratches. “So… he’ll be back?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Danya sighs. “But I will appreciate his absence while he’s reconstituting in the sulphur fields.”

I’m silent for a moment as I process that. “Well, thanks for warning me. I feel a lot less sorry for him now that I know that he’s going to come back.”

“That you feel sorry for him at all is either a testament to your ignorance, or whatever goodness is left in your heart.” Danya says, starting on the scratches on the other side of my back. “He does not deserve anyone’s pity. If anything, he should be thanking us for making his death as quick as it was.”

As those words sink in, I think about what I’m about to say next. Whether I should even ask it. But since Harro’s not here, and it’s just me and Danya, and it seems like she’s let her guard down, I decide to give it a try. “What did… Harro do? When he was alive. What did he do that landed him here?”

I can feel Danya pause in cleaning my scratches, then slowly resume. “…most people that end up in Sjelefengsel — in any hell, for that matter — are usually condemned by the sum of their lives. It is usually not a single moment that seals their damnation, but rather the culmination of their sins over the long arc of their mortal tenure. In simple terms, it is a lot of little things that usually damns a person, not a single moment or act. But Harro is an exception to that.”

“It was just a single thing that landed him here?” I ask.

“Not as such. He had his sins, but his actions towards the end of his life destroyed any chance he might’ve had at redemption.” Danya says, dabbing at the last scratch on my back. “In fact, you may already know what he did, and simply haven’t realized who he is after all this time.”

“Wait, he’s someone I knew in the mortal plane?” I demand, turning on the bed as Danya lowers my shirt again.

“Possibly. A great many mortals knew him, or at least knew his name.” Danya says as she stands back up, going over to the counter to wash the cloth out. “Harro Garkia, when he was alive, was better known as the Challenger Shieldwall. The great betrayer of the Challenger Citadel.”

It only takes a couple seconds for the name to click. “Wait, really? Harro is Shieldwall? The guy that helped CURSE raze the Citadel?”

“One and the same.” Danya says as she dries her hands, and stoppers the bottle she’d had out. “Many, if not most of the Challenger casualties during the fall of the Citadel, were a result of his actions. Not only did he betray his comrades and coworkers, but he betrayed them to their deaths, and took part in the storming of the Citadel. And he did it knowing that among those in the Citadel was the woman he loved. Or at least, claimed to love.”

I just sit there and absorb that information for a bit. “…makes sense, actually. Why I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t even know what Shieldwall’s real name was. And I didn’t ever see what his face looked like, since they always showed him with his helm on.” Still. This whole time, I’ve been working alongside a former Challenger that got killed and went to hell. “That just blows my mind.”

“You can easily imagine why he’s very tight-lipped about his mortal life.” Danya says, putting away the bottle and rooting around in the cabinets for another. “Challengers have ended the lives of a good many mortals that ended up here, but beyond that, he is a traitor, and one who enabled a massacre. Even in hell, traitors are not regarded fondly.”

“Yeah, no shit.” I say, leaning forward and bracing my forearms on my knees, gritting my teeth at the pain of the bruising around my ribs. “I was about ready to bash his face in when I saw him walking through the gates.”

“An understandable reaction, given what I know of your misadventure on Vinnei.” Danya says, closing the cabinet and coming back around in front of me with a small glass and a bottle filled with what looks like red juice. “You understand now why I gave you as many warnings about him as I did.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me up front?” I ask as she starts pouring some of the liquid from the bottle into the glass. “You knew exactly why he ended up here and what he was like. Why were you trying to be all vague and mysterious about it?”

“That’s part of Harro’s sentence. The only people who are allowed to know his mortal identity are those he has already betrayed, and those tasked with overseeing his punishment. Had I tried, my attempts would’ve been frustrated by the binding force of the sentence upon him.” Danya says, pouring a bit more of the juice into the glass.

“So which one are you?” I ask. “Someone he’s betrayed, or someone that oversees his punishment?”

Danya’s cold, dark blue eyes flick up, and I can tell that question went over the line and won’t be getting answered. Which is, in its own way, an answer all on its own.

“Here.” she says, holding the glass out to me as she screws the lid back on the bottle. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” I ask, taking the glass. It’s about the size of a shotglass, and not very full — it’s only a third of the way filled with the red juice.

“Rantecevangian general health potion, nicked from the mortal plane by one of the harpies.” she says, walking back around the bed to put the bottle back in one of the cabinets. “They always come back with the damnedest things when Raikaron sends them to the mortal plane. Often they’re attracted shiny things and bright colors, especially the magpies. About half of what they bring back is junk, but the other half is sometimes useful.”

Having drunk similar concoctions made by the coven back at home, I don’t think much of it, and toss it back all in one go — only to jerk forward, clamping a hand over my mouth as I fight the instinct to spit it back out. After struggling with my gag reflex, I swallow parts of what’s left in my mouth, and then the rest of it, just to get it over with. “It’s bitter!” I wheeze, pounding my chest and coughing to try and get it to go down.

