Sapphire stirred as the sun filtered dimly through the shutters, her body still aching from the toll of the days before. As her eyes fluttered open, she wasn't surprised to see Eugene already there — standing near the table with clean linen and a small bowl of herbs soaked in water.
This had been the routine for days now. He came in, cleaned her wounds, said little, and left — always calm, always exact.
She shifted slowly, her voice hoarse but laced with dry humor.
"Fancy seeing you, Eugene."
He didn't look at her at first, only wrung out the cloth with practiced hands.
"I'm not so sure if I enjoy your company,".he replied flatly, placing the bowl down and walking toward her with the soaked cloth.
"The feeling's mutual," she muttered, wincing as the cool fabric touched her bruised skin.
Eugene gave a quiet sigh. "Then let's get this over with, shall we?
Sapphire sat quietly by the edge of the bed, her fingers lightly brushing over the bandaged wound on her arm. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting warm flickers across the dimly lit room. Eugene moved silently about, wiping the blood-stained bowl and rearranging the medicinal jars on the trestle table.
"Thank you," she said softly, barely above a whisper.
He froze mid-motion, cloth still in hand.
She looked up at him, this time her voice firmer.
"Thank you, Eugene."
He turned to face her slowly, expression unreadable. Then he gave a slight nod.
"It's nothing "His voice was gruff, but there was a hint of surprise in it.
"No, really. I mean it. I'm grateful… not just for the medicine, but for not treating me like I'm some burden."
Eugene looked away briefly, then resumed cleaning—this time a bit more gently.
"Feels strange, being thanked. "
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Sapphire's lips.
"Well, you deserve to be thanked more often."
He paused again, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, then muttered,
"Don't get all soft on me now."
But Sapphire caught the faintest trace of a smirk before he turned his back.
***
The grand hall, lit by the golden glow of overhead chandeliers, fell into tense silence as the heavy oak doors flung open with a crash. Two guards stormed in, dragging a disheveled man between them. His robes were stained, his hair unkempt, and the stench of ale filled the room as they hurled him to the marble floor.
"Found the bastard in a tavern, Your Majesty," one of the guards muttered with clear disgust.
The man, known to all as the Mayor, groaned as he lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips split from a recent scuffle. Still, he dared to chuckle.
"Y-Your Ma–majesty," he slurred, swaying as he tried to rise, "what's with the impromptu gathering, eh?"
No one answered. The Lord's and nobles seated at the long, golden table, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, turned their gazes toward him in utter disbelief. Some exchanged looks, others clenched their jaws.
At the head of the hall, on a throne of darkstone and ivory, the king leaned forward ever so slightly, fingers steepled.
His voice was calm, too calm.
"You were summoned three days ago. My riders returned with no answer."
The Mayor blinked dumbly.
"I was…busy."
"Busy… drinking away the coin meant for the people," he repeated coldly, his eyes burning into the disgraced Mayor. "Pray, tell me—why did you send away my loyal servants when they sought my ordinance?"
The Mayor, wobbling on his knees, tried to summon a confident smirk.
"Well, as you and I are one, I thought—"
"Shameless." The King cut in, his voice sharper than steel. He slowly rose to his feet, his golden cloak trailing after him.
The Mayor, emboldened by the alcohol still coursing through his blood, sneered.
"The low born had no right. They should be grateful we even let them live on Crown soil."
The King's laughter came suddenly—dry and chilling. He tilted his head slightly to the side, eyes narrowed like a predator studying its prey.
"I shall give you one second to retake your claim," he said quietly, each word deliberate.
But instead of repentance, the Mayor let out a sharp hiss and rose shakily to his feet, jabbing a finger toward the King.
"You fool! You care more for the rats in your fields than for the men who help you rule!"
"Perhaps "
Isis stepped forward, each stride slow and deliberate, his ornate robe whispering across the stone floor. The golden sigil on his chest shimmered under the flickering torchlight. The Mayor's drunken smirk began to falter.
Without a word, Isis crouched before him, bringing himself to the fool's eye level. Then, with one gloved hand, he gripped the man's chin—not harshly, but firm enough to assert complete control.
He tilted the Mayor's face upward, forcing their eyes to meet.
"So tell me,". Isis said with a sickening smile, his voice velvet laced with venom, "how would you like to die?"
