Antilorwe tried -- desperately -- to quell the rising bile within her and failed in the process. Her composure, her iron-clad demeanour as the Lady of the Manor, shattered in the solitude of her own private chamber. Gulping convulsively, the last bit of cognitive control fell to shreds. Light from the wide windows cast lurid shadows on the walls, and they grew heavier and heavier with each passing sob.

Gradually, she lost track of the crying and wailing. A gentle wind blew across the Manor -- caressing her delicate face. The soft kisses eased the tightness of her muscles. Leaning backwards, she sobbed on the cool leather-covered chair. Gazing blankly at the walls. Her eyes roamed each and every intricacy and fissure. And now she saw it. Like a spectral apparition appearing to reveal her foulest truths.

So different from what she imagined. So very different from her initial plot. Entailing only a simple seduction and a gradual deceit....No....no deceit, just a mutually beneficial exchange, perhaps involuntarily, or even without the knowledge shared, but nevertheless, a deal in which all involved parties were rewarded for their efforts.

Bewitching Vangere's protege should have been a fairly achievable goal. After all, tales abound about the young prodigious yet lecherous Mage -- the way those green eyes strip women of their clothes, revelling in extracting their modesty beneath. Yet, to the perceptive mind of Antilorwe, all those perverted gazes only seemed to serve a perfunctory goal disguising a far deeper sentiment -- almost akin to jealousy. In the end, the young mage proved every bit mysterious as the old Alchemist.

Arising like an eldritch monstrosity from the slumbering depths, a plan formulated within her depraved and disturbed mind. Convince the crafty dark-elf about her scandalous interest in the Mage and use her good standing in convincing the Mage to step inside her Manor. Between the oblivious and lovelorn Orc and her alluring form, Antilorwe was assured that the Mage would lack the will to resist their charms. But she was not prepared for Cyrene.

But to do what she did? she just did? It was unconscionable! By the time Antilorwe became aware, her own emotions became lucid and deep-rooted and worse still -- a rapprochement to her own plan!

Is it because Cyrene is a girl? Another girl -- just like her! Used and discarded, that she had come to care deeply for her.

Is it because Cyrene openly declared her love -- twice? No. Thinking back on the realisation she had, while relieving herself in her bath suite, she could give all credence to her own lustful gaze. What she felt for Cyrene, maybe it wasn't all lies. Perhaps there is a strong bond that cannot be erased, broken and severed and plausibly, that bond is birthed by selfish intentions. Compared to her own wretched self, what Urganza felt for Cyrene was more, sublime, pristine and pure.

She genuinely cared for Cyrene and honestly desired Urganza as well. That realization only reinforced the fact that they were not mutually exclusive. Perhaps that is why her original intent has taken an unforeseen turn, -- leading to this point. The intoxicating feeling overwhelmed her at that moment. It triggered a powerful cascade of emotions; from sudden remorse to abject hatred and shame -- obliterating the innate ambience of self-pity. Antilorwe, her mind -- bruised, battered and exhausted -- finding herself falling helplessly, the only comfort left, wanted and craved, is to throw herself at Cyrene, beg forgiveness for her grievous actions.

Only an ephemeral chain, birthed from her troubled early days experience, prevented her from directly seeking redemption from Urganza and Cyrene. That would be a repetition of her past blunder. Well, not exactly. But nevertheless, a painful warning for her kind deeds. She cannot let her conscience be her judge. She had done those in the past and bore their backlash. Having no family name, and no allegiance did not spare her the wrath either.

When she tried to cheer her friends by sending her small gifts, meagre trinkets and goodwill that her destitute younger self could spare, she was not rewarded with kindness; only scorn followed. As was norm at that age, her two best friends decided to break their relationship with each other. For the socially outcast Antilorwe, that meant attending school without any friends, to spending hours in nerve-crushing solitude. In her youthful naivety, she did try to do the noblest thing that her not-yet-worldly-experienced mind could evoke -- sending soothing gifts to both her friends. Except the girl turned against Antilorwe; accusing her of attempting to steal the boy. An older Antilorwe would later learn, the tale as old and common; one of the trials to test the bond of friendship between two girls.

It was her word against Antilorwe's, except for the socially unprivileged and the already isolated Antilorwe, only more cold detachments and crushing despair remained. Only cruel scrutiny and vicious whispers followed her for the rest of her years of education. Her entire life till graduation, a victim of someone else's groundless accusation, a child of broken dreams, an unwanted legacy. In the end, she was just one more hapless slave at the auction block, enslaved by the circumstances of her birth, of abandonment; paraded around by the mighty and supposedly righteous. But she came out tempered. She knew better than to expect some sort of fairness from life.

The truth is, Antilorwe has always been the victim of groundless persecution. Even when she stood before the panel -- requesting aid for her studies, a scholarship.

Antilorwe pursued her stubborn ambition despite the constant whispering and grudging appraisals of her society, bearing the mark of their scathing stares and dismissive sneers, against overwhelming odds -- she strove hard to make her way in their world. And yet, she stood now, before the very same authority; begging for scraps.

