TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 43 (RAW)

Chapter 43 - Bitter Truths “Fate is a game for fools, a pretty story the weak tell themselves when they surrender. I refuse. I have shattere

Chapter 43 - Bitter Truths

“Fate is a game for fools, a pretty story the weak tell themselves when they surrender. I refuse. I have shattered prophecy under my heel and carved my own path in its stead. Once, I was cast as a villainess destined to kneel; now I sharpen my smile like a blade and choose who kneels before me. Mercy? Justice? These are but gilded words, and I’ve learned that power is the only truth in a world of masks and knives. I will take what I desire, become what I must, and if the Heavens deem it sin, then I shall outwit the heavens as well. For I am Seraphina de Sariens, and I was not twice-born to be but a footnote in someone else’s legend—I was born to be the author of my own.”

- Attributed to Lady Seraphina de Sariens before the battle of Valaine’s Fall.

Seraphina was on the war-path.

A harsh midday sun glared off the puddles of last night’s rain, turning the cobbles into shards of dark glass.

Towing her maid and flanked by three of her loyal Knights, Sir Frest at point and Adraine and Filippe to her flanks, they pushed deeper into the seedier warrens of Meridian. Day-market hawkers bawled over crates of overripe fruit, and the distant smell of the docks hung in the air. 

“Where is Haze?” Seraphina asked of her white serpent.

“The man-woman?” the lazy Hydra hissed inside her mind, its tone languid.

“For the seventeenth time, Cornelia, Haze is not a man-woman. There is no such thing. She is a girl, and that is the end of it. Full stop.”

Across the magical link that bound mistress and familiar, Seraphina could almost feel Cornelia shrug, despite the creature’s distinct lack of shoulders. Memory flickered. Weren’t some animals capable of changing their sex? Did that apply to Hydras? 

“And do not ever even think about changing into a man,” she warned. “I have quite enough to manage as it is.”

“She’s over there.” Cornelia’s head poked out from the front of Seraphina’s bodice and darted forward, pointing toward a gaudy façade two doors down the street. Painted rabbits, pink and winking, frolicked above an archway swathed in cheap silk banners.

“Hadraine, Filippe… what are you staring at? This is hardly the first time you’ve seen Cornelia.” Her rebuke cracked like a whip.

Hadraine blinked, cheeks pinking as he looked slightly away. “I did not realize she could be quite so, well, imposing, my lady,” he stammered, tugging at his steel gorget as though it had grown too tight. Filippe merely nodded, his swallow bobbing.

“Cornelia can grow quite large when she’s hungry,” Seraphina said coolly, stroking the serpent’s head as it looped around her neck. “Luckily for you two, I fed her just a bit earlier. Now: the pair of you will enter that building and fetch me Haze. Knock heads together, rip up floorboards, and so on. Whatever it takes, I want her out here, and I want her out here this instant!”

“Just a note,” Sir Frest interjected, tone polite but strained, “The Bouncing Rabbit is a… house of ill repute, milady. You do understand that Finleigh might otherwise be engaged?” He kept his gaze resolutely fixed on a distant chimney.

“And how, pray, do you know the name of the establishment, Sir Ferdiad Frest?” Seraphina’s eyes flashed. 

“It’s written right th…”

The green of her eyes became as chipped emeralds, silencing him. “I care not what Finleigh is doing. To repeat myself, I want her here, now. Unless you wish me to march inside in person?”

Filippe and Adraine snapped to attention. “At once, Lady Seraphina!”

The bouncers at the door flew inward under their armored assault. The blonde girl could hear a great clamor erupting from within as the pair of Knights scattered painted courtesans and startled patrons alike as if they were hawks hunting pigeons. 

And Seraphina remained on the sun-washed street, her anger simmering beneath a veneer of a patrician’s poise. A few minutes later, far too slow for her liking, the Knights returned with their quarry.

A bedraggled, rather frightened-looking Haze knelt before her in nothing but her underclothes. Her once carefully styled hair hung in limp, tangled locks, and her eyes—those normally sharp eyes—had a strange, unfocused sheen. No, Seraphina corrected herself. It was worse than strange. There was a glazed, dreamy vacancy to them, as if Haze were drifting through some drugged reverie far from the opulent mess of this brothel hall.

She looked pathetic. And that, more than any shred of sympathy, dulled the edge of Seraphina’s ire.

Dust. The Bard had clearly been taking the narcotic Dust.

Seraphina’s jaw tightened. That particular ruinous indulgence was one she might, perhaps, be marginally—just marginally—responsible for. The Lehman’s Bank had many hands, and not all of them were clean. Still, she hadn’t told Haze to take it. That mattered. Somewhat.

Sir Gravens, ever the image of chivalric gallantry, stepped forward and solemnly removed his cloak. He draped it over the shivering girl’s shoulders. Haze gave him a weak, unfocused smile, her lips twitching as though she half-recognized him from some happier dream.

