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miitgaanar · 7 months

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Title: Blood on the Cobbles | Wherein the Lioness Falls Prey to the Wolves

Summary:

Unrest plagues Alderode, her Ssaelit citizens under constant threat of violence by their Gefendur neighbors. Even the city of Durlyne, the capital of the Ssaelit faith, is no longer a safe haven. Soldiers patrol the streets of the city, stretched thin by the constant attacks on the people they are charged with protecting. Addilyn Theron is one such soldier. A woman of the Semon caste, an accident of fate allowed for her to join the Lions of Mercy, a post she has proudly retained for nearly ten years—though it has not been without its hardships. Such hardships have only ever been exacerbated in times of strife, and it would seem now is no exception. Something torments Lemuel Adelier, Addilyn's commanding officer and trusted confidant. She had assumed it to be the burden of command, but his silence on the matter eats at her heart until it is nigh unbearable. The air is rife with hatred and fear in Alderode, and Addilyn can only hope that she can be more of a help than a hindrance to her esteemed captain.

Here it is, lads! My submission for the 2023 Unsounded Fanworks contest. It is terribly long, but I can only hope that it at least entertains :)

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Heavy, gray clouds sat low in the sky above Durlyne, leaving the city bathed in an ashen and gloomy light. There was a chill to the air, as if winter had dug its claws into the earth in a desperate attempt to keep its hold in the face of a looming spring. Flower buds dotted the trees and lush, green grass had begun to sprout from the ground, but such delicate life might well be snuffed out should this chill persist into a full-on frost.

Not that Addilyn Theron paid any of that much mind, even as her breath appeared as a visible cloud before her and the brisk wind stung at her cheeks. She had more important matters to attend to, like the wooden staff haphazardly swung at her head.

With hardly a thought, Addilyn batted the weapon away with a swing of her own wooden staff, the sharp clatter of wood on wood echoing loudly throughout the training grounds.

A harsh sigh escaped her, and she gave ground as yet another poorly aimed swing came toward her face. “You swing that thing like an old woman would wield a broom against the lads stomping around her newly planted roses.”

Addilyn’s young opponent let out an aggravated growl, the girl’s lovely golden hair tied back into a braid that swayed wildly with each equally wild swing of her staff. Sharp, vibrant green eyes glared up at her as she stabbed toward Addilyn’s abdomen.

“Oi!” Addilyn sidestepped the jab and swung down to trap the weapon beneath her own against the ground. Her protégé tended to get a bit overzealous once frustration began to set in. “Easy, Mikaila. No need to get nasty about it.”

“Then just stand still for a second so I can actually hit you,” Mikaila Adelier bit out, grunting with the effort to free her staff.

Addilyn tsked softly, releasing the weapon and causing the young girl to stumble backwards. In a single, smooth movement, Addilyn closed the distance between them, sweeping the butt of her staff toward Mikaila’s unprotected side.

To the girl’s credit, she recovered quickly enough, bringing her staff up with a startled yelp to block the attack. Addilyn hummed her approval before shifting her weight to strike with the opposite end of her staff, aiming for Mikaila’s upper torso.

But Mikaila’s reflexes had always been sharp, and she ducked low, avoiding the blow with little issue. Addilyn then stepped into a sharp spin, her staff a blur as she swung downward at Mikaila’s nearly prone form—only to have the girl roll out of her reach, the butt of the staff hitting the dirt with a dull thwack.

Mikaila quickly scrambled to her feet, her staff held out in front of her in a defensive stance, her gaze steady on Addilyn as she watched for her next move.

Addilyn twirled her staff with a flourish, her lips quirked into an amused smile. “And how do you expect to hit me from all the way over there, Miki?”

“Arrogance is hardly a good look on you, Addie,” Mikaila retorted, circling around Addilyn so she no longer stood directly before her. “It’s bad enough when Papa talks like that.”

Addilyn huffed a small laugh, tracking the girl’s movement with her gaze. “Where do you think I learned it from?”

Mikaila rushed her then, swinging low toward Addilyn’s legs. Smart move—incapacitate rather than go for a killing blow. A good strategy for someone with her particular talents. But Addilyn easily avoided the swing, stepping back and to the side as Mikaila attempted to redirect the swing into an uppercut to her head.

A thunderous crack sounded through the air as Addilyn met the swing with one of her own, pride swelling in her chest as the force of the impact reverberated up her arms. The strength behind the blow was evident, even in one as slight as Mikaila. There was a time where such a strike would have caused the young Soud to drop her weapon, her hold too weak to weather such an attack, but she stood firm before her now, her grip upon the staff solid and sure.

A smirk pulled at Addilyn’s lips, and she dug her heels into the earth to push back with her staff. Mikaila stumbled backwards, nearly losing her footing as she struggled to maintain a fighting stance. Addilyn moved quickly then, jabbing the base of her staff forward in a feint—only to then sweep the girl’s feet out from under her with the other end as she attempted to block.

Mikaila landed on her back with a soft oof, which was quickly followed by an aggravated groan as she rolled onto her side to scowl up at Addilyn.

“That’s not fair!” she accused, her girlish face twisted into something short of fury. A few strands of hair had come loose from her braid, which only served to make her look more frazzled than fearsome. “I had you!”

“If you had me, I’d be the one on my back attempting to soothe my wounded pride.” Addilyn planted the butt of her staff into the dirt as her free hand came to rest at her hip. “But you did well, though. That last hit was a strong one. And your reflexes are as sharp as ever. You made me fight for it.”

“You tricked me,” Mikaila pouted, and Addilyn couldn’t help but laugh. “You move too fast! And that last move was dirty. I thought you were going for my face!”

“Excuses, excuses,” Addilyn intoned, moving forward to help Mikaila up. “I never thought the great Golden Delight would stoop so low—”

The world suddenly tilted on its axis, and Addilyn landed on her back with a shout as her feet slipped out from under her. She blinked in confusion, staring up at the deep gray sky for a beat before she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Beneath her, the ground had solidified into a smooth sheet of ice, its surface so clear that had Addilyn not known any better, she would have sworn that bone dry earth lay there.

