Chapter 203: A Friendly Dinner Chat

Stryg arrived at his home in the Scholar District near sunset. His training session with Cornelius Rotrusk had lasted longer than expected. On the bright side, he had been able to practice his green magic. His flora and stone spells were advancing steadily, but it was still too slow for his liking.

The first thing he did when he got home was to head over to the stables and check on Rhian. To his mild surprise, she was asleep; taking a “beauty nap” or so the stablehand Gwen had said.

Stryg walked quietly over to Rhian’s bed and wrapped her silk blanket over her. She stirred and mumbled something about a siren, before going back to sleep. Stryg sat next to her for a few minutes, he stroked her dark hair, and simply enjoyed the unpolished silence.

“Goodnight, Rhiannon,” he whispered.

Stryg stood up and left the stables, careful to not make any loud noise. He thanked Gwen for caring for Rhian, then headed over to his apartment.

He could smell the potato beef stew before he even opened the door. Stryg stepped inside the apartment and took a deep breath.

This smells nice, he thought. Strange, but nice.

“Feli?” he called out.

“In here,” she said.

Stryg walked over to the kitchen and found Feli sitting at the dinner table. Several open books, dozens of papers, and a couple of ink bottles were strewn about the table.

Feli looked up from her work, brushed her purple hair aside, and smiled, “Hey, you. How was your day?”

Stryg recalled his loss to the new girl at the race track. “Uneventful.”

He glanced over at the stew pot hanging over the brick stove. “Did you buy the stew?”

Feli twisted her lips in a mock scowl, “What makes you think I didn’t cook it myself?”

“I don’t smell any of your usual herbs in the air.”

She sighed dramatically, “Fine, you caught me. I was hoping to pass it off as my own and impress you with my new and improved cooking skills.”

He blinked, “But I already like your cooking.”

“Stryg, you like everyone’s cooking. So long as it isn’t spicy you’ll eat anything. Your culinary opinion isn’t - how should I say? - accurate.”

Stryg served himself a bowl of soup and sat across from his wife. “Back when I was growing up we rarely ate this well.”

“How is it?” she asked.

He ate a spoonful and savored the aftertaste, “I like it.”

“And?”

“...I like it?”

“Ugh, whatever. One of Lady Maeve Mora’s couriers brought it over. The stew was made by her personal chef. She also sent a letter along with the food. Something about not wanting me to go hungry since I’ve been so busy organizing the new shipments from Frost Rim.”

“Huh, that’s nice of her.”

Feli rolled her eyes, “Yeah, the vampiress sleeping with my husband is a swell gal.”

He suspected there was an insult hidden somewhere in her tone, but he couldn’t find where.

Feli glanced at her ledger and groaned, “Lady Mora is a talented businesswoman, I’ll give her that. I don’t know how she manages to keep track of everything. I’ve learned a lot from her these past few months.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along.”

“Don’t push it.”

“...Right,” he smiled wryly. “By the way, I really appreciate you taking the time out to read to Rhian every night, I know I haven't been able to these last few weeks.”

“Someone had to. Rhian would have flipped out if she didn’t find out what happened to the prince and his beloved siren,” Feli laughed. “Honestly, I’m happy to spend time with Rhian. Her books are also a nice reprieve from all the numbers I have to read all day. She really does love those dramatic fairy tales.”

Stryg smiled fondly, “Yeah, especially the ones with a lot of action. Who knows, someday they might write a story about her, Rhiannon of Ebon Hollow.”

Feli chuckled, “Yeah, I can see it now. Rhiannon the brave, slayer of Dusk Valley’s savages, and loyal companion to her rider…? Hm, what would they call you? Stryg the Ferocious? The rider who bites?”

The rider who failed to save his best friend, he thought.

“Stryg?” Feli whispered. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine. Never better.”

Feli stared at him, worried. She reached out and grabbed his hand. “I know these last few months have been hard. And I know you’ve thrown all your time and energy into your training. I understand not wanting to think about what happened and I’ll give you all the space you need. But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

Stryg nibbled her hand playfully and forced himself to smile, “I’m fine, really.”

Feli shook her head, “I guess I should be getting used to this.”

“What do you mean?”

Feli glanced pointedly at the second bedroom door, “You’re not the only one who pretends to be fine.”

Stryg furrowed his brow, “She hasn’t eaten?”

“More like she refuses to.”

“Since when?”

“Since the last time you came home early.”

“That was a week ago,” he frowned.

“Exactly.”

“Lysaila!” he called out.

The bedroom door creaked open, an indigo eye peeked out. The snake-like pupil glanced about until it settled on Stryg.

“...Is there something you need?” asked Lysaila coldly.

“Not exactly,” Stryg said.

“Then let me die in peace.” She slammed the door shut.

I don’t have the energy for this, Stryg thought, annoyed. “Sit down and eat with us.”

The command echoed across the door and reverberated in the lamia’s very being. She gritted her teeth and tried to resist, but she was helpless. Her body and mind moved on their own.

Lysaila found herself slithering across the apartment. She grabbed a bowl of stew and sat next to her wretched master and the human.

