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VoC: B1 — 7. Madame Zorya
🕑 Added 2025-06-25 23:06:47 +0000 UTCPoV:
1. Stephen (Our MC's Adopted Uncle/Father Figure!)
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Stephen rubbed his temples, staring at the legal documents spread across his mahogany table as the banquet bloomed in the great hall. Each statute seemed tailored to strip away Catelyn’s last protections, undoing ten years of work in a single night.
He had no patience for such a celebration—a mask to see how the population was taking Damon’s ruling before judging the kingdom’s youngest princess.
Everywhere he looked, each carefully worded law seemed designed to strip away Catelyn’s remaining protections. Everything he’d prepared—all of it—was crushed so easily.
The Spider’s retribution toward Titania was like a flood, breaking every dam I built.
The eldest princess discovers Damon herself, having a direct line back to the nobility…
The evil goddess disabled Damon’s bracelet during the Veil of Chaos, when I was tied up with protecting my own land…
It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Enrir… I don’t understand.
Why did you signal so strongly and take such a nuanced stance for Damon but are utterly silent when it comes to your own daughter? Yes, you’re the king, you must show passionless execution of the law, yet you don’t need to be this silent…
The grandfather clock in the corner of the entertainment room chimed nine times, its resonant tone echoing through the spacious chamber adorned with tapestries depicting the Holy Emperor’s rise from the wilderness.
Ten years of hiding Damon in my territory, of providing tutors and protection while Cate maintained the illusion he was human…and now it’s all unraveling because of one moment during the Veil of Chaos when that damned bracelet failed…
He paused as a soft humming drifted from the corridor beyond the heavy oak doors, barely audible but strangely compelling. The melody seemed to dance between notes with an unusual precision that made Stephen’s trained ear take notice. It momentarily caught him off guard.
Palace servants didn’t typically possess such vocal training, including lower noble daughters in service to the crown’s princes and princesses, and the tune itself carried an otherworldly quality that raised the hairs on his neck—almost fae-like.
He set down the third volume in the royal disinheritance laws and listened more carefully. The humming grew closer, accompanied by the soft footsteps of someone approaching the entertainment room. Stephen’s hand moved instinctively toward his short sword’s hilt—a habit from his adventuring days that palace life hadn’t quite managed to break.
The humming stopped just outside his door.
Three soft knocks echoed through the chamber, followed by a pause that stretched just long enough to feel deliberate.
“Enter.”
The door opened with a well-oiled whisper and a young woman stepped inside, performing a practiced curtsy of lower nobility pressed into palace service. She appeared to be perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with lustrous chestnut hair pulled back in an elegant braid that failed to completely hide her striking features.
“My Lord Marquess,” she said, her voice carrying the typical nervous tremor of someone addressing their social superior. “A gift from Marquess Aldric, with his compliments.”
Stephen recognized her immediately—Lady Mira Ashford, daughter of a minor lord whose recent tax evasion scandal had forced the family into palace service to pay their debts.
Aldric? Stephen internally questioned. The western seaboard marquess? I’ll have to see what Vera knows about him when she returns.
Mira carried an ornate bottle of Aurelian vintage—his own sovereign land’s liquor—the deep red wine that commanded premium prices in foreign markets. The bottle itself was impressive—crystal crafted by master artisans he knew well, with silver filigree that caught the lamplight in intricate patterns. It was the kind of diplomatic gift reserved for significant occasions or major political favors.
Stephen kept his back turned, studying the young woman and bottle’s reflection in the window that overlooked the palace gardens.
Premium wine from my home country that would cost twenty Imperium steel at a minimum, delivered by one of the prettiest noble serving girls, and one rumored to catch the fancy of one of the princes…as a gift from Marquess Aldric? What a strange combination.
Something felt wrong. The situation itself was noteworthy, but there was something more to it than what he’d picked out. There was something nagging him that he was missing, something that triggered his defensive instincts.
