Vengeance Through Passion

"Oi, the sooner we wrap practice, the better. Off to burn that witch before midnight we go, lest the rain befall us.

Aricia, standing off to the side of the sparring grounds, overheard the words as they flew between two knights engaged in banter. Their voices were coarse, laced with disrespect, especially from the knight who spat the words as if he had no regard for what he said. She winced. The notion of a burning—such a barbaric and ritualistic form of punishment—sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t know how she was going to pull off what she planned, but she didn’t care. Even if she were to die in the process, it would be worth it to stop such cruelty. The thought weighed heavily in her heart as her gaze swept across the training grounds.

***

"All hail your prince, the mighty Crown Prince of Athame. Prince Alexander Lucius Blackwood!"

The high, clear voice of the eunuch echoed throughout the open field, commanding the attention of all within earshot. The air seemed to stiffen at the announcement, as though the very earth acknowledged the presence of such a man. A murmur rippled through the ranks of soldiers and knights, and, as one, they bowed, their armor clinking in unison as they bent in courtesy. Heads lowered with deep reverence, but there was an undercurrent of fear, a tension so thick it could be cut with a sword.

Prince Alexander Lucius Blackwood sat upon his horse with an air of undeniable authority. The steed beneath him was magnificent—black as midnight, its coat gleaming like polished obsidian, muscles rippling beneath taut skin. It snorted and pawed at the ground, its breath forming clouds in the cold evening air, but its rider was the true spectacle. Prince Alexander, draped in a cloak of deep crimson, bore the sigil of Athame emblazoned on his chest plate—a roaring lion, its eyes set with fiery rubies. The armor was crafted from the finest steel, darkened to a near-black hue, intricately engraved with golden filigree that glistened under the sun. His long, raven-black hair fell in soft waves over his shoulders, framing a face as cold and calculating as the distant mountains. His sharp features—chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing honey gold eyes—commanded attention.

His expression was one of displeasure, as though everything before him, from the people to the landscape, was beneath him. His lips curled into a thin, almost mocking smile. The very aura around him seemed to radiate danger, an unpredictable force of nature that none dared question.

With an effortless grace, Prince Alexander dismounted his majestic horse. His boots hit the earth with a solid thud, and at once, Ser Thanorin—one of the knights standing nearby—hurried to his side, bowing low as he greeted the Crown Prince.

“To what do I owe the honor of the Crown Prince’s visit?” Ser Thanorin asked, his voice faltering ever so slightly, betraying his nerves.

Prince Alexander glanced at him, a smirk playing on his lips. His gold eyes gleamed with amusement, as though Ser Thanorin were nothing more than a court jester.

“What was your name again?” Prince Alex asked dismissively, waving his hand as though swatting away an insect. “Nevermind, lad. I hear the Yazaki is to be burnt by midnight. Isn’t everyone supposed to be here by dusk? gods, do tell me I’m not the first to arrive.”

He strode forward, his stride confident and leisurely, as though the very ground bowed to him. His armor clinked softly with each step, and those in his path moved aside swiftly, heads still bowed.

“What a stinky place,”he muttered, his nose wrinkling as he looked around with open disdain.

“Perfect for the Queen,” Prince Alexander added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His boisterous laugh followed, sharp and loud, causing several of the knights to join in nervously, though their laughter was forced and hesitant.

Ser Thanorin, standing nearby, was among those who laughed, his voice louder than the rest, hoping to appease the Crown Prince.

“Shut it, cunt,” Prince Alexander snapped, his sharp words cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes flicked toward Thanorin, narrowing dangerously. "Where are the other knights? Are these the so-called knights of Athame? Disgusting.”

The prince’s words were a venomous insult, but none dared respond. The knights before him shifted uncomfortably.

Prince Alex’s laughter trailed off, but his eyes still gleamed with amusement. He scanned the courtyard, noting the lack of grandeur he was accustomed to.

“What are you looking at, fool?” he barked at a nearby servant, who stood frozen in place. “Get me a seat and wine for the show.”

The servant, trembling, rushed to obey, and Prince Alexander began making his way toward the court where the execution would take place. His steps echoed off the stone pathway as he moved toward the backyard, his long cloak sweeping behind him like a trail of blood.

