And there he sat at the end of the room. Raised above the assembled nobility of the Hegemony on a stone estrade. Framed by twin black sarcophagi that held nothing but the hollow weight of his parents’ memories, the Grand Game’s finest performer prepared to play his part once more.
A grim mourning dress had replaced his suit, its heavy velvet wrapping around him like armour for a battlefield of the Hegemony’s design. Golden rouge dusted his cheekbones, and black colour traced his lips–sharp, glittering flourishes in place of the sabre left behind in the quiet solitude of his study.
Garments had changed, but the same twin-suns of De Vend’s golden autumn-leaf coloured eyes had looked at the world. And their gaze had always been hers alone.
De Vend–the man–had no place in this hall. He was sharp edges, pragmatism, and silence, and none of those things could win him enough space to manoeuvre tonight.
But Katharina could.
Katharina De Vend, princess of house De Vend, would.
And for De Vend, this had been the worst implication.
He had wanted her to rest. To sleep and heal. But in the movement of sitting down before the mirror, in the space of a missed heartbeat, he opened his eyes to have her greet him in the mirror. Two golden stars that belonged to her again – and through her, his to wield.
A familiar sensation of displacement, one gaze through the other. A gentle press against the inside of his skin, a voice almost heard but always felt.
There didn’t need to be an argument or even a word between them to align - no raising edge, no resistance, only understanding.
De Vend swallowed, the motion shifting something inside that felt like grave robbery. “I will find another way forward.” He knew the words were his, but the lips that said them belonged now to Katharina again.
There came no response. Only a steady heartbeat and gentle breaths.
A muted sob made De Vend blink and search the mirror before finding the face of his oldest maid fighting to keep back tears of joy. Her fingers curled tense around the brush she was dragging through his hair.
She tried returning his stare, but blinked with pressed lips that hid a wide and happy smile. De Vend said nothing.
In silence, the maid adorned De Vend with jeweled pins and golden thread.
For De Vend, this was a betrayal. Not by the maid as a person, but as if the Hegemony had infiltrated even his closest servants’ minds to humiliate him. For a moment he wondered whether he had done Katharina a disservice by not trading places more often–by not letting their inner circle grow used to the woman who would one day rule.
The thought passed as quickly as it had formed. It shouldn’t have mattered; De Vend should’ve been a passing note in her history by now.
And so he endured in silent penitence, with each piece of clothing settling like chains drawn taut. He wanted to stretch against the sensation that manifested as pain in his joints. But a princess wouldn’t allow herself to be seen seeking comfort in motion.
De Vend inhaled, timing his breaths into a calm rhythm. Tilting his chin just so, he found the familiar way to catch the light like a porcelain doll.
They wanted to see Katharina, and see her they would.
Measured, he rose from his chair, observing how the dress found its place on the body in the mirror. His legs seemed to be longer now that they stood less wide, his body more regal now that the shoulders pressed back and down to slim the frame. She was beautiful, and he hated that he had to serve her to the hungry crowd.
With a last narrowing glance, De Vend turned from the mirror to the old maid, who looked up at him as though seeing an angel. He wanted to snarl, to cut her down with bitter words. But a princess wouldn’t, so all that was heard was the clockwork sound of the heels on his shoes leading him to where the vigil would be held.
De Vend had sat down to receive the line of invited and unbidden guests proclaiming their condolences, as much to each other, as to him. With each face and hand, De Vend felt his attention drain away into disgust.
The low hum of the hall had settled then at the edges of his awareness, broken only by the flickering of filament sticks lining the walls. Their amber light spilled across polished surfaces, catching on the lacquered sheen of the sarcophagi behind him, to dance as little stars on the floor in front of De Vend.
De Vend sat motionless, the folds of his mourning gown pooling around him in deliberate stillness. Every breath forced to be flat to enhance his appearance of stillness, every shift in posture calculated in advance to be smooth and elegant. A display of desperate inaction, as even one misplaced finger had the power to unmake the vigil’s staged sombreness.
The room thrummed with unspoken tension, with whispers that didn’t quite die before reaching his ears. They had come for the vigil, yes–but not to mourn his parents, but to witness De Vend’s demise.
To witness his fall.
And why not?
He was their perfect tragedy: the heir created and denied by tradition. A house left to drift without a monarch by the same rules that had demanded its existence.
De Vend had spent twenty years building something they could not tear down by their own force, but the Hegemony’s judgement had swept it away with a gilded decree in a moment.
