anathemafiction

Progress Report and Pausing Billing

Hello, everyone!!

First off, the deep edit of Chapter 3 is almost done! I just got to the part at the hideout, after the burglary. There is still a lot of text to go, but I can finally see the end of the tunnel 😭 I often say coding is my least favorite part of making these games, but that's because I always forget about editing.

Editing can be hard, but it's also great to see the game more polished. The amount of typos I've fixed is embarrassing, and I've also caught three minor bugs that hid passages of flavor text. Those kinds of errors are so annoying to deal with because they don't appear on quicktest or randomtest — I have to be the one to either play that passage or carefully go through the code.

I'd like to believe all these sneaky bugs are squashed, but I'm sure one or two are still hidden there. 🫩 I'll get them, eventually.

Also, a big thank you to all who reported typos and bugs to me! You make my life so much easier ❤️

I've also decided to release Chapter 4 as soon as I code it. The majority of the people who reached out to me prefer it this way, and I can totally see their reasoning. 😊 For those of you who'd rather read 4 and 5 together, feel free to skip the next update! You'll be able to digest the preparation for the Ball and the Ball itself all at once 💕

Now, for a bit of life news. I'll be visiting my sister in the UK in the first half of December and, as soon as I return home, my brother and his partner are visiting me. I am very, very happy and excited to see them and spend Christmas with my family, but it also means the month will be packed. I'll keep working on the Rose, but I can't be sure I'll be able to give it my full attention, nor do I think I can write satisfying Bonus Stories 😞

Because of this, I'll be pausing billing for the month of December! I don't feel comfortable charging you when progress will slow down. I'll start it back up once my life is back to normal — but don't worry, I'll warn you a couple of days prior so you're not caught off guard by a surprise charge!!

As for the Mature story this month, I'm on it!! I need to be in a particular headspace to write intimate scenes, and honestly, it's been hard to get into it 😭 I've been starting and deleting, starting and throwing it out, and ultimately decided to just keep editing. But today, I was able to finally write something that wasn't downright awful. I'll post it next week, when the billing is stopped, so you won't be charged for it^^

I want to finish editing next week as well, before my trip. And coding will start as soon as I get back to Portugal. I'm so excited to see the game grow!!

How's your November going? To my American patrons, I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving! The Thanksgiving food I see in movies and shows looks so mouthwatering. I hope your bellies were full!

I'll post near Christmas, but for now, I hope your winter break is calm and warm, full of family, friends, pets, and whatever else is good about life. 🌹

Summer Q&A — Part 3

• Hadrian is sick, and Romanus is at his bedside. 

You watch his chest rise and fall. 

It's not rhythmic, or at least, it's not any rhythm you know. Hadrian doesn't breathe steadily, like he always does. His chest rises in grading rasps, then falls in slow hiccups, as if a board is wedged deep inside his throat. 

He's large in the small, narrow cot, the bottom bending dangerously underneath his weight. The moth-eaten quilt you found in a corner barely covers Hadrian's stomach, but you've shed your clothes to drape over the rest of him. Yet still, he shivers. 

"C'mon on, big man," you whisper, and because he's sleeping, you allow your voice to waver. You're shaking too, from top to bottom, the flimsy undershirt and undergarments you wear doing nothing to fight off the night chill. "Warm up."

Hadrian rasps a shaky, feeble breath. He's big and heavy, but, lying in front of you, his face ashen white, his lips drained of color, and his eyelids fluttering to feverish dreams, Hadrian looks... weak. Fragile. Vulnerable in a way you never thought Hadrian could ever be. 

Tears pool in the corners of your eyes. 

Plop

Water drips from between the loose boards of the ceiling. The rain outside is unrelenting, soaking the scarce hay on the ground and the dirt beneath. The granary creaks with the wind, wild gusts slipping through the walls and billowing inside. You shiver again and pray to a God you despise that the granary holds true. 

"... m'gel."

You almost didn't hear him; it was spoken so softly. You lean in and lay a hand over Hadrian's forehead. "God's entrails," you curse. He's colder than before. "Hadrian," you call, not knowing if he should be awake or not. "Hadrian," you call again, more desperately, your hand cupping his frigid cheek. 

But he doesn't answer. He shivers and breathes that broken, raspy breath like the wind soaring between the ribcage of a dead whale. You don't know whether Death has a voice, but if she does, you imagine she sounds exactly like this. 

Plop

Tears cloud your vision. Hadrian's face is paler still. "Hadrian," you whisper hoarsely. If this keeps going, he's going to die here. 

He's going to die. 

And you won't let it. 

Your bones creak when you get up, as if your joints are made of ice. All the wood you found is too soaked and rotten to ever hope to start a fire, but there's one last source of heat you can give him.

The undershirt goes first, then your undergarments. Bending over, you even shed your damp socks. All you're left with is your glove, as much a part of you as your skin. "The things I do for you," you mutter through rattling teeth. You almost wait for his answer, for that slight, once shy, smile that creases his eyes. For Hadrian to tell you that he'd do the same for you, a thousand times over.

Yet, the only sound is the screaming wind. Tears roll down your cheeks when you lift the bundle of clothes on top of him and slip inside. "Ah... elg," Hadrian mutters feverishly as you drape your body over his, fitting yourself the best you can into his nooks and crannies.

The shock of his ice-cold skin makes you gasp, but you lace your arms around his neck, pressing your chest into his, hoping to warm his heart. He's stiff below you, all harsh angles and hard muscles, nothing like the soft, warm body that embraced you before. It doesn't even smell like Hadrian; all you smell is rain and earth.

You press your face into his neck, your shivers now in time with his. "I— I'll start thin— thinking of ways for you to—" Your teeth rattle. "Repay me." You tap his temple playfully as another tear rolls down your cheek. "I’ll give you h— hell, bi— big man."

Hadrian's raspy breath doesn't even warm your ear. It's so faint, it chills you instead.

"Or just— wake up," you whisper, "wake up."

The wind billows against the abandoned granary, somewhere in the fields of a long-dead farm. The rain abates at the witching hour, but you've long since slipped into a restless, nightmare-plagued sleep to notice.

What you also don't notice are the arms that slowly wrap around you, nor the lips that whisper, right beside your ear. "Angel."

---

A ray of sunshine shines directly at his face.

Hadrian opens his eyes with unexpected difficulty. His head pounds, as if he's been drinking himself to sleep, but the pains and aches in his body tell him he must have been fighting instead.

Slowly, his thoughts as sluggish as his tongue, Hadrian realizes he's looking at a ceiling. It's round and ends in a point. His brows furrow. There's a pressure right underneath his eyes that begs him to close them and go back to sleep. His throat is sore; his lips are cracked. Hadrian begins to suspect he didn't battle after all when an overwhelming, rattling cough shakes his whole body.

But it's not the only thing it shakes.

Puzzled, Hadrian realizes something is weighing down on him. As the coughing fit slowly wanes, Hadrian gathers enough strength to crane his neck and look down.

He sees the top of a head; one he'd know anywhere. Through split, stiff lips, Hadrian calls your name.

You stir, your hair tickling his chest, before you tilt your head up and lock eyes with him. Your face is sunken, like you haven't slept for ages, with worried lines carved around your mouth and forehead. Your hair is wild, shooting out, and there's a light in your eyes, or the lack of one, that has him instinctively tightening his grip on you.

"Hadrian?"

But it isn't until you speak, your voice so feeble, a gust of wind would kill it, that dread burns in his stomach. "What is it?" he asks, willing his useless body to move.

You press your hand into his chest, and Hadrian falls back. Lord, how weak is he? He feels you pulling yourself up, sliding over him, and only now he notices how warm you are — or how warm his body is where you touch him.

Your face pops into his vision. "You're awake," you whisper, eyes darting over his face. Hadrian watches, mesmerized, as you raise a hand to cup his jaw. "You're awake?"

He doesn't register the question; he gapes up at you. Even fatigued, you're beautiful. The dread abates as he tilts his head into your palm. The world can't be that wrong, he thinks, if he has you in his arms. "Where are we?" Hadrian rasps, his eyelids sliding closed.

But they snap right open when you make a noise that's too close to a sob. "I don't know," you retort. "Why in the hell are you asking me that?"

With trembling, weak hands, Hadrian tries to comfort you. "I'm sorry," he says, as confused as he is worried. "I, uh. What should I ask?"

"Nothing!" You raise your head, and red, swollen eyes glare at him. "You should say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry," Hadrian repeats.

But it has the opposite effect. You look even more upset. "Don't apologize," you whisper, "you big oaf."

His head is pounding; whatever sickness has him makes it hard to think, so Hadrian cups your cheek, noticing how cold it is, and rests his forehead against yours. "Angel," he begs, "I'll say whatever you want me to say. Just don't be angry at me."

He thought he was saying the right thing. But once again, Hadrian's clumsy tongue made everything worse. Because now, you're crying. You bury your head in his neck and wrap your arms around him.

Pieces of last night come to him. The freezing cold, the frantic search for shelter when the storm broke. The joy when you saw a man-made road that led to an old farm, and then the desperation when the farm was abandoned, and the only building standing was a—

"Granary."

Your warm breath tickles his throat. "Yes. You fell into a deep sleep as soon as you lay down."

Hadrian closes his eyes. "Lord."

"Hmm."

"You—"

"I’m fine." Your voice is clipped with emotion. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick," Hadrian admits, playing with the strands of your hair. "But warm."

A gentle kiss on his jaw has his heart leaping. "What else?"

He smiles. "Grateful for you.”

"I almost lost you."

The words send a pang of guilt through him. He wants to thank you, to assure you he wouldn't go that easily, that he wouldn't have left you, but he can't articulate it, so Hadrian hugs you tighter.

... and he realizes what he's hugging is bare skin. "Uh..." Hadrian slides his hands down, and then nearly has a heart attack when he feels the dips of your lower back, and beyond, the soft curve of your—

He nearly jumps out of the cot. "You're—" Good Lord. He's naked too. "Lord in Heaven."

You raise your head, shooting him a confused look. That was bad. Because now Hadrian can see your bare chest and—

His soul leaves his mortal body. "Father, help me."

His ears are burning, as is his face. He slides his eyes towards the ceiling, but it doesn't help. God have mercy, he can feel you on top of him. Your legs are laced with his, and your stomach is in his ribcage.

"Hadrian?"

"You're naked," he says, curling his hands into fists.

You two have never... not yet at least. He's pleasured you in the hideout, and he's thought of it every night since. But you haven't yet, and he's trapped between wanting to flee and pull the cover off.

"How did you think I kept us warm?" you ask, moving your head to catch his gaze.

Hadrian looks elsewhere. "I don't—" God, you're soft. "I didn't think of that."

You laugh. It's a much better sound than your cries. "Hadrian, look at me."

"I don't think I can."

"I'm covered."

His cheeks feel so hot, he's about to pass out again. "I can feel you," he admits in a guilty murmur.

You laugh once more. "So can I," you say, then bend and kiss his cheek. "Hadrian, please, look at me."

He does. You're smiling, but it doesn't reach your eyes. Those are still heavy with emotion, with a worry that only now Hadrian is beginning to grasp. "I'm so glad you're awake.”

How close was he to death last night?

His shame evaporates. Hadrian pulls you to him, as tightly as his feeble arms allow. "So am I, love.”

• What would Neia do if Romanus was tortured in front of her? Would she break?

The fourth blow is brutal.

The impact bounces off the stone walls, that sickening crunch of bone under duress. A scream doesn't follow, not even a groan. You're silent as death, your jaw locked, the blood spilling from the corner of your lips dripping down your chin.

They've stripped your shirt, and the ends of the red streaks painting your back are visible at the bend of your shoulders, the side of your ribs, and the curve of your waist.

Neia doesn't take her eyes off yours.

You're staring at her, and she knows that look. It's the steely, faraway look of one trying to escape themselves. She's seen it countless times, on countless faces. But yours isn't just any face.

There's a dripping sound somewhere in the basement, drip, drip, from the ceiling. It laces with the sickly-sweet voice of the main Interrogator. "Disgraced sister," he sizzles, his breath oozing out of his mask to warm the side of her face. Neia would have curled her lips in disgust if her face hadn't been swollen and bloodied. "Save what's left of that ruined soul and tell us her whereabouts."

Neia doesn't take her eyes off you. Her left eye is cloudy, as if the eyeball is swollen. She was beaten first, but they soon realized they wouldn’t break her.

So, they switched to you. That was their second mistake.

"Speak."

You part your lips, just barely enough to mouth 'no'. Neia opens her mouth. "Fuck off."

She can feel the Inquisitor smile beneath the mask.

Wack

Another crack, another echo on the walls. Not a sound from you still.

Neia watches you intently. She knows torture. She hasn't performed it much in recent years; the job was delegated to underlings, but she knows it like the back of her hand. She knows when someone is near their breaking point.

You're slumped heavily forward; your tied arms extended to the ceiling. Sweat clings to your forehead, and you must have bitten your tongue again, because fresh blood spills from your mouth. But your eyes are bright, and they're sharp on hers.

You're far from breaking.

The Inquisitor behind you brings the whip back, curling it in his gauntlet hand.

"Free yourself from evil, child, and speak," the puppet speaks near her ear. "The whip is but a caress. You wouldn't want us to abandon gentleness, now, would you?"

Neia holds your gaze. They're bottomless, your eyes, and they tell her everything you dare not speak. Neia wonders if you can read her reply. 'Leave it with me, sweetling. They won't hurt you for much longer.'

The Inquisitor licks his lips beneath the mask. "There's corrupted lust between you both, is there not?" A hand touches Neia's collarbone. "You wouldn't want to witness her bleed, would you? To drag her to hell with you?"

An ancient rage surges from deep within Neia. It paints her vision red, for a moment only, but she pushes it back. The rope is taut around her wrists, twisting her shoulders back so tightly that the sockets are close to popping.

That was their third mistake.

Neia slowly spins her right hand, closing it in a fist. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name," Neia prays, her calm, steady voice filling the dimly lit cellar. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in—"

A punch snaps Neia's head to the side. "You've lost the right to utter His name," the Inquisitor spits, all mock-composer gone. There's venom in his voice, real malevolence. "Filthy aberration."

He straightens up and strides to the table propped against the wall. The small cellar is far from an interrogation room — it's in the nearest peasant house they could find. They lack the proper tools, devices, and time to properly exercise the interrogation. Neia supposes they're in a rush.

That was their first mistake.

"Let's see," the Inquisitor says, picking up a long, thin blade. It's like a needle. He turns toward you, but his mask looks at Neia. "Will this make you chant, demon? Do you have any piety in you still?"

The needle presses into your arm. Neia sees it, then, your flinch, the horror flashing across your face. You're terrified, she knows, and that nearly breaks her. Her arm creaks, rotating even more. She doesn't bother trying to hide it, now that he's out of eyeshot.

The Inquisitor digs the needle just enough to pierce your skin. A thin line of blood pools forth. "Where is Romanus?" he asks Neia. "We know you're hiding her. Tell us, and we may be moved to bless your corpses."

Neia doesn't look away from your eyes. "Right in front of you."

Three things happen at once. The Inquisitors exchanged glances, then swirled together in your direction. You scream, a terrible, anguished yell of betrayal. "No!"

And Neia twists her arm so far back that the shoulder pops from its socket and her bloodied hand slips off the rope.

She rises to her full height, and as the Inquisitors turn to face her, shock in their featureless masks, Neia throws the chair at the nearest one. A bang follows, but Neia doesn't care whether it hits. She's running for the table, and when her left hand grabs an iron club, a maniac, feral smile splits her face in two.

She turns, towering so high that her head grazes the ceiling. There's no more control, no more safeguards. Neia lets her bloodlust run free. "I'd start praying," she advises, and as they scramble for their swords, Neia the Dawnseeker descends upon them.

---

Neia cuts the ropes, and you fall.

The ground below is slick with blood, so you lose balance, but Neia catches your shoulder, stabilizing you. She's as bloody as the dead Inquisitors at your feet, breathing heavily, her white hair coated in red.

Her right arm hangs awkwardly from her sleeve. You clench your teeth at the sharp pain in your back, but press on, taking the club from her hand. "I could have helped," you say, surprising yourself at the coldness in your voice.

The mark burns, sending spasms up your arm.

Neia spits blood from her mouth. "Couldn't cut it while fighting," she says. One of her eyes is swollen, but the other watches you intently. "How bad does it hurt?"

You don't answer. Squatting down, you rip off the Inquisitor's masks. Two ordinary faces stare at the ceiling, their eyes clouded by death. Just two mundane men.

You want to rip their flesh to pieces.

"Sweetling." Neia lays her hand on your shoulder.

You close your eyes, rage bubbling from your core. But as Neia calls your name, you breathe out and let go. "I'll live," you say, standing up to face her. She quickly hides her worried frown, but you saw it. "You're worse than me," you note, wrapping your fingers around her good wrist.

"Pain is more than physical."

Your smile feels enigmatic even to yourself. "I want to hunt them all, Neia," you whisper, staring into her yellow eyes. "Every single one of them."

And Neia, the specter you’ve grown to love, holds your gaze right back. "We will."

• How would the Pirate react to Romanus getting hurt taking a blow that would've otherwise hit him?  

It happened in the blink of an eye. Literally.

When the Pirate closed his eyes, bracing for impact, the bolt soared across the sky like the angel of Death, coming finally to collect his ruined soul, but the thud that followed wasn't felt.

Only heard.

The Pirate opens his eyes, a grin already pulling at his mouth, only to see you standing before him, as if you materialized by the wind.

There's something wrong with you, he notices at once. There's something wrong with the way your shoulders hunch, and your daggers clatter to the ground. There is something terribly wrong because your legs buckle, and the Pirate catches you midair before you fall to the ground.

The world is entirely wrong. Because his hand is coated in blood.

"You didn't." His voice sounds distant underneath the ringing in his ears. The Pirate watches the rapidly growing red stain around the embedded bolt, right beneath your ribs. "You fucking didn't."

He's kneeling on the ground with you in his arms, and the world stops still. Time freezes, the clock hands stuck to the face. Sounds contort. The ringing gets louder, filling his head.

"Couldn't... let the captain fall." Your feeble, broken voice is laced with pain. Your eyes are barely open, just two slits, and your lips are rapidly losing color. Even still, you manage to smile.

There's something wrong with him, too, because for the first time in his life, the Pirate freezes. He simply stares at you, eyelids pulled back, heart thumping in his chest.

"Couldn't let my..." Your hand inches closer to his, where he presses on your wound. "My pirate..."

Your fingers touch his, and the time pops back into place.

Woosh

Another bolt, this time soaring past a foot above his head. The Pirate ignores it, gathering you in his arms. "Stay awake," he commands, his voice back in full force. The voice of a leader. He hopes you don't hear the dread beneath. "Keep talking to me, peach."

He runs, then, runs as he's never run before. "Francis!" He bellows, leaping over a dying man, not caring whether it's ally or foe. He needs to get back to his ship; he needs to get you to safety.

Chancing a look down, he sees your eyes drifting closed. "Look at me." He pulls you into his chest, fingers digging into your arms. "Look. At. Me."

You do, thank the spirits. "It's cold," you whisper.

He'd burn the whole world to keep you warm, but, right now, all he can offer is empty words. "Not for long." His ship comes into view. It shouldn't be possible, but he runs even faster. "I'll lay you in front of the fire, with a silk blanket. You’ll drink mulled wine and complain about the smoke in my cabin. Sounds good?"

His heart isn't one to break. But it does, at the smile you give him. "Yes," you say, and he knows you don't believe him. "As long as... you lie next to me."

He’s never once lied to you before. “I promise.” His boots thump on the planks. He shoulders past sailors. "Francis!"

At last, the surgeon pops his grey head into view. He's frowning, but the old man's face drops when he sees you. "In here," he says hurriedly, opening the door to his cabin.

The Pirate doesn't want to let go of you, but he forces himself to lay you down. Francis pushes past him, kneeling before you. He sheds your armor and cuts your tunic.

Your blood is already soaking the cot. The Pirate doesn't look at it. He can't take his eyes off yours. You're still awake, hanging on by a thread, like the warrior you are.

