“So, have you heard the news recently? Apparently the Chain of Dreams wasn’t always there. They say neither the ancient seraphim nor the titans showed any knowledge of it, therefore it must not have existed! The first accounts only came later after the rise of Vlast'izhestok —you know, the same event that dragged everyone’s attention to the mountains in the first place— and apparently that’s all it takes to rewrite what we thought was well-documented history! I’ve even heard some people believe that creating the devils was the first of The Chain’s dreams, spawned from the mind of a nascent god. Sounds a little too fantastical though, if you ask me. Have we considered that, maybe, we’re all being misled by a bunch of nutjobs?”
-Éloi Bouvier, famed Lévesine speaker and open critic of post-modern academia
The carriage trundled along, its wheels digging rivets into the mud as Count Zmeul stared lazily out the window into the torrential rain.
“Of all the times for the weather to worsen, it just had to be when we came out to visit this backwater; my feet are already aching and I’ll be the first to wager the Baron’s staff don’t know how to provide proper hospitality.” The man paused, scowling at his daughter when she didn’t immediately respond. “Mioara, what have I said about speaking when spoken to? If I wanted a mute to join me then I would’ve brought your mother or that new servant girl — what’s her name?”
“Speranța, father. You gave it to her last month.”
He waved the comment aside, “Of course I did. She had something hideous before so I fixed her. Makes me wonder though… ‘Dahlia’. Is that some sort of Dwergazish name? It’s a flower, isn’t it?”
At the mention of the girl’s name, Mioara felt her face twitch though her father didn’t take notice. Teofil Zmeul was many things, but an attentive father wasn’t one of them.
“It’s technically Caelestine, originating as the name of the flower but it became popularised in western Dwergaz. In floriography it would typically mean—”
“Did I ask?” The Count’s voice was rough like a disgruntled boar, and it stopped the young woman’s recounting in her tracks. “I was only curious why she had such a strange name; I’ll be sure to give her a better one within the week. I heard Vincent’s already taken the opportunity to re-educate her after the disaster at the debutante —a bit of a shame, that— but having her be nice and compliant straight off the bat might be a nice change of pace… I was thinking maybe Claudia or Narcisa would suit her, what do you think?”
Mioara restrained her own grimace and nodded. “They both would work, father, though I’m sure she’ll be honoured no matter what name you give her.”
Much to her own distaste, the man nodded then, practically salivating at the thought of the girl that he just wouldn’t shut up about. She turned her attention to the other passenger accompanying them and had to repress a flinch as the woman met her glare and smiled. Petite, pale, short curly blonde hair, and unsettlingly vibrant blue eyes, twinkling as if full of stars: if this Dahlia girl was a never-ending irritant like a pebble in her shoe, then Yevdokiya Semyonova was the white plague. She had appeared out of nowhere one day and —despite the intrusion into their lives— the woman almost seemed appealing. Oh, she was a pretty thing and she even proved herself useful, and yet Mioara couldn’t help but see the woman as a sickness.
The Count had never been a pleasant man —no one who took joy in scarring their staff and family could be— but in recent years he had grown worse. More extravagant in his spending and more extreme in his tastes; forever chasing after a new intense fancy that drove the man to slathering obsession. Just as she had for years now, Mioara tried not to read into Yevdokiya’s smile. The woman had always been kind and there was nothing criminal about being pleasant, just as there was nothing wrong with having a blemishless face or fully intact features. Except, within the Zmeul household, those things did feel wrong. It was like each glimpse of her father’s so-called ‘advisor’ rubbed into her face how Yevdokiya received more preferential treatment than the Count’s own kin. Oh, Mioara was certain the two were fucking like rabbits behind the scenes, and could even spare some sympathy for the blonde’s plight, but that hardly made the woman special. Her father notoriously couldn’t restrain himself and yet the others he slept with lost eyes and skin, sanity and tongues. And yet here this cunt was, pristine and perfect and fucking smiling as if she meant well.
“Is everything alright Mioara? I wouldn’t blame you if you’ve become sick, the roads here are just dreadful. Do you need us to pull over?”
Fingers clenched too hard as muscles spasmed and pulled tight, and words better left unsaid threatened to crawl out of her mouth: “I’m fine.” She flinched as a slur almost slipped out and settled for bouncing her leg instead, “We’re almost there. You just worry about yourself.”
Still, the smile continued and those sparkling and gentle eyes seemed to pry straight into Mioara’s soul.
