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Lady Aghata

"Milady, Vilborg has arrived," the maid said, peeking nervously through the cracked door, as if afraid of the woman sitting in silence. The lady replied without looking up.

"Let him in, Sua." She set her quill down and slid the half-finished letter into a narrow drawer. She did not rise, only turned toward the opening door. Her youthful, elegant face stood in sharp contrast to her strict, poised demeanour. Every movement spoke of discipline and command – and her eyes made it clear she expected obedience. Her long black hair was coiled in an intricate crown upon her head, and her deep blue brocade dress matched her queenly presence, though she was merely the wife of a count – and only for the past year.

A short, balding man scurried through the doorway.

"Oh, Lady Aghata! What a delight to see you again. Each day your beauty grows more radiant," he said, bowing low. His eager eyes flicked toward her hands, clearly hoping she would extend one for him to kiss – or at least touch.

But Lady Aghata knew that look all too well. She did not offer the courtesy. Vilborg had a habit of letting his hands linger too long on her.

"Save your flattery for those in need of it, Vilborg," she replied coolly. "Is it ready at last?"

"But of course, milady!" he beamed, gesturing to the tall chest a servant was wheeling into the room. "Only the final touches remain – to make it perfect."

Aghata's mouth twitched faintly. She wondered how much longer she would tolerate the old lecher's idea of final touches. She knew the gown was already flawless. But Vilborg would not part with it until he'd run his hands across every seam. Still... he means no harm, she sighed inwardly. And his work truly is exquisite.

Lady Aghata had no need of fine dresses to steal men's hearts. But appearances mattered – there was always another woman behind every man, one who might see through her intentions. She wore Vilborg's masterpieces solely for them – as misdirection. Let them believe the men flocked to her for beauty alone. Better they envy her than accuse her of witchcraft.

She had no desire whatsoever to attend that evening's festivities. She preferred quiet, solitude. But her dearly beloved husband – the Count of Jeva – took great pleasure in flaunting all that he owned. And he believed not everyone had yet laid eyes on his newest possession: his beautiful young wife. Never mind the countless balls since their wedding. Aghata was mildly concerned about the expense – after all, it was her money now too – but she knew the Count to be a shrewd man. His finest business deals were often sealed between toasts and music. So she had little choice but to dress accordingly, endure the tailor's hands, and later the stares of men imagining how easily they might tear the gown from her shoulders.

Many envied the Count. He was well past sixty and yet had claimed the fairest woman in all Larm. Of course, the more spiteful tongues claimed she married him for his wealth – and rightly so. But Aghata had managed to convince most of their circle otherwise. Perhaps only Braush – the Count's nephew – remained unconvinced, but Aghata didn't care. The old man trusted her completely, no matter what the little wretch whispered in his ear.

The gown for that night's ball was indeed magnificent. Vilborg had outdone himself: shades of blue and gold wove together like a summer sunset reflected in a mirror. Most guests had already gathered in the grand salon by the time the Countess arrived. She was always deliberately late, ensuring her entrance would be noticed. It seemed the music swelled – but truly, it was just the murmurs that faded as all eyes turned toward Lady Aghata. They resumed their chatter moments later, now with fresh inspiration.

The Countess paused just inside the doors, resting a hand on her husband's shoulder before seating herself beside him. She swept her gaze across the room without truly looking at anyone.

"I hope the evening finds you well, my dear," the Count leaned closer as the hum of conversation returned to the room.

"Quite well, thank you," Aghata replied with a smile. "Though I hardly need such festivities to be content."

"Nonsense! The solitude of the manor doesn't suit you – it's good to indulge in a bit of merriment now and then." Count Grebus was clearly enjoying himself. Aghata offered him her usual smile and turned her gaze back to the guests. Her eyes caught on a pair of green ones watching her from across the room. But they looked away the moment she met them.

She was accustomed to stares, but there was something about the clarity in that look – and the indifference with which it turned aside – that stung her pride.

The eyes belonged to a young man leaning casually near one of the far doors, a glass in hand, speaking animatedly to an older, white-haired man who shifted restlessly on his feet. The younger stood tall and loose-limbed, inclined slightly forward in deference. He wore a fine white shirt, pale green trousers, and a matching waistcoat – well-tailored and expensive, even from a distance. His long black hair was tied at the nape, reaching nearly to his waist.