“Does this make you happy, master?” Lysaila spat the title as if it was venom on her tongue. “To see me forced to do your bidding?”

Stryg sighed, “I’m not your master.”

“I am literally magically compelled to obey your every command,” Lysaila scowled. “You won’t let me leave, nor will you even let me die. If I am not a slave then what am I?”

“A prisoner of Hollow Shade,” Stryg said. “And for some reason, Lord Noir has chosen me to be your warden.”

“We both know what that reason is, you Mortem filth,” she hissed.

“I told you, I don’t know anything about that!” Stryg yelled. “Maybe it’s true, maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. All I know is that there is some kind of arcane bond between us, and I don’t know how deep its effects run, or how it will affect us. Which is why I won’t let you die, even if you want to.”

“How generous of you,” Lysaila glared at him.

“I’m not generous. If I was, I would have helped you escape this city. Not that there would be anywhere for you to go. You betrayed your Cairn tribe. No tribe worth their salt would take in a traitor.”

“You made me betray them!” Lysaila roared. “I had no choice but to kill them to protect you!”

Feli jumped out of her chair, afraid of what the deadly lamia might do.

Stryg stood up and walked over to Lysaila. She backed away as he neared.

“Just the same,” Stryg whispered. “You betrayed the Cairn. You have no place left in Dusk Valley but here.”

Lysaila trembled, anger and fear raging inside her, “...For how long?”

“What?” Stryg asked.

“How long will I be here until Lord Noir or some other high-up decides I’m no longer valuable?” Lysaila asked. “I haven’t given them any information since I’ve arrived. I don’t think Lord Noir is the kind of person who would keep around a useless prisoner.”

Stryg shook his head, “No one’s going to execute you if that’s what you mean.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I made sure of it, Lord Noir gave me his word. As I said, I don’t know the full effects of our bond. I’d be an idiot to let them feed you to the wall’s shades. It’s also why no one has taken you away for torture. No one will be able to force information out of you.”

“That’s not exactly true, is it?” she muttered. “If you wanted to know anything about me, all you would need to do is ask. I’d be compelled to answer.”

Stryg looked away, “...I’m already busy enough making you eat and ordering you not to kill anyone here. Your mind and its secrets are your own.”

Lysaila laughed bitterly, “Say what you want but I can’t even go to sleep without making sure you’re safe in bed. Do you have any idea what that’s like? For your own mind to be overridden by an overwhelming compulsion to protect your enemy?”

She stared at her trembling hands, “You act like you somehow care about my well-being, but the truth is Lysaila of the Amber Realm died last winter the moment she met you. You killed her. The person in front of you is just a husk, a shadow of the woman who was proud to be a lamia. Every day I feel a piece of myself slowly slip away, my anger turning into devotion for a being I know I despise. Soon, I will be reduced to a mere weapon, unable to escape the dictations of her sovereign. And it will all be because of you. You, Stryg of Ebon Hollow, will kill the last remnants of who I am as an individual.”

He swallowed, “You don’t know that. And I’m not here to dictate your life.”

“Yet, you force me to eat.”

“You’d starve otherwise.”

“My death should be my choice, not yours.”

“Not if you’re this city’s prisoner.”

Lysaila smiled ruefully, “I wonder how long you will tell yourself that lie? How long before you choose to use your abilities? That purple true mage friend of yours uses his magic to control his pets and no one cares, in fact, they applaud him for his abilities. After all, that’s what a mage does. They use their powers to exert their will on the world, no matter the costs. Beast-kin have always been on the receiving end, we didn’t ask to be born, to be made weapons for your battles.”

“I didn’t create your kind,” Stryg frowned.

“But your kind created mine. I’ve walked the streets of Hollow Shade, I’ve seen how beast-kin are treated, at worst we’re treated like cattle, at best we’re treated as pets. Let me make it clear now, before I lose my sense of self, I want you to know, I hate all of you. From the youngest baby born in the slums of the Commoner District to the eldest aristocrat sleeping comfortably in his mansion. I wish you’d all be fed to shades of the wall you all so admire.”

Stryg narrowed his eyes, “...Are you done?”

Lysaila sighed deeply, the rage of her body slipping away, “I know my time is short. My ancestors have passed down stories of how the prime edict spells take their course. One day, whatever is left of my existence will devote its entire life to you. What will you do then? What will you say to the broken person I’ve become? Will you reject my existence or use it for the purpose the Mortem created me for?”

“I...I don’t know,” Stryg mumbled.

Lysaila leaned towards him, “Death is my only escape from that cursed fate. So, please. Let. Me. Die.”

Stryg turned away, “I don’t know what might happen if you die, how our bond might physically or mentally affect me… I cannot give you what you want.”

“So you’d damn me instead?” Lysaila snarled.

Stryg spun around, his lilac eyes cold, “Would I let an enemy be damned to protect myself and my tribe? In a heartbeat, without a second thought.”

Lysaila hissed, “You…”

Feli cleared her throat, “So, um, who wants wine?”