“If you say so darling, but just give the word and we can stop for you. It looked like you’ve been wanting to speak up for a while now but you’ve just been so thoughtful by holding back.”
Again she wanted to lash out —so many curses right at the tip of her tongue that it almost choked her to hold them back— but she absolutely could not. Her father was present after all, and she was his ‘favourite daughter’ for a reason. He loved to see her lose restraint. He loved the ‘lack of discipline’ and how it meant he could try to fix her time and time again, pretending like it wasn’t just part of who she was. She imagined that that game he played was the only reason she still had her tongue while her mother did not. She would show restraint, even if it physically pained her to do so.
And so she kept her mouth shut, neck spasming as she looked out her own window, gazing out at the town they had begun to pass through. Rusted flickering lamps, muddy streets, and old stained clothing worn by the few people she could see; the whole place felt like it had fallen into disrepair ages ago: a victim of uncaring nobility’s neglect. Ironically, the sight of it actually sparked a bit of hope in the girl. Perhaps her father dumping money into this barony would at least help the commoners living here, if only a little.
It was a small consolation. The idea that they were here for a new step-mother —one younger than herself— made her skin crawl, and her thoughts only darkened as she thought of what a new wife might mean for the old ones. This time would be different, or so her father promised for the eighth time, but Mioara knew better. She had seen this song and dance too many times to trust him; Dahlia would become his favourite, if for a moment, only to be mistreated like all the others. At least, Mioara would silently admit, a new wife would at least give her father enough of a distraction to spare her and her mother for some time.
These thoughts swirled about endlessly in a cocktail of defeatism and bargaining —nothing unusual for her, but unpleasant all-the-same— but eventually the carriage trundled up the road and pulled up to the Baron’s estate. There were no servants or guards waiting at the front gate: something that the Count seemed all too eager to complain about. Unlike her father though, Yevdokiya seemed more alert than anything, the advisor’s eyes skimming the grounds and manor for any sign of life.
“I don’t know if this is the slight you think it is, My Lord. This is a place of ghosts before ghosts could form: death whispers on the air as if begging her lover to come bed her. She is yearning, so close and yet so far, crying and begging for a partner within reach yet untouchable.”
Mioara glanced toward the woman, frowning and wary at her sudden change of demeanor but the Count’s complaints stopped in their tracks as he listened intently. She had never seen the advisor act like this before but her father almost certainly had, and he took it more seriously than Mioara thought possible.
“Are we at risk?”
Yevdokiya shook her head though continued to keep her attention fixed on the estate.
“Death begs for her lover and has no eyes for us. The rest of the estate is sickly, recovering from vestiges of plague and crippled through abandonment. Only one person remains to keep the place company.”
Teofil’s voice came out gruffer and more impatient this time: “But we’re safe?”
Finally the advisor pulled her attention away from the window and addressed the Count. “Yes, My Lord, we’re more than safe. Whatever caused the suffering in this place moved on a few days ago.” She paused, mulling over her words for a moment before starting again cautiously, “From here I can only pick up more broad strokes; I can’t tell who it is that remains here on the verge of death. It could be your wife-to-be though My Lord and, if it is, just imagine how devoted to you she would be if you saved her. I know this isn’t what we planned, but I still think we should make our way inside, just in case.”
“Hmmm,” the Count nodded slowly, stroking his patchy, half-formed beard before seeming to make up his mind. “Very well, we’ll travel inside and see if the girl is still around. I suppose if it’s the Baron, saving him wouldn’t be too bad either: having Vincent in my pocket couldn’t hurt.” He glanced towards his daughter, and Mioara felt herself tense under his attention: “Well? What are you waiting for, brat? Get out and lead the way!”
She winced at the sudden burst of anger —felt that same uncontrollable spasm in her hand that so-often had nails dig into skin until blood flowed— and pulled herself out of the carriage before her father changed his mind. She could feel the rain now, the cold no longer a suggestion carried in the air as the drops quickly soaked through cloth down to skin. She shivered, but didn’t repress the response; it felt so good to just let go and do what her body wanted and she was more than happy to be soaked to her core if it meant she would have an excuse to shiver in fidget without being judged quite so much. Still, she knew she couldn’t linger and instead made her way over to the gate.