She looked up in time to watch as a dull green glow faded from Mikaila’s hand, and a devilish grin began to split the girl’s otherwise angelic features.

“You brat!” Addilyn groaned, rubbing at her lower back. There was going to be one hell of a bruise there tomorrow. “I said no pymary!”

Somewhere off to the side, Addilyn could hear someone snicker. Daring a glance over her shoulder, she spotted the young Will Argenti leaning against the wooden fence that separated the sparring area from the paths that cut through the Temple of Song’s parade grounds, practically doubled over with the effort to suppress his laughter.

“Great show, Addie!” Will called, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mirth beneath a messy head of silver hair. What an asshole. “Exactly the grace and skill I’d expect from the Lioness of Durlyne.”

Addilyn chose not to comment on the use of her accursed moniker, and instead simply flashed her pinky at him. Will only chuckled anew.

“Way to be sporting about it!” he replied. His attention shifted slightly and he offered a small wave and a charming grin.

Addilyn rolled her eyes, turning to see that Mikaila had gotten to her feet and was sheepishly returning the wave. A soft moan left her as her shoulders sagged. Lemuel would give her an earful for this later.

“I’d be even better if you let me fight with pymary,” Mikaila said, coming to stand before Addilyn, her hand outstretched. “I’m not good at this sparring stuff. But I am good at pymary.”

A sigh escaped Addilyn, and she accepted the proffered hand, grunting slightly as the young girl pulled her to her feet. It was odd to see Mikaila nearly match her in height, her blossoming womanhood only just barely hidden beneath the brown and green uniform Lemuel had lent her. The days of the little wright draped in powder blue cloaks hugging at her waist were long gone, though those days had vanished far sooner than they should have—in a flash of spellfire and blood soaked steel.

“I’d much rather not have the flesh flayed from my body or my blood boiled from within during a simple sparring session, thank you,” Addilyn said lightly, a snide grin in place.

“You know what I mean, Addie.” Mikaila bent down to collect their staves before turning to lead them toward where Will still leaned against the old, splintering fence, a barely suppressed indignation coloring her words. “Even little tricks like freezing the ground or redirecting momentum could be useful in a fight.”

“It’s because we don’t want you relying too much on the pymary, Miki,” Addilyn replied gently. “You never know when it might not be an option.”

“When wouldn’t it be an option? You could bind my hands and gag me tight enough to bleed and it wouldn’t matter.”

“And what of a khert fire? What if the lines become too agitated to cast?” Addilyn said mildly. The look Mikaila threw her was one of the purest vexation. Addilyn offered her an obnoxious smirk in return, reaching up to ruffle her hair. “I know more than you think I do, brat. And my point stands. There are times when your spellery might not be possible, even with your irritating little tacit casting tricks, and we don’t want you caught flat-footed should that ever come to pass.”

Mikaila scoffed, swatting Addilyn’s hand away from her head. “At least let me learn to fight with both,” she pleaded. “I know it’s Papa pushing for this. You never minded the pymary much. Couldn’t you just talk to him? Please?”

Addilyn released a long, slow breath. The truth of the matter was more complicated than she had let on. The country was in a sad state, the disdain for Ssaelism and its faithful reaching a height that made living even within Durlyne itself treacherous. Gefendur were known to make their way into the city, vandalizing Ssaelit businesses and defacing temples, but the animosity was growing as of late, and such hatred could not be sated with the shattering of a window or the destruction of a few statues.

And Captain Lemuel Adelier wasn’t keen on leaving such matters to chance, not when it came to his family, and so had tasked Addilyn with ensuring Mikaila had at least a rudimentary knowledge of how to break a man’s nose or shatter his kneecaps. She was too well known, a symbol of Ssaelit resilience in the face of Gefendur loathing; the Golden Delight, blessed by Ssael himself, who had survived a Crescian blade through the heart—and then slew her father’s murderers even as her own blood stained virgin snow a deep and angry red.

It had afforded Mikaila a certain measure of leniency in the eyes of their fellow Ssaelit, her pymaric talents a parlor trick to call upon, her presence a talisman for their troops when sent off to fight against Cresce’s ever looming forces.

But what their favor did not offer her was protection, not in any meaningful or long lasting way. It instead made her a target, and that was something Lemuel was desperate to mitigate.

And so it was now left to Addilyn to maintain this delicate illusion, to disguise a father’s worry as little more than practicality and a soldier’s caution. After all, simply telling Mikaila not to practice pymary, even for her own safety, would be about as productive as attempting to shout the ocean waters into a state of tranquility. Better to avoid the conversation entirely and compel her to learn how to exist without it under the guise of a learning exercise.

Addilyn’s brow furrowed in quiet frustration. How she sometimes loathed being amongst Lemuel’s most treasured confidants.

“It’s basics first,” Addilyn began after a beat. “That is the rule of all forms of learning, yes? Even with your spells and incantations.”

“But—” Mikaila tried, her bright eyes wide with desperation. Addilyn’s heart broke a little at the sight.

“I’ll tell you this, little girl,” Addilyn cut her off, her hand held up to silence Mikaila’s protests. “Work at the sparring, strive to master your footwork and your stances. And then maybe—maybe—once you’ve managed to land a blow on something other than a scarecrow, I can convince your father to allow us to work in a bit of spellery.”

Mikaila’s distress morphed into a precarious hope, and she immediately launched herself at Addilyn, wrapping her arms around the woman’s midsection in a tight embrace. Addilyn stumbled back a step, but only too happily returned the affection, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as she patted lightly at the girl’s back.

“Thank you, Addie.” Mikaila pulled away to grin brightly up at her tutor. “I promise I’ll work hard at it. I’ll make it hard for Papa to say no.”

Addilyn snorted softly. It had been years since Lemuel had taken on the role of father in the Adelier household, and yet still it struck a sour note in her ears at times to hear him referred to as such. “As long as you work harder than young Will, I’m sure you will be a master swordsman before the year is out.”

