The Romance on the Violet Sword

"Are you staying here?" Aria pocketed the slip.

"I will leave soon enough. Just take care of yourself. And try not to be seen. Knights are not the only ones who act as the Emperor's eyes."

A single nod later, the young swordswoman left the premises in search of the hideout.

Her horse galloped down the cobblestone road. The moonlit colonnades passed by as she and her mount darted into the night, through the palace's grassy courtyard and its great fountain. She beckoned to an oblivious gatekeeper, who swiftly tugged on a chain-link contraption. When the portcullis creaked open like a monstrous maw, she snapped the reigns and bolted through once more into the commoner's district, hooves drumming the empty crossroads that had heretofore been bustling with horse-drawn carriages only hours earlier

Finally, she tugged gently on the reigns, stopping under the glow of a street lamp.

"Here we are."

Towers, scarcely lit from within by sleepless residents, rose into the clouds. During the day, the piazza was a business center of pubs and tinkerers. But at the hour of midnight, it lay foggy and deserted.

Aria glanced down at the parchment in hand, matching the name on the paper with that of the red-shingled building:

The Chevalier's Inn.

She had been here only once before with Rayleen. The restaurant sold exceptional Devlani cuisine, known for its buffalo dumplings and cream-honey chard. An arrangement of tables and parasols adorned a narrow portico, making it a popular spot among couples.

To think it was a base for the Vormian Union.

The stirrup jingled as she cautiously stepped down, her boots splashing into a puddle. She descended down a series of steps, leading to the heavy, wooden door that was the entrance. Well-trimmed ivy tumbled like a waterfall over lattices and windows.

"Hello?" she said, her eyes flitting between unlit windows.

Usually, Mortimer stood outside, serving as both a host and a sentinel. But today, Aria could see neither head nor hide of the well-mannered man. Hair on end, she reached for the knob.

Unlocked?

Her brow furrowed with unease. Something was not right. And yet, she could not just turn away. With a deep breath, she reached out and turned the knob. There came with it a cold click. And the heavy door slowly creaked open.

"Anyone?"

She raised her lamp and squinted. A scent of pine and alcohol assaulted her nose. But not a sound could be heard, nor did the lamp penetrate the inky darkness. Only when she stepped over the threshold did she feel the toe of her boot nudge into something soft.

"Oh Gods!" She lowered the lamp.

There was a man on the floor. Kneeling down, Aria grimaced when she recognized the glassy-eyed face as that of Mortimer's.

The bodies were everywhere. Tables and chairs splintered. Broken dishes were strewn on the floor as were silverware and half-eaten food. A terrible dread accompanied the repulsive scent of corpses, and she reached for her sword with a curse that rarely passed her lips.

She reached around Mortimer's tunic in search of blood. No wounds. She applied her finger to his neck. No pulse. The man appeared completely untouched. The work of a trained killer, Aria surmised, but far too efficient to be the work of royal knights.

The wheels in Aria's mind began to turn. Valakov's men were rarely so clandestine when it came to dispatching Union sympathizers. And the bodies would likely be discovered the following morning anyway. As there was no sign of a scuffle outside the premises, Aria was led to believe that whatever happened occurred completely out of sight.

Then, she heard a creak in the far corner.

She drew her sword instantly.

"Is someone there?" she snapped anxiously.

She raised the lantern and squinted, glimpsing a vaulted ceiling adorned with chandeliers. At the far end of the room lay a wine bar whose shelves glittered with all manner of spirits. Behind the counter was the double door that Aria assumed led to the kitchen. And above that was a red, carpeted staircase that led to a loft.

For a moment, Aria thought she spotted a reflection among the bottles.

"Haaahh!"

She spun around and swung her sword at a flash of steel behind her! With a loud clash, her blade struck another. She swung once more, and again, until the shadowy figure's gloved hand reached for her wrist. Aria held fast to her sword, even as the stranger's powerful grip attempted to divest her of it. When neither's strength overtook the other, the stranger wrestled her from behind while Aria plowed him backward into the wall with a grunt.

"Hnng—"

With all the strength she could muster, she reached behind and flung his body over her shoulder. The man tumbled into the carpet with a great thud. And Aria, sword in hand, pointed it straight down at his jugular.

"Move a muscle," she said with a glare. "And I will run my sword through your neck!"

"Gah, A-Aria, is that you?"

"Huh?"

