The Romance on the Violet Sword

Synopsis: Devlan is on the verge of civil war. The swordswoman Aria Schezobraska has returned to the Devlani Royal Army, only to be accused of treason. When Commander James Stromiskar discovers that she might be in danger, he sneaks into the city of his hateful father, to rescue his beloved before it is too late.

Author's Note: I welcome feedback! For those wanting to read–or avoid–the sex scenes, those are in Chapter 4 and Epilogue II respectively. Enjoy!

Sex Content: MF, Consensual, Vaginal, Cunnilingus, Face Sitting, First-Time

The Romance on the Violet Sword

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Chapter 1: The Tyrant's Maw

HEAVY rain trickled off the edges of a gatekeeper's hat as he peered at the grey skies. The chill in his toes begged him to leave his post, as his poncho did little to stave off the cold.

"Identification, please. You two over there, the big one and the shorter one. Helmets off!" His breath billowed in the downpour.

A hulking man in a burlap mantle clanked under the portcullis, a silver tomahawk strapped to his girdle. Metal chinked with his every step, implying chainmail beneath. Pulling down his hood, he revealed his full helmet, the visor of which bore no inkling of the face within.

Beside him was a shorter, leaner man, clad in silver armor. Young and spry, he sported a demeanor that evinced a more proper upbringing. Golden eyes flit furtively through the slit of his helmet, a sword hitched to his belt.

"All those who pass this gateway must be qualified to do so," the gatekeeper declared. "What is your business in Armad?"

The big man's voice was deep and rusty. "I seek medicine for my friend's condition. We will be in the capital for but three days, and no more."

"What kind of condition?" The watchman scribbled, his brow crinkling.

"My friend has a terrible, Nagarathian face rash," the hulking knight bellowed. "So terrible that if you look upon it, you will contract it."

"I... see." The gatekeeper looked them over. "Very well, but I still need to view your identification."

The two men glanced at each other.

"G-give me a moment. It's in my trousers..." The shorter man fumbled with his belt.

"My companion is very embarrassed about checking his trousers in public. Please allow him some privacy behind that very fine wall." The big man pointed to an enclosure a dozen steps away.

"Ah, uh... very well, but I have to watch you at least. No funny business."

A moment later, the three men vanished from view, their voices drowned by the downpour.

"M-my belt is stuck, can you get help me get it off?"

"What? Sir, if this is some kind of ruse..."

A massive hand seized the gatekeeper's shoulder from behind. Then came a gasp from his lips, followed by a grotesque gurgle and a blade erupting from his chest. His eyes rolled back and he slumped to the ground, a pool of blood fast forming in the mud.

"Ian! Why did you do that?! I told you to knock him out!" The shorter knight blurted.

"James, we are now in enemy territory! We cannot risk discovery. Centurions all over the city would be on our tail."

James swore. This had never been his plan, but as he feared, Ian's proclivities appeared to get the better of him.

"Ugh, I–Aria would never approve!"

"Aria isn't here," Ian replied, grinning beneath the visor of his helmet.

"Fine! Can't be helped. Did anyone see us?"

"I should think not. This heavy rain should have provided cover, even if the gatehouse was occupied. Which it is not."

Glancing at his surroundings, he dumped the body in a nearby barrel, and stacked it among others.

Then, he retrieved three empty bottles of Valhassan wine from his coat, and placed them untidily in the corner where the gatekeeper had been, at which point the scowling James was sure that Ian had planned this all long.

"I'll be very surprised if they find his body before we finish our mission," he mused. "Which is, above all, to find your lady friend." He flashed a sardonic smile beneath his helmet.

"She's the most intelligent swordswoman I know. More than worth the trouble, Ian. And yes, I... have feelings for her. But that's my business."

"Mm-hm. I don't doubt it. I look forward to meeting her..." he mocked. "All the more if we can escape anon."

The rain thickened. Unhindered, the two knights walked onto the cobblestone beneath the open portcullis, their forms obfuscated by the dense, Devlani fog.

________________________________________

The autumn sun fell low behind gargantuan city walls. The twin moons, Quintosis and Urna, were yet to rise in the West. It was the year 345.

The spires of the Silver Palace nearly breached the firmament. In the zenith of the central tower lay the throne room, adorned with pillars, jewels, and silk banners emblazoned with the crimson insignia of Emperor Stromiskar himself. Buttressed archways afforded a panoramic view that the reigning Emperor, otherwise referred to as the Furst, used to scrutinize his great city from atop his perch.

