Lady Of Lake And Arrow |A Swan Lake Retelling|: Book One

Epilogue

Tamer - Beautiful Crime

*fast voice* Hi yes I like writing dramatic stuff so the Epilogue was born hope you recognize one of the characters I mentioned only a few times throughout the story :)

- Ryn

Little maiden,

your fate's been spun.

Little maiden,

time's finally won!

A little maiden, should you be nevermore,

a fair maiden, you shall become.

A fair maiden,

an end to your story, your heart as its price.

- The Red Maiden -

–––

Lord Weylin knew a pretty girl when he saw one.

And as he eyed her appreciatively from where he sat on the velvet couch on top of the dais, he thought he couldn't be more right.

Standing alone in the ballroom, she stood out like no other. Golden-red hair, pouty lips, and a shimmery, long-sleeved blue gown with a teasingly low neckline.

He stood and got down from the dais. Behind him, the other girls huffed from the couch, disappointed they'd lost his attention. Taking a flute of wine from a servant walking by, he walked towards her.

"And who might you be?"

The young lady turned to face him and curtsied, a dainty smile across that gorgeous face of hers. But the glint in her eyes suggested that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Accepting the wine he handed her, she gazed at him through her long lashes. "Why, only a guest enjoying your party, My Lord."

He marvelled at the way the girl didn't blush at his presence, how elegant her arms moved even in the simplest motions. Admittedly, Weylin was used to women stumbling over for his attention, swooning when he spoke not even over a word to them. "That is very good to hear, indeed–?"

"Lucille."

"Well then, Lady Lucille," Weylin bowed and took her hand, pressing his lips to it, "may I have the honor of this dance?"

She glanced at the far corner of the ballroom, where an ensemble of musicians played soft music and a few partners were already dancing about on the center of the floor.

She grinned, and accepted his offer, letting him lead her to where the other partners were. Their hands clasped, and she placed her other arm on his shoulder, while he wrapped his own around her waist.

They moved through the room, never breaking eye contact. Her dress was silky beneath his touch, which only fed more to his wide imagination–most of them consisting of her.

After he pulled back to spin her once, he drew her close, bending down to her ear. "I would be lying, my dear Lucille," he whispered, "if I said I weren't entranced by you."

She laughed, warm breath feathering his cheek. It only made him clutch her tighter.

He could barely register the chattering of the guests, the clink of glasses as they drank and ate. This was the only thing he could focus on–how only she filled his thoughts and nothing else.

Perhaps he'd had a little too much wine himself.

"I don't think this is quite the appropriate place, My Lord," she replied. "Unless you want to go someplace more . . . private?" He could practically hear the smile in her voice.

Without a moment's hesitation, he ceased their dance and dragged her through the crowd of guests, towards the back entrance. They emerged to a garden, a small one that his servants kept on his orders so he could have something interesting to look at out the window.

He didn't know who moved first, nor did he much care as soft lips crashed onto his, and he pushed her back to the wall, hearing the tear of the dress down her spine as he clawed at it. Weylin, dazed, began roaming his hands over her body, down her waist and over her limbs, feeling the smooth skin of her thighs–

It was a blur after that.

"It is disappointing, isn't it? When the beauty you see is merely an illusion."

Lord Weylin blinked, his mind clearing as he saw only the darkness of the night, clouds obscuring the moon overhead. He was standing alone at the back of his manor.

There was a rustle behind him, and he whirled, taking a step back. "Show yourself," he demanded, although still largely confused.

Another rustle, and the shadows formed into a figure of a girl, the hood of her black cloak covering half her face. Sheaths adorned gold embroidery hung on either side of her waist, and there was the unmistakable glint of metal beneath her cloak.

Even he knew when to spot armour.

She threw her hood back, revealing wild curls of golden hair that framed her face; a cruel, unfeeling expression that raised the hair on his arms.

When she smiled, it didn't reach her eyes–grey, as dark as a storm. "Would you prefer the red hair?"

"Wh-who are you?" He managed to stammer out.

Weylin thought he knew beauty when he saw it.

But this girl was beyond that.

A voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to run, that she was dangerous and shouldn't be here. Yet he couldn't move, entranced and gaping at her.

Without responding, she unsheathed one of her swords. "You've angered the Circle greatly, Lord Weylin," she said.

At the sight of the sharp blade, it took awhile for the words to sink in, but when it did, Weylin's eyes widened.

"Please," he began.

"Shh," she crooned, drawing closer. The tip of the blade nicked the skin of his neck, and he dared not even gulp. "There's nothing I can do. What's done is done."

Still, he continued to plead, not wanting to face the wrath of the notorious assassins. Because that was who she was: one of them.

Seemingly unperturbed–perhaps even amused–the girl cocked her head to the side.

"What's done is done," she repeated, then lowered the sword until it pointed at his chest. He heaved a long sigh, though made no motion to touch the blood on his neck in fear. "But perhaps I'll grant you some last words before your end."

Speechless, Weylin continued to stare at the mysterious girl before him. No doubt she was part of the Circle, but he'd met a few members before, and she somehow wasn't like them. There was no sign of the Circle's emblem engraved on her armlets like the other's, no significant colour she wore that marked her ranking in the group. In fact, the only thing that indicated she was a member at all was the crisscross of scars up her neck, which was what made him realize in the first place. Even then, it made her impossibly no less alluring.

"Who are you?" He asked again, the only words he could think of.

Silence as the girl regarded him. Then–

"I am many things. Orphan. Survivor. Assassin," she answered. "But you can call me Laila–Laila Eñere."