If Vera were here, she’d pick it out immediately… Maybe I’ve grown too dependent on her in these social settings.
“And what might I ask is the occasion of this…gesture?”
“His gratitude for your recent contributions to his armed forces in the north,” the girl continued, setting the bottle on a side table with careful precision.
He had sent a sizable donation of weapons and goods recovered from the Infinite Dungeon to the northern war effort, yet not to any one noble’s army.
There was also something in the girl’s tone that had shifted as she spoke—Mira’s voice wasn’t this smooth, as if she’d just had warm honey and lemon tea. No, not only that, it was too controlled. She should be new, nervous, and out of her low noble element.
Stephen’s gaze drifted from his own reflection in the window to study the girl’s movements from his peripheral vision. Where did that tremor go, and this confidence in that information…
Her posture was wrong. She typically moved with a particular deference due to how the other low noble girls treated her, a careful economy of motion designed to avoid drawing attention. This girl moved with the subtle grace of someone trained in more sophisticated skills.
The humming resumed, barely audible but impossibly precise. Each note was placed with mathematical accuracy, creating a melody that seemed to resonate in his bones. Mira never underwent such vocal training or the prince would have bragged about it.
Stephen’s muscles tensed, his father’s training on succubus and his adventuring instincts kicking in as the girl moved just out of sight from the window’s reflection, right behind him.
That distinctive sound—firing pin engaging, chamber rotating—was burned into his memory from his few encounters with those rare, otherworldly weapons.
[Quick Motion: Activated]
[Spectral Grace: Activated]
[Holy Aura: Activated]
A dozen other [B-tier] to [A-tier] Feats flared to life from his many artifacts as Stephen spun with the fluid grace of a man who’d spent years fighting in the Darkvein, his short sword clearing its sheath in one continuous motion. The blade sang through the air, only to stop centimeters from connecting.
He’d seen perhaps three firearms in his entire life, each one a marvel of engineering that no kingdom on Prime had mastered, other than reincarnates or exotic weapons from a nation across the western sea. Yet, this one caught him off guard.
His white, glowing blade resonated beside the young woman’s neck, and he found himself staring at the barrel of an ornate revolver—pointed directly at the girl’s own temple.
The weapon was beautiful in its alien craftsmanship. Silver and black metal formed intricate patterns along the barrel, and the grip was wrapped in what appeared to be deep-red leather. Gemstones were inlaid along the frame, glowing with their own internal light. It was clearly a magical construct, as much art as armament.
“Bang,” the girl whispered with a playful smile that transformed her entire face, pulling the trigger without hesitation.
Sparkling dust erupted from the barrel like festival confetti, shimmering in gold and silver before dissolving into motes of light that faded as if they had never existed. The weapon itself followed suit, dissolving into luminous particles that danced around her fingers before vanishing completely.
“No need to be so jumpy, my lord. Surely a Mithril Rank hero who has traveled with reincarnates, braved up to the three-hundredth floor in the Infinite Dungeon, and ventured into the Shadow Pits of the Darkvein, wouldn’t be scared of me.”
Stephen didn’t withdraw his humming blade, vision narrowing. “I’ve heard rumors about a changeling reincarnate, who has been operating in Bluerise. A mysterious figure who no one seems to know is real or not… Madame Zorya. Is that your name, or just another mask?”
“Such lovely reflexes,” the girl—no, the woman wearing the girl’s face—purred, her accent carrying traces of something foreign, something that didn’t belong to any kingdom Stephen knew.
“How delightful!” She clapped her hands together like a child receiving an unexpected gift, which looked totally out of place on Mira. “You actually recognized me. My reputation comes from your shadow networks, I’m told, though your little shadow isn’t here right now, is she? Safeguarding your beloved princess? Such a pity. I do so enjoy performing for an audience.”
“You are Madame Zorya, then? The information broker, manipulator, and criminal mob boss who has been quietly absorbing her competition,” Stephen pressed, moving the blade a hair’s breadth closer. “You do understand the laws on changelings within Tenebrin?”