Chained, as if the entire estate was declared condemned, and both the lock and chain appeared new and of high quality. It was… odd. No —not just odd— it was uncomfortable. She’d heard of nobles losing their land and title as the families fell into bankruptcy but, even from the little she knew, she was certain it shouldn’t have happened so fast. The girl was so distracted by the heavy duty chain that she didn’t even notice the soft footsteps behind her; it was Yevdokiya’s gentle voice by her ear that made her jump and shift her focus.
“It feels wrong, doesn’t it?” The woman might have been speaking to Mioara, but her eyes never left the manor. “I helped your father with the research for this, you know? Everything was lined up perfectly and we were both ecstatic for the deal to go through. Even the kerfuffle that happened at the debutante ended up being in our favour, but this is…”
Mioara frowned and tried to make more space between them: “Why do you even care? You get paid either way, don’t you?”
The hostility was met with a chuckle as, just for a brief moment, those blue eyes flitted over to glance at her. “You know, I do get paid more if I do a better job. The silver mines already gave me a nice bonus but I can’t help but always be looking for more. Besides, I take pride in what I do and this…” Her gaze turned back to the manor, “this makes me feel like I drastically misunderstood something.”
Mioara sighed, some of her earlier hostility dying off now that she wasn’t trapped in that cursed carriage, but she still couldn’t care for the woman’s plight. Instead she just focussed on the lock and got to work. Her bloodline wasn’t particularly pure, not even manifesting physically in any way, but when combined with her aspect of ‘clay’ then there was a remarkable amount of flexibility she had. With only a thought her finger warped and shifted, reshaping and molding itself into a key-blank and, after inserting it into the padlock, it took only moments to find the pins’ sheer line and open the lock as if it were nothing.
Raised eyebrows met her as she looked back up, “Damn, you’re better with magic than I thought. Your father never gave the impression that he taught his kids.”
Mioara just shrugged but the motion turned into a violent twitch halfway through. “He doesn’t. Not usually at least. He just showed me some favouritism is all.” She sighed again and tried not to think about it too hard. “Let’s just go. I’ll open the gate and move on ahead; you just follow behind with my father. I feel like moving in groups like that is for the best. I’ll call out if I notice anything.”
The woman’s eyes softened and she nodded. “Alright, I understand. Just be careful… my magic tends to be vague so sometimes I misinterpret things. I’m not sensing danger but stay safe just in case. Oh, and if we’re looking for Dahlia, try checking the lower floors first.”
She turned and left then, returning faithfully to the Count’s side and allowing Mioara to finally lose some of the tension she’d been holding. Yevdokiya… perhaps wasn’t as insufferable as she thought, at least not one-on-one, but she still wasn’t someone the girl wanted to spend time with if she could help it. Not waiting for the carriage to keep up with her, she began to walk up the long driveway, basking in the constant downpour and letting it wash away everything else like perfect, beautiful, sensory white noise. The disappointment she felt as she eventually left the rain and arrived at the front door was palpable but, with the loss of one distraction, she turned her focus to the job at hand instead.
Same as the front gate, the door remained locked though it took just as little effort to break in. As she entered, she couldn’t stop a frown from forming: the air was stagnant and cloying, instilling a deep-set discomfort she couldn’t quite shake. Still, she made her way forward, ignoring instincts that told her something was wrong, and focussed. So many doors were shut —not locked like the front— but still closed off as if entire wings of the manor had been cordoned, closed, or quarantined, and always behind these doors the air grew so much worse, reeking of stale sick and rot.
The main hall wasn’t too bad at least, and there were some rooms that even showed more recent signs of life. Blankets left strewn about and in heaps, empty mugs and tumblers on tables near the fireplace, and books left scattered about, as if someone had made the few tolerable rooms their home. Still, they were all abandoned. Drinks sat empty and the fire was long past cold — only the air carried the distinct hint of recent habitation: the musky scent of life still clinging to the air and blankets not yet fully dispersed.
Mioara took a deep breath, tugging on the threadbare abilities granted to her by her bloodline; any lingering odor was thin, mixed with so many older scents that the more recent ones were difficult to distinguish, but she could just barely place it. Two women, one sickly and the other not. Both rich in mana —enough so that it had actually concentrated in the spots they had been in prolonged contact with— but she lacked the more refined senses to know any more than that. It did, however, lead her to where the healthy woman seemed to sit, as well as the paperwork she had kept by her side. There was a note, crumpled and carelessly placed, but the text was clear and she could feel a slow building fury well up deep within. She read the note, time and time again, and didn’t even notice as Yevdokiya and her father entered from behind.
