Fallen Eagle-Chapter 45: Mottled, Warped Flesh

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 45: Mottled, Warped Flesh

First week of January 1460
The sharp smell of horsehair, sweat, and manure mingled with woodsmoke in the small outlying clearing outside Suyren where Theodorus had arranged for the first market fair to take place. The ground was churned by hooves and boots into dark, frozen mud. Crude wooden stalls, some half-finished, formed uneven rows like crooked teeth. Greek and Tatar drifted through the chill air, tones low and cautious.
Nikos was already there, cloak wrapped tight against the cold, surrounded by a small entourage of Tatar family leaders - the few who had decided to take the plunge and join the first fair day. Their fur-lined hats and embroidered coats stood out from the simple woolen drabs of the surrounding Greeks.
Roughly half of the families had refused to come to this first gathering. Some simply had no surplus goods to sell, scraping by with just enough for their own people. Others were prosperous enough living on the edge of civilization and saw no need to risk change. Many were waiting to see where the wind blew - whether this ‘marketplace’ was genuine or just another trick by settled folk to bind them.
For those desperate or bold enough to take a chance on the event, this day was a test. If it went well, they would carry the story back across the families. One of fair measures, silver that did not vanish, and grazing rights that were not suddenly revoked. If so, Theodorus could expect a greater showing in a few months’ time.
Ilnur was standing with Nikos when Theodorus approached them, accompanied by his own small entourage of guards and scribes. Ilnur’s keen eyes swept the clearing, taking in every detail with instinctive wariness.
“Everything is in place?” He asked, looking around at the stalls being set up near the bend in the river that coursed around Suyren. The location had been chosen carefully. It was within perfect view of the castle, close enough to the main thoroughfare where the townspeople drew water to feel inviting, but not so near as to choke the path or intimidate them.
For the past couple of weeks, Theophylact had kept the town crier bellowing news of the upcoming fair. A rough sort of marketing, stoking curiosity as carefully as any fire.
“Yes,” Theodorus replied, following Ilnur’s gaze over the riverside. “Our own traders have set up shop along the bank. It is time to get this show on the road.”
Ilnur arched an eyebrow at Theodorus. “Is that a Roman saying?”
“You could say that.” Theodorus coughed, embarrassed at the slip-up.
The shouts and din of the marketplace washed over Nikos like waves against a hull. Voices in Roman and Turkic tangled in the cold air as goats bleated, iron clinked, and scales thudded as weights were set down. In one corner, a Greek man was loudly swearing his wool was the softest in all of Crimea. In the other, a nomad claimed the same, only louder.
Nikos drew in a slow breath and let it out through his nose. This was more than just noise and chaos. This was a chance - perhaps the only one he and his people would get for a long time. The captain had opened the door, arranging the fair, convincing the castle and its Lord. Now it fell to Nikos to make sure it did not all fall apart in one bloody brawl.
His eyes moved over the layout they had painstakingly planned. Greek traders clustered along the riverbank, their stalls neatly arranged selling cloth, wine, iron. Opposite them, the Tatar families had spread their wares on woven mats, backed by lines of tethered horses and shaggy sheep. The division along the main line of the fair wasn’t perfect, but it kept the worst of the friction between the groups at bay. For now.
Nikos adjusted the sword at his hip, feeling its cold, familiar weight. Around him, Suyren militia stood at intervals, spears in hand, and nearby, a pair of scribes manned a makeshift table under a canvas awning, quills already stained with ink as they recorded agreements and marks of exchange. Between Greek and Tatar groups hovered the translators, men and women who knew enough of both tongues to muddle through, paid a handsome fee for a day’s work.
A shrill burst of shouting cut through the general din. Nikos turned toward it before he knew what was happening.
Near the center line, a Greek trader and a Tatar herdsman were squared off, bodies taut, hands flying as they shouted over one another. Between them stood a skinny translator with the harried expression of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
Nikos strode toward them, boots crunching over frozen earth and stray straw. As he approached, the argument snapped into clearer focus.
“-four silver stavrata, and not a copper less!” the Greek was shouting in his thick accent, one hand clamped on a bundle of iron bars bound with rope. “Do you know what it costs to haul this here from the capital? Do you know the tax on ore, on smelting, on transport? Four silver, that’s already generous!”