“Yes, I forgot to mention that it was unsweetened.” Danya answers, sounding largely unapologetic as she locks the cabinet once more. “I am to understand that the sweetened potions are kept under lock and key at most dispensaries, whereas the bitter ones are left on the shelves. The sweetened ones also cost more.”

“Kuh.” I say, sticking my tongue out and holding my glass out to her. “Can you get me some water to wash it down?”

Danya takes the glass, despite looking judgmental about it. “Returning to the subject of Mr. Garkia, I will ask that should you see him again in the future, you refrain from attempting to terminate him.” she says as she takes my glass back to the sink to wash it out and fill it up. “While I understand your displeasure with him, he is still a servant of the House, and he cannot perform his duties if he is constantly reconstituting. If you truly must satisfy your murderous impulse, at least make sure to get permission from Lord Syntaritov first.”

The mention of Raikaron brings other questions bubbling to the surface, questions that I’d had all week, but hadn’t dared ask for fear of receiving further punishment. “Is he… okay?” I ask tentatively. Last I had seen, he was being carried off by Mek and the harpies. I haven’t seen or heard anything about him since then.

“Our Lord is mostly recovered.” Danya says, returning and handing off the glass of water to me. “You are to get cleaned up once you are able to get off this bed. After that, you are to report to our Lord’s study.”

I take the glass, wincing as I feel heat start to spread through my abdomen as the potion makes its way down. Given that Danya’s not elaborating further on that, it seems like I’m in trouble. “He knows I’m sorry, right?”

“If you are sorry, you should express that to our Lord yourself. Penitence is less compelling when relayed secondhand.” Danya says. “You are to report to the study no later than six pm. Are we understood?”

On any day before the botched miracle heist, I might’ve had a snarky comeback or a sullen reply for Danya’s curt orders. Now, I just give a meek nod between sips from my glass. There’s a sense of anxious dread starting to take hold in my chest; I’m afraid of what awaits me in the study. I’ve been doing groundskeeping for the last week, but Raikaron might still be angry with me, and that might not be enough to mollify his anger.

“I’ll leave you to it; you know your way.” Danya says, turning and heading for the door of the sick room. “Do not be late.”

With that, she steps out of the sick room, leaving the door open behind her. After a moment, I take a deep breath, another sip from the glass, and start to ease myself off the bed.

Time to go face the music.

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

5:30pm SGT

Standing in front of the door of Raikaron’s study, I take a few bracing breaths. I’ve taken a shower and gotten into a fresh uniform, though I’ll probably only be wearing it for a couple hours before I change into my nightclothes; my hair’s still damp, the back of my neck cold in the chill of the hall. After taking another moment to gather my dwindling courage, I reach up and knock on the door.

“Come in.” is the muffled order from the other side.

Licking my lips, I square my shoulders, gripping the doorknob and twisting it, then pushing through. Inside, the study is as I remember it: the bookshelves towering on either side, the dense carpet underfoot, the wide, dark desk and the high-backed chair in front of the windows at the far end. And on the right wall amidst the bookshelves, the fireplace is crackling, giving off heat and casting shadows from the armchairs.

The person standing in front of it, though, is a slim woman. Dressed sharply in a black vest and red button-down, black slacks and shined shoes. Her scarlet hair is drawn back in a tight ponytail, with only a few thin locks having fought their way loose to arch over her face. A stack of envelopes filters through her fingers as she checks the addresses and stamps on each one.

Needless to say, I am thoroughly confused.

“Shut the door behind you. You’re letting in cold air.” the woman says with a certain longsuffering tone. Her attention remains on the envelopes she has in hand, firelight gleaming off her rimless glasses.

I reach back, hurrying to shut the door behind me and managing to find my voice by the time I turn back around. “Are you, uh. Raikaron’s replacement?”

At that the woman pauses, then turns her head. Slightly enough that the glare of the fireplace moves off her glasses, and I can see the toxic green eyes behind them. It’s at that moment that the realization hits me, and her next words dispel any ambiguity that may have remained.

“Now why would I want to replace myself?”

I fumble for words, stuttering out an apology as I feel my face heat up. “O-oh, I-I-I’m s-sorry, I, uh… d-didn’t realize…” Now on top of being confused, I’m thoroughly embarrassed. I don’t even know what I’m embarrassed for, I just feel flat-out embarrassed.

“So noted.” she says, returning her attention to the envelopes and flicking one into the fireplace. “I gather you had a… lively difference of opinions with Harro this afternoon.”

I clear my throat, looking away. “Uh, yes. Uhm, I’m… sorry about that.”

“Stop lurking by the door. You know I can hardly hear you from across the room.”

