WHERE Ostyia's Morningside apartment WHEN Thursday evening WHAT Ostyia confronts Serefin about his behavior during his "break-in" and gets more than she bargained for, sorry bestie. STATUS Complete! WARNINGS Some mentions of blood, vague description of self-injury to use magic
It was unfortunate, really. Serefin, former prince and newly minted king of Tranavia, was inherently a good person. Circumstances put him in terrible positions where making decisions would always come with deeply traumatic consequences. The struggle to choose right from wrong was obvious, and despite how much he had complained about not being suited to lead anyone, his earnest honesty made him better than most. Better than the Meleski line, certainly. And he was more than good here in Vallo.
So, the shame of the situation now came from the fact that he had no real control of being good anymore. All those bits and pieces of him that were uniquely virtuous and wholeheartedly kind, were shriveling up the longer Velyos remained in control.
And it was worse, Velyos was learning. Patience had been in an instinct the old god had honed—living in darkness for millennia and then some forced it upon him. And patience was what he needed, so that the people who would notice wouldn't.
The monster in the woods was a reckless mistake, one that required more finesse. The tower with Thurvishar had been quite ingenious but not long-lasting. Too many were already starting to question the tiniest things, and Serefin was running out of time. The poison was poorly handled, and how was he supposed to know it wouldn't kill him? He would have to try again. Jacob was the most problematic to handle, and as tempting as it was to place a knife to his throat while he slept unguarded, too much pointed to Serefin to make that a viable solution.
And then, Ostyia had started giving him curious looks, and Serefin was irritated at how observant she had been. Alas, childhood friendship was frustratingly annoying. There was no anonymity, no secrets, no privacy.
This was why getting into her apartment was easier than expected; Serefin was a known fixture at Morningside in the same way he was at the train or at the Underground. He had barely been inside, however, when he heard the door open again. Serefin sighed heavily, resigned in being caught rifling through her things.
He hummed, almost sounding disappointed. "Ostyia, I thought you would not be back until later."
Time and space from Tranavia had softened Ostyia a bit. She no longer saw danger around every corner, did not watch people close to Serefin with a knife glint stare. She would always be suspicious and on her guard, that was an old habit she would never break, she and Serefin had nearly died because they trusted in the safety of the palace and their guards. And then she and Serefin were the only two children to survive.
Ostyia did not miss that. She would always miss the potential of Tranavia (although she had no desire to lead, no matter what Serefin said, she was meant to be a second in command) but she did not miss sleeping with one eye open, her only eye. But she had gone a bit soft, the Ostyia of a year ago would not have missed the sounds behind her door, she would have pulled a knife and her book and pinned the intruder to the wall in a blur of action. Instead, she pushed the door open quickly to surprise whoever it was--in this case, Serefin. She didn’t think much of it, Serefin could come and go as he pleased in her place--although he risked seeing Ostyia and a lady friend in a state of...de-dress. Ostyia wouldn’t have done the same thing on the train of course, but in her place, Serefin was welcome. They had no secrets, after all.
Except what was plaguing him lately. That was a secret. Ostyia knew there was something, bits and pieces that weren’t fitting together to show the whole picture yet. But perhaps that was why he was here, to explain the oddness.
“You did?” Ostyia arched an eyebrow, tossing her keys on an end table. “Were you looking for something?”
"I already found it, actually. You shouldn't leave things so scattered, so unprotected," Serefin said, scolding with his own air of hostility. He sounded like the slavhki when they were pretending not to threaten them but Serefin could understand it as a threat. He sounded too much like his brother. Perhaps Malachiasz was on to something, but Serefin didn't voice that out loud. That was a warning signal he wasn't quite ready to sound.
His hand trailed over tabletops, chair backs, and the molding on the walls as he closed the distance between himself and Ostyia. He had nothing to fear. Even if Ostyia decided for whatever reason to question his newfound—and quite frankly better—behavior, it wasn't as if she was going to kill him. He still wore the face of a friend and disconnecting one from the other was not instantaneous. It was the benefit of this ruse. "I half-expected you to put a knife to my throat. Do you let all your intruders off the hook so easily?"