The translator tried to echo the words into Tatar, stumbling over a phrase as the herdsman cut him off with a bark of angry laughter.
“
Four? For this scrap?
” the Tatar snarled, dark eyes blazing. He slapped a calloused palm against the iron, making the bars rattle. “
I am not some plump town fool. This is not worth even two. Look at it! Rust at the edges, badly forged. I would not shackle my horse with such work.
”
The translator winced as he tried to keep up. “He… says it is… bad iron,” he managed in Greek, “and that… he cannot pay four silver. He only has goat milk and furs to trade.”
“I understood him well enough,” the merchant snapped. “If he has no coin, he should not come talking about iron! He has the gall to offer a handful of goats for my iron? Are they worth their weight in silver?”
“Enough!” Nikos yelled as he arrived, the command cutting through the noise like a blade. The merchant and the herdsman both paused, eyes swinging to him.
“You will not scream over each other like fishwives,” Nikos said, voice steady and loud enough to carry. “You hired a translator, let him do his work. If you continue to bellow, I will have the lot of you driven out of the fair and barred from returning.”
The Greek trader flushed. “Who are you to-”
Behind Nikos, two of his militia shifted their spears just enough that the movement was visible. The iron tips caught the light. The merchant’s gaze flicked to them, then back to Nikos. The insult he’d been about to spit died on his tongue.
“
The fool is trying to swindle me,
” the Nomad said in Turkic through gritted teeth.
“
I will be the judge of that,
” Nikos answered in kind.
Nikos turned to his men. “We weigh the iron.”
He gestured toward the official scales a few paces away: a sturdy beam braced on a wooden frame, with chains and iron pans hanging from either side manned by a pair of castle servants.
“Bring it,” Nikos said.
Reluctantly, the Greek trader hefted the bundle of iron bars and plunked it down on one of the pans. The servant began placing standard weights on the opposite side: one, then another, then another, until the beam balanced. The small crowd leaned in, watching.
The servant glanced at the tally marks carved into the wooden stand and announced a figure.
“That is less than what you claimed,” Nikos said, turning his gaze on the merchant. “You told him this bundle weighed a quarter more.”
The trader’s face darkened, then reddened. “It must be a mistake,” he blustered. “Your men don’t know how to-”
“My men use the scales of Suyren,” Nikos cut in calmly. “The same scales used for castle stores, for town tithes, and for every trader who passes through here. Are you saying Lord Adanis swindles his people?”
A hush fell over the onlookers. The merchant’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. He swallowed.
“You set your price high,” Nikos said to the merchant. “That is your right. No one forces you to sell. But understand this, the castle has an arrangement with the families. Lord Adanis will buy surplus goods brought by the nomads at a fixed price.”
The merchant’s eyes narrowed as he thought it through. If the castle was undercutting him on the buying side, his room to inflate prices shrank. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, lips thinning.
The Tatar herdsman, hearing the translator’s hurried summary, began to bristle, shoulders rising, hands flexing as if itching for a knife. “
He tried to steal from me,
” he snapped. “
In the steppe, a man who cheats in trade-
”
Nikos placed himself bodily between the merchant and the nomad. “
This is not the steppe
,” Nikos said evenly, “
Here, things are settled with words and weight. You agreed to trade under our protection. That means you accept our law while you are here.
”
The herdsman’s nostrils flared, but after a moment he gave a jerky nod.
“Now,” Nikos said, looking between them, “you both know the true weight. He has no coin, only goods. You want silver, but the more you demand, the more likely he is to sell to the castle instead. Decide if you make a fair offer here, or both walk away with nothing.”
The negotiations that followed were tense and halting. By the time they settled on an agreement, both were scowling, but neither looked truly cheated.
“Good,” Nikos said. “Now you go to the scribe.”
The pair trudged toward the nearest table, where one of Theophylact’s clerks sat hunched over parchment. Two guards flanked him, spears upright. The scribe asked for their names, the nature of the goods exchanged, and the final agreed value. He scratched notes in neat lines, then motioned one of the guards to oversee the safe transfer of the goods.