"You are a high-elf," said the woman with more bulk than her flowing robes could modestly cover, "Are you aware that the scholarships were implemented to help the less fortunate?"

"I am an orphan," replied Antilorwe humbly.

"High-elves do not have orphans. Only wards of the state," came the vitriol-filled voice of the Bursar, a high-elf with serpentine eyes that lingered scrutinising her sharp pointed eyes and sculpted cheekbones. An expression that Antilorwe, by now, knew too well. For once she wished the panel were headed by a bunch of dwarves. At least, the concept of clanless was not too alien to them. Nor were they likely to challenge a notion just so it happened to not align with their narrative.

"And you have not even taken the pains to fill out your application form. No family name," continued the Bursar with an undisguised tone of disdain in his cold voice.

Antilorwe looked away to hide her swelling tears and biting down pain. In her despair, she wondered if any sobs ever resounded through the hallowed building. All those years, she never found a compassionate soul who could understand the extent of her suffering, her isolation and her struggles.

"I was abandoned outside the temple as a baby. I know not my parents and hence no family name." The words echoed loudly, drowning out every sound within the hall.

She resented the way all those eyes gazed at her, judging cruelly. She had been subjected to all this and many more. Despite her claim and records to prove, she was forced to live under uncharitable eyes; despite the years of lonely rejection and desperate resentment towards their refusal to accept her -- she still fought against a society that willingly became an unwilling thrall to their own construct.

"Our children are never abandoned. Should the circumstances have forced your parents, there should have been a record," cut the contempt-filled voice of the Bursar. Only bitterness and sheer bitterness were laced in his tone as he continued admonishing her for a crime that was not her own, "Perhaps, it was your own lethargy that prevented you from enquiring at the oathvogts and the office of the reeve."

"There are no records," spoke Antilorwe over the uncomfortable silence blanketing the hall, the presence of all empty eyes upon her. Their stench of degradation soaked into her soul -- making her feel repulsive and disgusting.

"But the fact still remains, Young Antilorwe," came a scintillating voice; the speaker fluttering above in her ephemerally transient gown, a visual reminder of her fae origin to all, "those aids and scholarships are meant for races who are far less privileged. And a High-elf, even an orphan, is far from being an ideal recipient."

"The undeniable fact is, there are humans, dwarves, wood elves, halflings and Orcs who are in far dire need of these stipends. We cannot award you one without robbing the chance of another. There are students who deserve scholarships and merit much more than you," finished the fae. Not before several faces nodded along at her observation.

"So I am not even deserving of any benefits solely on the basis of my race?"

"Your benefit is being born a High-elf," came a flippant retort, mocking in its cold indifference from the Bursar, "your genealogy, known or unknown, has made you different -- better than any other race --hence an advantage, a merit earned by an inherent disposition."

"I was segregated, isolated and discriminated by my own kind for the crime of birth not recorded in the townhall," exclaimed Antilorwe harshly, "Is it merely pride and ego or arrogance which blinded the panel to my plight?"

Several scowls came at her verbal barrage. Most faces soured, but the pale face whom she caught the most glare of all came from the expected -- the High-elf. The Bursar's eyes were snakes flickering in a frozen void, judging her harshly and coldly.

"Do not overstep your bounds, young Lady," came a sing-song voice of the bulky woman in robes but her words, slithering with frosty bite, "Would you truly risk losing the opportunity to pursue your dreams because of misplaced conceit?"

An audible gasp broke Antilorwe's expectations. It took an instant for her to recover her sense of disbelief. The putdowns, the unwillingness to hear out her arguments or take any notice whatsoever and the blatant disregard for her own pleas, made Antilorwe realise that the panel was just a formal mouthpiece for a cabal.

Barely concealed sneer, noticeable frown and sibilant hisses were all Antilorwe could discern. Only Professor Vitalia remained calm and composed as the fae always did in such circumstances.

"Perhaps, Young Antilorwe should be excused for a few years to gain some insightful experience. An internship would help her build assertiveness as she seems to underestimate the limits of her own abilities," said the Fae softly.

Raw betrayal lanced through Antilorwe, cutting off the glimmer of hope, making her feel blindfolded and primal despair laced with bitter resentment shattered her entire being. Seeing Professor Vitalia, one of the few whom she held in deep respect; one of the very few people who ignored the circumstances of her birth would even spearhead something so malicious suffused her with vile disgust. The Fae had pronounced her to a fate -- grim and dark -- wanting her to only wither away. Nothing made sense anymore. Only her grief remained.

"I am being expelled?" Tears welled in her hazel eyes. "Surely, you are not suggesting implementing such an extraordinary action?"

"No young Antilorwe. I merely suggest to place the burden back onto yourself. To enrich a path where your success does not depend on whether a stipend is sanctioned or not," said the Fae Professor with composure.

Antilorwe was neither naive nor gullible. Aware of the abilities of the Fae to twist words and concepts till truth became eclipsed by a tenebrous shadow. Disheartened, she flew out of the door, leaving venom-soaked laughter echoing behind.