“Oi!” Will shouted, clearly now within earshot of their conversation. “I won the last few bouts against you, Addie!”

“Only because you conveniently chose the most inconvenient times to assert your newly acquired prowess with the sword,” Addilyn retorted, coming up to flick at the young Renghul’s nose.

Will flinched back, rubbing at the afflicted flesh like he used to as a boy. He looked so very young, then, and Addilyn found that she rather missed the days of his skittish youth. He was, for all intents and purposes, a man now, standing almost a head taller than her and broader than she could ever hope to be. It was a Silver's curse to have adulthood thrust upon them at a time when other castes might have continued to enjoy some semblance of innocence. Though Will's childhood had been snatched from him long before it was necessary.

A common occurrence in Alderode, it seemed.

“Fight me on a day I haven’t been patrolling from sunup, or assisting Captain Adelier with training,” she continued. “Then we’ll see who comes out on top, Little Lion.”

“Big words from such a small lass,” he scoffed, resting an elbow atop her head, a taunting smirk firmly in place. “It’s been some time since that abhorrent sobriquet you so generously bestowed upon me applied in any true sense. Perhaps it’s time we traded?”

“By all means, take the damned thing.” Addilyn slapped Will’s arm from her head none too gently. Both he and Mikaila snickered. “I would gladly have you knighted our dreaded Lioness if it took the burden from my shoulders.”

Mikaila tugged at her braid so it came to rest over her shoulder, her fingers fiddling with it nervously. “Has it been so bad?” she asked tentatively. “To be so widely known?”

Addilyn bit back a curse, a terrible guilt beginning to pool in her gut. It was careless of her to grouse so openly with Mikaila here. Will understood the difficulties that had sprung anew in light of her recent public exposure. She’d always been something of an open secret, something the men of the Lions of Mercy didn’t particularly wish to talk about outside of the barracks, mostly in the vain hope that she’d one day just vanish, not unlike that of a sour stench when given time to air out.

But things hadn’t been too bad the last few years. At least not compared to the beginning of her service amongst the venerable Lions. It had taken time—hours upon hours of training and patrols and shit shoveling—and more than a handful of skirmishes, but the outright resentment directed her way from her fellows faded. Some of the soldiers warmed up to her, and any who hadn’t mostly just ignored her. It had been that way for some time, and it was something she could have happily lived with, had God permitted.

It had begun with a jest, started by her esteemed captain one night when drunk on spirits and the high of a victorious skirmish with Crescian forces.

“And here’s to our vicious Lioness,” Lemuel had slurred loudly, tankard lifted high for all the room to see. “For without her mighty claws and keen eye, I might very well be less one head.”

It had earned a round of raucous laughter and cheers, the rest of the men just as drunk as their captain and in good spirits. She hadn’t thought twice about it, nor had Lemuel, if his foggy memory the next day was any indication, and the spontaneous salute to her deeds had been all but forgotten.

At least, that was what she had thought.

Either prying ears or loose lips led to that small fragment of the night reaching the desk of an especially nosy reporter, and, some weeks later, a headline printed in incriminating black ink and large, blocky lettering filled newstands across Durlyne.

The Lioness of Durlyne, they had called her, with all of the mockery and revulsion that such a title could evoke in her fellow Ssaelit. The words printed upon the page were damning, and had left her more shaken than she cared to admit. The whispers began soon after, spoken in low tones in taverns and storefronts and ghers alike.

A Semon woman? A soldier? Within the ranks of our sacred Lions of Mercy?

It was unthinkable, even on the heels of the Golden Delight and her hallowed battle in the snow.

All too suddenly, the open secret of her existence was no secret at all, and she went from tolerated to abhorred overnight, leaving her right back where she had started nearly ten years ago.

But Mikaila didn’t need to know any of that, didn’t need to know how hard the last few months had been under such intense scrutiny, to suddenly feel so alone in a place she considered her home. Mikaila was adored, cute as a button and believed to be a conduit for Ssael’s blessing. They were different, to that effect. Mikaila was a novelty; Addilyn had never been anything more than shit to be scraped off the heel of a boot.

Addilyn sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly as she forced a reassuring smile. “It’s not so terrible,” she finally said, her smile taking on a mischievous edge. “I suppose some of us just don’t take as well to fame as others.”

“Aye,” Will said, mercifully catching on to Addilyn’s discomfort. “I do fear she’ll outgrow us someday soon. What is God’s favorite to a couple of grunts like us?”

Mikaila rolled her eyes, her anxiety replaced with exasperation. “Blaspheme all you want, but you’ll not catch me testing God’s good graces.”

“Color me surprised,” Addilyn laughed, leaning back against the fence alongside Will. “That’s never stopped you before. Last I heard from your mother, you enjoy teetering on the edge of blasphemy with every chore she bids you to finish.”

“Sweeping the den is hardly important when there are techniques I still haven’t learned.”

“Were you half as dedicated to your footwork as you are to your spellery, I daresay you might have felled me today.”

“She might have felled Captain Adelier himself, in that case,” Will added with a solemn nod.

Mikaila muttered something incoherent, picking up the staves from where she had leaned them against the fence to place them back in the wooden trunk from whence they came. Addilyn and Will merely grinned triumphantly.

“It’d be nice to try my hand at sparring with Papa,” Mikaila said, closing the lid of the trunk with just a little too much force. “But that’d mean he would have to come home every now and then.”

Addilyn’s smile fell, the bitterness in Mikaila’s voice not lost on her. “Has he not been home?”

Mikaila met her gaze, and Addilyn’s confusion must have shown on her face, as the young girl wilted slightly. “Oh,” she said simply. “I had just assumed—I mean, you and Papa spend so much time together. I just thought—never mind.”

It would have been less of a blow had a hound kicked Addilyn directly in the gut. For all the years she and Lemuel had danced around the complexities of their relationship, especially in the shadow of Duane’s death and the obligations it entailed, she had somehow never prepared herself for a moment such as this. Mikaila was no longer a child and surely realized there was more between Addilyn and her father than the camaraderie the military tended to cultivate. She was not naive in any sense of the word, which only made Addilyn feel all the more foolish.

