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Chapter Text

Dulcet and sublime music reached my ears, filling the entire corridor where I found myself, still and motionless outside the door of the large parlor. I felt every muscle quiver with the desire to move and run towards the musician because the melody he was playing was a languid and mellisonant call: it was similar to the song of a siren that attracted the poor sailor to her, ready to shipwreck to reach her breast. The notes of the lute were capable of calming the nerves and  soothing the turbulent hearts, but it could also push people to make love or kill each other in a vicious dance of blades. Who was capable of doing such things, bending the Weave to his will? Who was playing with us? Or maybe he was training? I was about to take a step, intrigued by the music, dragged by it in wanting to discover who was behind it, when I heard a low growl coming from my captain, who was also motionless and standing outside the door, clutching his trident in both hands, ready to lash out at anyone who dared to threaten the Matron Mother of our noble house. In addition to the music, I heard the voice of Mez'Barris, who was dealing with the Matron Mother of House Qilin. My gaze moved to the soldiers standing before me, to the insignia they wore plated in silver and gold on their armor: House Dilyrr, a minor house like the one we were in and like the one I myself was part of. One of them was a sorcerer, his tunic was of the finest blue silk and richly embroidered in gold, and it rustled with every little movement he made, his white hair fell smoothly along his shoulders, an amused smile curled his lips while his purple iris sparkled on his twilight skin, the red one was hidden behind a tress that fell along his sharp cheeks. He walked away a few steps, no one dared to call him back, he too was attracted by the melody which was filling the entire space, then I saw him watching me over his shoulder, his copper-colored scales shining like jewels in the fairy lights of the lamps.

“Elamszar,” Tristan called me in his mellow voice. We had known each other since we were two adolescents and both attended Melee-Maghtere school. “Who do you think he is? Can you feel him moving the Weave to his liking by playing a simple instrument? Could he be a sorcerer?”

I shrugged. “It could be...” I didn't know what to think as he turned fully towards me, giving me his full attention. The wide sleeves of his tunic hid his hands, allowing only the tips of his fingers to emerge, the insignia of his house was embroidered among the golden squiggles that adorned it while a silver sash was tightened around his waist. How did he always manage to be so elegant even when he wore such elaborate clothes? I barely combed my hair and often wore armor suited to my role as a warrior for the Barrison Del'Armgo House. “Anyway, he plays really, really well.”

Tristan burst out laughing. “To say he plays in a very good way is an understatement, Elamszar. This musician is a true artist, as well as being a threat to our Matron Mothers. We have to be attentive.”

I saw his father, Kronos Baenre, smirk as his purple eyes shone with pleasure. It was the first time I had seen that man agree with his son, as well as being proud of him. It was easier to see them argue, besides the fact that Tristan collected a pile of insults from his father, who barely tolerated the presence of his son. Or maybe it was the sorcerer who couldn't endure the presence of his parent? The helmet shadowed the man's face, who stood motionless, his back straight, his armor shiny, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was the patron and Weapons Master of House Dilyrr, ours was Uthegentel, the one who had growled before and who was also my father. I was the illegitimate son of Uthengentel and Misumena, high priestess of Lolth, as well as being the daughter of Mez'Barris. An affair that my grandmother had never fully swallowed.

“Yes, you're right, this guy must be a real artist.” Why was I pointing out what the sorcerer was saying? What did it matter to him whether he was an artist or not? I leaned my back against the wall, still and motionless like a statue, becoming a warrior worthy of fighting in my grandmother's army. My father was glaring at me, the gold pins on his cheeks glistening as did his crimson eyes. He wanted me to shut up and I fell silent as he was ordering, looking straight ahead, without falling victim to Tristan's provocations anymore. However, Uthegentel was impulsive, as well as being beyond violent. He didn't have the cold blood of Kronos and wasn't as calculating as him. If Uthegentel let himself be hit first it was only to show how strong he was and how difficult it was to actually hurt him. How could he be so stupid? Also, I wondered how my mother fell in love with him. If my grandmother had chosen him as his patron it was to give life to soldiers who could have the size and strength of my father (my grandmother had only had five daughters from the previous patron, and only three had shown themselves worthy of greatness. Resigned that she was able to give born only males, had therefore changed patron, choosing Uthegentel). Meanwhile, I thought I would rather have Kronos as a father, rather than the beast at my side. However, I had to admit that I was much taller than my father, whose head reached my shoulder. In his time, Uthegentel was considered the biggest and tallest drow in all of Menzoberranzan. Tristan was also over his height, but he sported a slender build, not as massive as mine and, therefore, as my father. The sorcerer was the spitting image of Kronos: they were identical.

The music stopped just as suddenly as it had started. Perhaps whoever was playing had just finished his training hours. Silence fell on the corridor like a shroud, enveloping us all, making the atmosphere cold and sterile, while each of us stood in our place, staring straight ahead, knowing that at the first sign of threat, we would attack. I licked my lips, feeling sweat forming under the shell of my helmet as tension made the air thin. No one dared to move, yet we were all as tense as violin strings. Was the same thing true for Tristan too? Or, because he was a rare beast, did he not experience what we were all feeling? He looked calm as he had his hands crossed on his chest, his back against a column, a sly smile on his full lips as his hair fell sinuously down his shoulders. At times, I found him as irritating as a finger in the ass; just like in that precise moment as he bent one leg, resting his foot against the column, leaning forward slightly, trying to peek inside the parlor.

In fact, an immense silence had also fallen in the room we were guarding. Footsteps could be heard before one of House Qilin's servants reached us, hands in her lap, robes enveloping her slight figure. The woman bowed slightly. “Matron Mother Victorya requests Tristan's presence,” she said in a solemn voice. “Matron Mother Mez'Barris requests Elamszar's presence.”

I flinched when I heard my name. My father turned to me and gave a hint of a smile. “Go on, boy, don't keep the beast waiting,” he said, chuckling.

Chapter Text

The parlor was made entirely of black marble with golden veins, against which there were stone shelves full of books with covers of various colors, interrupted by black columns with a capital carved in acanthus leaves. There was no portrait, while purple tapestries fell from the ceiling, following one another like flags waving in the wind. They depicted the Qilin family coat of arms, adorned with flowers and spiders, which formed various doodles in golden foil. In the middle of the room there were three sofas on which sat the Matron Mothers, whose eyes followed my every move as I advanced with Tristan. We bowed before T'risstree Qilin, whose scarlet eyes shone like rubies. Her red lips stretched into a smile before she gave us permission to stand up, letting us join our respective Matrons. I stood behind Mez'Barris, hands folded in my lap, while my gaze went to Tristan, who was standing still and motionless at Victorya Dilyrr's side, who crossed her legs as she smoothed a fold of her black dress. A necklace of carnelians and gold threads adorned her neck, while a multitude of rings graced her lithe fingers. To her right, sat her eldest daughter, Trissonia, who wore her hair tied in a long ponytail, her sharp features did not make her particularly beautiful, furthermore the heavy makeup did not soften her high cheekbones and did not take away the austere air that permeated her, like the haughtiness that she exuded and that seemed to envelop her like a cloak. She was a priestess of Lolth, like her mother, like Mez'Barris who silently tolerated my presence, like my mother who sat beside her. They were powerful women but not as powerful as Quenthel Baenre, whose palace was in the district of Qu'ellarz'orl, where the most powerful houses dwelt. Currently, we were in the district of Narbondellyn, where the home of my house and that of the Dilyrr were also located. After all, we were minor houses trying to form alliances to survive and to try to reach a level of prestige that could compete with the Baenre. How could anyone simply want to challenge a house of such magnitude, whose power was truly immeasurable? Perhaps, I thought so because, unlike my grandmother or the women in the room, I had no say, no goal other than to blindly obey my Matron Mother. If she wanted to be on the same level as Quenthel Baenre, she would do anything. Who would ever dare to change her mind? Not even her patron, Uthegentel, had such power. After all, what are we, male drow, to such women? Uthegentel was the armed wing of Mez'Barris, so he was a mere tool as I was, as were her sons and her nephews, who made up her army. It was also true that, unlike many women of Menzoberranzan, our Matron Mother did not mistreat her children and her grandchildren, indeed she considered them important as soldiers and warriors, as those who could undermine the power of House Baenre. They were an asset and a treasure to Mez'Barris, except me...

T'risstree Qilin's voice interrupted the flow of my thoughts, making me fall back into reality, in that parlor of cold black marble and with those tapestries that seemed to hang like old cobwebs. I stifled a yawn as I stood still, looking straight ahead at the large windows, edged with dark curtains. I didn't even listen to what the woman was saying, she was basically addressing the other Matron Mothers. Neither Tristan nor I were relevant, yet she had summoned us. What was the reason for our presence in the parlor? Meanwhile, a little servant arrived accompanied by a young woman, who had her hair tied in a braid decorated with spider-shaped clasps, on which the rubies shone in the lights of the lamps. Her dark dress highlighted her curvy shape. The delicate features of her face emphasized her beauty, which it did not let itself be put in the shade by the burn that started from the left temple and veered towards the nose, resting on the right cheek and stopping at the base of her neck. It was so flashy that it seemed to shine. Meanwhile, the young woman stopped in the center of the three sofas, her eyes, of such a dark red that at times it seemed black, stopped on her mother, then she performed an elegant bow. T'risstree smirked as she stood up, walking over to the girl, grabbing her by the shoulders, and turning her first toward Tristan and then toward me. Our eyes met and I couldn't help but smile at her. And she smiled at me, tilting her head slightly to the side, while her cheeks blushed.

What would I do to run a hand over your scar...