His hands start shaking. He reaches for his axes, squeezing so tight, his knuckles turn ashen white. He's angry with you, he realizes. Furious.

But he's never loved you more.

Finally, the old man speaks. "She's lost a lot of blood."

"Fix her."

Francis looks up. "I’ll do me best, but—"

The Pirate's eyes drag from yours to fix on the old man's. "You fix her,” he murmurs, his voice as dark as the depths of the ocean, “or I'll wrap your guts around your neck."

Francis stares back at him, one of his oldest friends, then cackles. "You're serious, ain't you?"

The Pirate doesn’t need to answer.

Francis laughs again, then rolls up his sleeves. "Right, then, lady, my life is tied to yours." He jerks his chin at the door, not bothering to look away from his work. “You, leave.”

The Pirate is chief everywhere on the ship, but here, Francis reigns supreme.

Walking over, the Pirate bends to cradle your head. He kisses your temple, then your eyebrow. You're unconscious, but he hopes you can hear him. "You keep talking about Heaven, but it's not your time yet." He gives a last, reverent kiss to your lips. "If you see the Gates, my heart, run the other way."

---

The battlefield stretches to the horizon.

He's going to burn the land with the corpses of his enemies and then salt it, so nothing ever grows here. "Keep the archers alive," he tells his second. He doesn't know which one shot you, so he'll skin them all. "Kill all the rest."

Lia nods, her eyes glinting with the crazed, bloodlust thrill of upcoming battle. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes look the same.

Behind his back, there's his ship. A tiny room in the heart of it. The Pirate can feel the walls around him cracking, grief waiting on the other side, heavy and cold like an empty room.

Spirits, keep her here.

Spirits, give her strength.

Spirits, deliver the blow that was destined for me, and trade my life with hers.

• Vallen and Romanus are 'interrupted'.

Lips press along the pale lines of her throat.

Vallen's skin warms below your touch, like glass does when you press your palm against it. It's addictive, this slow heat that radiates from her into you. Or, perhaps, it's you who's warming her. You don't find it in yourself to care.

Her long, scented hair is loose, and it frames your head as you press another kiss a bit down, right where the neck meets the shoulder. She giggles when you lick her collarbone, then slender, elusive fingers drift up your nape to plummet into your hair.

You groan, deep, your chest rumbling, and you suppose she likes it, because Vallen arches into you to chase the vibrations. "Nearly two fortnights," she says, her minty breath tickling the top of your ear.

A pair of heart-shaped, red lips close around the earlobe, and you smile when the tip of her canines grazes the sensitive skin. "Nearly two."

Vallen straddles you, where she pinned you down as soon as you closed the door of your room for the night. The fireplace casts a soft glow, candles are lit along the wall, and snow drifts in gentle swirls against the windows. The night beyond is dark and impregnable, but here, you rest your weary feet.

And get to squeeze Vallen's shapely behind.

"Do I sense disapproval in your tone?" You hum between kisses, pulling her tunic down so you can smooch along her shoulder. Your stomach is so empty, it clings to your back, but the more you touch her, the more you inhale the scent of her, the less your hunger craves food and wants her instead.

Vallen taps her nails reproachfully. "It shouldn't have taken you more than a tenday."

Definitely disapproval. "I came as fast as the storm allowed," you say, lifting your head to face her. Vallen's hazel eyes are already on you. If you were to guess, they've been watching you this entire time.

She does it often. Even, you know, while you sleep.

Your mark tingles in warning, but as you stare into the depths of that blank gaze, you feel yourself being pulled in. "Say your piece," you tell her, "I know it eats you inside."

Vallen smiles, and you like that smile too. It's the same she gave you at the top of the Devil's Bridge. "I've no piece to say, silly, only a promise."

She waits on top of you, tunic half done, cheeks flushed, and hair like a golden waterfall. "Tell me your promise, Red Guard," you say, reaching out to tug on her bottom lip. Food is forgotten, now, all you want is to consume her whole.

Vallen turns her face, takes your finger into her mouth. "We won't separate again." Her tongue licks around the first knuckle. "Where you go, I'll follow."

You take your finger out, grab her chin, and pull her in. Vallen kisses you, hands tugging off your coat as you shed her tunic. She's nude below, and soon, so are you. Tilting your head, you deepen the kiss, that familiar, dark hunger sizzling like a fire inside your ribcage.

You're vaguely aware of her nails, scratching down your back, then coming around to grab at your belt. You pull at her leggings, helping her sit up so you can—

Knock, knock.

The door swings open. "Supper is served, Sires! Hot soup, warm bread, and a bottle of mead that'll make you write home to your mama about! Just a silver coin apiece and— AHHH!"

The knife flew so fast, it distorted the light.

It vibrates on the door frame, now, the sound bouncing across the room's walls. A hairsbreadth away, a young man's face is ashen white with horror.

Vallen is half turned on your lap. Your hands cover her chest, but she doesn't seem concerned with nudity as she stares down the servant. Her face is blank, but the absence is not empty. There's an underlying threat in the vacant gaze. "Why don't you close the door?" she asks in an upbeat, cheerful tone, completely contrasting with her expression. "And save us two plates for later?"

"Y-yes." He slams the door closed. You hear his footsteps running down the hall.

Vallen turns to you. Her eyes are blazing.

You look from the knife to her. "Where the hell were you keeping that?" you ask, laughter bubbling up your throat.

Her only answer is to grab your chin and lock lips back with yours.

• Interaction with Beka.

She has a foot positioned back.

You already know where this is going. "It's cold tonight," you note, tilting your head up at the glass ceiling. The rain is but a slight drizzle, but the less it rained, the colder it got.

Tarragona is silent. Fear and dread cling to the streets. You can't help but wonder where Beka will sleep. Will it be warm? Will it even be dry?

"Pff, you really are a softie," Beka says, glancing at the sky as if it couldn't touch her. But her wild, knotted hair is damp, and her flimsy shirt still clings to her like a second skin. "This is nothing."

"Don't you want a cloak, at least?" you try, your voice in a nonchalant tone. You can't ever sound eager around Beka. She's like a dog; she can sniff it a mile away. "I have a spare one."

You see it, uncertainty clouding her expression. The light of the hideout shines in the whites of her eyes, and it makes them softer. Almost hopeful. But then, Beka shakes her head, putting her weight in that back foot. "I don't need one," she lies, to herself more so than you. "I got thick, perfect covers at home."

None of you acknowledge that she doesn't have a home.

Beka takes a step back. "'Sides, I didn't come here for ya help, Richie!" She states, lifting her chin defiantly. "Just needed to give you the info."

The info was inconsequential, and you both knew it. What she really wanted was a warm meal.

You nod your head. "Thanks again."

Beka huffs once more. "Don't know what you'd do without me."

You smile. "I'd be lost."

"Damn right." She smiles back, then, openly and gleefully, like the child she truly is. But it dims too quickly as Beka casts her eyes to the ground. "I'll be goin'. See ya around, Richie."

With a wave, Beka turns and runs for the tunnel.

"Beka, wait!" you call after her, more out of instinct than anything else. Never once has she waited, she's always just—

Beka stops.

Slowly, the young girl turns around to face you. The light is just enough to let you see the frown carved on her brow. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why d'ya always say that? 'Wait.' You always tell me to wait." Beka crosses her arms. "Whatcha want me to wait for?"

You lick your lips, fighting back a smile. "Well, I suppose..." You take a tentative step forward. She glares but doesn't shrink away. "I want you to wait for me."

That disarms her. "You want to come with me?"

"I'd rather you stayed with me, if I'm honest."

The young orphan watches you for a long while, the whites of her eyes scintillating. Silence falls, heavy and tense. Darkness hides most of her expression from you, but you can feel her eyes boring into yours, nonetheless.

"Why?" Comes Beka's small whisper.

"We're partners, right?" you ask. "We should stay together."

Beka crosses her arms again, but this time, she hugs herself. When you take the next step, you see her glaring at the ground. "You don't know what ya're saying."

You crunch down, getting to her level. "I think I do."

She scowls at you; her eyes are wet with unshed tears. "Ya don't! If you let me stay, but then— then—"

You hold out a hand. "I won't change my mind."

Beka looks at your gloved palm. For a moment, you fear she'll yank the glove off, but she doesn't. "I can sleep in tonight," she says, lips pursed and cheeks flushed, but she's betrayed by her trembling lip. "Just tonight."

You smile softly. "Deal?"

Slowly, Beka lays her hand in your palm. "Deal."

Finished Writing Chapter 4!! 🎉

'Tis done!! I am SO happy 😭.

Standing at 63k words, I think it's the shortest of book two so far? I don't have the code right now to check, but I'm pretty sure it is. The last stretch was me battling with the amount of variation you can have with each character. Honestly, I severely underestimated how many different ways you can stand with not only Hadrian and Alessa — which are a lot 😭 — but now also Rafael and Lance.

The final bits of character interactions weren't long per se, but they did vary a lot depending on your past choices and relationship levels, so I spent much more time on them than I first anticipated.

There'll be a time when all these variations will converge, of course, Hadrian and Alessa being first, but, for now, it's a lot of note writing so I don't forget this or that, or this promise or that threat, or... 😫. You get what I'm saying.

I also had to remove a little cute scene with Alessa that just didn't fit. I planned it for her since I outlined the second book, but when I wrote the scene, I realized it was so out of character. It didn't feel like Alessa — it felt like a clone of her that was saying words I wanted her to say. So, with this, I can say there won't be a 'formal' apology about the threat in the tombs. Alessa just wouldn't approach it like that. To be honest, if you didn't threaten her back, she forgot about it. It's not to say you won't be able to mention — if the opportunity arises, when it's natural in the conversation, I'll definitely add a way for Romanus to bring it up if the player wants, but otherwise, it's laid to rest.

Now, if you did threaten her back, there's a conversation to be had. 😋 Neither of you forgot about it, after all.

So, the chapter se finit!!! Omg, I cannot believe the Ball is next. It feels surreal.

For now, I'll give the game a little pause, so I can recharge and focus on the Bonus Content for this month. After this week's pause, I'll do a deep edit of Chapter 3. Chapter 3 is the longest so far, and it'll be a monumental task, but also a very needed one. There are a few scenes here and there that I need to tweak, plus a lot of errors and typos still to comb through.

I can't wait to be done with it forever!!!! But, first, the edit.

Afterwards, I'm not sure. I'll either jump to coding or start writing the first draft of the Ball. On the one hand, I feel that Chapter 4 is interesting enough to add to the Alpha; on the other hand, I'm still unsure whether to post it and Chapter 5 together. 🤔 Hmm. I'll have this week to make a decision.

About the Bonus Content, would you prefer for me to write part 3 of the Q&A — with Hadrian, the Pirate, Neia, Vallen, and Beka, or do something else? Besides Beka, none of the ROs had specific prompts for them, so I'd have to pick general prompts or adapt one meant for another character. I'm okay with either! I just want to do something that you're interested in. The Bonus Content is for you, after all ❤️

And that's it!!! I don't think I have anything else to report. I actually finished writing Chapter 4 on Monday, but when I tell you I had the worst back pain of my life, you wouldn't believe me 😭 I don't know if I twisted my back while sleeping or exercising, but by Tuesday afternoon, I couldn't move my neck in any direction. Yesterday was the worst day, so I couldn't even sit down and write this humble progress report. But, thankfully, I'm doing much better today — the answer isn't painkillers or creams, it's exercise, who would have thought. Shoutout to the Brazilian TikToker whose video saved me a trip to the hospital. 🙏

I hope your week has been great! Last week, a thunderstorm broke at 4 am here in Lisbon, and I had never seen anything like it. For about 15 minutes, lightning bolts struck every second, one after the other, setting the night ablaze. Thunder just kept coming, this deep, rolling roar. It was like the sky was screaming. It was a great light show and a great reminder that we're ants in the eyes of Mother Nature. I'll definitely use it as inspiration.

Have a great Friday and weekend, and I'll see you very soon!!! 🌹

Progress Report

Happy Friday!! 🎉

I just got done with a writing session, and I can't pull myself away from the keyboard just yet. As of now, Chapter 4 is about 75% done!! Of the five big scenes, I'm halfway through scene four. The last one is, by far, the shortest, but I also really, really want to get it right 🥹

These last two weeks have been... difficult. Honestly, as I started to write the second draft, there was that nagging feeling at the back of my mind that something was just not quite right. I ignored it, and continued to ignore it, until I could disregard it no longer. I had to sit down and go through the chapter again, scene by scene, and I found the cause.

There were two problems with the beginning of Chapter 4. One, Hadrian, and two, Romanus themselves. I even wrote this on a note 😆

I pulled out my notebook and handwrote the beginning again, because I needed to get my thoughts in order, and the best way to do it is with a pencil in hand. The nagging feeling is no more. I got it. From scene 2 onwards, I liked everything, but the foundation of the chapter was wobbly and about to fall, so I needed to rebuild it.

So, this past week, I went back to the beginning and made things right. 😊 It's funny that it was Hadrian giving me trouble since, usually, Alessa loves to claim that title xD But the more I thought about it, the less I liked what I first wrote. Sometimes I struggle to put particular scenes in their right place—a conversation happening too soon is as damaging as one spoken too late—and with Hadrian, I completely messed up the timeline.

He also behaved, not totally un-Hadrian, but not 100% Hadrian either.

But it's in the past! I can't tell you how much it bugged me 😭 It was slowing me down, because, even as I wrote very exciting scenes, there was that unsettling feeling at the back of my head. I'm ashamed to say it was making me question my writing lol.

With that done, however, starting Tuesday, I can focus on finishing scenes 4 and 5. Tomorrow, I'll take a little rest day, and Sunday, I'll work on the last part of the Q&A.

My dog, Nero, is almost 13, a distinguished old man with a white muzzle where black hair used to shine, and cataracts in once-bright eyes. He loves the rainy weather, and before, when his legs were young and his heart beat strong, we used to go on big hikes this time of the year. Right now, he can't climb the hills any longer, but I've found peace in simply sitting with him and looking out to the grey sea.

So, that's what I'm doing tomorrow. I hope you find peace yourselves, whatever form it takes. Have a great weekend, everyone 🌹

Sneak Peek

There's fear in those eyes, and a vulnerability that tells you all you need to do to break this man's heart is to clench your fist.

"Do you regret it?" Hadrian asks, his voice the timbre of one who's holding himself together.

1) You loosen the grip. "No."

2) You clench your fist. "Yes."

---

I'll take advantage of the sneak peek to ask if it's understandable that I'm saying you have Hadrian's heart in your hand? Or is the metaphor lost?

Edit: thank you for all your thoughts and suggestions! I'll definitely reword this passage ❤️

Ysabella or Neia?

Who should be the next RO added to the mature mini-game?

I have some vague ideas for both of them, but this would help me decide who I should focus on first ♡

Bend Me Over — The Pirate King Interactive Story (Mature)

I added the Pirate King to the mini-game! Here's the link.

I hope you enjoy. 💛

---

This story went over 10k words, so I've released it alone! I'll add the female RO either at the end of this month or the very beginning of the next. I want to pour as much love for her as I did for my dear Pirate. 🌹

Achievement Guide and Relationship Descriptions

Hello! Here's a guide to the existing Book Two achievements and the new relationship descriptors in the demo so far. Heavy spoilers ahead, so beware!!

Achievements

Without Roots: Choose to hail from Egypt in the Prologue and play through the Merchant origin.

A Past of Steel: Choose to hail from Castilla in the Prologue and play through the Hunter origin.

Illuminated Parchments: Choose to hail from the North of Portugal and play through the Scribe origin.

Something Wrong: Have a bad relationship with Alessa and have two or more Corruption points. When you go to her room in chapter one, choose the option to call her Alexandra. Then, choose to 'grab her'.

Sly Fingers: Sneak into both Alessa's and Hadrian's rooms in chapter one.

Enemy of the Guard: Burn the bridges with Cynthia in chapter one. You'll achieve this when you break out into combat with the city guard, so whichever choice leads you to this is the right one. Just don't make a deal with her.

Friend of the Guard: It's the opposite of the last achievement. You need to strike a deal with Cynthia. This is easier if you already have her favor in book one, but you can still turn the conversation around even if she dislikes you. The options that raise Cynthia's affinity are:

(Note: You won't see all of these options in a single playthrough. Some depend on past choices, and others are in different branches of the dialogue tree.)

• You put your hands in the air. "We're halted!" you shout.

• You nod in greeting.

• You nod back.

• You inhale, steadying yourself. Time to face the music.

• You knew it. Coming here was a mistake. "Master Vaughn," you say calmly. "That doesn't prove anything."

• "My actions?" you question. "Or yours, Captain? I remember a debt."

• You're struck cold. "So, you're accusing me of Aurelius' death?" you ask, voice a whisper. "Is that it?"

• "You and me," you say, smirking as you swagger forward. "I thought you'd never ask, Captain."

• You keep stoic. "Appearances are deceiving."

• You lean towards her, too. "And what about it, Cynthia?"

• "What's this about, Captain?" you ask, tone respectful but firm. You're not about to be intimidated.

• "Fate has a funny sense of humor," you say with a shrug. "Now tell me, was faith who brought you to Vaughn? Because if so, you have my condolences."

• You grit your teeth, refusing to react.

• "What's this about?" you ask, cutting straight to the point.

• You don't say anything. You can’t think of a single thing.

• (If Influence>= 30) You take a step towards Cynthia. "What do you really want?" you ask her, and only her.

• (If Reason>= 30) You take a step towards Cynthia. "Your mind has long been made, hasn't it?" you ask her, and only her. "Tell me the verdict, captain, and spare our time."

• "We didn't," you retort. "And that's why you let us stay."

• "Neither do I," you answer.

• "That's wise," you say, playing her game.

• You scowl but don't answer.

• This is so unexpected, but you hide your surprise. "Maybe it is."

• "Neia, the Dawnseeker did," you reveal. "I watched her murder him."

• You shake her hand. "I want to be a part of change too." — You get the achievement here.

You can't ever make a deal with Cynthia if you insulted her in chapter 7 of book one, when she asks to sit at your table. She'll always attack you if that's the case.

Flip-flopper: To achieve this, you need to be on Beka's route (as in, you defended her against Cynthia in book one), manage to get Cynthia to strike a deal with you (and accept it), and then, when Joan appears, you forsake that deal to attack that wretched guard.

As a sidenote, you can surprise attack Cynthia in this, and wound her seriously even if you have low Combat.

Master Negotiator: First, you need to enter a negotiation with Mist. You can achieve this in three ways: Be willing to sell Juturna coin, Nero's gauntlet, or have struck a deal with Cynthia and didn't hide it from Lance.

Once you enter the negotiation, Mist offers three reward options. Out of those three, two can be stretched to benefit you. To get more gold, you need 35 or more Influence and pick either of these options:

• You cup a hand behind your ear. "What was it that you said?" you pretend to have misheard. "One hundred gold coins?"

• "The coin/gauntlet is worth more than that," you tell him.

• "Cynthia is worth more than that," you tell him.

To be able to ask Mist three questions instead of two, you need to pick:

• But you disagree. "For spying on Cynthia for you? It's worth more than that, Mist. You know that." — and have 35 or higher Influence or Reason.

• But you disagree. "For an ancient coin/gauntlet? It's worth more than that, Mist. You know that." — and have 35 or higher Influence or Reason.

• You click your tongue. "Horse shit. Knowing what Cynthia is planning is worth more than a hundred gold — it'll give you an advantage in whatever plan you come up with. The least you can do is answer a few more questions for it." — and have 35 Combat or higher.

• You click your tongue. "Horse shit. That piece of crap will earn you hundreds of gold. The least you can do is answer a few more questions for it." — and have 35 Combat or higher.

Mist's True Face: To get this, you need to enter a negotiation with the crime lord (see last achievement) and, as a reward, choose to ask him for information. Also, don't try this if you've told Mist you learned Latin from your mother!!! You'll get a game over.

Pick this option: Julianna Romanus. Is she alive? Was she ever taken? "Ju..."Your palm ignites in a dark warning. "Why is the Inquisition in Tarragona?"

