The Sign from the West

[Alysia]

In the Fortress Rhilshen, the demon mage Dar-Karow set aside his guitar and regarded the golden-haired woman who lounged supine in the sun upon a divan. Her eyes were closed in appreciation and she seemed entranced, utterly bemused by the warm notes that lingered in the air.

“That was so sad,” the woman breathed. She opened her eyes and looked up at the window, smiling wistfully at her ghost-reflection in the glass pane. “But it was wonderful. I could have listened to that for hours and hours.”

In response, he smiled, showing a hint of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, deepening the parenthetical lines around his mouth. He sounded wry, self-deprecating. “Oh? My songs never used to be quite that captivating.”

“Nonsense. I’ve always adored you.” The woman, Alazais, sat up and stretched languidly. “Perhaps captivity enhanced my appreciation for your art. Eases the wounded heart, soothes the savage beast and all that. Besides, you have scant cause to complain.”

“True,” agreed Karow, tersely. He ran a hand over his shaved head and offered the woman a mocking smile. “I am but an amateur, and my tunes will never compare with those who have made bloodsong the study of their life. Thus, the Emperialle honors me with her praise.”

“So formal with me now?” asked the woman as she stood and walked toward him with a lazy, feline stride. She rested her hands on the mage’s shoulders, bent to brush her lips upon his face. “What troubles my Dar-Karow?”

[Alysia]

“It will spoil the mood,” temporized the dazzled mage. His skin burned where she had kissed him, and he looked down, aware of her nearness.

“I would rather not say.”

“Tell me.” Her voice harshened and her dreamy lassitude vanished, replaced by a flash of anger. Her fingertips tightened on his shoulders, digging talons through his shirt into his flesh. “It already has spoiled the mood.”

“So it has,” the mage muttered. “Very well. If you must know, Alazais, the family has gathered to dine tonight in the Great Hall and asked that I convey their request that you join them.”

Alazais grimaced and looked away, sheltering her expression behind a fringe of golden hair. “Their request. . .” she hissed. “As if I am a servant beholden to them, a puppet, damned to dance for them upon command.”

Dar-Karow countered, “What is a leader, but a servant of her people?” He gently disengaged her hands from his shoulders and stood, guiding her toward back toward the west-facing window.

“They are not my people.” Alazais sounded petulant now. Her eyes, smoldering crimson, studied the courtyard below.

“They are. They will be. You share your predecessor’s blood with them - they are your kin. On your behalf, they oversee this realm you wish to rule. And they will learn the truth soon, Alazais, whether you wish it or not: you are not Alysia.”