That thought, born by chance, made me flinch. How could I have formulated such an idea? What kind of wish was it? Yes, that young woman was beautiful and her pale white skin marked her out among the albino drow, as T'risstree was stating at that moment, underlining that this girl was none other than a blessing from Lolth. Meanwhile, Mez'Barris turned to me, looking at me askance, then returned her attention to the hostess.

“Her name is Franceska, she is my youngest daughter,” T'risstree said finally.

Victorya stood up in a languid, yet elegant motion. She approached them both, a good-natured smile on her blood-red lips. She took the girl's face in her hands, smoothing her cheeks, but above all analyzing her in every detail. Her fingers slid towards her temples, lowering the young woman's head, examining her hair and her head. “Despite being a szarkai, she exhibits no deformity, or lack of hair,” she commented, looking up and staring at T'risstree.

“She is perfect!” the Matron Mother of the Qilin House exclaimed proudly, staring at Victorya with eyes that shone with satisfaction. After all, as she had stated, Lolth had wanted to bless her with the birth of a szarkai, so how could she not be happy and proud of her daughter, especially in front of these women, who were scrutinizing the girl?

Franceska took Victorya's hands in a firm grip, removing them from her head, then she released her hold. Evidently, she didn't want to be treated like a mere object. Her gaze darted towards me, almost as if she was seeking my help. I gave a hint of a smile, shrugging as if to tell her to be patient, that she would soon be back in her place. The girl smiled at me again, nodding. Did she get the message? Meanwhile, both Matron Mothers turned to me, and so did Mez'Barris and my mother, and the latter laughed softly, which made Mez'Barris roll her eyes.

“How did she get this scar?” Victorya asked.

T'risstree lowered her head, escaping the woman's inquiring eyes. “We had an altercation and I...” Her words died in her throat as she found it more interesting to stare an imprecise point on the floor. How had she managed to lose her haughtiness with a simple question?

Victorya burst out laughing, shaking her head. “An excess of anger on your part?” T'risstree did not respond to her prodding, remaining silent as she balled her hands into fists. Meanwhile, the Dilyrr Matriarch turned to Franceska. “Would you like to tell me, my dear? So we hear your voice too.”

“I defied my mother,” she said proudly as she rested her eyes on Victorya's. “For this outrage, my mother buried my face in a brazier. When she brought it up, I burst out laughing at her, offending her again, making her regret giving birth to me. But such a thought on her part is an offense to our Ultrine, to our supreme and glorious Lolth. Since my birth was wanted by the Spider Queen.”

Mez'Barris rose in all her elegance, moving closer as well. “And she didn't kill you so as not to insult Lolth.” She caressed her cheek, tracing her scar with her fingers adorned with long, painted nails. “You laughed in her face without fear of your Matron Mother's wrath... A very stupid or desperate gesture: a flaw of many young people.”

“Yes, it was a crazy gesture, perhaps dictated by pain or by the desire to insult my own mother. However, I don't regret it.”

“So you're reckless and cheeky,” Mez'Barris commented.

Franceska shrugged. “Maybe...”

T'risstree gave a short cough, attracting the attention of the two Matron Mothers. “What's your decision?” she asked, looking first at Victorya and then at Mez'Barris.

“That enormous scar mars her beauty, and I cannot allow my son Tristan to become the patron of such a monstrosity. He deserves better.”

You have no taste, Victorya... That scar makes her unique, like her gesture of revolt towards her mother.

“Shouldn't I be the one to choose, mother?” the girl asked, turning to T'risstree, who placed a hand on her shoulder.

“There are very important issues at stake, so...”

“I see” Franceska commented. “You summoned these women to forge alliances.” She turned to Mez'Barris. “So, am I of any value to your little boy, or does he also deserve better because of my scar?” How was she not afraid of the beast? Of course, she hadn't grown up with her, she didn't know her character and what she was capable of doing. However, her frankness might have irritated the Matron Mother of Barrison Del'Armgo House, but Mez'Barris surprised me by laughing and patting the young woman on the shoulder. What was happening? What power did Franceska have to make my grandmother react that way? Perhaps, because she was behaving as she was made and Mez'Barris wanted to see this, to taste her essence, to know what a Qilin woman was capable of doing. Not only was she fascinated by the scar and by a part of the story that revolved around it, but she was quite enraptured by her way of behaving and acting. Franceska knew that, as a woman, she had to choose her patron based on her needs, even the carnal ones. Instead, the situation was leading two Matrons to choose whether she was the right one for their children or grandchildren. She was intelligent not only beautiful and this made her extremely desirable.

I glanced at Tristan and saw a furious expression on his face, which was contorted as wrinkles appeared on his forehead and his lips had thinned. He had straight his back, hands clenched into fists and eyes that burned like embers. Evidently, he did not agree with what Victorya had decreed. He considered Franceska valid, as well as suitable for his rank: oh, he had wanted her the first moment she came on the scene and the same was true for me too.

“I don't just like you, I adore you,” stated Mez'Barris, who turned toward me, inviting me to come closer. “It is not my son I am offering you, but my nephew Elamszar.”

Franceska placed her gaze on me, analyzing me carefully.

“Do you want him to bend down so you can look at him better?” Mez'Barris asked.

“No, that's fine.”

“So, do we have an alliance?” T'risstree asked.

“Of course, and after what we will have achieved by working together, Elamszar will become Franceska's patron. I am giving you one of my fine warriors, as well as a paladin of Lolth.”

Victorya broke into the conversation. “What do you have to offer me instead of your daughter to have an alliance with me too?”

Attracted by these words, Franceska turned to her mother. “Who are you thinking of killing that you want to ally with both?”

Mez'Barris pulled the girl close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, then looked up at me. “Why don't you two go somewhere else? So you can get to know each other.”

“Yes, go to the Music Room,” T'risstree added.

Franceska sighed as she grabbed my hand and headed towards the door of the large parlor. It was clear that she didn't like the attitude of the two Matrons, as well as wanting to stay there and find out what those three women were planning. Meanwhile, I felt my father's eyes on me and they followed me until we turned the corner, going down another corridor before entering another room: this one was circular and small in size, and in the center there was a piano. Various instruments were posted on the walls, including some lutes and violins. I turned to her, who had let go of my hand, taking a seat at the piano. “There are no chairs,” she said, lowering her head. “No one ever comes to listen to me when I play.”

“It was you who was playing before?”

She nodded. “I was practicing a little before the servant called me. I didn't even know what was happening in the parlor. After all, no one tells me anything. What's the point of being a blessing from Lolth, when everyone is trying to protect you and keep you in the dark about important matters? They don't even let me leave the house.”

I chuckled. “They don't want you to go out because in this way they don't let anyone kill you. You are precious and must be protected.”

She glared at me. “Why do you also think like them? Don't you think we szarkai deserve a life like all the other drow?”

I walked over, sitting next to her, my fingers grazing the piano keys before producing a small melody. “The way you introduced yourself, does make me think you go out secretly.” I smiled at her as she began pressing the keys on her side, playing along with me.

“Am I that predictable, Elamszar?”

I giggled. “No, but I think you are ready to challenge your mother at any opportunity. You're a rebel, aren't you?”

“And you?”

I lowered my head, escaping her gaze, staring at the piano keys. “I am a warrior, I must obey the orders given to me. I cannot do otherwise.” Those words came out with some difficulty, because I would have liked to be like her, but unlike Franceska, I was born male and I was born into a family where most of the people who made it up were warriors. So how could I simply imagine facing Mez'Barris, rebelling against her wishes? She barely tolerated my presence...

“I understand.”

I grabbed her hand in a firm grip and she buried her eyes into mine. They were of a red so dark that at times they seemed black, yet they were so bright that they looked like two stars. Her lips were rose-colored and resembled the petals of a delicate flower and seemed to invite me to kiss and savor them. The scar on her face, which was nothing more than a visible burn, emphasized her beauty, and further enhanced the harmonious features of her countenance. “The fact that I'm an obedient warrior doesn't make me interesting?”

She rested her other hand on mine as a good-natured smile bloomed on her mouth. “I'm sorry if I made you think of something like that.” Her gaze fell on the runes I had tattooed on the left side of my face: they started from my hairline and went down to the jawbone. Franceska lifted her hand and brought it to my jowl, touching me gently. “What are they?” she asked, studying them carefully.

“They are runes of protection. My mother tattooed them on me when I was a child.”

“What exactly do they protect you from?” Her curiosity made her eyes sparkle as she brought them to me, immersing themselves in mine.

I shrugged. “From various dangers, including my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother?”

“Mez'Barris, the woman who spoke to you a few minutes ago.”

“The Matron Mother.”

I nodded. “Yes, the beast as we call her.”

“Why should they protect you from her if you are an obedient soldier?”

“Because she wanted to sacrifice me to Lolth as soon as I was born.”

The girl's eyes widened. “Really? Why?”

I had caught her attention and she waited patiently to hear the rest of the story. Her curiosity was boundless and she was not afraid to show it.

Meanwhile, we heard a laugh as someone entered the room. “Because his mother became pregnant with the patron of Mez'Barris and his grandmother could never tolerate such affront. However, instead of holding a grudge against his daughter and Uthegentel, she hates her nephew.” Tristan approached us, stopping behind Franceska, who had turned to see who had dared to interrupt us.

“I didn't invite you here.”

The sorcerer shrugged, emphasizing the fact that he didn't care in the slightest whether she invited him or not. He was here now and she had to accept it. It was a typical attitude of Tristan, who showed his haughtiness whenever he could, as he believed himself to be better than others. “Instead the scar on his right cheek is a gift from me when we attended Melee-Magthere.” He said it with arrogance, flashing a wide smile.

