Amaetheon

[The Dark One]

This is an open thread for Amaetheon which we will be celebrating Oct 4th-26th This is where we invite you to post your character's reaction to the assassination of the M'Hael, as well as any other fallen comrades.

Let the wind blow and sing its songs to stir the emotions, let it bring the sweet memories of times gone and hopes for the future ahead. Let the wind remind us that we are here in this present moment, in the gift of living, and call us to adore those who are near and far and those who gave their days to us. Let the wind speak of adventures and rouse the hearts of the heroes of the fourth age!

[Julian Damodred]

The feast had been well prepared. Normally Julian enjoyed a good Amaetheon Feast, but this year it had been difficult to enjoy.

The celebrations were over now though, and he was alone in his bedroom with a bottle of something expensive and strong. It was strong, because he didn’t want to be anymore.

Celebrating had been hard. It was a dark day; every day these days was a dark day in this dark tower.

Julian’s brow wrinkled into worry lines as he realized how over the top his thoughts were. He hoped Dena wasn’t infecting him with her dramatic nature. She needed to become more like him, not the other way around.

Oh his head was such a mess and his body was so tired.

Running the school was only half the M’Hael’s job, but he didn’t feel like he could fill even half of Jadin’s shoes. The Baijan'm'hael was busy running the whole bloody nation though, so he was on his own here. There wasn’t much room for failure either. Julian hoped the War Council elected someone soon. He hated this responsibility. It made him feel trapped. Sort of how Jadin had trapped him into promising to do the right thing with the boy. The boy who's face was burnt into his brain.

He closed his eyes and sat down on his bed. He took a couple of deep breaths before opening them again just for good measure. It felt like yesterday, but it was nearly a month past.

The Black Tower was to be in full mourning attire, and Julian’s stoic reflection stood looking back at him all in white. He had ordered that all Soldiers and Dedicated use weaves of Illusion to alter their uniform's appearance. He knew there would be some soldiers unable to meet the challenge. He wondered how many would ask for help and how many would attend the funeral cloaked in shame. He had ordered the Dedicated to seek out anyone still wearing black and assist them with meeting the dress code. He hoped no one avoided the funeral due to failure, but he didn’t have the mental energy to waste much on that right now.

He shook his head, clearing the memory away and removed his pins from his (once again) black coat. Julian couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t feel both mentally and physically exhausted. He couldn’t remember because, he didn’t want to think about before it happened.

It.

He shuddered and clenched his empty fist, squeezing his eyes closed tight again. He took another swig from the bottle. The alcohol made him feel warm and he opened his eyes to another memory.

The heat of the fire warmed his face, wet with tears. Jadin had been his best friend. He wasn’t even allowed the time to mourn his best friend. Even today, as they watched him burn, Julian felt as though all eyes were on him, and his counterpart. The two secondary M’Haels had to lead now. Julian wanted to escape in a book but had to remain here, in this empty reality. He pulled through though, like he always did. He had made a good speech too he thought. His closing line was especially well crafted in his own humble opinion. He had said they must work together in this difficult time as Tar Alantin, Old tongue for ‘the Tower of Brothers’.

Jadin would have bloody loved that come together milk-hearted stuff, the light-blinded fool.

Julian took another drink; the bottle was half empty now. He thought, maybe, if he drank enough, he wouldn’t go back any further in his memories tonight. Maybe tonight he could just sleep…

“You shall always be my brother.” Began to repeat in his head as he closed his eyes once more. Julian downed another gulp, but knew it was no use…

[Jadin al'Vyron]

