Somewhere in the kingdom of Gravemarch, a lone candle burned in the dark. Its flame spilled light sharp and golden, filling the small chamber as if it were a morning sunbeam piercing the void.
They sat around an octagonal table etched with strange, ancient runes — one figure at each edge, their hooded robes swallowing their faces in shadow.
The air was tense. Heavy.
The first to speak was draped in a dark blue cloak, his gloved fingers drumming softly on the table. His tone was clipped, cold:
Blue Cloak (The Analyst):
"The atrocities Veyrath has committed are… beyond heresy. Entire villages bled dry. Territories seized without warning. For what? Nothing they admit to."
Next, a younger man in ash-grey leaned forward, his voice bitter, angry:
Grey Cloak (The Hothead):
"Not for nothing. They ask for land — demand it, then slaughter when refused. I say we raze them before they come knocking here."
Across from him, a woman in pale violet robes shook her head, her tone calm but eerie, as though explaining to a child:
Violet Cloak (The Scholar):
"It isn't random. The lands they seize… all bear the traces of the Ancient Ones. The ruins. The whispers. They're not just hungry — they're searching."
From the far side, a robed figure spoke up, his voice hoarse and full of unease.
Brown Cloak (The Skeptic):
"And their children. Gods save us — even their children wield spells that tear through grown mages as though we were made of smoke. They… shouldn't have such power."
The next leaned back, his cloak black as pitch, and gave a low laugh, dry and humorless:
Black Cloak (The Cynic):
"Oh, but they do. And it's no wonder — they use the Demon Altar, not the three altars the gods left us. Demons don't care who they bless, as long as the blood flows."
Then, finally, the eldest at the table, his cloak lined in gold thread, lifted his head. His voice was quiet — yet it stilled the others at once.
Gold Cloak (The Elder):
"Gods' altars we can abide. But a demon's? Not here. Not ever."
The others stared at him, silent. The candle faltered, flame snapping sideways as if in fear.
✦✦✦
Far below, in the depths of Veyrath, two pale hands gripped the edge of a glowing spring.
And at last… Nia stepped forward.
She eased her foot into the water — and froze.
Tiny shapes darted beneath the surface. Fishes. Sleek and ghostly white, gliding just under her toes.
Her stomach knotted. She staggered back, nearly losing her balance — but soft hands caught her from behind.
Lyssa's calm voice murmured near her ear:
"You know what this spring is called?"
Nia shook her head.
"No? Then let me tell you… it's called the Spring of Life. Obvious, isn't it? Because of the fish. Don't worry — they won't hurt you."
Nia hesitated, then tilted her head, pointing at Lyssa… and then at the spring, question in her eyes.
Lyssa chuckled softly.
"Me? Oh no. I don't have the right to step in. This is your purification ceremony — not mine."
Nia's gaze fell, her hands curling nervously at her sides.
Lyssa's voice softened.
"Go on, now. It's time."
Nia took a slow breath, gathering what little courage she still clung to… and stepped into the water.
It rose to her ankles. Then her knees. Warm — almost too warm, like blood. Yet somehow, it soothed her, the faint scent of lavender curling through the air and quieting the noise in her head.
Tiny ripples shimmered in silver and gold around her legs as the fish wove lazy circles, brushing past her skin without fear.
Lyssa's voice came again, calm and coaxing:
"Don't just stand there. Try sitting. You'll feel much better."
Nia looked back at her, tilting her head slightly.
Lyssa gave her a faint smile. "Go on. Try it."
Nia sank to her knees, then eased herself down into the spring until she was seated in the glowing water.
It was… good. Strangely good. The warmth seeped deep into her bones.
Her wounds ached, but the ache was different — like they were knitting themselves together.
Her whole body felt lighter, as though the water was washing something heavy out of her.
What is this feeling…? she wondered, her thoughts quiet and awed.
I feel… better. Better than I have in years. It's like… it's healing me.
That was when Lyssa leaned close, her breath brushing Nia's ear, and whispered —
"We'll leave you here. Take your time. When you're ready… come out."
Nia flinched so hard she almost slipped under the water, her heart hammering in her chest like a drum. She shot a startled glance back at Lyssa, but the woman only smirked faintly.
Nia exhaled shakily and gave a small nod.
The chamber was quiet but for the faint hum of the spring. Warm water clung to her skin like silk, the lavender scent still curling in her lungs. For a few long minutes she simply sat there, letting herself feel… lighter. The ache in her muscles dulled. Her wounds no longer throbbed. Even her mind seemed quieter, as though the water itself was whispering her fears away.
But then… the chill of the air beyond the spring crept into her thoughts. The world outside waited, whether she wanted it to or not.
Slowly, she drew a breath and pushed herself upright, the water rippling in golden circles around her. Droplets clung to her pale skin and the white robe like tiny crystals, cold air biting at her shoulders as she waded to the edge of the spring.
Her legs felt heavier now, though her heart felt… lighter somehow. She braced herself, placed her hands on the slick blackstone lip of the spring, and stepped out — the faint slap of bare feet echoing in the vast, quiet chamber.
✦✦✦
Violet Cloak (The Scholar):
"The village known as Ebonrose… wiped clean off the map by Veyrath."
