When I regained consciousness, I was staring at a wooden roof. I laid under a quilt, keeping me warm. Layers of simple beddings covers were piled on the wooden cot on which I rested, in a surplus effort to make it comfortable.

I was in, what felt like a single large room, without a modicum of wealth or couture. Stone walls and stone floors, with a large hearth in the centre, provided the only source of warmth, keeping the cold at bay.

Maapu still laid unconscious. Further away from Maapu, sat Theko. The goblin looked battered, his skin discoloured at multiple places. Where his left eye should have been, a pinkish pulp stood in its place.

Separated from Maapu and Theko and closer to the burning hearth sat Taltil, stuffing her face with some sort of sweet pie. She pretended not to look in my direction. Adjacent to Taltil, Arlene chopped Celery with a huge kitchen knife on a low table. A still steaming kettle lay on the side. I counted three cups beside her.

“While I was knocked cold, some people have the audacity to attend a tea party,” I grumbled.

“Magistra,” uttered Vitalia, “Seeing as emotions were running high, I advised against violence.”

I threw tact and diplomacy out of the window and said, “You pretty well know, none of you can survive going toe to toe against Lyria, so please dispense of the fake pacifism.”

“She is back at the smithy,” answered Arlene back.

---

Lyria stood with her back to me. Her wide arms stretched further, resting on the edge of the stone table. The back muscles of her neck and shoulders bulged while her head lowered down and examined the item on the table with utmost care.

“This is not your blade,” Her penetrating voice cut through, “explain how it came into your possession?”

“At the tourney in Asterlund, Celerim was in the middle of a duel. The portals opened, creatures poured in and they spirited away unconscious Celerim right in front of his mother,” I gave the brief version to Lyria.

Lyria stood still like a statue, her breathing calm and periodic. Only the muscles of her jaw and neck slightly twitched.

“Celerim needs me. He needs you. He needs us, Lyria,” I pleaded.

Lyria turned to face me and her face contorted in disgust.

“A grand tale you spin, Rils. Have your preferences changed over the years? Do you now rescue young men instead of girls?”

She straightened herself to full height and continued.

“To my memory, you were only interested in saving particular type of girls, the sort that you could easily bend to your will.”

“Lyria, even as we speak, his life hangs by a thin thread, subjected to the whims of a demon Sovereign and a Dame of the Demesne,” I urged her.

“Rils,” she raised a finger demanding silence, “when I left, there were many things I wanted to say to you. You never had friends, only allies you could trust to an extent and enemies. Take a look at your own tale.”

I wanted to refute her but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. At her words, an invisible hand choked my throat, preventing me from uttering.

“In the middle of a tourney, demons walked in and walked out with Celerim. You presume his life is in danger and you want to wage a war against a domain?”

Tongue-tied, I simply nodded.

“Do you realise how absurd it sounds? If they wanted Celerim dead, they would have killed him, not walked away with his limp body. If they wanted him abducted, they would not portal in the middle of a tourney, the one place filled with veterans.”

---

Lyria sat on the ground with her back resting on the now inert forge. She motioned with her rough hands, urging me to sit close by her. I mindlessly obeyed.

“I spoke with your companions while you were resting,” Her eyes fixed on an unknown point at the distant horizon.

Resting. Is that what you were calling it?

“A part of me, the stupid and innocent part, still hoped that you would have changed during the years,” she continued with her faraway expression, “now, I will have to spell it for you.”

Lyria laid her hand on my arms. Her palms, rough from years of toiling at the smithy, yet she had a surprisingly gentle grasp.

“Others would see something fresh and new. They would seek to admire its latent beauty but Rils, you only see a threat to be put down. Your warmongering has cost you everything. Deep down you are even afraid of your own shadow.

Even in exile, Arlene told me that you earned a new moniker. Slaughtering thousands to save a few hundred. While you could have let those poor gypsies escape, and harassed the pursuing army. You had werewolves, goblins, a fae and a ranger, all held an advantage in forest terrain. Just like with the Stonecleavers, you could have used the lure of the coin to convince the brigands and outlaws to abandon. Instead, you choose to slaughter.“

“It was a tense situation,” I justified, “I had to make a judgement call.”

“Rils, there lies your problem,” said Lyria, “Your first thought to a situation is to slaughter every last man and woman. You are a purebred warmonger.”

---

Lyria continued, her voice thick with emotions and with her cruelly honest words.

