Vengeance Through Passion

Back to the beginning of the past.

Vincent stood at the edge of Aelaras, feeling a familiar tension in his shoulders as the chaos of the day’s events slipped his mind.

Zephyriion, had been in turmoil, and the sudden shift of power brought nothing but complications. Though, at present, no one knew of his whereabouts except for Caelric. Nothing seemed to slip past that man’s gaze.

He'd been to Aelaras just a few weeks prior, but something was different about this visit. The usual stillness of the city, with its towering stone buildings and ivy-covered structures, had been replaced by the din of traders and merchants shouting their wares. He could hear them long before he saw them. It was teeming with life. Too much life.

“Fresh tomatoes for sale at only twenty waters!” a vendor’s voice rang out above the cacophony of the marketplace.

“Fish from the spring of Galgadoth! Only available till dusk!” another bellowed.

The chaos grated on his nerves, and Vincent instinctively recoiled from the noise. Aelaras, usually so quiet and controlled, was teeming with life. Curfews had been issued following the upheaval, yet people still roamed the streets, their faces lit with excitement. Today marked a grand celebration, one that included the whole of Athame. Even amidst the political tension, people clung to tradition and festivity.

As Vincent maneuvered through the crowd, a fishing net, heavy with the day's catch, was suddenly tossed across the street, its dripping contents splashing the road and his fine attire. Brown, muddy water splattered his boots and the hem of his dark cloak. Bamboozled, he glanced down at his once-pristine clothing, the dirt soaking into the rich fabric.

“Apologies, my good sir!” came the frantic shout of the fisherman, his face flushed from exertion. “You see, it’s the first time in a while that sales have been allowed—”

Vincent cut him off with a sharp glance. “I’m not interested in the details,” he replied coldly, dusting the muck off his cloak with one gloved hand. “Carry on.”

The fisherman bowed hurriedly, retreating back to his stall, while Vincent resumed his walk, irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior. To his right, a man knelt in the dirt, tending to his garden, carefully pruning herbs with calloused hands. Up ahead, a woman juggled a squirming baby, its nose dripping as she wiped away the mess with a frayed cloth. To his left, a butcher hacked away at slabs of meat, his bloody apron fluttering slightly in the breeze.

Vincent clicked his tongue in disapproval. They were all spies, every last one of them. How tedious.

"They don't even try anymore," he muttered under his breath as he strolled past, his eyes catching subtle gestures exchanged between the townsfolk—glances that spoke of secrets and hushed conversations. He knew they were watching. They always were.

A few blocks away, he approached one of the most infamous establishments in Athame—Lireal, Madame Freya's Brothel.

The façade of the building was grand yet unassuming, with soft lantern light spilling from the windows. He slipped inside without a second thought, bypassing the noisy front rooms and following a discreet stairway that led underground. The patrons here were none the wiser to his presence, as he preferred it.

In the lower quarters of the brothel, just at the entrance Aricia wandered absentmindedly, her thoughts lost in the haze of recent events. Her mind was distant, fogged with questions that had no answers.

The noise of the streets above, the boisterous laughter and clamor, felt like a world apart from the quiet tension that gripped her chest. Her bare hand caught her eye. When had she lost her bandages? Her skin felt foreign, exposed.

"Ricia!" Madame Freya’s voice echoed down the hall, jolting Aricia from her reverie. The woman’s tone was stern, yet there was a softness to it, a concern. She reached out to touch Aricia’s arm, but Aricia flinched away instinctively.

"Don’t touch me," Aricia snapped, the sharpness of her words surprising even herself. Immediately, guilt gnawed at her. "I mean..." She glanced at her hand again, as though it could explain her behavior. "I need to take a shower first."

Madame Freya raised a brow, clearly suspicious. "Ohhh...kay," she drawled, her eyes scanning Aricia's disheveled appearance. Something was off, and Freya wasn’t one to miss details.

Aricia suddenly remembered something.

"Did you ask Oswald to give me a job or anything like that?"

Freya frowned, momentarily disoriented by the question. “No, I didn’t. Last I recall, you were looking for one months ago.” Then, she added, "Are you sure?"

Freya peered at her, as though she were speaking a foreign tongue. "Yes, I’m sure."

Aricia nodded slowly, trying to piece together her fragmented thoughts. "I was going to ask you, but I was told you went to Vireth." The words spilled out in an awkward attempt to shift the conversation.

"Oh, I had a job there. Well, not really a job. I was asked to dispatch ‘abled men’ at the Eolara citadel." Freya explained with a dismissive wave of her hand, though her sharp eyes remained trained on Aricia. "Why do you ask?"

Aricia hesitated, her thoughts drifting again. "Nevermind," she muttered, forcing a faint smile. "I’ll get going now."

Freya crossed her arms, watching her closely. "I was going to tell you something, but you don’t seem like you’re in the best mood for it."

"What is it?" Aricia asked, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

Freya took a deep breath, her tone lowering as if sharing a secret. "Everyone’s talking about how you… failed the test again. Ninth time, wasn't it? I was wondering if you'd told anyone."

Aricia’s heart sank. She shook her head in silent response, feeling the weight of her failure pressing down on her once more.

Freya’s expression softened. "Well, this is Aelaras. Word travels fast." She placed a hand on Aricia’s shoulder. "Go on, get some rest. I’m sure you’re exhausted."

