𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 | 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝐕

Logically, she shouldn't have been able to meet up with the Countess Isolde von Mareva in such a short time—however, with the letter she had been sent during the morning, it came as no surprise to learn that she was steadily approaching the kingdom against all warnings. That was what she had been counting on when severing the ties in between the countess and the grand duchess.

Truthfully, her main goal hadn't been to weaken Asfi's power—it was advantageous for their side, but it wouldn't make much difference—but rather, to meet up with the north's prestigious countess.

For that reason, she, Maestra, waited in an affluent inn the countess would have to stop at unless she wanted to go through the woods during the fabled inky darkness that overtook the forests of the capital each night. She hadn't morphed into a different form. having decided to keep her own appearance for this meeting—besides, it gave her more leeway while getting into the inn.

She tapped her finger on a champagne flute she held between her fingers, staring into the sparkling peachy liquid. A few moments later, she heard the sounds of footsteps approaching her room and she unhurriedly looked up from the flute, disinterestedly putting it down. There was a knock and she smirked faintly.

"Come in."

The door swung open, and two women entered, the first being the countess and the other her lady-in-waiting. It wasn't hard for Maestra to recognize the countess considering she had used her appearance before—she stood, bowing politely before greeting the woman, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Countess Isolde von Mareva."

The countess stood straight, the annoyance that had previously been swimming in her frost-blue eyes dissipating to let something more tolerating take its place. She gave a tilt of the head as a greeting and allowed herself to be seated.

"Likewise, young lady...?"

"Maestra Sliens," she replied with a docile smile, gracefully seating herself back into her chair, "A mere poetess, My Lady."

The countess hummed, her sharp gaze staring straight into hers—the woman wasn't one to be easily deterred and she knew this, "Those eyes of yours aren't the eyes of a simple poet. They are those of a blade that cuts through everything in its path for the sake of retribution," Maestra's eyes widened slightly—she had known the countess was perceptive, but not to this level.

Countess Isolde unfolded her fan and positioned it to the front of her face, "Tell me, young lady, if I must speak with you, who are you?"

"It's as you said," she replied, pouring some wine into the countess' glass, "I am a blade, one that cuts for the opposition."

The northern woman didn't respond outright, the bangles around her wrists jangling as she picked up the offered glass. She took a leisure sip, humming in delighted surprise when the taste exceeded her standards and placed the wine glass down on the rosewood table, her attention turning to the assassin once more.

"I see," she nodded to herself, "You are the other half of the 'opposition'."

Countess Isolde enlaced her fingers and raised a curious eyebrow at the younger lady, "But why is it that you requested for my presence? If you are looking for military support, I refuse."

It was well known that the North had the best soldiers, all of them having to be much more durable than the average to survive the harsh cold of the North's winters, thus, it was normal for the countess to assume that was why she was needed, considering she possessed an army deemed to be the elite of the country. However, the countess thought that she no longer had her army's loyalty, meaning that she had to refuse any alliances focusing on that aspect.

That wasn't what Maestra wanted from her.

"On the contrary, my lady," she interjected before Countess Isolde could take her leave, "I do not wish for your army. I simply want you to stay out of the capital's conflict."

Unlike what others may think, this proposition was quite the easy deal—after all, what did conflicts of the Center matter to the North? The countess was the type of woman who, as she had noticed and transmitted, stepped away from conflicts the moment she was told to for the simple fact that she wasn't interested in the first place. Countess Isolde gave her a stunned look, her eyes turning over every word she said in her head before huffing out a disbelieving laugh.

"Are you implying that you want to go through with this without an army?"

"Who said we didn't have one?"

The countess shook her head at the young lady's words, thoroughly amused as she lifted her glass in her direction, "Your words are like your weapons."

Maestra raised her own flute for a toast with a smirk, triumph shining in her burgundy eyes, "I am a poetess first and foremost."

And tomorrow would be worthy of the meticulously crafted silk sentences of poetry.

***

She sat in the middle of the forest in the deep, dark night, her eyes closed as she listened to the sleeping wildlife around her. Beneath the grass, she could feel the rich earth that had once covered the grounds of her homeland. All of the leaves whistling in the wind sang songs familiar to her ears. The biting climate of the woods carried the wilting will to survive of her country.

She heard leaves crunch as a person approached, the breeze splitting as the figure came closer—her eyes fluttered open, encountering the crepuscular darkness of the night. There was no one in sight, no more sound. Her gaze swept her surroundings, her fingers instinctively reaching out to her knives.

Nothing, still silence.

The assassin frowned, extending her arm to the tree trunk on the left and checking to see how its branches were—she went still. Up above her, eyes the colour of the amber sea stared back at her. She knew those eyes.

They belonged to the only other person who knew her real self.

The one who was supposed to be dead.