“I have some standing with the Stonecleavers. Urganza owes me a few favours and exchanges occasional news. She mentioned how you opened her eyes to a fresh perspective on The Pruning Hands.

They were willing to desert the battlefield peacefully, but you convinced them to join. Manipulated them into changing allegiances.

Arlene was kept in the dark about the status of your mercenary company. She was unaware of its official registrations. You kept your intention of not immediately registering the company hidden from people who trusted you with their life.

You murder an unarmed man in front of Celerim and cornered him into breaking his oath.

You lie, cheat and trick crossing every boundary if it serves your goal.

Rils, you are manipulative. People are, in the end, just puppets for you to control.”

---

Lyria slid her rock-hard hand above, resting it on my shoulders, with the weight of a gossamer.

“You have strong opinions about multiple things and you will willingly abandon your own stance if it suits you.

None hated the high-elves more than you and yet you willingly aligned yourself with Leyandur while it benefitted your own cause.”

“Lyria,” I stammered, “I cannot let my personal views stand in the way of putting dinner on the table for the goblins. I have a responsibility to my mercenaries.”

“And what about Arlene’s responsibility to rescue people, long forgotten in another realm?” Lyria responded.

“Rils, you forbade Arlene from opening portals and now you grovel before me for Celerim. You gladly bend your own rules to save him.”

Her eyes were still fixed on the horizon for a long agonising moment. Eventually, her disembodied voice came.

“In case, you failed to notice. You have dual standards and you are a hypocrite.”

---

As she spoke, my heart started pulsating violently inside my ribcage, wanting to abandon the flesh prison that it inhabited.

Lyria slid her hands further upwards. She held the same look she gave to the mangy mutt and with the back of her hands slowly stroked my cheek. At her unblemished touch, the dam broke and I could only respond in tears.

“I once proposed to you, Rils. You wanted to wrench power from your mother. I offered to elope. A humble dwelling in a nameless town, this is what I offered you. This could have been ours,” She indicated to the smithy and the house attached to it.

“You choose power instead,” she finished finally.

“I had a responsibility to uphold,” I meekly replied.

“You bore no responsibility, Rils. The responsibility of the whole world does not need to rest on your shoulders,” she replied.

“Fancy lecture on responsibilities,” I scoffed, “especially coming from a woman who abandoned a baby in a crib.”

The pain that moments before wedged into my heart, twisted into a whirling maelstrom of rage.

Lyria looked dumbfounded and her touch ceased to be warm. She slowly withdrew her hand.

A pool of salty water welled in her eyes. Her chest heaved with every deep breath she took. Her external appearance betrayed her struggle against whatever was eating her from within.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked.

“Yes, I mistook you for a thief,” I sneered.

“No, you stole something valuable from your mother and tried to pin it on me,” she replied with a tinge of disappointment, “and later when you asked out me the first time, I laid two conditions.”

She shivered a bit, but not from the cold, and her stalwart shoulders slagged.

“Where I am not respected, I will not remain. Even if crafted in gold and ornamented with gemstones, I will not let myself be shackled,” she repeated those words in an orotund manner.

“Even as a derelict orphan girl on the streets, I held my dignity,” she continued, “that is until you came.”

Her eyes, again held the faraway look, reminiscing of our shared past.

“Every night, all those smouldering affections and passionate promises, only to disappear like a morning mist. Come the evening, you would again stumble in, like a serpent slithering to its bowyer. It always starts with vague excuses, then showering me with more smouldering affections, promises made with passion. Only to repeat again and again.

The worst is your absence. I had to face the storm. I would lie awake all night, memorizing every patrol. I would slowly sneak into Delyn’s room, silently to grace on her sleeping form. On occasions, I brushed the falling locks of hair on her cherubic face. I would not even croon, for the fear of alerting the nursemaids. If discovered, they would summon the house guards and I would be confined to my chambers. That is when I realised, you didn’t need me. That place did not want me. Your Great House wished me gone.

I would have still stayed if there was a future for the three of us.

Delyn is the heiress of the house and you are her mother. I am just the woman who warms her mother’s bed like the scullery maid who warms your food. That is how she would perceive me when she becomes aware.

Rils, when I fell in love with you, I fell in love with a quirky, charming and awkward girl. As years passed, your other facets threatened to overwhelm, submerge the girl I fell in love with. And I was powerless to stop.

That was my effort, my call, to preserve the remaining diminishing memory of the girl I loved before she disappeared completely. “

As the night fell, unspoken, we sat huddled together, not due to the cold but for emotional comfort.