Memoir of Llyris mordane

The music swelled, a waltz of polished strings and measured steps, but it was secondary to the true rhythm—the unspoken cadence between us.

Caera of House Brightsplitter. Representative of a dwindling name, yet still a name worth knowing. She had the sharp eyes of someone who understood the weight of expectations, the poise of someone who had learned early that power was not given, but taken.

I led. She followed.

But not without challenge.

Her steps were light but deliberate, each movement a measured probe. A dance of more than just footwork—it was a conversation. A negotiation in silk and candlelight.

"I see the rumors weren't exaggerated," she murmured, her voice barely above the hum of the violins.

I smiled. "Which ones?"

"The ones that said you were bold." A tilt of her head, calculating. "And the ones that said you were reckless."

"Reckless?" I feigned surprise, spinning her smoothly under my arm. "Now that's a cruel misrepresentation. I prefer audacious."

She let out the smallest laugh, the kind meant to be hidden but slipped through anyway.

Progress.

The music wove through the air, a waltz of careful steps and even more careful words. Laughter and conversation bubbled around us, the perfumed stench of politics barely masked by expensive cologne and sweeter lies. A grand ballroom, a grander occasion, and a thousand eyes pretending not to watch too closely.

And here I was, ever the gracious host, ever the disaster waiting to happen.

Lady Caera Brightsplitter moved with all the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime navigating slippery floors—both literal and political. She was sharp, poised, and far too intelligent to trust a single word that came out of my mouth.

I liked her already.

"And you," I murmured, pulling her just a fraction closer, "you're as striking as they say."

Her lips curved slightly. "Who says that?"

"Me."

I let the word settle between us, watching the way she weighed it, assessing if it was meant to flatter, to provoke, or simply to amuse myself. The answer, of course, was all three.

She hummed. "A bold claim, Llyris Mordane. But I hear you have a habit of making those."

I sighed dramatically, guiding her through another effortless turn. "And yet, this one, is true"

A ghost of a smile, quickly smothered. Ah, but I'd seen it. A crack in the mask. Progress.

"And you?" I asked smoothly. "I imagine half this room is already lining up to make their own claims."

"None." Her voice was light, her meaning heavier. "And I'm sure you know why."

I did. The Brightsplitter name was ruined. And not in the delicious, scandalous way that made people lean in to whisper behind their fans. No, theirs was the kind of ruin that sent treasurers into apoplexy and marriage brokers into existential despair.

They'd gambled everything—land, business, honor—on securing the northern frontier. And when the frontier bled, so did they. Eighty percent of their household carved up like an overambitious feast, their coffers emptied in a desperate bid to survive.

Now, all that remained was Caera and a handful of retainers clinging to a name that once carried weight. And in our world, a name was the thin line between power and irrelevance.

Of course, the vultures hadn't wasted time circling. House Nightheal, the Brightsplitters' most persistent debtor, had graciously extended a lifeline—by way of a marriage contract. A generous offer, really. Like throwing a drowning woman an anchor with a ribbon tied around it.

Caera didn't want the match. That much was obvious. And if she was anything like me, she wasn't one to accept the slow, suffocating inevitability of someone else's design.

Which made her very interesting.

"I do," I murmured. "And I hear you need a friend."

She arched a delicate brow. "Friendship with the Calamity Prince? That's like accepting a deal from the devil, I've heard."

I smirked. "And yet, the devil always delivers."

She exhaled softly, amused but unconvinced. "And what would this friendship cost me?"

"Nothing," I said easily. "Why start things off with a debt?"

That earned me an incredulous look, the kind usually reserved for liars and bad poets. Fair enough.

"Wouldn't a strong ally be worth more than anything?" I continued, smoothly dodging whatever remark she had been about to make.

"Why?" was all she asked.

I smiled. "I have my reasons."

Which was, of course, the sort of answer that meant absolutely nothing and everything at once.

"Can you really help me?" she asked softly.

The desperate throw caution to the wind. And she was desperate. You could hear it in the way her voice dipped just below the music, in the way her fingers curled ever so slightly against mine.

"That depends on you," I said lightly.

A pause. A hesitation. A moment where the world held its breath.

"There are a few solutions to your problem." My voice was smooth—silk draped over a dagger's edge. "It's just a question of how far you're willing to go. For example, you could kill Alex Nightheal."

The air turned colder. Caera faltered—just for a moment—but in a dance like this, even the smallest misstep was a confession.

"But that's impossible," I continued, ever so helpfully. "He's a third-circle initiate, and as talented as you are, even you can't fight above your stage."

A small truth, casually spoken, but no less a cage for it. The unspoken weight of our world—the twelve ranks of mysticism, divided into three stages, each with four ranks. To truly master a rank, one had to refine themselves through twelve grueling circles of cultivation.

The first stage: The Mortal Struggle—where initiates clawed their way through the ranks of Mystic Apprentice, Mystic Initiate, Mystic Adept.

I let that settle before offering the next bitter truth.

"You could pay your debts. Except, well—" I gestured vaguely. "That sum is enormous, your family has nothing, and unless you've recently developed a talent for alchemy or extortion, that option seems... unlikely."

Silence.

"But," I mused, watching her carefully, "have you considered discarding everything? Disappearing? Living under another name—no debts, no burdens, no desperate attempts to live up to a name already fallen? You could simply slip into the world as someone else."

She stiffened. A sharp inhale. Not the flicker of fear from before, but something deeper—visceral, instinctive.

"A name," she whispered, as if saying it aloud would let it slip through her fingers. "A name is still a name."

I softened my tone, but not too much. Reassurance had to be edged with truth, or it was just another lie.

"A name is what you make it," I said. "You could build it again, stronger, higher. You could be someone new. The only certainty is that your name—the one you're clinging to—is the chain binding you to your predicament." I spun her, catching her eyes as the music swelled. "That's the problem you face now. The future you? She'll have other problems to solve."

She didn't respond immediately. She was thinking now, turning it over, testing the weight of my words. That was enough—for now.

I smiled. "Think about it. And when you're ready to stop drowning, let's talk about how to swim.."

The music tempo shifted, and our dance partner change. Caera was gone. But I had planted the seed.

Now, I would wait to see if it grew.