Lady Aghata's irritation grew. First because the man had not looked at her again. Then at herself, for being unable to look away from him.

The Count's voice broke her thoughts.

"Forgive me, my dear. I must speak with an old friend." He rose and slipped into the crowd.

The stranger unsettled Aghata, but she forced herself to rejoin the light chatter of those nearby. It took effort not to glance about, searching for him again.

"Milady," came Sua's voice at her side after a short while, "The Count awaits you in the southern parlour."

"Do excuse me," Aghata said to a greying lady of supposed distant kin, "I mustn't keep my husband waiting."

"But of course, darling! At his age, every minute counts." The woman was still giggling at her own wit when the salon doors closed behind the Countess.

Aghata's smile vanished. She walked with brisk, purposeful steps toward the southern parlour. She was grateful to Grebus for offering her an escape from the revelry. She had no intention of returning – fatigue would serve as a polite excuse.

She paused at the parlour door for a moment. The Count was seated at a small table with two strangers, deep in quiet conversation with the older of the two. The younger man looked up at the sound of the opening door, then turned back to the discussion with the same indifference he had shown in the ballroom.

"Ah, my dear!" the Count looked up with a smile. "Come, join us – I'd like to make introductions."

All three men stood. The Count stepped forward to meet her, offering his arm and escorting her to the table.

"This is Althras ou Lewrindiatore, an old – indeed, childhood – friend of mine, and his most gifted novice, Nephrit."

"A pleasure indeed," the older man bowed deeply. "Lady Aghata, I now understand why Grebus has spoken so highly of you." He brought her hand to his lips in a formal kiss.

"The pleasure is mine, to meet such esteemed friends of my dear husband," she replied with her most radiant smile, extending her hand next to the younger man. He bent over it in a dutiful, mechanical gesture.

He didn't even look at me! Aghata seethed inwardly.

"If I may ask," she began casually once they were seated, "what subject do you teach your novice?"

"All a steward must know," the Count answered in Althras's place. "That's why I invited them tonight. My nephew Braush is in need of a change of air – his healer has been rather insistent. In his absence, I require someone to handle my affairs. Althras kindly offered his protégé. I only hope he's as capable as claimed."

"You have my word," the old man nodded.

Nephrit offered a modest smile at the praise, but Aghata's thoughts were already spiralling.

Capable. Oh, I'm sure he is. He touched me – and didn't even flinch. As if I weren't even in the room.

His calm indifference infuriated her so thoroughly that it took her a moment to realise what her husband had just said.

He's to take Braush's place... meaning we'll be seeing each other often. He might even move in. Neitetta, let it be so. I will break him. I will break him, and he shall crawl at my feet, begging for a glance.

She was so lost in her vengeful thoughts that she didn't notice Nephrit watching her – until Althras, mid-gesture, knocked over a goblet of wine. Aghata instinctively reached forward to help – but at the last moment, her hand veered aside and rang the bell instead.

"Sua!" she called. The door opened almost at once; the maid must have been waiting just outside. "Clean that up!" the Lady snapped, rising to her feet and pointing at the spill.

"My apologies," said Nephrit before his master could respond, stepping back to make room for the maid. There was something in his voice – something she couldn't quite place.

"It's quite all right," she replied, her expression once more composed into a pleasant smile. At last, her eyes met his.

And what she saw there startled her: not arrogance or challenge, but the gaze of a child – clear and innocent, quietly pleading forgiveness for a mischief already done, with the unmistakable glint of someone who would do it again without a second thought.

Aghata tore her gaze away, steadying herself. She turned to the maid with sudden sharpness.

"Hurry up, will you!"

"Shall we retire to the library?" the count asked his guests. "There are details to discuss. Will you join us, my dear, or shall I escort you back to the ballroom?"

"I found this evening a touch tiring," she replied, her voice smooth as silk. "If you don't mind, my lord, I believe I'll rest."

"Of course, of course – get some sleep. Sua, once you're finished here, prepare a guest chamber for my friends," he called back to the maid.