His parents, adventurers to the end, had passed from this life as carelessly as they had lived it, leaving him nothing but the burden of their name. Their titles. Their failure.
He let his gaze wander over the room once more, unhurried but sharp, cataloguing the clusters of silk-clad nobles watching him from behind fans and crystal goblets. Their grief was painted on with all the precision of a shipwright’s lettering stencil. De Vend named the underlying emotions they had for him: pity, amusement, hunger.
To them, he was no longer a rival. He had become an opportunity.
But the one thing he couldn’t accept was that they wanted to find Katharina crumbling like the ruins of her life around her.
De Vend tightened his fingers against the velvet folds of his gown–stopping short of causing a telltale wrinkle; instead, he elongated the motion into a dab with the handkerchief he held against his cheek.
He had to make more time to manoeuvre. Just enough to steady himself and find a crack to set an anchor in. Let them murmur. Let their eyes linger. They wanted Katharina De Vend, meek and grieving, desperate for rescue.
They would have her.
And he would be there, as always, to ensure they paid.
Beneath the heavy velvet and powdered perfection, his anger burned like a slow furnace. He had learned to feed it over the years, to let its steady heat keep him moving through every betrayal, every indignity. It wouldn’t be different today, even though the stakes were high.
De Vend shifted his gaze to the edges of the hall, where the light bled into shadows. None of these vultures would do. They would pick apart the pieces of his house until nothing remained. He didn’t need scavengers.
He needed a predator.
And there was one prowling. He could see the patterns in the crowd, as they tried to find security in numbers.
But the vigil stretched on, a quiet stage for the unspoken games played in every corner of the room in parallel to his. De Vend searched, his expression impassive but attentive, as he weighed each cluster of nobles exchanging murmured words behind gloved hands.
He had run out of options almost immediately. Most were unremarkable, their ambitions as predictable as their mourning attire.
And then, as if on instinct, his eyes finally caught movement–a figure weaving through the room with the ease that came only from knowing no one would dare obstruct its path. The hunter exposed.
Baroness Hatya Vom Thaintal.
They didn’t skulk in the shadows or linger on the edges like the rest of the nobility. Their approach was fluid, unhurried; commanding from presence, not skill. The sharp heels of their boots struck the floor in a deliberate rhythm, not loud enough to demand attention, but just enough to carry through the muted hum of the hall.
De Vend noticed the distinct shape their coat drew behind them, the fabric falling into immaculate lines with every step like a bird’s feather dress. No crease ran out of place, no fold created wasted space.
Hatya tilted their head to acknowledge someone in passing, only to throw their eyes to De Vend with a knowing smile. The Baroness was enjoying themself.
The faint light of the filament sticks caught the edges of their features–sculpted cheekbones, a faint smile that seemed carved into their expression, and eyes that gleamed like polished metal.
A construct of their own making, as everyone knew. The rumours and backhanded compliments told of alterations far beyond reasonable lengths. Where De Vend had always called himself produced instead of born, Hatya was candidly a self-made person.
Annoyed, De Vend realised that, caught in his thoughts, he had returned the gaze of the Baroness for too long. A beginner’s mistake to imply permission in this way.
He felt the pressure of Hatya’s attention shift, their gaze locking onto him across the room. De Vend shifted in preparation, settling sideways, lifting and turning away his legs against the chair. Now aware, De Vend took care not to let the relief of even this brief movement leave a trace on his face.
With the tableau set, the Baroness didn’t hesitate. Their course shifted like a ship turning itself on its anchor.
The crowd parted without fanfare, nobles retreating from Hatya’s steps like escaping a broken faucet. House Vom Thaintal was known for its hunger, not its power.
The nobility didn’t understand Hatya any better than they understood Katharina De Vend.
The Baroness had turned a house clinging to the last scraps of hegemonic nobility into a thriving mercenary operation. Not by trying to get rid of their ancestral curse, but by subverting it to their own cause.
While Hatya took the last step to the estrade, De Vend presented his cheek and gazed towards the nearby wall. De Vend could hear their coat settling behind them, and their wanting stare against his body.
“Princess De Vend,” Hatya said, their voice dropping with a bow - low but polished like the surface of glass. The motion subtly closed the distance enough to speak without raising their voice, but far enough to respect the trappings of ceremony. “I must say, you play this role beautifully. The noble heir in mourning, poised but untouchable. It suits you.”
