Vengeance Through Passion

Xylaris, Fire Clan.

After delivering the ceremonial knock on the thick oak-framed door, Arthur stepped into the room. The air immediately hit him—stifling, heavy, and smelling faintly of smoke. His eyes, accustomed to the brighter, open spaces of the Water Clan’s palaces, strained against the dim glow in the chamber. The curtains, velvet and crimson, were drawn tightly shut, barely letting in any light. Scattered across the floor were remnants of the previous night’s revelries: discarded wine goblets, crumpled parchment, and an overturned chair. Candles, some melted down to their bases, cast flickering, uneven shadows across the room, only adding to the disarray.

In the center of the chaos was a large, ornate bed, its posts carved with intricate flames, as though they would leap from the wood itself. The sheets were rumpled, half-draping the edge of the bed, and tangled in their midst was Vincent, sprawled lazily with one arm flung over his head. His shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, half-unbuttoned, revealing his pale chest, marred with faint scars, no doubt relics from his training days. His silver, dark as the charred wood of an old fire, spilled messily over his face. He blinked sluggishly at Arthur’s entrance, clearly not having expected or desired company at such an hour.

"My eyes..." Arthur muttered quietly, wincing as he glanced around the wreckage. His voice was tinged with disbelief at the sheer state of disarray.

"Vincenzo Blackwell," he spoke again, louder this time, his words betraying no emotion, though the disdain was clear in the brief flicker of his eyes over the scene.

“What?” Vincent’s voice was hoarse with sleep, barely able to muster the energy to address Arthur. “What is it this early in the morning, Arthur?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably but remained standing, his back stiff, his voice steady. "Have you forgotten what day it is?"

Vincent let out a long, exaggerated sigh, dragging a hand over his face. "I would be lying if I told you I was interested. You can leave now."

Without another word, Arthur turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing with a heavy thud behind him. The hallways he walked into were a stark contrast to the mess he'd just left. Unlike the Water Clan’s ethereal, flowing structures, the Fire Clan halls were as imposing as they were grand. Tall, arched ceilings rose high above, their beams blackened as though scorched by flames long ago, yet gleaming with polish. Along the walls, heavy tapestries of deep crimson, gold, and black depicted scenes of great battles, fire dragons spiraling through stormy skies, and volcanoes erupting in glorious bursts of red and orange. The walls themselves were lined with dark stone, each brick carefully chiseled, their cracks filled with a glowing ember-like substance that pulsed faintly with warmth.

Torches mounted in sconces cast a warm glow, and the air was filled with the faint, lingering scent of smoke and ash—a scent that had long since permeated the fabric of the clan’s seat of power. Arthur’s boots echoed off the stone floors as he made his way deeper into the fortress, the steady rhythm of his steps matching the purposeful pace he maintained. The double blades crossed behind his back like a x pattern gleamed faintly in the torchlight, though they never made a sound as he moved.

Finally, he reached the grand chamber where Lord Blackwell awaited. The room, though still draped in the Fire Clan’s signature colors, held an air of both power and decadence. The walls were lined with bookshelves crammed full of ancient tomes—some with scorched edges—while large windows on the far side overlooked the smoldering landscape of Xylaris. Flames flickered in the distance, constantly alive on the horizon like ever-burning beacons.

Lord Blackwell himself, tall and broad-shouldered, stood near a low table, still dressed in his night robe. His dark hair was tousled, and his face wore the look of someone who hadn’t yet shaken off the grogginess of sleep. A servant approached, placing a steaming cup of tea into his hand, which he accepted without a glance.

"Greetings, Sire," Arthur said with a curt bow, his voice steady as he acknowledged the Fire Lord’s presence.

Lord Blackwell’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile. "Arthur, wonderful meeting you so early," he drawled, his words dripping with irony. "And when is it you will be leaving? Do tell me that the old man would not be attending today."

The tension in the room grew palpable. The long-standing animosity between the Water and Fire Clans hung in the air like smoke from an old fire, threatening to reignite at any moment. The recent incident had only widened the chasm between the two clans, and though this meeting was ostensibly for diplomacy, the unspoken disdain was ever-present.

"I appreciate your concern," Arthur replied calmly, "but I’m afraid Lord Wainwright will not be able to make it today. I come in his stead and hope to be of great use."

Lord Blackwell chuckled darkly, taking a sip of his tea. "Oh, give me a break—"

"Father!" a voice called out sharply from behind, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sound made Lord Blackwell visibly wince, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment before he turned to face the source of the interruption.

Nyphera stood in the doorway, her posture commanding, yet graceful. She was a striking figure—tall, with jet-black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall of ink, framing her sharp features. Her eyes, a vivid shade of amber, gleamed with intelligence and fire. She wore a long, flowing dress of deep burgundy, with golden embroidery tracing flames along the hem and bodice. Her presence was intense, as though she could control the very fire that defined her clan. Despite the darkness of her attire and the solemnity of the day, a wide, disarming smile tugged at her lips.

"Don’t speak to our guest in such a manner. I’m sure Arthur means well, don’t you?" she said, turning her gaze to Arthur, who nodded slightly, though he remained silent.

"Now if you'd excuse us,"

Nyphera guided Arthur out of the chamber and into the adjoining hall, where the preparations for the day's event were already in full swing. The room was expansive, its high ceilings adorned with elaborate chandeliers, their iron arms shaped like dragons holding flaming torches. Around the room, women of the Fire Clan moved gracefully, setting up decorations of scarlet banners embroidered with golden flames. Some of the ladies, their hair done up in elaborate braids, sat in clusters, smoking long, slender pipes that trailed tendrils of smoke into the air.