The only question was how long Mikaila had suspected as much.

Addilyn’s one saving grace in light of such a revelation was the fact that she truly didn’t know where Lemuel had been as of late.

“If I’m being perfectly honest,” Addilyn began after a beat, doing her best to save face, “I had assumed he’d been going home the last few weeks. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him when he wasn’t on duty.”

“Oh,” Mikaila said again, looking thoughtful. “I hope everything’s all right. Mamma said the last time he was gone so long was after—well, he had been helping with the hunt for the Crescians from that night.”

That made Addilyn pause, and suddenly her worry had morphed into a different beast entirely.

“Addie,” Will said softly, nudging her. “I didn’t think it was all that important, but Mother told me that the captain has been meeting with Father over the last few nights.” He stole a glance at Mikaila, lowering his voice further. “It still might be nothing, but the fact that you didn’t know is a bit…” He trailed off then, finishing the thought with a grimace and an uncertain hand gesture.

It was odd, to say the least. As much as she had not seen Lemuel when off duty the last few weeks, she continued to see plenty of him at all other hours of the day—whether it be sparring, training, or patrolling—and he had not spoken a word of any late night, clandestine meetings with the Argenti patriarch.

The unease lapping at her heart had all but swelled into a veritable tidal wave, leaving her nauseous and unbalanced with anxiety.

“They’re old friends, your father and the captain,” Addilyn said, but even to her ears the words sounded pathetic and brittle.

“Aye.” He nodded, his brow raised. “But last I checked, so were you.”

She had nothing to say to that. Her stomach tightened as her disquiet mounted.

“Taking a break, are we?” a familiar voice cut through the tense quiet.

Both Addilyn and Will spun around, muscle memory taking hold as they came to stand at attention with a stiff salute. Though her head was bowed slightly, her eyes downcast as she pressed her two middle fingers to her forehead, she could just make out the approaching silhouette of her golden haired captain.

“Papa!” cried Mikaila, immediately running forward to greet him. She stopped just short of the fence before straightening her posture into something similar to parade rest. “I mean—good afternoon, sir!”

To her left, Addilyn could hear Will mutter to himself; something to the effect of “To speak of him is to invoke the specter.”

She had to bite back the snort that nearly erupted from her lips.

“At ease,” Lemuel Adelier said, an amused smile alighting his handsome features. His golden eyes were ringed with dark circles, as if he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in some time. “I see Theron has yet to teach you a proper salute.”

“Didn’t know that was part of the orders, sir,” Addilyn said, dropping the salute to place her hands on her hips. “I’ll be sure to add it to the list.”

He quirked a single eyebrow at her, his smile shifting into a sardonic smirk. “Dancing on the edge of insubordination today?”

Addilyn rolled her eyes, but replied, “Not at all, sir. Simply taking note of my shortcomings.”

Lemuel hummed his dubious assent, coming to stand along the fence beside Addilyn. He nodded his head in greeting at Will.

“Addie’s been busy training with me, sir,” Mikaila piped up, pride painting her words. “There’s not been time for much else.”

“Is that so?” Lemuel cast Addilyn a sidelong glance, playing along with his daughter’s enthusiasm. Addilyn simply offered a modest shrug in return as she leaned back against the fence once more. “And how did that turn out, da aliaol?”

Mikaila grimaced slightly. “Could have been better, sir. But Addie said I did well.”

“Let’s see about that.” Lemuel motioned for Will. “Argenti, take up arms. Go a few rounds with the lass.”

“Yes, sir.” Will vaulted over the fence with ease, smiling brightly all the while. “C’mon, Miki. Let’s get you a real opponent.”

Addilyn kicked out at Will’s backside, earning her a devilish cackle from the man as he made his way toward the wooden chest containing the staves. “Muol,” she laughed.

Lemuel chuckled softly next to her, a charming sound that seemed to resonate from his chest. There was a gentle tug at her braid, and it took Addilyn a beat to realize he was the culprit, the offending hand coming to rest at her back for a brief moment before settling atop the fence.

“Truly, now,” he began, “how was she today?”

“A charmer, as always,” she said. “She froze a patch of ground once I had her on her back. Made me slip and fall right on my ass. I’ll expect compensation, sir.”

“Hazards of the job, I’m afraid.” He nudged her lightly, his mirth giving way to more solemn ground. “Thank you for this. Truly. Leysa’s had her hands full with Simon as of late. And we’ve both grown weary of fretting over what trouble this wee wright can stir up in the absence of a more traditional chaperone.”

The hollow clatter of wood on wood filled the air once again, along with Mikaila’s near deranged laughter. Addilyn watched Lemuel from the corner of her eye. He looked so tired; from this proximity, she could see that the dark circles were the least of it. His long golden hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, had lost some of its luster, and his already pale skin seemed to take on a near ghostly pallor, making that long healed scar carved into his face stand out further. A light dusting of scruff lined his usually clean shaven jaw, as if even that was too much of an effort to maintain at the moment.

A frown pulled at her lips. It’d been some time since she’d seen him so harried, and even then he had made no secret as to its source, let alone attempted to conceal it from her. That gnawing dread in the pit of her stomach returned, near painful in its intensity.

“Of course, sir,” she said evenly. “She’s a handful, but no more than I’m used to. I love the lass, despite her efforts to test my affections on the daily.”

Lemuel huffed a small laugh. “A more sympathetic sentiment I’ll never hear,” he said softly. His demeanor changed then, more captain than companion within the span of a breath. “But I’ve not come only to check in on the glorified chaperoning of my wayward daughter. We’ve a patrol in an hour. I came to fetch you.”

“So soon?” Addilyn’s brow lifted in surprise. They’d just had a patrol that morning. She’d figured that she’d be off the hook for at least a few days. Her expression soured, the yawning pit in her gut large enough to swallow her whole. “Has something changed?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” he replied lightly. “Just some trouble in the northern part of the city this afternoon. We’re spread too thin for the evening patrol, so we’re part of the lucky batch to pick up the slack.”

