Antilorwe slumped on her leather-backed chair, burdened by the weight of her own decisions. Fear crept in, hardening her, and pushing her into a shell. She wanted nothing more than to throw into the embrace of Urganza and Cyrene, while waiting for everything to go away. But the guilt was an ever-present companion, breathing down her pale shoulders, the pressure heavier and heavier. Burying her head in her palms, she sobbed again, twisted by the knowledge that redemption was not a virtue easily bestowed upon her.

"Don't despair. Your sacrifices are commendable and necessary." She repeated the mantra but found its potent diluted before the kind affection shown by Cyrene. As much as Antilorwe tried to conceal her emotions, even during those intimate moments, the underlying desire to bare her soul open to the gentle beauty submitting willingly to her tender care was impossible to resist. Cyrene wanted to claim her, wanted to be claimed by her.

The pull of Urganza's devotion, to her and to Cyrene, with the knowledge that she had exploited the integrity of the Orc and that dreadful nature of what she was about to do, twisted through her veins like venom-laced blood. An Orc Overlord should never fear the loss of anything; certainly, not their own heart and Antilorwe could not bare to touch her lips while bidding goodbye -- a situation she knew as unavoidable. Urganza's memory would be a tear fallen to the arid air; withering away -- definitely not! Each of their hearts would cry shattered by a terrible fracture that would never heal. The fire of guilt engulfed every deep recess of her heart, burning and razing, made heavy with the weight of her commitment.

Antilorwe's otherwise gorgeous features paled in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. Daring to cast a glance through the window, she became aware of how late it was. Her trusty maid should have convinced both the lovely creatures to indulge in the feast with some excuse for her absence. The sight of Cyrene with her wide sparkling eyes meeting hers over the silver platter containing an ambrosial feast or the silly and endless possibilities for the two of them to teach a reluctant Urganza to dine formally, she would have relished in them. It was not easy to disregard the sight of Cyrene and Urganza, her two lovers, slowly brushing imaginary lint from each other's arms, indulging in small wistfulness over the mellifluous decorum of her dining hall. It took all her strength not to allow the seeping image to reach her heart.

"There are games where victors are none." Professor Vitalia wore every bit of her dignified expression but the fresh venom still dripped from the lash of her whip tongue when she demurred those sentiments. Antilorwe found the true meaning behind the fae's words as she failed to shake off the lingering trace of guilt amalgamated with her own growing affection. Her eyes darted like trapped swallows hoping to find something miraculous, anything to keep her eyes from falling on Silvaniel's correspondence left wide open on her table.

How Antilorwe despised every instant alone. The loneliness buried itself deep within her chest, filling every hollow crevice with bitter remorse and she had not been strong enough to join the lovely Mage and the gorgeous orc, instead she pushed them away with resistance and more remorse filling. Failing to her own compunction, she let her gaze flow through the parchment before her.

"Seeking answers was the first mistake." She admonished herself again. No! She should not have shared the circumstances of her birth with the fae or encouraged the latter's interest in assaying a pattern to her puzzling heritage. Certainly, she could not infer at that time that the fleetingly transient interest of the fae's investigations would even reveal anything worthwhile. Yet, perhaps it was the wind attribute of the fae, that gave her an enhanced associated nature of a scent-hound -- to seek even the faintest of trails.

"You were not alone, but you were the only one to survive. A series of baffling coincidences, high-elven babies with untraceable heritage abandoned." A fact not so startling to Antilorwe. She had seen beyond the veil of perfection that the High-elven society had woven around itself. Pierced enough to see the darkness and the putrid excrescency festering deep inside. Children born out of wedlock and abandoned -- a tale as old as time itself and even the pristine High-elves are not immune. She thanked Professor Vitalia for her efforts. But the fae possessed a strong will supporting her volition, especially when she was relentless to submit her findings.