The Vizier Von Richter, aptly referred to as the Sekond, stood in that throne room waiting for the news of the day. Locks slicked back, revealing a wrinkled gauntness that suggested an unsavory history, Von Richter turned and stepped keenly down the platform.

"Enter, Commander-Knight Safrax," he said, straightening his robes. "What news have you?"

The young Commander, appearing no older than thirty summers, knelt on the red carpet before a cold sweat broke out upon his crimson brow.

Emperor Valakov Stromiskar, supping on a plate of roast peasant and wine, did not meet the young man's gaze.

"Just yesterday," he bellowed as he chewed. "My elite guards foiled the plans of my enemy, Lord Agarthus. He drew his sword from his girdle, and slashed at my back with his treacherous hand, until my centurions halted his assault, and righteously clove his arm from his torso. He lies now in my dungeon, being split in twain by torturous devices. May his soul forever burn" —he swallowed— "in the stews of Hell."

On account of his table manners, one might assume Valakov Stromiskar was as obese as an Olivanian Elephant. But this could not be further from the truth. His gossamer robes tumbled subtly over his muscled frame while a dark beard grew from his chin. His thick brows and golden eyes glared at all men who dared to address him at all.

He bit into a heap of pandemain soaked in the roast, chewing with spite.

"Hrahahah, it seems as though all my retainers want to kill me, Commander Safrax!"

"Your Excellency... Lord Agarthus is but one of many..." Safrax replied, averting his gaze. "Every day, we receive more reports of defection from your regime. Lord Desmuth, Wilmark, Tolimech... they raise their standards in favor of the growing Vormian Union in the south, providing support and soldiers. Your Excellency, with all due respect, the country is on the verge of civil war. And not a one-sided one, you must understand."

The Emperor tore a juicy ligament from an Alacian buffalo bone, spitting the refuse onto the carpet.

"If they want a war, by the Gods," he said. "They will have it! War is the egg of progress. Victory is the hammer that cracks it. The sooner they become corpses, the sooner this Empire can fulfill its purpose. Now, may I finish my supper in peace?"

Von Richtor stepped forward.

"Nay. Commander Safrax, please bring up the subject of the hearing this morning. For the lady Lieutenant."

Valakov groaned.

"Yes," Safrax continued. "Lieutenant Aria Schezobraska. The female chevalier who went missing last year. The best in the 7th division. She is known by her violet hair and the scar over her left eye, not to mention her height. Her hearing this morning brought her loyalty into question. She was feared dead until just before she returned to us, hale and whole. She would have been commended for her defense of Duke Richardson, may he rest in peace, but now she has been accused of collusion of all things. Schezobraska pled innocent, insisting that her heart belongs to Devlan. Her senior, Lieutenant Commander Willowing Rayleen, even vouched for her innocence, going so far as to risk her reputation. She clearly has great respect for Schezobraska, as former unit members."

"Mm, yes. I remember," the Emperor said, spooning the last morsels of pudding from a gilded goblet. "She was quite a dish. What do you think?"

"Your Excellency?"

"Simple question, Commander Safrax. Do you think she is guilty?"

"... speaking honestly, I have worked with her before. Her love for Devlan runs as deep as the River Laine. I have never known a woman with more passion, skill, and loyalty to our great country. It would be a deep disservice to incarcerate her, or worse."

"I see... where is she now?"

"She has returned to her old quarters in the Western barracks. Many of her old friends and squad members celebrated her return. She is popular, your Excellency..."

"By the hairs of the father, is she not even under watch?"

"...watch, Your Excellency?"

A handmaiden presented a cushion of velvet, where Valakov casually dropped his empty goblet. Only now, after his belly was full, did his attention actually coalesce. And when it did, his oily lips mutated into a scowl.

"I think she is lying. Beauty deceives. It betrays. Like rich wine from a vintage bottle of Schmidt, beauty clouds the minds of others. She is lying. Of this, I am sure."

Commander Safrax gulped.

"...as you say, perhaps, my Emperor."

"Perhaps? Perhaps what? Would your Emperor imply otherwise?"

Safrax turned white as a corpse. But the Emperor was both quick to hate and quick to reward. His whims were but like the changing seasons happening all at once.

"...well, doubtless, you were among Aria's circle," Valakov said with a smirk. "It is no wonder that you would vouch for her. You're a fine man, Safrax. I can see why your fiancé loves you."

