Fire swirled in the cauldrons of the morgue. Faith merged in with the darkness of the dungeons. The morgue was situated on the lowest levels of the castle—a flight of steep stairs leading here. The castle itself was built on a hill, connected to the city by a great stone bridge which had held for ages.
As soon as she entered, she was greeted with the smell of wet rock. The muddy walls caved in all around her. She had been here only twice before—on that fateful day two years ago, and on the day of the Empress's demise.
She had little longing to visit this place. The smell of rotting bodies would hit you once you entered the cavity of the dungeons. Here, the mud slick walls were compressed with corpses—fresh and rotting as well as old and skeletal. The eyeballs were always ripped off, though.
This place wasn't for the weak hearted. As such, Faith found it oddly comforting to find herself surrounded by the dead. Dragging her sword through the blood stricken battlefields had become a common practice. She still remembered the first time she had fought a war. It was the final battle against Sylhar—a kingdom south of Eltarin. She remembered the destruction, the dead, particularly the children. Eltarin's wrath forgave no one. Corpses were stacked, like they were nothing but cattle feed—and they were dumped in the burning ghats.
She would've fought for a kinder burial for the children once, but she had now learnt to turn a blind eye. Any sign of rebellion against the Crown would not be tolerated, and Arechin would particularly see to that. He was the executioner of the Crown's will.
"Visiting me, Daughter of Death?" Her eyes shifted to the stone slabs, about twelve in number, that were arranged along the entire length of the dungeon.
She allowed herself to melt away from the shadows, "You? No, Doctor." She carefully observed the slabs that were now occupied by the seven fallen men. A lamp burned beside the man that was being operated by the Doctor. The doctor was a madman, but he served his purpose.
"The Winter Festival is tonight." He went on, turning his bloody face to her. "You must have a purpose." His left orbit was hollow—for he had plucked out his own eyeball. A rugged scar ran down his right side, down up to his neck. There were scratch marks everywhere—behind his ears, on the nape of his neck, below his chin, around his eyes. Only a few strands of hair had been left standing on his otherwise bald scalp. Had they fallen off? Or had he pulled them out himself? Faith bet on the latter.
"I want a report." She admitted. He slipped off his bloody gloves, approaching her. His stench was terrible—he smelt like a thousand dead corpses.
"I'm afraid there isn't much left of them to make a proper report on." At such close distance, she could notice him salivating. The dagger strapped across her thighs grew colder, begging to be drawn.
"By tonight, I must have the report." She behest. She could no longer hold his empty eyes. Her own wandered to the one wall left empty of corpses. This one was filled with illustrations. Quite the artist he was. Most of them were gore descriptions of various diseases. Two men spotted all over their bodies, with dogs licking the spots. A man so sick that he was nothing but a skeleton licking an empty bowl. A woman hurling, a man being beheaded, twins joined at the neck, depictions of the common palsy, plague and other such diseases.
But what caught her eye was the illustration of an almost sickeningly beautiful woman. She held a sword in one hand, and it was clearly depicted that she bore a child. Her hair danced, as if there was really a breeze flowing in through the cave. Her eyes were closed.
"You're looking at the last Queen of Arlin." He read her mind. This was why even guards were not stationed outside the morgue. He terrified everyone. "Wife of Oriph, Emrys Vesperan."
"I see." She clenched her jaw. He would not have the advantage of knowing her thoughts.
"Oh, your eyes my lady." He always spoke in gasps, as if all the air in the room had been sucked out. She lifted her chin, towering over him as he inched closer. "They're beautiful." He examined them under the little sunlight that poured in through the hole in one of the walls. She could hear the ocean moving below the hill, much of which had been frozen.
Her lips tugged upwards, "So I've been told." They were the lightest shade of hazel, with flecks of copper.
"When your corpse lays cold on my slab, I will have your eyes." The gossip stated that he tore the eyes of corpses to find a pair that fits him the best.
"Doctor, when Princess Serria rules these very lands I will have her see you dead." She said calmly, though anger danced on the tip of her tongue. "It is more likely that I will have your body cold at my feet before you have mine."
He shook with laughter then. Faith didn't.
The air between them grew colder.
"I have worked with the dead for decades," He continued, his fingers slowly inching to Faith's face. "It is as if I can almost sense death when it approaches." She watched his fingers trace her jaw. She cringed. "Daughter of Death, indeed." He laughed again, then. It was a serpent's laughter. "Faith, you were dead the moment you were born."