Aghata's thoughts were still tangled around Nephrit as she returned to her chambers. A steward? Please. That innocent look of his had to be a façade. But it was a convincing one – even she had been caught off guard, if only for a moment. And he seemed entirely unaffected by her presence. That, more than anything, unsettled her.

He must possess some sort of resistance to influence. Perhaps even some talent of his own. That alone would make him a skilled negotiator – he'd get anything he wanted. Well... almost anything. That kind of power is reserved for women like me. And he was certainly not one of us.

Still, there was something in his voice – something strange... foreign. No, he wasn't like me. I was sure of it. I would have time to study him. And if my usual charms didn't work... then I would conquer him as a woman.

She fell asleep smiling – and spent the next morning fending off lingering dreamscapes.

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"Well then, what's your impression?" Althras asked once they were alone.

"She seems sincere."

"Utter nonsense!" the old man snapped. "I wouldn't believe a word if a woman that beautiful told me she loved me. Grebus has lost what little sense he had left!"

"You don't believe any woman," Nephrit said with a laugh. "But I didn't say she was sincere. I said she seemed it. There was no falseness in her voice – at least not when she spoke of the Count."

"Brauch has good reason to be suspicious. I believe the Count is under some sort of influence. Otherwise, he'd see what's plain to everyone else."

"You know him better than I. Have you noticed a change?"

"I hadn't seen him in years until tonight. He was always a reclusive, grumbling old bastard. And now? Banquet after banquet! Hosting balls, speaking as if he walks a hand's span above the ground. It's obvious he's under magical influence. No man changes that drastically on his own."

"Maybe he's just in love," Nephrit offered with a grin.

Althras growled and was silent for a while before answering.

"You're here to find out. And if necessary – bring him back to his senses."

"Yes," Nephrit nodded. "If necessary. Because you'd lay into her at once."

"And you'd lay with her at once," Althras retorted, jabbing a finger at him.

Nephrit burst out laughing again.

"I haven't even considered it! If Brauch is right – then for that. And if he's wrong – well, even more reason. Either way, you've nothing to worry about."

"I worry all the same," the old man said, though his tone had softened. "If she turns your head as well, you won't see the truth."

"Many have tried," Nephrit replied, twisting his head side to side. "Still firmly attached, see?"

"Just be careful," Althras said, more serious now. He trusted Nephrit – but caution had never been his protégé's strongest trait. Even as he spoke, his mind was already turning over how he'd explain to an old friend that the woman he married was playing a game.

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The moon was nearly full again since the last ball, and Lady Aghata had grown increasingly irritable – though little of it showed on the surface. Whatever she tried, the young man who had taken up residence in their manor paid her no mind. Instead, he appeared far more interested in her maid, Sua. That, more than anything, stoked the Countess's fury.

Nephrit was not just a steward. He was the Count's seneschal – trusted with far more than coin and contracts. Count of Jeva trusted his young wife to him too.

Aghata had taken to frequent carriage rides into Baldó, the small town nestled at the foot of the castle hill. On each occasion, the Count insisted that Nephrit accompany her. And yet, despite the intimacy of their shared carriage, she found herself unable to break the ice. The man wasn't merely indifferent – he seemed as though he'd rather be anywhere else. Nephrit was only fulfilling the Count's wishes, after all: to watch over the Countess. And he did – watched and listened to everything and everyone. Everyone but Lady Aghata.

They were on the road to Baldó once, having already covered half the journey, when the carriage jolted violently and came to an abrupt halt. Nephrit threw out an arm, catching the Countess before she could slip from the narrow seat. The horses neighed and pawed the ground nervously, and then came the shout:

"Out of the carriage. Now!"

Nephrit shifted towards the door.

"Stay where you are," he said to Aghata, shielding her with his body as he pulled back the curtain and stepped out. Aghata's hand brushed his arm for the briefest moment – he glanced back to find real fear in her eyes.

"Nothing will happen to you."

Six armed men blocked the road, forming a half-circle around the halted coach. One held a hand-cranked crossbow, levelled directly at Nephrit. All six had scarves drawn up over their faces, their hoods pulled low so only the glint of their eyes could be seen. Nephrit took two steps forward, gauging their positions. They moved like seasoned fighters. The crossbowman tracked him without a tremor. Nephrit let his arms drift a little away from his sides, an open gesture to show he carried no weapon.

