Chapter 244: Chapter 231 – Horses, Goats, and Basements IV

Chapter 231 - Horses, Goats, and Basements IV

Claire tried to make an escape in midair. She raised both her arms in front of her and channeled a spell, but to little avail. While she was able to right herself with an array of vectors, her attempts at ice magic ended in failure—the lack of a catalyst slowed the process and robbed her of her power. The door she ordered was delivered as a tiny block whose shape was only vaguely rectangular. She tried it thrice more. Each repetition came with greater refinement, but she ran out of time before she was able to craft the object pictured in her mind.

“Claire? Are you alright?” Her father voiced the question as he caught her in his arms and gently set her down. She knew it was a ruse; he surely would have allowed her to fall and subsequently criticised her lack of ability had they been the only two present, but in front of the men he was instructing, he played the part he knew he should.

And it was precisely because they were before a crowd that she chose the response most likely to cause him trouble.

“I must apologize, Father. I happened to slip and fall out of the window,” she said. The words were spoken at their usual volume—more than loud enough for his students to overhear.

It was not inaccurate to describe them as fresh blood, members that had only recently joined the royal guard’s ranks, but the image typically evoked by such a description was not at all representative of the scene laid out before her. They were not younglings still struggling through the pains of puberty, but seasoned veterans ready to become elites. All of the hundred-odd men present were thrice ascended at least. As was the case with every other group under her father’s direct command, the men were made almost entirely of muscle. Even the pure mages had trained their bodies to the point where they could strangle lions with their bare hands. It was often repeated by the exhausted trainees that the casters were the ones with the toughest regimen. They were not allowed to invest their points in strength, and forced instead to build up their bodies through training and combat. Some had tens of thousands of points in the stat, purely because they had torn so many different species to bits with their bare hands.

Though their instructor’s eyes were no longer upon them, the pupils continued to spar. Some were more earnest than others, but most had their ears peeled and their curiosities alight. As far as Claire could tell at a glance, it was a class on resourcefulness. One of the two fighters in each arena was fully suited up, while the other was unarmoured and bare-handed.

“Perhaps we should look into investing into some better railings then,” said Virillius. A normal person would have responded to the cheeky white lie with a grin, but the psychopath that was her father allowed no such expression to show. An appraising glint momentarily flashed through his eyes, but he otherwise remained as unperturbed as ever.

“I shall be fine without them, Father. It is only a ten story fall, hardly enough to cause any harm.”

She was known to jump from heights without incurring any injury, but ten floors was outside her usual range. Still, the bluff seemed to pass. Most of the troops nodded along, with some commenting on the events that transpired in Virillius’ absence, and others having long heard from the elves that the Duke Augustus’ daughter could not have possibly been as weak as she seemed. It was a theory with as many adherents as it had denouncers, but the more recent rumours, such as that of the lady leaping from Augustus manor and evading the guards on the way down, had fueled another wave of speculation.

Her attitude was another major contributor—she paid the thrice ascendants not even the tiniest smidgeon of respect. Of course, she was far above them as far as social standing was concerned, but the nation was home to only a thousand such fighters. Given the extent of their strength and accomplishments, most other ladies would have basked the knights in praise and admiration. Even Princess Octavia, who had remained as one of the castle’s occupants in the wake of King Ferdinand’s premature retirement, would occasionally be caught making eyes at the royal guard’s rugged commander. Claire, however, did no such thing. The only looks she gave the men were those of disdain. Cold, judging glares that silenced them as quickly as her father’s.

“It certainly is harmless, but it is high enough for a father to worry for his daughter.”

The lady stifled a giggle. “Oh, Father. That claim would be so much more believable had you any real concern for my well being.”

It was the most scandalous line to have ever come out of her mouth. Ripples of noise coursed through the crowd, but her father remained stoic.

“Whatever has you in this foul mood today?” The man cast a glance at one of his teaching assistants, who nodded knowingly, before walking towards his daughter and placing a palm on her shoulder. It was a familiar signal, but she was tempted to ignore it. There would be no hell to pay, no matter how much she defaced their public images. She was no longer Claire Augusuts in the world’s eyes, after all.

Still, the lyrkress begrudgingly played along and vacated the space. She had wanted to scream at him, not his dumb facade.

“Oh, nothing at all, Father,” she said, with the brightest smile she could manage. “Save, perhaps, for the fact that you made an attempt to offer my life as tribute.”

They walked through two sets of sliding doors, one to take them into the building, and another to enter another outdoor space. Claire was tempted to grab one of the handles and return to her body while she still had her chance, but her pulsing rage stayed her hand. Her mind was flooded with indignance, the very same frustration and despair she had felt immediately following his betrayal. She was so annoyed that she wanted to reach for his throat and strangle him, even though she knew it to be an exercise in futility.

The courtyard they moved to was of a particularly large size. In the summer, it would have been packed to the brim with exotic plants from all over the continent, but they were taken away in the winter, leaving it a dreary scene with nothing but waist deep snow. Slowly, they walked across the field and made their way to the gazebo at its center. The wooden structure was elevated off the ground, just high enough that none of the snow sullied its floor.

Her father pulled out a pair of seats, one for cervitaurs like himself, and another for humanoids like the cottontails, before speaking in his usual, emotionless voice. “I wouldn’t have, if you were always this bold.”

Claire’s hands were shaking under the table, but her voice was kept perfectly steady. “You threw my life away for nothing.” It was her first time speaking out against him; it took recalling the enemies she had slain, the illusion that the borrok had conjured, to force herself to continue. “You didn’t even need the curse to bring Kryddar to its knees.” 