He attempted to gouge her eyeball with his middle and forefingers, but Faith was quicker. One movement had her drawing her sword strapped across her leather bound back and another movement had her slicing away his forefinger
He screamed in agony as his finger rolled across the floor. Blood gushed out from where there must've been a finger. He rolled across the floor, screaming, sweating and crying. He was a deranged mess.
"Next time, I won't be so generous" Faith left him to his pain.
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Rutzburg Street was his domain. Him, the Prince of Spies. Him: Arechin Ravenswood.
The street was home to a large number of taverns. He now sat in one of the most decorated taverns of Rutzburg. The Farmer's Inn had a mezzanine which overlooked the busy floor, where wooden tables were arranged and the boozing, screaming miserable humanity laughed away. Though he had to admit, the tavern was much more contained during the day.
A thin red nearly transparent curtain veiled his seat. He had a guard stationed outside, to ward off unwanted trouble.
Smoke filled the space, some sort of mild opium, he assumed. He stretched out his hands, tucking them under his neck as he leaned against the chair, waiting. He breathed in the sweet smelling smoke, allowing him to be intoxicated, slightly. Tonight was the Winter Festival and Serria would not have an intoxicated Prince ruining the event. Not that he was the kind, no that was Kaien.
Security would be solid tonight, and his entire guard would follow. Gods wonder if he would be allowed to slip away into his bedroom.
"Your Highness." His wait was finally answered. He opened his eyes, lazily glancing at his spy who stood before him. She was clad in doeskin attire, sticking close to her form, accentuating the curve of her hips. Her face was mostly covered with a silken black scarf. He angled his head, signaling the woman to have a seat.
"What have you brought for me this morning, Saher?" He didn't bother to learn the names of all his spies. There were hundreds. But he had learnt hers, she was his best. She hailed from Isleen, but that hadn't stopped her from proving her loyalty and worth to him.
She slipped into her seat. A snow leopard, that's what she was. And he often found himself addressing her as such. "I have completely investigated all candidates of concern." She said, "Name away, my lord."
He raised his eyebrows, tipping his glass of wine over the edge of his lips, "The King of Sylhar?" He asked.
"He is not in attendance tonight. Spending the rest of winter with family at his manor in his kingdom." He supposed, Sylhar was warmer.
The Winter Festival shall have guests in attendance from all over the continent. It would be crowded with royals and nobles alike who despised the Crown's authority. To sum it up, the Winter Festival put all their rivals in one big hall, asking them to shut it and make merry. Though the Kings and Lords owed their allegiance to the Emperor, the ruler of most of the Western Continent, their overlord—they despised that their lands had come under the control of such a tyrant. Tonight, they tried their luck.
"Lord Oscar?"
"Has found himself a new woman." His lips tugged up into the hint of a smile.
"And he and his lady will be in attendance tonight?"
"Yes, my lord." She continued, "I have investigated thoroughly. He poses no threat." He wasn't worried much about Lord Oscar, he would be too drunk to plot an assassination.
"The Queen of Meridia?"—Verena Oalkwar. Now she was an intimidating woman. Someone who he'd want to ally himself with if there was truly a war for succession.
Eltarin had not established its rule over Meridia because they couldn't due to the Elven-Mortal treaty of peaceful coexistence that had been worked out centuries ago, during Eltar's rule. They were allies.
Meridia was Elven territory. And, Verena their Queen.
That was mostly why Verena posed a threat. Elves were cunning creatures.
"Also, thoroughly investigated. While she will not threaten the sovereignty of the Emperor, she will threaten you. Directly, indirectly." She continued, "Anything she offers you, please decline. I have heard of a gift that she will present to you tonight." There was a small frown knitting across his forehead, then. He, for all the luxuries that had been offered to him growing up, absolutely adored presents.
"I'll keep that in mind." He said, carefully.
"Please decline." She repeated.
She suddenly became all too aware of the air between them then. She slightly pulled down the scarf obscuring her face, sniffing the opium. She cringed. She was not one who enjoyed the pleasures of Rutzburg.
"Who else bothers you, my lord?" She inquired nonetheless.
He thought for a while. Almost a hundred names popped up in his mind. A hundred faces, waiting to stick a knife when he wasn't looking. He was smarter than that, though.
He concluded it would be better to ask her who posed a threat, rather than going over the names he had made a mental list of.
Upon asking he was given two names,
Prince Kaien.
Princess of Isleen, Tana Khaos.