A familiar voice. Aria didn't dare hope he was here. And yet, when she dangled the lantern over him—as awkward an angle as it was—the golden eyes revealed couldn't have belonged to anyone but him.

"James!"

Her sword clattered to the floor.

Aria wasn't sure what came over her. She slumped to the floor, held his unshaven cheeks in her hands, and immediately kissed him

His warmth. His presence. And his scent of saddles and horses. It was all here. And when she felt him reciprocate that kiss, her own heart fluttered, until at last their lips parted.

"...that's quite a greeting," he muttered. "I'm sorry, I couldn't see you under the hood. I would recognize your lisp anywhere."

"I'm sorry too. Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride."

"I don't understand. What are you doing here?"

"I should ask the same to you. What are you doing here, Aria?"

"I asked first."

"F-fine. Well, I came to rescue you."

"...Rescue me?" Aria said, blinking. "James, you dolt. How many times have I told you that a Commander doesn't walk into the jaws of his enemy? You could have sent literally anyone else."

"My mother once said: never send another man to rescue your beloved. She may fall for him instead."

Aria would have laughed were they not surrounded by dead bodies.

"That wasn't going to happen," she said wryly.

"I know, I know. I wanted to see you for myself."

A creak echoed from the kitchens. Cautiously, James rose from the floor, and yet remained as stiff as a statue. Aria followed suit, sword in hand. She would have continued the conversation. But there was a time and place for everything.

The kitchen doors were slightly ajar. No man stepped through. But still her instincts told her that another presence had entered the dining hall.

It wasn't until the moonlight shone on the chandelier that she noticed a metallic silhouette curving oddly like a black widow. There, she made out a face as pale as the moon.

It was a figure hanging from the chandelier.

"James!" Aria's cried.

Instantly, a dusky hand lashed out from beneath the figure's shredded shawl.

The daggers thrown were faster than her eyes could follow.

"Look out!" James bellowed.

He shoved a metal tray before her, blocking the trio of projectiles.

"Keep your wits about you, Aria!"

Wasting no time, he pelted the tray as though it were a discus.

Crash!

The chandelier plummeted and shattered in a heap, the assailant leaping off like a demonic grasshopper. With nary a sound, he landed on the bar counter and rushed toward them with daggers in hand.

She grunted as she swung again, sword whistling as it careened through the air, and missed entirely. She could not hope to match the assailant's speed.

"Damn it!"

A brilliant, orange flame suddenly erupted from James's sword, bathing the hall in light as he drew the blade. Aria was relieved; she had forgotten swords of magic like Oathkeeper could do such a thing.

"Argh!"

James cried out. The assailant had already circled around. Blood spritzed upon the floorboards as James was slashed from behind and sent tumbling into a harpsichord that splintered beneath him.

"NO!" Aria cried out once more.

The assailant dashed into the shadows again. James did not rise, and Oathkeeper—its blade unlit once more—lay on the carpet by the balustrade.

She heard a terrible laugh echo in the hall, as though from a poltergeist enjoying itself far too much.

"Come out and FIGHT me!" Aria said, eyes blazing with fury.

There he was. The man in shredded black squatted on the bannister. Moonbeams lit his profile, revealing that his pale face was no more than a carved mask obscuring his identity. Betwixt his cloak, Aria glimpsed a bone necklace jingling around his dusky clavicle.

"...you are Skyrrian," Aria gasped.

The man's raspy accent rang clear.

"So you know of us. What a learned woman. You must have a seafaring friend."

"Are you responsible for killing these people?" Aria demanded, sweat on her brow.

"Yeeees." He lingered on his consonants. "I poisoned their drinks with lethal doses of nightshade not an hour ago. They dropped one by one. Of course, there are a few who did not die as I had expected." He glanced at the unconscious James. "I'm finishing the job."

"Who hired you? Why did you kill even patrons?!"

"The Sekond told me I could kill them all. Far easier than wasting time matching faces."

Aria clenched her teeth in anger. The Vizier, as usual, was making the rounds.

"Oh, that scar," the Skyrrian assailant said, craning his head. "Your name is Aria, isn't it?"

"I am Aria Schezobraska, daughter of Lanze Schezobraska. Lieutenant of the Seventh—of the... Vormian Union."

Yes, she thought. That was the truth, after all.

"Oh, how fortunate. I was tasked with capturing you. But as the Union Commander James turned up rather fortuitously... I am no longer required to spare your life."