She sighed wearily. “Piss and shit.”

He nodded. “Soud and Semon. Just the same. Go get your gear and get the hounds ready. I’ll break the news to Miki and meet you at the kennels.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, turning to hop over the fence and head toward the armory, the sound of Mikaila’s infectious laughter following her the whole way.

——————————————

An unnatural hush fell over the city in the evening hours. It was an inauthentic quiet, the kind that descended over a battlefield as a battalion awaited the high-pitched whistle of artillery fire, rife with tension and a thick sheen of fear.

People continued to bustle about despite this, enjoying the waning hours of sunlight that filtered through the slowly dissipating clouds in thin orange rays. They averted their eyes from the shattered windows of the storefronts they frequented, the gentle crunch of yet to be cleared glass shards that littered the streets sounding with each step they took; shopkeeps continued to hawk their wares, pointedly ignoring the ugly writing scrawled across the sturdy brick of their places of business, the paint a deep red, the color of fresh blood seeping from a wound.

THE GODS DO NOT ABIDE YOUR GODKILLER

TAKE BACK THE COUNTRY, SLAUGHTER THE HERETICS

THE STREETS WILL RUN RED WITH MOULTEN BLOOD

It was vile, minacious in its intent, and had subdued the people of Durlyne to the point of fearing the shadows that flickered around corners and loomed in alleyways.

And yet Addilyn found that the sight did not stir the familiar feelings of enmity she had become accustomed to, her mind elsewhere as she sat astride her hound.

She and Lemuel had been patrolling the streets of the southern part of the city for the better part of an hour, their mounts alert and attentive. It had been a routine patrol thus far, their mere presence seemingly deterrent enough for any who might have had malevolence hidden in the darker parts of their hearts, but Addilyn could find little solace in this fact, her gaze constantly drifting over to her captain.

He was putting on a front, of this much she was now certain. The usual banter was there, but there was a hollowness to his voice, the words lacking the playful bite she had grown to cherish. He sat straight in his saddle, the picture of a seasoned soldier, and yet there was a heaviness to his posture, as if a terrible weight sat upon his shoulders—one that he so desperately tried to bury beneath a veneer of authority.

The unease Addilyn had been fighting back finally began to spill over, and she could abide his reticence no longer.

“Sir,” she began, cursing the hesitance evident in that single word, “what’s going on?”

“Hm?” Lemuel glanced over at her briefly before making a show of looking around them, his tone surprisingly caustic. “The slow and methodical extermination of our people, Theron. Don’t tell me you’ve only just now noticed. I’d be forced to question my nigh unshakable faith in you.”

“No, sir,” Addilyn replied evenly, biting back a rather cutting retort. “I’m well aware of that. The Geffies make it rather difficult not to be.”

“Then what seems to be troubling you?”

She paused for only the span of a heartbeat, steeling herself. “You, sir.”

He simply scoffed, not taking his eyes off the street before him. Maha continued to amble along, the hound unbothered by her rider’s newfound rigidity. “Me, Theron? A bold declaration. Were I but anyone else, you’d be spending the night in a cell. And the next week shoveling dogshit in the kennels.”

“You look exhausted, sir,” she pressed on, unbothered by his veiled threats. They lacked the necessary edge to be taken seriously, more scathing quip than genuine reprimand. “I just want to relieve whatever burden they’ve thrust upon you this time.”

“Looking to be promoted?” He laughed, a flat and humorless sound. “You should know by now that’s not in the cards for you, Private.”

Addilyn’s annoyance began to build, though it was hollowed out by her persisting trepidation. He was deflecting, attempting to divert her attention to avoid the matter at hand.

She pushed her hound into a slow trot, coming up to ride alongside him.

“Mikaila said you haven’t been home in weeks.” She tried to catch his eye, but Lemuel kept his gaze forward, steadfast and sure, his mouth set in a thin line. “She’s worried. I’m worried. You look fit to drop, sir.”

“A captain’s responsibilities do not end with the completion of a successful patrol,” he bit out. “You claim to see the sad state of things, and yet you do not grasp the resounding repercussions for those of us tasked with holding the line.”

“I grasp it all just fine, sir,” she snapped, not even bothering to tailor her anger. “I patrol these streets with you, I see the ire firsthand. Do not treat me like some fresh Semon recruit who has yet to even see his first battle.”

“Mind your words, Theron,” he said lowly, darkly. “You forget yourself.”

“Something plagues you,” she continued. “Something that keeps you up at night, keeps you from your family.” From me. The words went unsaid, but the weight of them felt heavy in the air between them, to the point that Addilyn almost cringed.

A brief silence fell over them, filled only by the panting of their hounds and the cacophony that accompanied the close of a city’s day. The fading light reflected dully on Lemuel’s wan countenance, the setting sun dying his golden locks a foreboding shade of red.

“It is a matter well beyond you,” he finally said, the reluctance in his voice clear. “Leave it at that.”

“Has it anything to do with your covert meetings with the elder Argenti?”

That got his attention, his head snapping to meet her gaze for the first time since she’d broached the issue. A small measure of fury flashed in his aureate eyes—fury, and just the slightest hint of panic.

“Where did you hear that?”

“From Will,” she said, his reaction catching her so off guard that she didn’t even think to deflect.

“Damn that boy,” he snarled. “A worse gossip than even his sow of a mother.”

“Better a gossip than a sneak-thief slinking about in the dead of night. What has you so perturbed that you’d involve Argenti?”

“I told you,” he said coldly, “it is a matter beyond your station.”

“Then I ask not as a soldier, but as a friend. A confidant. I can’t just stand by and watch as you wither away into a husk of a man.”

“You try my patience, Theron.”

“Let me help you,” she pleaded. “You’ve borne so much, especially these last few years. I only want to help however I can—”

“Addilyn!” Lemuel finally snapped, his voice sharp and commanding, her name echoing faintly through the slowly emptying streets. He brought Maha to a sudden stop before turning to face her, a quiet rage etched into his features. “What fucking part of drop it are you not understanding? Must I frame it as an order? Or must I threaten you with a court-martial before the words finally register in that shit-filled head of yours?”

