Vengeance Through Passion

It was the fourth watch of the night, those hushed hours before dawn when the world lay in a veil of shadow, with only the faintest whispers of light on the horizon.

Aricia had taken extra precautions this time, covering herself in mud from the garden behind the carriage station. It wasn’t glamorous, and she felt a twinge of embarrassment thinking about how she must look, but it was necessary. The mages could track by scent, especially in the Water Clan, where their elemental connection to water allowed them to sense disturbances in the air and the natural flow of the environment. The mud masked her scent, blending her into the natural surroundings. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was the best she could do on short notice.

The streets of Unagi were eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant sound of water trickling through the city’s canals. Aricia took hurried steps back home from the carriage station, her heart racing beneath the layers of mud she had hastily applied to disguise her scent. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the cold air stinging her lungs as she moved with purpose, determined to stay unseen.

The chill of the pre-dawn air clung to her skin, and the mud she had rubbed all over her body now dried in patches, cracking slightly with every movement. It was uncomfortable, but necessary. She had been saved once—by sheer luck—but she couldn’t afford to be spotted again. Not now, not after everything that had transpired. Arthur must not have seen her. She could only hope the glove thief had carried the same scent, masking her own.

Whoever he was.

Whatever he had been doing there.

Why was he there in the first place?

When he.. she knew the answer to that one, at least.

“Ugh,” she sighed under her breath, her frustration bubbling to the surface as she quickened her pace.

Who was this man? Was he part of the court? Could he have been one of the noblemen that attended the meeting earlier?

The Crown Prince had mentioned something about the assembly of court members.

“What a mess,” she muttered to herself, pulling the edges of her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she continued down the narrow, winding streets.

The thought made her twist with anxiety, but there was no time to dwell on it now. She had to get home before Martha—her ever-watchful, ever-suspicious maidservant—realized she had been gone all night. She was already on thin ice after the last incident, and if Martha found out she’d been sneaking around at such a dangerous hour, especially with mages on high alert... well, Aricia didn’t want to think about what would happen.

The streets remained empty, save for the flickering light of enchanted lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows across the cobblestone paths.

The mages were still out, scattered through the city.

Their presence was unnerving, but as long as she kept to the shadows and stayed out of sight, she wouldn’t be caught. She had done this before—avoided detection, slipped through unnoticed—and she could do it again.

Still, the memory of her earlier encounter left her feeling uneasy. She had fallen—literally—in front of the Crown Prince, a mage, and that man. Whoever he was. She winced at the memory, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Of all the places to stumble into, it had to be there, with them.

She had managed to slip away unnoticed, but the shame still lingered.

“I can’t wait for this miserable day to be over,” she muttered, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her feet ached from the long trek, and her mind buzzed. The tension in the city had been palpable, and now, with the theft of the Yazaki, it seemed as though everything was on the verge of unraveling. The air itself felt heavy, as if the sea surrounding Scylla was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to break.

As she neared the narrow alleyway that led to her home, Aricia’s pace quickened. The familiar sight of the small, unassuming door at the end of the passageway brought her a small measure of comfort. The mages were still faintly visible in the distance, but here, in the backstreets of the city, she felt a bit more hidden, a bit safer. She pressed herself against the damp stone wall, her breath steadying as she listened for any signs of pursuit.

Nothing. Just the soft murmur of water in the canals and the occasional distant footstep of a night patrol. She had made it. For now.

With a soft sigh of relief, she glanced over her shoulder one last time, scanning the empty street behind her.

No one.

Aricia pushed the door open and slipped inside, her body sagging with relief as the familiar warmth of the small house embraced her. She would need to wash off the mud and change before Martha noticed anything amiss, but for now, she allowed herself a brief moment of respite. The danger wasn’t over—far from it—but at least, for now, she was safe.

For now.

***

Ysadora, Water Clan.

Despite the rigorous measures implemented, the mages of Ysadora could not locate the thief nor recover the stolen Yazaki, a sorcerer of unimaginable power. Whispers spread like ripples through the ranks, but the truth remained elusive.

Lord Wainwright, accompanied by his son Arthur and his trusted right hand, Syrith, rode through the narrow, mist-cloaked paths leading into Ysadora, the capital of Unagi. It was said that the fortress itself held a piece of the ocean's spirit, imbued with the grace and rage of the sea. As they approached, the air around them grew dense with moisture, the scent of saltwater filling their nostrils.

The fortress loomed above them, carved from a rare shimmering blue and grey stone known only to the depths of the ocean. The very walls seemed to pulsate with life, faintly glistening as if they had been drawn from the seabed. Scylla’s grand entrance stood before them, a pair of colossal doors inlaid with mother-of-pearl and adorned with intricate carvings of swirling currents, sea creatures, and the faces of Ysadora’s ancient rulers. Each figure seemed to peer down with watchful eyes, as though they were guardians of both the living and the dead.