Jadin al’ Vyron, M’Hael of the Black Tower, was within the tent set up for him on his journey to the White Tower for the Bonding Ceremony. He and Julian had mapped out a detoured route so the pair could enjoy a brotherly trip together. Lots of drink, laughter, and reminiscing about old times was had. It helped eased his mind on the double bonding. A whole year of preparing and two years of planning were finally bringing about the fruits of his labor. A reforging of the ties that once so strongly linked the Towers together was only a day away. All he had to do was double-bond with Katreine din Ziago for a new era of friendship and trust to begin. This goal held a special place in his heart, despite the risks involved. The people of the light deserved a ray of hope for a brighter and safer tomorrow. They deserved to feel assured that the Asha’ man and Aes Sedai would serve and protect them under a unified front. He wanted those who operated within the shadows to feel fear. He wanted them to understand that the light would always triumph as long as good men and women were willing to stand up and fight for it. Tragically, it was a far too ambitious dream, one which would cost him his life. But despite the events that were about to unfold, Jadin would have no regrets fighting for a better world.

A sudden rush of assassins flooded into his tent, each one desiring the honor to take his life. A flurry of steel and displays of seized Saidin fell the majority of his attackers, but as he sharply turned to put an end to the last man remaining, Jadin hesitated. His eyes widened in surprise as he met with the face of a boy from his past.

“I know you.”

This boy was one he’d once found stealing in the streets whom Jadin tried to aid in finding a suitable home. Unfortunately, the boy had run away before Jadin could help improve his life. What foul beast of a man would send a child to steal and commit murder?! It was a question that Jadin would never learn the answer. For in that moment of delayed reaction, a swift thrust of poisoned steel met flesh as the boy’s blade pierced a lung. The opportunity to take this boy’s life in exchange for his own was there. It would have been a simple enough maneuver to achieve, but Jadin instead dropped his blade.

“Even those lost in the darkest of places can find the light again. Remember that and never lose hope that you shall find your way out of the shadows.”

Jadin finally dropped to the ground; the poison was starting to take effect. Just then, Julian Damondred came rushing into the tent. The sight of the Tsorovan M’hael sent the youth fleeing once more, and though, no doubt, Julian longed to pursue and capture him, the man instead rushed to his dying friend’s side.

“Find the boy Julian and help him. He deserves a second chance at a better life.”

As his closest friend attempted to reassure him that he was going to be fine… Of how he’d fetch a healer to save him, Jadin shook his head no. He knew he was on borrowed time, and there was no one else he’d rather be with, here in his last moments. Besides, the pain would be over soon enough.

“Never have I known a finer man than you, Julian. My life was fuller because you were in it. Thank you.”

Julian’s tears fell softly upon his cheek as Jadin took in the man’s face for the last time. Oh, how dim the world around him was starting to grow, but before everlasting darkness could claim him, Jadin managed a few parting words.

“You shall always be my brother.”

While Jadin gazed at Julian, a friend he always had by his side, a grateful smile spread across his face. He was ready to embrace death, much like one would an old friend. Jadin’s eyes slowly closed as the M’Hael exhaled his last breath, and his body went limp. He had woven his thread in the pattern… And it was bright, bold, and something quite indescribable to behold. For the tale of Jadin al’ Vyron, the M’Hael who sought unification between the Towers, would be told for ages to come.

[Moranna Trakand]

Moranna's feet whispered across the stone path in one of the many gardens of the White Tower, the satin slippers and silver embroidered hem of her gown brushing against the golden petals strewn everywhere. The flames of a thousand candles winked and danced from windows and ledges, adding an enchanted light to the grounds. Long black ribbons of mourning wrapped around the slenderness of her arms and cascaded through the red-gold of her hair. Most continued to mourn the loss of the young M'Hael al'Vyron. Those in her circles delighted at the blow dealt against uniting the Towers, if annoyed that their hands had not been those responsible for the act. Many of them celebrated in secret, toasting the rise of the Shadow and their Lord.

Moranna hated Amaetheon. A time of remembrance for those who had passed into the Light. The last thing she wanted to do was remember. She had spent years building up the icy fortress around the shattered remnants of her heart, clinging to logic and puzzles and keeping everyone, even her own daughter, firmly at arm's length. Yet, every year, first as Queen on the Lion Throne, and now as a resident of the Tower, the Amaetheon festivities were thrust upon her.