During this conversation, you'll have plenty of chances to cut it short. Don't. Keep it going until this option appears: "What if they're looking for someone?" you ask, cautiously. "A woman with black hair and..." My eyes.

From there, say Julianna's name. You'll achieve this in the next couple of pages.

Fatal Mistake: This can be achieved in two ways. For both, you need to enter negotiation with Mist and choose information as a reward. The simplest way to achieve this is:

• Pick this option: You put your elbows on the table too, getting real close to Mist. "Tell me your real name."

You'll enter a game of cat and mouse. Don't lie to Mist and never give up. Follow the game until the very end. Then, when Mist asks you 'Where's your mother?"

You answer: "Taken by the Inquisition."

The second way to get this is:

• Ask Mist about Julianna, and give him his name, and then get to the end of the cat-and-mouse game when you ask for his real name. These are interchangeable — you can pick one first or the other. What matters is that Mist knows the Inquisition is looking for a woman named Julianna and that you learned Latin from your mother. He puts two and two together, then, and you'll get this achievement.

Clue Gatherer: Get all the clues about Vallen. To achieve this, you must have visited the Gates in book one and accepted Vallen's offer to meet her in the garden. The clues are:

• In book one, once you arrive at the Leaping Lion, look out the window and spot the white horse coming into the inn.

• Still in book one, at the gates, roam around and find the letter in the barracks. Save it in your pocket.

• At the end of book one, go after the fake Eye and wound it. You need 35 or higher Combat.

• Lastly, you need to ask Mist about Vallen.

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing: Go meet Vallen at the garden and have enough clues to figure out who she really is. Wounding the Eye and asking Mist about Vallen is enough on their own for Romanus to connect the dots. If you don't have either of those, you need to have seen the horse and put the letter in your pocket.

War Machine: Beat Vallen at her own game. Once again, go meet her, figure out who she is, and, when you inevitably clash, have:

• Combat equal to or higher than 45.

• If your Combat is lower than 45 but higher than 38, you can still beat her if your Corruption is equal to or higher than 5.

• If your Combat is below 38, you can still beat her if you have 6 or more Corruption points.

Red Lips: Kiss Vallen at the top of the Devil's Bridge. To do this, you have to go meet her in the garden and not be able to figure out who she really is. You also need to have 3 romance points with her — so start flirting in book one.

Common Courtesy: Have Rafael say, 'thank you'. To do this, you can't have a bad relationship with Rafael, so don't threaten him in book one and don't pick this option: "You ought to smile more, then," you say, grin sharpening and eyes cold.

Then, in Chapter 3, take the food to Rafael and go back after dinner to check on him. Sit with him and choose either option:

• But you won't take it just now. You want to build more rapport. "I don't want anything for it," you lie.

• You're taken aback. "I don't want anything for it."

Don't lose your temper and, by the end, pick one of these:

• You lift your chin. "Yes, I'm being nice. Is that so wrong?"

• You lift your chin. "I'm looking out for you. Is that so wrong?"

Raf will thank you, then.

Know Thy Goals: Once again, you can't have threatened Rafael. Take the food to Rafael and return after dinner. When he asks you why you're doing this, however, pick the option: "I want you to remember this," you say, turning calculative eyes on Rafael. "And if there ever comes a time for you to decide where to lay your loyalty, I want you to keep this in mind."

Afterwards, choose this: You open your mouth and say something you haven't truly admitted to yourself. "I want those maps for myself," you say. "Not Tarek, not Mist, not the Church. Myself."

Cuddly Bear: Have a good relationship with Billy and, in the dream interlude, choose to head to the barn. When Billy lays his head on your lap, stay with him.

Relationship Descriptions

Here are the new ones!

Alessa

*if (Alessa_Choke= true)

There is something wrong with you. That's what swirls in her head whenever Alessa sees you. There is something wrong, and you are a danger. But, for the mission, Alessa will not mention what happened. For now.

The bridge between you has crashed and burned.

*if (Alessa_Intimate= true)

She has put your features into memory and saved your name within the ice of her heart. Alessa hopes for little and expects almost none, but still, foolishly, she hopes you do not forget her.

Hadrian

*if (Hadrian_Intimate= true)

He's made a new oath with your name at its center. Hadrian already barely sleeps, but now his nights are plagued with your soft whispers of his name and the warmth of your skin.

Cynthia

*if (Cynthia_Side= false)

She hates you. You've made an enemy of the captain of the city guard.

*if (Cynthia_Side= true)

She has found an ally in you. Only time will tell if her choice was the right one, but she hopes that it is. For your sake.

Lance

*if (Lance_Romance>= 4)

You have given him an immeasurable gift. Lance Silverthread dislikes owing anything to anyone, but here he is, not finding it in himself to mind that much. Perhaps because he's confident he'll easily honor his debt, or perhaps Lance wants to see how you'll play your hand.

Either way, he does hope the light has guided you safely home.

*else

You have given him an immeasurable gift. Lance Silverthread has never liked to owe anyone anything, but he owes you. And he will honor his debts.

Rafael

He has a bunch. 😭

*if (Raf_Good= true)

He doesn't know what game you're playing, and he ain't about to let you mess with his head. He knows what you are. But still, a meal's a meal, and that one settled nicely and warmly in his starving stomach.

Of all the bastards keeping him captured, you're the least insufferable one.

*if (Raf_Neutral= true)

You're dumber than you look if you think that little manipulation tactic would work on him. Still, a meal's a meal. Rafael supposes he appreciates it.

*if (Raf_Bad= true)

You can keep the meal next time. Whatever good the food did, it soured with your company.

*if (Raf_Trade= true)

You proved him right. Everyone always wants something.

*if (Raf_Manipulation= "failed")

Bugger right the fuck off. Freak.

*if (Raf_Manipulation= "limbo")

Why don't you say your piece and be done with it? Rafael hates beating around the bush. When ya ready to talk, talk. Until then, bugger off.

*if (Raf_Manipulation= "agreement")

Maybe you ain't so bad, after all. Anyone who stands against Tarek stands with Rafael, no matter how insufferable.

Vallen

*if (Real_Vallen= true)

You don't know who she is or what exactly she wants, but you do know one thing: You will kill her.

*if (Vallen_Neutral= true)

You don't know who or what Vallen is, and you don't want to know.

*if (Vallen_Friend= true)

She cannot wait to meet again!

Juturna

*if ((Kill_Juturna= true) or (Betray_Juturna= true))

Whenever you think of the ancient goddess, a looming sense of disdain taints the back of your tongue. There's a being out there rooting for your demise.

Good thing she's all but forgotten.

*if (Juturna_Friend= true)

Her coin emanates a soft, barely-there sense of comfort. You often find yourself clutching the ancient relic, and whenever you do, the burn in your mark lessens.

Juturna has claimed you. She protects you.

Summer Q&A — Part 2

• Rafael reacts to Romanus surprising him with a handmade gift in the crushing stage? I’m thinking something that’s not necessarily the best quality, but it’s clear that Romanus put a lot of time and thought and effort into it, and maybe Romanus is a bit shy/nervous about giving it to him. 

He wasn't staring. 

His eyes simply... moved on their own accord. One moment, he's focused on the crackling logs on the fire, the next, he's watching the orange glow bathe your profile. It creates shadows on your furrowed brows and the tense lines around your mouth. His gaze then shifts to your restless hands, trying to peer into—

A prickling at the back of his neck tells him he's being watched. 

Rafael Borja snaps his head up and meets the gaze of the bard. Lance’s eyes glint with the flames, the light reflecting on his pathetic golden tooth. Rafael feels his cheeks burning at the man's knowing smile, but he scoffs and turns back to the fire. 

God damn spy. 

God damn you, too. What the hell are you doing, anyway? The past five evenings, you've secluded yourself in a corner of the campfire, hunched over something. He's tried to come closer, but you hide it away from him. 

A pang of unease coils in his stomach. Are you afraid he'll steal it away? Do you think so little of him, still?

With a second scoff, more bitter than the first, Rafael throws another log into the fire. Not like he cares. He's gotten used to you driving the silence away after supper, is all. Just a way to waste time.

Yeah. It ain't you he misses. He just misses not feelin' so goddamn alone. 

He isn't staring, but not quite knowing how, Rafael finds himself looking at you once more. He can't see what's in your hands, so he settles for the arch of your brow and the line of your nose. The dip of your chin, the roundness of your lips… and never before has Rafael felt more like a creep than when, for the second time tonight, he's caught in the act. 

By you. 

"Shit." Rafael turns his head so fast that he almost breaks his neck. His hands start sweating as he feels your eyes on him. "God's bloody hemorrhoids," he curses, then quickly apologizes. He needs Him on his side right now. 

But God must have taken offense because, from the corner of his eye, Rafael sees you getting up and walking in his direction. 

Swallowing another curse, the thief grabs the waterskin off the ground and brings it to his lips. His brows furrow.

Of course, it's empty. 

He's contemplating throwing it into the fire when, with quiet footsteps, you stop in front of him. "Hey, Raf," you say in that soft, gentle tone you use to speak with the brat and your horse. And him, too, for whatever reason. 

Rafael lowers the waterskin. "Ya still around?" he asks, giving you a glance over. "Thought you went to sleep."

You blink. "You didn't see me just now?"

"No," Rafael says, feeling like an idiot. 

"You were looking at me."

Perhaps God hasn't completely abandoned him yet because it's too dark to see his flush. "You watchin' what I'm watchin' now?" 

Confusion makes a home in your face, but Rafael sees the exact moment you decide to let it go. You take another step closer, and only now does Rafael realize you're holding something behind your back. "Do you have a moment?" you ask him. 

I got the whole night. "I s'pose."

You give him a thankful smile. "Good."

Rafael digs his nails into his arm. Pretty smile. He fiddles with the waterskin, not saying anything, but neither are you. An odd, anticipatory silence falls between you, the kind that has his knee bouncing. 

Your eyes are on your feet, your teeth slightly biting into your lower lip. 

Rafael bounces his legs up and down, up again... "Ya moment's almost up," he murmurs, meaning it as a joke, but you flinch all the same. He feels a pang of guilt, but you give him no time to apologize when you sit beside him. 

"I know," you say, turning to him so that your knees almost touch his. "I have something for you."

Borja frowns on instinct. "What?"

You bite your lip harder. Rafael almost reaches out to stop you, hating seeing you hurting yourself, but he refrains himself. "D'ya need help with something?" he asks.

You shake your head. 

It then dawns on him. "Don't tell me it's another one of those damn texts." Rafael sighs. "I'm too sober to hear about the mosaics of a dead city—"

With a melodious laugh, you shake your head again. "It's not a translated text!" you say, then pretend to pout. "And you like listening to me talk about them."

He does. A lot. Rafael isn't about to admit, though. "That's wishful thinkin', softie."

You break eye contact, hiding your face from him. You've been doing that more lately. Rafael assumes it's because of the sight of his missing tooth. Shame has him looking down as well, but suddenly, his vision is filled with black. 

"It's a gift," you say, holding a bundle of cloth to his face. 

With a mixture of incredibility and suspicion, Rafael takes it and holds it out before him. It's a cape, not black but grey, with a deep hood and—

His eyes bug out of their sockets. 

He knows this cape. It's his cape. Rafael's mouth hangs open when he stares from it to you, then back to it. "What—" He snaps his mouth closed. "I threw this out."

It was torn beyond mending. The scuffle leaving the city left his old cape in shreds. It hurt more than Rafael would ever admit, but he left it on the side of some unnamed road. He sweeps his hand along the seams. He can see the areas where it's been restored, but the stitches are well-hidden, and even if the lines are crooked, the cape is patched to its original shape.

He can't wrap his head around it. "It's the same one?"

"Yes," you confirm. You're smiling at him. A soft, pretty smile that has your eyes crinkling. "I picked it up when you weren't looking." Your smile dims when you add in a quieter voice. "I know how much it means to you."

He told you, he remembers, on one of these lonely nights, while slightly drunk. He told you this cape belonged to his late father. 

"Ya fixed it?" Rafael hears himself asking. His voice is rough with an unnamed emotion. He clutches the cape, his fingers making indentations on the thick cloth. 

You lower your eyes when you nod. "I did my best," you whisper. "Hadrian helped a little."

A million thoughts rush through Rafael’s head, but only one word comes out. "Why?" 

You don't answer.

Rafael tears his eyes away from the cape to look at you. You shrug, but avoid his gaze when you whisper, "Because it's important to you."

He should scoff, should ask you what exactly you want in return. Rafael should doubt the sincerity dripping from your tone and remind himself that you're a Company mercenary. That you're one of his captors.

He should do it all. But he can't. 

Because Rafael Borja believes you. Against his whole being, he believes you. 

His index finger feels a bump in the fabric. Dazed, he looks down at the inner collar. There's something stitched there. Turning it towards the light, he sees letters woven in gold. The lines are shaky in place and disheveled, but he's never seen anything more imperfectly perfect. 

'Thomas Borja' is sewn in the cape. His father's name. 

Rafael's eyes sting. "Ya didn't."

He feels your hand resting on top of his. "I hope I didn't overstep."

He almost barks a laugh at that, but the lump in his throat doesn't let him. Overstep? This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him. He can't face you, so Rafael forces himself to croak out, "I owe you."

Your fingers tighten on his wrist, and with your other hand, you softly turn his chin up. Rafael meets the steely, borderline stern glint in your eyes. "You don't owe me anything," you say fiercely, bearing no room for argument.

So, Rafael doesn't argue, not in this, and not with himself either. As he bares himself before you, he finally accepts it.

He's in love with you.

• Terminally oblivious Romanus is being flirted with in several small snippets by Ysabella.

She holds out a gloved hand for you to take, fingers elegantly curled, like a soft claw, or a gilded shackle.  

You look down at it, hesitate, then promptly shake it. "My lady," you greet.

Ysabella blinks. "No, darling, you're meant to take it."

"Take your hand?"

The noblewoman's lips twitch in what looks suspiciously like a smile, but she leans in instead. "Would you like to take something else?" Ysabella asks, her eyes gleaming with a playful light.

You're stoned-faced as you look from the top of her head, where diamonds hang from her hair, down to the tips of her shoes, where gems are encrusted in the heels. "A ring, maybe?" you admit.

When you look up, you catch the odd look on the noble's face. She quickly hides it, however, and curls her palm around your arm. "Dance with me," Ysabella says with a brilliant smile, already stepping onto the ballroom.

-

The plums are ripe with juice.

You eat your second of the night, and don't notice the trail of juice trickling down your chin until, with an infinitely gentle finger, someone catches it before it stains your immaculate gown/suit. "Careful," Ysabella says, her round, brown eyes close to your own. "In high society, a stained garment is a cardinal sin."

You glance around, but no one seems to catch your indiscretion. "Thank you," you say, wiping your cheek with a napkin. "I don't think I've ever eaten a plum so ripe as these," you say, hoping it serves as an excuse.

Ysabella looks at the tray filled with the dark blue fruit. She keeps herself close to you, her hand resting on your shoulder. To ensure you're hidden from view, you're certain. She's cleverly subtle, you'll give her that. "I don't think I've tried these yet. Are they that tasty?"

You nod. "You should try one."

Ysabella looks up at you through her lashes. The painted lines of gold above her eyelids are symmetrically drawn, like twins. "Help me," she says, "I can't spoil these gloves."

She parts her lips.

You stare at her mouth. Then at the plum. With a shrug, you pick the fruit and unceremoniously plop it into her mouth.

Ysabella coughs, nearly spitting the whole thing out. "You—" She aggressively chews, hand covering her mouth, as her eyes gloss over.

You suddenly feel uncertain. Were you... not meant to do this? "Are you alright?" you ask.

Ysabella lifts a finger, then finally, swallows. "I meant for you to feed me a bite," she says, her voice shaky. "Not the whole thing, dearest."

"Oh."

Ysabella takes a step back and stares at you.

You stare back. "... I apologize."

Her eyebrows furrow, but then, Ysabella shakes her head. "This was my fault," she says. Her smile is just as dazzling, but somehow, it looks slightly strained.

She must want to cough still, you think.

-

"Well, if it isn't the two love birds."

Alain waltzes from the crowd of minor nobles, a glass of wine in hand and his hair tossed at the front. He gives you a grin, and you nod in return.

"Alain," Ysabella says, regarding her brother with a critical eye. "I see you've been having fun."

Her gaze is drawn to a bruise on his neck, just below his jaw. You narrow your eyes at his collar and see another bruise near his collarbone. Was he in a scuffle?

Instinctively, your hand drops to your belt, but there's no scabbard there.

"Just making the most of this farce," Alain says, his voice light and airy, but his smile takes on a bitter twist. "Just like you, no, sister?" he says, eyes darting to you.

You straighten your shoulders. "We haven't been in any fights."

Alain pauses and then barks a laugh. "Is that what you call it?"

Before you can ask him what's so amusing, Ysabella closes in on her brother. "People are watching, Alain," she whispers, dazzling smile plastered.

Her brother shrugs. "People are always watching." He reaches over and loops his arm around your shoulders. "Don't mind them, you hear?" He shakes you, then steps away. "You two have fun. Fights and all.”

Alain drifts off, and you see Ysabella frowning at his back before she shakes it off and turns to you. "Don't mind him," she says.

"Why would I mind him?" you ask.

Ysabella's eye actually twitches. "... the banquet is starting," she says, guiding you forward. "We should head to the grand hall."

-

Your name rings out.

You turn, hiding the key in your sleeve, and see Ysabella stepping towards you. Her gown soaks in the candlelight, stealing their spark to embed it within its own. The beaded veil adorning her hair frames her face like a painting, and for the first time tonight, you realize how beautiful she looks.

"My uncle requested an audience," Ysabella says. Your face drops, and she laughs. "Don't worry, it's for close family only."

"Oh."

Ysabella taps a finger on your chest. "You will be well, I take it? For the rest of the night?"

"You won't be back?" you ask and are surprised by the disappointment you suddenly feel.

Ysabella smiles. "Perhaps, but I can't make promises. It's best if we say our goodbyes now."

She holds out her hand, and now you know what to do. "Goodnight, my lady," you say, taking it, your fingers curling over the delicate palm. "I... enjoyed myself."

She tugs on your hand, bringing you closer. "So did I, darling," Ysabella whispers, and softly kisses your cheek.

She steps back, smiling as bright as the midday sun. "Farewell. Whatever you're seeking, in this city and beyond, I hope you find it."

With that, she turns her back and walks away.

You watch her disappear in the crowd, in the same way she came. And you can't explain, then, the pang in your chest.

• Alain's scenario in which he was sick and Romanus was at his bedside.

His head is pounding as if a tiny goblin is in there picking an axe against his skull. Alain wants to reach inside his ear and strangle the creature, but all he manages is a weak groan.

This is even worse than his worst hangover. At least, he could treat that with more wine.

The thought of any alcohol right now has his stomach turning, and a wave of nausea makes his body break out in a cold sweat. "God fucking limp-dicked whore," he rasps feverishly. His throat feels like sandpaper, and his lungs are wet and heavy, as if he's been held underwater.

"That doesn't even make any sense." A voice cuts through the waves of agony assaulting his body. "A whore would be vigorous, no?"

With the last-ditch efforts of a dying man, Alain cracks one eye open. The curtains are shut, but the little bit of sunlight that manages to slip through is enough to have his head slipping open once more. But he doesn't close his eyes because there is you.

Sitting on his bedside, with a smile on your face and a towel between your hands. Alain's eye narrows. You don't look worried at all. "I can tell you know nothing about whores," he croaks.

Your smile widens. "And you do? That's not something to boast about, Alain."

He groans, putting his arm over his eyes. "Took you long enough," he says, hoping you can hear the hurt in his tone.

You don't answer with words. Instead, a gentle hand holds his wrist and takes his arm away from his face. Your face pops into view. The surroundings are wrapped and unfocused, but even his feverish eyes can't help but see you whole, as nitid as possible. Alain almost smiles. He scowls instead.

With a low laugh, you put the towel against his forehead. The moment it meets his heated skin, Alain lets out a deep groan. It's cool and damp and feels like heaven. "Hmm."