“Yes, my… Lord.” I say hesitantly, before starting further into the room. I don’t know what I’m supposed to call him… her?… now. But she doesn’t protest the form of address, and I remember even though she was a woman, Lust was referred to as a Lord as well, so the term must be neutral down here.

“I am to understand that your temper was an insufficient match for Harro’s skill.” she remarks, musing over another letter and actually opening it.

“He was stronger than I expected. And I didn’t know he had a chainlink for heat resistance.” I say in a mumble, stopping by one of the armchairs.

“Indeed. I suppose we should get you one of those. Tomorrow you will go visit Mek to receive that.” she says, folding open the letter and skimming it. “And I believe we have wasted you on groundskeeping long enough. Beginning next week, you will commence combat training with Aritska. It is unbecoming for an avenger of the Sixth Circle to be trounced by a hound from the Fifth Circle.”

“Yes, my Lord.” I say quietly, keeping my gaze averted.

“Is something the matter, Jayta?” she asks, turning to look at me now.

I clear my throat again. “No, it’s just. Uhm.” I make a vague, twitchy, handwaving motion to her body at large.

She raises an eyebrow. “ ‘Uhm’ what?”

“Well, you’ve—” My handwaving gets a little more energetic before I just give up on trying to be subtle about it. “You’ve, uhm. Changed sexes.”

The eyebrow remains arched. “And?”

“Well, y’know.” I say, giving a mighty and panicked shrug. “It’s just kind of. I’m wondering how? And, uhm. Also why? I mean if that’s your thing then totally no judgement at all, like nothing like that, it’s just uhm. Very. Sudden.”

She stares for a moment more before the eyebrow comes down, and she turns to the fireplace once more. “Right. I forgot that you mortal creatures rely heavily on gender and sex as a defining feature of your identity, trapped as you are within the bodies you are born with.”

I give a nervous laugh. “Haha! Yeah. We uhm. We can’t just change that on the fly. That kind of requires surgery. Or. Certain. Kinds. Of magic.” I motion to her. “You, uh. You seem like you recovered pretty fast, then.”

“Hardly. This is my spare. My default vessel will be in convalescence for a while yet.” she says, lofting another letter into the fire.

“Wait, spare?” I ask, growing ever more confused. “Vessel? You don’t actually… possess people, do you?”

“Possession? Please.” she scoffs. “I am not so rude; such instances are reserved only for emergencies.” She twists her free hand, curling the fingers shut and opening them again. “I have told you before that I only maintain the appearance of humanity; I am not a native of the mortal plane. But for the sake of polite interaction with others both in Sjelefengsel and on the mortal plane, I create and reside in vessels that others can empathize with, vessels that resemble the species that they know and are familiar with. It draws far less attention that way, and conversations are much easier to maintain when assuming the appearance of simple humanity.”

“But why is your spare…” I ask, motioning towards her.

“If you can own two cars, are you going to buy two of the same model?” she says, answering a question with a question. “There is utility in diversifying your options.”

“It’s just… utility to you.” I say slowly.

Something in the way I say it draws her attention. Tossing the rest of the letters in the fire, she turns to me, clasping her hands behind her back as she stalks closer. “To you mortal creatures, your bodies are everything to you. It is all you get; it is your prison, from the moment you are born to the moment you die. For better or worse, and whether you like it or not, your bodies define you. They define what is expected of you, your place in society, even the things that you are capable of. Your bodies are everything to you.”

“We’re more than just our bodies, though.” I say defensively, taking a couple steps back as she starts circling around me. “Our minds matter as well. Those aren’t constrained by our bodies.”

“Are they not?” she demands as she passes around behind me, leaning in close to whisper in my ear. “Then explain racism to me.” Leaning away, she continues pacing around me. “Explain to me why mortals judge others by how similar they are to themselves. To other races. To other species. Are these not judgements rendered on the observation of differences? And are these differences not measured in reference to ourselves and others that look like us?” She gives that a moment to sink in, still circling. “Your bodies are everything to you mortals. They define you, both to yourselves and to others.”

I press my lips together. “You’re participating in that framework, though.”

“Participating in it. But not bound by it.” she replies, motioning to herself. “This is merely a… vehicle. Unlike you, I have the option of getting out of it, and into another vehicle if I so desire, or as a matter of necessity, which is the case here. Male, female — I am still the Lord of Regret. My power is not diminished by the changing of forms. The only thing that changes with my forms is the way people react to me.” Pausing in front of me, she turns her head towards me. “Will this change your behavior towards me, Jayta?”

I stare back at her, and I understand what she’s saying. Sure, the body may be different, but the light within those neon-green eyes is the same as it always was. A curious light, a strange light, seeking and searching. Watching. Observing. Learning.