He tsked, holding up his hand to look at his palm. As if he expected something to change or something to arrive in his hand. Magic maybe. He could call the stars just as easily as a god at this point. Being part divine tended to be helpful in these instances.
Serefin heaved a sigh, bored of the conversation already. "Perhaps you are getting soft, general. Vallo has made you too trusting."
Ostyia clicked her tongue reproachfully in return, a little wag of her finger accompanying it. “Now, now, that’s obviously predictable, Serefin, and what good would it do if someone were expecting it?” Ostyia played the role of carefree rakess well. She had long ago learned the art of showing the world what they wanted to see and letting that be the distraction for what was actually happening. She brought slavhki daughters into dark corners because it was fun, but also so she could eavesdrop on their treasonous parents.
It was harder, when Serefin knew her so well. But it worked both ways, of course, just as Serefin knew her, Ostyia knew him. Knew that something, this intentional cruelty, wasn’t something he employed unless truly pushed to his limits. But to what end? How?
“You came all this way, have a drink,” she said, even as she went to grab two glasses and fill them halfway with a dark red wine. “You want to talk?”
His eye watched Ostyia move around the apartment with a predatory glare. Something cruel and untested, something that Serefin, even at his worst, never used. It was usually a detached sort of expression, walling himself off from the emotions of the torture he inflicted on Kalyazi monks. But even then, Ostyia knew why he was that way. This was different, this was something else. He spent no time hiding it now.
Serefin waved off the drink. "No, not necessary. I won't be staying long. There is not much to talk about. I'm certain you've already been nosing around in things because you're concerned. And what have I always said, Ostyia?" Serefin asked, as he slowly sank down into her arm chair with a practiced grace, of someone who did not lounge around or flop down as if his bones were too brittle to keep holding them. It was a rhetorical question; Serefin nor Velyos needed an answer at this point.
"Now you're becoming a problem. You've always been a problem. And I do not stand for problems running rampant while I attempt to handle things." He exhaled, exasperated as if he was scolding a child who failed to listen. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you?" It was a finely launched threat.
“You’ve said many things about my investigation skills,” Ostyia replied. “Some are less complimentary than others, which obviously are my least favorite and I completely disregard.” She downed her wine in three smooth bobs of her throat. Perhaps she needed all of her wits about her untainted by alcohol, but Ostiya was leaning more on the liquid courage--and they had been drinking wine since they were children. By now, a glass of wine was about on par with a glass of water.
She set her glass aside and ran her hands through her hair. Ostyia’s hair had always looked a bit like she’d taken a knife to it, the edges jagged and sharp. It fit the rest of her, her steel glint gaze, her magic that sliced and cut. She was all of those things, but Ostyia had a soft, protective interitor. Especially when it came to Serefin. The words hit, even as Ostyia’s features gave away nothing. “Serefin, something is wrong with you,” she started, and if there was a bit of desperation in her tone, so be it. “I have tried to give you space, I have tried waiting, but it is becoming increasingly obvious that something is wrong. I don’t know if--” she had something then, a theory that Ostyia tried to dismiss because of sheer desire for it not to be true.
But it wouldn’t leave her. It gained claws and teeth and once she had thought it, she couldn’t let it go. Her brow furrowed and she turned her pointed stare on Serefin, her one eye meeting his.
“What is inside of you?”
"That is the issue with you, Ostyia. You never pay attention, not when it matters," Serefin said, inspecting his hands, his fingers moving back and forth as if someone or something had recently discovered their movement. He wondered idly if he could pull the Meleski ring out of the Vallo ocean; it would make a nice addition.
When she cut herself off, Serefin glanced up, nonchalantly. There was a glint in his eye, an almost devilish eagerness for her to get it, put all the pieces together in the shape it was. It wasn't that anyone else couldn't do this, it wasn't as though Ostyia was more privy to information than the others. But Serefin assumed the rose-colored glasses Jacob wore made it more difficult for him to dig into red flags. Ostyia's whole job in Tranavia had been to do just that.