"Better?" you ask, your hand drifting down to cup his cheek. Alain is too weak to care about dignity; he nuzzles against your palm.

"Better," he confirms. The bed dips when you sit on the mattress, your legs curled against his side. If Alain had the strength, he'd loop his arm around you and bring you close, but he can't.

Your fingers caress the skin underneath his right eye. "I came as soon as I heard," you murmur.

Alain turns his head, so his lips graze your bare palm. "I'm dying."

A puff of air hits his eyelids when you laugh. "You're hardly dying. I spoke with the physician, he said—"

Alain pops an eye open. "Who cares what he said?"

"And you have the best healers taking care of you," you continue as if he hasn't spoken. Your fingers brush against his lips, next, and Alain sees you frowning when you feel how they're burning.

"They're not you," he says in a weak, pathetic voice.

Your face softens. "I'm here now," you say, settling beside him. Your gloved hand massages his left shoulder as you keep caressing his face. "How can I help?"

He wets his dry lips and realizes he doesn’t have enough saliva to do that. "Water."

You quickly bring a glass of cool water to his lips and help him drink with a hand on the back of his head. "Thanks, sparrow," Alain sighs when he lies back down.

"Are you hungry?" you ask him.

Alain shakes his head.

Your fingers dance across his jawline. "Can I make you feel any better?"

"I read something, long ago." Alain closes his eyes, fighting off sleep. "A rare cure. It's supposed to help with illness. I can't ask anyone else for it, though.”

There's a pause. "You can't?" you ask, and were he feeling any better, Alain would have grinned at the suspicious tone of your voice.

"Unfortunately, not."

Another pause.

"Go on, then," you say, nails tapping his chin.

Alain feels like he won something. He's not sure what, though. "The tome theorized that a kiss from a grieving lover could chase away the most aggressive of illnesses. It has to be a true grief-stricken, worried lover, or it won't work."

The fingers halt on his cheek.

Alain peeks at you and sees the driest look on your face. He rasps a laugh and immediately regrets it when his chest explodes in pain. "Shit."

You press down on his bare chest, and he may be hallucinating, but Alain swears it immediately eases the ache. "Don't strain yourself," you say, then lean down and drop a chaste kiss on his cheekbone.

A different kind of heat blooms on Alain's skin. "You ask me not to strain," he says, his voice dragging slightly. Sleep calls to him. "And then you go and do that."

He doesn't see your smile, but he feels it when, at last, you press your lips against his. Alain breathes out, "sweet," he says, "little sparrow."

His eyes drift closed for the last time, but he can't go yet. "Need one more thing."

"What is it?" Your voice comes from far away.

"Don't leave."

Alain doesn't hear it, but the four walls of his bedroom do. You lean down again and kiss his brow. "Never," you promise your bedridden nobleman.

• Romanus, believing Alessa is killed, goes absolutely berserk and on a rampage out of grief, then finds out that she survived somehow.

Alessa falls.

And the world goes red.

The mark isn't in your palm any longer. You feel it in every inch of your skin, in every ragged breath you take, in the sclera of your eyes, in the depths of your gut, in your nails too, when you tear flesh apart.

You don't carry it. You become it.

Your axe drips with bright-red blood, the white remains of bones, and the fleshy substance that hides inside people's skulls. You have a throat in your palm, crushing the windpipe of someone whose gasps never make it to your ears.

Alessa's voice fills them. 'Darling one. I adore you.'

The body falls to your feet. You step on it, hoisting your war axe over your shoulder. It still isn't enough.

A flash of movement in the corner of your eyes has your head snapping like a snake. It hid behind the far wall. Your boots sink into muddy ground, but it's not water that soaks it. It's blood.

Squelch. Squelch.

One footstep, then another. You stalk closer, your vision tunneling until the peripheries are pitch black.

'You are a fool. But... so am I.'

'Do you want to be fools together, Alessa?'

''Tis the only way I know how.'

Your hand tightens on the handle.

Squelch. Squelch.

"Mommy,” calls a weak voice from the other side of the wall.

Your lips curl in a smile too wide to be natural. You hit your axe against the wall, and it trembles whole. A screams in tears from the other side. You slam your axe again and laugh when it shrieks.

Tired of the play, you walk around the wall and spot your next kill. It's smaller than the rest, curled in on itself. Distantly, you can still hear yourself laughing.

'Darling one.'

You step closer. The thing trembles.

'Stop!'

The creature lifts its face. Tear-stained cheeks and—

Eyes as blue as Alessa's.

"Cease this!"

Your name rings out, and the axe stops midair. Your hair is soaked, and in front of your eyes, as you turn and see an apparition before you.

Alessa, bloodied and torn, limps forward. Her lips move in the shape of your name. "Stop," she says. You have never heard Alessa beg before, but this one does. "Please, stop."

The child darts past you and clings to Alessa's back. Both sets of wide blue eyes are fixed on you, and they are both afraid.

Your arm loses strength. You don't hear your axe falling to the ground.

"Alessa?" you rasp out.

"Darling one," Alessa says, taking a tentative step closer. Blood pours from a wound in her temple. "Are you yourself?"

You blink.

And the world goes dark.

-

The first thing you feel is a dull pain in your palm. The second is a metallic taste on your tongue.

You go to wipe your mouth, but your arm is pulled right back down. Frowning, you tug your arm again and feel the bed rattle.

Opening your eyes, you crane your neck and realize you're tied to the bedframe. "What the—"

You jerk your arms hard, but the ropes are tied tight. Panic begins to set in, but you don't trash around yet. Digging your heels into the mattress, you pull with all your strength. The frame creaks, so you clench your teeth and try again.

The door to the room slides open.

You lift yourself to see who walks inside, a snarl on the back of your throat, but you are dumbstruck when you see Alessa. She's wearing a loose tunic with her hair tied back and grey socks on her feet. She also has a wrap around her head and a purple bruise on the side of her neck.

She stops in her tracks when she sees you. You pull on the ropes. "What the hell is this?" you ask.

Alessa stays where she is. "What is your name?"

"What?"

"Your name."

She's actually serious. You tell her. "Who hurt you?" you ask, your anger dying out at the look on Alessa's face.

Alessa slides closer, the candle in her hand casting a long shadow behind her. "And my name?" she whispers.

"Alessa, what's going on?"

Alessa's calm facade cracks, then it drops. She takes a shaky breath and comes forward, the circles under her eyes as dark as her bruises. You want to cradle her face, but the bloody ropes stop you. "Do not harm yourself," Alessa says, resting the candle on the bedside before leaning in. "I will set you free."

"Did you bind me?" you ask. Alessa cuts the right rope with a sharp knife and walks around the bed for the left one.

"I did," she admits as she frees you at last.

Your wrists are raw, but before you can massage them, Alessa grabs your arm and does it for you. Cool, sly fingers dig into the chafed flesh. "Do you require anything?" Alessa asks in a low tone.

She's not looking at you, keeping her head down.

You're so confused, you don't know where to start. "What happened to you?" you ask, sitting up against the bed.

"I was hurt in combat," Alessa says, carefully lowering your left arm to grab your other wrist. She massages it.

You furrow your brows and put your hand on top of hers to stop her. "Please, look at me."

She doesn't.

You gently grab her chin and lift her head up, and your heart shatters when you see her crying. "’Lessa."

She falls forward, and suddenly, you're enveloped in her arms. Alessa's hands cling to you as if she's drowning and you're the only rock in miles. "Say my name once more," she asks, her voice muffled as she presses her face to your chest.

With shaking hands, you hug her back. "Alessa," you whisper, and, as you hold her, so the memories finally flood in.

They're not whole. You see scattered fragments, like broken glass shards. You holding her unconscious body, blood in your hands, blood on your axe, blood pouring out of the Templars, and blood too on—

A wave of nausea rises up your stomach. "What have I done?" you ask, your voice ruined. 

Alessa hugs you so tightly, you can barely breathe. "I feared I had lost you."

You lift your hand from Alessa's back and see it entirely black. Despair rings within your ears. "What have I done?"

Alessa pulls back, and now she's grabbing your face. Her blue eyes filled your vision, and you ground yourself in them, in the tears hanging from her eyelashes. "'Twas not you."

"It was my hands."

Alessa's nails dig into your cheeks. "You were not yourself," she says, her voice shaking no more. Alessa's eyes burn with a freezing flame.

You try to shake your head, but she doesn't let you. Alessa kisses your stiff lips, then your cheeks, then each of your eyelids. She's trembling, still, her whole body.

You would pull her away if you could, but your limbs are too heavy. "Are you scared of me?" you ask.

"No."

Grabbing your chin, Alessa makes you look at her again. "You cannot make me fear you, darling one. Never."

"You should grab that knife and sink it into my chest."

Alessa's nails draw blood down your cheeks. "I would soon sink it into myself." Her thumb sweeps down your scar as she adds, lips brushing your own. "Whatever is transpiring with you, whatever haunts you, we shall see through it together."

You close your eyes and lose yourself in her voice.

"I will not lose you. Not even to yourself."

• What would be Lance's reaction to an oblivious Romanus who asked for his expertise on a secret code they didn't understand, and showed him the note Alain had given them? (Romanus is interested in the bard, not the noble).

For the third time today, you frown at the hastily written letter.

The sun barely peeks from a cloud-filled sky, rain batters the secret hideout's glass ceiling, and Alain's message is as cryptic as the last time you stared at it. The Ball approaches at a dizzying pace, and you should feel ready. You should be fearless.

But this one small line is like a thorn on your side. It's constantly digging in. "My head in the clouds," you whisper, as if the sound of it could give you a clue. It sounds frivolous, unimportant. But this is Alain Theer, a high nobleborn. Can you discard him as inconsequential? You can't begin to envision the kind of games the nobility play... what if this is a piece of it?

What if he's warning you that you're about to walk into a trap?

Alain's letter crinkles when you tighten your grip, frustration growing like a ball in your chest. What in the hell does—

"Ah. So, this is where you hide."

You quickly fold the letter and hide it beneath your thigh. Turning on the stone bench, hidden away in the inner courtyard, you see Lance Silverthread stepping from behind a bush. He's wearing a black doublet with etched silver wings on the shoulders. The top buttons are undone, leaving his neck exposed, and a peek of his whiter, less tanned chest.

You snap your gaze up to meet Lance's grey eyes. His blue hair is damp, clinging to his cheeks and the side of his neck, and his smile is wide enough that you can see the glint of his golden tooth.

"Alessa is searching for you," Lance says conversationally as he comes closer, his steps as light and casual as his tone. "Something about concealing knives in the sleeves."

"I don't think that's going to work."

"Neither do I." Lance stops beside the bench and tilts his head to the ceiling. "But I'm not the one who'll tell her."

Your lips curl upwards. "That's a job for me, is it?"

"You are smart, my friend, have I ever told you that?"

No, I'm not. I can't make sense of a letter.

Your smile is gone, replaced with a frown. Following Lance's gaze, you see the tiny explosions the rain makes on the glass panels. One after the other. "I'll go in a moment," you murmur, ending the conversation, already wanting to look at the letter again.

Lance nods, but he stays put.

Part of you is annoyed, the other can't shake the silly nervousness whenever Lance is near. Torn between wanting him to go and savoring every little moment you have left with him, you simply keep looking at the fallen rain, as Alain's words materialize in your mind's eyes.

I know you keep your head in the clouds...

"What has the rain done to you?"

You blink and come back to earth to see Lance looking down at you. A teasing smile adorns his lips, but his eyes are sharp as blades. "To elicit such a scowl?"

You immediately relax your brow. "It's wet and noisy."

Lance hums in agreement, sitting down next to you. You tell yourself you stiffen because of the letter. "Yes, and what else?"

"There's nothing else."

Lance cocks his head, resting his chin on his shoulder. "You are smart," he repeats, then widens his smile. "But a bad liar, translator."

Your cheeks flush, and you look away. A brief silence settles before, with a sigh, Lance rises to his feet. "I shall see you inside," he says, "the hour approaches."

He turns to go—

"Are you good with riddles?"

Lance halts. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are shining. "The very best."

-

You watch Lance's eyes skim over the short letter for the second time.

There's no hint of emotion on his face, not a twitch of the brow, or a quirk of the lips. He reads it stone-faced and, when he finally looks up, Lance gives you an indiscernible look. "Is this to provoke a reaction?" he asks, his tone as unreadable as the rest of him.

The anticipation bubbling within you gives way to confusion. "What?"

Lance lifts the letter. "Is it a joke?" he asks, deliberately lifting one single eyebrow. "Or a gimmick?"

Something in his tone has you scowling. "You tell me. Why do you think I asked for your help?"

Something flickers on Lance's expression. Suddenly, he's studying you, his grey eyes roaming your face.

You cross your arms defensively. "Alain Theer gave me this two days ago," you explain, "if you think this was meant as a joke, tell me the punchline because I can't see it."

Incredulity flashes across Lance's face, then astonishment, and lastly, he gives a short, half-amused chuckle. "The nobleman is more observant than I gave him credit for," Lance says to himself.

Done with it, you snatch the letter out of his hand. "Speak clearly," you demanded, hitting his boot with yours. "Or leave me be."

Lance puts his hands up. "I meant no offense," he says with a curved smile. "I was... surprised. But not with the letter."

"What then?"

"Yourself."

The conversation is nearly more puzzling than the letter itself. You always feel a bit like this with Lance. Like you're setting into a labyrinth that only he knows the layout of. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, Lance comes closer and gently opens the letter again. His slender finger drifts across the second-to-last sentence. "The Theer revealed both himself and you," he says, his nail stopping in the letter 'clouds'. "He is saying he is interested in you... and that you did not pick up on it."

Denial is at the tip of your tongue, but there it stays. Your eyes slightly widen when you think back on all the times you've met Alain. Could it be…

"Now, the interesting part is whether or not he means it." Lance keeps talking. "Given his reputation, I have no qualms believing Alain would be intrigued by someone who looks like you, but then again, is that not what he'd want us to believe?"

Looks like me? You blink; your breath suddenly stuck in your throat.

Lance drums his fingers on his thigh, eyes intent on the letter. "If this is a ploy... it may mean the twins aren't simple bystanders, but one of the heads of the beast."

Lance shrugs, then. "Or Alain Theer just wants you in his bed." He smiles charmingly, but something looks off about it. "And he's waiting for you to realize it."

You look down, shying away from those keen, grey eyes. You think of Alain again. The way he held your hand, the tilt in his smile, the soft kiss on your knuckles... and it dawns, then. He was flirting with you.

"I'm a fool," you breathe.

Lance sits back on the bench. "We see what we want to see."

You press your palms against your eyes and groan. "God, I'm so stupid."

There's no reply.

You whip your head, then, and nearly grab Lance's lapels. "What should I do? Do you think—" saying it is like spitting out a tooth. "Should I play into it?"

"That, my friend, only you can choose," Lance says. His voice is blank once again, devoid of any emotion.

"Seriously, Lance," you say, tucking a knee under your leg as you turn on the bench. "You're more experienced in this than I am. Have you... seduced your targets?"

His fingers are drumming against his thigh again. "On occasion."

"So?"

Lance rolls his lips, looking ahead for a moment. "There are other ways." He says it softly, like an intake of air after holding your breath. "You do not need to fall into Alain Theer's arms to get those maps, not if you don’t want to."

Lance turns his head and looks at you. Face impassive, but not uncaring. "So, translator, the only question is: do you want to?"

"I—" As you look into Lance's handsome face, the answer is obvious. "No. I don’t."

Lance studies you again. You don't know what he finds in your expression, but, after a beat, he smiles. And your deluded mind must be playing tricks, because it looks relieved.

"Well, there’s your answer." Lance rises and holds out his hand for you. "Now come. Alessa is stacking knives in her uniform as we speak. I beg you to stop it."

---

The rest of the ROs (and Beka) will be in part 3 at the end of the month. ♡

Lingering Glance

The clouds are rolling like ink poured into water.

Rain-whipped wind blows from the east, throwing off your hood and making Billy's hooves falter on the cobblestones. But your eyes are drawn to the brilliance ahead.

The setting sun has long dove below the earthly line, but a new one has risen in its stead. Dozens of lanterns reflected on mirrors bigger than most houses throw beams of light into the night sky, as if issuing a dare to God Himself.

Billy finally conquers the hill, and you see the base of the cliffside where the Theer's castle is embedded into the stone. Three archways, one after the other, allow entrance to a courtyard beyond. Lines of carriages lead up to the archways, where nobles, merchants, and their private guards await their turn. Among them is the carriage with Lance and his band.

You sweep your gaze across the heavily guarded Hilltop and spot a half-hidden stone gate where city guards and servants discreetly come and go.

With a flick of your wrist, you guide Billy towards the gate, Alain/Ysabella's gold/green handkerchief carefully folded in your pocket. The brilliant lights reflect in the whites of your eyes, robbing them of any color but the hungry, calculative glint of a hunter gaining in on his/her prey.

Your mark tingles. The maps are within reach.

You just need to fool the most powerful family of Tarragona.

*page_break Next Chapter

Finished the first draft of Chapter 4! 🎉

Standing at 84 notebook pages, the first draft of Chapter 4 is done! I actually finished it on the 15th, but I've been without my laptop for the last week, and I dislike writing on mobile 😭

But it's finished, and I couldn't be happier. It took me longer than I wanted (because, of course, it did), but I ended up writing the two Ball variations — whether accepted the invitation or not — which added a dozen more pages. I'm very glad I did it because, as I wrote, one of the scenes ended up completely different than what I'd planned, and I like this version a lot better!

This chapter can be divided into 5 parts — the second being the longest and the one I'm most excited for you all to play. There's a scene in part 3 that I love as well 🤭, but all in all, I think scene 2 is the most important of this update.

The beginning was very hard for me to nail down. I ended up going back to it three times; the last time was right before I finished writing the update. So, I have three different versions of the beginner scene, and I'm still unsure which one I like best. I'll figure it out when I start writing in Word. My guess is that it'll be a mixture of the three variations, or something else entirely different.

But everything else was smooth sailing! I had this chapter in my mind for a while, so it was more about putting the thoughts down on paper than trying to figure out what goes where and what should be disclosed or saved for later.

Starting Monday, now that I have my laptop back, I'll write the second part of the Q&A, and when that's done, I will launch myself into the second draft!!!!!! This chapter is much smaller than the third, so I want to get it over with. The Ball awaits 🙂‍↕️

And that's it! I'm sorry for the silence. I wanted to get this over with before focusing on anything else. I don't know what it is about the first draft, but it never fails to completely engross me. I've been losing sleep because I can't stop thinking about how to write certain scenes, sudden dialogue ideas, or descriptions.

So, it's a balm for my mind that's over too 😊

I hope everyone has been keeping well. Summer is nearing its end, and I, for one, am not sad to see it go. Today, it rained, and as I stood beneath it, the raindrops cooling my heated skin, I realized how much I had missed it.

See you all soon ❤️

Sneak Peek

Lance puts his hand on the door handle, but he doesn't open it. The bard looks down, his expression hidden from view.

Chouriça impatiently taps her front paws on the ground, looking up at her master, but Lance doesn't heed her request. He lets go of the doorknob and turns to you once more. "How did you learned it?"

And you don't need him to clarify what 'it' is. What else could it be but Latin?

1. *if (Told_Mist= true) You study his expression. "Mist didn't tell you?"

2. *if (Told_Mist= false) "Do you ask as Lance," you say, eyes boring into his. "Or Mist's spy?"

3. You curl your marked hand. "My mother."

4. Your smile has no mirth. "You didn't share your tale willingly. Why do you think I would?"

5. You shake your head, no more, no less.

In Another Life — Interactive Story

This has been on my mind for a while now, so I've finally put it into words.

Here's the link to the mini-game!

I hope you enjoy it!!!🌹💛

[Note: You must be logged into Patreon]

Summer Q&A — Part 1

• What would the ROS do if Romanus was captured by the Inquisition?

Hadrian would fall to his knees.