“So what are you really, then?” I ask quietly. “What do you really look like when you’re not wearing these…” Several words spring to mind. Flesh puppets. Vessels. Empty bodies. Marionettes. “…costumes.”

Her mouth curls up, every so slightly, at the corners, and she reaches out to gently tap the tip of her forefinger against my nose. “You ask a question to which you do not want the answer.” Turning, she starts back towards her desk, hands clasping behind her back once more. “But I suppose that is no surprise, given your one-time ambition to become a scientist. Inquisitive minds have a habit of pursuing that which they should not, even unto their own ruin.”

I narrow her eyes as she turns her back on me. “Tell me how you do it, then.”

She pauses, looking over her shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said you created these bodies so you could reside in them.” I say. “Tell me how you do it. I want to know.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So your response to my warning about your inquisitivity… is to demonstrate a defiant curiosity.” There is some amusement in her tone. “Very well. I will humor you.”

With that she raises her hand and flicks two fingers, and in response, elegant metal covers slowly start to slide down the floor-to-ceiling windows in the far wall. Though it's dusk outside, the light in the study slowly diminishes until the only illumination is that which is coming from the fireplace, flickering and unsteady. In the new gloom, the carpet beneath my feet starts to glow; I stagger back as green patterns appear on the floor, forming a circle in the center of the room.

“Despite our origins in the antediluvian chaos of dreams, there are some rules that my kind must adhere to while existing within the realm of the Waking. A body is one of those prerequisites.” she says as she returns to her desk, sorting through the paperwork on it. “Some of us are defined enough to physically manifest without a prefabricated vessel, though such manifestations are often to the consternation of native residents of Waking. To that end, those of us wishing to cross the divide between the Dreaming and the Waking with regularity invest themselves in learning and mastering such topics as organic chemistry, biology, genetics, and evolution, so that we can engineer vessels for ourselves that comport with the expectations of Waking creatures.”

As she’s speaking, an anemic white-green glow has started to manifest in the center of the circle on the floor, getting brighter as if something was rising up from below. I take another two steps back as that turns out to be the case; the carpet swirls, as if its very physicality had been unhinged, and starts sliding away in a widening circle as something smooth and curved rises through it. I can’t help but watch in horrified fascination as I realize that it’s a massive glass egg that’s rising through the floor, filled with a pale green liquid that gives off numinous glow. And within…

Within is what I assume must be Raikaron’s ‘default’ vessel, the version of him that I’d become so used to over the past months. Suspended in the liquid, naked but curled up in the center of the egg, legs folded to its chest, arms wrapped around them. And visible at the edges is the slash across the chest which so grievously wounded him during our escape.

“Of course, creating a vessel to walk amongst the creatures of the Waking means that we must also assume the frailties of a physical form.” she says, turning from her desk with more envelopes in hand. “Such forms are susceptible to injury and death, and if wounded gravely enough, can die, thereby depriving us of a vessel. In such an event, there are two options: return to the Dreaming and fabricate another vessel to return, or remain in the Waking, if we are able, and assume our actual form.”

I still can’t take my eyes off the massive glass egg hovering in the middle of the study. There’s something… unnerving about it, the way it fills the entire room with cool viridian light, and casts watery shadows on the bookshelves. Shadows that slowly twist and bend like the echoes of light refracted in a swimming pool, drowning out the warmth of the light coming from the fireplace.

“So… did you… die?” I ask hesitantly.

“Not as such, no.” she answers, returning to her spot beside the fireplace. “But a wound from an archangel’s sword is not so easily healed, especially for a creature in the employ of hell. Mek managed to stay the deterioration of that vessel long enough for me to transition into my spare. Afterwards, I placed the damaged vessel in the chrysalis used to store my spare — the chrysalis you are presently looking at — so that it could begin to convalesce.”

My fingers tangle together as I continue staring up at the chrysalis. The longer I stare, the more mesmerizing, hypnotic it becomes — the calm, unearthly light it emits, the silent dance of the aquatic shadows on the walls. “How long will it take for your… vessel to recover?” I ask softly.

“That remains to be seen.” she answers, flicking an envelope into the fire. “Mere physical damage is no object; I can repair such damage to my vessel with relative ease. But the weapons of angels are designed with demons in mind, and the injuries dispensed by the swords of Archangels are resistant to accelerated repair. Such wounds must heal naturally, and so the only remedy for a severe wound is time. How much time is yet unclear.”

With that, the chrysalis slowly begins sinking down into the pattern on the floor once more. The carpet bends and twists, swirling around the chrysalis as it descends, and is shortly swallowed up, disappearing from view. The chill, aquatic illumination goes with it, the corners of the study falling into shadow as the flickering, clementine light from the fireplace takes over once more.

“Have I now satisfied your curiosity?” she asks in the pursuant silence, filled with only the crackle of the fireplace.