Franceska turned to me, placing her hand on the scar, which was a huge gash that covered most of my right cheek and extended towards the nose, ending partly on the left one. “It has a strange shape,” she said, caressing the jagged flesh, moving her index finger up my cheekbone. “It starts from this small part of the left cheek, goes up along the nose and part of the right one, and then bifurcates: one part goes up along the cheekbone and the other goes down along the jaw. I like it!”

Tristan laughed. “I used my rapier. We were training.” He moved closer to me, but was speaking mainly to her. “My teacher wanted to pair me with him who was older and more experienced than I was at that time, hoping that he could teach me something. But I fooled him with a feint, horribly cutting his cheek.”

“Sometimes we tend to underestimate our opponents,” I admitted. “I was also much younger than I am now.”

“How old are you?” she asked, lowering her hand, looking straight into my eyes, ignoring Tristan as best she could.

“One hundred and twenty years old.”

“Oh, we're twenty years apart.”

“You would suit me, not Elamszar. Your worth is truly wasted on him.” The sorcerer's voice sounded harsh and contemptuous, which startled the young woman, who suddenly turned towards him.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I repeat: you were not invited, so I order you to leave this room immediately.”

Tristan put a hand on her shoulder. He didn't take her seriously, or he put her on the same level as him. However, he did not respect her. Why was he behaving in such a disgraceful way? Was it because she was younger than him? His behavior was driving me mad. “Come on, don't act this way. You still lack the regality of the Matron Mothers.”

I squeezed his wrist hearing his bone pop as he bent on his legs due to the pain he was feeling. I rose to my full height, towering over him. “You heard her, didn't you? Go away, you were not invited, so your presence is a mere insult to her kindness, Tristan.” I let him go as he looked at me palely and began to rub his wrist.

The sorcerer went towards the door, but he stopped and looked at me over his shoulder. “You will pay for it, Elamszar.”

“You know where to find me, just as you know it's wise not to challenge me.”

He snorted, then walked out, leaving me alone with the girl.

“Is he dangerous?”

“Of course he is, otherwise he wouldn't be acting like this.”

Franceska grabbed my hand in her. “So he could kill you. Maybe it was better if you didn't intervene.”

“Our families are allies; he wouldn't dare jeopardize such an alliance on a mere whim.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “He's not stupid.” I sat down next to her again. “So, can I listen to you play?”

“Of course you can. Do you want to listen to something in particular?”

“Whatever you desire.”

She smiled as she began to play the piano, producing a dulcet melody that filled the entire room. She wasn't using the Weave this time, but the music that was able to warm people's hearts and calm any turmoil, even that caused by Tristan himself. I closed my eyes, letting the notes guide me, feeling the calmness tighten around my shoulders as I languidly relaxed.

As the sorcerer had said, she was a true artist.

Chapter Text

How could his mother not have found the szarkai suitable for him? How had she not seen past the scar that marred her face? How could she have been so superficial? Questions crowded his mind as he shut the doors of his bedroom behind his back, closing his eyes as he felt a silent rage build within his chest. His heart beat furiously against his ribcage while he could still hear the girl's voice telling him to leave and feel Elamszar's grip tightening around his wrist, his nails digging into his bone, producing a sound that announced the breaking of the joint if he continued to hold it. Tristan blinked as he lifted the sleeve of his tunic, looking at the bruises the warrior had left on his epdermis, while the pain continued to reverberate, almost as if it were a reminder of his friend's strength. Could he have had him killed if he had shown the Matriarch what Elamszar had done to him? A powerful alliance with the Barrison Del'Armgo was worth far more than his bruises and his very life. A sigh escaped his lips as he walked over to one of the red couches, throwing himself onto it, longing to erase the miserable day. Yet, in the darkness of his mind, he saw the szarkai's face, the delicate features of her visage, the plump lips tinged with a light rosy hue, the eyes rimmed with dense white eyelashes that looked like soft lace; then there was the burn that he wanted to pepper with kisses as he held her close. He could also smell the cloud of frangipani perfume that enveloped her, along with some notes of poppy. Did she also have a few drops of a particular fragrance, in addition to the ones he had recognized as soon as she entered the large parlor? It was not the typical perfume that ignited passion and lust, but something caressing, aimed at enchanting the senses of the two Matrons. T'risstree was not stupid, so she had planned everything to focus the two women's attention on other qualities of her daughter. Yet, Victorya had concentrated her attention on Franceska's scar, attracted by it rather than by the girl's beauty. Perhaps the scent was not so strong so as not to alarm the two guests and their respective warriors.

Maybe I'm imagining it all...

Tristan went back to rubbing his wrist. The pain throbbed, yet it was slowly dissipating. If Elamszar had allowed himself to act that way it was because he knew how important the alliance between their two families was, otherwise, he wouldn't have touched him because Elamszar was counscious, as well Tristan, that neither family would break the coalition at the whim of either of them. Right? Could he say that with certainty? Ultimately, the sorcerer undermined the girl's authority by invading her personal space and showing up in the room uninvited. It would have been an outrage if she had been a Matron Mother or a priestess, but Franceska was neither of them. What was she then? Was she a warrior? The sorcerer doubted it, also because the szarkai were often used as spies, as they looked like very normal elves and could work on the surface. He shook his head, thinking of her body veiled by a dark silk dress, of the lack of particular scars... He licked his lips pondering over the girl while he still felt the wrath embracing him in its coils, stirring up the core of his essence. How could his mother have decided for him? How could she have discarded T'risstree's daughter like that, as if she were nothing more than dirty paper? If Franceska had had the power to choose, would she have chosen him or would she have preferred Elamszar to him? The way the two talked made him even more furious because she seemed really interested and enchanted by the warrior of the Barrison Del'Armgo.

If he had talked to his mother about her, could she have changed the outcome? Perhaps it was too late, as the alliance had now been sealed between the two families. Could he have lost his chance in such a miserable way? He licked his lips as he moved into a sitting position on the sofa, crossing his legs, running a hand through his long white hair, wondering what had fascinated the girl, because Elamszar was not as handsome as he was.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting the flow of his thoughts. “Come in!” he almost shouted, before a servant appeared in the doorway.

“The Matron Mother requests your presence.”

Tristan sighed as he got up from the couch and walked to the door, which he slammed shut, then began to follow the servant. He descended the various stairs before reaching his mother's apartments, knocking and waiting for her to give him the order to enter, which did not take long to arrive. He threw open the door and entered the small antechamber: a small living room painted in antique pink shade and featuring two padded sofas, a small bookcase that covered an entire wall, while some paintings were affixed to the other walls and portrayed landscapes of the Underdark or portraits of the Matriarch. The last glimmers of Narbondel came from the windows. “Did you summon me, mother?” he asked her.

“Sit down.”

The servant bowed before leaving the room, closing the door. Victorya poured some tea into a porcelain cup before giving it to her son, then poured more into hers. “I wanted to tell you about our meeting with the Matron Mother of Qilin House.”

The sorcerer took a long sip. “Why did you reject her daughter? She would have been perfect for me.” He preferred to get straight to the point, leaving aside the various pleasantries and speaking first.

“Oh!” the mother exclaimed, before giggling. “I didn't realize you liked her.” Victorya took a pastry from the silver saucer and bit into it. “Anyway, I explained exhaustively what I thought of the girl and, believe me, with that noticeable scar on her face, she would have put you to shame.”

“She is a szarkai, mother, a blessing from Lolth. How could she ever make me feel ashamed?”

Victorya glared at him. “Are you questioning my choice, Tristan? Are you seeing me as incapable of making a judgment?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“What then?”

He lowered his head, escaping the sharp eyes of his mother who, at that precise moment, seemed to want to chop him up. “I was just giving my opinion on the matter.”

“Your opinion means nothing, Tristan.”

“I ask your forgiveness, mother.”

Victorya took a long sip of tea, without moving her gaze to her son, overlooking the quarrel they had just had and focusing her attention on the reason why she had summoned her son. “To gain our alliance, T'risstree Qilin promised us a dozen of her best wizards, twenty slaves and two chests full of gems, including diamonds and amethysts.” She licked her scarlet lips as she leaned her shoulders against the back of the couch, crossing her long legs. “I accepted this paltry offer because we need allies if we have to destroy Baenre House. As soon as they fall, we will destroy the Qilin, so we will kill your beautiful szarkai too. Then we will focus our attention on the Barrison Del'Armgo.”

The sorcerer nodded. “If the Qilin and Barrison Del'Armgo are allies, they could go to war against us as soon as we attack the Qilin.”

“That's why I summoned you, Tristan.” His mother smoothed a fold of her dress. “I want to weave other alliances and we know pretty well how your beauty, especially your draconic blood, can fascinate many Matrons.”

His hand trembled and a few drops of tea fell onto the red carpet. His mother pretended not to see while Tristan felt his heart beating relentlessly in his chest. He didn't like to have sexual intercourses with these women, some of whom were so brutal and bloodthirsty that he had barely survived a night of passion with them.

“This morning I made an appointment for tomorrow with Matron Mother Halna of Melafin House. You must be on time when you show up at her palace and, if you satisfy her, we can talk about a possible alliance. This house has some excellent warriors.”

Yes, but they are not like the warriors of the Barrison Del'Armgo.

“A'dos quarth!”

