Arisa regretted not setting her tavern alight.

It would have made a finer image. A tiny, flaming beacon of the kingdom’s pettiness. One of many slights made against her name, separating her from the nobility to which she was raised. 

In truth, she simply wished to do away with the floorboards. 

They were, quite honestly, the more gruesome things which had never been allowed to see daylight. The debauchery behind closed doors. The weeping of the worst bards charity could summon. The vomit of an entire kingdom. 

The Rosehearth Tavern had seen and suffered it all. And Arisa along with it.

She preferred her new abode.

True, her bedroom chamber was hardly more than the tavern room she’d left behind. A single chandelier making up the most expensive feature would have seen her laughed out of every conversation. But there was little use for a facade if the smallest effort wasn’t upheld to maintain it.

There would be a time for sweeping processions and trumpets blaring from hillsides. 

Not now. And likely not for a long time.

But time was what she had.

Arisa was young. And although youth was the folly of noblewomen and peasant girls alike, she opted to use the time for more productive things than joining the melee of scheming nobility at court.

Painting, for example.

“Hmm hm hmm~”

Arisa hummed idly to herself as she sat, musing over the portrait of the 3rd Princess’s face with a fine brush in hand. It wasn’t her best work by any means. But even her disappointments were splendid in comparison to others. 

She’d dabbled in art since the day she could messily flick paint using a spoon. And the results were obvious. Excellent composition, highlighting the 3rd Princess’s regal expression amidst vivid colours and graceful shadows.

Still, it could be better. 

A sharpening of the smile. A slight curl at the end of an eyelash. A softer tint upon a nail.

But not a new nose. 

That was now immaculate. The finest she’d ever painted. And it’d replaced a very prominent hole.

Arisa regretted throwing the knife at it.

She’d had to painstakingly repair the canvas. A process which would have demanded a full day were it any other hand. But when it came to fixing holes mysteriously appearing upon her recreations of the 3rd Princess, she was confident few were more skilled or experienced.

An excellent thing, as well.

Because she needed every morsel of her expertise to ignore the sound of enterprising coming from beyond her chamber door.

It was highly distracting. 

The shifting of goods stolen and smuggled. The cracking of backs breaking beneath the whips of slightly better paid taskmasters. The whirring of plotting like the cogs of a machine.

Were the nobility of Reitzlake present, they’d readily laud her while planning her accidental death via a knife to her stomach.

There was, after all, a long line of nobility seeking to overthrow the kingdom, and few things disrupted the queue quite like adding to it.

Sadly for her peers, few of them could see past their own shoes. 

If they could, they may very well see the knife Arisa already held.

Knock. Knock. 

Metaphorically. And now very much literally, as her hand went to the blade tucked beneath her dress.

Arisa frowned.

Nobody knocked on her door.

After all, guests did not know where she was. 

This was her safehold. And that necessitated a minimal level of privacy. Anyone who wished to knock on her door would be heralded by the hoarse panting of her guards first. 

And this meant a visitor who’d opted to do away with reception had arrived.

“You may enter,” she said, placing down her brush, but not endeavouring to stand.

The door to her chamber swung open, revealing a figure bowing in its place. 

Arisa gave a hum of curiosity.

An entirely unknown individual. And yet she recognised the manner of that bow at once. The sweeping, ridiculous motion racked with a failed actor’s gait. The attire, colourful and as dense as a boulder. The curls of hair more immaculately groomed than any lady’s at court. 

And this man had certainly met a few. For this was assuredly a lord of the realm. 

“My greetings this fair evening,” said the man, only raising himself after holding his bow for as many seconds as he would offer to royalty. “My apologies for disturbing you at this late hour, and to do so unannounced. By any chance, may I bother you for a moment of  your time?”

He offered a smile chiselled to perfection.

Arisa opted not to return it.

“You may, if you bother me with your name first.”

“Oliver Lepre. I dare say you may have heard of me.” 

“I have not. Although I’ve heard of your accent. A lord … a lesser lord of Reitzlake, perhaps?” 

The man nodded courteously, with not a hint of indignation.

“Well perceived, my lady. House Lepre is as insignificant to the world of nobility as a fleeing mouse is to a herd of stallions. And so I offer my gratitude for the opportunity to intrude upon your time.” 

“You’ve little to thank me for. My time is already promised … although not to you.” 

Arisa noted the man’s dress and confidence. 

Frankly, everything about him was boisterous and annoying. And yet she preferred it greatly to what she expected in his place.

“And where is that lovely girl? It’s not like her to miss an opportunity to intrude.”

“If you refer to the Lady Dealer, I regret to say she’s currently occupied with a separate task demanding her attention. She extends her deepest apologies.”

Arisa kept her surprise in check. 

Now this was something. As far as she was aware, that scandalously dressed girl was everywhere. Especially where she wasn't wanted. 

“Quite the demanding task. Does she not know a kingdom has begun to fall?”

“A kingdom is always falling, my lady. This is a cruel world we inhabit. Each day which passes, a tyrant rises, a hero falls, a king crowns an heir and an heir murders a king. That is no insult to you, of course. To join such a grand stage is a great thing.”

Arisa rolled her eyes. 

Each moment this man spoke, she was reminded how right she was to avoid the royal capital altogether.

“A shame. I would have enjoyed speaking with her. Her cryptic poetry was always a delight to muse over.”

“To that I agree. Many nights I wonder whether her threats to have my head ruthlessly snapped from my neck is merely poetry or song. I’ve yet to decide.” 