“
This way
,” Nikos explained to the nomad, “
no one can claim later that the price was different. The castle sees, the castle knows. If someone lies, there will be proof.
” The herdsman nodded grudgingly.
…
The rest of the day passed in a similar blur. Arguments flared like sparks and were stamped out just as quickly. More than once, Nikos had to step in, his presence and the silent line of armed men behind him enough to turn shouted threats into grumbled curses.
Slowly, haltingly, people began to accept that the weights on the castle’s scales did not bend to their wishes, that the measures for milk and grain were the same on both sides of the line, whether one wore a turban or a woolen cap.
Not many deals were struck between Greeks and Tatars that first day. Suspicion weighed heavily still. But the few that did happen were meaningful. The start of something.
At the day’s end, Theodorus came with the Steward to buy the surplus goods from the nomads. Furs, milk, and yoghurt were purchased for a predictable, if modest, price. A good bargain for the castle stores, and needed goods for the nomads who were still reluctant to receive coin.
Some of the goods were then distributed through the townspeople who had gathered to watch and wander the fair. Children were given tiny cups of yoghurt to taste, women were handed woolen shawls to try out. All of it, Nikos knew, was part of the captain’s plan to show the worth of nomad goods to the town, encouraging them to come in the future.
By the time the sun sagged low over the river, the fair had begun to thin. Roman traders packed their wares with tired, careful hands. The nomads brought their saddles and bundles closer to their tents.
The market had finished, and aside from a few bruised egos and hoarse throats, nothing truly dramatic had happened. No blades drawn, no blood spilled. For a first attempt, that felt like a quiet victory.
“Good work, Sergeant,” He turned to see the Captain standing beside him, cloak pulled tight. “Now, however, we have our greater challenge ahead.”
His gaze drifted toward the far edge of the clearing, where the nomads were gathering around a large felt tent that still stood, its smoke-hole dark against the fading sky. Men and women slipped inside in small groups, faces set, voices low.
The tent was a furnace, and the rights to the pasture were the coal. Smoke from the central brazier clung to the heavy felt, turning the air thick and stinging. When Theodorus ducked through the low entrance, the different nomad families were already in full debate, the volume rising steadily as old grievances were thrown like spears across the cramped space.
His entourage had been chosen with care, one more piece of choreography in a long day of theatre. On his left walked Ilnur, the venerable elder whose lined face and calm bearing held sway among the steppe families. To his right, Steward Theophylact, looking utterly miserable to be there, but standing as the visible voice of the villages. And behind him came Nikos, the living impersonation of the bridge Theodorus hoped to build between the two groups.
Trailing them in a loose knot were the reeves of the surrounding villages, among them Pantelis, along with various outlying shepherds who’d heeded the call to speak on the grazing question. Their arrival made the noise swell for a heartbeat, conversation cresting as people pointed, frowned, muttered.
Theodorus glanced to Nikos.
“
Yeter!
” Nikos barked in rough Turkic, voice like a whipcrack. “
Order in the tent!
”
The word slammed through the heated air. The mass of people quieted as they realised the other side of the tent was filling - and then quieted further when they recognised who was filling it.
“Thank you, Sergeant Nikos,” Theodorus said, using the thanks as a natural beginning. He stepped forward so that all could see him, the brazier’s light casting his shadow large in the tent. “Today I have called you here to formalise the distribution of herds and pastures at the different grazing spots. Lands which have long been in contention between our two peoples within this principality.”
Beside him, Ilnur took up the task of translation, his voice echoing Theodorus’s words in a rougher, older-sounding Turkic.
“I will serve as mediator,” Theodorus continued, “and as enforcer.” His gaze swept the assembly, catching and holding eyes. “No one will be forced to accept the agreement.”
Theodorus let his eyes harden. “But those who do not participate in the agreement,” he said, “will be forbidden to graze in the pastures we name here today.”
The threat needed no translation. It seemed to travel cleanly across language borders.
A trailing line of junior servants filed in behind the officials, carrying a large canvas with them. It was a map of Nomikos land that Theodorus had painstakingly filled during his tithe collections, trips which had also given him the excuse he’d needed to summon the affected villages here, to speak where all could hear them. Some of those headmen he intended to invite later to the market day, to sell their harvest produce directly - another stone in the bridge he was building between field and steppe.