Chapter Text

The darkness was almost palpable in Menzoberranzan, despite the fairy lights, despite the luminescence of some fungi, even there at the West Wall, where the remains of the Do'Urden compound stood, built inside the wall itself. The stalagmites seemed to cut through the darkness, aiming for the ceiling of the cave in which the entire city stood. The house wizard had cast the spell “Silence” while we, Barrison Del'Armgo warriors, were training. No one was allowed to use magic that day, using our blades. A light breeze suddenly started blowing, it was cool and seemed to dry the sweat that had formed at the base of my back, while tiny droplets slid down my temples, sticking my hair against the cheeks. I had thrown away my helmet as I faced Sharimar, a few years older than me, but much shorter and therefore much more agile than me. The black bandage hid the loss of his left eye, but it did not hide the heavy scars that disfigured him: an enemy's spear had dug into his flesh, as well as having blinded him. He wore his long white hair tied in a ponytail, his pointed chin emphasizing the hard, sharp features of his face, making him more similar to Uthengentel than Mez'Barris. He had broad shoulders and a bull neck. The studded leather armor covered most of his body while his large sword glowed in the purple fires we had lit to illuminate that ravine of the world. He was a formidable warrior and often trained with our father; ah yes, we were half-brothers, as we had the same father but not the same mother, or was it better to say that he was my uncle? Relationships within my family, when they concerned me, were a real mess.

That day, Sharimar had decided to challenge me, eager to test my strength, and also my skills. I smiled as I watched him take two steps forward, inhaling air before swinging the sword in his hands, holding it forward, its tip glowing with death for a brief moment as he dashed towards me. I parried his lunge, moving sideways, then hit his back with the hilt of my own sword, making him stagger. I saw him burst out laughing but no sound was made due to the spell. Liphistius, the house wizard, was watching us carefully, enchanted by our performance. He stood at a safe distance, his arms crossed over his chest, his tunic falling down his slim body. He was tall and slender, his long white hair fell in a foamy cascade along his shoulders; a circlet, decorated with amethysts and blue quartz, rested on his forehead. The others were training on the first floor of the compound, inside the cave. In short, Mez'Barris wanted us to be in shape and that seemed like the right place to give the best of ourselves. In battle, I also used spells, as my grandmother had wanted to trace a very specific path for me, making me spend a few years in Sorcere; now she wanted me to also become a paladin, in order to demonstrate my infinite devotion to the goddess Lolth, embracing any oath she would have indicated to me. If this had made Mez'Barris love me, make me shine before her eyes and make her happy, I would have done it willingly. I would have done anything not to be the victim of her resentment. I remembered that when I was a child, she broke my nose without me having done anything except put my arms around her waist, burying my face in her belly, longing to be treated like her other children and her grandchildren. Blood had stained my clothes as I cried desperately. My mother took me away from her, dragging me to her rooms, healing me with a small miracle.

“You spoil him too much. He'll become a wimp! “ My grandmother's voice boomed in my ears, the echo of another memory making me flinch. I jumped back, avoiding a slash from Sharimar, who suddenly arrived, and was almost on the verge of hitting me, aiming for my abdomen. I shouldn't let my guard down, I shouldn't get lost in the past, pondering how Mez'Barris felt about me. No distraction was allowed, we warriors of the Barrison Del'Armgo House had to be perfect, as well as lethal. I swallowed loudly as I gripped the hilt of my sword with both hands, bringing it down on him, making my blade sing with his several times. Sharimar parried every blow, while he took a step back, wondering if I was trying to tire him out, or if I was furious because I was distracted. Would he report that training to Uthengentel, or to Mez'Barris? I raised my sword, jumping backward, while a smile curled the corners of my mouth, while I saw fatigue in his gaze, as well as he was short of breath. We had been training for several hours, I too was starting to feel tired, my muscles were sore and the leather armor was becoming heavy. “Do you want a break?” I asked him in Drow sign language, and he shook his head in response. He wanted to end with his victory, he wanted to push himself beyond his limits as our father had taught us: this is how a warrior improved, this is how a warrior became an excellent soldier. I clicked my tongue against the palate before raising my sword, parrying his swing. He was so fast that, at times, I struggled to see him, but now his movements had slowed slightly.

I kept my guard up, my gaze nailed on Sharimar's single eye. His sword shone in the light of the purple fires, seeming to be shrouded in an unhealthy aura, saturated with death. Wasn't that how we fought? Was not guarding death in our womb? The life of a soldier could become as fragile as an autumn leaf, like the ones I saw the first time I went to the surface with my father, during the ritual called “Blooding”: a ritual drow perform when they became adults. I had aimed for a young elf, who I slaughtered to Uthengentel's great surprise and delight. I shook my head, erasing from my mind the frightened gaze of the elf, who was immensely afraid of me and of the death that awaited him, so different from Sharimar's stare and pride, from the fact that he understood that death was a faithful companion, which accompanied us from our first cry. Every warrior had to accept it, every drow had to deal with it sooner or later. Meanwhile, I took a deep breath as I placed a hand on Sharimar's shoulder after he lunged. I spun around as I pushed him down, sending him crashing to the ground as he lost his grip on his sword. The fact that he was missing an eye made his left side blind, so I had used his disadvantage to my advantage. I was immediately on top of him, pinning him to the ground by placing a foot on his back, applying so much pressure that he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. My blade fell on my victim which pierced him, scratching the bones and the heart, going until it dented the ground, while Sharimar raised his head, his hands closed into fists, the drool that was colored red while a tear fell from the only eye he had and it furrowed his cheek. Blood pooled under the weight of his body, forming a scarlet pool.

Liphistius approached, removing the spell from the whole area as I released Sharimar from my sword and placed a hand on his wound, healing him before he could take his last breath: no one had to die during training, my grandmother's iron rule; warriors died on the battlefield.

Sharimar stood up and grabbed my shoulder. “You're getting better and better, you bastard.”

“If you keep killing each other, I don't see how anyone can get any better,” a female voice commented behind me.

I turned and my gaze locked with my half-sister, Ilharess: the first of the four daughters my mother had had with another patron. She smiled at me as she waddled closer. Her robes as a priestess of Lolth swayed in the breeze, which still blew throughout the tunnel. She had her hair gathered in a very elaborate hairstyle and held in place by various golden clasps and embellished with precious stones; a few locks framed her face, softening her features, while her eyes have the same color as amber. After all, drow with eyes of this tint existed but they were rare and Ilharess was, in fact, a rarity as she was the only one with such eyes in our family. Her lips were painted red as were her nails, while her fingers were adorned with a few rings. “What are you doing here?” I asked her, avoiding calling her by any title of honor she deserved. She didn't want me to use them mostly to irritate Mez'Barris. She hated her grandmother for how she treated me and would have done anything to make her understand that I too, as a member of her house, deserved a place of honor among her best warriors. Furthermore, Ilharess had never wanted to undertake that path that made her a priestess of Lolth, but the beast's decisions had to be respected.

“I was looking for you.” The tone of her voice was saccharine and melodious.

Sharimar and Liphistius bowed before her, then walked away, leaving me in the company of my half-sister, who stood on tiptoe to caress my cheek. “Well, you found me!”

Ilharess chuckled. “Yesterday, Mez'Barris kept you on the lookout until the first light of Narbondel, so we couldn't talk about your meeting with her...”

I blushed and she laughed even more.

“From what mom told me, you really liked her.”

I lowered my head, escaping her curious gaze. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because just as you have always taken care of me, I want to take care of you too. Also, I would like to meet her one of these days. Mom said she has a real livewire character.”

I nodded. “Yes, she reminds me of you.”

She put a hand under my arm. “Come on, I'm all ears.”

We walked away from the compound that had once belonged to Do'Urden House: the ghost of a family now gone. The breeze continued to blow, feeling like the very presence of the bones that once occupied that immense palace. I looked over my shoulder at it, at the silent stalagmites, the darkness settling like a shroud, enveloping the whole built completely. Ilharess looked up at me smiling, but at the same time, with a slight movement of her head, urged me to talk to her about my meeting yesterday, about that little szarkai that had played for me: the notes of the piano continued to reverberate in my ears like her eyes, which for the whole time we had been talking, had shone like stars, animated by such a lively curiosity that it had overwhelmed me like her questions. I chuckled as I shook my head, wondering when I would get to see her again.

“What makes you laugh?” Ilharess asked me.

I shrugged. “The things she asked me while we were chatting. She was intrigued by the runes I have on my face.” I began to tell my sister what I had felt as soon as she entered the room, enveloped in a cloud of frangipani perfume, about the beauty that emerged from her features, from the way she had faced Mez'Barris, without feeling intimidated or anything else. She didn't feel scared of Victorya either, but she had made it clear that the judgment that the Matron Mother of the Dilyrr House had disappointed and, perhaps, hurt her too. Franceska had never been able to put Tristan to shame, at most she would have overshadowed him, as a szarkai, as a female drow, as that conspicuous scar was the first thing one noticed about her. Yet, I had loved her eyes when they rested on me, almost as if she were seeking my help while Victorya examined her carefully, as if it were the buying and selling of a pack animal. I also told her about Tristan, how he had treated the albino drow and how she focused exclusively on me, touching my scar. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the light pressure of her fingers on the hardened, jagged flesh. I wanted her ardently, my heart did nothing but want her, burning at the slightest thought of her. Yet, I had only learned of her existence yesterday. Love wasn't an option for us drow, so what was this feeling? Infatuation was a possible and plausible explanation.

“It sounds like you're talking about a work of art.”

“Maybe she's like that for me.”

Meanwhile, we had left the West Wall behind. Ilharess had come with a small escort of warriors. However, she knew how to protect herself very well. “Besides, facing our grandmother like that…”

“Mez'Barris really liked her.”

