"Get up, Annalay. I did not raise you to be this... pathetic. How are you to inherit the Virtues' seat if you can't handle a little poison? Take the bottle and drink. Drink until you feel your veins burn away. Drink until you understand that this pain, this minor, brief inconvenience, is nothing compared to the duty you will have to bear. I won't see my daughter become a laughingstock."

  —Jezebel Virtue, Current Head of the Order of the Mending Virtue

  ———

  The Knight

  “How’re you doing under there, Lorelai?”

  “I’m fine. Thankfully, it’s a cool day today. The wind feels nice.”

  After Annalay’s release from the gaol, the Knight strolls along with curious steps upon the busy roads of the city’s districts. A large, dark cloak currently covers its body, and while it is interested in seeing the reactions of the common people toward their beloved Throne, Ascalon wishes for its identity to remain hidden for now.

  “The time is not yet right,” he has said. “We must wait for when your return bears the most celebration. The funeral shall be that moment to shine a ray of hope amidst the gloom of mourning, and so I must apologize: only the court and those of upper stature shall be privy of your survival.”

  Ascalon is quite the schemer. It has no qualms with such a plan, but to use only a cloak to serve as its covering is a rather curious choice. The Knight stands out greatly, especially within this district of refined air and elegant architecture. The people walking about are dressed in tight suits of all sorts of colors, ties covered in patterns ranging from flower petals to wings, while their briskly walk conveys that of a practiced mannerism. How does such a populace react to a suspiciously concealed stranger? With suspicion.

  Fortunately, Annalay’s presence limits the worst of their skepticism to passing glances and faint murmurs. None dare to approach for as long as she is here; her appearance is easily recognizable, after all. And after listening to stories of her exploits, The knight doesn’t fault the people for having an apprehensive gaze. The woman in question is unbothered by their stares, however, and proceeds to stomp through the streets while excitedly babbling on as its tour guide.

  “This area’s where the Virtues are mostly huddled up,” she says. “It’s not that bad, but I’ve never liked being here much. All of the districts maintained by the knight orders tend to be real strict with their rules. You can tell how posh they try to act just by looking at the people lingering about.”

  “Hehe, I imagine the entertainment district is where you much prefer to be.”

  “Aw, am I that obvious? There’s no better place if you want to have some fun. The only things around here are hospitals and medical ateliers, and I’m not really suited for the healing arts. Surasha’s much better than me—ah, right. Do you remember Surasha at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. Is there anything I should know before we meet?”

  “Well… nah, you’ll be fine. The girl’s adored you since she was up to my knees. The real problem is going to be that hag waiting for us.”

  There it is again: a sudden shift of pure hatred in her voice. Whoever they are, they must have committed a serious slight to have garnered such disgust from Annalay. While she is rather eccentric, the Knight has never seen her act with intentional malice. Hidden beneath her rough facade is a caring soul, laid-back and carefree, and a thick skin unbothered before contempt. She is not one to be offended so easily.

  “Your tone is quite harsh,” it inquires. “Who exactly are we soon to meet?”

  Annalay pauses for a moment, hanging her head back and grumbling with an indecipherable gibberish. She looks apprehensive, standing still while tapping the end of her sole against the hard pavement, but eventually an answer parts from her lips.

  “My mother.”

  Ah, I see now. A tale as old as time.

  “Do you want me there? By your side?” it asks.

  “Yeah. I’d appreciate it. Don’t think I could stomach her otherwise,” she says while closing in for a thankful hug. “Damn. Speaking of which, looks like we’ve made it. I was hoping to stall for a little bit longer.”

  The two stop and are greeted by a large, fenced gate. A courtyard blanketed in greenery lies yonder in which hurried footsteps of those wrapped in white and red robes plague the ears. An endless mass of healers and apothecaries trickle back and forth, but lying farther beyond, a giant mansion watches over them all, and a stone effigy of a staff covered in snakes hangs above the rooftop. It is an odd figure, especially for those who proclaim themselves adherents to medicine, yet strangely it fits well with the antiquated building.

  “Weird sight, isn’t it?” Annalay says beside it, her eyes also fixated on the aged sculpture. “There’s a reason for that ugly thing up there, though. Poison: It seems harmful at first glance, but if you mix it up just right, even those toxic things can become a medicine. The problem is in finding the right dosage. Hah… trust me, it’s not a fun time.”

  She absentmindedly reaches out to her neck and scratches. Her gauntlets grind against the armor, but she notices not its futility. Scratching, grating, harder and harder, the screeching metal begins to attract attention from the surrounding people until eventually her senses return. And all that remains is an anxious crowd and a dazed Annalay.

  “Hells, I really am coming back here, huh?” she mutters to herself, more as a dry statement than any other. “Wonder how she looks now. How many years has it been again? A lot. A damn lot. Stars, I don’t want to see her face…”

  “Annalay,” the Knight says, patting her shoulder with a soft touch. It seems to work, for her nervous ramblings start to settle. Then she goes quiet and turns to face it. “Annalay, are you listening to me?”