But that was for another time. For now, the problem was grass and who had the right to chew it.
Theodorus nodded to Ilnur and Pantelis. “We begin with the northern slopes above Pantelis’s village,” he announced. “The valley you all know.”
Murmurs rippled through the tent; everyone knew the place. It was the same broad swale Theodorus had first noticed on his visit to the village, where a horse had grazed.
Ilnur stepped forward with a small grunt, folding his hands over the head of his staff. Pantelis joined him from the opposite side, cap in hand, looking both wary and faintly amused. They had been carefully prepared beforehand to speak plainly. The truth was, the matter had already been settled in private. What followed now was a lesson performed for the gathered eyes. To set the standard for how the discussions ought to go.
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“Tell us when your people use the pasture,” Theodorus said to Ilnur.
“In the early spring,” Ilnur replied in Turkic, voice steady. “When the snows begin to melt, and again in late summer when the lowlands grow dry.” He spread his hands. “We come with small herds, no more than twenty households together.”
Pantelis spoke when the translation reached him. “Our flocks graze there from late spring until harvest,” he said. “We do not bring all our sheep, only those not needed near the village. But we must have that grass for those months, or we cannot winter our animals.”
The two men went back and forth, calm and almost conversational, their words running through Theodorus’s carefully rendered speech. When a small point of contention arose, Theodorus stepped in, ‘mock mediating’ with all the seriousness he would have given a truly undecided case.
“Spring grazing for the Tatars from the first thaw until the feast of Saint George,” he said at last, tapping the map where the valley had been marked. “Then the slopes pass to Pantelis’s people until harvest.”
His finger moved across the parchment to a small notation beside the valley, which he had divided into uniform partitions, each with its own denomination. “Pasture two-one,” he announced. “North-south strip two, west-east strip one. That is its designation on this map, and on every record we keep.”
A servant stepped forward with a palm-sized wooden token bearing the characters ‘2-1’ and the agreed-upon dates. Theodorus placed it in Ilnur’s weathered hand.
“This pass grants your families the right to graze in pasture two–one during the agreed times,” he said. “Any man who sees it will know you are not trespassing.”
Ilnur turned the token over, thumb tracing the carved grooves. He nodded once, solemnly, then held it up for the others to see. Murmurs ran through the crowd.
Pantelis received a matching pass, marked for his own season and rights.
One by one, other families and shepherds stepped forward. There was grumbling, yes, but with armed men watching from the edges of the tent, and with Ilnur’s voice lending the process legitimacy, the pastures were divided amongst the different families and shepherds. When the last token changed hands, the brazier’s coals had burned low, but the furnace-heat in the tent was no longer only anger. It was the slow, uneasy heat of something new being forged.
Suddenly, a commotion rose from the guards Theodorus had posted outside.
Voices barked in surprise, boots scuffed against frozen earth. A heartbeat later, the tent’s flaps were yanked aside, letting in a gust of cold air and grey light. Through them stepped a small entourage in tight formation around a single figure draped in rich burgundy.
It was Lord Adanis.
Theodorus had only a moment to be surprised before the entire mood of the tent shifted. Conversations broke off mid-sentence, heads turned as if pulled by strings.
The Theodoran serfs stammered and scrambled to their feet, hastily bowing. The nomads rose more slowly, eyeing the lord with guarded curiosity. Adanis lifted a hand in a smooth, pacifying gesture, palm outward.
“Be calm, friends,” he said, his voice easy and warm, the corners of his mouth already curved into a practiced smile. “I came here only to make sure that everyone has been left satisfied with the market day and with the splitting of the pastures.”
Headmen hurried to mumble that yes, everything was in order.
Adanis’s smile widened further, stretching but not quite reaching his eyes. “That is excellent,” He walked with unhurried confidence toward the center of the tent, arranging himself so the brazier lit him from below and every gaze had to turn his way.
“I, in fact, came here to extend an offer to our new friends.” He gestured lightly toward the assembled Tatar families. “I believe you’ve now seen for yourselves the benefits of belonging to the greater Theodoran society. How coin flows through us… and how, in time, it can flow through you.”