His words hung in the air like a curse, and the candlelight seemed to sputter.
Blue Cloak (The Analyst):
"The same reason as before."
He leaned forward, voice low.
"You know. That village… it harbored a flower they called the black rose. A bloom found nowhere else on this land."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he added:
"And the cruelest part? It wasn't even… a rose."
Violet Cloak (The Scholar):
His eyes narrowed.
"They say the petals bled crimson when plucked. And the roots… black as tar."
A shiver passed around the table. Someone muttered a quiet prayer.
Gold Cloak (The Elder):
"That flower… whatever it truly was… Veyrath coveted it enough to salt the earth and burn every soul who guarded it."
He clenched his fist, knuckles pale against the table.
"Even the children."
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the faint crackle of the candle filled the silence.
And then, the Elder spoke again, voice cold and quiet:
"Ebonrose is gone. But what they found there… still breathes."
✦✦✦
Far below, in the bowels of Veyrath, the spring rippled faintly as Nia's fingertips grazed its surface.
She felt it then — a sharp, fleeting chill beneath the warmth. Like a thorn against her skin.
And for just a heartbeat, she thought she saw something dark coiling in the water.
A petal. Black as tar.
It sank beneath the surface and was gone.
She tore her gaze away, forcing her stiff legs to move. Every step out of the spring felt heavier than it should've — like the water was reluctant to let her go.
When she finally stepped through the chamber doors, steam still curling faintly off her skin, Lyssa was already waiting.
The woman's smile was soft, though her eyes shimmered with something unreadable.
"Oh, you're back," she said, her tone light, almost teasing.
Lyssa took a step closer and brushed a damp lock of hair from Nia's cheek.
"Let's get you dressed up… and stuffed with a proper feast."
Her fingers lingered at Nia's chin for just a second longer before she turned toward the corridor, her heels clicking faintly against the stone.
"Come along now. You must be starving."
✦✦✦
The door shut behind them with a quiet thud.
Nia stood still for a moment, the lingering heat of the spring clinging to her skin. Lyssa gestured her forward, her voice a gentle command:
"This way. You can't very well walk around dripping wet, can you?"
They entered another room — smaller, warmer, lined with polished wooden shelves stacked with folded silks and robes. A vanity sat at the far end, its mirror framed with delicate carvings of birds and flowers. Several maids were already waiting, heads bowed, hands at the ready.
Nia hesitated by the threshold.
Lyssa raised a brow at her. "Don't worry. They're used to shy little things."
One of the maids approached, taking her gently by the wrist and leading her to a stool in front of the mirror.
Warm towels blotted the moisture from her skin. Her hair was combed through, the tangles teased out with surprising care.
They dressed her in layers of fine, soft fabric — a long robe of snowy white trimmed in faint silver, a sash tied neatly at her waist. One maid fastened a faintly glowing pendant at her throat, whispering something Nia didn't quite catch.
When they stepped back, she barely recognized herself in the mirror. The bruises and cuts still marred her pale skin, but she looked… human again. Maybe even alive.
Lyssa stood behind her now, hands folded.
"There," she murmured, tilting her head with a faint smile. "Much better."
She motioned toward the door.
"Now, come. You've earned a meal."
✦✦✦
The dining hall was vast, its vaulted ceiling held aloft by pillars of dark stone veined with gold. Torches burned low along the walls, casting the room in a soft amber glow.
At its center stretched a long table, already laden with plates of steaming bread, platters of roasted meats, bowls of vibrant fruits and greens, and goblets of something dark and sweet-smelling.
Lyssa guided her to a chair near the head of the table and motioned for her to sit.
"Eat," she said simply, her eyes glinting faintly. "It won't bite."
Nia's stomach growled at the sight of it all — but still, she reached out slowly, as if half-expecting the food to vanish the moment she touched it.
Her fingers closed around a piece of bread. Warm. Real. She tore into it, and for the first time in what felt like forever, her body relaxed just a little.
Lyssa watched her.
"You've survived much worse than this," she said casually, lifting a goblet of her own.
"But tonight…" Her eyes softened — just barely. "…you'll rest."
For a second, Nia just sat there, fingers tightening on the bread. The words sank in slowly, like sunlight creeping into a cold, shuttered room.
And then — hot tears welled before she even realized.
Her chest hitched. Her chair screeched against the stone as she scraped it back and stood on shaking legs, stumbling closer… until her arms wrapped around Lyssa.
Lyssa blinked, caught off-guard as Nia clung to her like a drowning girl to driftwood, silent sobs rippling through her fragile frame.
She stayed rooted.
Her first thought: Foolish child. You'll ruin my robes.
Her second: Why does this feel so… warm?
The goblet wavered in her hand before she set it down with care. Her free hand hovered for a beat… then lowered to Nia's trembling shoulders.
"…There now," she murmured, her voice quiet. Her fingers threaded lightly through Nia's damp hair. "Let it out. It's alright."
The faint crackle of torches was the only sound as Nia cried — not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet. Tired. Raw.
Lyssa wasn't used to this.
To softness.
To someone reaching for her, instead of bowing to her. After all, she was the Head Maid of the House.
And for the first time since she'd been dragged into that cell… Nia didn't feel entirely alone.