“Ah… well, parts of it.” I answer awkwardly. “So, if you are more or less the same, vessel disregarding, can I still…?”

“I am still Raikaron Syntaritov. That name is not attached to a particular sex or gender, so much as it identifies an individual.” she replies, flipping letter over. “You may still refer to me as Rai or Raikaron in private, and as Lord or Lord Syntaritov in the presence of others. Rules, decorum, and behavioral expectations will not change simply because I have a different appearance; I expect the same deference and respect that you had rendered up until your ill-advised dalliance with Harro.”

“Yes. Of course.” I say, wincing at the reminder of the trouble I’d gotten myself into. “I, ah… I did not get the chance to thank you…” Taking a deep breath, I clear my throat and go on. “…for not abandoning me.”

Raikaron’s perusal of the letters falters. “Your gratitude is appreciated.” she says simply.

I lick my lips nervously, struggling not to fidget with my fingers. “Why did you… come back for me? From what Danya’s said, it would’ve been less trouble to just let the angels deal with me.”

Her fingers run the edge of the envelope she’s holding, tracing it as if she was tracing the outline of her thoughts. “Sentiment, I suppose. It is true that retrieving you was an endeavor that required taking a net loss in time and leverage invested. But there are some things that possess value beyond that which is measurable by objective metrics. Value is in the eye of the beholder, one might say.” Reaching up, she hooks a finger in the black collar around her neck, tugging at it as if it was just a bit too tight for comfort.

“What’s that?” I ask, taking a step forward. I hadn’t noticed her wearing it until now.

Raikaron’s eyes widen, as if realizing what she was doing, and she quickly pulls her hand away from the collar. “It is nothing.” she says brusquely. “At any rate, you have had a long day. I have no doubt that you are tired and hungry. Go get some dinner, and after that, sleep. You will have the next two days to recover from the labors of groundskeeping; then your training with Aritska will commence. Be advised that it will leave you just as tired, and perhaps more sore, than the time you’ve spent on the gardening. It will still be punishment, just with the added benefit of learning something useful while you’re at it.”

“I understand.” I nod. I don’t feel quite as concerned now, even if there is grueling training ahead of me. It will be hard, yes, and it will probably leave me sore and frustrated, but it also means that I am valuable. Raikaron wouldn’t be bothering to have someone train me if she wasn’t going to keep me around.

It meant that for now, I still belonged, still had a home here in the House of Regret.

“Is there anything else you would—” I start, only to be interrupted by the sound of the study door hastily swinging open. Both of us turn to see Danya hurrying in.

“Lord Syntaritov, the Lord of Lust wishes to—” she begins in a rush, only to be cut off by Lust stepping in behind her, planting a hand on her face and pushing her out of the way.

“Yes, yes, the dear little thing already knows I require an audience.” Lust says, tossing her voluminous red hair over the fur-lined collar of her winter coat… which has been impractically been left open to bare the diving v-neck dress she’s wearing. I start to shrink back, retreating out of the path that’s taking her straight to Raikaron.

“I heard there was some spicy trouble out on the mortal plane, my little abomination. A daring rescue of a darling little demon by her overprotective Lord.” Lust says the words as she’s passing by, her eyes lingering on me before swinging around to take in Raikaron. “Spicy enough that you had to break out one of your spare puppets.” Bringing a hand up, she takes Raikaron’s jaw in her head, turning her head this way and that as if to size her up. “I just had to come see for myself.”

“Did you now.” Raikaron says, making no move to extract herself from Lust’s grip.

“But of course. You can easily imagine my interest in designer bodies. I figured I’d…” Lust runs a finger along Raikaron’s throat. “…examine your portfolio. See if you were open for commissioned work.”

“Unfortunately, I do not take requests.” Raikaron answers without removing her eyes from Lust. There’s a quiet challenge in the way those crimson and emerald gazes meet; the former rapacious, the latter toxic. Two apex predators staring each other down. “Danya, if you would see to it that Jayta receives a warm dinner. While you are in the kitchen, please procure a tray of light refreshments for our honored guest, and a good wine to pair with it. A red, preferably.”

“As you command, my Lord.” I jump when I hear Danya’s voice behind me; I hadn’t noticed how she’d come up behind me. She folds an arm around my shoulders, as if to shield me from Lust’s attention as she steers me back towards the study’s door. “I will have the refreshments prepared in short order.”

I glance tentatively over my shoulder at the two as I’m steered away, Lust a good deal taller and more imposing than Regret, who in turn cuts an elegant and unyielding figure. Then Danya closes the door behind us, taking a deep breath; looking at her, I can see she’s holding a closed fist to her mouth in the dimness of the hall.

“Danya?” I ask. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine.” Danya says sharply, straightening up. “Come. You need to eat. If a little thing like you skips a meal, I’m afraid I’ll peel back the covers one morning and find a skeleton in your place.”