He let the words hang a moment, then continued with an air of indulgent explanation. “Alas, one of the requirements of being under the Principality’s fold is the right to be levied and conscripted, as I’m sure you know.”
Shoulders tensed. Hands shifted on knife hilts by sheer habit. The translators babbled faster, trying to pass on every nuance while the mood darkened.
Theodorus’s muscles coiled. He started to move, intent on inserting himself between Adanis and the powder keg that was this gathering, but a hand caught his sleeve. Theophylact, of all people, shook his head once, sharply.
“You are, of course, not proper subjects of the Principality,” Adanis went on smoothly, “so I would not dream of doing such a thing to you.” He spread his hands in a display of magnanimity that quieted some of the resentment, “I come instead to ask that you, in times of need only, heed my call. Not as levies, but as mercenaries.”
Theodorus’s gaze sharpened to a knife-edge.
“You would be well paid,” Adanis assured them. “No one would be forced, of course. But I would certainly remember those who came to us in our time of need, and they might find themselves with… additional benefits.”
He let the implication hang like bait dangling over water.
Theodorus’s stomach lurched. He should have known Lord Adanis had agreed to the market day too easily. He was angling to recruit the nomads as auxiliary troops and already muddying the waters of the market day with nepotism.
Theodorus forced every muscle in his face to remain still, feeling his pulse hammering in his throat at being blindsided like this.
“If you are interested in my offer, you have only to present yourselves at the castle, and I will personally take your vows,” Adanis concluded. “A good day to you all.”
He left as abruptly as he had entered, sweeping out of the tent with the speed and disruption of a hurricane, his burgundy cloak flaring behind him. In his wake, the tension he’d stirred broke into half a dozen protests, questions, and worried mutters. Voices rose, competing with one another.
Theodorus raised a hand, cutting through the noise. “We will speak of this later,” he said, more sharply than he intended, as he ducked out of both the furnace-heat and Ilnur’s angry stare.
Outside, Adanis was already halfway to his horse. Of course he wouldn’t be seen trudging through the muck like the rest of them.
“My lord,” Theodorus called, forcing his voice to stay level as he caught up. He bowed, struggling to keep his emotions tightly leashed.
“Ah, Captain,” Adanis said without turning fully, attention on checking his saddle straps.
“That was a grand proclamation,” Theodorus began, keeping his tone respectfully subservient. “But I had not been informed of this development. It took all of us by surprise.”
“I like to keep men on their toes, Captain,” Adanis replied lightly, finally glancing down at him. There was something hard and amused in his gaze, a message as clear as any shouted order.
Theodorus swallowed. “Most of the Tatar families are just that - families,” he said carefully. “I’m not sure there is much to be recruited from there, in terms of fighting men. Many are old, or young, or-”
“Nonsense,” Adanis cut in, waving a hand dismissively as he tightened a strap. “They are born in the saddle, from what I hear. They are certainly adept enough to raid my domains when they feel like it.”
“These are not warrior clans, my lord,” Theodorus persisted. “They are exiled families, cast out from their-”
“What they
are
, Captain,” Adanis said, and now his voice held a strand of iron, “are my subjects.”
He turned fully toward Theodorus at last. “If they wish to use the marketplace and to trade their goods, they will be my serfs, or close to it, and will behave as such.” His gaze narrowed, pinning Theodorus in place. “Or they will not be tolerated.”
Theodorus kept very still, schooling his breathing. He could feel the eyes of Adanis’s guards on him.
“Of course, my lord,” was all he allowed himself to say.
“Help me with this, Captain,” Adanis went on as he swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. “And I might even grant you my blessing.”
He winked, lips curving into a knowing grin at odds with his glacial stare. “My daughter would surely appreciate it, but you know how fathers are.
Very
attached to their daughters.” The threat coiled beneath the words was obvious to anyone who cared to hear it.
Then he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and galloped away toward the castle, his guards spurring their mounts to follow in a tight, protective knot.
Theodorus stood in the churned mud, watching them go. The Lord was starting to make moves - of what exact kind, he could not yet tell. Today’s stunt had been a calculated snub, a deliberate reminder of where the true power lay.