"Drink to those we've lost." They cried. "Feast in their memory."

Great Lord take them all! How many of them had suffered as she had suffered? Her mother, her sister-mother, her dear, beloved brother...even her father before she had known his face, his voice. Each of them taken, leaving her behind. Alone. Broken.

The Light offered no solace. Single threads cut from the Pattern were beneath it's notice as it wove the complexity of the Age Lace. Only in the Shadow had Moranna found comfort. Only the Lord of the Grave could offer her hope of reuniting with those the Creator had not sheltered from harm.

She sat down on a marble bench in a secluded corner. No tears would come, they had long been frozen inside, but the pain still raked at her with callous claws. This night could not end soon enough. Tomorrow she would be free of the constant reminders, the heartless assaults on her carefully built fortress of cool rationality. Tomorrow she could focus once more on gaining the favor of the Great Lord, that she might be rewarded by the return of those she loved rather than plagued only by their memory.

[Calina Taborwin]

Cairhienin were a restrained people at the best of times, and at Amaetheon most of all. A year's worth of death recognized in a single day made for a heavy atmosphere even with people who knew how to grieve, which by Calina Taborwin's estimate Cairhienin most certainly did not. There was plenty to mourn this year, anyway. She could be back in the White Tower, spending the holiday plotting future moves to once more bring the Towers together despite the shadow of Jadin al'Vyron's death. She should be in the White Tower doing just that, providing support for Kat who was up to her next or above in plotting.

So why was she wasting away drinking a...copious? She squinted, examining the bottles on the desk in front of her, and a few that were around the room. Copious was probably right. A copious amount of wine in the Great Tree while the city of Cairhien sat quiet around her? Calina drained the glass in her hand. It certainly was not because Janderin was dead, her family lost to her, and her life a flaming mess wrapped in bloody disaster. Not at all. She let the glass fall to the floor and stood, walking with no grace at all to the window to look out over the city. Her brother was dead. She hadn't seen him in decades, had in fact totally written him out of her life, but the thought was loud and paralyzing all the same even with the dull throb of wine desperately trying to drive it out.

For once Calina's mind paid no attention to appearances, with her formerly pristinely bland Cairhienin dress dotted with spilled wine, her hair loose and unkempt, and even her jewelry missing. She was a mess, and the thought made her laugh. The silent Cairhien night stretched out from the window, illuminated only by the sliver of a moon.

"I hate this city."

Calina blinked. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. She laughed, a loud belly laugh completely out of place with the mood of the city proper and the Great Tree in particular.

"I hate this city! Not a single good thing in my life ever came from Cairhien. Blood and bloody ashes this city is literally designed for torture."

The words tumbled out of her in an order Calina felt was vaguely comprehensible, but not one she'd given much conscious thought to choosing. She hadn't been back to Cairhien for years. She tried very hard not to think much about what was here, what she'd lost. Then bloody Janderin and his bloody funeral.

"Burn me, I need to go home."

She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to lose herself in the drink. In the morning she'd clean herself up and move on with a plan. Probably back to the White Tower and leave flaming Cairhien to burn in the Light as it so richly deserved. That sounded appealing. But that was in the morning. For the evening, Calina stood in the window, watched, and hurt.

[Katreine din Ziago]

The  summer storm arrived in Tar Valon on the dawn of the third day. It was still a day and a half early by the Amyrlin Seat's estimation. Thunder rolled in the distance, the sound muted by the thick stone of the White Tower. Lightning danced, a thin crack of illumination that briefly brought the Amyrlin's study into sharp focus in staggered intervals.

Katreine din Ziago, the Amyrlin Seat, sat in the darkness watching the storm rage closer impassively. Her eyes were dark in color and mood, though they occasionally flickered to life as they caught lightning. She had slept mere minutes in the last few days, and she fought it now despite sorely needing the rest. There was no time for sleep. There was hardly time to rest, to brood, and to regroup. She had just escaped a meeting with the Sitters and would soon be facing the envoys from the Black Tower. There would be time for sleep after that, barely.

