Side Chapter | Rosita and Lionel

Author's Notes: Thank you all for your continued support, it means the world to me! This chapter is one I almost scrapped given that, at a glance, it edges upon a narrative taboo. That being said, I ultimately concluded it skirts the line in an interesting enough way and decided to keep it but I would love to hear your thoughts on the matter and any theories regarding Rosita.

“Never, under any circumstances, should you accept a meal from anyone with a cooking Skill above the second Tier. That is, of course, assuming you do not have the means to ensure you may do so for the rest of your life. It will ruin you; regular food tastes bland by comparison.”

~Unknown

Rosita 

Luxury. A word with meaning rooted firmly in the subjective. One could not be condemned for taking ridicule in the mere concept, then, for what were words if not ways to convey an idea? Such blatant ambiguity was unnecessary; uncertainty was a disease, a rot to be removed.

Luxury. To indulge, especially publicly, was to reveal yourself, to expose a weakness. While a common laborer might find luxury in a pair of comfortable shoes, they will seldom crow as such. 

They care not for such things, not really. It is kept private, where words are seldom necessary. They have work to do. Luxury was the domain of petty politicians, a way to flaunt one's status, though even in this they are riddled with deceit. They exaggerate. They put on airs. 

Truly, there was no need for luxury. 

Piercing shrieks pulled Rosita from idle thought, if only because they were no longer the primal wails of one clinging desperately to their conviction. No, what drew her attention was the pained string of numbers her subject sobbed through ragged breaths. Professionalism dictated Rosita review her administrations. The shallow cuts carved into the subject’s torso were enough to summon a scowl. 

I barely touched you… What was worse, the scowl was responsible for the increasingly deep wrinkle lines etched into Rosita’s forehead, undeniable proof that her mana could no longer keep time at bay. It was vexing. 

The room was dimly lit by a single candle, one that was, by design, always in view of Rosita’s subject. She recognized it as one of her slow burners. Time. An adversary, to be sure, but one she had manipulated to her own ends on countless occasions. Beneath the flickering light, hours could pass and not a single drop of wax would drip down its length. 

If anyone could last that long, I suspect it would torment them. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that inspired her to reach for that particular set of candles; they were expensive and for good reason. By the time she could afford expanding her collection of tools, seldom did she need them. 

A spell-scripted lockbox rested on a small stand next to Rosita’s worktable. With her free hand, she deftly input the number sequence and was rewarded by the telltale click of the hidden locking mechanism. It was almost a shame. 

Rosita drummed the fingers on her gloved hand against the table, eliciting a whimper from the still-sobbing subject. A small blade extended from each fingertip, like the twisted imitation of a fingernail. They were not the source of the noise, though, for they slid into the wood without the slightest hint of resistance.  

“A pity, but it seems we are done for today.” How the subject reacted to that news was beneath Rosita’s notice. They had served their purpose, albeit disappointingly. She did not need to call upon The System to know the underwhelming outcome of her efforts. With practiced movements, she loosened the straps on her glove and let it clatter onto a tray alongside a selection of other tools, most of which she’d commissioned herself. 

There was only a single exit, a doorway filled with an unnatural darkness. It was black in its purest sense, like an unsettling panel of nothing. Rosita did not hesitate to walk through it; unlike light, sound and myriad other things, the dense spellscript concealed in the surrounding woodwork did not block her passage. Beyond was a short, slightly curved hall topped with a similarly scripted doorway, except that one featured a physical door to keep out prying eyes. It opened to her touch like it would for scarce few others, allowing her to step easily into her office. 

It was an inherited space, and Rosita left much of the decor untouched. Fine silks, rare bottles of wine, and a cabinet containing Skill-crafted oddities. Luxury. A farce, a performance for any who she was required to meet with. The space was not a reflection of her, and she liked it better that way. 

The cushion on her chair was a notable exception, one of the few objects in the room that were truly hers. When pouring through paperwork, she did not deny herself the small comfort it provided. 

A stack of reports on the desk demanded her attention, compiled and summarized by those with the Skills necessary to parse through the local governance. Two of the reports were marked as urgent, so they were easily ignored; their contents would be fabricated. A largely precautionary counter-intelligence tactic, but also a signal. 

Hidden amongst the reports would be something her people believed worth Rosita’s immediate attention. After the disappointment that was her most recent subject, it was difficult to feel much anticipation over the fact. 

The balcony called to her, so Rosita scooped up the relevant reports to read outside. Potted plants dotted the outdoor space, and it gave her ample view of busy thoroughfare below; being law enforcement’s Crown Representative had its perks.

One might even go so far as to call it luxury. The invasive thought threatened another scowl, but Rosita kept her annoyance in check. To simply know the word, to know of luxury, was to be infected by the concept. Normally, such errant thoughts would be quickly dismissed or seldom have the chance to worm their way into Rosita’s mind. Their frequency had been increasing over recent years, and it was easy to understand why. 

She was bored. 

Those with the mettle to withstand Rosita’s attention seldom found themselves at her mercy; it was not the strong of will who volunteered in exchange for a reduced sentence. The limbs of her Skill Tree were riddled with thorns, and her dependence on others to Advance was proving to be one of them. 

Most of the reports were to be expected, detailing the comings and goings of watched people and places. Purging the city of criminal activity was not an option, but that did not mean letting it go unsupervised. 

“Perhaps I should incite a gang conflict…” It had been some time since the city’s law enforcement were tested, and unlike Rosita most of them could still benefit from the experience. The chatter of the streets below and clamor of the city set a pleasant backdrop as Rosita flipped through the pages and scanned their contents. 

It was a shame, really, that Rosita could not take a more active hand in the cultivation of a rival. Doing so would cross a line, however; there was a difference between monitoring the criminal element and aiding it. Still, the fact that she’d even considered the option - felt it’s temptation for even a moment - was telling. 

There was one report towards the bottom of the stack that differentiated itself. Seldom were matters from outside the city brought to her attention, with a few notable exceptions. 

“Elbura…” she muttered the village name as her eyes darted across the page. The initial message was brief; someone had reported a girl with a social-adjacent Core Skill. 

Perception [Social, Truth] would make her the bane of the upper crust. No doubt Crown factions were already scrambling to send representatives or lay a claim. 

They would under normal circumstances, at least. In verifying the report, some clerk stumbled upon the Skill registry for the town. 

A calculating smirk touched Rosita’s lips, growing sharper the more she read. Quickly, she retreated into her office and began making the necessary preparations to attend to the matter personally. For the first time in a long while, she felt the thrill of potential as the seeds of an idea lay root in her mind. There was more than one prize in Elbura, and Rosita had decided she wanted them both.      

Lionel

It was not often someone stormed into Lionel’s office unannounced. He recognized the culprit as one of his communications officers, and there were few situations in which they would be so brazen despite the Slayer Lieutenant’s occasionally lax attitude towards protocol. Immediately, Lionel felt his muscles tense; visions of destroyed towns and rampaging Beasts and a dozen other awful possibilities flashed through his mind. Had one of his Slayers died in the field? 

“Sir, pardon the interruption I-” 

“You are forgiven. Give the report.” There was no time for niceties or nonsense. 

“Yes, sir. It concerns the personal matter you asked us to monitor.” Lionel felt his blood turn to ice at the statement. “There has been a dispatch to Elbura.” 

“Right… thank you, you are excused.” The officer gave a quick nod before retreating. Lionel had given specific instructions regarding informing him of any news involving Elbura, so there was no need to address the interruption. His information network was not as expansive as most, but he had enough friends in The Capital to get by.

He slumped in his chair and took a moment to process the sudden shift in circumstances. 

“Well… shit.”