“Oh, explicitly,” she cooed, placing a hand on her hip and tilting her neck slightly away. “Do names matter more than the individual themselves?” she inquired, her jade eyes sliding from the naked metal to look up to study him.
The nervous, low voice was gone, replaced by something cultured, dangerous, and utterly confident. “It seems your lovely bloodhound has done her homework on me. Of course, I’d think that a given after our…last encounter.
“Moving on, your reputation for reading people precedes you, Marquess. I heard a rumor that your father was once targeted by a cluster of succubi. Perhaps that has something to do with your keen senses, even when in the middle of Tenebrin’s holy capital. Most nobles wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss until it was far too late.”
Her form began to shimmer like heat waves rising from summer stone. The stunning girl’s features flowed like water, bones shifting beneath skin, hair darkening and lengthening. Within moments, she wore the face of Marquess Aldric himself, complete with his weak chin, thinning hair, and the nervous tic of adjusting his collar when anxious.
She moved away from his blade as if it were invisible, stopping in front of a pile of records nearby to select a particular page from the bunch; Stephen kept pace, keeping his sword ready to strike. He would need to know her status before he attacked because changelings were granted limited freedoms in the kingdom.
“Tell me, Stephen—may I call you Stephen?—what do you think of dear Aldric’s latest venture into…creative accounting?” Her voice had changed as well, perfectly mimicking Aldric’s higher pitch and tendency toward vocal fry. “The man has such interesting relationships with certain shipping ventures that don’t officially exist.”
Another ripple passed through her form, and now she bore the sharp, angular features of Vera Iselza, Stephen’s most trusted operative. The transformation was flawless—every precise line of her face, the calculating set of her jaw, even the small scar above her left eyebrow from a knife fight in her youth.
“I wonder, my lord,” she continued in Vera’s crisp, professional tone, “have you had the chance to inspect your dear shadow’s left cheek—oh, not the face, the one typically hidden,” she added with a wink that was not Vera. “The left one, specifically. My bullets have such…persistent qualities. Healing magic finds them rather challenging to overcome.”
Stephen’s jaw tightened. The wound. Vera had claimed her sore rear end was due to a fall. It was a rather embarrassing story, he was sure, but it was unlike Vera to leave out those details unless she was intent on getting revenge.
“You shot her,” Stephen quietly acknowledged, his voice carrying the deadly calm that his old adventuring party had learned to recognize as a prelude to violence.
“ ‘Shot?’ Such a crude term.” She examined Vera’s lean fingers with theatrical interest. “She’s certainly hiding the physique of a woman beneath her restricted chest. I prefer to think of it as…leaving a calling card. You did ask her to look into me, did you not?
“Your shadow is remarkably skilled at her job, I must admit. It took considerable effort to escape that particular conversation. She has such admirable loyalty to you—though I wonder if you truly appreciate how far she’d go to protect your interests. Clearly, she has an image she wants to keep with you if she didn’t inform you of the encounter. Though, to be fair, it was only a few days ago.”
“It is illegal to take on the form of someone as a changeling without express permission. I can’t see Vera doing that…”
“My sweet Stephen,” she chortled, twisting to hold her hands behind her back in a rather girly way, “This is merely an introduction. The law specifically states for criminal intent, which includes any sort of lascivious action, reputational damage, or with an intent to deceive, yet I am doing none of those. You know explicitly who I am.”
“What do you want?” Stephen kept his voice level, though his grip on his sword remained firm. Something about her intensity felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why she was studying him with such personal interest rather than professional assessment.
“Want?” She laughed, the sound like silver bells mixed with breaking glass. Her face shifted again—this time to someone Stephen hadn’t seen in years. Master Aldwin, his childhood tutor, dead these past five winters. The old man’s kind eyes looked back at him with an expression that was somehow both fond and predatory.