The White Tower--the world--was listing, badly. Katreine only had herself and a small handful of allies to right it, Light send that they were enough. War had been averted for the moment, but even that had been long odds on the roll of the dice. It all stemmed from one incident that they were all still grappling with.

"Light burn Jadin bloody al'Vyron."

The mutter was half-hearted. It was a selfish impulse that Katreine would only indulge in here, alone. Jadin al'Vyron had been a good man. He had not, perhaps, been her preferred bond partner, whatever the circumstances had dictated, but he had been quick and surprisingly kind in their limited interactions. But why did he have to be bloody stupid enough to get himself killed!  Days--hours--before they were to bond and cleanse the recent stained past between the White Tower and the Black. It was a disaster. The Black Tower had refrained from formally accusing the White of orchestrating the assassination for now, but the rumor mill was already churning. And if I find even the slightest hint of truth to any of the rumors, I'll flay Alira Asuwan and her gaggle of monsters with my bare hands. The thought was dark and laced with a rich, warm anger that lent some energy to her body. It would have to be good enough. Katreine stood, gathered the stole around her shoulders, and moved to the heavy doors. They opened and then closed behind her in time with the thunder. The sound should have been ominous, but Katreine found it promising instead.

There were answers to find, wars to avert, a world to save, and vengeance to exact. A good man was dead, and the Amyrlin Seat would use that without hesitation. The world counted on it.

[Sorin Shirega]

Sunshine peeked through the tree leaves as Sorin rode Midnight through the woods near the Black Tower. He felt as if he lived for these brief flashes of freedom, the too-short time spent with the only being alive and within reach who cared anything for him. He pushed Midnight to a run, enjoying the feeling of the wind in his face, and wished he could just keep going, all the way back to his home in Tanchico. The Tai'Seanchan man frowned, the thoughts of home intruding upon his unusually good mood. He couldn't go back, could never let the danger that he was anywhere near his family or friends, but Sorin didn't think the knowledge would ever cease to hurt.

He pulled on the reins, slowing Midnight to a walk, then to a stop, but he stayed in the saddle. He was free today due to a feastday that was unfamiliar to him, one he'd been told was for remembering the lost. Sorin supposed that was only fitting for someone like him, who had lost his family, friends, and what felt like his entire life. He closed his eyes, missing family and home terribly in that moment, and tried to fight the tears that threatened to fall. Out here, there was nobody to scold him for it, but Sorin didn't want to cry. His body shook, but the Soldier shed only a few tears before he regained control of his emotions.

Blinking a few times, he urged Midnight forward, if at a slower pace. He had to go back to the Black Tower or someone would come looking for him, but Sorin dreaded it even more than usual. Since the M'hael had been killed, a dark cloud had seemed to hang over the place. During the time immediately after, Sorin had been unable to keep from noticing the emotions displayed by some of the men around, the grief and anguish that he knew far too well. Countless times he'd felt drawn to do something, try to help, though he'd never had the nerve to act on those impulses. He still felt that way even now, if much less often, and still didn't know what to do about it. Sorin shook his head, trying to remind himself that no matter how human their feelings made them appear, the men around him were little more than animals, and it was dangerous to forget that.

He sighed and pushed the horse into a faster walk, wanting to be sure he returned on time. As Sorin rode back to the place he feared, he studied the greenery around him and listened to the birds that sang, storing up memories to help him endure the future he faced.

[Eshara Aravell]

Eshara watched as the last of the Trollocs were cut down or otherwise fleeing back into the mountains of Dhoom and the Blight beyond.

Another raid that Alirycas had survived, another occasion where their town had stood fast against the Shadow despite all the troubles that were plaguing the world. Eshara and the Kin who lived in Alirycas fought the physical battles up here in the north, along with her fellow brothers and sisters among the Borderlands. But even here, the ripples of Daes Dae’mar propagated from the south, the jockeying for power between the Two Towers that threatened to rip the Dragon Compact apart down the middle at a time when greater powers stared hungrily across the sea and from Shayol Ghul. She had not missed the lack of Asha’man or Dedicated in Alirycas, where there were usually two or three at the very least.