With that, she begins to stalk down the hall at her signature long stride, leaving me struggling to keep up with her. “Wait, Danya! Will Raikaron be okay? Lust, she—”

“Lord Syntaritov will be fine. She knows how to handle herself.” Danya replies without slowing her stride.

That doesn’t really comfort me. I’d seen the hunger in Lust’s crimson eyes, and it was unsettling, ravenous, and… well, lustful. “What did she mean when she was talking about designer bodies?”

“You were given a brain for a reason, Jayta; you ought to consider using it from time to time.” is Danya’s deadpan reply, a humor so brittle it crackles like a dead leaf. “Apply your common sense. Why do you think the Lord of Lust, of all people, would be interested in designer bodies?”

“Oh.” It does sound rather obvious when you frame it like that. “When she said she wanted to, uh. Examine Raikaron’s portfolio. Did she mean…”

Only at this point does Danya’s stride slow so she can look aside at me. “You should think carefully about the questions you ask, Jayta. What transpires between two Lords is not for us to query or remark upon, and the simple act of doing so can be dangerous.”

“But Lust was getting all handsy with her, and Raikaron didn’t look like she—” I start to protest.

“I have already told you that Lord Syntaritov knows how to handle herself.” Danya reiterates. “So now I pose a question to you: would you have exhibited this same level of concern for your Lord in their male form?”

That has me speechless. “Uh— I mean, I—”

“The quality of your response speaks for itself.” Danya says, rounding a corner in the hall. “Our Lord is no more vulnerable to others than she was a week ago. Would that you had exhibited such loyalty and concern sooner than this, yet here we are. If our Lord is deserving of your concern in this form, is our Lord not also deserving of your concern in their other form? Why is it only now that you feel the need to defend her?”

“Because she’s— I don’t know!” I retort, frustrated. Gods, I hate these mind games. “I can’t win with you, can I? Wasn’t loyal enough beforehand, and now when I actually show loyalty, you’re implying that I think she’s weak or something.”

“That is not at all my implication, though it may nonetheless be true.” Danya replies curtly. “My point was that your behavior towards our Lord should not be predicated on the basis of their sex. I have no issue with your concern for Lord Syntaritov, so long as that concern does not evaporate when she eventually returns to her default vessel.”

“Please, I’m not that shallow.” I mutter, starting down the stairs behind her.

“So you say, but your uncharacteristic concern for her at the hands of the Lord of Lust says otherwise.” Danya says, her heels sharply clipping down the stairs. “This all being said, I expect you to help me assemble this refreshment tray before seeking nourishment, as the kitchen staff will likely be occupied with cleanup.”

“Okay.” I mumble. At this point, I’m just going to go along with it. Between the groundskeeping, the fight with Harro, and my tense audience with Raikaron, it’s been a long damn day and I’m feeling it. After I get dinner, I’m probably just going to my room, flop on my bed, and pass out.

“If it will serve a noticeable increase in your motivation, the reason why our Lord ordered us to prepare and return with a refreshments tray is that it reduces the likelihood of Lust attempting to take unwanted liberties with our Lord.” Danya says after a moment. “A planned interruption under the guise of hospitality, as it were. The Lord of Lust will be less likely to start something if it will be interrupted, and Lord Syntaritov has effectively put her on notice in that regard. We, in turn, should follow through as expediently as possible.”

I straighten up a bit at that. Raikaron’s orders are starting to make more sense when placed in that context, even though I don’t like these high-society games that upper-class demons play. “So we’re supposed to be there to ruin the mood?”

“A crude, if accurate, representation of our role right now, yes.” Danya says as she pulls open the door to the kitchens.

“Alright. I can get onboard with that.” I say, stepping into the kitchens after her. “Where do I start?”

“I will start preparing the tray. I need you to head down to the wine cellar; there is a mid-grade Sybione vintage by the name of Walsker Red which should do for this occasion…”

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

5:49pm SGT

It’s not until the door clicks shut behind Danya and Jayta that Lust speaks again. “Not in the mood tonight, then?” she says, her hand still gripping my jaw.

I simply raise an eyebrow. “Since when I have I ever been in the ‘mood’, my Lord?”

Lust rolls her eyes, letting go of my chin like she was dropping trash. “I had hoped that your naïve little crusade to recover your feelings would have woken some long-slumbering passion in the process. You have no idea how boring you are without it.”

“Of all the feelings you had hoped for me to recover, you were most anticipating the one over which you govern.” I deduce coldly, keeping my wrists clasped behind my back. “I wonder why.”

It earns me a disdainful look from Lust. “Oh, look who’s so smart.” she sneers, starting to walk around me. “Though your outing in this vessel leaves something to be desired in terms of presentation.”