As the doors swung open with a low groan, the trio stepped into the heart of Scylla, and immediately, they were greeted by the sound of water. It was omnipresent, a constant symphony of nature's song. Delicate streams trickled from unseen sources, rushing down into canals that wove through the very fabric of the fortress like veins through flesh. The cool air was laden with mist, a soft sheen of condensation perpetually coating the walls and floor, creating an ethereal glow that reflected the faint, silvery light filtering through the enchanted crystal windows. These windows, expertly crafted by the clan's finest artisans, allowed light to pass in from the outside, refracted as if from deep beneath the waves.

The deeper they ventured, the more apparent it became that Scylla was no mere fortress but a living monument to the element of water. The architecture was a seamless blend of elegance and power. Pillars of coral rose majestically, twisting and branching like the bones of ancient sea leviathans, their surfaces adorned with bioluminescent algae that gave off a soft, pulsating glow in shades of blue and green. Alongside these pillars, walls were etched with intricate murals depicting legendary battles fought beneath the ocean’s depths, the figures of warriors riding massive sea beasts into war, locked in eternal combat against forces of darkness.

Scylla’s throne room was the crown jewel of this magnificent fortress. As Wainwright, Arthur, and Syrith approached, the great archway leading into the chamber opened before them. The floor was a masterpiece of craftsmanship—constructed from aquamarine stone so translucent that one could see the eternal river flowing beneath. The water shimmered with an otherworldly light, its currents calm yet powerful, symbolizing both the tranquility and untamable force of the sea. Every step felt as though they were walking on the surface of a vast ocean, with the river's slow, eternal dance visible beneath their feet.

Lord Wainwright stood before the throne, his figure cast in shadow by the glowing waterfalls. His expression was grim, the weight of the situation bearing heavily upon him.

"Dispatch all the mages around the city, and bring me the kidnapper. Alive or dead." His voice echoed through the chamber, resonating off the stone walls and the pillars that reached toward the vaulted ceiling, high above.

Syrith, standing at his side, gave a curt nod, his face unreadable. "Yes, my lord." Without further words, he turned and strode swiftly from the room, his footsteps barely audible over the sound of the flowing water.

Wainwright’s gaze lingered on the throne for a moment longer before he turned to Arthur. "Arrange for an assembly meeting with the court members by dawn."

Arthur bowed deeply, his hand over his chest in a gesture of respect. "At once, Father." With that, he too departed, leaving Wainwright alone as he sent forth the fastest horses in Athame.

Dawn at Scylla

The following morning, the court of Scylla assembled. The air was thick with tension as rulers and their emissaries from across Athame. gathered in the grand hall.

The ceiling of the courtroom was perhaps the most mesmerizing part of the structure. It was enchanted to mimic the surface of the ocean, creating the illusion that they sat beneath the waves. Sunlight, refracted through the water above, cast soft, wavering light across the room, dappling the faces of those gathered in hues of deep blue and pale gold. It was a reminder of the sea’s beauty, but also of its overwhelming power.

The room was dominated by a long mahogany table, polished to a high sheen and flanked by seats reserved for the clan’s rulers and their closest advisors. At the head of the table sat Lord Wainwright, his face set in an expression of grim determination. To his left sat Syrith, his ever-silent companion, and to his right, Arthur, who wore a mask of calm professionalism though there was an underlying tension in his eyes.

As the last of the rulers entered, Wainwright rose, his eyes scanning the room. "Greetings," he began, his deep voice commanding immediate silence.

"There was a need for this urgent gathering." His words were heavy, and for a moment, the room fell into a tense, expectant quiet.

Suddenly, a voice interrupted from the far end of the table. "You lost the Yazaki, it seems." It was a voice steeped in disdain, and all eyes turned to the speaker—a tall, thin man draped in silver robes, his eyes sharp as daggers. "If only you all had heeded my request to keep the witch in Xamayari," he continued, his tone dripping with accusation.

"No," another voice shot back, this one from a stout, broad-shouldered woman seated closer to Wainwright. "It should have been kept in my village. The mages there are the strongest. It’s just a pity the head of mages remains Wainwright."

The room erupted in argument, voices rising in accusation and counter-argument as the assembled rulers began to bicker amongst themselves. It was a cacophony of anger, frustration, and fear, each voice fighting to be heard over the others.

"Enough!" The voice that silenced the room belonged to Lord Blackwell, a man with a commanding presence.

He stood, his hands resting on the table before him as he glared at the assembled court. "You can sit here all day arguing about who should have kept the Yazaki, but a greater danger awaits. Each ruler should conduct a search in all villages. If that witch is not found

before that day arrives, I tell you now—none of us will be alive to tell tales of our lost civilization."