The Black Tower was in mourning.

Some said that the White Tower had assassinated him. Not the Amyrlin, Eshara was sure, and had been assured by her greatdaughter Sana by letter that whatever the Mother’s feelings about the double-bond, she would not have condoned the assassination of one who had overthrown Rahlin. But the Red Ajah … Sana had been very equivocal, and though Eshara could hardly imagine Elaira Sedai being capable of such a thing (as yet, her mind supplied helpfully), Eshara had encountered enough Red Sisters after the Tower Wars to know that the Ajah as a whole would not have batted an eyelash at such a move, and would have considered it necessary, even, to save the world.

Once again, men and women who could channel were divided, and the Kin had been caught up by the frenzy of politics, even at the edges. Eshara had noticed, when the numbers of Asha’man dwindled in Alirycas during Rahlin’s time, even when other towns that had no female channellers were still frequented by the swish of the black coats. Even now, more than thirty years after the Tower Wars, the number of Asha’man who frequented her town, once counted in the dozens as a stop and gateway to the other cities along the Blightborder, now could often be counted in one figure.

In a way, Eshara mourned. She mourned, for the loss of cooperation between the Kin and the Asha’man, between the Aes Sedai and the Asha’man, and the peace that the Tower Treaty and the double-bonding ceremony would have brought between the nations of the Dragon Compact. But she had lived for three hundred years and more, since the Blightborder expand and swallow her village whole, outlived her own children by generations.

Mourning was second nature to her.

[Aviva al'Saar]

Aviva walked quickly to her room, relieved to finally escape the crowded hall below. The Amaethon feast had dragged so that the Aes Sedai had almost thought it would never end. Most years prior to this she had spent alone by choice, remembering her loved ones who had been rewoven into the Pattern, but this year was different. Not a month ago, the M'Hael of the Black Tower had been assassinated on his way to bond with the Amyrlin Seat and begin the process of bringing the Towers together once more. She knew nothing of the man personally, but his untimely murder was a terrible setback to Aviva's hopes for reconciliation between the Towers. At first, it had merely made her sad, but as rumors began to spread within the White Tower, any sadness she felt had given way to a deep, cold anger. She had hoped, tonight, to do little more than listen and observe, learning as much as she could of how others felt about recent events, and what rumors were still passing among them. That much she had accomplished, but parts of what she'd heard had left her absolutely infuriated, practically stalking through the halls.

With clenched fists and a tight jaw, Aviva tried and failed to let her fast pace settle her mind. As she approached the entrance to the Red halls, which should have been her safe haven, she paused, filled with nervous anticipation. Already attentive to her surroundings, Aviva looked around her, reassuring herself that the halls were largely empty before making herself move forward. Her steps were even faster here, though not enough to draw any unwanted attention to her passing. Whispers of what she'd heard earlier drifted through her mind, continuing to incite the Red sister's anger.

I heard it was the Reds who set it up. You know how they are,man haters, all of them.

You know I hate to say it, but I worry that the Red Ajah may have been involved. They just don't seem to have moved on from the Tower War.

She'd heard these, and countless other similar comments, and was rather proud that she'd managed to calmly stand and leave instead of confronting the speakers as she'd wanted to do. It had taken all the self-restraint she possessed, however, which was why Aviva kept searching the Red halls, seeking to avoid other sisters. Some of them, in all honesty, she just wanted to slap, and in her current mood, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop herself.

Finally, the walk that felt much longer than it usually did ended, and Aviva stood before the door to her room. She pushed it open, locked it behind her, and all but collapsed into the chair that sat in front of her desk. On the desk were several letters she'd received, and Aviva thumbed through the stack, needing the reassurance they'd brought her. They were responses to the condolences she'd sent out to her friends among the Asha'men. All of them had been accepting, stating that the killer would be found, a couple going far enough to say that they didn't think the White Tower, or the Red Ajah, had anything to do with it.

