My brother, Kyolhan, was a man of remarkable stature, handsome in his bearing and but twenty-five years of age. His hair, the shade of red wine, mirrored what once had been the hue of my own, and he had recently taken to sporting a mustache—a feature I had jested about until, at last, I devised a cream that kept it immaculately styled. Given his scholarly inclinations, his frame was not one of brawn, for books, not weights, had shaped his character. He possessed a monocle, an instrument he relied upon for reading the fine print of documents that eluded his unaided sight. Silk was his favored garb, irrespective of the season, and he boasted proudly of his tolerance for the cold, declaring it his natural element.

  He bid Princess to take a seat across from him, and the only sounds that filled the room as she complied were the cautious fall of her feet and the steady crackle of the hearth, its flames licking at the logs within the nearby fireplace.

  “G-good morning, Master Kyolhan,” she stammered, belatedly recalling the propriety of a greeting. She rose from the chair just as quickly as she had seated herself, flustered by the omission.

  “This can hardly be called a good morning, Aufelia, by any measure,” my brother replied, his tone devoid of warmth. “But sit, if you please.”

  In his hand, my brother held a mug. His preference for plain beer over the more refined wines of our estate was an eccentricity of his, one he would defend vehemently against any who questioned it. He drank deeply, the golden liquid escaping the corners of his mouth, staining the silk he so favored. A careless wipe with his sleeve remedied the spill.

  “You were the last person to see my brother alive,” he stated, with a chilling matter-of-factness that left no room for evasion.

  Princess nodded, her throat tightening against the rising tide of tears. Her sorrow over my demise was undeniable, yet it was overshadowed by the fear gnawing at her resolve. Fear that she might be held accountable for her absence from my chamber, fear that the blame for my passing might fall upon her delicate shoulders, fear that she might be discovered as the thief of a certain blue gem. She trembled with trepidation.

  “Is it true what the guards have claimed?” Kyolhan asked, his voice quivering with the edge of suppressed emotion. “Was he truly dabbling in the dark arts? Did he inscribe runes upon his own flesh, surround himself with candles and scriptures? Was he… performing theurgy?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  His question revealed that he had not ventured to my room himself. Though Kyolhan was a man of considerable intellect, his pursuits lay in the realm of politics and the machinations of power. Of arcana and the natural sciences, his knowledge was limited. For the common folk, it was all too easy to conflate the various forms of arcana with the forbidden practices of theurgy. In this instance, my brother’s fears were justified—I had indeed been engaging in the dark sins of the old ones.

  “It… it is hard to say; D-Dubart never even talked about…” Princess stammered, her words faltering as she sought to protect Kyolhan from the harsh truth of what she had witnessed. She had never addressed me with titles of deference—no ‘Master’ or ‘Lord’, only my name, plain and unadorned, unless I insisted otherwise.

  “Tell me the truth, Aufelia,” my brother demanded with a warning.

  “Yes,” Princess answered plainly against the unspoken threat. “I don’t know much about it, but he was… he didn’t have clothes on, his body was painted with symbols and lines that said who-knows-what, the room was lit by candles that smelled weird, there were circles and inscriptions, a-and…”

  “I have heard enough,” Kyolhan interrupted, his hand raised to silence her. He took another long draught from his mug. “I trust you will know better than to spread such baseless rumors about my brother,” he said, his voice steely with authority. Princess nodded, her fear palpable. “He was but a desperate man, driven to the brink by his suffering, seeking any means to ease his torment. He was no heretic, and he shall receive a proper cremation, sanctified by the Priestesses of Ivinis.”

  “Yes, Master Kyolhan,” Aufelia replied, sensing the expectation for her to affirm his decree.

  “I know that you and he were often at odds, but let us put those childish quarrels behind us,” he continued, his tone softening slightly. “It goes without saying, but you and your sisters are excused from your duties. I’ll continue to provide your allowance, and you are free to visit the town whenever carriages are available.” This should have been welcome news, for the sisters had rarely left my side and had precious little free time. “But I expect the utmost discretion regarding what you have seen—or think you have seen. Not a word, no matter where you are,” he emphasized.

  “N-no, no, Master Kyolhan. I mean, yes! Not a word,” Princess accepted the conditions.

  “And don’t be so scared. It’s not your fault,” my brother eased his tone. “If Dubart wanted you out of his room, there was nothing you could have done.” He drained the last of his beer. “Now send Rascal in. I have to talk to her, too.”

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