My sister giggled. “Well, that's understandable. She showed a side of her character that our grandmother likes. A little rebel who laughs in her mother's face after she lowers her visage onto a brazier. How crazy must she be? Unlike you, she is a strong woman, she is not afraid of having her mother's resentment for her choices and she is not afraid of her mother's anger when she does what she wants, since she admitted that she goes out secretly. She fears nothing, while you fear Mez'Barris and would do anything for her to have a shred of her love. You are pathetic, my beloved brother.”

Could I blame her? She was telling the truth, but it stung when her lips spoke it. It was like ice on a burn, salt on a wound that was bleeding profusely, it was a dense agony that broke all the bones, lowering my defences. I lowered my gaze, staring at the street beneath my feet, avoiding any contact with the people walking through the Narbendellyn district. How distant was our abode? Yet, I couldn't hide there and give vent to what her statement had aroused in me. After all, feelings didn't exist in that city, much less in our homes. Could I sink into sadness? Could I allow myself to cry because my sister had admitted the plain and simple truth? I would have been even more pathetic than I really was. In fact, I would have done anything Mez'Barris said to not make her angry and to not make her hate me further. Could there be a shred of affection in her stony heart? Why blame me, when her patron hadn't managed to keep his cock in his underwear and her daughter had done nothing but seduce him to have that cock planted in her pussy? Why had my mother acted like a whore? Did she hope to have a strong son from my grandmother's patron? Or was it her way to show her that she was not an arid flower? Misumena had had a series of miscarriages before being impregnated by Uthengentel, managing to end the pregnancy by giving birth to me. Mez'Barris, feeling betrayed, got angry not with the two of them, but with me and my being the product of a night of passion. Would it have been the same if I had been born a woman? Would she hate me anyway, or would she keep quiet because it meant having another priestess of Lolth in the house?

“I'm sorry, Elamszar, I was too harsh. I had no right to say something like that to you.” Ilharess stopped, standing in front of me, then stood on tiptoe, caressing my cheek. “It is not easy to live in the hatred of that woman. Whatever she tells you, no one in our family and house really means it. You are a valiant, as well as loyal warrior. Our grandmother should feel honored to have you in her army, rather than offended by your mere existence.”

I felt the prickle of tears from behind my eyelids. I didn't want to cry, I didn't want to let out my emotions, but one escaped my control and ran down my cheek. Ilharess picked it up with her lips before giving me a small kiss.

“I love you so much, dear brother.”

She hold my hand as we continued on our way. I had no desire to go home, I had no desire to see Mez'Barris or my mother. I would have preferred to continue training until my muscles started screaming in pain, until I fell to the ground exhausted.

As we approached the palace of the Matron Mother, I felt the structure ready to crush on me, ready to collapse on top of me and bury me under its weight. It was as if invisible chains were tied around my wrists, neck and ankles; I felt like a man condemned to death who could not escape his fate. My body stiffened as Ilharess looked at me for a long moment, gripping my hand more tightly. “You're with me,” she told me tenderly. I tried to smile at her, but only a grimace formed on my mouth.

One of the warriors opened the gate, allowing us to cross the courtyard. The enormous door was thrown open by another warrior, allowing us to enter the enormous dark marble entrance hall, where several statues of the previous matrons were placed in alabaster alcoves. Their stony gazes followed us as we walked in profound silence. I hadn't received any orders from the beast, so I could go straight to my rooms and take a bath. In fact, I put my foot on the first step when I felt a presence behind me. Ilharess gasped as she whipped around. I turned too, seeing Mez'Barris approaching at a calm pace, her hands clasped in her lap, her scarlet lips pursed in a grimace while the features of her face were so drawn and tense that it made it clear what her mood was. My grandmother's eyes bore into mine and were filled with seething fury that could have burned my epidermis. The silk dress was low-necked and a gold and diamond necklace was lying on her grey skin, shining in the lights of the chandeliers.

“You never had my permission to go out, Ilharess,” she said hoarsely as she turned to my sister.

“I wanted to talk to my brother.”

“To the point of questioning my decision.” She approached. She was tall, very tall to the point of towering over my sister even though she was standing on the first step of the stairs. “Since this house has few priestesses, I will let you live. Do it again and I might not be so forgiving.”

“Thank you, Matron Mother.”

Mez'Barris caressed her cheek, then turned her attention back to me. “You stink of sweat, you horrible creep. Go wash up, then put on your best armor. I want to go out, today.”

Chapter Text

When the matron mother decided to show herself in public, she was comfortably seated on a sedan decorated in gold and purple silk, carried by four slaves and four warriors, while a handful of soldiers and priestesses walked at her side, protecting her with their bodies, their weapons and their magic. This day, Mez'Barris had also wanted the company of Ilharess and my mother, who sat inside that little hovel, which weighed on the shoulders of the men who carried them. I brought up the rear, my sword sheathed and hanging from my back while my hair fell in messy waves down my spine. Like everyone else, I wore no helmet at that moment, showing off our beautiful mithril armor, which caught the reflections of the fairy lights. People avoided us, clearing the passage. Some stopped to observe who was hiding in the sedan chair, their gazes resting on the house insignia, bowing to the passage of the priestesses who walked with us. You could feel the tension creeping into the Narbondellyn district, at that point where the road forked, leading to the various shops of tailors, upholsterers, perfumers, and jewelers. Evidently, my grandmother wanted to go shopping, she wanted to have fun and not always be closed in her majestic palace. No one said a word as we walked, looking around, our senses alert in case someone decided to attack us: no one should dare approach us, Mez'Barris, the two women sitting at the Matron Mother's side.

“Elamszar!” someone said my name, making me flinch. I spun around and saw that, a few steps away from me, was a figure wrapped in a piwafwi, elaborately decorated with silver spiderweb patterns. The girl lowered her hood and removed the camouflage spell, revealing her pale skin beyond the conspicuous scar on her face. I smiled, recognizing her immediately, and motioned for her to come closer. She began walking beside me, stealing glances at the other warriors.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her. “You should stay at home.”

“Like your grandmother, right? It's an almost rare occurrence for a Matron Mother to decide to stick her nose out, so I decided to take my chance.”

I burst out laughing. “Wearing a piwafwi to hide yourself better, right? As well as using a little camouflage spell. Who was your teacher in magic?” I immersed my gaze in her dark eyes, which sparkled with joy.

“My father, who is also a teacher of Sorcere. He tutored me to learn the basics of magic, then, enjoying the friendship of the Sorcerer's Archmage, then Gromph Baenre became my teacher.”

I jumped when I heard that name. “How does he enjoy Gromph's friendship? He barely tolerates people.”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. I only know that he showed up one day, when I was in my mid-teens, while I was playing the lute, as well as singing. He stopped in front of me, staring at me with his cold golden eyes. He stood there, stunned for several minutes, without stopping me, while I continued to sing. My father tried to intervene, trying to make me understand that the person in front of me was an influential one, but he silenced him with a simple look, which I saw my parent turn pale, as well as take a step back.”

I shook my head. “Well, having heard you play, I can say that he was enchanted by your performance. Maybe that made him accept whatever offer your father made him.”

She nodded. “Could be! Furthermore, he taught me to channel the Weave into music.”

“So, Gromph Baenre was your teacher in magic and Weave. Now I can understand many things...”

She laughed. “Yes, the day we met, before we introduced ourselves, I was practicing as he taught me years and years ago. So you felt my magic.”

“I had assumed you were a witch.”

“Of course I'm a witch, otherwise, how would I have enchanted you?” She stuck her tongue out, making me laugh. How could she be cheerful in a city like that? Franceska was pure light that seemed to penetrate the darkness I held in the depths of my being. She took my hand and intertwined her fingers with mine. “We could go for a walk sometime, would you like that?”

I nodded. “With all my heart.”

She let me go. “I leave you to your work.”

Please, don't go...

I heard my father's voice telling us to stop as Mez'Barris' head popped out of the sedan chair. She looked towards me as Uthengentel strode closer, his red eyes locked on mine as he slowly moved them to the girl, who seemed to petrify instantly as she reached for my hand again, which I immediately grabbed. My father grasped her shoulder in a firm grip, hoisting her up to his face level: Franceska was very short, she must have been five feet tall. The girl swallowed loudly, aware that her act of approaching a warrior while escorting the Matron Mother could mean instant death. A priestess also approached, who sighed before getting close to Mez'Barris, who called both me and Uthengentel, who also took the girl with him, placing her on the ground, before the severe gaze of my grandmother, who opened the door of the sedan chair, inviting the girl to come in. Since she didn't know what to do, Franceska stood still and dazedly, staring at the matriarch of House Barrison Del'Armgo. My father pushed her forward. “Move! Don't keep the Matron Mother waiting.”

“Don't be afraid, come.” My grandmother held out a hand, which Franceska grabbed, entering the sedan chair and sitting next to my sister. “She is the daughter of T'risstree Qilin, so you must treat her with the utmost respect,” Mez'Barris hissed, glaring at her patron, then shifted her gaze to me, staring me down. “Congratulations, Elamszar. Today you will not close the rear as usual, you will walk alongside the sedan chair together with your father, ready to protect the woman who, it seems, has stolen your heart.” She closed the curtains and Franceska disappeared from my sight.

Maybe she had really stolen my heart because I liked her so much. Meanwhile, we continued our journey, catching the attention of passers-by, who stopped and knelt, showing their respect both for the priestesses who walked alongside us and for the women hidden by the veils of the sedan chair. I sighed as I walked forward with my father, who put his hand on my shoulder, tightening it in a strong grip.