He would lose himself, for a moment only. Give in to the hopelessness that carves a hole in his guts, his ears ringing, the end of the world catching up to him. Blurry vision, he'd forget how to breathe.

And then, his left hand would find his cross, while his right curled on the pommel of his black sword. Hadrian would rise from the ground, one leg first, then the other, and when he'd get to his feet, Hadrian would vow to get you back or die trying.

---

It would hit Alessa like a bag of rocks to the face. She'd stand still, as rigid and lifeless as a cold marble statue. Inside, however, a storm would be raging. Heart shattering into a thousand pieces of glass that stabbed her from the inside out, again and again and again and again.

They are gone, and I am alone.

Tears blinded the world. There was no more light, no more warmth. Only eternal winter.

Then, she'd blink. Alessa would stare at the sun until her eyes burned, and her tears dried, and then, one foot in front of the other, Alessa White would do the impossible. She'd challenge the Church itself to get her heart back.

---

Alain would throw things.

The glass in his hand shattered on the opposite wall, the red wine spilling down like blood seeping out of a wound. The chair would be next, leg crushed under his heel, then the table, the curtains, whatever was at hand. From his throat, a desperate, shameless wail of a man who's been torn asunder.

The poor messenger would cower and flee the room, but before he could, Alain's voice would ring out. "Stay." No shouting or screaming. The tone would be lifeless, cold, and hard as steel.

Alain Theer would adjust his coat and step close to the page. Face set as a general preparation for war. "Send word to my honor guard. We leave before sunset." The noble would then pick up a long, thin rapier. "And write to my sister."

"What should I tell her, Your Grace?"

Alain would smile. "I'm sorry."

---

Ysabella wouldn't give herself a single moment. Not a second to breathe, to shake, to spill any tears. If she stopped, she'd break, and you don't need her breaking.

You need her strong.

As soon as word caught her ear, Ysabella Theer would fly to her desk. Writing letter after letter, pulling all the favors and blackmail she collected throughout the years, ambitions and games forgotten, her web of secrets destroyed. Her hand would be steady, her eyes focused, her mouth set into a thin, dangerous line.

She'd have a Cardinal willing to meet her the next morning. That wouldn't do. Ysabella would don her riding pants and set out to his estate in the next half hour.

And it was then, as she rode free, wind in her hair, rain splattering her face, it was then that Ysabella would finally, finally allow herself one single tear. One single shaky breath, one prayer, eaten by the wind. Just one of each. Before she hardened herself once more.

No weakness now. She has her love to save.

---

The Pirate would be at his desk. The letter in hand.

Smoke curled in front of his face, coming from the pipe at his lips. Slowly, he'd reach up and set aside the spectacles hanging from his nose bridge. The letter would be folded in four and stored in the inner pocket of his coat. The King of Pirates would rise, and his face would come to view, and if anyone was watching, their blood would run cold.

The door to his cabin would open, and out he'd come, boots clanking on the boards of his ship. Thump thump thump. Pirates would look at their captain and quickly look away. No one dared to approach, no one dared to even breathe too loudly. Men hardened by battle and forged in flames would lower their heads like submissive dogs.

Their general has death in his eyes.

At the helm, he would put his hands on the railing. "Set sails," the Pirate would say, voice rough like gravel, harsh fingers clutching the wood until the knuckles turned bloodless white. "All ships."

His second would pause. "The whole armada? Where to?"

In front of him, the sea stretched forever. The Pirate hears your name in the wind, your face in the clouds, and your absence as a knife in his chest. "Rome."

---

Neia, the Dawnseeker, would laugh. And what a terrible, beasty laugh it would be. "Is this how it feels?" she'd wonder to herself, her voice scratching the walls of her throat.

Yellow eyes would scan the night sky. "Father in Heaven," she'd mutter, long legs taking her to her ride. Her broken sword, split in the middle when she was taken to die, would be held the whole journey.

Blood would soon drip from it. Blood would paint the halls and the ceilings and the dungeons of every Inquisition stronghold from the south to the north of the Peninsula until she found you. "Guide me true," Neia would pray. "Or I'll drown Your world in my sorrow."

---

Lance would shake.

Whole body, teeth clattering against each other, the sound reverberating through his lonely room, where traces of you could be seen in every corner. Trembling hands would reach for a shirt of yours and clutch it with nails digging into the fabric.

"I failed you." Lance would croak. Another failure, another stain. Without noticing, Lance would mutter words he doesn't believe in and invoke a name he despises. "God Almighty, please." The words would tumble from his lips as his eyes glossed over. "Please, I give thee my blood, my soul, my flesh. Please."

And then, a wet nose would press against his leg, and grey eyes would see the little dog who calls him home looking up with sadness in her little eyes. And the world would be set on the right axis. "I'll bring them back," he'd promise to Chouriça.

Your shirt in hand, he'd seek Mist. Give the underlord all of himself, at last. Lance would do what he'd promised he'd never do again: sell himself, for all is worth to bring you back.

---

Vallen of the Red Guard would breathe deeply. There is an unfamiliar pressure on her chest. She cannot say she likes it.

Calm, owl-like eyes would fix on the horizon. She knew exactly where they took you. The problem is... are you worth it?

The Red Guard's face would be as still as an ancient pond, where the water has long dried out and even the vermin on the earth have left, for there is no moisture left. Unnaturally still, unnaturally empty. Then, Vallen would bend and pick up her travelling bag.

She has her answer. For the first time, in all her life, it’s yes.

---

Rafael would give in to despair.

He'd retch. Double over and empty his stomach. Vile bile would bite his throat and bring tears to his eyes, but it's nothing compared to the dread, the ache exploding inside. Borja wouldn't be able to think in those first moments.

He's been tortured. He's been through it. The thought of you there, in a dark room, afraid, alone, as he has been. The thought of what the Inquisition could do, horrors even he can't imagine.

Rafael vomits again. There's no more food in his stomach, just bile. Shoulders convulsing, all he can see is your face, tear-streaked and afraid and calling out to him. "Rafael."

Your voice would ring in his head, echoing into a chorus. It would grant him the strength to stand up, to wipe his mouth, and think of a plan. To not give in to despair, the end of all things.

He may be a cowardly, selfish bastard, but Rafael Borja would rather cut his own throat than leave you to such a horrible fate. He'll pull you out of it even if it's the last thing he'll do in this wretched world.

• If someone offered Alessa the power to turn off or get rid of her foolish thoughts towards Romanus, would she?

It depends on whether you're together or not. If you're together, she would not hear it. If you're not, she'd take the offer without a second thought.

Alessa isn't one to believe that memories are worth having even when they carry pain. She'd rather get rid of the pain altogether. Set her mind straight, her heart hardened, and her goals unobstructed. If you parted ways forever, Alessa would even erase you from memory if she could.

And always live with a strange, melancholy emptiness inside that she cannot explain.

This answer might depend on other factors in the future, but those are spoilers, so I'll stop here. 😊

• I would love more glimpses of Romanus and Julianna in the origins, please.

"No, like this."

A pair of hands cups yours, long fingers settling over your smaller ones. You look up and see the upside-down face of your mother. "Possum id facere," you protest, but make no move to slip your hands off your mother's grasp.

Julianna's brows furrow. "It is good to be strong and independent, my heart, but also." Mater moves her fingers, guiding yours as they weave the straws into an intricate pattern. "You should know when to accept help."

You watch attentively as your mother weaves the straws into a basket, the bottom almost finished. She repeats the motions thrice before stepping back. "Perge," Julianna gives the go-ahead, sitting beside you on the bench outside your modest farmhouse.

Gentle fields stretch to the horizon and, very faintly, you can hear the pigs start to stir. Soon, you'll be tasked to feed them, but you still have some time.

Your tongue sticking out of your mouth, you mimicked your mother's motions. You can feel her eyes on you, ever so sharp, and you can't help but feel nervous. You coil the stripes, once, twice—

A warm hand brushes your brow. "Very well," Julianna says, rising to her feet. You look up, and her long hair is framed by the golden light of a splendid sunrise. "You've mastered it."

Her smile looks soft in the gentle glow, and when she bends to leave a light kiss on your head, you blink in surprise. "Now, get dressed." Mater changes to Common. "If you want to accompany me to the Market tomorrow, you need to finish all your chores today."

You jump to your feet. "Yes, momma!"

---

"Don't insult me."

"It's all I have!"

"I'm not in the habit of running a charity," your mother says, dismissing the other woman with a wave of the hand. "Look for the churches up north, perhaps you'll meet a better fate."

You hold your breath. The would-be client is interested in your most precious item, a gem-filled elephant statue that Mater snatched from some dark dealings a few months back. So far, no place you've visited could afford it, but you're in the bustling marketplace of Cairo, and the patrons here have the kind of coin you can only dream about.

The woman offered three gold pieces. You almost jumped in joy, but your mother simply shook her head no.

The two adults stare into each other's eyes, neither willing to surrender. "Your loss," the client says at last, and turns to go.

The world tumbles beneath your feet. "Mom, how could—"

Julianna doesn't even spare you a glance. She keeps her eyes on the woman's back as she takes a step, then another... then, with a twirl of her shawl, angrily returns to your stall. "Five gold and that's the last offer."

Julianna bends her head. "Sold."

The sun is setting, and so are you. You're closing your stall for the night when your mother walks closer, a heavy punch hooked to her belt. "We have enough to last us the whole winter," Mater says with a rare, satisfied light in her eyes. "And the market will run for ten more days."

You throw a cover over the goods. "How did you know?" you ask.

"Hmm?"

You turn to your mother. "How did you know she'd break?"

Julianna's pleased look disappears. Her gaze sharpens as she steps closer. "You are no longer a child, cor meum." She whispers the last words. My heart. "All these years teaching you and nothing stuck? Do you believe I'll be around forever?"

You cross your arms. "Don't be dramatic."

But Julianna sighs. "How can I not? When my own blood flails like a fish out of water."

Part of you is offended, while the other part catches the slightest tease in her tone. "Then you should blame yourself," you say, fighting back a grin. "For not giving me legs to stand on."

Julianna stares at you before, with a huff, she ruffles your hair. Moonlight lights the night, illuminating her smile. It's becoming rare to see her this way. You've taken to enjoying every moment it happens. "Because." Your mother leans in and whispers in your ear. "I saw her coin purse. It was so fat the strings couldn't even fasten it closed."

"That's all?" you ask, smile spilling free.

Julianna leans back so she can look you in the eye. "No," she says. "I also saw the glint of greed in her eyes when she looked at the statue. You should learn to recognize it. It is as dangerous as it is malleable."

---

The boar is bleeding, corned, and exhausted. Its belly heaves up and down, and its beady black eyes gaze as you come out of the heavy shrubbery, your bow lowered and your free hand on the pommel of your hunting knife.

Mater follows in your footsteps, her presence ever vigilant on your back.

You stalk close to your prey, which you've been hunting for the better part of two days. You’re breathing as unevenly as the boar, and tiredness is making your limbs hang heavy.

You can tell the animal has given up. Three arrows stick to its back, and one more is split on its ribs. Dark blood seeps out of the wound punctures. The boar shakes, then falls sideways to the leaves. Dappled sunlight shines from the canopy above, settling like a veil over its body.

Your hand shakes as it takes out the knife. Its beady eyes follow the movement, and you can see the fear there. The absolute fear of this living thing, lying at your mercy.

And then, you stand still.

Julianna breaks the quiet. "Percute nunc."

You tighten your grip. Strike. Strike! But your hand refuses to obey.

There's another pause before Mater steps to your side. She doesn't touch you. She doesn't need to. "What do you think of?"

Your eyes are fixed on the blood. "Grizzly—"

A hand grabs your wrist and turns you to her. You have to crane your neck to face her, Julianna standing several heads taller than you. This is your first proper hunt, the first time you must prove yourself to her, but all you can think of is how Grizzly bled too, and you helped him. You didn't strike.

"Listen to me." Julianna grabs both of your shoulders, her face as grave and hard as her tone. "Do you think Grizzly doesn't hunt?"

"I— I know he does, but—"

Julianna's nails sink into your shoulders. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. "From dirt to flesh, to dirt again. Look at it. It's in pain, bleeding heart of mine. Would you leave it to suffer or grant it a merciful, dignified death?"

You look at the boar. It's shaking, its breath ragged. There's fear there, yes, but also pain. Overwhelming pain.

Julianna gently pushes you forward. "You said you were grown enough. Prove it."

You do. You strike true and take the first life in your young existence.

You don't realize you're crying until Mater sofly takes you into her arms. You cry into her tunic, cry for the loss of innocence, for the cruel circle of life. Julianna kisses your brow, and a gentle hand soothes your back.

"Shed your tears, little one," she says, "and may these be your last. I don't ever want to see you cry over what must be done. Never hesitate when it comes to your survival."

• Are there any sides to certain characters that a high-friendship Romanus would see that a romance Romanus wouldn't? Or at least wouldn't see till much later? You know, how some things you can admit to a friend more easily than you could to someone you're dating, because there's still high trust but lower pressure to get every word right?

Hmm, this one is hard and may not work for every character, especially because I haven't written friendship dynamics outside of Hadrian, Alessa, and, to a lesser extent, Lance and Rafael.

But I'll give it a go!

Hadrian: His nightmares. I can see him admitting it more readily to a high-friendship Romanus than a romanced one because, while he still doesn't want you to worry, he wouldn't feel as... weak? Vulnerable? With a friend rather than a lover.

Alessa: Her enjoyment of 'silly things'. I think she's more at ease showing her childish side (the word she'd use, not me) to a friend rather than a lover. The reason is very simple: she's embarrassed and doesn't want her lover to think of her as less-than.

Alain: This one's a heavy one, but probably, he'd admit to a friend first that he may have a drinking problem. He has his walls set up higher with a romanced Romanus because it's so very new to him and strange, but with friendship, he'll open up more easily.

Ysabella: Honestly, nothing. Bella is the type to keep all her secrets close to her chest, but if she is to trust anyone, she'd trust her lover first.

The Pirate: You won't get much of him as a friend, I'm afraid. His friendship will be more... respect-based, and, in the future, as a bond forged through fire, but I don't see him opening up to a friend. A lover, however…. You’ll have to work for it, but he'll grow soft for you only.

Neia: Neia never had true friends. If you manage to become one, she'll regard you almost as highly as a possible lover. There are some things I could see her approaching with a friend first, mostly the way she grew up and what she endured within the Church. I think, to a lover, she'd cover that part of her past for a while longer.

Lance: Too guarded. Both romance and friendship will probably move at the same pace when it comes to his trust in you.

Vallen: 😆

Rafael: Much like Neia, the true, vivid story of what happened to him. He'd be terrified of a lover thinking him pathetic and leaving him, but, with a friend, Rafael would be more candid. He'd still care about what you think of him, but he'd believe you're his friend because you enjoy his company. In a relationship, Rafael constantly doubts why you put up with him in the first place.

• If roles were swapped with Romanus and each of the characters, and they were the one with the mark, how big would the mark/corruption level be for each person? Or if they're someone who hasn't killed before, like Ysabella or Alain, if they were given the same choices as Romanus from Book 1 to the current demo, what would their corruption level be now?

Corruption isn't only tied to death, and the mark, as you can see in the demo, is ever-growing, so none could escape it.

I'll answer as if they're the protagonist and the story has gone all the way to the current end of the demo.

Hadrian: One of the lowest of the bunch. He'd have around 6 Corruption. Five because of the dream, and one because he would have killed Wyll when he was threatening Romanus/Alessa.

Alessa: Highish. I'd say... 10? She's pragmatic to the point of cruelty, so I can see her making some pretty brutal choices — and the more she gave into that side of her, the easier violence would come.

Alain: Not as corrupt as he could be, simply because his life hasn't allowed/given him the opportunity to. He'd definitely use his darker side to be more involved in the nobility's games. I could see him growing extremely corrupt with time, but it would take a while. In the game, around 7 or 8.

Ysabella: Seldom uses violence unless it's absolutely necessary. The problem with necessity is that it's as subjective as morality. Over time, the bar for what's 'necessary' would lower more and more. But, for now, she'd have about 5 or 6 Corruption.

The Pirate: Close to 15. He's already a murderer, a pillager, and, well, a pirate. With the mark, he'd be more ruthless and brazen, possibly to the point of risking mutiny. I can see the mark eating away at his calculative, general-of-war intellect, making him less of a leader and more of a violent idiot.

Neia: She'd have a high Corruption, but the more it grew, the more she would cling to the certainty it was a divine gift. The most dangerous of the bunch, because she'd see her brutality as righteous. I'd say 15 or more.

Lance: In the low end, about 7 or 8. Despises violence without cause, but when it comes to the Church, I could see him losing it. Still, in the game, there wouldn't be many chances for it to grow.

Vallen: The highest it can go in a single playthrough. Not because she'd be crazed with bloodlust, but because she can. If the easier route is murder, Vallen takes it. If she thinks the mark can grant her an advantage? She's actively seeking to make it grow.

Rafael: Low as well. The only way I'd see it growing a lot is if Tarek were involved. Then, Rafael would lose himself to the mark. But, in-game, a 6 or 7.

• I was wondering for the reason of the flag colour change in the Mist hideout. Was it anything special or just an aesthetic change?

Do you mean when Alessa says it used to be another flag? Well... in-game, who knows? Out of game, there is usually a reason when authors/directors/video game developers make it a point to highlight a small, supposedly unimportant detail to the audience. 

You're supposed to keep it in mind. 😊

• My question for the ROs is: if you could take Romanus to see the place you truly call home, would you?

Hadrian: Definitely. If he thought returning to Lundenwic was safe, he'd love to show you the monastery he grew up in and the Order that took him in. The rainy moors, the steep cliffs, the magpies flying in pairs. Yes, he'd love it. 

Alessa: She'd like to as well. Home isn't something she thinks of often, and she tells herself her home is in Navarra, in the Company's headquarters, but, deep down, she knows it's untrue. Her home, her true home, is on a small island in the Greek archipelago. She’s fond of it, but Alessa doesn't wish to return. If it were to show you, however... what a nice, foolish thought that is. Impossible, but she catches herself smiling. 

Alain: No. Absolutely not. He doesn't want you anywhere near the nest of vipers he grew up in. Alain often drinks to forget it. 

Ysabella: Much like Alain, she wouldn't. There's nothing to go back to; she'd rather build her own little home with you. So far, she and Alain have no true home – only each other.

The Pirate: Sure, that'd be great. There's only one problem, though. Where in the Spirits is his home?

Neia: Indifferent. If home is where she grew up, Neia could take you to the first Inquisition fort she ever stepped into, but she doesn't consider it home. Home are the churches, with their candles and pews and somber organ music drifting towards the domed ceiling. Home is the road, where she followed divine orders to their end. Home is her sword, and her dead horse, and the armor that clings to her body like a second skin. 

Lance: No. 

Vallen: Hmmm. She hasn’t thought of home in a long, long time. Would you like to visit? She supposes she can lead the way. She likes travelling with you. 

She'll show you the ruins of her home.

Rafael: He dreams of home almost every night. His little house, full of his siblings, messy and unkempt, but always smelling of fresh-baked bread and the underlying smell of clean linen sheets. He dreams of his ma, with lines on her face, and the grave of his da, surrounded by flowers. He'd kill to take you there, hold your hand, and introduce you to his ma, then his siblings, then the spouses of his siblings, and any possible nieces and nephews. 

He'd love to, but he can't. He can't. 

• Can Raf swim? I'm sure he can't, but I'm trying to prove someone wrong (it ain't me.) 

He can! 😆 Sorry to disappoint. He's actually a fairly good swimmer. The only ROs who can't swim are Lance and Ysabella. Lance knows how to keep himself afloat for a bit, but, in strong tides or restless waters, he'd have a hard time. Ysabella was prohibited from swimming, while Alain had lessons at a private beach on their family estate.

All the others know how to swim out of necessity, some better than others. The Pirate is, of course, the best swimmer of the bunch. I'd say, right after him, is Alessa.

If this were true to History, pretty much all of them wouldn't know how to swim, since it was uncommon for people to swim, and do it well, in the Middle Ages (even seamen, crazy as it is). But, in the game, the majority of the cast can at least keep themselves from drowning immediately.