"What do you want from me?" Nephrit asked calmly. "To my knowledge, this road bears no toll."

"Then your knowledge fails you," came the same voice as before. "But we've no quarrel with you. Madam, if you would be so kind as to step out – before your companion loses his head."

Nephrit heard the carriage door open behind him. He felt the presence of the Countess at his back. For a fleeting second, the thought crossed his mind – could this be a trap meant for him? Was she here to finish the job? But no blade pressed between his ribs, and Aghata stopped a pace behind him.

"What is it you want with Lady Aghata?" he asked.

"Be quiet, whelp! My lady, do you still have need of this tiresome young man, or shall we toss him into the river?"

"I... I believe I do," she replied, barely more than a whisper.

"A pity," the highwayman sighed. "But we always put our clients first."

One of the others let out a low chuckle, and for a moment, cast a glance to the side. A narrow band of woodland ran close to the road here. Nephrit followed the man's gaze into the trees. More of them. He couldn't see them, but he felt their presence. Even against these six he'd have slim chances unarmed – any hope of striking first was gone. His eyes flicked toward the coachman's perch. The coachman still sat there, white-knuckled on the reins, but alive. That was something. These men weren't here to kill – at least not yet.

The leader turned now to the coachman.

"Turn back to the manor. Tell the Count to consider what his lady is worth to him. Be here at dawn with his answer – alone. If we find his offer lacking, we'll return only part of your young lordling. How much of him depends entirely on the generosity of the purse. Should the Count refuse... you may collect their corpses instead."

Lady Aghata stepped closer and clutched at Nephrit's arm.

"Please don't faint," he murmured, "or I'll have to carry you."

His impertinent tone startled her so much she momentarily forgot to be afraid. The sound of the carriage wheels rolling away drowned her reply.

"I do hope my dear lord values me little – so they might quarter you piece by piece!"

"That would require exactly four pieces," he replied with a boyish grin – the very smile Aghata had waited weeks to see. But in that moment, she didn't even realise it.

The brigands closed in, binding their hands tightly before marching them toward the forest. Nephrit could sense others hidden among the trees, who soon joined their captors. They wore the same garb, faces obscured, making it hard to count or distinguish them. But there were at least ten.

"What should we do?" Aghata whispered once the bandits moved out of earshot. They had been tied to a tree at the edge of the camp, with only two guards left nearby. The rest had dispersed into the woods – likely to watch for any rescue attempt from the Count, or so Nephrit suspected.

"We wait until morning," he said simply. "Then they'll let us go. If they meant to kill us, they'd have done it already. And they wouldn't bother hiding their faces."

"Are you always this calm?"

"I deal in logic, not panic. Worry is nothing but a distraction. Right now, it's the Count's turn to deal."

He knew that if Aghata truly was what he suspected, slipping her bonds would pose no difficulty. Nor would it for me, he added silently, a flicker of amusement tugging at his mouth. But neither could act without revealing themselves to the other.

For now, they had to behave like ordinary folk caught by brigands, so they did nothing but wait – and fear.

Lady Aghata knew full well the Count would pay any price to see her safely returned. But that fortune was hers now, too. Freedom meant little if she had to return to a penniless husband. More than a year of careful effort would be wasted. She was determined to prevent any ransom from being offered. Still, a darker thought crept in – what if the price was too low? The threat had sounded real enough. Nephrit would be killed for her sake. No matter how confident he seemed, the truth was plain: to these brigands, only the Countess had any worth.

She glanced at him – he sat with his head resting against the tree trunk, eyes closed. His right arm was bound to her left, their other hands drawn behind the trunk and tied tight. Her arms had begun to tingle with numbness. They needed to act, while they still could. But he was far too calm.

What's going on in that head of yours...? Aghata closed her eyes and focused – not on her discomfort, but on him.

She couldn't read true thoughts, but she could sense emotions, impressions, and strong intentions. What she felt now was overwhelming calm. The kind of deep, abiding peace that settled her own nerves, whether she liked it or not. She felt his hand shift. Quickly, she withdrew from his mind and opened her eyes.