"There is another thread binding all. The High-Alchemist Vangere's personal interest in attempting to save their lives -- and failing." Antilorwe should have considered it the goodwill of an old fool. A recluse alchemist leaving the comfort of his own study to cure an unknown illness plaguing abandoned newborns, a tale designed to inspire vibrant springs flooding the arid of hearts. Except Antilorwe harboured enough cynicism not to subscribe to such an altruistic school of gullibility. To place her beliefs in the whims of an eccentric man was not the sort of foolish contemplation that would roam behind Professor Vitalia's character. Without any option, Antilorwe had to admit to the underlying harrowing end; Vangere was all but unreachable. His whereabouts are unknown, even to his famed protege.

"Jurist Councilwoman Antilorwe, this should add credibility to my words." The title with which Zelaphiel addressed her was alarming and even more perplexing was the journal thrust in her direction. Someone wielding powers wide enough to redefine laws would not seek her out for her expertise. A fact only confounded by the findings in the journal. Or rather, what was not found in its scribbling. A series of messy notes, probably ciphered but to her could have been dust motes in a sandstorm. Except, for the veracity that it brought to the words of the Paladin Champion.

Found it while liberating the curseforged city, he claimed. In the famed Octant Laboratory of Vangere. Despite the claims of Zelaphiel, there were no extant records gleaned from the contents of Vangere's journal. Even if Vangere somehow did preserve the secrets of his research, the High-Alchemist would ensure their survival and eventual deciphering at the hands of consummate and capable. Zelaphiel came with the promise of the finest High-Elven mages, a cadre of trained paladin, veteran mounted Grypon riders and the infinite resources of his order in exchange for her part.

"Your destiny might be more than what you have perceived so far." Antilorwe stifled a scoff, politely refusing to engage the paladin's ardent words. A princess stolen at birth. A child of prophecy. An unjustly murdered parents to be avenged. Those are whimsical fantasies for a childish mind that Antilorwe had long abandoned along with her childhood. Her destiny is what she defines -- and she alone defines.

"Would you not see justice done to those newborns and those who are yet to be born?" The Grand Paladin Champion promised Antilorwe many things. Of wealth and power, of honour and glory, of morality and responsibility but Antilorwe could not be moved by such vague and intangible concepts. She knew genocide can be carried under the mantle of patriotism and pogroms can be facilitated, even glorified, with the label of religious liberation. Lord Ellandor might have had his natural charisma boosted by his caelisidae heritage but Antilorwe prudently exercised caution in believing his words. With all her tenacity, she firmly refused to budge.

"A great benefit for a small task. Convince Sarenthill council to join the war effort, force Rylonvirah to defend High-Crag Hold." An offer that was wholly inclined to her benefit, no matter how hard Antilorwe dissected it with her professional abilities. No personal loss, nor will the council of Sarenthill be depleted of resources by sentencing The Aberrant Irregulars. Rylonvirah could only be termed a casual acquaintance at best. The dark elf would not hold onto a sinking ship. With no personal incentive to defend High-Crag Pass, the dark elf would retreat, minimizing her losses. The only bruise at the end would be a noticeable dent in her reputation.

Agreeing to Zelaphiel's terms would provide her with much-needed closure. Not so much as a revelation of her past, but one born of wistful thinking; on the poor prospect that perhaps some of the abandoned newborns did survive. Mayhaps, she did have some siblings trying to eke out a living by honest labour -- in the best scenario she could envision, and in not-so-honourable ways, if she were to rely on realism to guide her view. Her brothers or her sisters would have been dealt with far worse cards, living at the fringes of society, with no hope of deliverance. Conceivably, it falls upon her to provide for and shelter her less fortunate siblings. Haughty to imagine that the High-elven society would have provided them with nurturing opportunities. Seeing their own bureaucracy becoming an ouroboros -- feeding on itself, she did not deludedly place her faith in the offers of the Grand Paladin Champion.

The Grand Paladin Champion had pledged his assistance, his protection and many more in exchange for Rylonvirah. But it was not his enticing offer with no risks to herself that convinced her to act. Her very own ploy into the scheme of Zelaphiel and Arch Duke Lothmar, she placed her faith in. Zelaphiel could think that his passionate words inspired courage in her or his generous offer too tempting for her to resist -- she would carry on the farce. Vangere's journal is in her possession, and its contents bare and simple for one who could decipher and interpret it -- Vangere's infamous and troubled prodigious protege.