Just for fun, I'll also say my headcanons for each of the origins. The strongest swimmer is the Merchant Romanus because you've spent long hours of your childhood playing on the Nile. When it was calm, you swam quite far (got yelled at by Julianna once) and, when the waters got tempestuous, you loved to dive under the waves. Often you'd be caught in them, and roll around until you lost sense of what was up or down, and every inch of your body was covered in mud. 

The second-best swimmer is the Scribe Romanus. There was a stream in your farmland where Julianna used to teach you how to swim. It was always calm, so you're not used to the sea or the ocean, but you do know how to swim quite well. There were fish in that pond. When you were very little, you considered them your friends. 

The last in Hunter Romanus. You lived in the moors and highlands. There were streams and rivers, but they were either too dangerous to swim in, too cold, or too far away in some ravine. You know the basics, Julianna made sure of it, but overall, you're the most uncomfortable in water. 

• I would like to see the ROs' (Hadrian and Alessa, excluded because they have already met) reaction to Beka. Maybe Romanus is taking her under their wing without consulting their partner? 

You'll definitely see this in-game! Though you'll never 'consult your partner'. If you decide to take Beka under your wing, Romanus will do it because they want to. They need not ask anyone. 

Beka would take offence otherwise. 

• In the future, when they are already in a committed relationship, how would the ROs react to Romanus telling them that they love them? 

You'll see this in-game as well! 😆 Sorry, but this is very specifically something that will happen!!

• Do accents exist in TGR? Hadrian talking about being from Lundenwic got me wondering. I never imagined him with an English accent, but now I'm dying to know — haha! If they do exist, do any of the other ROs have one?

There are some subtle accents, especially in remote places and villages that are often cut off from the larger world. The British Islands are too big to have a universal accent, plus, the south isn't isolated at all. The Church is everywhere, and many cities and settlements are major hubs of commerce to the mainland. 

Hadrian is from the south; he speaks like the others in the Enlightenment Lands, there's no special accent. 

This world isn't like our own, and History took a big turn. Language developed very differently — there weren't many different influences to pull from. Latin ceased to exist, so Spanish, Portuguese, and French never developed. Germanic languages never existed, either, so the Common spoken (although it's written in English because, well, the game is in English) doesn't sound like English. 

It's a different language altogether. There are accents here and there, but it’s mostly homogenous. The Church wants the land united, indistinguishable, and, totally, wholly, subversive. If language started to stray too far off the 'norm', well... it needs to be dealt with. 

As for the ROs, the only two with noticeable accents are the Pirate and Lance. Lance, because his first language is Latin. He learned Common later than Latin, so there's always a kind of lightness in the tone; the vowels are less pronounced, and he speaks it like a stream, or a melody, where commas and full stops are often ignored. 

He's gotten better at hiding it, but it's still very much noticeable. 

The Pirate also speaks Common as his second language. He can be clumsy with it, especially in moments of high tension — which, to be fair, rarely happen. You'll notice a slight off-cadence to his speech, like he's dragging the consonants behind him with an iron chain.

As for Romanus, the only one I could see with an accent growing up would be the Hunter. Their village is isolated enough to allow some deviation in speech. They lost it when they traveled away, however. Now, Romanus speaks like all the others.  

• This is very much spoiler territory, but I would like to know how the group would interact with a high-corrupted Romanus.

Spoilers indeed, my friend! 

• Romanus asking or being asked to dance by their RO, and what they might chat about while they dance.

Spoilers too! I don’t want to ruin the Ball, now that it’s so close. ♡

• Before we had the "Wind," "Water," "Fire" posts of a near-death Romanus with the ROs. Was wondering if there would be one of those with Rafael and Lance as the ROs, too?

I stopped that series because, to be quite honest, I was tired of writing the same theme over and over. But, it's been some time, so sure, I can write for Raf and Lance as well! 

Those are very long scenarios, however, and they deserve their own post, so I won't include them in this Q&A ❤️

• How long ago did Hadrian, Lance, and Rafael leave their old lives behind?

Hadrian left the Templars about six years ago. Lance fled the monastery almost ten years ago. Rafael tore himself away from the Company two, nearly three years ago. 

• How would the ROs help calm down a frustrated Romanus? Frustrated with their lack of progress on a mission or them struggling to translate a text fully, for example?

Hadrian: Unwavering support. Hadrian would lay a large hand on your back and be whatever you needed him to be. "Take a breath," he'd say, soothing up and down your spine. "What can I do?"

Would you like to talk about it? Hadrian would listen. Do you want to take your mind off the problem? Hadrian would gladly accompany you wherever you wanted to go. Do you want to be left alone? Hadrian would... be hurt, but, with a quiet kiss to your temple, he'd leave you be.

Alessa: "'Tis unwise to give in to frustration. It complicates even the simplest of matters."

She'd remain calm and try to guide you out of it. Alessa is no stranger to frustration, and she knows how much worse it can be when someone tells you to 'calm down'. She'd rather be calm and hope you follow suit. If you're open to it, she'd give her advice on matters she understood. If it were a translation... Alessa would tell you that ancient texts would not go anywhere. "Take a break, darling one, and follow me. The air smells of the sea."

Alain: I could see him annoying you a bit 😭. Not necessarily on purpose, but he could be dismissive. "Is that what has your panties in a twist? Sparrow, just step away from the desk."

He would be offended in kind if you told him to shut up. Might brood a little bit.

With time, and as your relationship deepened, Alain would understand that, even if something seems trivial to him, it doesn't mean it's trivial to you. So, he'd begin by sending food and drinks to your quarters. Then, a new, beautiful quill. A plush chair with golden leaf details, coupled with a silken blanket to drape over your legs.

You'd be swarming in gifts when he stepped into the room, a shy grin in place. "How are you feeling? You don't want my head on a pike?" he'd ask, only mildly joking, as he grabs hold of your hand and kisses your knuckles. "Anything I can do? My treasury is yours to use."

Ysabella: If it wasn’t important, she'd try to make your smile. Prob the corner of your lips, tickle the side of your ribs. Lace a hand on your bicep and ask you to walk with her. "I am in dire need of an escort," Ysabella would say, pulling you along with a pretty smile. "And I know none better than you."

If it were important, however, you'd see a side of Ysabella that very few do. She'd sit right beside you, her brows in a firm set and a subdued fire in her eyes. "Tell me," she'd say. "Let's join our heads together."

The Pirate: Straight to problem-solving mode. He'd be telling you three different ways you can solve the issue. "Just tell me who's giving you trouble, peach. I'll take care of it."

"You need an in? It's done."

"Don't know what that text means? I'll try to—"

He’d snap his mouth shut when you sent him a glare. "...What?"

It'd take a while for him to get through his thick skull that you may just need to vent. When he'd understand, though, the Pirate would wrap you in his arms and be the ear you needed. If you're restless, he'd take you out to sea. And if you ever wanted his advice, he'd give it to you. In this, he'd let you take the lead.

Neia: She'd grunt, sit beside you, and stare ahead. At first, you thought she was ignoring you, but you soon understood she was waiting for you to explain. In detail. Neia would interject, cross-examining the problem until you felt like you were in an interrogation.

Overall, however, she'd be surprisingly good at it. If she saw a solution, she'd tell you, and scoff if you rejected it, but stop there. If she didn't have a solution, she'd tell you plainly that it's useless to mull on it. "Truth almost comes to light," Neia would say, her yellow eyes like two beacons. "Sooner or later, you'll have it. But you can't force providence. Either work for it or put it out of your mind."

Lance: He loves challenges. He'd love to work alongside you, if you'd let him. Puzzles, secrets, ways in without leaving a trace. Lance would team up with you and, hopefully, get rid of that frustration by showing you he won't let you do this alone.

"Lay it out to me, translator," Lance would say, his gold tooth flashing as he offered his hand. "If we fail... well, we may take comfort that we fail together."

To calm you, though, Lance would absolutely employ Chouriça. Plop her on your lap and let the little dog do what she does best. The spy would feel a strange warmth in his chest when you'd finally smile at Chouriça.

Vallen: She wouldn't get it at first. Why are you so invested in this? She'd try to understand the issue first and, much like the Pirate, she'd be more focused on finding solutions than reassuring you.

"You're complicating things," Vallen would tell you, pointing a finger at your heart. "Stop thinking with this." She'd then move her finger up, and a nail would scratch your forehead. "And use this."

She would genuinely bring new light to the issue, but the problem is... I don't know if you'd like that light 😆. If Vallen noticed you were becoming increasingly frustrated, she'd just grab your face and kiss you, shutting off your mind by pleasuring your body.

Rafael: He would be frustrated right along with you. Scowling, fingers restless, curses on the tip of his tongue. "Don't know how the hell we're s'pose to get it," he'd say, slamming his drink on the counter. "Bastards ripped us off."

You'd feed off each other until you're both ready for war xD. There'd be a time, however, if Rafael saw you genuinely in distress, where he'd rein himself in. Swallow his own frustrations and focus on you. He'd be clumsy, at first, but he'd try to talk it out with you. "Hey, softie..." A pause, then Rafael would kiss the corner of your mouth. "Hang on a moment, yea? You wanna talk about it? Without shouting?"

• How would the ROs react to Romanus showing them where they grew up? 🥺 The hunter's forest, the scribe's old farm, the banks of the Nile?

Hadrian: Solemn, almost. He knows. He knows what this means to you, how hard it must be for you. Hadrian would be holding your hand tight through the whole ordeal, and, while your home is beautiful, his eyes would be constantly drawn to your face.

The cadence of your voice as you spoke of your childhood, the soft, open look in your features, that vulnerable, precious light in your eyes. And the pain, too, underneath it all. Hadrian would drink it all in and behave as if he were stepping into a cathedral, where the air itself is sacred.

He'd remember every word, every corner. Because it's you. And there's nothing more holy than you.

"I'll never forget this," Hadrian would say, kissing your bare stomach as he knelt before you. "For as long as God keeps me on this earth."

Alessa: Outside, Alessa would be composed, matching your every step, asking soft-spoken questions. Her eyes would catch the sunlight as she observed every detail, from the rocks on the gravel path to the mountains that cut the horizon.

Inside, Alessa would be melting. This is... she has never quite felt this. To be let in, to be included, to be trusted in this manner. She thought she could not love you more, but you prove her wrong again and again. When you stop in an outcrop, and you stare at where your old house used to be, Alessa's gaze is drawn to your profile.

To the indescribable expression you wear. She wishes she could decipher it, but all she does is quietly reach for your hand. And when you lace hands together, Alessa does not complain about how tightly you hold onto her. She squeezes back, a knock on her throat, and foolish tears welling in her eyes.

"Darling one," Alessa would whisper, frigid hands cupping your face, lying on top of you. "Tell me of your friends once more. I wish to remember their names."

Alain: The nobleman would immerse himself completely in it. "Is this what you wore?" He'd want to wear something similar. He'd listen raptly to your tales and laugh along with you about the times you tripped and fell into this hole, or the times you rolled around in the sand.

The whole thing would be liberating to him. He couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to have a childhood like yours, and how he wished he could have met you sooner. He wished to see your chubby face, and your toothless smiles, and the innocence you had before the world took it away.

But Alain isn't blind. Among the genuine joy he'd have on the trip, he would see your sorrow too. He doesn't necessarily understand it — his childhood had nothing to be melancholic about, but he can imagine. So, he'd step up from behind and hold you, chin resting on your shoulder. "Thank you for thanking me here," he'd say, wiping the tear that rolled down your cheek.

Ysabella: She'd be uncharacteristically quiet. Her round, brown eyes reflecting the light, but letting nothing out. She'd listen to you, both the words and the way you'd say them. It was like Ysabella was reading a book, and she didn't want to miss a single clue.

Inside, she was adding pieces to the puzzle that you are. Little by little, story by story, the puzzle would fill — not completely, she knows that will take a long time, but some.

She'd jump on puddles, dress hitched high, and giggle when you took her into your arms and carried her across the stream of your farmland. The fields are wild now, unkept, but when you arrived at the collapsed farmhouse, Ysabella's smile would die as she saw your face.

Her hand would grab yours as if she wanted to take your pain into herself. "I can imagine it," she says, sweeping her free arm in the air. "Right there was the bathing house."

You'd crack a small smile. "We had no bathing house."

"Blasphemy! But how did you survive?" Ysabella laughs, then continues. "And there, the guest wind. Over on that hill—"

She'd entertain you, trying to keep the overwhelming sadness away, but her hand would never leave yours.

The Pirate: He looks out into the moors and shakes away the wrongness of not seeing the sea on the horizon. Instead, jagged mountain tops surround him. "Not bad," he says, the northern wind biting at his cheeks. He looks at you and smirks. "This place is harsh and wild. Fit for a warrior."

You bump your shoulder with him. "Told you."

You lead him down the perilous path, his hand firm on your shoulder. You think it's because he needs you for balance, but in reality, the Pirate is keeping you close. He felt a shift in you as you drew closer to your destination. A restlessness coupled with something deeper.

If you need to break, he wants to be right there to catch you.

When you approach the village, the Pirate has his arm over your shoulders as his black eyes sweep over the rugged houses. Despite his words, he thinks this place is unbefitting of you. You deserve gold and jewelry, the finest meats, and the smoothest wines. But you came from this, and for the first time, he realizes that you and he aren't so different, after all.

And when you finally break, in the ruins of your old house, he does what he set out to do. He catches you, tight and firm, in his arms. "Leave the past in the past," the Pirate whispers in your ear. His tone isn’t unkind, but it’s not soft either. It’s spoken with the pain of experience. "Leave it all behind, peach. Set your eyes on the horizon, or you'll be eaten whole."

Neia: Neia follows you around with a blank face. She listens to your tales and watches the scenery, but she's not particularly interested in the outside, nor does she care for what once was. She's interested in you, the current you, not the one in the past.

And because she wants to know you, she settles instead to observe what you choose to tell her. And uncover what you try to hide.

You hide the sorrow in your voice well, but you can't fool her. Not when you crouch down to touch the warm sand of a tall dune. Neia lowers herself with you, sweat dripping down her back, and tilts your chin until yellow eyes study every inch of your face. "Hmm."

"What?" you ask.

Neia's rough thumb sweeps over your sun-kissed cheek, brushing away fine sand. "You missed this."

You look down. "Of course, I did."

Neia nods, then gets up, pulling you after her. "Then come," she says, marching down towards the glinting river in the distance. "Show me all you used to do. Don't try to keep anything from me, either, sweetling."

A sharp smile over her shoulder. "I'll know."

Lance: Lance is keeping notes the entire journey. He writes of the sunset hues over the valley of Lamego, and the brilliant starry sky that stretches to the infinite. He writes of the blackbirds at dawn, and the wind rustling over the blades of grass, creating a melody even the Gods couldn't compose.

He notes about the food in the area, the clothes people wear, and the wooden churches along the road. He writes poems about the winding roads, the song of roosters on the distant farms, and the swarm of bees that chased you off a hill.

But, most of all, Lance writes about you. Your smile, the way your hair gleams in the moonlight. He writes about your eyes, and how they creased in the corners when you taught him how to weave a basket. Lance notes about the warmth of your kisses in the night, and the scent of your skin, and the secret whispers two lovers promise each other.

He writes too, of your mother. Lance writes of the pained twist of your mouth, of the shake in your voice, and he doesn't write how he held you through it because he wants the focus to stay on you.

At the end, three fortnights after you left, Lance would sit you down and sing to you the long song he composed of your outing. "In fields of gold and skies of blue, a most loved child learned how to sew."

Vallen: Her feet are ice cold, but she doesn't move.

"Hold on..."

The spear pole is wet and slippery, but Vallen holds it true.

"Hold..."

Her eyes narrow on the silvery fish lazily gliding along the shallows of a fast-moving river.

"Now!"

Vallen throws the spear.

Red mist slowly taints the crystalline water, the catfish impaled at its end. "Yoo-hoo!" You jump up, your fist in the air. Then, you grab Vallen's shoulders and shake her. "You fuckin’ got it!"

She widens her eyes. "I’m good at killing things."

You're still hollering when you plunge into the water and fetch her kill, moving as if the cold doesn’t affect you. Vallen cocks her head at your back as the echoes of your voice climb up the stony ravine above. She has never seen you this... free and happy.

The bonfire crackles softly. Vallen's catfish slowly spins above, and you cut some onions to accompany the fish. Vallen was setting up the tent, but she came closer now and sat on the log you're on.

"Was this how you ate?" Vallen asks, watching the fish's mouth hang wide open. What an ugly thing.

You shake your head. "We didn't live in the wild," you say, "tomorrow we'll get to my old village. We often ate together with the other families."

Vallen turns her head and watches you. The whites of your eyes reflect the fire, and the gentle glow outlines your profile. Your black hand holds the knife, a potato half forgotten in your grip. She watches you quietly, wishing she could reach up, split your skull open, and read every thought that festers in your mind.

But she'll settle for asking. "Tell me," Vallen says, laying her head on your shoulder. "Tell me everything."

And, in a low, monotonous voice, you do.

Rafael: Oh, but he's hurting too. For every story of your past, he tells you one of his. When you mention your mother, Rafael speaks of his. Your old friends, your pastimes, your favorite sweets, and your most hated foods.

Rafael listens to you raptly, stores the information, and then shares a piece of himself with you.

You both drift as if in a dream, in a line between the past and the present, where memories materialize out of thin air. He learns so much about you, asks so many questions, and, in turn, you do the same to him.

As you walk hand in hand at night, the Nile lapping at your ankles, you tell Rafael about all the times you used to play in the waves. "Friends came and went, always a new group each summer, but these waters..." You swallow a knock on your throat as you gaze at the moon reflected on the river’s surface. "These waters stayed the same. It was the only thing that never changed."

Rafael stops walking and looks out at the Nile. Then, his hand slips from yours to grab something in his pocket. Rafael bends down, plunges his hand in the water, and, when he straightens up, he presents you with a small, corked bottle.

"You should have it with ya, then," Rafael says, "always."

You stare at the bottle. It's filled with water from the Nile. The knock in your throat tightens until it makes your lungs ache.

Rafael looks from you to the bottle, then back to you. "Forget it, it was stupid," he says, eyes darting down as a dark flush creeps up his cheeks. "I thought—"

But you throw your arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. "Thank you," you say, the tears falling unabashedly. "Thank you, Rafy."

He buries his face in your neck. "Love ya."

----

There were a lot more questions than I expected (Thank you!). So, I'll write a scenario for each RO in the next part! I want to take my time with them, and this has gotten too big!

There are several different scenario requests, but worry not; those I don't choose, I'll keep in mind for future posts. 🌹

Questions Wanted 🫵

The update has come and gone; it's high time to do a Q&A!

As always, feel free to ask questions to the characters directly, me, or suggest a snippet or a scenario you'd like to see! It's been a while since I've done one of these. I miss reading what you guys come up with!

Thank you in advance to everyone who participates ❤️

Progress Report

Hello!!!

My hand is cramping right now, so I thought, why not tap keys on a keyboard instead of awkwardly clutching a pencil? I'm due for a progress report anyway.

The first draft of Chapter 4 is going very well! The chapter will be divided into four parts, or 'big' scenes, as I like to call them. Right now, I'm nearing the end of the second scene, which is, by far, the largest of the four. This means I should be past the halfway point to finish the first draft 🎉 Last week, I didn't write much when my brother was here (it was only three days), so I'm hoping to be done with this stage in a week and a half? Depends on how well this goes, but I think that's a very realistic goal 😊

Tomorrow and Monday, I'll dedicate myself to the bonus content of this month, but then, it's full speed ahead!!!! As I said before, this chapter acts more like a prelude to the Ball, but it does have 2 very important moments in it. One is masked as not that important, and the other opens up a bit into the mind (and goals) of one of the pillar characters of the Rose. Your answer to them is just as important.

No more spoilers tho! I really want you to experience this for yourselves 😋 I'm trying to find a good snippet to share for the Lingering Glance, but honestly, it hasn't been on my mind much. So, I'll go hunt for it in the next few days.