Nephrit hadn't moved, not really. Still looked asleep. But his bound hand had curled gently around hers.

"No harm will come to you, Milady," he murmured, a faint smile on his lips.

He was pleased. He hadn't needed to do a thing to expose her – she'd revealed herself. He'd felt her presence, light and curious, brushing against the edge of his mind. It had been child's play to guide it. She hadn't even considered defending herself.

A pang of disappointment followed. He had hoped to report back to Althras that she was harmless – that he'd misjudged her. But it was a hard thing to believe of a witch.

He thought back to the past few weeks – the attempts at flirtation, the practiced glances, the graceful brushes of her hand. She'd tried to ensnare him with charm, and he'd seen through it all. Cold, untouched.

Still, there had been something reassuring in her simplicity. A witch would not need such mundane tricks. If she desired, she would simply take. Until now, he had dared to believe she might truly be what she appeared to be – a young wife, fond of her older husband, thrown into curiosity only by Nephrit's peculiar disinterest.

I should send word to the Count, the thought struck him. Tell him not to pay. She's not worth it.

They would need to escape by morning. If they vanished in the night, the Count would lose only his wife – not his wealth.

But of course, he couldn't leave her here.

Althras's voice echoed in his memory:

"Most wizards, like myself, use magic for noble purposes. Not for our own comfort, but to serve the greater good. That we're paid for it – that's a happy consequence. We use our talent and studies we have to help those who lack power to shape their own fate. That is where I find satisfaction – when others thrive through my efforts. That is the only goal I carry into each task. But beware of witches!" The old man's tone had changed sharply, pride souring into venom. "They care for nothing but themselves. Charming, clever, beautiful – they'll smile at you while slipping the knife. And when they need to run, you'll be the one leaping into the tiger's den so they can escape."

Nephrit suspected the old man spoke from personal experience, and he usually took Althras's advice to heart – but not this time. He tightened his grip slightly on Aghata's hand. Witch or not, I'm getting you out of here, he vowed silently.

He'd spent half his life in forests – perhaps more. Alone, he could have vanished without a trace, melted into the trees long before the brigands noticed. But escaping with the Countess would be another matter. Her travel gown, a rich shade of violet, would stand out in the dim green hush of the woods, and the cut of it certainly didn't allow for much freedom of movement.

His gaze drifted to her feet. Short boots, with modest heels. That was something – she could at least run in those. But the dress would have to go.

"What is it? What are you staring at? Is something crawling on me?" Aghata asked nervously, catching his focused look.

"No. I was just wondering what you're wearing underneath," he replied, a mischievous smile flickering as he met her eyes.

"Really? You think now is the time for fantasies?" she shot back, more surprised than annoyed. "I mean it. You can't run in that gown. It's far too tight and heavy."

"That it is. And it takes an age to get out of," she muttered, narrowing her eyes.

She sensed something had shifted between them – no, within him. She couldn't say what, but her instincts whispered caution.

"That can be helped," Nephrit said softly. "Around dusk, they'll gather. Most will go to the fire. Only a few of them will remain. We need to move before that – while they still think two men are enough to watch us."

"And how do you suggest we do that? We're tied to a tree," she pointed out flatly.

"Then untie us. I'll get you out of this forest. That's all I ask in return."

"Untie us?" Aghata blinked in surprise.

She could, of course. Every witch learnt that spell early on, though few outside their circles knew it. But Nephrit had said it with such certainty – she realised, He knows. That was the change she had sensed in him. His tone was no longer deferential. It had turned sharp. And he used the familiar you. He had never done that before.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked cautiously.

"I do. But I'll need my hands."

"When?"

Nephrit extended his senses. Only the two sentries remained nearby, lounging beside the firepit.

"As soon as possible," he replied.

"And if it fails—"

"It won't. Trust me." The smile returned – quick, boyish, too bright to resist.

Aghata sighed. Slowly, the ropes around his wrists began to loosen. He flexed his fingers, waited until the tingling in his arms faded.

"Don't move unless I tell you," he whispered, then called out, loud enough for the brigands to hear.

"Hey there! Apologies, noble brigands!" Both men turned toward him. "The lady's quite parched. Might we have a sip of water?"