“My dear boy,” she said in Aldwin’s patient teaching voice, “I want to understand what makes the great Stephen Delmore tick. As you can see, I’ve spent a few years in your precious sovereign march. Yet, you are far too guarded. You’re quite the puzzle, darling. Most nobles are open books—greed, lust, pride, religious zeal, and fear of misconduct. Simple motivations wrapped in complex rationalizations. But you…”
She tapped Aldwin’s temple with one finger. “You’re something different. Your motivations don’t align with typical lawful noble patterns here in Tenebrin. Perhaps partly due to your worship of Titania within the lawful framework. It’s absolutely fascinating.”
Stephen moved closer to hover the sword’s tip directly over her heart. “I’m not paranoid enough to fall for your games. You haven’t been able to reach into my inner circle, and you’re not confident enough to slip past my security, which is why you’ve made contact here, where you’ve already sunk your nails into the other nobility… You are playing a dangerous game.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” she whispered, setting the page down as Aldwin’s form shimmered and returned to Mira’s form. “You’re questioning whether you can cut me down here and now. After all, I used this form to try and trick you, yet…”
Slipping her fingers into empty space—[Spatial Storage], a very rare Feat, but typical of reincarnates—she extracted an official piece of paper. She pushed forward until his blade was close to burning her throat with holy energy, extending the paper while innocently batting her eyelashes.
“You’ll find that I am quite untouchable.”
Cautiously accepting it, he activated [Total Vision], though it could mess with his reaction time in full combat situations, to keep her in his focus. Upon examining the contract, his nose creased, yet Zorya proceeded to explain.
“You see, this sweet little noble girl with those pretty eyes? How she wastes such natural beauty on palace service due to the sins of her father? Someone with her looks belongs in one of my many entertainment businesses, not serving spoiled royalty for…nothing. How is her situation righteous or right? A father wastes the best years of his daughter’s life…and for what, another wing added to his manor?”
She shifted back as Stephen withdrew his blade. “You signed a contract with her to allow you to use her form five times? What leverage did you have on her?”
“Ah, ah! Five times to deceive, to be precise, and obviously, I have a contract with a high noble to act within his interests as a spy, so long as it complies with other laws.
“As for Mira, the palace’s recent beauty queen,” she whispered, moving to the window to adjust her gown to be more provocative within its reflection, “she has it rather rough, catching the interest of one of the princes. Will he pull her close and twist the knife…drag her to hell with heaven’s lies?”
Stephen’s knuckles whitened around his sword hilt as the implication; her words weren’t random—each metaphor was a blade carving open his guarded heart.
“What you are suggesting is—”
“No, no, nothing of the sort. I’m merely expressing what you know well, I’m sure. It’s starting again, because the light allows the seed to grow. Lust buried ‘til one chokes on ashes, scarring one’s throat… You fall away into the light, where numbness and pain are synchronized.”
She held his gaze, exposing Mira’s neck and tilting her head ever-so-slightly.
His hand remained perfectly steady, refusing to look away. “Bare your soul, Madame. Is meeting your confession of lust to seed your pain and numbness into my heart?”
Mira’s lips curved up, cheeks actually coloring, yet her voice was as steady as the tide. “A silver tongue cuts the grave behind my eyes…but how do the dead find a sign of life? Trapped in a maze, scratching through a coffin, wasting away in the dark recesses of our hearts… Do you suppose one such as I is immune to such torment? Surely you have never experienced such corrosive intoxication, My Lord? Surely not.”
Stephen felt an invisible blade hovering over his chest, not real, but an emotional dagger she was crafting with words alone—as potent as any succubus he’d faced, yet wielded in new light.
“If you are the maze, Madame, then your confession only proves you’re lost within it. You’re close to sinking your teeth into the prince… You play the long game. I won’t fall for it.”