“Would that you had showed such interest in my other vessel.” I remark without turning to follow her transit behind me. “I aspire to a certain level of professionalism in my presentation. Unlike you, it is not becoming of Regret to make a habit of exhibitionism.”

I can hear Lust twist on her heel, and I grit my teeth as her hand catches hold of my ponytail and uses it to yank my head back so she can glare down at me from behind. “Watch your tongue and remember your place, Regret. I typically only tolerate this level of sass from other members of the Eighth Circle.” As her grip loosens, her fingers crawl up the length of my ponytail to snag in the hair tie that’s keeping it in place. “You need to relax. Let your hair down. Nobody likes an uptight prude.”

With that, she pulls the hair tie loose, and ruffles my hair so it shakes back out to its unbound shoulder length as I drop my head forward again. Of course, she’s not done; from there one of her hands snags my shoulder and turns me around, her fingers finding the knot of my tie and hooking in it, loosening it from my collar. “The way you dress really is a tragedy of unparalleled proportions.” Lust says as she unbuttons the collar of my shirt next. “You constantly look like you’re expecting to be in a boardroom meeting, going over quarterly earnings and putting people to sleep with charts and graphs. It’s always work, work, work with you, along with this asinine insistence on dignity and refinement.” Once she’s gotten my shirt collar unbuttoned, she works her way down, undoing two more buttons, pausing on the third and smirking. “Y’know the reason she preferred Harro over you is that Harro actually knows how to loosen up and have fun.”

“Your vested interest in my personal relationships is simply… charming.” I remark drily, very much tempted to grab her hand and move it away from the buttons on my shirt, but knowing that doing so would be admitting a pressure point she could use to further aggravate me. “Did you simply stop by to amuse yourself with my current vessel, or was there a purpose for your visit?”

“Oh, Regret, you wound me.” Lust says, her hand rising from the third button so she can hook a finger in the folds of my shirt, parting them to either side. “Am I not allowed to make social visits, and demonstrate a concern for the welfare of my subordinates?”

“Your concern would be flattering if there was any authenticity to it.” I reply without expression. “So this visit truly had no other purpose than to gawk at one of my rarely-seen vessels, then? You must be terribly bored.”

“In the wake of the holidays, there’s a dearth of events to amuse myself with. I have to make do with other distractions.” Lust says, her finger drawing a circle on my chest, just below my collarbones. “What pretty skin you have. A shame you hide it underneath clothes all the time. Not a single mark, smooth as silk… one of the benefits of an engineered body, I’m guessing?”

“It is possible, with sufficient expertise and tinkering, to design a vessel that is absent of specific aesthetic flaws.” I answer. “That was not my intent here, but rather a convenient byproduct of some of the artisanal bioengineering techniques I have refined over the centuries.”

“You would consider yourself an artist, then?” Lust says, her fingers leaving my collarbone so they can come up and tug my glasses off my face, looking them over.

“In a manner of speaking. I take no small amount of pride in the design quality of my personal vessels.”

“Mmm.” Folding my glasses shut, she tucks them in the breast pocket of my vest. “If you were to visit a museum of art, then, would you not be disappointed if you arrived and found that someone had thrown drapes over all the sculptures? All the paintings? Covered them up so that all you could see were their vague outlines?”

I know where this is going. “I would rather consider it another artistic statement, if a museum elicited to display all their artworks under the veil.”

Lust glares at me. “You’re subverting my line of reasoning.”

I shrug. “I am a Syntaritov. We pride ourselves on the corruption of intent.”

“Much to the irritation of all around you, I am sure.” she says. “But my point remains. You do not visit a museum only to gaze upon the veiled outlines of the art. If this vessel of yours is art…” She articulates the words by dragging finger along my left collarbone. “…then it’s a shame and a disservice to the public to veil it so.”

“Art is not always made for the public.” I reply calmly.

“Perhaps not.” she concedes, her hungry red eyes lifting from my collarbone to meet mine. “But the artist’s patron has a right to a private viewing. One might even say it is owed, given the support that the artist receives from the patron.”

“Is that what they say.” I reply softly.

“It is.”

“How very quaint.”

But I don’t move, even though I can see the unspoken demand in Lust’s eyes. The situation is not ideal, and my options are limited; while I have no intention of yielding to her unspoken demand, I cannot resist if she decides to take that demand into her own hands. Resistance would have… consequences that might stretch far beyond this moment.

Even when there is a knock on the door, it does not break the standoff we are locked in.

“There’s the refreshments.” I say softly, without taking my eyes off her.

“Indeed.” she agrees, but does not move either.

“Would be a shame to leave them standing out there.”

“I am sure they are capable of waiting.”

“Doubtless they are, but it would do no favors for the wine.”

“Perhaps if we make them wait long enough, they’ll drink it themselves.”

“Wasting good wine on the help? I must ask where the real Lust is, because she would never countenance something so radical.”