“Well? Did you find anything or did you think you could just read anything while on the job?”
The girl hardly even heard him. Her heart pounding as the implications only became more and more clear.
“That bitch ran away.”
“What?” The question came as a grunt, but Mioara knew that her father would only start calm. Soon he would grow to an uncontrollable rage and she and her mother would be the ones to pay for this selfish fucking cunt trying to run away!
“I said she ran away! There’s a note here! Left behind, written by… I don’t fucking know. It’s talking about things to pack that the girl would have wanted. Talks about schema notes and plants and shit. Someone came here and took Dahlia away — fuck! Fucking shit!”
She couldn’t bring herself to care as she lashed out, kicking and breaking whatever she could just to get some kind of catharsis out of all the rage building up. She could already see just how poorly things would go —how much she and her mother would have to suffer for the sake of this self-centred bitch— and yet she was powerless to prevent it. The girl was gone, taken away by some unknown ‘saviour’ and ripped away from her father. There would be hell to pay and, with the actual culprits unavailable, she’d be the one paying for their debts.
A hand on her shoulder almost had her lash out on reflex, her hand already warping into a jagged blade, ready to rip and tear and draw blood, but eyes like swirling galaxies startled her into a semblance of composure. She still twitched and fidgetted and spasmed —the sudden stress too overwhelming for her to even attempt to restrain herself— but she was at least able to listen.
“Mioara, hey, it’ll be ok, just keep breathing and talk me through it. Can you do that for me?”
Slow and shaky, she nodded and was greeted by the woman’s smile. Those eyes never left her, always staring and seeming to pay attention only to her as Yevdokiya’s voice came out low and smooth.
“There we go, that’s a good girl. Now tell me, what did you find? Was it just the note? Maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe we can still get Dahlia back. I need you to focus for me though, alright?”
Again she nodded, this time quicker. She felt her arm strain as it curled in on itself, taught and angry. She felt her neck spasm so violently that her body shook and it peeled a whimper out of her. Not once though, did she let her eyes leave the woman’s. Despite the tics, Yevdokiya didn’t rush her or even acknowledge them; she just waited patiently, acting as an anchor, exactly what Mioara needed in the moment. Suddenly, the girl started to understand how her father so readily let this woman become his advisor, as her presence soothed and supported where nothing other than rage and bloodshed typically could.
“I— I don’t know if you can smell it. Father can, I bet. But. But the whole place smells like a plague came through. Not these rooms though. Not the same way. There was someone else here too. A woman. She was healthy. I think that’s who the note was for. I don’t know more — I don’t! I don’t know who took her! I—”
“Shh, it’s ok, that’s already plenty.”
Finally those eyes left her, glancing at the surroundings before looking back to the Count. “There’s still the survivor; even if it isn’t Dahlia, it might be a lead.”
The man nodded, his own expression tight as he glanced about and took a deep breath.
“Mioara’s right about the smell of the place. Now that we’re inside, it fucking reeks. If I had to guess where a survivor might be though…” His eyes shifted upwards and he sneered, “Upstairs. The scent is awful, but it’s also fresh. I honestly thought it was a corpse —might still be— but I’m not noticing anything else. We’ll head up. And I’ll lead the way,” his eyes trailed over the now-broken furniture, ignoring his daughter entirely, “Mioara, I believe you’ve already done more than enough.”
What followed was a less-than-cautious approach as the Count made his way toward the second floor and —despite her earlier warnings— Yevdokiya didn’t seem of a mind to slow him down. And all-the-while, Mioara watched from the back, anger slowly giving way to dread as more and more implications started to be absorbed. Maybe it was the way her father marched forward toward the scent of a corpse, but there was something sinister about this. And maybe she was imagining it, but the way Yevdokiya held herself —nervous and tense— had this feeling less like a miscellaneous event and something larger. Something orchestrated. As if this had all happened at the perfect time, just to spite the Count. No, perhaps it was even bigger than that.
This wasn’t some commoners farmstead or even the home of a small village’s reeve. This occurred to a baron and, no matter how low the noble title was, that meant that there were greater forces at play here. Something that grew only more clear as they made their way down the hall, feet plodding on plush carpet toward the looming doors of the Baron’s own office. Even from outside, the stench was foul — enough so that even Yevdokiya and her far-worse sense of smell had her face scrunched and pale. It only grew worse as the doors opened, the foetid and sickly sweet scent was so thick it could be tasted in the air. Yevdokiya was already retching, hurling in the corner of the hallway and, had she not experienced something similar at home, Mioara was certain she would have been doing the same.