“Up close she's even prettier,” he whispered in my ear. “I like her scar too.” A smile formed on his thin lips. “Don't let anyone steal her from you.” He let go of his grasp from my shoulder and went back to observing the streets, careful that no one came out of nowhere to take our Matron Mother out.

I was distracted, I did nothing but think of Franceska locked in the sedan chair, undergoing, undoubtedly, an interrogation by my grandmother. Was she safe? Would she hurt her? If she had wanted her death, she would have given the order to Uthengentel to get rid of her, but instead, she had welcomed her, letting her sit at her niece's side. Maybe I was worrying about nothing, but I was eager to see her and make sure she wasn't upset or hurt. After all, there was an alliance between us and her house, it would have been stupid to threaten or kill her, right? I shook my head, trying to erase all those thoughts, to send them into oblivion so that I could clear my head, so that I could become the perfect warrior that Mez'Barris claimed. Meanwhile, her voice rang out on the breeze, startling me as I looked at my grandmother, who was talking to my father, giving him the order to stop.

Uthengentel approached the warriors who, together with the slaves, were carrying the sedan and ordered them to halt. I opened the door and helped each woman to come out, while one slave bowed to the ground, letting their shoes rest on his back, acting as a step. Franceska was wearing a pair of black leather boots and jumped down, her piwafwi fluttered in the air like the wing of a bird. My grandmother grabbed her hand, and then she looked at me sideways, nodding at me to follow her. Uthengentel, Sharimar and another warrior also followed: we would have to protect them inside the shop, and the others would not have allowed anyone to cross the threshold. The tailor gasped when he saw Mez'Barris and immediately bowed, showing the utmost respect to the other women present as well. My mother smiled at Franceska, caressing her cheek as she approached the man.

“We need some purple and lilac fabric,” Misumena said directly as her red eyes were resting on the man, who shivered.

“I get it immediately!” he exclaimed, opening a small door that led to the back of the shop.

Meanwhile, my mother undid the clasp of Franceska's piwafwi and tore it off her, before throwing it to Uthengentel, who caught it on the fly. “Now we'll make you a beautiful dress that emphasizes your beauty more, so people's concentration doesn't focus exclusively on your scar.”

“I cannot accept such a gift!” the girl exclaimed, raising her voice several octaves.

“Why not?” Mez'Barris asked as she approached. “One of my warriors is about to become your patron. Do you want him to just look at your scar? Under these clothes, you have a body to show off and make tempting, right? Afterward, we will also stop by the perfumery.”

My sister approached me while I was standing near the door, observing the whole scene. Franceska looked at me, demanding my intervention but I had no power, so I shrugged.

“She will never win against our mother and grandmother if they persist in doing something.”

I nodded. “However, I wish they wouldn't treat her that way. It's up to her if she wants to show anything other than her scar.”

Ilharess burst out laughing. “She should make it disappear instead.”

Franceska glared at her. She was as proud of that scar as I was proud of mine that decorated much of my body. “People shouldn't judge if they don't know the story of other people's injuries.”

“Oh, you already defend her, you're really in love with her.” She walked away and approached our guest, putting a hand on her shoulder, and whispering something in her ear, which made her blush. Meanwhile, the tailor returned, bringing with him samples of both purple and lilac silk, showing them to my mother and grandmother. They were immediately satisfied with what they saw and dragged the girl into an adjacent room, immediately closing the door. My sister had also followed them, who often gave good advice, since she knew what was new in fashion. I huffed along with my father as I crossed my arms over my chest, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this shopping trip would end soon. When they went to the tailor, time seemed to stop and the minutes became endless hours of boredom and agony. They always asked to the tailor different types of custom-made clothes which often made me wonder what they did with them if they had dresses in their wardrobe that they forgot their existence? Evidently, appearance was fundamental for them, especially for their perverse power games.

Ilharess reappeared on the scene dragging Franceska, while our mother called out for her. The szarkai was covered with a thin layer of purple silk, held in place by some pins. The fabric had been folded over her breasts to create a perfect neckline, highlighting her firm breasts. The dress fell straight, following the sinuous and soft curves of the body, opening into a large slit on the thigh, which rose almost to the height of her underwear, which had been removed to see the result of that model which, then, the tailor would sew. My sister made her twirl before my gaze, which focused on a particular part of her body, asking me what shape her orchid had, whether it had any tufts of hairs or not, what form it would take when my cock passed through it and how it would drip on it. How I wanted to dip my fingers into its voracious throat, see the blush of desire and pleasure purple her cheeks, her mouth ajar to moan my name, as she abandoned her head on the sheets, submitting to the lust and lasciviousness of my touches. I would have liked to devour her, burying my face between her thighs, sinking my tongue into her cavity, and tasting her warm ambrosia, which she would have blessed me with her drops of dew, filled with unbridled eros. Just the thought made me heat up, feeling so hot I almost couldn't breathe as my cock swelled in my trousers. Could a simple fantasy awaken me from the comatose state I was in? Uthengentel clicked his tongue and made me turn towards him. His eyes were placed on the albino drow, admiring her body accentuated by the silk. I felt anger and the urgent desire to hit his face with my fist, so as to remove the grin he had on his lips once and for all. Franceska was mine, only mine! He had no right to observe her or have perverse thoughts, she was my mistress and lover, he had Mez'Barris, as well as having had the audacity to fuck her daughter. He had to find some composure.

“Forgive me...” My sister's voice came like a plea. I turned to her, but she was addressing Franceska, whose cheeks were streaked with tears.

Our grandmother appeared behind her, towering over Ilharess, as she grasped one of the szarkai's hands. “What did you do, you, foolish girl? She is a woman, not a commodity for filthy and depraved men.”

For once I was glad that Mez'Barris had acted. Meanwhile, my sister lowered her head, following the woman into the adjacent room, together with Franceska. That act could undermine the alliance with the Qilin, something my grandmother didn't want to happen, especially if both houses wanted to overthrow the Baenre. How many alliances had we formed recently? Will we ever become an influential house enough to have our own palace located in the Qu'ellarz'orl district? Will we ever be able to exterminate the entire House Baenre? The last question seemed impossible to answer, also because the Baenre had been so influential for so long that the goal of my grandmother, the Qilin, and the Dilyrr seemed truly unattainable: a goal that seemed to have to remain a long-cherished dream. Furthermore, we were nobodies, subsisting on the crumbs of power the Baenre bestowed upon us as their allies.

They spent two hours inside the tailor's shop where both my grandmother and my mother commissioned clothes for them, giving him precise instructions. My sister also had commissioned one, choosing red-purple silk, which was perfect on her leaden skin. We also stopped by the jeweler, where they purchased various necklaces and bracelets studded with precious stones, also taking some things for Franceska. Why were they behaving that way with the girl? Was it a way to put pressure on the Qilin, to get something more in return? I didn't believe that they were acting like this simply because my grandmother liked the young woman. There was something underneath and it was aimed at the szarkai's mother. We also went to the perfumers, who made perfumes of various kinds, including aphrodisiac ones, and my grandmother took one for Franceska, giving her advice on how to use it and how to put it both on her orchid and inside it, as well as sprinkling her neck with some drop. I wanted to tell Mez'Barris that it wasn't necessary, beyond pointing out how uncomfortable made our guest, but I had no say in the matter. If I had dared to speak, she would have punished me, if not killed me. So, like the other men in the shop, I kept my mouth shut, my back straight and my hand tightened around the hilt of my sword which, in every shop we went to, I kept out of its sheath, ready to protect the Matron Mother and the other women present. After the purchases, we continued our journey, each of us surrounded by a heavy silence. The sedan only stopped near the Qilin house, so I helped the young szarkai to come out.

“Take her home,” my grandmother said in a harsh tone. “Then join us.”

“A'dos quarth!” I replied, bowing briefly, then took Franceska's hand in a firm grip.

We moved away from the sedan chair and the procession, approaching her mother's palace. The tall stalagmites emerged from the dark ground and seemed to want to reach the vault of the cave, ready to challenge Narbondel. “Don't go to the front door, otherwise they'll know I go out secretly.” It was she who took me to a side part of the house wall, not well guarded and hidden from the street.

“What have you talked about?” I asked, making her flinch.

“Of various things... Your sister loves to embarrass me, to the point of suggesting that I must rent rooms in various taverns to have sex with you. The funny thing is both your grandmother and your mother agreed.”

“I apologize.”

“For what? You didn't do anything wrong.”

I grabbed her wrist and turned her towards me. Franceska gasped, her eyes widening. I caressed her cheek, getting lost in the dark color of her irises, veiled with tears. “My sister had no right to embarrass you, to treat you that way at the tailor's. I apologize to you on her behalf and my grandmother's place.” I kissed her forehead, then moved down the scar, pausing on her cheek.

“Don't worry, Ilharess apologized.”

My mouth flew to her lips, kissing them as I held her close to me, lifting her off the ground as I took her into my arms. My tongue ran to her, ready to dance calmly yet wildly. Every part of my organism wanted only her, my heart called out her name in a loud voice, and my blood wanted to poison itself with her sweet essence, which I was savoring with that ardent display dictated by the passion that she was capable of awakening in me. Love didn't exist for us drow of Lolth, yet we were able to feel it like other living beings, so why not let the szarkai enter my life, losing myself in the feelings I felt? It couldn't just be mere sexual desire, it was something else that pushed me to want to go beyond the mere facade, the mere surface... I wanted to know everything about her, not just the flavor of her body or the sound of her voice: I wanted to know every secret, every minutia, every detail. I wanted her to slip under my skin, to become the absolute presence of my existence, I wanted my life to depend exclusively on her, I wanted her little feet to crush my head while I worshiped her like a goddess.