Despite the moonlight adding to the opulence of her chambers, Antilorwe felt the shadows fall -- her own shadows -- and grew heavier with every thought, with every memory. She had devised a supposedly clandestine plan with no collateral involved for any of the parties. Perhaps, with the exception of a reputation tarnish for Rylonvirah, but the dark-elf was already infamous. The abandoning of High-Crag Hold would be a dust mote to a sun compared to her exile.

Convincing the Sarenthil council to join the alliance forged, deluding Zelaphiel into believing that he bought her allegiance, and the most difficult part, hoodwinking Rylonvirah into ascertaining that she controlled the negotiation -- that she manipulated her during the talks. The exiled dark-elf Matron had few allies to call upon. Professor Vitalia more concerned with the safety of the half-elven rustic girl could not be forced into accepting any tasks, nor the obdurate nature of the fae will allow her to be cornered into performing any assignments for the dark elf. Lady Wysteria is all but a prisoner of her own castle. Nudge Rylonvirah carefully, corner her to nominate Vangere's protege to coordinate the proceedings on her part. Perhaps, tightening the war budget would be the ideal way to ensure that Vangere's protege would be forced to work with her.

Antilorwe still thought, that no risks followed any of the parties. And then, Urganza strode in. The Orc was clad not in richness or finery but behind her freedom followed. Her steps were unshackled by crushing decorum. At first, Antilorwe was baffled by Urganza's appearance. Draped in clothes, too rustic to even guarantee her a place in the war council. Yet, she commanded respect -- not with contorted words or by burning her coffers, but through her very presence, through her candour and honest words. Her words were simple, direct and without any hidden cues. It dawned on Antilorwe just what kind of liberty Urganza breathed. One moment, she shuddered from pure awe and the next from sheer desire. For a wistfully fleeting moment, she wished for Urganza to reach out, welcoming her with a warm embrace and closing around her with her sinewy biceps, shielding her from all that tribulations.

When Rylonvirah mentioned of the orc's residual interest in Vangere's protege, Antilorwe was fully assured of the logical success of her plan. Everyone involved walks away happy, and satisfied. Urganza would get to taste the sultry elf-maiden and the mage. She would glean the knowledge from Vangere's journal and the mage, would get to relish in inhibitionless carnal act with the Orc High-Lady and the Elf-maiden, probably at the same time, in exchange for the service rendered. That is where her plot ran afoul. Where she expected a lecherous man, vulnerable to the temptation of the flesh, instead Cyrene appeared.

Cyrene’s words, true and unbridled, staggered Antilorwe. Not just her declaration of love -- spoken freely twice -- but the effect of those magical words, seamlessly mirroring emotions that she hid in her own heart and the weight of her own decisions twisting under it like a serrated blade. And then Waerondil sudden involvement only confounded her ordeals. His very confidential communication to her employer on his growing mistrust for Zelaphiel's clandestine trail of money made her wearier of the Grand Paladin Champion's motives -- and her own involvement in his schemes. Finally, there is Silvaniel's private correspondence with her which shattered her beyond measure.

Antilorwe reasoned that Rylonvirah should have seen High-Crag hold in all its imperfection. Realised her own impotency against the armies that encircled it. With no potential ties to hold her, she should have abandoned and fled with her mercenaries. Silvaniel's letter made it evident that the exiled dark-elf intends to defend the hold at all cost -- she would fail. Even the combined forces of High-elves and Humans stationed at Fort Halcyon, though, would succeed at checking the army of the One-horned warlord -- Silvaniel, Leyandur and Waerondil unanimously agreed -- that the remnant forces would disperse into the Orc Lands and the Orc themselves, caught in a pincer attack between the shambling undead on one side and the warlord's remaining forces on the other. Only sheer decimation awaited the Orcs and Urganza, as their Overlord, even under miraculous situations, will not survive. No amount of resistance can impede the tide. That much Silvaniel had written her with absolute certainty.