The room was so silent, even the torches dared not crackle.
"Shall I hang you like the traitors of old? Or perhaps feed you to the dogs you value more than my people?"
The Mayor's drunkenness drained quickly, leaving behind only the sour taste of terror.
Isis leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"Choose wisely. You won't get a second chance."
The Mayor's lips trembled, but no words came. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the stench of fear now stronger than the ale on his breath.
Isis released his chin with a flick, as though disgusted to have even touched him.
He straightened to his full height and turned his back. "Take him to the pits," he said coldly, "let him rot in the dark where cowards belong."
"Mercy—please—your Majesty—" the Mayor choked out, crawling weakly toward him.
Isis didn't stop walking. "You denied mercy when my people cried for it. Now… drink the same cup."
The guards dragged the man out, his pleas echoing through the grand hall until the doors slammed shut.
At the golden table, none dared speak. Isis returned to his seat, swirling the dark wine in his goblet. His voice came soft, yet sharp:
"Let this be known: betrayal wears no crown in my court."
The hall remained silent… Until
Lord Hugh stepped forward, the hem of his dark cloak brushing the polished marble as he reached the center of the grand assembly hall. He cleared his throat dramatically, drawing the attention of nobles and councilmen alike.
"Due to the recent waterborne outbreak," he began, his voice echoing off the high stone walls, "the citizens are hereby advised to refrain from contact with natural water bodies—rivers, wells, and streams alike."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
"The death toll from this strange illness continues to climb," he continued grimly, "and our finest alchemists have yet to identify the source, let alone a cure."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them.
"Until further notice, all water rations shall be controlled and distributed from the central reserves. Any disobedience or black-market dealings shall be punished by law."
Lord Hugh's sharp eyes scanned the room. "We may be at war with nature itself, but we shall not go quietly into her grasp."
A sharp snort cut through the tension.
All heads turned toward the far end of the council chamber where a man lounged with utter disregard — his eyes had remained closed through the entire announcement, arms crossed in a posture that screamed boredom and defiance.
"Very classic, Hugh," he muttered with a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.
Lord Hugh's brows twitched. "Is there something you'd like to add, Lord Cassian?"
The man finally opened his eyes, deep-set and gleaming with mischief beneath thick lashes. He sat forward lazily, placing his elbows on the table.
"Perhaps, Your Highness," he addressed the king directly, voice laced with amused sarcasm,
"I may suggest we seek assistance from our neighbors. For starters… importation of clean water. Gallons of it."
He glanced around the table. "Unless of course, you'd rather let the citizens drink from poisoned brooks and pray for miracles."
The room fell silent again.
Cassian tapped his fingers slowly. "Desperation isn't a weakness, my lords. Pride, however, is."
Isis nodded slightly as he took a long swig of his liquor
"Cassian I leave that to you then" he said smoothly
"Aye" Cassian replied, flashing a wink at Lord Hugh, who lowered himself back to his seat, clearly defeated and irked .
The air settled for a beat before Isis turned his attention elsewhere, his green eyes flickering across the table .
"Maeven," he called, his tone smooth yet weighty, "your thoughts on the matter of foreign alliances?"
A wiry Lord rose from his seat, his movements calculated and refined. He wore a robe of deep emerald velvet, its embroidery glinting faintly under the golden sconces. A polished silver eye patch covered his left eye, lending him an air of quiet mystery and hardened elegance. His remaining eye—sharp, ice-blue swept across the hall with confidence. His posture was straight, voice calm, and every gesture spoke of sophistication, he adjusted his robe before answering.
"Milord, if I may," Maeven began, voice calm and measured. "the Western culture has long since advanced in knowledge, medicinal practices, and warcraft. An alliance with them may grant us access to the very things we currently lack—especially in this time of… plague."
A heavy silence followed.
Isis let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head slowly.
"My uncle never joined them, and neither shall I," he said coldly. "We are not desperate beggars hanging onto their coats for favors. Look for another alternative."
Maeven pressed gently, "But, milord… there are rumors. Hittites and other vassal states are already seeking Western support."
Isis' gaze sharpened, his tone clipped.
"Maeven, that will be all."
The lord gave a short bow and sat back down, saying nothing more. He was not a man of many words anyway.