“Is that an option?” she cooed, lifting a hand to slide her clipped fingernails over Mira’s throat. “The prince is a Tsarist Cadet at their finest—an effeminate aristocrat, polite, idealistic, and…weak in contrast to the rough Bolshevik ideal. At least, my ideal. No, you needn’t worry about your prince, Marquess, I’ve coached this pretty trinket well…”
Her green eyes sparkled as his sword lost its glow—this was not a battle he could win with force—and, like poison-laced silk, she turned to show off far more cleavage than Mira would be comfortable with.
“I think I’ve figured something out about you, my lord… You’re one of those men.”
He puffed out a harsh stream of air, preparing himself for the chaos this changeling would bring to his plans. “And what kind of man is that?”
Sliding the gown’s shoulders down a tad, she whispered, “The kind of man who likes to see the good in women, while making excuses for their behavior. Now, that doesn’t mean you aren’t above putting a sword through their hearts, but it’s a flaw I enjoy in men… It makes them easier to manipulate.”
Her heavy lids lifted to penetrate him with a devilish smile. “On the other hand, I suppose that new stable boy isn’t quite as chivalrous as you. He’s found that his stable has more creative purposes with her rather than simply housing horses. Even he is shocked at what she’ll do behind closed doors.
“The timid deer has discovered that a certain stable hand is quite…accommodating when properly motivated. After all, she doesn’t want to be stuck here in the palace forever. Gold changes hands, clothes are shed, and reputations are thoroughly compromised.
“I do hope her father doesn’t learn of her newfound hobbies in order to obtain the funds needed to escape. Lord Brennan is such a…traditional man—I fear he wouldn’t take the news well. Especially considering prostitution is illegal in Tenebrin. Such a shame, she could command real money for those talents in the right venue instead of risking everything for young love with her…customer.”
The manipulation was as elegant as it was vicious. She was offering him information that could destroy a young girl’s life while simultaneously demonstrating her ability to gather compromising intelligence and play by the laws. The unspoken threat was clear: cooperate, or watch a young, blossoming flower exploring love die by scandal in a tight, law-driven society.
“What position does that put you in, I wonder?” Mira’s features began to flow again, settling into something that made Stephen’s breath catch in his throat. “Can you look at her the same way now? What will you think when you see her father next week at the harvest festival? Or will you see the same when looking at your precious princess? I think I’ve found your weak spot, my lord.”
Young. Beautiful. Violet eyes that carried the distinctive shade of Tenebrin royalty. Princess Catelyn’s face smiled back at him with an expression that was both perfectly accurate and utterly wrong. Zorya had captured every detail—the slight asymmetry of Catelyn’s smile, the way her left eyebrow sat fractionally higher than her right, even the small scar on her neck that came from the fateful dark ritual of Darkvein vampires that had created Damon.
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than Stephen intended, carrying more emotion than he’d meant to reveal while drawing his blade again. “Now, that is a high crime, to mimic royalty.”
“Oh, but she’s so lovely, isn’t she?” Zorya tilted Catelyn’s head with mock innocence, though her voice carried an edge that hadn’t been there with the other faces. She was studying his reaction with something deeper than clinical interest—something almost…possessive.
“And a high crime, my lord…requires her to be royalty, which she no longer qualifies as, so…her protections also vanish. She’s been stricken from the royal tree.”
The revelation was a punch to Stephen’s gut. “No, I haven’t been informed of her court hearing yet. She has yet to go before the high chambers…”
“Is that doubt, I’m hearing, my lord?” Zorya breathed, once again adjusting the dress to better accentuate Catelyn’s figure. “Such delicate features. From pictures, I can see she obtained quite the physique from her late mother… Does she work out or is this genetic, because she is quite tight. And such expressive eyes… I can see why you’ve been working so tirelessly to protect her.”
Stephen’s fingers shook with rage, yet he forced himself to slide the blade back into its sheath. If what she said was true, then his fears were realized. He was being excluded from her trial and sentencing, which would have only been possible if the king initiated a vote himself.
The king allowed leniency to Damon, so why…why push to exclude me when I can offer one of the only voices in her defense?