Aricia nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Without another word, she disappeared into the small cottage, leaving Freya standing in the dimly lit hallway, her brow furrowed in concern.

Vincent entered the room that had supposedly been "specially prepared" for him, but the moment he stepped through the door, he was struck by how unremarkable it was. The faint light that barely filtered in through a small, grimy window revealed a space that was far from the luxurious accommodations he had envisioned. The air was stale, and the furnishings—a creaky bed, a chipped wooden table, and a single chair that looked as though it might collapse at any moment—were all worn down by time and neglect. Dust hung in the air, disturbed by his presence, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the room.

To his annoyance, he wasn’t alone. Several other guests lounged about the common area just outside, their voices low but audible through the thin walls. He had hoped for solitude, a place to gather his thoughts and plan his next move, but this felt more like a refuge for drifters than a discreet hideaway.

“Sciocchezze,” Vincent hissed under his breath, his native tongue slipping through as his frustration mounted. He clenched his jaw, surveying the room with a deepening frown. The stench of cheap wine and stale sweat lingered in the air, mingling unpleasantly with the faint scent of incense that barely masked the odors.

Before he could take another step, a woman approached him, her movements graceful yet purposeful. She had an air of curiosity about her, but there was something more—something calculating in the way her eyes flicked over him, as if she were assessing every inch of his presence.

“And what are you looking for?” she asked, her voice smooth but probing. She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Vincent didn’t bother to respond immediately. He was already tired of the place, and the conversation that seemed to be creeping upon him unwelcome. His silence hung between them, but the woman seemed unfazed.

“I’m Madame Freya,” she continued, not waiting for his reply. “Owner of this establishment, as you might have guessed. Not many venture to this side of the brothel, so I’m guessing you’re not from around here.” Her gaze lingered on his fine, albeit now dirtied, clothing, clearly marking him as an outsider among the usual clientele.

“I’m looking for a room,” Vincent said at last, his voice clipped. “I’ve already made the down payment.”

Freya’s expression shifted subtly, as if suppressing something deeper. “Ah, I see. A man of precision. Very well. How long will you be staying?”

“A few days. I need privacy,” he added, his tone firm, making it clear that he wasn’t here for idle chit-chat. “A room far from all of… this.” He gestured vaguely toward the common area and the noise spilling into the hall.

Freya’s lips quirked into a half-smile, though her eyes remained sharp. “Many come for pleasure, some for information, others for… indulgence,” she mused, her voice dropping slightly as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. “I wonder which it is for you, Vincent of the Zephyriion.”

The last part was muttered under her breath, but Vincent’s keen hearing caught the words, though he chose not to react. His eyes flicked toward her, a shadow of amusement crossing his face, but he said nothing.

Freya turned on her heel and beckoned him to follow, leading him down a long corridor. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and the walls were lined with faded, threadbare tapestries that had long since lost their original vibrancy. The smell of damp stone and mildew became more pronounced the farther they walked, and Vincent couldn’t help but wonder if this part of the brothel was even maintained at all.

At last, they reached the far end of the building, where the noise from the common rooms was little more than a distant murmur. Freya stopped in front of a door that looked slightly sturdier than the others, though the wood was still chipped and worn.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” she said, her hand resting on the doorknob. “It meets all the requirements you’ve asked for.”

Vincent glanced at the door and then beyond it as Freya pushed it open, revealing the room inside. The small, dim space before him was as dreary as the hallway they had just traversed. The walls were bare stone, cold and unwelcoming. The bed was made of rough-hewn wood, with a thin mattress that sagged in the middle. A single candle flickered weakly on the table, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward him as if they had a mind of their own. The room smelled faintly of damp earth, and there was a lingering chill in the air that seeped into his bones.

"It's disgusting," Vincent stated flatly, his voice tinged with disdain. He crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping the room with thinly veiled contempt. The furnishings looked like they might fall apart if he so much as touched them.

“It’s the best of its kind,” Freya replied without missing a beat, her tone steady.

Vincent raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “What kind would that be, exactly?” There was a note of amusement in his voice now, though it was clear he wasn’t impressed.

Freya’s eyes twinkled with something unreadable as she shrugged. “The kind that offers what you need—privacy. No one will bother you here.”

Vincent’s gaze lingered on the stone walls for a moment before he turned back to her. "I should go now,” Freya continued, her voice light, though her posture suggested she was eager to move on. “I have other work to attend to, if you don’t mind.”

“Wait,” Vincent called after her, his tone sharper than before. There was something he needed to know.

Freya paused, glancing over her shoulder. "Yes?"

“Does it have running water?” he asked, his voice laced with the slightest hint of irritation.

Freya’s lips twitched into a cryptic smile. “I suppose you’ll have to find out for yourself,” she said smoothly. “No one has stayed in this room for quite some time. The last person who did… well, let’s just say she didn’t leave under pleasant circumstances. May her soul rest in peace.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes slightly, reading between the lines. “And what happened to her?”

Freya raised a hand dismissively. “Oh, nothing for you to worry about, I’m sure. I’ll leave you to settle in. If you need anything… well, I’m sure you’ll find your way.”

With that, she turned and left him standing in the doorway, the dim light flickering behind her as she disappeared down the hallway. The room suddenly felt colder, the silence thick with unspoken secrets. Vincent stepped inside, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed his new surroundings.