While the panel effortlessly spoke about what transpired behind closed doors, Antilorwe wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks and heard the voice. There was no necessity for her to infer the source. Windtalk of Professor Vitalia was an open secret.

"You will never receive a stipend from the panel. Find yourself a firm for an internship. and prove yourself there for a sponsorship."

And her first internship did provide her with invaluable experience -- to not trust people. Behind the smile and mask of gentle demeanour, people were hungry wolves -- they killed their prey by deceit and lies. They plotted behind her back -- holding everything close and hiding everything. And with each encounter, Antilorwe learned to use paranoia and discreetness as impenetrable armour and shield. Never trust. Never reveal everything.

Antilorwe, still naive, accepted the invitation for an evening meal at the post restaurant, a dining location that was far above her means. She was just the lowest in her position. The deal was almost settled and her employer had sent her to dry the ink stains on the parchment. She rushed to do her job with feverish haste. That, she hoped would prevent further scrutiny. Everything should have been wrapped and the deal almost closed; almost.

Antilorwe wanted in nervously with a jaded look in her eyes. Trembling and shaking with anxiety. A lifetime career at stake. She wanted to be on the meritous list of her employer. She needed the positive recommendation from their allied partners. Her only concern was to preserve the cordial relationship. A polite conversation over an evening meal could not hurt her. But the compliments from her host made her feel strangely aware of her own sensuousness. Never been praised for her beauty made waves of blush cascade through her. The high-elf in fine clothes with an air of assured self-confidence, his polished appearance shone -- piercing her already with his undivided attention.

For the inexperienced and simple Antilorwe, he looked like an amorphous picture of a prince in a childish artwork. In the dim light, his handsome smile revealed lovely white teeth, that twinkled with their own light and he smelled, so, so inviting. So when he asked her company for the night, Antilorwe acquiesced. To be serenaded in his lovely company, arms flung around his chest, her chin rested on his soft shoulders, sleeping till midday. Finally, she was one of those maidens in romantic tales.

Antilorwe was fully convinced of her love. Her present self would have scoffed at such a silly notion but then again she was not her present self. Before the day came to an end, she penned her love in letters, her adoration-given words, words that she felt would be appreciated. After all, what could she provide to the High-elf who had everything? She had nothing to her name.

Except, her own love letters were used as a conflict of interest. Their partners leveraged her private correspondence to re-initiate the negotiation process -- with Antilorwe's employer in a precarious position. And Antilorwe found herself without an internship, any place to call her own and naturally without love.

When she finally met Professor Vitalia, the Fae's warning came crashing into reality, coming in the form of an ominous realization of being used as a piece in a board. The Fae refused her any further references.

"Sleeping with your enemies will rarely look good on your prospective profile, Antilorwe."

And Antilorwe, despite all those assimilated experiences, violated the sacred tenets of her position. Why did the clarity fail her? Was it the smouldering amber eyes of the powerful orc that ignited her molten core? Or was the innocence of Cyrene contagious? Where did those purely altruistic feelings stem from? The tall elf was ambushed by self-doubt, unsure of her choice -- love or ambition. Not ambition. Even in the despair-ridden form of her mind, she clung onto enough sense to realise her true motive.

Both indulged her passion -- without any falsity, only genuine affection. Perhaps, their souls did indeed belong to each other. But her heart has its own ebb and flow. Beyond the ironclad voice of her own mind, Urganza and Cyrene, both provided a safe haven for her heart. Both touched her soul. Urganza with her well-toned frame protecting her from the treacherous maw of the vile society and Cyrene with her gentleness, healing what was already damaged, alleviating the pain she felt.

But for Antilorwe, there was no turning back. Only the ravenous maw of a primal beast or the infinite darkness of the abyss awaited her. The dichotomy of Urganza, the vulnerability of Cyrene and their burgeoning relationship gave her few choices. Abandon all. Ignore those rambunctious plans and proceed to garnish the sliver of hope that their uncommon relationship will blossom into something more. But what when everything, her actions, her past, and events before her birth -- whatsoever it might -- catches up to her?

Will her Urganza and her Cyrene still shower their affection? Her Urganza and Her Cyrene. Antilorwe recoiled, the shock from her own thoughts rang an alarm through her.

Perhaps, she still has a card to play. On desperate last gamble where everyone could survive without being hurt, that is, if no external threat comes crashing against her fragile bid.

Far away, nestled comfortably inside her own regal chambers, in the safety of an iron fortress, in a realm where the sunlight failed to taint, slept the girl. Her dark hair -- almost pitch black like the abyss, rivalling that of Antilorwe -- and the shape of her eyes were the only similarities they shared. The complexion of her skin, a stark contrast to Antilorwe's own alabaster tone. With a contingent of her own house guards, an elite force of requisitioned soldiers, and two of the famed warriors of the realm to protect her, and yet her sleep was anything but peaceful. Where Antilorwe was abandoned, she was blessed and despite her powers, there are creatures even she feared in her sleep.