“Do not put such ulterior motives on me, changeling.”
She did a graceful spin while examining herself in the reflective window under the room’s magical light, moving with Catelyn’s characteristic poise but somehow managing to make it seem theatrical, artificial.
“No need to be so guarded, Stephen. I’m not your enemy,” she whispered, bright-violet eyes shifting to look up at him with such trust it made his chest hurt. “I could take her place, you know. She recently turned twenty-four, did she not? She must be so very lonely in those cold sheets. For whatever purpose you might desire, and I mean…anything.”
The suggestion hung in the air like poison, laden with implications that made Stephen’s skin crawl. Zorya’s smile widened as she watched his face, clearly cataloging every micro-expression of disgust and rage.
“Now what are you thinking of? Maybe I could have phrased that better,” she continued with feigned thoughtfulness, “something more practical? I could stage a daring escape for your beloved princess. Walk her right out of whatever prison they place her in, using this very face. Then maybe…a tragic death from a mysterious illness? A fresh start!” she added with a bright smile that somehow perfectly replicated Catelyn’s. “She could be a mother again, Stephen.”
Stephen forced himself to breathe, to think past the conflicted emotions building in his chest.
Why does seeing her wear Catelyn’s face feel like such a…personal violation? This is about protection, about duty, nothing more. Catelyn needs someone in her corner. Ever since that damned ritual, she’s been dragged through the mud, and she was only thirteen when they did that to her…
But not like this. His eyes narrowed. Catelyn would never accept this devil’s trap. Zorya knows I won’t do it and also knows it hurts to not accept… Vera was right: this shifter is too dangerous to not keep track of, and the unfortunate part is…she wants that.
Every word, every expression, every micro-reaction—she was cataloging all of it, building a detailed map of his psychological vulnerabilities. This entire conversation was an assessment, a test to determine exactly how she could manipulate him in the future.
“You’re analyzing me,” he quietly acknowledged, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. “You’re here on the authority of one of the other high nobles.”
“Guilty as charged!” Zorya laughed with Catelyn’s voice, though the sound carried none of the princess’ warmth. “It’s what I do, darling. People are such fascinating puzzles. Their fears, their desires, their breaking points—it’s all there if you know how to look. But I’m never all business… Never.”
She began walking slowly around the room, her bare feet silent on the ornate carpet as she took in every detail of how he’d shaped it since occupying the space.
“Take you, for example. Most nobles in your position would be focused on self-preservation. Even with the extreme protections your family holds, there are limits. The smart ones would be calculating how to distance themselves from Princess Catelyn to avoid political contamination. The truly clever ones would be positioning themselves to profit from her downfall… Many are.”
Stephen tracked her movement while keeping his sword ready, though he was beginning to suspect that threatening her was largely pointless. In fact, it could even make her more excited. She’d made it painfully obvious that her presence was within the law, as much as she walked in the legal gray areas, which…to be frank, was impressive in their kingdom. To be fair, she was a reincarnate. The new question was, in what generation was she—post…or pre-Vanishing?
“But not you,” she continued, pausing to examine a painting of Stephen’s grandfather that had been taken out of storage and hung when the room had been assigned to him. “You’re genuinely trying to save her, despite the enormous political cost to not only you, but potentially your whole march.
“That’s…unusual in my philosophy. Admirable, really. It can get a girl’s heart thumping! Then again, it’s also imbecilic, yet…I do not take you to be an imbecile, my lord,” she added with a thoughtful, perfectly pitched hum that made Stephen sure—she was a Bard by class.
Spinning in a small circle before plopping down on an armchair, she crossed her legs with deliberate grace before looking up at him like a prized piece of meat. The fact it was in Catelyn’s image made it all the more uncomfortable.
“Not many would risk everything for someone else’s happiness.” Her voice softened almost imperceptibly on the last words, as if speaking from experience. “It almost…makes me jealous. No, it definitely makes me jealous. Admirable in its way, but deeply impractical. It suggests emotional attachment that goes beyond rational calculation.”