Just as he approached the entrance to the court, a carriage skidded to a halt at the gates. The horses snorted and whinnied as they came to a stop, their breath visible in the cool air. The door to the carriage swung open, and out stepped Lady Livia.

Lady Livia’s dress was a deep shade of purple, almost black, with silver embroidery tracing the edges of her sleeves and neckline. Her brown hair was coiled in an elaborate braid, adorned with gems that caught the light as she moved. Her gaze, sharp as they fell on the prince, and for a moment, their eyes met—a silent exchange occurred.

Prince Alexander raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Ah, Lady Livia,” he drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with false courtesy. **“I didn’t expect you to grace us with your presence. Not after the encounter at Lireal” he laughed again. "Ah that was quite the spectacle, I didn't have to see to deduce such humiliation."

Lady Livia said nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitched, as though suppressing a sneer. She stepped forward, her movements graceful yet deliberate, and joined the prince at his side.

Together, they moved toward the court, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation.

No sooner than that, another horse arrived, its hooves pounding against the earth as it galloped into view, accompanied by five additional steeds trailing closely behind. The riders were cloaked in dark, flowing garments that billowed in the wind, giving them an almost ethereal appearance against the backdrop of the dusky sky.

Arthur dismounted from his horse with practiced ease, the saddle creaking slightly as he swung his leg over. Beside him, another horse emerged, its sleek frame gleaming under the fading sunlight, as if it were a creature of shadows. Arthur's expression remained fixed, an inscrutable mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts.

“I didn’t expect you to be interested in such gatherings,” he muttered, his voice low and tinged with skepticism.

Beside him, Vincent let out an exasperated huff, his breath visible in the cool air. “Its not surprising you have such low expectations of me. And as much as I hate to be here, I have no choice. I come in my father’s place. Besides I have a gut feeling.” He finished, his icy gray eyes hardening.

Arthur arched an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his stormy blue eyes. “What of?” His lips barely moved, as if he regretted asking the question. It was evident he really hated prying.

“Well, it’s not like the Yazaki is some ordinary person,” Vincent replied with a hint of witticism. “It is likely that this isn’t going to follow through, not as though her people would let their Queen burn so easily.” His words hung heavy in the air, each syllable dripping with foreboding.

Vincent fell silent, his gaze hardening as he matched Arthur's stride toward the Courtroom, where families of various descent assembled, their whispered conversations rising like the low rumble of distant thunder. The crowd gathered around, whispers and murmurs filling the air as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. The execution was drawing near, and soon, the flames would rise.

***

Meanwhile, Aricia had paced her way through the herd of sweaty men, their raucous laughter echoing in the air, a stark contrast to the weight of her heart. On one hand, she clutched a flickering torch, its flame dancing wildly in the stale air as she journeyed down into the eerie tomb. The light illuminated the damp, crumbling stone walls that surrounded her, their surfaces slick with centuries of grime and mold. Shadows stretched and twisted as she moved deeper, casting grotesque shapes that seemed to whisper secrets of the long-forgotten.

The air was heavy with the scent of decay and damp earth. As Aricia descended further, the narrow passage opened into a vast chamber, revealing the tomb in all its grim glory.

Filthy and forsaken, the room was littered with debris—broken pottery, rusted metal shards, and the remnants of offerings long since rotted away. In the center lay a stone sarcophagus, its surface marred with dirt and neglect, a once-grand monument now reduced to a grotesque shadow of its former self.

Dirty water pooled on the ground, reflecting the torchlight in murky patches, making the entire scene feel like a dream twisted by nightmares. Aricia’s heart immediately broke at the sight.

“I see,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with anger and sorrow. “After destroying everything, they won't even let her rest peacefully. Stupid scums!” The venom in her words hung in the air as she spat, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

As she approached the stone sarcophagus, a sense of dread washed over her. The very air felt charged, thick with a tension that prickled her skin. She reached out, her fingertips brushing against the cold stone, when a voice called from behind her, breaking the heavy silence.

“Well, would you look at that, another sorcerer to the rescue eh?" the voice mused, low and gravelly, echoing off the walls like a warning.

'Oh no, who's..'

Aricia’s heart raced as she turned, the flickering torchlight revealing a figure cloaked in shadow, the features obscured but as she approached, the light from the torch reflected the entertained face of Vincenzo Blackwell.