That's it! The goal for next week is to either finish or be nearly finished with the third big scene. 🙏 I believe that's feasible.

How's your summer (and winter, to those in the south) going? It's not as hot here as it was last week, but the weather is fluctuating a lot T_T. I've been getting back into Critical Role, which I stopped almost 3 years ago, and seeing them again has hit me in the feels. I'm also hunting for a good book cause I just finished mine, so if you have any suggestions, feel free to share!

I hope your weekend is going well. See you all soon ❤️

It Begins

Started the new chapter!!! The title is not set in stone - I usually get better ideas as I write, but, for now, this will do.
Romanus, get ready ⚫️ ✋️

Progress Report

Happy Sunday!!

Last week was a lot calmer than I had anticipated 😊. Right after the update, I realized I needed a little bit of time away from screens in general, so I took a couple of days off, and it felt so good. I really recharged (as did my eyes).

But, as of today, I've hunted down all the typos, errors, and inconsistencies in the demo. I also just added the new relationship descriptors for Hadrian, Alessa, Lance, and Rafael. And, lastly, I wrote the missing reactions in chapter 3. All in all, I think it was a good week, even if not as productive as I would have liked.

I'll either update the new files on Wednesday or Friday, so people have a little more time before their saves are broken. The upload is mostly minor fixes, so most likely, you won't notice a change in your playthrough. I wouldn't recommend starting a new game just for it — but, of course, you're free to do so! 💛

The goal for next week is to be deep into the first draft of chapter 4!!! I'll start writing it tomorrow afternoon, and I am both excited and nervous 😭 I don't know why, but I always get anxious at the start of every chapter.

But that's it!!! I hope your weekend is going well. My brother will be visiting for three days next week, which just makes me very happy.

See you all soon🌹

Clarity within Madness

⚠️ This post contains spoilers for the Alpha. Those of you who haven't read it to the end, please exit and come back once you do!!! ⚠️

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So, because I'm nosey, and I love to hear about your Romanus, which of the options did you choose at the end of the Interlude? What do your Romanus think of what's happening to them? And do they really believe it, or is that just something they're saying out of pure desperation and fear?

Edit: I LOVED reading all your thoughts! Thank you so much for sharing your Romanus ❤️ great inspiration source.

Progress Report

Happy Friday!!!

The update has been out for a few days, and it still feels surreal to have accomplished that milestone. I want to say, once again, thank you to everyone who reported bugs, typos, and errors, and, of course, left your feedback. It felt so good to finally share something that I had been keeping to myself for so long 😊

Which brings me to my next order of business. I'm almost done with Vallen for the Bonus Post (she's being difficult 🫩), and, after that, I'm going to throw myself at fixing all the typos you have reported. It is... a lot. An embarrassing number 😭, but at least they have their days counted.

I also want to add small paths and scenes that I didn't add to the update. They mostly feature Alessa — I forgot to write some alternative conversations and reactions, like, for example, if you recently broke up with her, or rejected her kiss when you're putting out the candles. I remember I was writing the main scenes in a cafe at the time and, when it was time to write down bullet points for those reactions, I didn't have my notebook with me, so I just wrote them on a random piece of paper...which, of course, was promptly forgotten xD

So, I need to clean bugs and add those. I should be done with it by Wednesday. I won't upload the new files immediately — I'm afraid it might mess up the saves. I know people are still playing the game, so I'll wait a week or two before uploading the new version.

And thus, I can begin writing Chapter 4 on Thursday!!!!! Chapter 4 will be significantly smaller than Chapter 3. It's pretty much a prelude to the Ball (chapter 5) to the point where I might hold off and publish the two together. I'm unsure yet! We'll see how it goes.

But I can't wait. I really, really want to get to the end of chapter 5. I need toooooo 😭 It's one of those scenes that has plagued my mind for over 3 years. So close...

And that's it!! Vallen first, then fixing the Alpha, and finally, Chapter 4.

I hope your week went well and that your weekend is even better (as weekends tend to be). On Sunday, a new heatwave will hit Lisbon. I am... not prepared. 😩

See you all soon 🌹

Push My Limits — Rafael & Vallen Interactive Story (Mature)

Added Vallen & Rafael to the mini game! 😊

Play it here.

[Note: You need to be logged in to Patreon.]

Risqué poll

Hello! I've been writing and erasing the starting line for the Bonus post for half an hour😭. A bunch of ideas come to mind, and I don't know which one to pick, so I need your help.

Which pair would you like to be featured in the Mature post?

(Hadrian and Alessa aren't an option because they have their spotlight in the update already)

Alpha Build — It Grows

Here is the complete Chapter 3 in all its 300k glory!!!! With this, the game reaches 700k words (excluding code). 🫣

This one was a beast, so I really, really hope you enjoy it!!!!! ♡ I am so nervous and excited, I don't know what to do with my hands.

A couple of things before I share the link:

I've updated the game to Moody instead of cogdemos. I connected it to Patreon, which means that it will connect to your Patreon account. You don't need to register beforehand; the site will automatically check if you're a patron, but you do need to access the link through Patreon.

I would recommend using the browser at first, but I was also told that the Patreon app works too. If you have an issue with the app, however, try the browser next.

If you have any issues, comment them here! I'll be out of the house the rest of the day, but I'll get back to you as soon as I can, and, in the meantime, other patrons may offer some help^^

Without further ado, play it here!

As always, if you find any errors, typos, or bugs, please report them either in the Bug Report Patron chat or on the Bug Report Discord channel.

Thank you all for your patience and support. It means the world. The Rose's world is waiting for you. Happy playing. 🌹

Progress Report

It is... done 😭

I've put in the last line of code. The update is all playable 😭😭 My eyes are seeing blurry, but GODDAMN IT IT'S SO WORTH IT!!!!!

I only have to playtest the last two big scenes and make a header image, and it shall be done. I would push myself to test today, but, like I said, my eyes physically can't look at Choicescript anymore. I think I would create more errors instead of eliminating them xD

This means that, most likely, I'll drop the update tomorrow. Monday at the latest, in case something goes wrong — I still need to figure out how to connect my Moody.ink account to my Patreon account so I can restrict the demo to Patreons only!!! You'll have to connect your accounts as well, but I was told it's a very easy process ☺️

But that's it. My brain is really tired right now, so I won't make a long Progress Report. I just wanted to say something. I'm very excited to reach the finish line.

See you all soon ❤️

Sneak Peek

Therapist: Frat Bro Romanus can't hurt you. They don't exist.

Frat Bro Romanus:

Your lips curl in a smug smile. "Like it?" you ask, flexing your pecs, the right first, then the left.

---

Very small sneak peek this time! I've shared most of what I can of this coming update, but this passage made me laugh.

I hope your week started great ❤️

Progress Report

Been coding, coding, coding... 👩‍💻

All the errors, typos, and bugs spotted by others and myself have been fixed, but, most importantly, I've gone through about 330 Word pages!! I've been testing as I go along, and some passages are full of *if statements, which considerably slow me down, but great progress has been made nonetheless.

I love watching the actual game files grow 🥺 When it's on Word, it's not really the game if that makes sense? But now, it's actually playable, in its true form, and I adore saving the files at the end of each session.

So, I have about 110 Word pages to go!!! 🎉I'm so close, I can taste it. 😭 I'd really love to finish it next week, but I'm not going to go crazy over that deadline. If I try to rush, I know I won't test and edit everything as I should, so, as a more moderate goal, let's try going through 80 pages?? Perhaps 90?

The final scenes have lots of variations, but that's the goal!!! Either finish or be very close to it.

There have been so many passages that I wanted to show as a sneak peek, but I also don't want to spoil so close to the finish line. But I'll try to find little snippets that you might enjoy xD

That's about it. The coding stage is boring, report-wise, because there's not much to say, generally, other than "I'm doing it." And doing it, I have been. I really miss writing, if I'm being honest, but this is all part of making an IF, so I'll ride the wave.

I hope everyone has been doing well! I'll be scratching the writing itch with a bonus content post next week. I might do a poll to see what people would like those to be about.

See you all soon!🌹💛

Bonus Lingering Glance

I'm editing the rivalry paths, and I hate how much I love this version of Alessa's "enemy" relationship 😩. The bickering is so much fun.

This is the version in which you haven't choked her. If you have, that conversation goes a lot differently.

With Hadrian, I just love his overall confusion whenever you're remotely nice to him 😆. The man is so kind; he can't quite forget how he considered you a friend/crush not too long ago.

---

You lift an annoyed eyebrow at the woman. "No need to take it away," you gruff. "I heard you just fine."

"You speak as if that is reassurance," Alessa retorts, and to drive the point home, she slides the candlestick all the way to her side of the table.

You glare at the thing. "You're being ridiculous."

"I am simply safeguarding it."

"You're trying to annoy me."

"'Twas not I who proposed to share such a simple task." Alessa leans her hip on the back of a chair, raising her chin at you. "If it was not to sabotage me, why have you offered?"

1) You narrow your eyes. "Perhaps I wanted to keep you company. Have you thought about that?"

2) You scoff, turning away. "Whatever it was for, it's a mistake; it's what it was."

-

There’s a beat of silence, and then, to your surprise, Hadrian huffs a bitter laugh. "What do you want to say to me, ${Name}? That you agree with him?"

"No," you say flatly. "I wanted to tell you that I think it's bullshit."

Hadrian blinks. He looks at you with furrowed brows, clearly doubting, but you simply stare back until he’s forced to believe it. "Uh..." Hadrian clears his throat. "Thank you."

You nod.

Silence falls. The kind that weighs on your ears. "We should go," you say, shattering it.

Hadrian falls into step with you, sending you little surprise glances when he thinks you aren't looking.

Petty Jealousy — Hadrian, Alessa, Alain, Ysabella & Lance

Hadrian is restless.

The type of turmoil that would have him pacing back and forth, hand on his cross, an itch in his jaw, trying to outpace the thoughts swirling in his head.

But he can't. He has to stay seated; his only respite is the knee bouncing beneath the table.

"Lord," Hadrian whispers, dragging a hand down his face. If Alessa were here, she'd call him a fool. "I'm being one," he mutters.

But he doesn't care as much as he should. Not as his eyes slid towards you once more, and he sees your profile bathed in light. Father Above. It should be forbidden, Hadrian thinks, for someone to hold that much appeal. The great hall is full of people, but Hadrian can't see anyone else.

There's only you. Standing there in a simple tunic, eyes twinkling, wearing the kind of smile that leaves him a blubbering fool. Talking...

... with him.

His mouth was smiling, but now, it's back to frowning again. And it's ugly, it's underserving, this dark feeling bubbling to the surface. It coils in his chest like smoke that won't clear. Hadrian's knee bounces quicker now, his jaw itches, and his hand slowly curls on his cross.

And then, the older man moves and brushes away a strand of hair on your forehead.

It's underserved. He trusts you. He'd lay down his life in your name.

But Hadrian stands up.

★

"... there you go," Sam says, flicking away a speck of dust.

"Thank you,” you say distractedly. "Now, tell me, where was this exactly?"

"South of Salamanca," Sam reveals. "About four days' ride if your steed is fast and sturdy."

"Salamanca," you mutter, picturing the rudimentary maps in your mind's eyes. "Isn't that near the big excavation site from a few years back?"

Sam smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "The very one. This spot is undiscovered, though. No settlements nearby. No signs of our friends in black robes. It was only by a stroke of luck that I stumbled onto it."

You doubt it was luck, but wisely, you stay quiet.

"The Lord can be generous when He wants to." Sam pauses, assessing you. You try to keep a neutral face, but even you can tell that hunger is shining in your eyes. "So? Are you in? I could use someone with your expertise—"

He snaps his mouth closed. Sam's intelligent eyes snap to something over your shoulder before his mouth spreads in his usual cold smile. "We have company."

You don't have time to turn around before a big hand closes around your arm. "Aren't you hungry, love?" Hadrian's warm breath tickles the crown of your head. You tilt your face up, but instead of his green eyes meeting yours, Hadrian stares at Sam. "I got us our food."

You blink. "So fast?"

Hadrian's thumb draws a circle on the skin of your forearm. You feel him stepping closer to your back. "It'll get cold," Hadrian says, finally tearing his eyes off Sam to look down at you. The moment he does, Hadrian smiles, but you can see the tension between his brows.

Was he feeling lonely? Or is the bread gone already? You know how much he loves bread with stew.

Sam's smile never falters. His translucent eyes flicker from you to Hadrian and, finally, back to you. "We'll talk details after supper," he says, taking a fluent step back. His voice lowers as he adds, right before turning. "You can bring your attack dog with you."

Hadrian stiffens behind you, taking half a step forward, but stops when you turn around to face him. "They didn't have bread left?" you ask.

It's Hadrian's turn to blink. "Uh, what?"

You bring a finger to his brow. "Why are you frowning?"

Wordlessly, Hadrian lifts a hand to intertwine your fingers together. "Come with me," he says, kissing your knuckles before tugging you gently. You move past the mercenaries, helpers, servants, and guests of the White Company, aiming for your spot on the long table underneath the window.

As you're walking, Hadrian suddenly speaks up again. "Bring where?" he asks, his voice a quiet rumble.

"Hmm?"

"Sam said you could bring me," he clarifies. His face is also strangely still. "Where to?"

You look around, then lean in. "He found an untouched site," you whisper in his ear. "With possible monuments. Untouched monuments, Hadrian." The words speed up, your excitement bleeding into the tone. "Do you know what this means? What it can mean?"

Hadrian stops walking to look down at you. "You—" He scratches his stubble. "You were, uh, talking business?"

"What else? It's Sam." You wave a hand, dismissing the name. "Look, I know we just returned from a mission, and you're tired, so I understand if you don't want to go, but—"

Hadrian shuts you up with a kiss. "Hmph!" Your eyes go wide when his arms circle your waist, your body dragged to press against his. It's uncommon for Hadrian to hold you like this in public, with the pads of his fingers digging into your flesh.

Hadrian barely moves his lips; it's more of a press of mouths, a gesture that feels oddly possessive and strangely attractive. "Of course, I'll go," Hadrian promises when he parts, cheeks flushed red with the jeering whistles from the group near you. “God Himself couldn’t keep me away.”

You smile, dazed and vaguely confused, but you like the fluttering in your chest. "It’s a deal."

★

You get to your table, hand in hand.

"Hadrian?"

"Yes, angel?" Hadrian says, smiling a boyish, lopsided smile at you.

"Where's our food?"

"... I'll be right back."

- - -

Alessa stares at the bracelet on her palm.

It's a simple golden circle with a minuscule dent that would be easy to miss if it didn't interrupt the otherwise perfect circle. Alessa owns better jewelry. Better crafted, better fitted to her wrist, with purer gold, and without the rudimentary words scribbled on the inside band.

Alessa owns better jewelry. But none is more precious than this.

She looks up and is met with your tilted lips, but Alessa knows you well enough to see the restlessness in your eyes. "Got anything to say, beautiful?"

Alessa looks down at the gift again. There's a knot on her throat and a burn behind her eyes. "You have made this?" Alessa asks, her voice not betraying the emotion stirring beneath the ice she keeps around herself.

You nod, eyes flickering from the bracelet to her face. "That obvious, uh?"

Alessa sweeps her thumb over the words inscribed in the band. 'For Alessa.'

"You have written this." It's not a question.

You take a step closer, halt, and then back down again. "I wanted to write more," you admit with a casual shrug. "But I was afraid I'd break the band. 'For Alessa' was all I could manage."

Finally, finally, Alessa looks into your eyes. Her fingers close around the bracelet. "Darling one," she says, her voice almost breaking. Almost. "This is the most precious thing I owe."

The relief is instantaneous. You smile, really smile, and then release the most dramatic sigh Alessa has ever heard. "God’s bloody nails," you say, moving closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "You love to make me suffer, woman," you mutter, pulling her into your embrace.

"I do enjoy seeing you fidget," Alessa whispers, fitting her face in the crook of your neck, holding back the tears from spilling. She shall not cry. Not in front of you, at least. But her heart is squeezing painfully, filled with a feeling she cannot express as she would like to.

As if you could read her turmoil, you rub gentle circles on her back. "You sure you like it? No need to spare my feelings, you know? You can tell me; I can take it."

Alessa smiles against your skin. "I do not like it," she says, planting a kiss on your neck. "I adore it."

You hold her tighter. "Good. Because I lied. I couldn't take it."

Alessa laughs quietly, and you simply hold her. You know, somehow, that she cannot face you yet. She needs to remain hidden in your embrace for a while longer.

Your voice brushes the fine hairs near her ear. "Muriel will be ecstatic."

Alessa opens her eyes. "Muriel?"

She feels you hum. "My teacher," you explain, hand moving up and down her shoulder. "You didn't think I'd take up jewelry making alone, did you? I know I'm good, 'Lessa, but even I have my limits."

Slowly, Alessa lifts her head. Calm, blue eyes gaze at you. "I did not consider it," she says, voice like a still lake.

You bop her nose. "I've been sneaking away to the workshop," you admit, full of smug confidence. "As many evenings as I could. Muriel's a master, Alessa; you should see her work. I've never seen a woman, nay, anyone, move the way she does."

She does not mean to, but a hideous, unsightly beast sinks its claws into her chest. Alessa goes rigid. She has never heard you speak of another in this manner... beside herself.

"... fluent, precise. And a good teacher." You're still singing praises to this... Muriel, not even noticing how Alessa is pulling away from you. You, who are always so attuned with her. "She's not overbeating, you know? She shows you. Grabs your hands and guides you—"

"She holds your hands?" Alessa interjects. You do not hear it, the chill in her tone.

"How else would she teach me?" you ask as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Written letters? Songs in the wind?"

"And how do those lessons proceed?" Alessa asks. She's holding your bracelet, your gift to her, but she cannot help it. You are speaking of another woman — a woman you have been spending time alone with in secrecy — and Alessa knows it is bordering on insanity. But she cannot help it. "Please, enlighten me."

You go to speak, but stop. With a cocked brow, you look at her, eyes searching hers. "Oh, I've done it," you mutter before speaking up, "what's wrong?"

Alessa thins her mouth. "I know not. If this Muriel has guided your hands, then who was it that made this gift? You or her?"

You tilt your head, and a part of her, the sane part, flinches at the confusion on your darling face. "It was me, of course. I made it alone."

"With her hovering above you, no doubt."

You stare at her. Alessa clenches her jaw and forces herself to stare back. And then, slowly, she sees your growing smile, the knowing look in your eyes that has knots forming in her stomach. "Alessa," you drawl, suddenly pulling her back to you. Oh, and it's smug, now, that tone of yours.

Alessa tries to stay unperturbed, but it is so hard when your palm fits along her jaw, tilting her face to yours. "’Lessa, ‘Lessa," you say, lips almost touching her. "Muriel is an elderly married woman."

A beat of silence. Two.

"... I fail to see how that is relevant."

But when you laugh, she cannot help but smile, relief and embarrassment painting her cheeks pink. You kiss her, then, sloppily as Alessa slips the bracelet onto her wrist.

It is flawed but perfect.

"Like it?" you murmur against her temple.

She hums, tilting her head, stealing another taste of your lips. "I do have a request, dearest one."

"Tell me."

"Introduce me to your teacher," Alessa demands, hand closing on your shirt. "I shall craft you a collar."

- - -

The event was going as all the others always went.

A band played soft, entirely predictable music, the same kind of food was served on silver platters, lit chandeliers hung from high ceilings, and the dresses and tunics of his fellow nobles all fit within the latest fashion trend.

At least the wine was flowing, Alain supposed.

"By next winter, at the most."

The Theer brings his dulled eyes to the pair in front of him. The man, barely more than a boy, is flapping his red mouth. "We're tightening taxes on our peasants."

"The inherent tax was a brilliant proposition," the lady speaks next, her lips curled in what Alain guesses she takes as a sensual smile. "Your Lord uncle is truly a visionary, master Alain."

The boy-man steps closer. "As you are, I am certain," he declares, sporting the same ugly smile as his cousin.

Alain takes a sip of wine. So, this was a competition between them. On any other day, Alain would have appreciated the break in the monotony. "How old are you?" he asks flippantly.