He drew a slow breath and let it out through clenched teeth. He had no choice but to play Adanis’s game, at least for now. His grand designs for Suyren, his fragile ties with the nomads - all of it depended on him staying alive and in place.
He was still an ignoble piece. But the Lords in Suyren didn’t seem to realize that that wouldn’t last for much longer.
2nd week of January 1460
In one of the secluded gardens hidden away in Mangup Keep, a quiet symphony was taking place. Birds chirped in tandem, leaves rustled to a steady beat, and the winter air was filled with rose and pine. At the center of the orchestra, a sycamore harp gathered all those sounds in a soft, deliberate melody.
Zeno watched from afar as the score played out, his mind a thousand miles away. In a way, all he’d ever worked for was for this singular moment to happen again. And now it had come in the worst form imaginable, brought together only by his uncle’s machinations. The joy of the moment was stolen away by the terrible thought that he was just being played by a man high above.
As was his sister.
She always had an otherworldly beauty when she played the harp. A slight figure framed by straight obsidian hair cascading down her shoulders in waves. The white toga accentuated her figure, making her look more nymph than human, all pale limbs and dark eyes bowed over the strings. She’d won many a competition in her time, halls of strangers applauding her name, but Zeno always thought that the music she played then only scratched the surface of what she could do, as if she were holding something back. As if she were scared of showing the world her true self. It was only in these quiet moments, snatched away from silence and hidden out of view, that Zeno could truly see the magic she wielded.
She only played sad songs when she was alone.
Melancholic tones poured into the courtyard, matched by the shadowed set of her mouth and the faint furrow between her brows. She was in pain, Zeno could hear it in every dragged-out note. He always could.
He let the song reach its conclusion, the last note echoing in the small courtyard until it faded into the hush.
“Brother.” Her voice was perfectly pitched and harmonious, an echo of the harp’s last chord. It sounded even more beautiful when she used it alongside her playing, though she didn’t show that to others either. She always hid so many things underneath.
“Arsinoe.” Zeno entered the courtyard, clapping slowly in appreciation, the sound small against the stone. “It was impeccable, as always.”
Arsinoe set her harp, a behemoth nearly as large as her, down by the wayside, then lifted the laurel wreath from her hair. Its leaves were green and fresh, newly plucked.
“Thank you, Zeno,” she said, a small smile softening her pale complexion. “It has been a long time since I’ve heard your praise so.”
“That is one way to put it, sister.” Zeno moved into the open, stepping close to the bench where Arsinoe sat. “I had thought you dead.” From behind his back he drew the dry laurel wreath Markos had returned to him, the one he’d given his sister more than a decade ago. “Though I never forgot you.”
He handed her the laurel. She had once treasured it so much she couldn’t bear the thought of letting it rot, keeping it intact to the best of her ability.
Arsinoe took the laurel gently, her fingers careful on the brittle leaves. “One can hardly ever forget the past.” She placed it beside her, opposite the green one.
“Since when has Uncle had you?” Zeno asked quietly, afraid to even ask.
“Ever since the fire,” Arsinoe said.
“The one he started.” Zeno’s gaze grew sharp. “I had thought you had burned alongside our parents.”
“No, brother. Master Philemon saw fit to save me from my treacherous blood,” Arsinoe said, her face placid, almost serene, even as she uttered those words.
Zeno frowned, the words scraping against his composure. “‘Saw fit to save you’? He murdered our parents.”
“They were undermining his efforts to better the Makris household.” Arsinoe faced him squarely as she spoke, dark eyes unwavering. Zeno’s gut twisted, each was a syllable cutting like a knife. He wanted to unhear it, to push the words back into her mouth and pretend they had never existed.
“They were simply seeking a better life for themselves. For us.” Zeno reached his hand toward his little sister, fingers trembling as if to test whether she was real or some cruel apparition conjured by fate. He didn’t know which he wished to be true now.
“They were traitors,” Arsinoe whispered. She caught his hand and gently guided it away from her, as one might move a fragile object. Her touch was feather-light, as though she were afraid he would shatter at the slightest pressure.
“What things are you whispering, sister?” Zeno’s voice broke with incredulity. “Do you hear yourself? You’re siding with the man who murdered our father, our mother, who exiled me. Who is using us against each other?” The words spilled out faster and sharper. “Do you not see that he kept you alive to be used against me?”
