The Weight of Legacy

Henrietta fon Grēdôcava's abode was humble only in size. Since her childhood, empty space had bothered her, like an itch at the edge of her mind, serving as a harbinger for headaches if the source was not nipped at the bud. The work of her Inherents, she'd learned, though not until after many a horrid experience. Even someone of her status could suffer, when those around her refused to understand.

Her chambers were no bigger than a proper servant's quarters, fit for sleep and light recreation at most. If she had need for something, she would simply head elsewhere in the palace and handle her business there.

The sanctity of her private dwelling would remain unmarred.

Today, Henrietta had little desire for moving. The type of numbness only despair could bring clung to her like a heavy blanket, leaving the half-step Immortal to gaze idly at her hand, which lay caressing the letter upon her vanity. The lighting within the room was dim, rose-tinted thanks to the enchantments inscribed upon her candles. She aimed to mimic many an aesthetic of yore, her room's decor all pieced together from what she'd picked up here and there during her short centuries of life.

Beaded curtains hung to adorn false windows, just as assorted fabrics clung to the walls. Even her superior vision had grown hazy from the smoke, as she'd set a rare incense to burn before sitting down. While she had never seen herself as a collector, it went without saying that many a curiosity belonged to her.

Neither the first nor the second knock on her door broke Henrietta out of her ruminations. She blinked the growing moisture of her eyes away—undoubtedly, a consequence of the smoke and not a crack in her composure—swiftly rising to answer the door.

The Foremost of the Saints stood beyond the threshold, clad in a sheath dress that reached her ankles, the fabric patterned by flowers. In this day, Khaiman Khödan's eyes were a green that matched the hue of the printed leaves, but her hair remained as powder-white as always.

It was more than a bit strange, watching the Saint of {Vanagloria} stand there with no emotions betrayed by her expression. The woman was nothing if not wild and sporadic, caring little for proper protocol unless it suited her purposes.

Her silence was warning enough for just how dire things had gotten—Devils knew what went on in that recalcitrant head of hers, and Henrietta very much preferred it when the Foremost didn't look like she must have been plotting someone's unfortunate demise.

Neither wasted time with greetings, for this was merely a conversation between friends of convenience.

"How is he?" Grēdôcava's Second asked in a hesitant whisper.

Khaiman exhaled, her eyes heavy-lidded as if she were capable of ever growing tired. "Weakened, but stable. I have impressed upon them all, the importance of doing whatever is possible—but you do not need me to tell you to be prepared to take the lead, should it come to that."

Henrietta looked off to the side, allowing herself the show of weakness. "I was afraid you would say that."

Close as they were, she had long since stopped thinking of Adalhard as her cousin. That title belonged to half the high noble population anyway, making it nothing special. In time, he had simply become the Executor, and Henrietta, his Second. That alone sufficed to describe their relationship.

In silence, both women stood, neither meeting the other's gaze. It was as though each waited for one to cut through the tense pause and voice what they both knew, to put it out into the world, consequences be damned.

"If Adalhard dies, who am I meant to name his heir?" Henrietta spoke first, in no small part to avoid the inevitable topic she could not allow herself to acknowledge.

If the Executor fell, not only would he be the first in the nation's history to fail to step aside in time, but Henrietta would be expected to select a successor in his place with next to no preparation. In truth that was why Seconds existed, to act should the Executor no longer be capable of doing so—but that didn't happen! Executors did not roll over and die, let alone fall.

Not anymore.

Carefully schooling her face back into some semblance of calm, the Second took a step outside her room. "Walk with me."

Khaiman raised an eyebrow ever so slightly but followed, her hands clasped before her. She looked the portrait of a lady-in-waiting, as if she were not the most dangerous person in the land.

Henrietta closed her eyes, her path clear in her mind, and as the two reached the gardens in their lonesome, she let out a long sigh. "I would seek your counsel—can any of this be salvaged?"

"If you fret for his memory, I'll see what I can do. It shouldn't be impossible to spin even a fall into a positive light, given the catalyst," Khaiman spoke with the ease only one who'd already given this much thought could. "There will be many a man who thinks himself the second coming of the founder and seeks to skip the line. In the end, tradition dictates you should start with the oldest relatives, no matter who protests, and go forwards from there."

Henrietta of course knew this—it was part of the tasks to which she was to dedicate her life. The position of Executor was not hereditary. It just so happened that Executors were often closely related.

It struck a cord for her, that the Foremost would simply parrot the obvious instead of speaking earnestly. Selfish as it was, the Second chose to feel offended, and shot her companion a glare she hoped expressed the fact.