He clapped, a blatant insult. "Ah, there we go. You are finally asking the right questions. It is a shame you didn't ask them sooner, we might have avoided all of this." He gestured between them, indicating this sad revelation at an inopportune time. If she had been quicker to solve what was plaguing Serefin, she might not have bothered to walk into an apartment alone, without him as her only company.
Serefin waited again, knowing she would answer her own question. "I have had an enormous amount of time to wait, General Rabalska," Serefin said, his voice coming out odd, not entirely his. "You know exactly what is inside of me."
“I know you are still there, Serefin,” Ostyia started, talking right over him, because Velyos had nothing to offer her now. She was unafraid, Ostyia would stare down armies, monsters, it didn’t matter to her, and though she was well aware of Velyos’s existence, she had seen Serefin weld magic he should not have, she still did not believe. Believing in something gave it power. Ostyia believed in her magic, she believed in Serefin.
But she was afraid for him, yes.
“I know this is not your fault. I am sorry I didn't see it sooner. I see you.” She wanted to rip it straight out of Serefin, she would have, with time, with a plan. Neither of which Ostyia had now. Instead, she whipped her empty glass at Serefin-who-was-not, and as soon as the glass left her hand she pulled out a blade attached to her hip. She sliced her arm, blood dripping scarlet down to an open page of her codex. It was a binding spell, one that summoned complicated knotted ropes that wound in and around themselves and tightened with every struggle. It would buy her a moment of escape and to think.
Every movement was slow, unhurried. Serefin expected Ostyia to throw the glass and so he ducked away from it. He knew it should have been a distraction, something to give her time to start the flow of blood, convert to the offensive with a spell. And so he let her have her moment, to feel as if she was doing something productive to save her childhood friend. It was a kindness, really.
He heard her rip the page, and inhaled deeply when he could feel the strength of the power in the spell hit with blood. He almost wished it was the binding spell meant for him. Then it would have made this whole ordeal a bit more challenging, a little more entertaining. "You should be careful, general, where you leave your codex. Anyone could find it. And even skilled former blood mages could tamper with it."
Serefin crackled one knuckle, then the other, bored. There was a blinding eruption of light, a flashbang not dissimilar to his own starry explosions. But this was a binding and a reflection of that spell an excessive amount of power written into and over the lines of her own blood magic. And just like the mages of Tranavia, what followed was a thin line of smoke as the parchment burned away.
The binding, simple but effective, countered tenfold on Ostyia.
The second the spell started going sideways, Ostyia felt it like a vibration in the marrow of her bones. Her magic could be ruthless, but this was taking a chainsaw to something that required a scalpel. The force of it knocked her back, her teeth slicing into her tongue. She crumpled into a heap, a marionette cut loose from its strings.
The ropes became a mental image, wrapping and twisting around her consciousness and pulling her deeper and deeper down. Until there was nothing left but darkness.
Serefin crossed the room and crouched down beside Ostyia's unconscious form. Death would have been easier, but murder came with questions, investigations, suspicion. Magical mishaps were messier, with no clear-cut answers, and it was the cover of confusion that Serefin needed now, just for a little while. With Ostyia out of the picture, the diversion would give him time until the rest of them could be handled.
He rested his elbows on his knees, and shook his head. "Too smart for your own good, General. You were a pain in Tranavia, too. You should have minded your own business. Played dumb. Listened to your princeling when he said he was fine. You did a terrible job at following orders, no wonder he only promoted you while he was completely intoxicated."
Standing, he dusted off his hands and reached for her discarded book. Serefin flipped through the pages at a leisurely pace. "Such wasted potential, all of you." He dropped the book so that it fell open, as if Ostyia had dropped it herself. As he dug out his device and started to dial the appropriate numbers, Serefin worked up a lump in his throat, a sadness in his voice—a concerned friend, someone who stumbled into something upsetting.
"I need help," he said to the person on the other line, "I think there was an accident—"