High-Crag Hold should not fall. Rylonvirah must rise against the surging flow of the horde, and Antilorwe has a new incentive to make it happen, to ensure the survival of High-Crag Hold, should she save Urganza. Yet, she found herself entrenched deep in a pit dug with her own machinations. The yet-to-be spilled blood of Urganza stained her hands. Urganza, whose intense sincerity erupts with every word -- her infectious candour, as sharp as the edge of her blade. Antilorwe found herself undone by Urganza's simplicity, her quiet candidness, as fresh, and inviting as a gentle cool breeze on a summer -- all accentuated even more by the presence of Cyrene -- so delicate and wonderful that Antilorwe was tempted to abandon her decorum and station, just to be in both their arms. And yet, Urganza is recklessly and with all the obliviousness of her race, marching towards her certain death.

A small knock, too gentle and delicate to be from her maid, started Antilorwe back to the grim confines of her chambers. Cyrene stood there, softly smiling, saying nothing, simply waiting. Antilorwe had no words left.

"You know I cannot...." Antilorwe murmured, finally gathering enough strength to conjure a word. "I cannot entertain you now, Sugarplum."

"Your eyes are swollen and red," Cyrene took a brief pause, staring intently at Antilorwe. "from crying. I cannot enjoy a lavish feast when my beloved anguishes alone."

Antilorwe wished Cyrene would just stop. She had called her, her beloved. So easily. Could she not know, how her affectionate words twisted the blade under her heart?

Leaving the door ajar and without waiting for an invitation, Cyrene sauntered forwards, towards Antilorwe. Her warm hands slowly pushed the failing locks of hair from the Elf-Maiden's exquisite features. The soft caress of the girl's hand drifted towards the smooth jawline, tracing a gentle line, from her chin towards her ears. Sheer bliss flowed from those touches.

Antilorwe, donning her mask of congeniality, tried to convince Cyrene. "Sugarplum, it would really ease my heart, if you would enjoy my hospitality as my guest."

"And it would ease my heart to save your tear drops as your lover." Cyrene stepped closer, warm breath tickling the softest potion of Antilorwe's lips.

Allowing her face, to flush with those adorably tender words, Antilorwe closed her eyes. Stretching her body further, she allowed Cyrene's thighs to settle on either side of her body. Aided by that position, Cyrene sank lower, kissing deeper. Wrapping her fingers in the silky strands of Antilorwe's hair, she pushed the Elf-Maiden closer, pressing her soft breast against those voluptuous curves. Her lips lingered along Antilorwe's sensual softness, feathering kisses down her chin. Cyrene nibbled gently, brushing with tender caresses. Tracing a trail on her shimmering cheekbones, Cyrene brushed the tears that threatened to engulf her Antilorwe.

Both their chest heaved together. Leaning further, tantalized by the sweetness of Cyrene's touch, Antilorwe closed her fingers into Cyrene's hair, drawing the enchanting face closer, seeking out deeper. She placed one soft kiss, before coaxing another from those lips. Warm honey mingled with woodsmoke. Passion clouded their eyes, filled their cheeks. They drank each other in, craving, wanting more. Pulsating hips responded instantly. Both Antilorwe and Cyrene stifled moans together.

Suddenly, in a narrow fleeting instant, they were falling backwards -- all but crashed together, pressed tight against each other still. Yet, neither could bear parting. Neither was willing to lose the comfort. They desperately clung to each other, unwilling to relinquish the closeness. A slow teasing glance exchanged between them -- visible acknowledgement glittered in Cyrene's emerald eyes. Those encouraging glances cemented Antilorwe's resolve. Her arms tightly wrapped around the girl, they wanted to give in to the craving -- their physical need, their lips, their tongue, in an all-consuming searing kiss.

Cyrene's eyes widened as she heard a heavy thud of footsteps, slowly followed by the hulking form of Urganza staring wide-eyed through the open door. Even more surprised was Cyrene when she felt the tight embrace of Antilorwe loosen to extend her dainty hands.

With the waggling of her slender finger, Antilorwe languidly beckoned Urganza. Then, she mouthed silently, "Just us," as she stroked Cyrene's inner thigh with her other hand.

Before the shock of Antilorwe's words could subside, Cyrene felt the callous palms of Urganza reaching out to caress Antilorwe behind her ears, while the lips of the warrioress pressed ever so lightly against the nape of her own neck.