With a resigned sigh, Lord Blackwell retreated back into his room, clearly disinterested in whatever awaited them in the hall.

"Alright, ladies," Nyphera announced with a gleaming smile. "As you all know, this is Arthur. He’ll be joining for the preparations. So let’s welcome him properly."

Arthur tensed slightly, feeling out of place among the ladies and their smoky chatter. But before he could make a polite excuse or suffer through the formality, a playful voice rang out.

"I’ll be stealing Arthur for a while. He’ll be helping with my outfit," Caelric chimed in as he entered the room. His appearance was as disheveled as ever, his dark hair tousled, his grin crooked and mischievous. "Okay, bye ladies, and see you… not so soon."

He clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, steering him out of the hall. "What about Vincent? Did you convince him?" Caelric asked as they walked.

Arthur shook his head, his voice weary. "No. I tried. It's no use."

Caelric chuckled softly, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy grin. "You should try my way. Nothing. I do nothing, and nothing is better sometimes"

Arthur gave him a sidelong glance, unimpressed by the suggestion. "I should head home now," he replied shortly, his voice firm but tired.

Caelric laughed softly. "I was serious about the fitting. Nothing looks good on me these days. I’ll need hours of cloth testing."

Arthur sighed, resigned, as they entered the dressing chamber.

"I'm not surprised. That man is hard as a rock," Caelric muttered, his tone a mixture of exasperation and amusement. He flicked his hair back with a dramatic flair, his movements exaggerated as if they were part of a grand performance. The soft glow of the nearby torches caught the strands of his dark hair, making them shimmer briefly. "Lucky I have you, Arthur. Lest I would have run mad in this place."

Arthur gave a half-smile, though he couldn’t suppress the weariness that tugged at his features. Caelric had always been dramatic, in contrast to Vincent’s brooding silence, but at least his energy was a welcome reprieve from the cold indifference that seemed to permeate much of the Fire Clan’s court. Despite the situation, Caelric’s antics had a way of cutting through the tension.

The dressing chamber they entered was a large room, yet it felt intimate due to the sheer number of garments and accessories that filled it. Long, gilded mirrors stretched along the walls, reflecting back racks of luxurious robes, tunics, and trousers, all in varying shades of crimson, black, and gold. The air was rich with the scent of perfumes and finely treated leather. Fabric swatches hung from hooks, ready to be tested against the skin for the perfect match. It was a room designed for someone who took appearances as seriously as the Fire Clan’s nobility did.

Caelric strode toward one of the many racks, running his fingers over the elaborate fabrics. "I don’t know why they make such a fuss about all this," he said, plucking a deep burgundy tunic from the collection and holding it up against his chest. "As if the right robe will change anything."

Arthur crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "It’s not about the robe. It’s about the image. You know that."

"Yes, yes," Caelric waved him off, tossing the tunic aside and pulling another from the rack, this time a more subdued black one with golden embroidery. "But surely you must agree that it’s exhausting. All these formalities." He sighed theatrically again, turning to face Arthur with a grin. "I’d much rather be out there with you, handling a blade, not ribbons and silks."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "You know you’re hopeless with a sword."

Caelric laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "That’s why I keep you around, Arthur. To make me look good." He struck a mock heroic pose, as if he were some noble warrior from one of the clan’s legends.

Despite himself, Arthur smiled faintly. "If only Lord Blackwell had your sense of humor."

"Ha! If Father had any sense of humor at all, we’d all be better off." Caelric’s playful expression softened slightly, a hint of seriousness slipping through. He tossed the black tunic aside and sat down on the edge of one of the low couches that lined the room. "It’s tiring. Playing the part. It’s all a performance here, you know that. And sometimes I think Vincent's got the right idea, locking himself away from all of it."

Arthur leaned forward slightly. "And yet here you are, playing your role."

Caelric shrugged, his smile returning but with less of its usual bite. "Someone’s got to. Otherwise, what are we all even here for?" He paused, looking down at his hands for a moment before glancing back up. "But don’t worry. I’ll survive it. I always do."

***

After the exhausting conversation with Oswald, Aricia found herself lost in thought, the words he'd spoken circling in her mind. He had been right, and though she didn't want to admit it, the truth was becoming more apparent with each passing day. She had grown older, and with that, her feelings of being a burden to Martha had only increased. Martha had taken care of her for so long, and Aricia knew it wasn’t easy. Even though the pay was good, she still hadn’t asked about the specifics of the job Oswald had mentioned.

“I… see. The job at the Fire Clan?” Aricia asked hesitantly, her voice uncertain.

Oswald smiled, his eyes softening as he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no worries. I wouldn’t suggest something strenuous. It’s nothing like what you’re thinking. There's a ceremony coming up, and they’re in need of event designers.”

Aricia blinked, surprised by the simplicity of it. “Event designers?” she repeated, the thought foreign to her, though it sounded less daunting than she’d imagined.

“Yes,” Oswald continued with a reassuring nod. “It’s mostly about setting up decorations, arranging the venue. If I recommend you, it would be fine. You have a good eye for detail, and they need people who can work quickly but also creatively."

Her mind raced, trying to imagine herself in such a role. While she had never considered herself particularly skilled in decoration or design, she could see the appeal of taking on something new—something that didn’t involve her usual struggles. Perhaps, this was the opportunity she needed, a way to feel useful again.

“Oh, and what ceremony might that be?” she asked, curious now about the specifics.

Oswald’s eyes flickered with a hint of amusement as he answered. “An engagement ceremony.”