"Is that so," she said, her glare intensifying. "If you want him, you'll have to take me first!"

"Hah, don't overestimate yourself! Have you ever fought a Skyrrian assassin before? I think you will be quite surprised—"

Aria was not easily provoked, but the chuckle had done it. Bellowing in anger, her heel dug into the floor as she leapt onto a dining table and clambered across as quickly as she could.

She swung again and again. The assailant veered nimbly to the side, dodging her attack and slashing at her shoulder. Blistering pain peeled at her mind as hot blood spilled down her arm, begging her cry out. But she bit her tongue and continued.

No! Her father's words rung in her memories. Calm down. You mustn't fight with anger.

Aria took a deep breath, and begged herself to maintain composure. It was clear that this opponent would require the less orthodox approach. And so the wheels in her mind turned yet again.

Vision impaired, she listened for the tell-tale jingle of her foe's necklace.

Left!

She swung around to parry his dagger. Sparks flew as she glimpsed red eyes in the slits of his ashen mask. With a deft maneuver, she ground her blade over her opponent's shallow cross guard, and nicked his fingers.

The assailant gasped, retreating into the darkness.

Given a moment's respite, she quickly leaped over the wine counter and fumbled around with bottles lying in the cabinet. She could barely make out the labels: Celestine 456. Macedon 356. Schmidt 100. All celebrated brands of spirits known all over Skylessia. She took the Schmidt.

But as she leaped back over the counter, Aria suddenly lost her footing. Her head throbbed as she felt the onset of vertigo.

"What...?"

She was overwhelmed with lethargy, and fell against the balustrade in a drunken posture. It was not the wound. Or was it?

"I coat my daggers with poison every morning. Non-lethal, but perfect for incapacitation..."

Gods no, she cursed.

She heard the jingling of her foe's necklace directly ahead. Biting her lip to wake herself, Aria dropped her sword to the floor and deftly caught the dagger's edge in her gloved hand, gritting her teeth even as the poison gnawed wrathfully at her consciousness. More blood crawled down her palm, but she grasped the dagger tightly and, indeed, pulled her target close.

No matter. Fire kills all things.

Aria roared. With her other hand, she swung the flask of vintage Schimdt and shattered it on his head, spilling its full contents all over his shawl. The assassin howled in pain as he pulled away, sluicing the dagger out of Aria's palm.

She reached for Oathkeeper just below her feet. When her fingers settled around the alligator-skin hilt, the blade instantly blazed into an angry, red flame that danced in the blues of her eyes.

The assailant gasped.

"Hells take you!"

She swung the blade with every ounce of her strength. A plume of fire, as thick as a spiraling serpent, erupted from it. The dining hall became awash with incredible heat. And the Skyrrian, drenched in alcohol, burst into flame.

"AAAAGH!!"

He screamed, and Aria smelled burning flesh. The ashen mask on his face turned black as coal, as did his shawl, revealing an almost-skeletal frame beneath it.

Powered by rage or mercy, she wasn't sure which, she staggered forward and swung Oathkeeper's molten edge down, finally splitting the assailant in twain. What could only be his burning head rolled away as his body crumbled to the floor.

The deed was done.

She leaned against the balustrade, gasping. But even as her enemy lay destroyed, she could not dispel the poison coursing through her veins.

Boot scuffling, she sluggishly made her way to the remains of the harpsichord. She pulled at James's collar in desperation as Oathkeeper slipped from her hand.

"James, w-we got him! Wake up. We got to go. We got—"

Then, she collapsed.

Chapter 3: The Lover's Reunion

Aria's eyes fluttered open to a room she had never seen before.

The ceiling was vaulted, a gilded chandelier lighting the pale walls. She became aware of a night table at her bedside, a cup of water set on it, and a steady ticking as well. Empty shelves lined the walls, drawing her gaze to the door slightly ajar.

Somewhere at the foot of her bed, she could make out a muted snore. Curious, she sat up slowly. There, fast asleep with his head cradled in his arms, was James Stromiskar, a slow trickle of drool pooling from his mouth.

Aria stifled a laugh, but immediately grimaced. Only now did she notice the bandages wrapped around her shoulder, and what had transpired.

"You're finally awake?"

James's hair was a mess, as he too was bandaged. But his expression was one of ease.

"I feel terrible," Aria muttered.

"I did my best to patch you up, but I think it's not as bad as it looks. The ointment should prevent any scarring."