  “Oh. Um, yeah. My bad. I just—”

  “I don’t know why you’re acting this way, nor do I wish to pry into your private matters. But know this: Whatever you are feeling right now? It will get better once you go in. What shall soon occur, what is going to be… do not let those thoughts scare you away lest you be filled with regret of what could have been. I will be with you, so let go of your worries. Trust me.”

  “I—” Annalay starts to protest, but her body betrays her will; and so she slumps over. Silence reigns for a time, but then a deep, rumbling groan emerges from her being. It escapes with a quiver, rattling the gate’s bars and toppling the less-balanced onlookers flat onto their rear. “You’re right. I should see her at least one last time. I owe that much, at the very least.”

  With a firm step, she walks up to the gate and breaks through the bars. The metal poles simply crumble and bend as she moves past. How very… like her. The destruction draws ire from the more daring Virtue knights, but they are quickly silenced. She only needs to stomp once upon the ground to bring forth a tremor. Soon, none are left standing beside the two marching Thrones.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  They reach the entrance door, and then they step inside. An atrium of blood-red carpets and crystal chandeliers reveals itself, along with a horde of the Virtues quickly filling in the space and approaching them with weapons raised.

  “Quite the opening reception,” Annalay says, and for an instant, the Knight can see a blazing green glow emanating from her helm. “You lot have gotten ruder over the years. Not sure if that’s Surasha’s influence or that hag’s, but I like it. Makes me feel better for what I’m about to do.”

  A loud voice shouts from behind the crowd. It is familiar, and the Knight needs not wait long before the source strides forth. “Please don’t, Annalay. I’m already drenched in enough work as it is. What in the Stars’ name are you even doing here, anyways? I thought you despised this place.”

  The Templar, Surasha, stands before them with her arms crossed and glares at the Nature’s Throne with a mixture of amusement and wariness. “Wait a minute, aren’t you supposed to be imprisoned? I thought you’d stay down there for a couple of days at least before breaking out.”

  “That was the plan. Unfortunately, I’m here on official business. Preferably in private.” Surasha quickly catches on and waves the others off. The Virtues hesitantly return back to their duties, and the three make their way toward a small office on the upper layer. The space is decorated oddly, but it has a certain charm to it. Dark wood makes up the furniture while cabinets bursting with papers are shuffled off to the corner. There are even the occasional potted plants placed here and there, although the arrangement is a bit messy.

  “So, what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, turning her head to the still-veiled Knight. “Doubt you came here just to visit little ol’ me.”

  “Ah, come on. Do I really need a reason to see my favorite lass?”

  “Annalay. The last time I tried to bring you here, you threatened to wipe this place off the map.”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. Is this about Celia? Did something happen to her?”

  “About that… the survivor wasn’t Celia.”

  “Huh? Oh. That’s—um, your judgement’s usually pretty good. That’s a surprise. Wow, so she’s not back? I—Stars, to think I actually had a little bit of hope there. Celia… well, who was it then? Someone from the Virtues?”

  “Well, it’s better to see for yourself. You can take off the cloak now, Lorelai.”

  “Huh? Did you just say—”

  The Knight tosses away its shroud and lets the golden sheen of its armor shine bright amidst the dimly lit room. It cannot see Surasha’s face underneath her helm, but it can hear her plainly—hear her guttural cry as she jumps up and crashes directly into its chest. Her hands grope alongside the sides of its helm and latch on with a tightness determined to never let go.

  “Face. I need—I need to see your face,” she chokes with a delirious whisper. “Please, I—you won’t trick me. Not again. Not until I see, ugh, see your—”

  Surasha practically rips off the helm from the Knight’s head and sends it flying away. Once its features have been bared before the world, she stares at it. She stares at the burn mark, she stares at the gouges, and she stares at its severed lip, slowly tracing her finger along the lines and across every surface of its mutilated skin. But far from being repulsed, she shivers at the touch, treating every jagged surface as if it’s a delicate sheet of glass.

  “It really is you,” she says through her tears. “You came back.”

  “I did, Surasha,” it soothes, rubbing her back and lending its shoulder for her to cry upon. “And I promise I will never leave you again.”

  “Sorry,” Surasha murmurs, her hands still clinging tight onto the Knight’s waist. “I’ve just been… it’s been really hard these last few weeks. I missed you a lot.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. Hold me for as long as you wish.”

  “Hehe, I’ll do that.”

  The king’s sibling has quite the obsessive nature. The Knight needs not even stoke its beguiling aura much to have her wholly dependent on its presence. That is good; it will be of much help to have the support of an entire order. Ascalon and Annalay are of a differing faction, so it must reach out to as many branches of the kingdom as it can.