De Vend turned his head slow and without lowering it. His eyes fell on Hatya like judgment. “Baroness Hatya Vom Thaintal,” he said in reply, the words precise, clipped. “I see your reputation for subtlety remains… aspirational.”
Hatya’s smile widened as though they had found De Vend’s retort expected. “Subtlety is for those who hope to avoid notice. I’ve never had much patience for invisibility.”
“Self-evident,” De Vend said, not betraying his emotions. His voice carried just the faintest trace of boredom, enough to signal that he would tolerate the Baroness’s presence but not indulge it.
Hatya stepped closer, ascending a step with unhurried precision. The midnight folds of their coat whispered against the marble, its gold embroidery flickering in the soft light of the filament sticks. De Vend fought himself to stillness.
Hatya could’ve tried to interpose themself above De Vend. Instead, they gently leaned forward into a crouch, keeping their relative height equal despite closing the distance to barely existing.
The silver-grey gaze of the Baroness locked with the golden-brown of the princess before them, and Hatya seemed to vibrate in anticipation and enjoyment.
“Princess De Vend,” they said, their voice low and smooth, pitched for him alone. “I’ve enjoyed myself many times over the thoughts of having you for myself.” The corner of Hatya’s mouth twitched upward, as though they were savouring the words and memories even as they spoke them. “Sometimes I wonder how I’ve not yet fallen into madness”, they said, letting the sentence languish like a courtesan presenting themself draped over a loveseat.
De Vend’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his brow lifting by a fraction. “Your restraint is impressive, then,” he said with the faintest note of boredom stressing his tone. “Or disappointing, depending on perspective.”
Hatya laughed softly, a low, rich sound that sent ripples through the brittle silence of the room. With it, they turned their head up and accompanied the movement with a sensual closing of the eyes. The faint scent of spice and metal clung to the air between them when Hatya said, “I’d hardly call it restraint, De Vend. I’ve simply been patient.”
The Baroness leaned past De Vend, their voice dropping to a murmur that brushed against his ear like the faintest caress. “But understand this: I want you. That body, so beautiful in this dress. That mind, so precise it could carve the stars. I want you at my side.”
De Vend tilted his head slightly, the autumnal hues of his eyes darkening, unreadable. “And for what purpose? To add me to your collection of indulgences?” De Vend felt his body shiver in disgust, but stiffened his shoulders against it. Now was not the time.
“No,” Hatya said, the word slipping out like silk over steel. “To build something greater than both of us. Together, we could make the Hegemony tremble. You, the mind that cuts like glass. Me, the hunger they cannot tame. We would be something they fear.”
They paused, letting the weight of the words settle before shifting back, their breath brushing faintly against his lips as they passed. “Think about it.”
De Vend held their gaze, unmoving, his stare carrying a promise–cold and final–that this would not end well for Hatya if they forced the moment any further.
His fingers twitched, drifting toward his side, reaching for the sabre that wasn’t there. The realisation struck, sharp and quiet, stilling him.
The weapon, like so many things, had no place here. But his eyes held the same weight, the same finality, as if he already held the drawn blade ready in his hand.
Hatya stilled, the thin line of space between them charged with unspoken violence. Then, as though recognising the edge they balanced on, they straightened with a smirk that suggested victory, however small.
“But don’t force me to get you,” they said, their voice softening as the words progressed, like a lover promising a future together.
With that, they turned, their coat sweeping the estrade as they stepped off. The hall buzzed with renewed whispers, though no one dared meet De Vend’s gaze. He remained still, watching Hatya retreat while calculating the precise cost of the encounter.
Hatya had made their move. And as they disappeared into the crowd, De Vend’s mind was already working on the next.
The sharp crack of the herald’s staff struck the marble, reverberating through the hall and cutting through the murmurs.
The herald’s voice echoed through the attentive hall, its clarity fighting with the marble acoustics: “Announcing the delegation of Aethland Kaerndal: His Majesty King Alend, Princess Magnus Weissebeard, and Her Highness Crown Princess Amathea.”
The words rippled through the room on invisible waves. A hush followed, heavy with anticipation and unease, as the Peregrini nobles stiffened in their seats.
Kaerndal did not attend Hegemony vigils. Kaerndal rarely attended anything.
Their absence from the Grand Game was both a point of pride and a deliberate strategy.