“Poison of my days!”

“Elamszar...” she gasped.

“Usstan ssinssrigg dos!”

She kissed my cheek, moving down to my neck. “I have to go...”

I pulled away from her with great difficulty. “I hope to see you soon.”

She gave me a hint of a smile. “So do I.”

She vanished through the gap in the wall, leaving me with the taste of her on my lips, along with the scent of her body.

Chapter Text

Red candles were lit and their flames created golden halos on the shiny marble walls. Carpets with golden fringe rested on the floor, and the heavy curtains were held back by wrought-iron tiebacks, which emulated the shape of bronze spiders. His fingers slid over the smooth pawns as his gaze wandered outside, admiring the stalagmites and their spires, which radiated iridescent gleams. A rustle of silk made him turn as his mother stopped a few feet away, also staring out the window. She reached out a hand, placing it on the boy's head, savoring the softness of his long, wavy white hair. Her slender, ring-laden fingers plunged into the strands as she turned to him, sinking her crimson eyes into her son's. A kindly smile creased Misumena’s scarlet lips, who slowly moved away from the boy, inviting him to follow her with a slight nod of her head. He didn't dare to disobey, walking behind her with his head slightly bowed, while the Goddess Lolth, depicted in paintings with tarnished gold frames, accompanied them with her gaze. Elamszar didn't dare to look at her as he felt judged by those simple portraits, almost as if that cruel deity were pointing her accusatory finger at him, sewing onto his skin the word he hated more than any other and that he often heard whispered by his grandmother: bastard! He was the bastard son of a strumpet, yet his mother, like his father, was still alive and walked ahead of him in all her elegance, wearing a long mermaid-cut dress that embraced her slender body. Misumena was a statue of carved ebony, and for that boy, she was the most beautiful drow in the world.

His mother led him to a small sitting room, where she had him sit beside her on a brocade silk sofa. She tied his hair up on the top of his head, then took Elamszar’s face in her hands, looking at every detail that emerged, noting a distinct resemblance to both Uthegentel and Mez’Barris. Those cursed ruby-colored eyes were identical to the woman who had wanted to sacrifice him as soon as he was born, and his grandmother’s same expressions were reflected on the child’s face, even when he showed anger or when he smiled, yet Elamszar's had such a vivid light in his gaze that Misumena felt warmed to her very soul. She put her arms around her son's shoulders and pulled him into a reassuring hug, running a hand along his back, feeling him tremble against her chest. “My little spiderling.” When she was in her chambers, she could take off her mask as the high priestess of Lolth; she could stop being severe, austere, and ruthless. When she was there, she could be a loving mother and hold tight to the child who was growing up too fast. “Lolth granted me a miracle,” she said, enunciating the words clearly. “She often only grants it to us women, but she made an exception for you.”

Elamszar lifted his head, watching her carefully as his mother stroked his cheek. “What did you have to give up?”

Misumena simply smiled, preferring not to answer a question that had come so directly and so quickly that it felt like a stab straight to the ribs, not giving her time to protect herself. How dare that boy to voice his curiosity? How dare he to judge her choices? Who did he think he was? He was just a miserable male who would only serve to procreate and defend the house. And yet, Misumena didn't move a muscle, preferring not to chastise him, deciding to gloss over the inquiry her son had asked, which showed how Elamszar was understanding the law of Lolth, as well as the cruel world he lived in. "For you, I would even sacrifice my soul," she whispered those words as she turned and stared at the brush dipped in the inkwell. "Perhaps I did when I lay with Uthegentel..." Her voice trailed off as a tear rolled down her cheek. No priestess of Lolth was immune to feelings, and no drow woman was invincible, and Elamszar was slowly torturing her with a simple question. "I waited for you for so long, my little spiderling." A sob shook her shoulders, shattering her self-control, as she buried her face in her hands.

"Mother, forgive me, I couldn't restrain my tongue." Elamszar put a hand on her shoulder, making her flinch.

Misumena wiped her tears with the back of her hands, then leaned forward, grabbing the inkwell and the brush. "Stay still and motionless, Szar."

Some servants entered the room, lighting black and red candles that they placed on the floors and in candelabras, then some benzoin incense, while a small statuette of the Spider Queen was placed on the wooden table, along with a silver goblet and a mithril dagger. When they were left alone, the boy looked back at his mother. "Will it hurt?"

"A Barrison Del'Armgo does not feel pain."

The high priestess raised the black ink-soaked brush and began to paint part of her eight-year-old child's forehead and the left side of his face. Her lips began to utter hymns and psalms, which filled the room. The incense smoke curled into sinuous spirals, and ghostly figures danced on the flames. Yochlol, handmaidens of Lolth, were present during the unofficial ceremony and joined Misumena's chanting, becoming a solemn chorus that invoked the blessing of the Mother of Lusts, the Weaver of Destiny, and the Queen of the Drow. Every title of the deity was pronounced with deep deference, showing an awe that caused the woman to shed tears of infinite devotion. Meanwhile, each rune drawn with the ink burned like fire and was engraved on the child's face like a red burn, which slowly turned black. Elamszar would have liked to scream, cry, and run away, but a Barrison Del'Armgo wouldn’t do such thing; a Barrison Del'Armgo would endure without making a single whimper, showing himself worthy of receiving the protection of the Spider Queen.

Mother, you are killing me.

When Misumena finished engraving the last rune, she took the boy's wrist and cut it with the dagger, pouring the blood into the silver goblet. “Here he is, he who has been consecrated to you, my beloved Dark Mother. Here he is, Elamzar Del'Armgo, who has been anointed by your blessing, who has burned his impure flesh, raising him to the same rank as your cruel handmaidens. Protect him from every danger here in the Underdark, here in Menzoberranzan, and in the World Above, keep him safe from Mez’Barris Del’Armgo.”

A yochlol, who had taken the form of a young drow, manifested a few feet from the small table. She grabbed the goblet, took a small sip, then smiled malevolently and disappeared, while a dense, viscous silence veiled the entire room as Misumena let out a sigh before collapsing onto the sofa.

***

The memory would resurface all of a sudden, like the rumble of thunder I heard during a raid on the World Above, and it had the power to shake me to the very depths of my being like the small waves that often rippled the Lake Donigarten. What did my mother give up to protect me from my grandmother, from the Beast? What did she promise Lolth to grant her that miracle that had seared my skin? The mirror in my bedroom was capturing the details of my face: the broad forehead, on which the runes were partly etched; the long, straight nose; the large eyes and thick white eyebrows; the right cheek ruined by a deep scar that tore through the flesh, climbing along the nasal septum and extending toward the ear before forking. The left side of my face had been tattooed by my mother, and those symbols, under the touch of my fingers, were smooth and soft, yet I could still feel the fire sinking into my skin, affecting bones and muscles, going to the very core of my essence, devouring everything in its path. I could also feel the screams that had shattered against my mouth, the agony that had hollowed out my stomach along with the terror that, Misumena's desperate gesture to protect me from my grandmother, had planted its black banner over my head. A Barrison Del'Armgo doesn’t feel pain! A lie they kept telling us even as adults, and which we clung to so as not to give in to fear, especially when we were on the battlefield, ready to annihilate the other houses, gathering power and glory. A Barrison Del'Armgo warrior is the armed hand of the Matron Mother. Meanwhile, the Beast still yearned to kill me because her pain was profound, and I was nothing more than the fruit of a night of passion.

How much did it cost you to have sex with Uthegentel, mother? You regret it every day, don't you? And yet you waited for me for so long.

"You're just a mistake," I said, looking at my reflection. I rested my forehead against the mirror, feeling the cold surface as my breath fogged it up. I didn't do anything wrong, yet I'm a mistake to my mother, to my father, and to Matron Mez'Barris. I laughed as I straightened my back, seeing my grandmother's gaze in my own eyes, in the expression that had appeared on my face and in the contemptuous smile that had blossomed on my lips, making me realize how much I resembled her. Was it another trick played on me and Mez'Barris? Was this what Lolth wanted to make fun of us both? I started laughing as I stepped back, sitting on the edge of the bed. I lay down, bending in half, curling up against the warmth of the still-rumpled sheets, as the laughter turned into tears. Why couldn't she appreciate me as she did with her other children and grandchildren? Why didn't she see my worth and my courage as she did with the others? Why did my scars have no importance to her? Simply because she was the Matron Mother; she had built everything that rose around me and had given her utmost trust to a man she had picked up from the street, giving him her surname. Her daughter, on the other hand, had preferred to stab her in the back, taking the man she loved, seducing him to get what Misumena longed for, which was a child. Whether it was a boy or a girl had little importance to my mother; rather, she wanted to show Mez'Barris that she was not a sterile flower. Furthermore, she had given the house another warrior. If the Beast hadn't killed them, it was because of the importance the two held, in addition to the fact that my grandmother truly loved her patron. How pathetic I am in desiring the love of the Matron Mother... For a century I have been running after her, and I'm still doing it.