"My Emperor! Praise be to you! May your rule be eternal..." He bowed deeply, color returning to his cheeks.

"Praise be. You are dismissed, Commander."

With a salute, the young man marched back down the red carpet hall, turning out of sight. Valakov rose from his chair and motioned Von Richtor to follow him through the postern, where they emerged into a sun-lit colonnade.

"Interrogate him immediately. Doubtless he conspires with Union rebels hiding in the city."

"Yes, Emperor."

The two men strolled down the hall, as if it were a mere routine. Von Richtor did not bat an eye. Such was his business.

"My Emperor, if I may be so bold as to ask about Commander Schezobraska,"

Valakov groaned. "Not you too?"

"You misunderstand. I was curious to know why you thought she was guilty of collusion. Surely it's not because of beauty."

"Oh, that," the Emperor chortled. "Poetry from my arse. Before that fool interrupted my meal. No, a fortnight ago I acquired reliable evidence that the Lieutenant-Knight Schezobraska had been communicating with a certain man. Correspondence that I'm more inclined to believe is genuine, because of the man involved."

"No... your son?" Von Richtor gasped.

"The very same."

"I see... I remember the boy. But even I could not have foreseen... I mean, that such a sheltered boy would become an errant knight, and rise against his own father."

The Emperor laughed.

"Your Eminence?"

"Pay me no need. I laugh only because he is most definitely of my seed. I would be disappointed had he turned out any other way. Moreover..."

The Emperor turned, narrowing his crimson eyes.

"Von Richtor, I know I have asked much of you lately. But I would ask a little more. I care little for Lieutenant-Knight Schezobraska. She is no better than any whore in my seraglio. But James is the compassionate sort. He holds fast to the ideals of his damned mother like a babe to a breast. And so much the better if those ideals should betray his whereabouts. I believe we can use this... 'Schezobraska', to lure him out. Capture her. Announce her public execution. Make it so the boy couldn't possibly ignore it."

The Emperor smiled darkly. "He will come."

"Your Eminence, if I may," Von Richtor interjected. "I have no intention of speaking against your plan. But Lieutenant Schezobraska's trial hasn't even ended yet. To encourage support for your regime, it is important not to overextend your influence. The commonwealth will surely protest—"

"Then let them protest. Then we shall truly know who must live, and who must die."

Von Richtor bowed deeply, his long robe glittering in the sunlit arcade.

"Well-said, my Emperor. It shall be done."

The sun fell behind the city walls just after dusk. Von Richtor, his day's work not yet over, descended into the dusky town to the pub he frequented, The Tinted Glass. The barmaids welcomed his coin as he sat at a corner table, a hood cloaking his face. The clock struck eight when the doors opened, and in walked a stooping figure shawled in shredded black.

A jingle of shells and bones dangled from his neck as he sat at the Vizier's table, where he declined a drink offered by the maid.

"...sent for me again, my lord?" he whispered, his accent raspy and exotic. "What is it this time?"

The Vizier dropped a heavy sack of coins on the table.

"I have another mark for you. A lioness with a violet mane. Do keep the target alive this time."

Chapter 2: The Skyrrian Assailant

ARIA SCHEZOBRASKA's dream did not easily relinquish her.

The kiss was deep and indulgent, shared with a man of equine scent and gentle, yet robust lips. When a delicious lust manifested, she felt weather-hewn fingers slip under the waistband of her underclothes, passing through the tussocks of her softly-rounded eminence, and over her delicate pearl of nerves that stoked her hot desire.

Then, her eyes snapped open at a loud rapping on her chamber door. The fantasy vanished, and was subsequently replaced by a whiff of evening air.. Her mahogany wall clock, lit by moonlight, struck twelve.

"Hah... another one..." she heaved a sigh. "I thought only men were supposed to have wet dreams."

Her eyes fell upon her desk set with parchment, quill, and candle, wick cold as the evening chill.

Aria did not consider herself promiscuous, but such a dream was not unusual. James's next letter was long overdue, and the resulting anxiety manifested in odd but not altogether unwelcome ways. Given the imminent civil war, she supposed the delay was only natural; he had to be wary lest their correspondence be discovered by authorities.

The loud rapping on her chamber door shook the apartment once more.

Aria threw off the sheets tersely. "Alright, I'm coming! May I ask who's there?"

There came no answer.