It was a sentiment Aviva badly needed to hear, because when she was being completely honest with herself, as she always tried to be, she wasn't entirely sure there wasn't something to the rumors. So many Reds she knew openly spoke of their dislike for the men of the Black Tower, some approaching true hatred, and while it disturbed her, Aviva could name a few women she believed could have been all too happy to sabotage the efforts at reconciliation by having the M'Hael killed. It wasn't something she wanted to think on, but later that night, as she tried to sleep, the possibility stuck in Aviva's mind. She laid awake in her bed, dark eyes open, and she feared for the future of her Ajah and both Towers.

[Milea Lanar]

What was loss? 

Amaetheon did not mean much to Milea. Her family had been tight knit and she had been lucky enough to know all her grandparents. They were still around, yet even then she had not seen much of them. The idea of loss was hard for her to wrap her head around. Sometimes, when they travelled, they would come to the same village after a few years. An old man may have died in the in between years, a mother grieving a son, yet they felt so distant to her. Tragedies felt by someone else.

Perhaps it was she wasn't old enough yet. Milea knew that Aes Sedai lived much longer than anyone else. In the back of her head, that meant she would outlive her mother and father, which would hurt. One day. But it wasn't today, as she ate dinner in the somber dining hall. 

The news had come that the head of the Black Tower had died. The Mahale or something like that. She was just a Novice. The machinations of the Tower were above her. Most likely literally, depending on what floor she was on at the moment. It was clear that some people were upset, in the way that the sisters were certainly not upset at all. They didn't even have any tells. 

Milea didn't really care. Whoever he was, if he was in charge, he must have been a few hundred years old at least. He had probably lived a good life, was in charge of a whole tower, probably had a lot of books and brooms and other things people owned. Dying wasn't all that sad for someone that had lived like that for so long. 

Maybe, one. Amaetheon, she would think differently on this. Maybe when the years weighed her down, the holiday would cause her to stop, reflect, remember. But now, today, as the wheel turned and wind blew up over the tower and out to the west, Milea Lanar enjoyed the relative quiet of the somber holiday as she ate.

[Zamira Dagaron]

The Blight. A place where the servants of the shadow reigned supreme, and those fighting for the light dared not enter. Here, Zamira could be herself, instead of playing a dangerous game of pretending within the White Towers’ walls. An even more precarious role since she became the Ajah Head of Green. She had to be careful, which is why she was using an illusion spell to disguise herself as someone else. Yet she thrived on the adrenaline rush from the power she wielded. She was sending Green Sisters to their deaths, which extremely satisfied the female. The best part was that nobody could question her actions; after all, they were ‘needed’ to fight Trollocs and protect the Borderlands. It was her job as Captain-General to supply those covered under the Dragon Compact with her sisters. If only her wool-headed father still lived so that she could lord over him with how far she’d climbed despite his failings.

Zamira shook off the dark memories from her past as she'd finally been brought to the fortress of the Nai'al Cor; blindfolded of course, as Zamon kept its location a well-kept secret. She wasn’t here to mourn; she was here for two very different reasons: 1. To celebrate the death of the M’Hael. And 2. To visit Gareth. One of Zamon’s many underlings greeted her immediately. She informed him of her business with his Master before following the lad to the man’s private study. He was once the Captain-General of the Air Legion, and a key player in Rahlin’s fall into madness. Zamira and Zamon exchanged pleasantries shortly after the boy led her inside. After this, Zamon poured them each a glass of champagne.

“I must congratulate you, Zamon, on your successful assassination of Jadin al’ Vyron. His ambitions to unite the Towers would have been a disaster for our Lord’s cause. Though it is a shame that bloody light preaching Katreine couldn’t have joined him. Burn me; she is an insufferable woman. Still, you accomplished what many considered an impossible task. Therefore let us drink to the demise of M’Hael al’ Vyron.”