De Vend tilted his head up to present resigned while his hands fell into his lap, palms up. His mind raced. Kaerndal’s arrival was deliberate. Calculated. And entirely unexpected.
The ornate metal doors opened barely ahead of the three figures that stepped down the hallway behind them. There was no pomp, no flourish - only the sound of their footsteps reverberating softly against the marble. The room seemed to bend toward them.
At the forefront walked King Alend, an older man, grey-haired and hunching as age pressed down on his often-tested shoulders. His robe, black but trimmed with sharp silver embroidery, bore the clean, angular designs of Kaerndal’s heraldry. Understated to a fault.
Beside him was Princess Magnus Weissebeard, towering over his King and the room alike. Magnus’ sheer size was enough to unsettle the Peregrini, but it was his self-assured posture and slow glances from side to side that created the unrest among them. As if testing that everyone could see him fully.
De Vend had expected someone styled the “Shield of Kaerndal” to come in a military tunic, but the large man wore not a robe but something closer to a dress. The thick cloth and severe cut did little to hide the recognizable construction of a woman’s garment. De Vend wasn’t sure why he found it odd, seeing how both men hailed from a matriarchy.
There should’ve been kinship between the Giant and De Vend, seeing as both of them had been marked as Princesses at birth. But De Vend felt an almost childish disdain for the kaerienne man. Where Hatya had changed themselves, Magnus hadn’t. Where De Vend was mistaken for Katharina, Magnus had even made the Hegemony forget his birth name.
To calm himself, De Vend forced his gaze to who trailed behind Magnus. Princess Amathea looked as much out of place in her garment as the two men at her side defined themselves through it.
Every step she took shifted her collar to one side and the hem to the other. De Vend felt pity as he watched her approach. It didn’t take his acuity to see how she felt every single set of eyes on her, and how she shrank a little more for every second she had to be in this room.
A dozen ideas running through De Vend’s mind circled how to improve her posture, how to enhance her presence, before De Vend caught himself smiling for a moment. It would need diligence and time, both of which Amathea should have plenty of. Childhood had not let go of the young woman, but that would soon fix itself. The rest could be done with a dress cut to her shape.
De Vend’s gaze fell back to Magnus, and the answer became apparent. The pattern was the same. Had Amathea tried to appear as dominant as Magnus? A poor choice. Alend’s garment, with his simple strictness, would’ve elevated her.
The Peregrini nobles stiffened as Kaerndal’s delegation moved past them toward the estrade. Three sets of steps rippled over the marble like a clock reaching the end of its count. Whispers were hushed; even the faint flutter of fans ceased.
De Vend remained motionless, forcing his body to follow the story his porcelain face was already telling. The last thing he wanted was to squander whatever this opportunity could bring by disturbing their procession.
As the delegation reached the foot of the estrade, De Vend met King Alend’s steady gaze and inclined his head in greeting. When he lifted it again, there was a quick susurrus of voices - then silence.
The King paused, his gaze sweeping the room before turning back to De Vend. His expression was grave, unreadable, yet deliberate. Amathea lowered herself in a petite curtsy, her movements careful but fluid, as though offering not deference but respect. Then Magnus followed suit, his massive frame sinking into the same motion with grace. Another murmur rippled through the hall for a moment.
The weight of their shared gesture hung in the air, undeniable. And when the King inclined his head, the slow deliberation of it felt almost conspiratorial.
De Vend blinked, his composure faltering for the briefest moment. Too many things had just happened at once.
The King stepped closer once more, his broad shoulders bowed under somber intent. He attempted twice to pull his lips into a smile, blinked when he almost had it, before his chin came up with a slow shake of the head.
De Vend found himself caught in the gravity of that expression, his breath hitching as he forgot the suffocating presence of the room before him.
“I am breaking protocol,” the King said, his voice a low rumble edged with quiet authority. “I hope you will understand.”
Alend’s chest rose heavy with a sigh. De Vend could see the words make their way across the King’s mind, so clearly were they written into his expression. When they finally came, De Vend almost flinched. Alend clasped his hands before him, fingers rubbing over each other. “Monarch De Vend,” he said, then settled with a huff, “it is with great sorrow I learned of your loss.”
De Vend stiffened. The King’s words, at first, felt like another rehearsed condolence, polished and offered for the benefit of the watching crowd. But then, the King’s gaze shifted back over his own shoulder to the crowd of nobles around them. His lips tightened into disdain, a private expression meant only for De Vend. It lasted less than a breath, yet it carried understanding–an acknowledgment of the vultures that circled them, hungry and unrelenting.