Addilyn flinched back, stunned into silence. Not since her early days under his command had he spoken to her with such rancor. It was something she’d never thought she’d hear from his lips again.

“You forget your place in all of this,” he continued, his frustration palpable. “You forget the precarious precipice upon which you sit. You’ve no friends here, save myself and a Silver who can hardly cast better than a battle-addled Plat caught in an ambush. Or have you forgotten that your generous benefactor has long since abandoned you?”

Addilyn swallowed thickly, averting her eyes to the ground. A small statue of Ssael lay discarded in the dirt, the head smashed to dust, as if a club had been taken to the stone in a fit of rage.

“A Copper’s favor is a fickle thing,” Lemuel said severely. “And you enjoyed the fruits of their interest for longer than most. Their boy recovered and now wanders Alderode with a prosthetic worth the sum needed to feed an entire ghers for six generations, as if he’d never lost the limb to begin with. They were grateful for your heroism, and placed you here, in a den of lions, amongst which you must now fend for yourself.”

He reached out, clasping at her hand, his grip tight. She didn’t dare to lift her eyes, lest he see the tears that welled there.

“You’ve few friends amongst us, especially now.” His voice was quiet, his anger replaced by something gentler. “And my influence means less and less with each passing day. I beg you, Addie, keep your head down. If not for yourself, then for me.”

A trembling breath was all the answer she could offer him, pulling away from his touch as she fought to maintain her composure. There was a tightness in her chest, a pain like a crow’s talons digging into the space where her heart lay, and her face burned with the heat of newly forged steel.

He was right, of course. She had overstepped. Despite it all, he was still her commanding officer, and she a lowly Semon woman in far over her head. She had no right to pry into whatever business tormented him so, no matter her intentions, no matter her concern.

Addilyn lifted her gaze to meet his own, an apology upon her lips—

—only to watch as a crossbow bolt struck Lemuel in the shoulder, the force of the impact knocking him from his saddle and to the hard, unforgiving ground.

For but a heartbeat, Addilyn had no idea what had happened. She saw Lemuel fall, naught but a soft gasp escaping him as he hit the cobblestones. Maha immediately began to bark uproariously, her hackles raised as she came to stand before her downed rider. Someone screamed, and chaos ensued as the few pedestrians that remained on the street scattered, fleeing for the relative safety of their homes.

It was the telltale sound of a second bolt—a high-pitched whine, faint and barely audible over the furious baying of Lemuel’s mount—that shook her from her stupor, and she turned just in time to watch as the small projectile shot by her face, the sharpened tip cutting into the flesh of her cheek.

The pain barely registered, and she practically leapt from her saddle to rush to Lemuel’s side, a third bolt whizzing through the air where she had been seated but a mere moment prior.

“Captain!” she called, crouching beside him as he pushed himself upright. He knelt low as Maha acted as cover for them, his eyes already scanning their surroundings. “Are you all right?”

He reached up and yanked the bolt from his pauldron, wincing slightly at the movement. “Fine,” he ground out, and he drew one of his swords from the scabbard strapped to his back. His eyes briefly flicked toward her. “You?”

“Fine, sir.” Addilyn quickly unsheathed her own blade as a sharp yelp split the air. Her hound had likely been struck by a bolt, though the beast continued to faithfully stand guard, growling viciously all the while.

“He seems to be at ground level,” Lemuel said, hardly even blinking as Maha whined softly. He dared a glance over his hound’s saddle, shushing the animal as he soothingly patted at the thick black fur on her flank. “Nothing from the roof, otherwise we’d likely be riddled with arrows about now.”

Addilyn was about to voice her assent, a succinct plan of action taking shape on her tongue, when a flutter of motion drew her attention to a point over Lemuel’s shoulder—an errant shadow in the alley across the way.

And with a sudden burst of movement, the shadow surged forth, taking the shape of a Semon man with a sword raised to strike.

Addilyn immediately jumped to her feet, the hilt of her blade gripped with both hands as she met the man’s swing with a wordless shout. The bright, almost musical sound of steel on steel rang out through the now empty streets, and the man’s eyes widened in apparent shock.

But shock quickly gave way to something darker, and an almost malicious gleam lit up his black eyes.

“Keep the pissmop pinned down!” he shouted, pushing hard against her blade. “The bitch is here!”

A brief flicker of confusion sparked to life in Addilyn’s mind, but it was quickly snuffed out as her attacker attempted to kick out at her knee. She stepped back, dipping the tip of her blade downward as she moved. His blade slid down the freshly-sharpened steel of her weapon and away from her torso, giving her but a moment to shift her weight and bring her sword up and over her head in a single smooth movement. The blade cut through the air, burying itself in the man’s neck before he could even think to block the swing.

A pained, wet gurgle was all he could manage, and as she wrenched the blade from his flesh, he fell to the ground in a blood-soaked heap. He wildly grasped for his neck, desperate to stem the bleeding, but a river of red spilled from between his fingers unbidden, the viscous fluid dripping steadily onto the cobblestones.

Another crossbow bolt hit the dirt somewhere behind her with a muted thunk, and Addilyn knew that Lemuel must have tried to make a move.

“Theron, take cover!” he shouted over the continued barking of their mounts, his head ducked low behind Maha.

Addilyn moved to comply, only to catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. On pure instinct, she spun on her heel and raised her sword, only just managing to deflect a blow from a wooden club. The strength behind the swing had been immense, and a pained grunt escaped her as the shock of the impact traveled up her arm and into her shoulder—but she maintained her hold upon her weapon and brought the blade up to block a second swing aimed for her head.

A Stenkonn stood before her, his cropped, black hair standing out starkly against his pale skin. He was flanked by a pair of Semon men, one of which had bent down to retrieve his fallen brethren’s now bloodstained sword.

“So the Lioness does have claws,” the Jet drawled, a leering grin splitting his features. He spat at her feet. “If no Ssaelit is man enough to tame you, I will happily oblige, iwchig.”