They share a look. "Me?" the lady asks.

Alain points his glass at the boy.

He hesitates. "I'm nineteen summers."

"Oh?" There's movement behind the liar's head. Alain's deep brown eyes track it, and he finds the person he's been waiting for this whole tedious evening.

You walk in, attire more muted than the head servant, barely any jewelry, no coat or veil on your body. But, somehow, you light up the hall brighter than a shooting star. Alain's mood immediately lifts, the wine turns sweeter, and his smile loses its bitterness.

But then you turn and lay your hand on Lord Thomas's arm.

"There's not a hair on your face, boy," Alain spits, drowning the entire glass. "Tell your parents not to whore you out so soon."

With that, he slinks away.

The pair of cousins stared dumbfounded at his back.

★

The whole night is a blur.

You find a moment alone and practically run outside, breathing in the fresh air. The gardens are dark, the moon is almost full, and, in the distance, you can see the soft, magical glow of fireflies. You sigh, elbows on the stone banister, eyeing them with envy. You wish you could go, but you have a mission to fulfill.

And you won't waste this invitation Alain crafted for you.

With another sigh, you turn around, eyeing the impressive estate. Stories upon stories loom over you, and in there, somewhere, is the room you need to break into.

Soft laughter drifts to your ears, and, dragging your eyes down, you spot a pair underneath the glass doors leading to the garden. They're intertwined, one laughing, the other leading along—

Your eyes cross.

And your breath hitches when you find yourself staring at Alain. He pauses, his smile faltering for a moment only, before he turns his head, murmurs something in the woman's ear, and, as if riding himself off an overcoat, Alain disentangles from her to stroll towards you.

You lean on the railing, wiping the sudden sweat from your palm. You didn't know he'd come. You don't know why there's a twist in your gut as the noble props himself beside you.

"Here I was thinking you wasted all my hard work," Alain says, cracking his neck from side to side.

You glance at him, but he stares at the estate, his lips curled in a lazy grin. "I wouldn't dream of it," you say, following his gaze. "Alain Theer working is so rare, I'd be a fool to squander it."

His soft chuckle has a flush rising up your spine. His elbow brushes yours, and you can almost feel the heat of his body against the chill of the night. "And yet, you're lounging here alone, little warrior. Some would call it pathetic."

"Is that why you came near?" you shoot back. "You want to make sure I'm not pathetic?"

Alain turns his head towards you. He wears that damn smile so well, fitting right in his handsome face. "You're thinking too highly of yourself. This is my usual spot. I’m simply here to claim it."

"So, usually, you're the pathetic one?"

"Exactly."

You laugh, shaking your head lightly. The garments you're wearing are heavy and uncomfortable, and they make you feel awkward standing here beside him. "I needed... some fresh air," you admit in a lower voice.

Your eyes drift down when Alain's eyes study you. He can be intense when he wants, seeing too much. There's a beat of silence that grazes on your nerves, but finally, he breaks it. "You can do better, you know?"

You look up. "What do you mean?"

Alain juts his chin at the estate. There, you can see the silhouette of Lord Thomas, the one you chose to use as part of your disguise. It was surprising how easily he was convinced that you were of noble birth.

You supposed having Alain's backing helped. "Better than Thomas? He's a high noble, isn't he?" you ask, nervous that you made a mistake.

Alain cocks a brow. "I suppose you can call him that. Loosely."

"He'll get me in the inner chambers; that's all that matters," you say. And he'll be easy to evade once you do.

Alain shakes his head as if in deep disappointment. "I think I overestimated you, sparrow. Really? Don't you strive for something greater?"

You roll your eyes but indulge him. It's hard not to when he's grinning like that, his collar half-undone and legs casually crossed. "Who should I have gone for, then? You're clearly dying to tell me."

Something flashes in his eyes so quickly that you almost believe you imagined it. But it vanishes right away, and his tone is teasing when he points at a large open window. "How about him?" he proposes.

You follow his gaze to a decrepit old man. "How's he any better?" you ask, fighting back a smile.

"Hmm." Alain taps his fingers on his chin, pretending to think. "Alright, and her?"

He points at the gardens next, where an elegant woman is speaking with a servant. "Isn't she the mistress of the house?" you ask. "Do you think her husband would have welcomed me with open arms?"

Alain clicks his tongue. "I didn't know you were this picky," he says, but thinks again. "Hmm, let's see. Who's important enough to be invited to the upper dinner, would be accepted to spend the night without question, knows who you really are, and would help you in this silly mission of yours, and is incredibly good-looking?"

Alain turns to you, and suddenly, his grin doesn't reach his eyes. "I wonder, sparrow, who'd fit the part?"

You open your mouth and close it. His gaze has you fixed on the floor. "I— I didn't think you'd be here—"

"Your Grace!"

You both turn your heads to the door, where the woman previously hanging from Alain's arm is waving. "I'm lonely; how long do you plan on making me wait?"

"None at all," Alain answers back before straightening up. He grants you one last smile, tilted and teasing but almost solemn, too. "Have a good night, sparrow," Alain whispers, bows, and walks away.

Your hands curl on the railing. "You as well, Alain."

- - -

You give her your hand. "How courteous," Ysabella teases, but she gingerly places her gloved palm in yours and steps down the carriage.

You grunt in answer, making sure she's got both feet on the ground before letting go.

Ysabella glances at you, her lips curling at the corners to stop herself from reaching out and kissing your cheek. How gallant you are. Strong, silent, and brooding. Your upper half is encased in a rudimentary hide armor that leaves your strong biceps to be admired by the world, and Ysabella is no shy maiden. Admire you, she shall.

Her eyes trail up your arms to your shoulders, then the planes of your back. Her smile turns wicked as she sees in her mind's eye the red trails marring the skin beneath the armor. She's glad they're covered, however. That sight is meant for her eyes only.

"Stop it."

Ysabella blinks, looking up at you. You're half-turned away from her, peeking over your shoulder to fix her a dry stare.

"Stop what?" she asks innocently.

Ysabella adores the way you clench your jaw, the muscle moving beneath the skin. "You know what."

She steps closer, trailing light fingers over your arm. "I really don't, dear."

You shuffle to the side, just enough for her hand to fall off. "You're ogling me," you mutter, your voice stiff as if you're pulling teeth, and Ysabella cannot help it.

She giggles like a church girl hearing about babies for the first time. "Can you blame me? Have you looked in the mirror today, my sweet?"

Your gloved hand clenches, and the sight would be intimidating if Ysabella couldn't see the faint blush blooming on your cheeks. Oh, but she wants to pinch them both. "People can see us," you add in a low voice. You look away from her, scowling at the world at large. "And I told you not to call me that."

"People won't blame me either." Ysabella dismisses it and then leans in. "And you like it when I call you sweet."

Another clench of your jaw. Another flinch of your hand. "... in private."

She giggles again. You finally have had enough and turn your back on her, clutching the pommel of your sword as if an army is about to invade.

You're standing at the entrance of a grandiose estate. The large stables loom behind, where mounts and carriages are carried for maintenance. Servants, guards, and stable hands rush to and fro, none paying too much attention.

The day is sunny but not hot, so Ysabella decides to wait for her family outside. Her mercenary is here, of course, in the disguise of her personal guard. A disguise you're taking a bit too seriously.

"Have you water?" Ysabella asks, stepping up to you. She eyes the luscious terrains ahead, gentle hills, oak trees, and gravel roads.

You uncord your water pouch and give it to her. She drinks greedily, not having noticed how parched her throat was, before giving it back. "Thank you—"

You reach out, and a gentle finger swipes the corner of her mouth. Ysabella pauses, looking up, as you gather a drop of water as if it's a bead of gold. "You're messy," you gruff, staring at her lips.

"That is no way to speak with your lady."

You put your hand behind your back, a respectable distance between you, but your eyes burn into her own. "What about my lover?" you ask, your voice that delicious coil of huskiness and smoke.

She feels her face heating before she sees the minuscule tilt of your lips. "Cease this," Ysabella warns. "Or I shall jump into your arms."

Your smile dies immediately. "Don’t—"

Clack, clack, clack

The unmistakable sound of approaching hooves calls your attention. A second carriage pulls up to the estate, following the curve of the road. The carriage is green and gold, and when the round door opens, a lady with straight, brown hair and a dress with too many skirts appears at the threshold.

"Ysabella, darling!" Lucia greets as if they hadn't seen each other just a few hours prior. "Why are you waiting outside as if you're one of the help? God's mercy, if your mother saw you now."

Ysabella smiles tightly at the woman only a couple of years her senior. "Aunt Lucia, I'm only enjoying the spring breeze." She courtesies. "How was the journey?"

"Awful," Lucia says immediately, gathering her skirts. She moves to step down but then pauses. Her eyes fly to you, who's standing silently to the side. "Well?" She waves a hand. "Are you slow, perhaps? Help me down."

You glance at Ysabella, who nods imperceptibly before you stoically move forward and offer your arm. Her aunt takes it, stepping down. "Hm," Lucia says, looking you up and down as if she's seeing you for the first time.

You remove your arm, but the noblewoman clings to it, one eyebrow rising on her forehead. "And who might you be?" she asks, her tone completely different from before.

Once again, you look at Ysabella.

"My personal guard," she answers for you, surprising herself by how stern her voice has become.

Her aunt doesn't seem to notice. "Is that so?" She's still clinging to you. Ysabella can't stop looking at the way her fingers wrap around your bicep. "Perhaps my niece may lend you for an afternoon," she says, smiling at you in a way that has Ysabella's stomach churning.

Your face is as blank as a wall. "I am only here to protect, Your Grace."

"Oh, but you'll be protecting me." Lucia battles her eyelashes disgustingly before tugging you forward. "Now, walk me to my chambers."

As you take a hesitant step forward, your gaze locking on hers again, asking for direction, Ysabella ponders if it's worth it to make her move now. Be done with them all, wipe that lecherous smile off her aunt's face.

But she quickly calms the fire burning in her veins. Not yet. She still needs to play the game.

But it doesn't mean she has to play it fairly.

"Ow!" Ysabella trips on a perfectly flat cobblestone, flicking her shoe off her foot. She pretends to stumble, and, as she knew you would, your hands are immediately there, steadying her.

"Are you well?" you ask, brows furrowed.

Ysabella clings to your arms. "I've twisted my ankle," she lies.

And you know she lies because you see her secret smile, hidden from her aunt. Your frown deepens... until, with a sigh, you hoist her up into your arms. "Let's find a physician," you mutter.

And it's petty, but she cannot help it. Looping her arms around your neck as she's carried like a princess, Ysabella smiles at her aunt over your shoulder. "We shall catch up at supper, darling auntie."

Lucia's glare is anything but ladylike.

- - -

You are haggling because, of course, you are.

Lance lounges against a wooden post, bare arms folded over his chest, chewing on a blade of grass. The market is calmer with the approaching dusk, but the surrounding stalls still have customers, none more persistent than his translator.

Lance's lips quirk as he watches you scowl at the seller. The man is tall and burly and has no idea who he's up against. Lance has been many a victim of your persuasion skills, giving you more than he ever planned to.

His heart, for one.

You click your tongue, spin on your heels, and are about to storm away when the seller gives in. That in itself isn't surprising. Lance was counting on it. The problem arose in the way the merchant gave in.

He didn't call after you. Didn't curse and shouted the correct price.

He reached his meaty paw out and grabbed your upper arm.

The blade of grass switches from one side of the bard's mouth to the other. His blue hair brushes against his shoulder as his head instinctually cocks to the side. Grey eyes, shining with amusement, now dim with an emotion he can't name because Lance Silverthread doesn't remember ever feeling it before.

He watches as the merchant coaches you closer. You reach for the cloak, but the man shakes his head and has you turn away. Then, with a gentleness that didn't match the argument you were having but a few moments prior, the man drapes the cloak over your shoulders, straightening the fabric as he gently pats your back and shoulders.

Lance spits out the grass.

★

You turn towards the pole Lance has claimed for himself, wanting to show him your find, but find it empty. Your smile falters as you look around, but you can't find a glimpse of that blue hair of his.

"Where are you?" you mutter to yourself, stepping away from the stall, but a deep voice immediately calls you over.

"I am here, demanding customer," the merchant, Lado, pops up from the counter like a wind-up doll, making you flinch.

You wonder how a man of his size can move so silently. "Hell," you say, then put your game face on. "How much is—"

Lado puts a palm up, silencing you. "We are not ready to discuss prices yet," he declares. "I have thought of a way to ease your frown."

"I'm not frowning," you counter.

Lado points at a mirror. "That is a lie."

You look at yourself and see your brows pulled together. 'Where's Lance?' you think, but what you say is, "That's because you startled me."

Lado ignores you. He picks up a small circular box painted deep purple. With the utmost care, Lado twists the top open to reveal a beautiful, rich, purple pigment.

You lean closer, intrigued.

"A shade for the eyes," Lado says, gesturing to the golden streak he has on his eyelids. "Your gaze is plain, if somewhat intriguing, but with my help, you will elevate it."

He sweeps a dramatic hand over a row of similar boxes. "None shall leave my emporium dissatisfied. Pick a color, prickly client, and I will gift you a sample without charge."

"Do you have a shade of blue?" A voice whispers in your ear.

For the second time, you flinch, but a warm hand loops around your waist to steady you. You look to the side and almost bump your nose against Lance's cheek as he lays his chin on your shoulder.

Lado takes it in stride. "As blue as your hair, mystical sire?"

Lance hums in answer.

"Give me but a moment!"

As the merchant dives for the boxes, Lance steps closer to your back. "I thought you had gone," you tell him, feeling the heat of his body seeping into yours.  

Lance looks at you. His eyes are quiet in a way that has you frowning again. "What made you think that?"

"I couldn't see you."

Lance smiles. "Doesn't mean I was far."

Before you can answer, Lado lifts a box in triumphant glory. "Here!" he says, "as deep as your own coloring. Would you have this sample?"

But your bard shakes his head, cheek grazing yours. "I'll take the whole box," he says. "And the cloak my partner is enamored with." He looks at you again. "Anything else caught your eye, moonlight?"

You part your lips, your cheeks suddenly hotter than the dying sun. "Hmm... no."

Lance regards Lado again. "How much do I owe you?"

★

You sit still as a very fine brush tickles your eyelid.

Your right eye is open, already painted, and you watch Lance's face of concentration, moving so carefully as if he's painting royalty.

He's been quiet the whole way back to the base. And now, in his room, the silence is weighing down on you. You tried to pry him open, instinctively knowing something was bothering him, but getting Lance to speak his mind is like trying to squeeze water from a rock.

"Remain still," Lance whispers.

You stop shaking your numb legs. "Sorry."

His eyes flicker down to yours. "I'm almost done," he promises, and, true to his word, with one last sweep of the brush, the bard puts it aside. He leans away to admire his work.

You see him looking from one eye to the other, his face neutral, giving nothing away.

"And?" you press. "Do I look good?"

"See for yourself," Lance says, holding your hand and pulling you up with him. He guides you to the floor-length mirror on the wall, letting go of your hand when you approach it.

You look at yourself, a smile coming unbidden to your lips. You've never worn paint on any part of your body, least of all your face. It's silly, but a part of you likes it. It does bring attention to your eyes.

"What is your verdict, translator?" Lance asks, standing to the side.

Your smile widens. "I like it," you admit. Then, add softer. "We match now."

Finally, Lance gives you a genuine smile. He glides behind, locking eyes through the mirror. "That we do," Lance muses. His blue hair tickles your cheek as he approaches you again, much like he did on the market stall. "Although my gaze can never be quite as intriguing as yours. Painted or not."

You stare at his reflection's eyes. "You heard that."

Lance hums, one hand coming up your arm, fingers barely touching you.

"Is that what's bothering you?" you ask, barely believing it. "A throwaway compliment from a man trying to sell me something?"

Lance doesn't answer. His other hand joins your opposite arm, starting from your shoulders, and slowly, he drags his palms down. Goosebumps rise on the skin where he touches, thumbs gliding along until they crook in the bend of your elbow.

His face is back to that oddly blank expression, which you now realize is Lance's jealous face.

"Lance," you call him.

His eyes face you before lowering, looking down at your body. "Beauty is meant to be admired."

His hands wander lower, drifting past your hips, squeezing the sides of your thighs. You hold your breath when he presses behind you, his hips flush to your backside. "I do not begrudge anyone for admiring you."

His head falls, dropping a soft, lingering kiss on your shoulder. His hands squeeze your thighs, not aggressively, but firmly, before parting ways. One drifts up to your stomach, slipping below your shirt, while the other wanders near the apex of your thigh.

"Lance," you call again, breathless.

He kisses along your shoulder until his soft, mellow lips trail along your neck. "As long as I am the only one who gets to touch."

And touch, he does. Your blue eyeshadow is smeared by the end of it, streaks of it smudged all over both your bodies in the shape of lips and hands and flesh moving against flesh.

Lingering Glance

Your lips are still slightly curved, but there's more softness in the smirk than mischief. "Perfect," you say, mouth moving against hers. "My nerves have never been calmer."

Alessa looks up. "I do not believe you have nerves to begin with."

"Rubbish," you protest, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose. "What else would you call these butterflies in my stomach whenever you're near?"

Alessa huffs a laugh, trying and failing to swallow it. "Do not be ridiculous."

"It's true." You kiss the arch of her cheek next. "They're relentless, I'll have you know. Wings flapping up a storm, making me weak in the knees."

"Now your knees are also affected? Perhaps being near me is not beneficial for you," Alessa says, but despite the words, she's leaning her head to the side for your wandering lips.

You're kissing her neck, each slow, deliberate press of lips tasting the salt in her skin. "Don't say that," you murmur. A kiss to the juncture of her jaw, then another behind her ear. "Never say that."

Alessa's breath trembles against your cheek. Her hands come up, holding onto your shoulders. "${Name}," she says, leaning away to look you in the eyes. Her face is flushed red, and her lips are parted, but she gazes at you unguarded, walls tumbled down. "Tell me. What has affected y—"

Click

---

I adore their dynamic. 🥺 I'm not one to usually 'ship' characters, but I'm rooting so hard for Romanus and their ROs.

Progress Milestone

I finished the Chapter!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉

It is... so, so long. At 1121 pages, it's the longest Word document I've ever written — Word is actually fighting me every time I open it. I don't want to say much more about it because I'm finally so close to sharing it, but I'll say that I am... SO happy with how it turned out 😭 honestly, in the end, I was just writing and writing, barely stopping to think about what I was putting down, but it flowed so effortlessly that I decided to simply ride the wave. xD

I am exhausted right now, but at the same time, I cannot wait to finally publish this beast.

Thankfully, I've already coded more than half of the chapter, so for this update, I'll be coding the remaining 495 Word pages. First, however, I'll review the bugs and suggestions that people have sent me. I already fixed a bunch, but there's still a small list to clear. I also played through the available content myself and found a number of things I didn't enjoy — they're mostly small fixes, such as dialogues or descriptions, but in two cases, I need to add choices and different outcomes.

As much as I want to jump straight into the new part, I can't let the editing and bug fixes fall too far behind; otherwise, it'd be a pain to catch up in the future.

There's a scene, almost at the end of the update, that I've written two versions of. I've gone back and forth between them, but I still can't make up my mind. 😭 I've been agonizing over this for two days, so I've decided to just start coding. I'll cross that bridge when I get there! But, by God, I hate having this indecision.

When I begin coding, my goal is to go through 20 Word pages a day. I test as I go, so some days, I may not reach the goal, but others, I'll surpass it — when the passages are less complex and don't have as many variables.

Starting tomorrow, though, I'll finish up this month's Bonus Content. It'll be a welcome respite from the branches and complexity of the game. People seemed to enjoy the jealousy drabbles, so I'll probably write the same premise for the other ROs. As for the Mature post, I'm still unsure what I want to write. If you have suggestions, dearest, I'm all ears. 🥺

I hope you had a great weekend and that the week ahead goes easy on you. May the sun kiss your cheeks, the wind rustle your hair, and your ears be blessed with the laughter of a loved one. ❤️