The noble brigands exchanged glances. One rose, fetched a waterskin and strolled over to Aghata. With a smirk, he popped the cork – then flung the contents straight into Nephrit's face. His companion laughed.

"There you go, your lordship!" he crowed and turned away, still chuckling.

Nephrit struck the moment he left his line of sight. He sprang up, ripped the sword from the man's scabbard with his left hand, spun, reversed his grip, and drove the blade straight through the man's back. The bandit never had time to realise his mistake.

Nephrit shoved the body off his weapon, leapt over the collapsing corpse, and reached the second man in three strides. This one reacted faster – but not fast enough. He blocked the first strike, purely by instinct. The second, however, carved through his throat before he could even register it.

Nephrit gave the blade a sharp flick, casting off the blood. He turned to Aghata and bowed with exaggerated flourish.

"Shall we, my lady?" he said, offering his hand.

The Countess had only just begun to recover from the shock. She took the hand, then let it go at once, as though it burnt her skin. Nephrit stepped behind her. Aghata's heart stuttered as she felt the cold steel at her back – but the sword only sliced through the heavy brocade.

In one swift motion, the outer gown fell away, pooling around her feet. She stood frozen among the tattered fabric, wearing nothing but a thin, low-cut shift that reached just to her knees.

"Too white," Nephrit remarked, glancing down at his own shirt. He tugged it off, tied it in a coil around his waist, and tucked the sword into it.

"Let's go." He took the lady's hand and stepped forward – but felt resistance. He turned. Aghata stood still, her head bowed, eyes fixed on the corpse at her feet.

He reached out, lifted her chin gently.

"We have to go, Aghata." That's when he noticed the tears glistening on her cheeks. She stared into his eyes – so innocent, so childlike in their clarity.

This man had just killed two people. And yet he stood as calm and untroubled as if they were taking a stroll through the castle gardens.

Is there not a flicker of pity in him?

"There's no time for this," he said quietly. But his eyes had changed. The shimmering green had darkened to a deep, obsidian black.

Aghata couldn't look away. Her thoughts drained from her mind, replaced by one, overwhelming command: Run.

Her legs obeyed. She ran after him, stumbling through brambles and leaping over fallen logs as he led her by the hand.

From time to time, Nephrit would stop and simple lift her off the ground – and still her feet would run in the air. He paused often to listen, to peer through the trees, and sometimes changed direction without a word.

After nearly half an hour, they reached the Jeva River. Nephrit caught hold of her again. Enough, and she obeyed the order.

He set her down gently. Lady Aghata nearly collapsed.

While the foreign will had driven her, her limbs had obeyed without protest. Now, pain and exhaustion crashed over her like a wave.

Worse still – she had no memory of how they'd even arrived.

"Forgive me," Nephrit said softly. "But we had to leave quickly."

"What...? How...?" she panted.

"We'll talk later. We're not safe yet – we need to keep moving. I'd rather reach the castle before nightfall."

"They're dead." She spoke the memory aloud.

"Not all of them," Nephrit reminded her. "I don't know how long it will take them to notice we're gone. That's why we must hurry."

"You killed them." She shivered at her own words.

Nephrit glanced at her, surprised. "Would you rather they had killed us?"

With a little urging, Lady Aghata began to move again. They followed the riverbank, slowly but surely making their way back toward the castle.

"If I'd known you planned to kill them, I wouldn't have untied you."

"What did you think I was going to do?" he asked, a flicker of irritation in his voice. "Kindly ask them to let us go?"

"They died because of me," she said quietly.

"No. Don't even think that. They made their choice. When they decided to kidnap you, they wagered their lives were worth the risk. I made a choice, too. I risked mine to get us out. I was better. They lost. That's all. Don't carry guilt that doesn't belong to you. And don't try to put it on me. Especially not you."

"Especially me?" she asked, stopping again, her tear-streaked face turned toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're no better than they were. You want the Count's wealth just as much as they did. That's why you pity them. You just play a different game to win it."

He hadn't meant it to come out so harsh – but how dared she question his conscience?

Aghata froze.

"Are you going to kill me too?"

"Why would I?" he asked, genuinely taken aback.

