"Those who were destined to die had no right to interfere with the affairs of those fated to live."
A girl cursed to be reborn strikes an unlikely deal with the ambitious heir of Valorieve in order to fulfill her only wish. However, this strictly-b...
The Count of Sitean was a simple man with simple desires. He craved the luxuries of a wealthy life—the servants, the wine, the women. He viewed himself an honest man, while his peers lauded themselves on pretentious righteousness and empty achievements, each a liar worse than the other.
He downed the glass in his grip, the drink sweet and velvety as it ran down his throat. A fine wine to accompany his fine evening.
In a loosely drawn nightrobe, he leaned against the windowsill, watching with disdain the filthy city below him. Behind him, sleeping soundly on the bed, was the young woman that had been his escort for the night.
All of life's pleasures as defined by him had been abundant at his fingertips. There was simply nothing in this world that could ruin his merriment.
A flicker of motion in his peripheral caught his attention. He thought it to be his escort, but before he could turn around, a hand clapped roughly over his mouth. He struggled against brawny arms, his own body clumsy and ungraceful.
"Easy, now. You would not want to wake the lady."
A voice, dark and ominous, warned as a figure emerged from the shadows of the room. The scarce light outlined the stranger's cloak but did nothing to reveal his face, which was shrouded in the shadows of a generous hood.
The Count's gaze flickered in panic toward the door, only to find that a third intruder had stood guard before it, quashing all hopes of an easy escape.
Heedless to the man's words, he attempted a muffled shout.
"Your guards have been momentarily dispatched. You would only do yourself a disservice by shouting, Count Sitean."
He froze. The hooded stranger knew who he was.
How could that be? He had been very careful, very thorough all these years. No one breathing should be aware of his whereabouts.
"Good," the same man hummed. "The sooner you cooperate with us, the sooner this unpleasant ordeal ends."
By some cryptic cue, the hand covering the Count's mouth lifted, and he did not spare a moment to spit out, "Who are you?"
"That is of no concern to you," came the stranger's dismissive response, "and I have no interest in engaging in pointless pleasantries with you, so I shall be direct."
The Count's hands clammed up. He spoke like a nobleman, cleverly masked insults and elegant diction. Who could he be?
Regardless of their identities, whatever those intruders demanded, he was confident he could satisfy. High-born or ruffians, they were all simple men in the end. Their wants and needs were as transparent as his.
"I need you to withdraw your support for Rowonne's faction."
"How presumptuous!" he sputtered. This was not at all the kind of demand he had expected, neither was it something he could simply do. "What makes you think I would agree to such a thing? That I would not report you miscreants to the authorities promptly, as I ought to do?"
"I do not merely think that, Count Sitean. I know," a scoff, and the man stepped forward.
A stack of letters was pulled out of his cloak and slammed distastefully on the table, a half-emptied wine bottle wobbling there, forgotten. The Count recognized the stamp on the otherwise featureless envelopes—two crescents pressed back-to-back, printed in jet.
His secret insignia.
"If you're able to procure any proof that we were ever here, know that I have damning proof of your being here." the stranger shrugged an arm toward the bed and the sleeping woman wrapped in its sheets as he added, "I cannot sincerely say that Countess Sitean would be particularly pleased with this knowledge."
Blanching, the Count tasted acrid wine at the back of his throat. This unknown person before him could only be a devil amongst men. How else could he have acquired all his carefully concealed secrets? Was this retribution for his crimes?
Desperation began to gnaw at him, and he tried to plead with his captors, "Listen, I can give you anything you want—"
"With all due respect, you are in no position to negotiate with us, Count Sitean." the man held out a paper lined with elegant script, taunting, "Would you care to read this curious item?"
Squinting his beady eyes, the Count made out portions of writing that made his heart drop. My dear Cynthia...
He recognized this hand, and it was not that of his son-in-law.
"It seems that infidelity runs in the family," a huff, dripping with such disgust that it made the Count seethe with anger.
"How dare you insult a count!" he hissed. "I care not where from you got your foul hands on this letter, you will leave my daughter out of this!"
"Poor Lord Iriese. Who do you think would receive the brunt of his fury if I were to drop this evidence at his doorstep—the Crown Prince or his adulterous wife?"
No. The Count needed Iriese's funding. Their fickle partnership was only held by his daughter's marriage to their third son. Were this scandal to ever come to light, he would lose the decadent lifestyle he had worked so hard to obtain.
It seemed that he no longer held the upper ground.
"Please..." he begged. "I will do whatever you want. I will give you anything—"
"If I were to be frank, Count Sitean, you repulse me. I've no taste for your offerings," the stranger spat. "I want nothing of you besides the withdrawal of your support. Do you not presume you could meet that?"
"I-I cannot do that—"
"I take it you are fine, then, with the release of these letters?"
"This is blackmail! You will not get away with this!" he argued, but the stranger was unfazed.
"Is that so? I appreciate the warning."
There was no avail in trying to negotiate. The only option left for the Count was to escape their clutches and alert the Crown Prince of tonight's incident. Surely, he would be able to deal with them easily.
He eyed the small table where he had thoughtlessly left his bejeweled dagger, the tip of its handle poking out from under the stack of letters. It was mainly decorative, but it was still a weapon. He could use it to deter them.
"Do you wish to see which is quicker, my blade or your butter knife?"
As though he had read his mind, the stranger's question was a promise of demise. Still, the Count did not falter. They were demanding he betray the Crown Prince, a feat he would never dare. Too much was at stake. He could not succumb.
For the continued fulfillment of his simple desires.
With a gulp, the Count of Sitean steadied his pounding heart and lunged toward the dagger.
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