𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐈 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒. otto hightower

DOIS.

97 AC.

There are countless ways to perish.

The oldest pain is the most insidious, a slow, unrelenting poison that seeps into the soul, paralyzing even the strongest of wills. Memory is often the longest of such pains, a specter that haunts the waking hours, while blood—the primal bond that ties one generation to the next—is the second. Most forget that the oldest stories are written in blood, but not the rogue twins. They carry the curse of their bloodline like a brand, etched deep into their very being, a reminder that their lineage is both a gift and a curse, a legacy that neither can escape.

✶

Naerisa and Daemon share the dim, intimate space of her chambers, the heavy scent of lavender incense hanging in the air like a shroud. Their laughter is soft, almost secretive, a counterpoint to the quiet intensity of their words as they engage in their familiar ritual: a game of strategy played out on the board between them. The obsidian pawns are moved with deliberate precision, each shift a silent conversation of its own. Daemon, ever the aggressor, places his pawns swiftly, his moves calculated to assert dominance. Naerisa, more patient, more deliberate, prefers to maneuver her rook first, her strategy revealing a subtlety that contrasts with her brother's bolder tactics. 

In this game, as in life, they reveal themselves—Daemon, reckless yet brilliant, Naerisa, methodical and discerning—each move a testament to the complexities of their shared blood, and the unspoken understanding that binds them together, even as it drives them apart.

A burst of laughter echoed through the chamber, Naerisa’s voice bright and sharp as she triumphed over Daemon once again in their game of chess. Daemon grumbled, his scowl deepening, while Naerisa’s lips curled into a wicked smile, the satisfaction of victory lingering in the air. She clicked her tongue, rearranging her pieces with a practiced ease. “Fear not, Daemon,” she teased, her tone laced with mock sympathy. “You may win one day.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, the gesture heavy with resignation as he began to grudgingly reset his own pieces. He paused, his brow furrowing as he looked at her, something unspoken hanging in the space between them.

“Naerisa,” he said, his voice quieter now, more serious.

She glanced up, still smiling, the warmth of her earlier laughter not yet faded. “Fine, I’ll stop teasing if it bothers you that muc—”

“I am to be married.”

The queen in Naerisa’s hand stilled mid-air, her movements arrested by the weight of his words. Her nod was slight, almost imperceptible. “Who is to be your wife?”

“Rhea Royce,” Daemon spat, the disdain clear in his voice. “My bronze bitch. I can’t believe Father agreed to send me off to that place where men fuck sheep.”

“Daemon,” Naerisa admonished, her tone firm but gentle. “Have respect for your lady wife. The Gods know she will need it.”

“I do not care—”

“What if it were my husband speaking such things about me?”

Daemon’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. “I would cut his tongue out.”

Naerisa met his gaze knowingly, her silence a quiet rebuke that forced Daemon to hold his tongue. The tension between them simmered in the stillness, unspoken words filling the space where their usual banter had been. Finally, Daemon stood, moving closer to her, his hand reaching out to brush against her shoulder. His touch was gentle, almost tender, as he hummed softly, a sound that seemed to soothe the edges of his earlier frustration.