To her surprise, Khaiman's lips curved upwards. "But if it were up to me, I'd say it should be you who succeeds him as Executor. For us Saints, that's how it's done, and your traditions have seemed foolish to me from the moment I heard of them, oh, so long ago."

Perhaps the suggestion should have startled Henrietta, coupled with the palpable glee that slipped past the Foremost formerly composed expression. "I fear that cannot be."

Henrietta shook her head. It wasn't that the prospect didn't appeal to her, and like every other high noble she'd dreamed as a child of such a future. However, the past was the past, and her fate was not meant to have rulership in its plans.

What she wanted mattered little in the face of what the first Executors had long ago decreed.

From the gardens they headed towards the infirmary, Second and Foremost in silence. Any onlookers would like mistake the sight for something somber.

Henrietta could feel that sadness bubbling in her chest, stewing with the knowledge that having to say goodbye was likely. But people of their status never died naturally—there was something frightful about even having the opportunity to speak with the man lying on what might as well have been his deathbed. Usually, these things happened too fast for anyone to get the chance.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Though she did not invite Khaiman to accompany her, the Saint had taken in upon herself to follow. Three other Saints were in the room, watching over the Prince.

"Can you maintain your Skills from outside the room for a moment?" Khaiman asked and got nods in response. "Leave us for a short while, then."

As they scurried out, Henrietta paid them no heed. The only thing that existed before her eyes was Adalhard. He laid flat on the bed, his hair splayed out to the sides. His pillow looked deflated, and sunken were his cheeks.

Dark undereyes made the rest of his face look similarly lesser, as if his insides were collapsing in on themselves, all further worsened by the sickly sheen over his skin.

The faltering Executor looked a nightmare.

"We could do it, you know," Khaiman whispered, her expression serious. "If you think he would agree, I should be able to wrestle even a Devil for a moment. He could name you his successor—surrender the post to you."

"I do not think he would," Henrietta admitted. By now, if it had felt possible, she would have done anything. Anything to not leave him to his fate. "He is too far gone."

"If you say so," Khaiman relented. The Second wouldn't put it past her to have offered solely to get a chance at testing herself against a Devil itself. Either that, or she genuinely thought it would have been for the best.

The odds were about even.

Henrietta let out a long exhale. "Have the children visited?"

"Those that remain have."

For all she was glad, Henrietta knew she could not have faced them right now. Her grief was her own. She was losing the person who mattered the most to her, yet she did not wish to take away from those who were losing a father. Granted, Adalhard had not been close with all, centuries making even parent-child bonds grown distant. Drifting apart was inevitable as they built there own lives.

In the end, a child had been his undoing nonetheless. Why? Tell me why. Henrietta wished to ask, though she would never get the chance. Why, all of a sudden you decide, you care for that one child?

It wasn't as if Adalhard was lacking in offspring, and throughout the boy's entire life, he'd done little other than be dissatisfied. While it was true that having a spontaneously manifested extra Affinity could have opened doors for him, he had clearly not been cut out to be great.

Again, the Prince had other children! This decision to flip out, to declare he had to be found, had sent Adalhard spiraling as failure after failure mounted. {Avaritia} had never been about acquisition so much as it was a force that thrived off keeping what belonged to it, and in mourning a loss to this extent, the Executor had eroded the divide between himself and the Devil he served.

Now, he was paying the price, unable to endure the sudden absence of the usual separation.

A desperate and illogical part of Henrietta wanted to suggest to Khaiman that they proceed with her plan anyway. If there was a chance—even the faintest chance—that she could convince Adalhard to relinquish possession of the coin, there may yet be hope. True, he would never again progress, nor would he ever truly recover, but the man she'd grown to care for would continue to exist.

Failing that, she'd half a mind to take his head. Not once in her life had Henrietta wielded a blade—such were not her ways. She was a lady of the Principality, and words were her weapons, just as white lies were her shields. She'd never taken a life, nor should she feel the need to take this one.

"I cannot," Henrietta said, more to herself than anything else. The worst part was she knew not what she referred to—both paths seemed open before her. "I cannot…"

Something shifted in her heart, and she made a decision she could never take back.

"…allow my dear to fall at all."

Khaiman perked up, her interest clear with a glint in her eyes. "Do you want to give it a try after all?"

Henrietta could not—would not—take the time to wonder just what schemes the woman plotted. She took comfort only in the fact that the Foremost had never been one for politics—her motives were her own and unlikely to be decoded by anyone in the near future.