Her toes winced on the lacquered wood. She ducked slightly, the top of her head narrowly avoiding a low-hanging beam. The bedchamber did not accommodate her height well, and the furnishings were more austere than the ones in her childhood, but for Aria it was home. Traipsing in her nightgown with a candle in hand, she undid the series of locks and peered through the crack of the door.

The visitor was cloaked in a hooded shawl. But even under the trappings, Aria instantly identified the owner of the immaculate silver armor and bronzed skin.

"...Commander Rayleen? Rayleen, what's the matter?"

Without a word, the knight known as Rayleen seized Aria's wrist and shoved herself through, locking the door behind her. Her other hand gripped her scabbard, eyes scanning the rafters with uncanny attention, as if expecting an eavesdropper.

Aria's face tinted with concern. "Rayleen? I assure you, there's no one here but me."

The woman known as Rayleen then closed the shutters, blocking out the moonlight. Only then did she break her own silence with manic whispers.

"You need to run," she said.

"What?" Aria replied.

"I've been told by an informant that the Emperor has ordered your execution."

Her face went pale, and she felt her heart in her throat.

"How?" she croaked. "No... The trial isn't even—"

"To hell with the trial! Doesn't mean anything. You know as well as I that the Emperor does whatever he pleases."

"...I-I don't believe it. Does the Emperor honestly think he can ignore the protocols of the tribunal?!"

"Apparently he does. The covenants have been quickly unraveling, through fear or favor. Perhaps both. I know how much you wanted to avoid bloodshed, but... but I think this is it. The masquerade is up. Maybe even for me too."

"Valakov is violating section 1, article 8! He has no evidence! The commonwealth would protest!"

"Aria, they found the letters!"

Aria suddenly paused. Whatever tirade might have been there ended before it had even begun.

"I see."

She clutched the ruffled hem of her nightgown, lips pursed. There appeared to be a breath of shame and ignominy on her dark face. In truth, Aria felt a rush of relief in her bosom.

This was truly the end of her career, then. But, there was also no more need to hide her allegiance or relationship.

The conflict was plain: she was a proud soldier of the Devlani Royal Army. But she had no fantasies regarding the Emperor's true nature as a war-hungry madman. Just that there was still hope in reform without resorting to civil war. For that reason alone, she declined James's request for her to defect to the Vormian Union, and instead chose to remain in the Devlani Royal Army to encourage negotiation over war. If her efforts failed, and Aria was unable to convince her superiors of the Emperor's folly, she would just as quickly turn to fight by James's side. Among all the amorous subtext in her letters to him, she hoped he understood that most of all.

"I've worked so hard to be part of this army, Commander Rayleen. To abandon my childhood dream like this..."

"I don't think you've abandoned your dream, Aria. Rather, it was not the dream you thought it was."

Tales of her father's bravery and heroism had been burned into her skull at a young age. Aria drunk deep in it, far more so than her brothers and sisters, even as her passion for the sword resulted in a self-inflicted scar over her eye.

Now, Aria's ivory-metal cuirass lay hung by the window—a symbol of her achievement in the Devlani Royal Army. Considering how female knights were treated, she counted these blessings.

"If it makes you feel any better," Rayleen said. "You became what you intended—a soldier of Devlan. That's something to be proud of. And now you can leave it behind and become something even greater."

"Hah... that's one way of putting it. Thanks. For everything, Ray." Aria returned a wry smile. She did not easily accept honeyed words, but Rayleen was, of course, not wrong.

The clock ticked. Aria moved swiftly, strapping on her cuirass over her violet bodice and breeches. She worked her wavy, violet hair into a bun, dressing herself in front of a mirror that she would never use again.

She threw her maroon mantle over her shoulders before strolling to the shoe cabinet. Leaning by the far side was her violet claymore, weathered from years of use, yet sharp enough to behead an ox. She took that too.

From behind the window shutters, throngs of voices rose from the city streets below. The common citizenry, as usual, remained oblivious to the immediate conflict, even as Aria aimed to free them from a government in which corruption and poverty ran rampant. This was never the city she wanted to see when she first arrived in Armad three years ago. No, it was a far-cry from what her father described as a paragon of civilization.

"Aria, take my horse and my cloak. In the left pocket is a slip of paper with an address. There is a Vormian hideout there. Tell them Rayleen sent you. They'll know what to do."

Nodding, Aria gently drew a wrinkled parchment from the shawl. 341 Vellum Plaza, District of Lord Valdimar, it read.