Seeing this blunted made Seraphina shake her head.

“I want Haze brought to the house,” she said crisply. “Give her a room—lock it, if you must. A heavy lock, please. She is not to leave. Water, bread, and a small allotment of our sugar candies. No wine, no meat. Not for a few days at least.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“Settle damages with the proprietor here, and if they make silly noises about it, refer them to our Captain Fanzazino. Miriam—if you please.”

That name. Her name. Miriam stiffened like a scolded child. Her mistress must be quite put out if she used her full name instead of Milly.

“Err… milady,” the maid stammered haltingly. “I may have forgotten to mention… your mother may be arriving later today. I was just about to tell you when…”

Seraphina’s head turned with the slow precision of a knife being drawn from its sheath. “Why,” she said in a voice carved from winter frost, “must I always be surrounded by such remarkable incompetence? You had ample time to tell me on the way here…”

“But you didn’t look like you…”

“Miriam.”

That single word cracked again like a whip.

“Yes, milady!” the girl squeaked.

“Just do what I say, please,” Seraphina snapped. Her gaze lingered, cold and imperious, until the maid turned and fled to obey.

***

The radiant Duchess Anaselena swept her daughter into a warm embrace the moment she entered the house. Not expecting such a direct attack, the young noblewoman was taken completely off guard. Whatever anger Seraphina had been nursing in the depths of her heart was, quite literally, smothered by her mother’s softness and the enveloping calm that only a mother could exude.

And that, of course, was what made it all the more infuriating.

The embrace was not just comfort. It was also an I told you so—delivered not in words, but in the serene finality of maternal affection. No scolding necessary. 

“There, there,” Anaselena murmured, gently smoothing her daughter’s disheveled hair. At a sharp look from the Duchess, the attending staff quietly filed out of the room, their heads bowed in deference.

“Your Grace,” Sir Gravens said, finally realizing that he and the rest of Seraphina’s escort had been dismissed. With a clank of steel, they left the mother-daughter pair.

Left with no avenue of resistance—and far too tired to invent one—Seraphina allowed herself to melt into the embrace. She squeezed her mother back, reluctant yet undeniably soothed, drawing comfort she would never admit to needing.

Without a word, Anaselena guided her daughter toward the settee in the drawing room, her movements graceful and unhurried, as though the entire world could wait.

Seraphina didn’t need to tell her mother anything.

Anaselena probably already knew.

In their long, winding correspondence, Seraphina had begun to understand the boundaries of her mother’s uncanny foresight. At first, her mother’s replies, perfectly timed, unnervingly precise, would appear on her writing desk the morning after she'd sent her letter, delivered by Miriam with a faint curtsy. It was a feat impossible even for a Gryphon-rider courier.

But when Seraphina began writing from a different location, deviating from her usual habits, the replies came slower, hazier and much less certain. A delay. A gap in the Sight.

Her mother could not see her directly. Only trace her influence like the wake of a ship upon the sea.

An intriguing detail that she filed away for later.

“Would you like some advice, my love?” Anaselena cooed, her voice the essence of honey and jasmine.

Seraphina shook her head. She didn’t want a shortcut. Not from her. It felt like cheating—like accepting stolen answers during an exam. And beneath that was something more primal: a quiet fear of what her mother’s meddling might cost her.

But the Duchess ignored the refusal with all the ease of one used to being obeyed. Of one truly of high birth. “I would not have come if you didn’t need me. There are advantages to be claimed, Seraphina. There’s no shame in it. Don’t take on burdens for the sake of struggle. Let others help you. You cannot do everything alone. Must not do everything alone.”

“I know that,” the girl muttered, sullen and defensive.

“While we’re on the subject of guidance,” Anaselena continued, undeterred, “you should listen more closely to your teacher, Melis.”

“Melis, Mother?”

“Ah—Melisiandre,” she corrected with a delicate laugh. “You should seek to emulate her…”

“But—”

“You should emulate her,” Anaselena said with quiet insistence. “At least in how she listens to the hymn of blades. Hers is a truth, a command of the blade that was earned with pain and persistence. It’s an honor to learn from one such as her. More importantly, she, and her teachings, will not fail you. Do you understand?”

Seraphina hesitated, pulling back the slightest inch, her brows drawn in a quiet frown. “Yes, Mother,” she said at last, dutiful if unconvinced. Melisiandre’s lessons felt tedious at best, cryptic at worst. She couldn’t see the point of them. At least not yet.

“And Miriam’s people,” the Duchess added, her voice low and warning. “Do not go digging into secrets meant to lie buried.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Seraphina blurted far too quickly, and far too defensively.

Anaselena’s expression turned steely. “Now is not the time to set yourself against that,” she said firmly, pressing a soft white handkerchief into her daughter’s hand. “And don’t try to grow up too quickly, child. Enjoy the time you have. Your youth is a blessing, not a curse. I envy you, truly.”