Not to say she was not trustworthy—perhaps she might be the most trustworthy of all under these circumstances. In the end, the Foremost and {Avaritia} were kin. If anyone was to know what the best course of action was, if would be her.

Could this all be a delusion, the overly complicated thought process Henrietta walked herself through in order to justify what she was about to do?

Perhaps.

Henrietta found that it felt right.

"Proceed," was all she said, her tone stern.

With a smile, Khaiman waved a hand, and the room shuddered. Even the sleeping Prince quivered, and Henrietta held her breath.

Reality itself bent and faltered under the authority of this vainglorious force, which refused to accept it as absolute.

Adalhard's eyes snapped open.

"The time I give you is short," Khaiman Khödan spoke despite not being there, her Existence momentarily untethered as she moved in the way only her ilk could.

"Brother of my soul," Henrietta heard her voice break as she leaned forward, taking Adalhard's hand into her own. His fingers felt too fragile, as if they might snap if she squeezed any harder. "I beg of you, release it. Allow me to take up your mantle—let this responsibility be mine, if not for your sake then for your children's. Let them not lose their father now—not like this."

The Prince's eyes were unfocused. He did not acknowledge his Second's presence, nor did he squeeze back. "My children. I have failed my children."

"Adalhard, no—"

"If I had been a good father, he would not have left," he continued, his voice raspy and grating. "When he left, I no longer had all of them. I couldn't keep them. If I couldn't keep them, then I cannot keep anything. I am unworthy."

"Surrender it, boy," Khaiman's voice was a hiss that echoed in every direction. "You will lose more than your life!"

Henrietta grit her teeth. "Let me handle this. Please. Brot—"

"Never!" the emaciated man shouted, his eyes bloodshot. He reached for Henrietta's neck, and she was too stunned to push him away. "It is mine and mine alone!"

She tried to gasp, only to find she could not. Time slowed as she fell back on her attributes, which were not yet quite second nature to her—part of what held her back from Immortality, no doubt. She wrapped her hands around those bony wrists and tugged, unable to break his hold. While she could go for long without breath, the fact that he would attack her like this shook her to her very core.

His hands were cold on her neck. Too cold.

A barrage of light and something cloudlike—brushing against her senses like cotton against her skin—coalesced to the side as the Foremost reattached herself to reality as they knew it.

"Your time is up."

The crazed Prince growled, turning to face what might as well have been a newcomer from his perspective—if he remained aware enough for that at all.

Henrietta took the chance to shove, pushing him back. It worked a bit too well, his hands yanked away from where he'd gripped her. That did more damage than his initial attack had, and the Second hunched forward, gasping.

Seemingly having forgotten the Saint before him, Adalhard reached for Henrietta again.

It was then that she understood, in her heart, that there was nothing she could do for him.

They had lost him already.

Ribbons of red and gold manifested around them, hovering in the air for a split second before they matched the movements of her flailing hands. Even weakened as he was, he was still an Executor, free to draw power beyond his own limits thanks to his connection with the Devil.

But he was far from coherent enough to plan ahead. While Henrietta's hands could not reach him as she only barely managed to dodge, the ribbons rushed forward, returning the earlier favor and squeezing around his neck.

Despite her morbid musings, Henrietta had no blade with which to finish this. As she sobbed—and oh, did she know not when she had started—she compressed the ribbons, forcing them to cut through flesh in a horrid display.

Khaiman remained unmoving by her side, only speaking over the sound of the notification the Second was ignoring. Henrietta almost didn't hear her. "You have my condolences."

"You knew this would happen," Henrietta accused, turning to face the Foremost as the woman in question did not react. "You knew this would happen and you still let it!"

"I gave him an out. Not many would," the Saint hissed out, clearly displeased as the crying Second directed her attention at her. "{Avaritia} would not survive another demon being born of it—you know that as well as I do. Your country's enemies would have jumped at the chance to make their moves, with your Devil weakened."

"There might have still been time," Henrietta whispered, though she did not believe her own words.

"No," Khaiman shook her head softly. At some point, she had reached forward, shameless as always. She offered the body no respect as she rummaged through what remained of it, unaffected by the motes of light that rose as the Prince dissolved into nothingness.

From there, she produced a golden coin, and tipped her head before Henrietta, placing it in the former Second's hand. A complex wave of foreign emotions—or perhaps only something her mind desperately wished to interpret as emotions—washed over her.

"May your reign be long and prosperous, my Prince," the Foremost said with a bow.

And then she left.