That remark finally forces her to back down with a little smirk. “Very well, Regret. Keep your art private, if you so desire.” Her nail drags back along my left collarbone as she moves to walk around me, then pauses to lean in close, whispering in my ear. “But your precious little avenger doesn’t swing that way. She wouldn’t appreciate your masterpiece near as much as I would.”

She doesn’t wait for me to formulate a response, walking back to the door of my study and throwing it open by the time I’ve turned around. Danya is standing there, a charcuterie board in one hand and a platter with wineglasses in the other; Lust motions her in, lifting one of the filled wineglasses from the platter as Danya gingerly steps into the study, carefully balancing the board and the platter.

“Lovely, Danya, superb presentation. A real shame you spent all that time putting it together and getting back up here with such speed.” Lust says loquaciously, using her free hand to build a small stack of cheeses and meats on one of the crackers on the charcuterie board. “I’ve got to go now; places to be, things to do, souls to torture. You know, the usual. But I’ll take a bite to go.” Lifting her little cracker stack off the board, she raises her glass in my direction. “Cheers, Regret. It was lovely chatting with you.”

And then she’s gone, the sound of her heels fading down the hallway. Danya stands there, dumbfounded and staring at the doorway, before turning to me. “We’re not getting that wineglass back, are we.” she asks flatly.

“I very much doubt it.” I sigh, waving my hand. The covers that had shrouded the windows during my talk with Jayta begin to regress, though the fireplace remains the primary source of illumination in the study now that it’s after dusk.

“The nerve of that woman.” Danya fumes, marching over to the chairs by the fireplace so she can set the board and platter down on the table between the chairs. “I’ll think twice next time I break out the good sets for her. Marching in here, grabbing a glass of wine and marching back out. Infuriating.”

“Yes, it does lack manners.” I say, moving around one of the chairs and sitting down in it. “I trust Jayta’s gotten dinner?”

“Yes, we made sure that she had a full plate.” Danya says, her manacles flaring to the life as she turns to the door, motioning it closed to keep in the warm air. “I anticipate she’ll sleep well tonight.”

“Good.” I say, sizing up the surviving wineglass. “Walsker Red?”

“Yes, I thought it would be to her liking.” Danya says, folding her hands behind her back. “My understanding is that the Lord of Lust is preferential to sweet reds.”

“Your understanding is correct.” I puff, lacing my fingers together as I stare into the fire. “It’s good to see you’re still doing your homework, even if you’re no longer employed in espionage.”

“There are some skills that retain utility even when occupations change.” Danya replies. “Will you not sample it?”

“I don’t believe I will. I’m not much a fan of alcohol; I only drink it as a courtesy to others. I much prefer the draughts of my native Dreaming.” I say, giving her a brief glance aside. “You can have it. I know you’re particular to reds as well.”

“After today, I need it.” Danya mutters, taking up the glass and sipping, then looking to the other armchair. “May I?”

“By all means.”

With permission given, Danya sits in the other armchair, slumping a little as she rests her arms on the armrests and sips from her wine. She can’t seem to hold in a long sigh as she stares into the crackling embers of the fire.

“Long day.” I state.

“Long day.” she agrees.

After a moment more of silence, I look to the table between us, and the refreshments thereon. “Impressive charcuterie board, by the way. It really is a nice arrangement.”

Danya glances aside. “Oh, thank you. I’ve been picking up tips and tricks from the kitchen staff. Just a shame that it’s going to go to waste. I thought you and Lust would be in conference longer than a mere matter of minutes.”

“Well, it needn’t go to waste. I admit, I’m rather peckish.” I say, reaching over and starting to stack a slice of cheese on one of the crackers. “You can have some too, if you would like.”

“Thank you. I didn’t admit it to Jayta, but I haven’t had dinner yet either.” Danya says, setting down her wineglass and starting to put together her own cracker. “And I must admit that the prospect of having to spend another thirty minutes putting together a proper meal does not appeal to me right now. This may well end up becoming my dinner for the night.”

“Between you and me, I think we can probably polish all of this off. None of it need go to waste.” I say, picking up my stacked cracker and before popping it in my mouth. Danya does the same, and for a moment, we just sit there in our armchairs, munching away. After washing hers down with a sip of wine, both of us glance back at the board, and the meats and cheeses stacked thereon.

“We’re really going to eat this entire charcuterie board for dinner.” Danya says. It’s a question stated with some level of skepticism.

“You don’t think we can finish it all?” I ask.

“No, I think we can, it just doesn’t seem very… dignified to have an entire charcuterie board for dinner.” she points out.

I consider that. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Danya thinks about that, then raises her glass as a salute to me. “You have yourself a deal, my Lord.”

I smile at that, and as Danya lowers her glass again, we both work on assembling our next charcuterie crackers to the pop and sizzle of the fireplace.