“My relationship with Princess Catelyn is—”
“Oh, please.” Zorya waved Catelyn’s hand dismissively. “Spare me the protests about duty and honor. I’ve been watching you for months, Stephen. I’ve seen how you pace when thinking about her situation, the legal documents you’ve poured over, the time you’ve spent, and that is the key—time,” she chided with an almost pouty frown Catelyn had never taken.
“A man will burn fortunes and stand in front of a volley of arrows for a pretty woman. Many have done it for me! But time and energy…being beaten down and fighting an entire institution—fighting her family… This isn’t abstract nobility and chivalry—it’s personal. I’m just…frustrated I didn’t know about this little scandal before your bubble popped. Well done, keeping it a secret for almost a decade,” she said with a slow clap.
Stephen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The level of surveillance she was describing went far beyond casual observation. She’d been studying him with the intensity of a scholar examining a particularly complex text.
“Which raises such interesting and…quite uncomfortable questions for me,” Zorya continued, pushing herself up to move to stand before the window, where Stephen had been working. “What created such an attachment to the youngest princess, a fourteen-year-old, when you’d barely turned twenty-one and were taking on the full responsibilities of a march?
“You see, I’m a woman who loves luck and misfortune. It’s my passion, really, but with that comes the detailed need for the grounding in tipping all favors to my own side. I…can’t place my finger on it, Stephen.
“Your father was a legend, achieving level 55 as a non-reincarnate, having personally fought back the legions of hell to their fortified city in the north, yet…spontaneously died at barely forty-five years old, when in perfect health. I have to wonder why he only had a single wife and how your mother died in childbirth. What is the mystery behind your family…
“Then you come into the picture, and…naturally, the suspicion would be on you, but you hated the life of a lord. You ran away from it to become an adventurer…until he died, and in the midst of all of that, the first Catelyn scandal came out, breaking off her overseas, exotic wedding, and breaking quite the diplomatic pickle that…the fourteen-year-old princess had a child! She wasn’t even of the legal age of fifteen. So why?”
Catelyn’s violet eyes burned with a hungering need for knowledge that made Stephen reflexively take a step back. “Why was she so special then and now? Guilt over past failures to protect her? Romantic feelings you’ve never acted upon? Or perhaps something more complex like a quest from Titania—maybe a surrogate for all the people you couldn’t save during your adventuring days when the Hell Gate spilled forth?”
Each possibility hit like a precisely aimed arrow, finding marks that Stephen hadn’t even realized were vulnerable. She was dissecting his motivations with surgical precision, laying bare thoughts and feelings he’d never fully examined himself. Honestly, he didn’t know why. He’d never needed to rationalize it.
Zorya leaned close, her hot breath pressing against his neck as she looked up at him with Catelyn’s face, utterly beyond recognition to the resilient, graceful young women he knew.
“The truth is probably a combination of all three,” she finally mused with a sad sigh, twisting on her heels to once again settle into the chair she’d previously occupied. “Guilt is such a powerful motivator, isn’t it? You do have a prince-charming vibe that…I actually adore.
“That being said, you carry so much of her baggage already. Can’t you share the burden? Your inability to be in two places at once—protecting Aurelian while fighting for your princess.”
Stephen’s sword arm trembled slightly. She was saying things that he’d never spoken aloud, thoughts that lived only in the darkest corners of his mind during sleepless nights.
“Eighty percent,” she murmured, though something flickered across Catelyn’s borrowed features. Disappointment? Relief? “Though I confess, your devotion to lost causes is…charming to me, and that might mean I am a lost cause,” she said with a sad laugh and shake of her head.
“Some people never change. That’s my current probability of predicting your next move. Quite impressive for our first direct meeting, though I do have the advantage of…just a little bit of time for preliminary research,” she added with a mysterious grin.