Someone knocked, shaking me from my stormy thoughts. I wiped away my tears, then got up and went to the door, flinging it open. On the doorstep was my sister Ilharess, who had some papers in her hands. I stepped aside, letting her in, then led her to the small living room that served as an antechamber. It wasn't uncommon for a priestess to come to the male quarters; they were the ones who commanded, they were the ones who gave us orders, while the Weapons Master took it upon himself to make sure everything went as the Beast desired, in addition to training us in combat. But my sister wasn't there to give me a specific assignment, was she? And yet, I wasn't so sure as I saw her sit on one of the sofas, placing the papers on the small table, then bringing her amber eyes to me as a smile blossomed on her lips. "Get the ink; we'll write a letter to Franceska." Her voice, so melodious and persuasive, sent an electric shock down my spine. What did she want to do? Could I afford to do such a thing, invading the personal space of that sublime woman, whom I desired with every fiber of my being? If I closed my eyes, I could admire her face and her scar, as well as her cute little nose, and I could also see those genuine smiles that stretched her rosy little mouth, which invited me to kiss her.

"What do you want to do?"

"Narbondel was lit just a few hours ago, marking the start of a new day, and you're still here, in your room, shirtless and wallowing in self-pity," Ilharess stated, raising the tone of her voice by a few octaves, hitting me straight in the heart. "We'll write her a simple message: an invitation to spend the morning together; a simple and innocent walk."

I crossed my arms over my chest, remaining standing a few feet from her, staring at her without moving, aware that my sister was damn right. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Don't you want to see her?"

I lowered my head, avoiding her gaze. "You have no idea how much I want to." But I couldn't be like my father; I wanted to be better than him and go beyond simple carnal pleasure, yet drow only loved in that way, the only way granted to us. "I would be content with just talking to her, or listening to her play. Even a simple walk, wherever she wants to go, would be enough."

Ilharess gave a small smile. "Then go get what I asked for."

I sighed and went back to my room, heading toward a small cabinet in a corner, taking an inkwell and a quill. I returned to her, putting everything on the wooden table, and the image of my mother painting on my face came back to my mind like a bright flash that, slowly, darkened, like the room we were in that day and the gloomy mood that showed on her face. "I don't know what to say to her or how to approach her."

My sister motioned for me to sit beside her, so I complied and sat on the sofa. "I know it's difficult, but you have to be yourself, Szar, just as Franceska is herself with you. Just start writing, and then we'll see how to phrase it." Ilharess was very similar to the szarkai in character: like Franceska, she was also a rare breed who didn't see me as the bastard son of Uthegentel and the grandson our grandmother hated; Ilharess simply saw me for who I was and knew me so well that she always knew what was going on in my head, to the point that she had quickly figured out how much I liked the young woman. Yesterday, shortly after our return from the various purchases the three women had made, my sister and I had talked about the albino drow for hours, and she had also apologized to me for how she had behaved toward the girl. "You can't just see her on the wedding day. Give yourself the chance to get to know her in every aspect. She doesn't seem like the classic drow woman who wants a lover just to have children, or for simple pleasure. She likes you, Szar, and she likes you a lot."

"Did she say that when you were in the palanquin with her?"

"She didn't say it directly, but she made it clear to me, our mother, and our grandmother."

What would Mez'Barris get out of all those gifts she had given Franceska? What was on her mind? I ran a hand through my hair as I stared at those blank pages, as my sister handed me the quill, encouraging me to give free rein to what I wanted to say to the szarkai. I wet my lips, then began to write, letting the words chase each other across the pages, without following a logical thread, but baring my thoughts and transforming them into black lines, blossoming in the ink that soaked the paper. I had never been a poet or a philosopher; I was just a warrior who blindly obeyed the Matron Mother, becoming the weapon she desired and fighting for her glory and power. My hands were made for killing, and that's all I was easily capable of doing, mowing down the lives of grandmother's enemies, of anyone who dared to tarnish the name of our house or who had the audacity to threaten it. "My sweet poison, whose name is Franceska," I was writing. This was what I thought of her: a little viper who had bitten me at the base of my neck, corroding my mind and pushing it to think of the young woman day and night, even if in Menzoberranzan there was neither sun nor moon, only the ceiling of a dark cavern. From the first day I saw her, my sanity had begun to crumble, enchanted by her crimson eyes, her noticeable scar, her way of talking to me, and the curiosity that made her gaze shine. What was that girl? Where had she been hiding for these long hundred years? Why had her mother concealed her from the entire city? Because ghost spiders, as the szarkai were called, were precious, as well as considered a blessing from Lolth, and therefore, to prevent them from being killed on the street by the enemies of the house, the family kept them hidden at home, concealing their very existence. In fact, they didn't attend any of the three schools, yet they became valuable spies who often operated in the World Above, bringing back precious sacrificial victims, or they would go into other people's houses, here in the city, stealing the secrets of the Matron Mothers and reporting to the Matriarch of their own house. However, Franceska was not a spy at all, but an assassin? If she considered me a threat, would she kill me? If I proved to be an impediment to her ambition, how easily would she sever the thread of my fate? And yet, she seemed so harmless. Meanwhile, I wondered what that girl really wanted from her life, what kind of power she yearned to grasp in her hands, and if she wanted to become the Matron Mother of House Qilin. Perhaps she wanted none of this; perhaps she just wanted her beloved music that, when infused with the Weave, was capable of distorting the senses. My sweet poison!

After about an hour of writing and after some slaves had served tea, I handed the various pages to Ilharess, who began to read them while nibbling on a cereal cookie. I took one too before taking a long sip of that amber beverage, which I had diluted with a few drops of rothé milk.

"You've been a gushing river, my dear Szar," my sister announced as she read avidly. "I love some of the phrases you use to describe her; however, we don't want to send her something so risqué already, do we? We just want to ask her out, after all." She wet her lips before planting her eyes on mine. "I was thinking that, instead of going out this morning, you two could go out tonight for a romantic dinner. What do you think? Go to one of the clubs in West Wall or Narbondellyn; don't take her to those filthy taverns in Duthcloim."

"And here I was thinking of taking her to one of the shacks in the Braeryn," I replied sarcastically.

The Braeryn was the poorest and most crowded district of Menzoberranzan. Here lived sick and outlaw drow, along with the city's many non-drow inhabitants, such as kobolds, goblins, orcs, and bugbears. Meanwhile, the Duthcloim district was famous for its many shops, thee Bazaar, massage parlors, and taverns. It seemed like the right place to take her, given the abundance of things to see and buy.

"How witty you are!" After my sister had finished reading, she took the remaining blank pages and began to write. "Get the materials to create the wax seal; I brought the envelope to put the letter in."

I obeyed without complaining, returning to my room and opening the cabinet, from which I took the stamp, sealing wax, and the family crest. I had sent few letters in my life, and always to women who had dragged me into their languid embraces and their lewd kisses. I hadn't loved them, but I had seen them as simple pastimes. I placed everything on the table, then tried to peek at what my sister was writing, but she admonished me a couple of times. I went back to drinking tea and eating cookies, while I wondered if Franceska would ever answer my message, if she would agree to go out with me, spending an evening together, but above all, would her mother approve, or would the szarkai be forced to slip out through the hole in the wall, sneaking out of her house? How could T'risstree be so blind, never considering the fact that her daughter always did what she wanted? Perhaps the Matriarch of the Qilins underestimated her precious princess, thinking she was an obedient woman. But how could she simply consider the szarkai a disciplined and docile creature? That darn scar was proof of a rebellious character: that young woman had defied the will of a high priestess of Lolth, of a Matron Mother, and had come out alive, albeit disfigured. Was it possible that T'risstree didn't consider her important? Was that why she had proposed Franceska as a potential bride for the two male candidates present that night? As she had explained to Mez'Barris and Victorya, she was the only daughter of the house not yet married, while the szarkai’s two older sisters, high priestesses of the Spider Queen, had patrons and children. Stop racking your brain over what T'risstree thinks of her daughter.

After half an hour, Ilharess finished writing the letter, taking some of the phrases I had used. "I hope you like it," she said before handing it to me, allowing me to read it.

My sweet viper’s poison,
from the first day I saw you, all I've done is think about you. There isn't an hour that my mind doesn't race to you, thinking of the sound of your voice, of the curiosity that makes your eyes shine like the bioluminescent mushrooms of the Underdark, of the smile that creases your rosy lips, which seem like soft feathers and which I ardently desire to taste, just like yesterday, shortly after I escorted you to the door of your mansion. There isn't a moment that I don't wish you were by my side, walking through the city streets, hand in hand, getting lost in conversation. There isn't a moment that I don't want to spend with you, listening to you play or talk. My desire to know you is so intense that my imagination gallops frantically, pushing me to create almost unreal scenarios so that I can reach you and have your company, even for a handful of minutes.
I would like to ask you if you would be willing to indulge me and make these fantasies real, by spending a pleasant evening in my company. I would take you anywhere you wanted to go, also offering you a pleasant dinner in whatever place you wish, my sweet pale rose. I await your reply.
Always yours,
Elamszar Del'Armgo.

As soon as I finished reading, I gave the letter back to my sister, who sealed it in the envelope. Shortly after, she melted the wax and applied the family crest to the white paper. She wrote the name of the recipient in her elegant handwriting, then looked at me with a smile. "Do you think she'll reply?" I asked her, arranging a lock of hair that had fallen onto my forehead.

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Because I'm a warrior and she's a Qilin princess?"

"Come on, Szar, you're a Barrison Del'Armgo prince, too. You're of noble birth just as she is." Ilharess sighed. "Your luck is that you two like each other so much despite being strangers, so why not take the opportunity to spend some time together to get to know each other before the wedding?" She got up, then smoothed a fold in her dress. "I'll entrust it to one of my servants." She went to the door, but stopped and turned to look at me. "My big brother, you are a handsome, intelligent man, with a noble soul, as well as a skilled warrior. And believe me when I tell you that she likes you a lot. I'm sure she'll reply as soon as she has the chance. Now, please, go get dressed!"