When the King returned his focus, his expression softened, and his voice lowered. “I was not spared similar hurt,” he said, voice cracking on the edges. “A son lost to the cold void.”
He paused, his shoulders bowing slightly, as if the memory itself were a mantle. A shadow crossed his face, darkening his features with something raw and unguarded. For the briefest of moments, De Vend thought the King might falter, might let his grief spill into the room where all could see. But then, with a controlled breath, the man stifled the rising sigh, burying it deep within his chest.
King Alend’s restraint was as practised as it was painful to watch.
“I admire your strength,” the King continued, his tone steady now, though the sincerity lingered like a quiet echo. “To endure as you do… to hold your silence against the weight of grief. That is no small thing.” His eyes met De Vend’s.
“These times will pass,” he said, giving each word the space it needed. “I hated them all for saying it like that.” Alend hesitated, glancing over his shoulder toward his daughter, as if drawing strength from the sight of her. “It won’t hurt any less when time has passed. But…” His smile spread gently, not wide but warm, extending outward from the centre of his mouth like the soft glow of a hearth. “There will be circumstances that ease the pain.”
De Vend’s lips parted slightly. These words pressed too close, too deep, brushing against wounds he preferred to keep hidden. He wanted to recoil, to retreat into the practised detachment that had always served him so well.
But there was something in the King’s voice, a rawness, a quiet defiance against his own pain, that held De Vend in place, still and unguarded.
It was too intimate. Too much. And yet, he couldn’t look away.
The King searched for the right words. “If you would allow it,” he said carefully, his voice softer now, “we would share in your burden. For tonight, let us help carry it for you.” His hands tightened briefly, a subtle flex of restrained emotion, before he inclined his head, low and deliberate–a gesture as vulnerable as it was respectful.
“You do not have to endure this alone.”
De Vend’s breath hitched as he blinked, wide-eyed, watching the man straighten and step back. The King gave him a small nod, an unspoken offering left for De Vend to accept or reject on his own terms. Then, without waiting for a reply, the King turned to rejoin his companions.
De Vend realized that his breath had been stuck in his chest while listening. His heart tripped once over itself, before he stretched his neck, returning to the previous posture. When Alend turned at the edge of the room to speak to his entourage, De Vend realized he had tracked them when he knew he shouldn’t have.
There was no solution in his mind where the cold reality of the princess on the estrade could be answered with the warmth of the offer. And worse, he now had made it obvious that whatever transpired between them had left something. The arguments would be about the substance; whether it was scars or balm.
The King’s voice lingered in his ears, haunting him with the simple weight of what he had offered: You do not have to endure this alone.
De Vend found the herald beside the large gates at the end of the hall, and with a nod, ordered to proceed with the ceremony. The staff rang out, and the end of the vigil was proclaimed. When the doors to the ballroom were opened for the feast that had to follow, the nobility filed out.
The hum of a crowd followed them like waves breaking on a shore. An average of voices. Pointless, really, De Vend bristled – so many words for so little said.
The last few stragglers managed to navigate into the next room, leaving a silence that felt more like omission than relief. What filled the vigil hall was the scent of rich bakery and wine. Katharina shivered against it; to her it was the stench of suffering in privilege.
“You need to believe them,” said Katharina, answering the question De Vend had just finished forming. De Vend nodded, reaching for a fan, flicking it open, and slowly hiding his discussion by waving it from the wrist. The gesture gave him time to look around for wayward observers.
There were only House De Vend servants, and those knew better than to be attentive.
Once again, before De Vend could speak, Katharina made herself heard, “They mean what they say.” De Vend didn’t like that he agreed. He sighed and a moment later he felt his chest repeat the gesture. Speaking to her wasn’t easy like this. The nausea that came with it was disorienting.
“I too, always mean what I say.” De Vend said, waiting for Katharina’s response which came as a chuckle a moment later. De Vend had one complaint, “I don’t like that we’re moved onto someone else’s game board…”
The fanning stopped as Katharina rose from the stool, feeling the weight on her knees as both relief and pain. She rolled her shoulders and thought while looking at the doors towards the ballroom.
Katharina said, “When have we ever not been?”
De Vend made a resigned huff and stepped off the estrade, “I will deal with it. But first…”
Katharina smiled and said, “Our suit?” De Vend was already walking. “Our suit.”