The Heiress
Nerkam
Scalding droplets cascade onto my skin, searing each touch with a crimson imprint. Steam billows upward, a ghostly dance against the ceiling, yet a chill lingers in my bones. The remnants of a once sanguine life force, now a diluted ebony, have long been swept away by relentless streams. Yet, I remain, rooted in the aqueous embrace, for stepping out would thrust me back onto the relentless march of events, a journey with no discernible end.
The initial doubt has evaporated; the truth is as clear as the water that envelops me. They came for me. An enigmatic interest binds them to my existence. But the question of ‘why’ haunts the steam-filled air. Is there a thread of recognition that binds us? The orchestrator of this charade knows me and anticipates my moves with unsettling precision. They lured me with the promise of presence, yet hid behind an unfamiliar facade. Would I have seen through the masquerade had they approached in their true form?
The air was thick with the scent of ancient magic, a fragrance far removed from the insipid spells scattered elsewhere. This magic was potent, intoxicatingly sweet, and vivid. Could its strength signify a more formidable incantation? The mere thought sends a shiver through my core. This brand of sorcery is familiar, it courses through my veins, a guardian force that has shielded me for centuries. And so, the wielder be of an ageless ilk or possess a resolve of steel.
No, it's more likely they are of ancient origin. Mastery over such arcane forces is not hastily acquired; it is the legacy of a lifetime. The ranks of those capable of imparting such wisdom have dwindled to but few.
The water’s embrace ceases as I step into the echo of the city's chimes. News travels with the swiftness of shadow. Enshrouded in a simple towel, I traverse the threshold, seeking solace in the amber liquid’s cuddle. The caretaker of the decanter is more than a mere compensation. Their diligence surpassed all.
The clock's hands verge upon the hour of two. From the depths of the library, I retrieve a tome bound in weathered leather, its pages heavy with secrets. With a glass in hand, I settle into the quest for answers.
Yet, as my gaze traverses the ancient text, the words blur into obscurity. A relentless throb fractures my concentration, splintering thoughts into fragments of insignificance. I reach for a bottle, coaxing two azure capsules into my palm. The bitter legacy is swiftly vanquished by the whisky's robust clasp.
My frustration boils within, a tempest of self-reproach. Jasce's demise was a spectacle staged for my eyes alone, yet I remained blind to the puppeteer behind the curtain. It's uncharacteristic of Jasce to linger in a besieged city; his instincts would have screamed retreat. Thus, the possibilities narrow: a snake skillfully laid, or more likely, complicity. What pride could sway such staunch patriotism and avarice? The answer eludes me, for Jasce's loyalty to coin and country was rivalled only by my own unmatchable rates.
In a fit of futility, I crumple the nonsensical notes and cast them aside. My apartment’s doors burst open with a force that belies their grandeur, revealing Hamilton's frantic entrance. Privacy is a mere illusion here when the courtesy of a knock is a forgotten relic.
“Shouldn't you be clothed?” Hamilton’s words cut through the air, his uniform in disarray as if chased by the storm itself.
“Shouldn't you announce yourself?” I retorted, my focus unwavering from the cryptic text before me.
He dismissed my query, thrusting a crumpled sheet upon the cluttered table. “This,” he insisted. “I sketched it before it vanished. Most of it.”
“Actually,” The drawing captures my attention -a portal spell, incomplete yet unmistakable. The runes, though hastily scribbled, reveal a pattern I can't quite place. It’s a familiar dance of circles and lines, a conjurer’s signature, I should recognize. “You’ve got most of the important parts.”
Hamilton admits to the incomplete transcription, but the essence is there. The vertical lines are the key, a deviation from the norm that speaks volumes to those versed in the arcane.
“So, do you know the architect of this riddle?” Hamilton probes, his gaze piercing.
A shake of my head is my reply. “No, but I know where to unearth such secrets,” -a library grander than this. The thought of consulting Jonathan or my uncles crossed my mind, but their secrets are shrouded in shadows, likely by their own designs.
“Do we have word from Casscairn?” I inquired, hopeful.
“Not yet,” Hamilton responded. “but Michael remains vigilant there with Junior.”
Relief washed over me. In the Guard, I have unwavering allies.
The Senate looms above, a monolithic relic suspended amidst the clouds, a testament to our civilization’s zenith and folly. To the commoners below, it’s a myth shrouded in the mists of legend; to the daring, an uncharted odyssey; and to the cynics, a mere fable. For me, it’s legacy etched in stone and a source of ceaseless tribulation. From this aerial stronghold, we puppeteer the world below, unbeknownst to the pawns in our grand chess game.
Tales of the Senate’s ascent are as varied as they are fantastical. Some whisper of ancient mages wrenching the fortress from the earth to hover over a vast lake. Others speak of an island citadel simply hoisted skyward. And yet, some believe it remains grounded, veiled by potent illusion. But none speak the truth that I hold: the Senate was born aloft, constructed in the sky, tethered to the earth by the solitary portal, seldom traversed.
The Archives, a labyrinth of towering shelves laden with tomes, scrolls, arcane relics, and the detritus of ages past, sprawls before me. A repository more than a library, it expands into the void, meticulously catalogued. Knowledge awaits those who seek it with purpose.
And seek I do. My quarry is of modest volume, its black binding adorned with silver script, pages filled with the language of runes. A tedious read, yet one that harbours the clue I covet. If only the title would surface from the depths of my memory.
Time and corridors pass until, at least, the sought-after tome reveals itself. I sink to the floor, the cool marble a welcome reprieve, and delve into the diary of a certain Cole. His musings confirm my own: every mage’s spellwork bears their unique signature. “Of course,” I muttered, flipping through the pages. The circle -a traditional canvas for runes, yet so pedestrian in its execution. Cole’s insight pales in comparison to my own expertise. Runes scribed along the side? Child’s play. I close the book with a smirk, armed with the knowledge that my methods transcend the conventional.
The columns of the runes taunt me with their ancient secrets, a script from an era when I first drew breath. Half a millennium has passed since such symbols were last etched by a mage’s hand, marking the twilight of their use. The diary whispers of complex incantations and formidable spells, the legacy of Narral -a land renowned for its duplicity. The irony is not lost on me; the greatest of deceivers have left their mark on this mystery.
I seal the tome and rise, the stone’s chill lingering in my bones. Time has slipped away unnoticed, leaving only an ache of prolonged stillness. This youthful vessel offers little reprieve from the discomfort. The book resumes its place among the mundane -alphabets, theories, and histories that no longer command my attention. My mind is awash with thoughts that demand reflection.
A sudden thought pierced the fog of contemplation -dinner with Steven. Surely, I wouldn’t have forgotten such an engagement. Yet, as I sift through the remnants of the day, uncertainty creeps in. Could it be today? A perfect twist of fate, if so.
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