"You're not a threat to anyone. I think you deserve another chance – to tell the Count the truth, to release him from your enchantment. Or I will reveal it – and then let others decide your fate."

"Who do you think you are to judge who lives and who dies?" Aghata snapped.

Nephrit hesitated. He was certain he walked the right path – just as Althras did. Putting aside his own needs, helping those who couldn't help themselves.

But witches... witches were different. They were dangerous.

He looked her over. Her hair had come loose during the long run, spilling down her shoulders. Her once-white dress now hung in tatters, stained and torn, barely covering her at all. Scratches marked her arms and legs, one boot was missing entirely. She trembled head to toe, her tear-streaked face turned up at him, dark eyes full of fear... and something else. Disappointment.

Nephrit cast aside Althras's warnings. This woman was not evil. She would've risked her life for those bandits.

He untied the shirt from his waist, plunged the sword into the earth, stepped closer and draped the shirt over her shoulders.

"Let's rest a moment," he said gently. He sat down and pulled her with him, wrapping an arm around her. "I'm not a killer. You don't have to fear me."

Still, Althras's voice roared in his mind: They live only for themselves! They'll use you, then discard you! You'd leap into the tiger's jaws just so they could run free!

Well... he wouldn't call those bandits tigers. But the warning lingered. Use you...

He had done more for others before – much more – and expected nothing in return but a smile. He wanted to see such a smile on Aghata's face too. Use me, please.

He remembered the Count. Perhaps he wanted the same – just to see the woman he loved happy. Whatever others might say, that wouldn't change. He would let her use him.

He thought back on the past few weeks. The Count had been happy. Why should he be the one to take that away?

"Don't be afraid of me, my lady," he whispered. "If anything... I'm the one who should fear you.."

Aghata looked up at him.

"You knew," she said. "You knew from the start. That's why you were so cold." He smiled.

"I suspected. But if I hadn't..." His gaze softened. "you'd have stolen my heart the first day."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, blushing fiercely. So that was the reason. She had begun to doubt her charm.

"And Sua?" she asked finally.

Nephrit grinned, shrugged.

"Sweet girl. And I enjoyed how much she annoyed you."

"Oh, go burst."

"Jealous, are we?"

"You deserve her."

He was glad to see her focus shift. At last, she was no longer lost in the trauma.

"Would you have preferred if I spent my nights in your chambers instead?"

Aghata pulled away.

"What a thing to say! I'm a respectable married woman!"

"Ah. Of course. Forgive me – I forgot. Then I suppose it's time we returned to your husband."

She stood slowly, hesitantly.

"Maybe... maybe I should go another way."

"Don't be foolish," he said, catching her hand. "The Count won't hear anything from me." He started toward the castle. "And how did you think I'd let you walk away with my shirt?"

Twilight cloaked the land by the time they reached the base of the castle hill. The last rays of the sun still lit the towers above.

Someone must have been watching the road, because by the time they reached the gates, Sua came running. She wrapped a brocade cloak around her mistress and gave Nephrit – half-naked as he was – a daggered look.

The Count came next, breathless with joy, practically tumbling down the steps in his eagerness. For a moment, they feared he might trip or suffer some apoplectic fit.

He rushed to his wife, who nearly leapt into his arms. They embraced, radiant and relieved.

Nephrit watched them for a few moments. Yes. This is why it was worth it.

He glanced around, then turned toward Sua. Without a word, he caught her wrist and pulled her with him down the back corridor.

☽⟡⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⟡☾

The Count, naturally, rewarded me handsomely – I had, after all, rescued his wife.

"That's a happy consequence," as Althras likes to say.

When Braush returned, he received our report: that Lady Aghata harboured no ill intent towards her husband. 

He wasn't entirely pleased with the outcome, but he handed Althras the agreed sum all the same.

I didn't see Lady Aghata again for six years – not until the Count's funeral. 

That may well have been the last grand event ever held at the manor.

But I kept an eye on her. I watched as her power and influence steadily grew, spreading across the neighbouring estates. Whenever my path led me that way, I would stop by – sometimes with an unexpected gift, sometimes with a strange request...

The story continues in the Moonlight cycle.

Thank you for reading – and come join us for the adventure ahead.