  “Ascalon sends his regards, by the way,” Annalay says whilst sinking into her seat and watching the scene unfold before her with an entertained chortle. “Can’t you just forgive him already? The poor man’s pitiful enough as he is. You know he loves you.”

  Surasha’s response is quick and curt, as if spending another moment even thinking of the king is beneath her. “You know full well how hard it is to forgive, Annalay.”

  “Yeah, but I’m working on it. Why do you think I’m here in the first place?”

  “With your temper? I thought today was the day you decided to finally tear your mom apart.”

  “Eh, we’ll see. At least I’m making the effort, you know? Why don’t you spend a day together with him or something: Get him drunk. Stars know the last time he’s left that stuffy castle of his. Besides, no matter what you think about him, he does care about you. I can’t say the same for that hag.”

  “Annalay…” Surasha’s voice drops, and she slowly leaves the Knight’s lap to give the brooding Throne a comforting hug. “Jezebel might seem like a cold woman at times, but she isn’t all bad.”

  “Ugh, don’t say that. It’s weird hearing her name.”

  “What, am I supposed to just call her advisor, then?”

  “I just don’t like it. She’s always been mother or madam to me. Well, not anymore at least. We cast aside those ties, and I doubt her personality’s changed much since then.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “By what, how much she despises me?”

  “She talks about you sometimes.”

  “So she’s even resorted to cursing my name in public now, how quaint.”

  “Annalay!” Surasha smacks the sides of Annalay’s helm and raises herself until the two are face to face. The futile back and forth has clearly left her frustrated, but above all else, there is a yearning to convey the words tumbling awkwardly in her throat. “Stars, how do I say this… it’s the opposite, Annalay. She’s proud of you, and whenever she talks about you there’s this—um, light in her eyes? It’s warm. A bit soft, and while her face is usually all stone-like, it always relaxes when your name’s mentioned. She doesn’t show her emotions much, but I can tell that she really misses you.”

  Annalay attempts to appear indifferent, but the Knight can see an uncomfortable shuffling in her movements. Her figure isn’t so stiff now, but a hesitation remains: one of doubt and a lifetime of resentment.

  “I really find that hard to believe, Surasha,” she mutters. “That hag, of all people, praising someone? No, her pride won’t allow that. It goes against her very beliefs. ‘Vulgar’ or so she would say. Inelegant. The only time she’ll praise another is when they’re deep in the grave or to manipulate others into doing her bidding. That’s the kind of person she is—not this kind old elder facade she’s been showing you.”

  “Maybe,” Surasha relents. “But… I don’t think it’s a facade. To me, she seems genuine—at least when she’s talking about you. I don’t know what she was like before, and I don’t think it matters. Right now, you should see for yourself if it’s all a lie.”

  “Now?”

  “I doubt your entrance went unnoticed. She’s probably waiting for you at the end of the hall.”

  “Hells… that’s just like her, acting all dignified.” Annalay sighs and leans back as far as she can into her seat. Her gaze lingers on the ceiling, but her mind is somewhere else. There’s a dryness in her voice and a hint of reluctance, contemplation, and acceptance. It’s not the firmest of resolutions, but it will do. She will be fine.

  “Are you coming along?”

  “No, I don’t think I should,” Surasha says with a sly shake of her head.

  “Well, I’m not meeting her alone. Either Lorelai comes or I don’t.”

  “Hm, I think that’s fine. She’ll probably be really happy seeing her anyways.”

  With a grumble, Annalay stands up and heads for the door. “Let’s go, Lorelai. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can get out of this place.”

  “Remember what I said before, Annalay,” it says, bidding Surasha a goodbye wave and following the Throne out into the hall. “Do not let regrets blind you.”

  “Yeah, I’ll try.”

  The two walk forward. The hall is abandoned, and the only sound coming forth is from down below, back in the atrium where the Virtues can be heard scrambling about after the sudden commotion. Annalay doesn’t say a word, but it can feel her tension steadily rising. Still, she continues, and as their long march comes to an end, they are faced with a small, weathered door. Its age is apparent, and the wood is far more worn than the others passed by.

  Annalay reluctantly moves to knock on the base, but a commanding voice rings through before she has the chance. “I can recognize those crude stomps anywhere. Do come in, would you Annalay?”

  She mumbles a curse to herself, teeth grating as her hand struggles between moving for the handle or curling into a fist, but her self-control wins out in the end and she pushes the door wide open.

  There, sitting elegantly in the midst of a faded, pale interior, is a frail woman with dull grey hair. She is much smaller than the Knight has expected, and contrary to her hardy voice, her appearance is feeble: sagging skin, tired brown eyes, and a meekness unbefitting of one with her stature. Yet, there is an air of authority that lingers around her.

  “Please, take a seat,” the woman says, beckoning them toward her desk. A clay pot lies in the middle, and two ornate cups have already been set for them. “I just brewed a fresh batch of tea. I do hope you will enjoy it.”