“Of course. It is always about you, isn’t it, brother?” Arsinoe’s visage twisted into a cruel smile, something he had never once seen on the delicate sister etched into his memories. “Uncle Philemon saw talent in me. He saw how I wasn’t of the same stock as you. And he has treated me better than you ever did.”
“How can you say this? Have you grown mad in my absence?” Zeno felt his voice rising, echoing faintly off the stone walls of the courtyard. He had imagined this reunion a thousand times over the years - tearful embraces, shared grief, a united resolve against their uncle. Never once had he pictured this cold, distorted reflection of the girl he had lost.
“I have simply opened my eyes,” she stated. There was no hesitation, no tremor. Her voice was utterly sincere.
Zeno couldn’t contain the maelstrom inside him - it spilled into every gesture, every ragged breath. How had his uncle warped his sister so completely?
“Do not look at me with pity.” Arsinoe’s beautiful voice had turned to ice. “You do not have the right to. You abandoned me.”
Zeno did a double-take, as if the words themselves had struck him. “I had thought you dead.”
“You did not even go back to look.” She turned from him and undressed herself from the waist up, letting the fabric fall from her shoulders. The sight stole the breath from his lungs. “To search for me amongst the fire,” she breathed.
Her back was a landscape of ruin.
Skin twisted into ridges and valleys of scar tissue, mottled in shades of angry red and waxy white. The burns healed into thick, raised ropes that crawled over her shoulder blades. The pale, unblemished skin synonymous with the sister Zeno knew had been carved away and replaced by this mottled, warped flesh.
“I lay there for hours until they reached me,” she whispered.
“I-I didn’t know.” Zeno swallowed heavily, the words rough in his throat. He watched as Arsinoe dressed herself again, the thin cloth sliding back over the devastation. The sight faded from view, but the image of her burned back seared itself into his mind.
“You didn’t care.” Arsinoe pushed Zeno away, her visage thunderous. “And now it is too late.” She grabbed the wreath, fresh and green - no doubt a gift from Philemon - and set it atop her head once more like a crown.
“That is unfair.” Zeno felt stung by shame, regret, and fury that pricked him all at once. “You never reached out, never tried to contact me.”
“Behind Uncle’s back? Are you insane?” Arsinoe laughed, a high, denigrating sound.
Zeno openly rolled his eyes, the movement sharp and unrestrained. “Couriers with hidden messages, traveling merchants that could spread word,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Hell, just hiring a random knight for an errand with a handful of silver. Think, little sister. Or did Uncle take even that from you?” The bite in his voice surprised even him.
Arsinoe stepped closer, her sandals striking the stone in quick, violent taps. “He took much from me, brother.” Her eyes held the faint reflection of horrors lived and relived. “But he gave me so much more back.” The light in them sharpened, a manic, dangerous gleam that made Zeno’s skin prickle.
“Much more than you, even.” Her tone was flat and final as she crushed Zeno’s laurel in her fingertips, dry crusts falling on the ground in a heap.
She turned on her heels and swept out of the garden without looking back, not even bothering to take her harp. The instrument stood abandoned in the courtyard like a silent witness, strings still quivering faintly from her song.
Zeno stared at the harp and the fallen remains of the broken laurel at his feet. He grit his teeth and held back a shout of pure frustration that threatened to tear out of his chest. He felt like an utter fool. He had sacrificed everything all these years for the hope of striking back at his uncle, of avenging his sister. He had betrayed his benefactor, endangered his position, risked his carefully woven plans just for the chance to stand before her again. And this was how she repaid him? With betrayal? With accusations? By insulting him to his face as if he were the villain in all of this? Well, Zeno wasn’t one to take betrayal lying down. If he had to, he wo-
“I take it the family reunion didn’t go according to plan?”
A singsong voice sliced cleanly through his dark thoughts.
Zeno didn’t bother turning. He remained motionless, fists clenched at his sides, afraid that if he moved even a fraction he might explode.
“Ouch, not even a hello. You wound me, Zeno,” Markos said. His voice had the playful tone of a cat that had found a new toy and was now batting it about for amusement. “Really, you should not have put your hopes on an emotional, happy reunion. This is real life, not a romantic novel.” He let out a small, dainty laugh that echoed irritatingly around the courtyard.