A hot flash of horror surged through Addilyn’s veins, the implications of his words settling like a stone in her gut.

This wasn’t just a blind ambush on a Ssaelit patrol. They were here for a reason.

They were here for her.

The Jet moved first, charging at her with his club held high. Addilyn parried the blow, her mind frighteningly muddled with shock as she attempted to wrap her head around the situation. He didn’t allow her a moment’s reprieve, whaling on her blade repeatedly. Each strike resounded with a loud clang, her sword vibrating violently in her hands as thick, heavy wood made contact with steel. Her fingers were all but numb with the effort to maintain the death grip she had on the hilt, and her thighs trembled as she struggled to push back against his onslaught.

The Semon chose that moment to dash forward, the bloody sword of his dead comrade in hand, his eyes alight with a monstrous bloodlust.

He didn’t make it more than four steps before he fell to the cobblestones like a discarded sack of bricks, a small projectile protruding from his temple.

Addilyn thought it to have been a poorly-aimed crossbow bolt, the shot going wide as its wielder tried to take her out—but a sharp, staccato whistle suddenly split the air, and she realized it had been no bolt that struck the Semon.

“Maha, liimabi!” Lemuel shouted, and Addilyn heard the unmistakable sound of a battle hound taking off at a gallop down the street. Almost immediately following the command, a terrified scream pierced the looming twilight, only for it to be drowned out by the ferocious snarling of a hound on the hunt.

And then Lemuel was there, running full tilt into the Jet’s side shoulder-first, shoving him away from her. He stood before her now, putting himself between her and her assailant, both blades drawn and poised to strike.

“Prokul Soud,” the Stenkonn hissed, regaining his footing with some difficulty. “Do all of your women have your balls in a vice? Or just this one?”

Lemuel didn’t bother with a response, moving instead to strike at the Jet. He was fast, strong, and each blow had the Jet stumbling backwards as he fought to keep cold steel from piercing his flesh.

The remaining Semon darted forward then, a mere dagger in hand, his eyes intent on Lemuel. Addilyn dove for the quickly cooling body of the man Lemuel had felled, yanking the small projectile that had cut his attack tragically short from his skull.

She cradled the throwing dagger between her fingers, the feel of the blood-slicked metal an odd balm on her frayed nerves and, with a practiced ease and a dextrous flick of her wrist, flung the weapon at the Semon.

The dagger didn’t exactly hit home but instead buried itself in the man’s thigh. He let out a surprised yowl, staggering as his leg gave out and he fell to his knees.

Addilyn scrambled to her feet, her sword still in hand, and ran toward the man. She stopped just short of him, quickly kicking away his dagger before she raised her blade to his throat. She hesitated, each breath a heaving gasp as her sword arm trembled, exhaustion and waning shock staying her hand.

He looked up at her, not an ounce of fear in his dark eyes. Only a deep-seated loathing.

“Prokul iyanol,” the Semon spat and wrenched the throwing dagger from his leg. He raised his arm as if to strike, a frenzied desperation twisting his features.

But she was faster, the tip of her sword finding the soft flesh of his throat and slicing cleanly through his dark skin. Blood surged forth, splattering her face and gloves with the thick, warm fluid. He slumped slowly to the ground, a soft choking noise escaping him as he drowned in his own ichor.

Addilyn bent down to retrieve Lemuel’s throwing dagger, wiping the blood off on her trousers. Her hands continued to shake, but she pushed against the sensation, focusing on what still lay before her, what still needed to be done. She clenched her hands into tight fists, the feel of a weapon in each hand grounding. A reminder that she was still standing, still in control.

Steeling herself as she forced her breathing to slow, she tucked the dagger into her belt. She then turned on her heel to face the last of their assailants, weapon at the ready.

But there was no need. Lemuel had the Jet on his back, a boot planted squarely on his chest. The man wheezed loudly, blood leaking from his nose and mouth as he struggled to take in air. His weapon lay discarded a few feet away, the club reduced to a pile of jagged splinters.

The man said something, too low and muffled by choking coughs for her to hear. A wicked grin appeared, revealing a row of bloody and broken teeth, and before Addilyn could object, Lemuel promptly stabbed the man through the mouth, the tip of his blade coming out the back of the Jet’s skull.

“God damn it all.” Addilyn took off at a run. The Stenkonn sputtered weakly around the thick, sharp steel, and Lemuel pulled his blade out before lifting it high above his head. He then brought the razor-edged sword down again and again, hacking at the Jet repeatedly.

“Captain,” Addilyn tried as she approached, slowing to a stop behind him.

But he did not cease his unending slaughter. The man lay motionless beneath him, his face a mess of bloody sinew and crushed bone. Gore splattered along the cobblestones with each slash, chunks of flesh hitting the ground with a wet splat.

“Lem, enough!” She finally stepped forward, grabbing for his arm before he could bring the blade down again. Lemuel stilled, his breathing rough and ragged, his eyes unfocused. Blood spatter covered every inch of him, tiny specks turning his golden hair a frightful crimson.

They stood like that for a moment, motionless and silent as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Lemuel slowly came back to himself, the tension leaving him with each breath he took. Eventually, he stepped back from the ruined body, shrugging out of Addilyn’s hold on his arm.

“Come,” he said, his voice low and monotonous. He swung his sword in a wide downward arc, the offending blood sloughing off the steel and onto the ground in a gentle splatter of burgundy droplets. He then sheathed the twin blades stiffly, the action more instinctive ritual than conscious thought. “We need to signal the others.”

“We could have used him,” Addilyn said, her words coming out surprisingly hoarse. “He might have known something.”

“What’s there to know? Better he join his comrades now, save us the trouble of cleaning his vomit from the Inquisitors' floors.”