Seraphina studied her mother’s serene, almost wistful expression—and then, with a hint of acid in her tone, asked, “And while you’re handing out advice like sweets, I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what to do about Haze?”

Anaselena’s eyes grew distant, glazed with thought. “I told you before, did I not? Keep him close.”

“And?” Seraphina prompted, sharper now.

“Sera,” her mother said quietly, “had you not inherited my face, people would be far less forgiving of you. Watch your tongue. And your bearing.”

Seraphina flushed—an unspoken rebuke cutting deeper than any raised voice.

Then, as though the topic had never existed, Anaselena smiled serenely. “Now, go fetch us some tea.”

“You could just ask the servants—”

“Sera,” the Duchess said again, more gently. Yet, in her words was a core of steel. “Get us some tea. Something floral. Something with the last memories of summer.”

Flustered Seraphina had no choice but to obey. With a suppressed sigh, Seraphina rose. Her silken skirts whispered against the polished floor as she departed the drawing room, leaving her mother reclining like a statue of serenity among the damask cushions.

In the stillness of the corridor, her pace quickened. Fetching tea for herself and her mother—like some common maid. It was absurd. And yet, defying Anaselena’s gentle command would have been the greater humiliation. So she bore it, chin high.

The kitchen staff, sensing her mood, scurried aside with bowed heads as she entered. She ignored their offers of assistance, instead selecting a silver tray herself, then arranging a porcelain tea set upon it—white and blue, with delicate patterns of wisteria winding around the edges. A fitting choice, she thought, for something meant to summon the last memories of summer.

She chose a light floral blend—elderflower, lavender, and a touch of citrus peel—and let the steam rise gently as she poured the hot water. Into her own cup, she added a dash of milk, then stirred in a swirl of golden honey. The scent was comforting, and annoyingly so. It reminded her of safer days, of the rare evenings Anaselena had brewed this very blend when Seraphina was ill, whispering soft encouragements between sips. Or so the memories that were not quite hers told her.

The young noblewoman carried the tray back with careful, balanced steps, the cups clinking softly against their saucers. The house had fallen unnaturally quiet, as it always did when her mother held court. Even silence bent the knee to the Duchess.

Upon her return, Anaselena looked up with a serene smile that would not have been out of place on a famous work of art. "Ah. Lovely, darling. You've always had a good eye for harmony. Set it there."

Seraphina did so, placing the tray upon the low marble table before them. She handed her mother a cup with practiced grace, then settled beside her once more, cradling her own cup between cool hands.

“It’s elderflower,” she said softly. “With a bit of lavender and some citrus.”

Her mother sipped, eyes half-lidded. “Mm. Just right. A note of softness beneath the sharp. Like you, perhaps.”

Seraphina did not respond. She merely stared into the gentle swirl of milk in her tea, watching it bloom outward in pale, ghostly tendrils.

“So…” Anaselena said at last, setting her teacup down with a soft clink, “the Bard will require a gentler touch. No strength of arms, no sharpness of tongue, nor cruelty of action will bend her. Miss Finleigh must be met with kindness.”

Seraphina hesitated, then brought her cup to her lips. The tea had gone slightly cool.

“I’m not entirely sure I follow,” she said quietly. “Kindness, Mother? Really? I fail to see the merit. It would be far more expedient to—”

“Kindness,” her mother interrupted, her eyes catching the light with unsettling clarity, “can be a tool. And, if wielded properly, a weapon. Allow me to demonstrate.”

“Oh, truly?” Seraphina replied, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Do enlighten me.”

Anaselena leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking with her daughter’s. They were the same shade of green—two mirrors peering into one another, one older, unflinching, the other still touched with spring’s kiss.

“This is kindness,” the Duchess said, voice soft but merciless. “Velens will never love you. I’ve seen it. You could clasp him tightly, offer him everything, forgive him anything—and still, he will stray. Not out of malice, but because his affections are as fleeting as wind. His words are hollow, his loyalty as light as a feather.”

The blow landed squarely like a punch to the gut.

For all her composure, Seraphina felt her heart seize. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye—silent, involuntary. She dabbed at it quickly with her handkerchief, as if trying to erase the evidence of her pain.

A part of her, a small but significant part of her, must have actually loved him. But was that feeling born from her old memories or the new?

“Thank you, Mother,” she said, voice tight. “Just what I needed today. More truth. I fail to see how this is supposed to endear me to the concept of kindness.”

“Would you prefer lies?” Anaselena asked evenly. “There is kindness, and there is true kindness. One comforts. The other strengthens. It is not a weakness. Tell me, what is that you’re holding?”

Seraphina looked down at the handkerchief in her hand, the very one her mother had offered earlier. Understanding began to bloom.

“Hard and soft, Sera,” her mother said, lifting her teacup once more. “You must learn to use both.”

Yet, in Seraphina’s mind she had learned a different lesson. That the best time to employ kindness as a weapon was after an extravagant act of cruelty for maximum effect.