She clinked her glass with his before consuming the bubbly liquid in its entirety. The pair shared a second glass as they exchanged juicy details of various events occurring around the world as old friends tended to do. Though, to say they were friends was perhaps a stretch as Zamira did not wholly trust Zamon, nor did she imagine he completely trusted her. But that was merely the way with darkfriends, for one never knew if the other would stick a dagger in their back to get ahead. So after an hour or so of catching up, Zamira inquired upon the second part of her agenda.

“Tell me, how fairs your royal guest?!”

“The boy is strong-willed, but he will break soon enough. Everyone does in the end.”

“I do not doubt that he will be heeling at your side and obeying your every command in no time.” cooed Zamira as she pictured Gareth as an assassin draped from head to toe in black serving the Dark Lord by spilling the blood of his enemies. “And now, if you will excuse me, my dear, I shall pay our young friend a visit.”

A wicked smile spread on the man’s face as he called for one of his men to escort her to Gareth’s cell. A long corridor of stone and torches led to a winding staircase leading deep beneath the earth. The stairwell brought her to another long corridor but this one was lined with prison cells. Zamon's lackey opened the door to the forth cell from the end.

“Good evening Gareth. How wonderful it is to be within your presence again, your royal highness.” Sarcasm laced her tongue as the last three words escaped her lips.

Gareth Trakand, The 1st Prince of the Sword, hung from shackles within the middle of a small, dimly lit cell that was empty save for a piss bucket in the corner and a hay pile. They had him gagged, and from the new lashes covering his back, she deduced that his flogger couldn’t stand his screams. She circled the boy as if she were considering a cut of beef to purchase. Her fingers trailed over the metal domination band around his neck before yanking the cloth covering from his mouth.

“Do you know what day it is, my dear? Or have you been incapable of keeping track of time while you’re a guest here?”

The silence was all the Ajah Head received from the youth as his gaze remained turned down towards the floor. Despite the dull, weary, and glossy appearance of his eyes, he tried to maintain a resilient facade. She intended to destroy his spirit, to shape him into the man she had desired his great-uncle to be. How Gawain’s stomach would turn if he were alive to witness the atrocities she’d committed since killing him. He may have been too foolish to accept that his place was at her side, but she’d ensure that Gareth did not make the same mistake.

“Allow me to enlighten you upon the answer. Today is Amaetheon. As you well know, it is a day of mourning those we’ve lost. And though countless candles may be burning for the M’Hael, I’d wager thousands within Andor are lit for you, my dear. Tell me, does it fill you with hopelessness to know that everyone you love believes that you are dead? To be knowledgeable about how nobody is looking for you?! Hmm?” Despite her jabs, Zamira still met with silence. “Oh, poor Gareth... Why do you still cling to fantasies?! As you remain shackled, the world continues to move on without you. I heard that your mother has sent for your cousin to serve as Ishara’s 1st Prince of the Sword. Barely a month has passed since they burned your double’s body, and she’s already replaced you.”

“You lie.” retorted Gareth with an uncertain expression painted across his face.

Zamira’s lips split into an eerily cruel grin, “Darling, I have no reason to lie. I could leave you to spend the rest of your elongated existence rotting in this cell, and not a soul would ever be the wiser. Gareth Trakand is dead to the world. You belong to Shai’tan, Zamon, and I now. Once you’ve finished your training within these walls, you will do anything to please us. And personally, nothing would please me more than to see you thrust a dagger through your sister’s heart.”

“No!” Gareth cried, his eyes widened in fear and horror at the mere thought that he would ever execute such an unimaginable act. “I would ne-“

Before he could finish what he was saying, Zamira pulled the gag back over his mouth. “Oh, but you will.”

Cracks of the whip against his flesh mixed with his muffled cries were all she’d hear for the remainder of the night. She and Zamon would break him, and nobody was going to stop it from happening.