“He was a Jet,” she persisted. “He could have known meeting locations, dates for future attacks, numbers—”

“Do you know what he knew, Addilyn?” Lemuel suddenly spun around, facing her. “How long they’ve been hunting you. How long they’ve sought out the Lioness. What patrols she is assigned to and what taverns she haunts.” His anger was a near physical thing, radiating off of him in white hot waves. Addilyn almost stumbled back with the force of it. “He knew that the Gefendur are hellbent on putting your head on a pike. Would you have preferred we add the Ssaelit to their schemes?”

Nausea gripped at her, the acidic tang of bile burning at the back of her throat as her head swam. “I—I don’t…”

“The Gefendur already want to wipe us off the map,” he said, the venom of a viper’s bite in each word. “You were just the final straw. An insult to their gods they cannot abide. Were the Lions to hear of this, they would only too happily throw you to the wolves. Pacify the rabble, while finally ridding themselves of the stain that is Addilyn Theron.”

There was a terrible roar in her ears; the sound of blood rushing through her veins, the pounding of her heart in time with the throbbing in her skull. “How… how long have you known?”

Lemuel heaved a heavy sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “A few weeks now. An… acquaintance alerted me to the whispers he’s heard in less than savory spaces. I’d been trying to find the source of the bleating, hoped to cut off the rot at the root.” His hand dropped, and the look he gave her was one of utter fatigue. “You must realize what this means. They won’t stop with you, Addie.”

Her stomach dropped, and it was all she could do to keep from collapsing where she stood.

Mikaila. The Golden Delight. Ssael’s blessing given physical form. The heart of Ssaelit resistance to Gefendur oppression.

Addilyn was nothing. Had always been nothing. She was a fly to be swatted. A thorn to be extracted. A beast to be put down. This had always been the eventuality. An inevitability that lurked in the back of her mind and only ever surfaced to haunt her in the dead of night, when whispers were at their loudest and daggers at their sharpest.

But if the Gefendur saw her as a slight to their dead gods, what must they think of Mikaila?

If they would plot and plan her death—a Semon woman barely tolerated by her own faith—what would they do to the beloved Delight?

Addilyn could only nod dumbly, her hands trembling fiercely at her sides.

Lemuel approached her then, his hand coming to rest upon her shoulder. The weight of it was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

“Come now,” he said, the timbre of authority returning to his voice, “I’ll retrieve Maha and send up the signal. Go to your mount, he needs your care.”

Addilyn simply nodded again, unable to give voice to her acquiescence, before turning to seek out her hound, her mind a mess of horror and profound guilt.

——————————————

The moon had long since risen by the time Addilyn and Lemuel made it back to the training grounds, the sky clear and bright with starlight. The events of the day had finally had the time needed to fully register, hours of cleanup and vague reports to the other patrols only offering so much distraction. Addilyn had done what she could to assist, but Lemuel had all but forbidden her to speak on anything that had occurred. It was as if paranoia had suddenly taken hold of him, his fear that her mere presence would spark a realization in the minds of their fellow soldiers absolute.

Though she supposed that fear was not entirely unfounded, not with the peculiarities that came with the Dammakhert.

It was a curious thing, realizing that your death weighed so heavily in the minds of people you’d never know, people that would have otherwise never even crossed your path. Addilyn was no stranger to death; it had chased her through every path she had taken in life, though this was a new experience entirely.

And yet it wasn’t her own life that so worried her, but that of the little wright who now raced to meet them at the Temple of Song’s gates.

“Papa!” Mikaila all but ran toward them, though skidded to a halt upon seeing the state of them. Her already pale face blanched, and Addilyn’s chest constricted painfully. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Fine, aliaol,” Lemuel said, lightly patting his daughter on the head as he passed. “Naught but a scratch upon us.”

Addilyn made to follow Lemuel toward the barracks, avoiding Mikaila’s bright green eyes. She couldn’t bear her scrutiny. Not now.

But Lemuel came to an abrupt stop, addressing her directly. “Stay with Miki. I’m going to fetch young Argenti.”

Addilyn glanced behind her at Mikaila. The girl had hung back by the gates, her uncertainty and apprehension clear.

“Why, sir?” Addilyn asked, turning back to Lemuel. She was sure her own befuddlement must have been quite plain.

“I don’t want either of you here right now.” The words were severe and allowed for no question on the matter. “And I’d like at least one cock between the three of you when taking to the streets.”

“Lem,” she said softly, “surely you don’t think—”

“I’m not willing to risk it, Theron,” he cut her off, his eyes hard. “Not now.”

There was a moment—brief and fleeting—in which she wanted to object. There wasn’t a man among the Lions who would dare lay a hand on Mikaila, not on their Delight. They wouldn’t risk the wrath of God—nor of Lemuel Adelier, for that matter—in such tumultuous times as these.

But she stilled her tongue, the caveat of his demand obvious. He wanted both of them far from here, tucked away in his ghers and hidden from the prying eyes and ears contained within this veritable den of voracious lions.

And it was then that she realized, even now, that Lemuel Adelier was keeping something from her.

She hesitated only a moment longer before finally nodding, the movement stiff and tentative. “Yes, sir.”

She turned to head back to Mikaila, but Lemuel stopped her, a hand coming up to grasp at her chin. She froze, her eyes darting around for anyone lurking in the dark, the presence of his daughter like a garrote tied about her neck.

But he simply hummed softly, his thumb brushing over her cheek. She hissed slightly, flinching back, remembering the crossbow bolt that had very nearly killed her.

“Have Leysa look at that,” he said, releasing his hold on her. “And tell her to give you my share of supper. I won’t be home tonight.”

He then turned to stalk off toward the temple, not once looking back.

Addilyn stood there dumbly, only shaken from her stupor by the blonde-haired wright appearing at her side.

“Addie, what’s going on?” Mikaila asked softly, the trepidation in her voice like a knife to Addilyn’s heart.

And not for the first time that day, she lied to the young girl. “I don’t know, Miki,” she said, her eyes locked on Lemuel’s retreating back. "But I'm sure your father can handle it."

#Lemuel Adelier #Will Argenti #Mikaila Adelier #Unsounded #oc: Addilyn Theron #otp: rewrite this story #writings from mandalore #boy howdy this sure is a thing that i did

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