"I see. Thank you, James."

"It's uhh... it's good to see you after..." He averted his gaze. "After all this time."

"Yes," she nodded.

"I assume you didn't get my last letter...?" James inquired.

"The one where you mentioned the Alacian Alliance?"

"No, not that one. The one where—ah never mind."

"What happened, James? Where are we?"

"Don't worry. We're safe. This is my mother's old home in the Lavender Hills District, Central Armad. This is her bedroom."

"Your mother? Is she here?"

"No... it's just the two of us. This house hasn't been used in many years." His eyes wandered, as if reliving a memory..

The subject was always a delicate one, but Aria was sure he'd talk about it when the time was right.

"Ah, you're hurt, aren't you?" she said, changing the subject. "Did you carry me here?"

"I had help," James replied.

"Oh! That's a relief."

"But I assure you that my father's men could not possibly find us here. Rest easy, okay?"

"I shall."

She heard the hour hand of the nearby grandfather clock shift. Five o' clock.

"After I redress your wounds, I'll make us some food."

"Oh!" she exclaimed excitedly. "I'm famished."

"And you should be! You were asleep for a whole day."

"I feel as though I was sleeping a lot longer."

"And I would prefer that you did, given your injury. Which reminds me..."

He moved to her bedside and began rewrapping her wounds. With a damp cloth, he carefully wiped away her blood and applied fresh wrappings. When she glimpsed yet more of her bloody bandages by a water bucket, her heart beat hotly with gratitude.

"I'm sorry, Aria. If that assassin hadn't gotten me..."

"It's fine, James," she beamed. "It's enough that you're taking care of me... and I think I did pretty well without your help."

"That, you did. A Skyrrian assassin, all by yourself. I expect no less from the woman I... love."

He hesitated, but his proclamation was no surprise to either of them.

"I came to Armad looking for you," he said, squeezing the towel over the bucket. I always looked forward to your letters, even as it became difficult to acquire them. Then, I got word from an informant that my letters might have been compromised. I got scared. So I snuck into Armad a week ago, and tried to contact my informant in the capital for help to find you. But Von Richtor was a step ahead.

"I know him well. He is one of my father's right-hand men. A remorseless killer who my father called upon whenever he sensed treachery in his ranks. But Von Richter himself is not a formidable man. He hires others to weaken his targets, then takes credit. He did this for the promise of having his way with the castle maids. Many a night have passed when I peered through the crack of my chamber door and heard his immoral activities down the hall. I look forward to the day my sword finds his heart. But revenge or not, I'm still relieved that you are safe, Aria. Lest you wonder, my friend Ian found us unconscious and brought us here. He's not an ideal companion, but he has his moments."

"I see..." Aria said, listening contently. "I'll give him a kiss when next I see him."

"W-what?"

"I'm just kidding."

James groaned.

"In all seriousness," Aria continued. "I still don't understand how the hideout was discovered."

"I don't know either, Aria..." James sighed. "I can only assume someone shared information they should not have."

He snipped off the last of the fresh bandages around her shoulder, and shared a gaze of triumph until Aria mentioned the pull of sleep dragging her under again. Before James left to prepare their dinner, he kissed her forehead, thinking her already asleep.

***

When Aria woke up, it was to the savory aroma of a hot meal.

Sitting up from her bed, she realized only three hours had passed, but the extra sleep had done her good. Pots and pans clanged downstairs, and a comforting glow emanated from down the staircase. In a strange twist of reality, Aria went in search of a functioning water closet, which she found to her relief. And when she finished, she started down the stairs.

It was not a terribly large house, but it was cozy and full-featured. The polished, hardwood floor, recently swept, did not chill her skin as she expected, nor did the brushed steel on the banister. The furnishings were few, and most were draped in dusty cloth. Only the scarlet settee near the hearth had been uncovered, along with a dining table arranged with bowls and silverware—courtesy of James, of course.

When she peered outside a curtained window, she saw street lamps alit only a few heights below.

James's voice echoed from the kitchen. "I cleaned up the place best I could. Mother's house was always comforting, and I wanted you to feel that."

"No, it's wonderful. She must have come from a decent lineage."

"That, she did."

He was dressed in a burlap apron, sleeves rolled up as he carried a cast-iron pot to the table.

"Can I help?" Aria asked.

"Oh, please. You're injured!"

"James, it takes more than this to make me bedridden," she said with a wink and a flex of her arm.