“A harsh employer. Then I shall make this easier on you. How may I assist, Lord Oliver? If there’s something I may offer, I shall attempt to do so. Do know, however, that I’m currently extensively busy.”

“So I see. A splendid portrait you have before you. A beautiful maiden, if I dare say so. Her features are lovely. Her nose, especially.”

Arisa raised a brow, noting how Lord Oliver’s smile changed hue as he looked towards the canvas.

“Would you happen to recognise this girl?” she asked, watching him carefully.

“I’m afraid I’ve no recognition of any girl wearing such a pleasant smile. The ones I know wear smiles far more terrifying, striking a fear as deep into the heart as a spring breeze through a wall.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean–through a window.”

Arisa blinked in confusion.

Then, she waved away this man’s words imbued with meaningless theatre. He and the Dealer were alike in that regard. And that meant she needed to issue constant reminders about pertinence.

“Thank you for your appraisal. But you’ve yet to answer my query. How may I help you?”

The minor lord of Reitzlake offered a small nod of his head.

Then, he slowly approached, allowing time for him to be dismissed with every step. He wasn’t, and so he produced an envelope in a hand which had previously been empty. A cute trick. 

Arisa glanced at the seal. She knew the sender at once.

General Gregor Visser, commander of the Rensdraldt Fortress. And one of many utterly infatuated with her. Useful, but only when that distinctly one-sided admiration was kept private.

“The general has his own couriers,” she simply said.

“They too are indisposed at present.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Lord Oliver, there are more subtle ways to inform me that Lotus House is aware of my private correspondence.”

“Subtlety is a weapon we employ often. But sometimes, it is better to use a rock to mark a message in the sand than a sword.”

Arisa smiled, still without offering her palm.

“Thank you. He shall have my return letter in due course.” 

The lord nodded. The envelope withdrew, gone from his palms with the skill of a mage extinguishing a flame.

“Excellent. I believe he’s most anxious, as most smitten men are. Should I bring a reply in the interim?”

“Silence is enough. We do enjoy playing coy.” 

“Quite so, my lady. And how we suffer for it.” 

“You at your Lady Dealer’s behest, I see. Have you truly come as a mere errand runner?”

“I have. Although as one who has also fallen foul of this kingdom’s laws concerning nobility committing treason, I’ll admit that I wished to admire your ambition in the flesh. I believe I can now look forward to seeing how you control the coming waves.”

Arisa kept herself from rolling her eyes. 

There would be no controlling the waves. Just as there was no controlling the seas.

She was expected to do her part to further the wishes of this house of rogues, before being swept aside by greater forces, as discarded and forgotten as all of their many pieces on the board. But she would be more than that.

Arisa would be a lighthouse amidst the storm.

And even Lotus House would be drawn towards her.

“Thank you, Lord Oliver. The general will have my reply soon.”

“Then I shall leave the matter in your hands, Baroness Arisa.”

The lord bowed before turning. He wore his smile as he departed. And Arisa knew he continued to wear it even after the door behind him closed. Still, she listened out, hearing no footsteps on the other side. 

Silent as a rat. Except for his warnings. 

Poor him and all the others that did not know she was playing a different game.

Granholtz. Tirea. Lotus House. The nobility. The criminal syndicates. The shoe cobblers. They all had their own rules and whatever they used as weighted die in their favour. Each so intent on Arisa fulfilling the role they wished of her. 

They would all be disappointed.

Returning to the portrait, Arisa performed the finishing touches on the 3rd Princess, until what remained was the depiction of a girl whose beauty was only beaten by her own.

Dark hair, long and sweeping. Elegant eyelashes. Youthful cheeks and lips twisted into a gentle smile. 

A perfect image dredged from a memory she could not forget.

Snap.

So perfect, in fact, that her hand crushed the paintbrush she was holding. 

She winced as the flecks of paint splattered across her floor, before reminding herself it was all temporary regardless.

All of this was. And so returned her smile.

Arisa picked up the portrait, studying it at arm’s length like a curator deciding which fire she’d toss it in. 

In the end, she’d do no such thing.

She needed it for when she wanted to repaint the expression. But first, she needed a reference. A suitable look of horror. And now Arisa had all she required to encourage it. 

Arisa never did understand her fellow nobility. She understood less those like Lady Lucina Tolent.

Fools whose eyes were blinded by the sight of their own crowns, as though gold on its own held any worth. That woman especially–she thought that building a mountain large enough to suffocate her enemies could work. To buy the loyalty of every pauper, soldier, thief and nobleman in the kingdom, only to be brought down by a passing adventurer like a complete idiot.

Arisa wouldn’t be like that.

She didn’t see what all the effort was for. The decades of scheming in Reitzlake’s sewers and Trierport’s wharf for each crown rolling beneath the gutters.

There was no need to buy everyone. Just one.

After all–

It was always said that an S-rank could bring down a kingdom. 

And a few years ago, it had proven true. 

Even now, the Kingdom of Weinstadt lay in ruins, the Royal House of Carx broken, its king and its princes lost, with only civil war rising from the ashes. The Dune King hovered like a golden vulture, ready to devour the last of the carrion, while the Grand Duchess watched and waited. And all which remained of a once proud nation was ruin and rubble.

S-ranks.

The most powerful of warriors. The most gifted of mages. The most blessed of healers. 

They would cow the kingdom’s A-ranks with a glance. Even if Ophelia the Snow Dancer, Thomas Lainsfont and Liliane Harten were to band together, they would still all be defeated.

But S-rank or not, even the strongest needed to eat.

They still needed crowns.

One day, Arisa had asked a simple question.

If so … how much?

The answer, as it turned out, was quite reasonable.