Though the two countries had come to amicable terms of ceasefire, there were none so foolish as to believe that the treaty had been signed on equal terms. Even the Vel’khanese had heard the news: Virillius had single-handedly defeated the Kryddarian army. It was rumoured that he killed over a hundred thousand by himself, that he cleaved through the Silken King’s undying legion and thrashed him in a duel. Claire knew, of course, that the tales the bards told had been exaggerated as they passed between singers and borders, but whatever the case, the results were clear. Cadria had repelled the Kryddarian threat with hardly a casualty under its belt.

“It was the right thing to do.”

Again, her emotions flared when he spoke, but by slowing her breathing, she was just barely able to fight them back.

“Sacrificing your daughter was the right thing to do?”

“Yes.” He returned her stare with one of his own. “I will be frank, Claire. No assault led by King Ragnar can be defeated without the zombification of his men. And any clash between his nation and ours, with him at the forefront, can lead only to the mutual destruction of both our lands.”

King Ragnar Unfrid’s signature ability was one known to all. There were only a few minutes in each day that the man could be killed, and he could easily extend the associated effect to any individual within his line of sight. It was ridiculously unfair, but such was the way of the aspect. Every single one of them had an absurd racial ability bestowed upon them at the moment of ascension.

“You single-handedly destroyed him.”

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“Perhaps, but he knew I could. For him to challenge us in spite of that suggests that he had discovered a workaround, some sort of method to ensure that his country would not be destroyed in retaliation. I sent hundreds of spies to determine what it was, but none of them were successful in retrieving any meaningful information.”

She could already tell what he was going to say next. It was another one of his classic manipulation tactics. He would make her feel responsible, guilty even, with a veil of fake sincerity. She had seen it in action a thousand times, used on the various ministers that came to visit the manor.

“You’re going to tell me that you didn’t have any other choice.” That was why she said the words in his place. She allowed them to slip from her lips as she threw away her mask and visibly grit her teeth. “But that’s just an excuse. An empty lie.” Claire glared at him, her eyes filled with all the hatred and resentment she had bottled up over the past decade. “I know what you’ve always thought of me. You were the one who taught me to read faces. It was one of the few things that you admitted I was good at.”

“Clai—”

“Don’t ‘Claire,’ me,” she snarled. “Not when you haven’t seen me since Mother passed.” She rose from the table and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down to eye level. “You have the whole country at your beck and call. Everyone thinks you’re some sort of gift from the gods, that you’ll answer all their prayers and bring prosperity to this worthless, barren land. But really, you’re just a shell of a man, a sorry excuse for a warrior that’s thrown away everything just to hide behind a false pretense of responsibility.”

She was fuming. But he was indifferent.

“You won’t even look at me for who I am.”

Her body was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and her breathing was shallow, incapable of filling her fake lungs with air. She tried to stop her eyes from moistening, to stop herself from looking weak in front of him, but they wouldn’t listen.

“I’m looking at you now,” he said, calmly, “and all I see is a child that’s yet to mature.”

“It’s always about the inadequacies with you.” Her voice started loud, but quieted quickly into a lifeless whisper.

“Clair—”

“I said, don’t ‘Claire,’ me!” She crunched her teeth together, hard enough to snap her fangs. “Every time you saw me, it was nothing but criticism, pointless whining about one tiny imperfection or another. The only thing you’ve ever told me is that I’m not good enough. And you know what? You’re right. I’m not.” Taking deep breaths, the lyrkress gradually loosened her grip on his collar and pushed him back into his seat. “But one day, I will be. And when that day comes, I will do everything in my power to burn Cadria to the ground.”

It was only with her final statement that the man reacted. Slowly, he allowed an eerily gentle smile to form on his face. It wasn’t because he was confident or entertained, nor even because he thought anything of the threat. He almost seemed wistful, his ever steady eyes wavering as he firmly clasped his hands together.

“What?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.

“You really are the spitting image of your mother.”

Her fist flew straight into his throat. She punched him as hard as she could, ice protruding from her knuckles, and her body propelled by a series of complex vectors. There was even a pinch of divinity packed into the blow, as much as the connection could allow.

He was completely unharmed. The attack didn’t even pierce his skin.

But the homunculus’ body was unable to suffer the strength of the recoil. Its jelly-like limb exploded, scattering its pitch black contents all over the yard.

“You have no right to speak of Mother,” hissed the snake. “You left her to die and for what? ‘Duty?’” She spat out her broken teeth. They were getting in the way of her words. “Her blood lies on your hands, Father. You threw her away like a tool, just to play soldier with some worthless quack of a warrior. I should’ve known, even back then, that you’d do the same to me.”

“Clair—”

“Shut up.” Claire rose from her seat again and stomped her way towards the building. “Don’t talk to me.”

Virillius watched silently as she waltzed over to the nearest door and promptly went limp. She picked herself up again soon after, albeit with a completely different aura about her. The rage was purged from her lips, replaced not with the usual indifference she sported, but a completely different kind, one far more genuine and easy to read. She was gone; control of her vessel had been returned to his creation.

The man, the father, could only breathe a heavy-hearted sigh as he recognized that there was no calling her back. She had promptly escaped after mouthing him off and delivering a dozen strikes beneath the belt.

“I thought you said she’d listen if I let her finish.”

The one-armed fake bowed her head.

“No, no. You’re not at fault.” There was a weary smile on his face. Her words coursed through his mind when he closed his eyes, the bitter insults that he couldn’t quite deny. “I suppose violence will have to do.”

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