“You watched?” Zeno asked at last, turning to face him. His body tensed, every muscle tight, ready to strike out at the slightest provocation.
Markos answered him with a mischievous smile, dimples flickering at the corners of his mouth. “How could I possibly miss out on such fun?” he said lightly, reaching up to stroke one of his light curls back behind his left ear in provocation.
“You have some gall to come taunt me at this moment.” Zeno stepped toward him now, eyes narrowing. “You should be aware I do not take such jests lightly, and that Zeno Makris does not leave slights unattended. No matter how long it takes.”
“Oh, he even refers to himself in the third person. How quaint.” Markos looked utterly unfazed. If anything, he seemed entertained, drawing closer to the scene of the quarrel with bright, curious eyes.
“How did my uncle warp my sister so?” Zeno demanded, refusing to be baited further.
“How should I know, my dear Zeno?” Markos cooed. He let his fingers glide along the polished frame of the harp as if it were his own possession, plucking one string so it hummed mournfully. “I do not-”
“Answer me straight.” Zeno’s voice cracked like a whip. He had already run a quiet background check on the effeminate servant, and he had reached only one conclusion: Markos was a ghost. No history, no roots anyone could trace. Likely a highly trained spy in Philemon’s service. And much more knowledgeable than he ever allowed others to suspect.
Markos mimed a thoughtful pose, placing one finger delicately on his pursed lips, eyes rolling upward as if searching the sky for inspiration. He eventually seemed to reach the decision that it would be far more entertaining to tell Zeno the truth. “Master Philemon is very particular in how he trains his slaves,” he said at last.
A cold fury rose in Zeno’s chest at the casual comparison of his sister to property. But whatever indignity that implied paled in comparison to what came next.
“He whips any who show disobedience,” Markos went on, almost conversationally. “And inflicts cruel punishment whenever he sees fit. Discipline, obedience. He has carved from her a perfectly obedient tool-”
Zeno moved before any more words could come out of the bastard’s mouth, crossing the space in a blur. He seized Markos by the throat and slammed him against the cold stone wall, the impact ringing through his arm.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he rasped savagely, fingers digging into soft flesh.
“Can’t even handle hearing the truth?” Markos managed to affect a smile despite being choked of air. His voice came out strained but mocking. “This is a mundane day for slaves like us.” There was a crazed gleam in his eyes - the same wild light Zeno had just seen in Arsinoe’s.
“If you refer to my sister again as a slave,” Zeno’s voice shook with barely contained rage. He had rarely felt so out of control as he did in that moment, as though something in him had finally snapped. “I will kill you.”
“That, my dear Zeno…” From this close, he could smell clearly the lily Markos still wore in his hair, bright red petals flashing against golden yellow curls. His breath was warm against Zeno’s face. “Is something I would very much like to see you try.”
Zeno felt something sharp in his abdomen. A dagger, tip pressed just hard enough to hurt.
“I don’t think you would,” Zeno promised. He drew his own dagger from his sleeve and pressed the blade against Markos’s neck, feeling the pulse beating frantically beneath the skin.
“How cute.” Markos’s eyes glinted with unmistakable pleasure at the thought that he might actually be in danger. “You really do surprise me, Zeno Makris. And I do enjoy surprises.” He leaned into the dagger deliberately, drawing a thin red line across his skin, and in the same motion stole a kiss from him.
Zeno recoiled backward, astounded, loosening his grip in sheer shock. “Are you insane?”
“Aren’t you?” Markos caught his wrist before he could pull away entirely. Zeno had to withdraw his dagger to avoid skewering the servant as their bodies shifted. “I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at me. Your eyes can’t lie to me. I can see through you, Zeno Makris.” Markos’s deep blue eyes filled his vision, too close, too knowing. "And all I see is hatred in your heart. Oh, how beautiful it is." Zeno channeled the fury and despair he felt to push the damnable servant away, stomping out of the garden with furious steps.
All he was left with was the taste of Markos's breath on his lips and the echoes of his sister’s melody in his mind.

Chapter 45: Mottled, Warped Flesh