She leaned back in the chair, completely relaxed. “Despite me doing most of the talking, I do hope you can make it more interesting as we continue our acquaintance. I’m not always this chatty… Maybe I’m nervous! Me? Imagine that! Predictable people bore me terribly, and I’d hate for our relationship to become mundane, but you’ve surprised me a few times in this conversation. That’s a compliment, by the way!”
“I see. So, what you want from me is…” Stephen slowly articulated, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
“Nothing, at the moment,” Zorya replied with Catelyn’s smile. “Consider this a…professional introduction. I’m establishing a baseline for future interactions. You’re far too interesting, powerful…and handsome to ignore, Stephen Delmore. Too influential to overlook. Too dangerous to approach carelessly. But I am certain you will reach out to me again once you realize all the doors around your princess are closing.”
Stephen’s vision narrowed. “Doors I’m sure you had no hand in nudging that way.”
“Now you’re getting the game! I’m a free agent after all,” she giggled. “You do have quite a few advantages in comparison to my other clientele, though. I wonder if you can guess what those are,” she asked, vision falling to his backside before rising to her feet again.
Catelyn’s form began to shimmer and flow. “But I do have one small gift before I go. A token of goodwill between…future partners.”
The transformation was slower this time, more deliberate. Catelyn’s features gradually shifted back toward Mira’s, though Stephen now knew he’d never be certain which face was real and which was merely another mask in her collection.
“Princess Catelyn is being sold next week,” she said in Mira’s nervous voice, though her eyes retained their predatory intelligence. “Private auction. Very exclusive. The kind where bidders wear masks and payment is arranged through intermediaries… My expertise. Your king wants plausible deniability about who purchases his daughter…so he doesn’t have to lie to you. The burdens of a lawful king.”
Stephen’s heart stopped, and he stepped forward, voice becoming gruff. “Where?”
“Now, now,” Zorya waggled a finger with mock disapproval while retreating a few steps. “Information like that carries a price, my lord. But don’t worry—I’m sure we’ll find something mutually beneficial to trade. I’ll be in touch.”
She moved toward the door with Mira’s unconscious, graceful gait, though her posture suggested coiled readiness rather than subservience.
“I haven’t given you an answer,” Stephen quietly replied.
Zorya paused at the door, glancing back with a smile that somehow managed to be both innocent and threatening. The expression belonged to Mira, but the intelligence behind it was otherworldly and dangerous.
“Darling,” she said with a theatrical wink, “you never had to. I knew your answer before I walked through that door. By the way, the reason you were excluded from Catelyn’s trial wasn’t due to the king’s will…but Catelyn herself. No need for sleep tonight…sweet dreams are overrated. Do skoroy vstrechi…yesli povezyót.”
The door closed with a soft click, leaving Stephen alone with the scent of perfume, gunpowder, and the terrible certainty that his every move was being watched by someone who treated his life like an amusing game of chess.
His sword tip fell to the carpet, her final words digging into his soul. That ending phrase, I’ve read that language before in the family records… She is from Earth. A country called Russia, or the USSR. At least I know something about her I can look further into… But, Catelyn requested I not be present?
That’s…just like her, to try to salvage my reputation by taking on the burden herself. Dammit. Catelyn, why must you sacrifice yourself every time?
He stood in the silence for long minutes, sword still drawn, processing the implications of everything he’d learned. When he finally sheathed his weapon, his hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the realization that he was now playing into the changeling’s game.
The clock chimed, and Stephen sank back into his chair, running his fingers through his hair and breathing out a long breath. He glanced to his right, staring at the legal documents that suddenly seemed woefully inadequate for the challenges he faced.
Just because you try to throw yourself on the pyre doesn’t mean we can’t choose to carry you out of it, idiot. Aria needs her mother, and you know that. So why take this path? What changed? Whatever it is, I’ll find you. I’ll bring your family back together… I promised you that.
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[ Next POV: Sophia ]
[ Theme: Mind eroding, strength building, what challenge will our mimic-friend face next? ]
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