What met them —the source of it all— was a facsimile of a man.
In a spatter of coagulated and fly-infested blood, a lump of half-rotten flesh faintly twitched, the remnants of its chest still rising and falling with breaths that should have been impossible. This… whoever this was… they should not have been alive. They should have died ages ago and yet with each passing second they took another tortured breath.
“This is madness.”
The Count’s voice was quiet but there was a deep set rage simmering beneath. The man’s quiet was only interrupted when Yevdokiya finally managed to restrain her own sick and drag herself into the room.
“This is…” She paused, looking like she would need to rush out again but she grimaced as she stared at the body. “My Lord. We knew it could come to this. I know we assumed she could never be this petty but if she really went this far…”
Teofil grunted, again sneering as he looked down on the Baron’s corpse.
“Spite. It has to be. That and I bet she realised that this would have strengthened my connections to the south. The bitch probably thought she was being clever.” He spat, looking disgusted and enraged in equal measure, “I’m leaving. If she’s going to oppose me so overtly, it’s only reasonable that I begin preparing for the inevitable.” He didn’t even glance at his daughter as he walked away, only bothering to call out behind him as he left. “And Mioara? See if you can close his wounds. I can’t imagine your healing abilities will do much good here, but at least try; it’d be amazing if we could still salvage the man.”
The girl didn’t know what to think. Just the stench alone would have stripped her of most thoughts, but seeing the tortured man before her took away even the few that remained. What was in front of her —this abomination that defied the gods and everything just— was more sickening than anything even her father had done. Still, she wanted to help —had to help— and would have felt that way regardless of what her father had ordered. She had to correct the atrocity in front of her, no matter what.
And yet the moment she began channeling —before even a wick had passed and before she even started to sculpt the corpse back into something resembling a human once more— everything stopped. Mioara could feel her blood run cold as she watched the man die, then and there, moments away from getting help as whatever had been keeping him alive just… stopped.
“W-what…” Her voice was hardly more than a quivering whisper; confused and weak and mad. “He… he died? What do you mean? Why? I didn’t even do anything! I was trying to help! I—”
Again, for the second time that day, a hand landed on her shoulder and gave her something to hold onto, like a life raft amidst a storm tossed ocean. Yevdokiya slowly led her away from the now limp corpse, only speaking once they finally retreated to the edge of the room.
“It’s what she does, you know. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened” There was so much sorrow in the woman’s voice. So much pain. “They used to call her a devil, back when she was younger but she lost the moniker and people started to forget. I know though. So does your father. She’s nothing but a monster.”
Mioara felt her body still, a cold certainty slowly budding within her as more and more of a picture was painted for her. And with more clarity came a target: someone who she could direct her rage at.
“Who? Who did this?”
Yevdokiya leveled a worried glance at her, frowning just slightly as if weighing whether to tell her more, but relented after seeing the look in the girl’s eyes.
“Valentina Amarei. I wasn’t certain until we saw this room, but what she did to the Baron… this is something she’s done before, back before she was the Archduchess.” The woman grimaced, looking almost apologetic. “Your father and I… we’ve been trying to gather power, hoping to prevent her from abusing her position now that she’s Archduchess. She had something of an old grudge against our county and, well… I’m sorry kid. We didn’t think you’d get dragged into this; we certainly weren’t expecting it to escalate so soon.”
Even as Yevdokiya apologised and tried to reassure her though, Mioara could already feel her resolve crystalizing, taking form into something solid and tangible and real. Valentina Armarei. Just from this scene alone, the girl knew she was scum. Not fit to rule. Not fit to even fucking exist. No one deserved what she did and for what? For a grudge? A powerplay? No, fuck that.
More thoughts coalesced: unknowns slowly fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.
If the Archduchess was the cause of this —the brutality and cruelty and pettiness of it all— then the scent of the second woman downstairs would be her. And if so… the bitch stole Dahlia. She stole her and tortured a man just to spite her father, all while the girl got to escape and leave all the misfortune for others. Well Mioara wouldn’t have it. She refused and would scream and rage and destroy anything and everything in her way until she could make it right.
So this Dahlia bitch escaped at the expense of others? That was fine; she could work with that. It just meant that she would drag the girl back to her father, preferably with the little cunt kicking and screaming while she did so. Now it was only a question of how soon she could make it happen.