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Chapter 84
Grayson & Calloway
White stretched endlessly, a canvas unbroken,
like snowfall untouched by the first daring step. The air shimmered—not with
sound, but with something celestial, something spun from forgotten divinity. It
carried a scent, delicate yet intoxicating, curling through the stillness like
a whispered promise.
Caramel-laced bread, warm and indulgent. The hush
of milk and honey, softened and sweet. A whisper of lemon, just sharp enough to
stir the senses, tempered by the calming breath of chamomile.
Golden motes drifted through the space, shifting
like dust caught in a sunbeam—no, not dust. Something softer. Something
heavier. Velvet upon plush. Plush upon velvet.
Familiar.
A name stirred at the edges of memory, wrapped in
the scent of old parchment and candle wax.
Aunt Enoux’s namesake.
Lady Vickt De Enoux, Grand Magister. Architect of
elegance. Her hands had not merely designed Victorian splendor; they had woven
it into law. Expectation. Tradition.
And now…
The white gave way, reshaping into rich, familiar
textures. Velvet armchairs, deep as a glass of aged merlot. Bookshelves loomed,
their dark wood etched with intricate filigree, every tome resting in its
rightful place. The air carried the scent of parchment and ink, mingling with
the slow, steady warmth of a newly kindled fire. Flames leapt in the hearth,
casting long, flickering fingers across the polished mahogany floor.
A shiver traced my spine.
I knew this place.
"Is it as you remember, my dear?"
Rhongomyniad’s voice slipped through the
quiet—smooth as silk, laced with something unreadable. She lifted her teacup,
fingers poised with effortless grace, the rim resting lightly against her lips.
"Remember…?" The word felt foreign on
my tongue, as though naming it might unearth something, might make the walls
breathe.
She watched me over the rim of her cup, gaze
slow, searching. A single golden-brown crumb clung to the curve of her lip,
delicate, almost unnoticed.
"I believe," she mused, "this room
was off-limits in your youth..."
A forbidden place. A room spoken of in hushed
tones.
A weight settled in my chest.
"This is…" My breath hitched.
"Grandfather’s study?"
The realization struck like a tolling bell,
sending ripples through my thoughts, through memory, through time itself.
The three of us sat rigid, still wrestling with
the impossible shift in space and time. Reality itself seemed to ripple,
bending around the figures before us as if the air strained to contain them.
Heavier here—thick with the weight of history, with names too vast to belong to
mere flesh and bone.
The Wizard Excalibur.
The Iron Maiden, Rhongomyniad.
Names not simply spoken in reverence, but etched
into legend, carved into the bones of time itself. The first to defy Arthur’s
tyranny. The first to fall because of it.
Silence swelled between us, taut and expectant,
the very room caught between past and present, waiting for
something—anything—to bridge the abyss.
And then, predictably, Selene shattered it.
She leaned forward, eyes alight with restless
curiosity, her words spilling out like an uncoiled spring.
“Are those real biscuits? Can we eat them? And
why is your hair so long? Is that a real beard? Can you do magic? Can you fly?”
Lyra, not to be outdone, cocked her head, gaze
sharp and assessing, peeling apart the mystery of them with almost surgical
precision.
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“And are you human, or are you actually a sword
and a cannon? How does that work? Do you turn into them? Were you turned into
them? Can we see?”
Excalibur’s laughter rolled through the space,
deep and rich, carrying the weight of something old, something enduring—like
the toll of a cathedral bell in a storm. It filled the room, warm and whole,
breaking the tension like sunlight slicing through mist.
Rhongomyniad, by contrast, merely lifted a
single, elegant brow. Her expression wavered between quiet amusement and regal
exasperation, the look of a queen indulging children who dared to ask if her
crown was real.
"I believe a proper introduction is in
order, or is decorum not a thing in this era?"
Rhongomyniad’s voice was a masterwork of
control—smooth as polished steel, deliberate in its cadence, yet edged with an
unspoken challenge. Not loud. Not harsh. Just sharp enough to cut. Her gaze
drifted over my sisters, slow and piercing, weighing their very existence
against some unseen scale.
Tension coiled in the air, thick as the hush
before a storm. I could feel it in the restless energy radiating from Selene
and Lyra—the simmering defiance, the reckless impulse to push back, to test
their boundaries. The sharp edge of youth, untamed and unyielding.
But this was <i>Rhongomyniad.</i>
The Queen of Time and Barriers. The Twin Soul
User who could bend reality like thread, who could trap armies within the folds
of space itself. If even a fraction of the legends were true, then she was not
someone to provoke.
A strange heat ghosted up my spine. Fear? Awe?
Some fragile, precarious blend of both. It settled like a stone in my chest,
pressing against my ribs. My body reacted before my mind caught up—I rose too
quickly, my chair nearly tipping in my haste.
"Please, forgive their… enthusiasm,
Mi’Lady." My voice wavered at the edges, but I forced it steady. I met her
gaze—storm-grey, unreadable—and held it. "Your legend precedes you. We are
still… processing."
A beat of silence. Then, the barest curve of her
lips—a whisper of a smile. Amusement? Approval? The flicker of something just
out of reach before vanishing like mist.
I straightened, drawing in a measured breath. A
bow—small, precise, deliberate. "I am Elara, first daughter of Merydeth
Von Wyllt of House Wynn."
Beside me, Selene stirred, remembering herself.
The mischief in her gaze dulled, refined into something polished and practiced.
She rose with effortless grace, every movement deliberate. "Selene, second
daughter of Merydeth Von Wyllt of House Wynn."
And then Lyra.
Lyra, ever the youngest, ever the performer,
stood with a dramatic flourish. Candlelight flickered in response, as if drawn
to her. She tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear, flashing a grin
that wavered between playful and impish.
"Lyra, third daughter of Merydeth Von Wyllt
of House Wynn."
A breath of silence. Time stretched between us,
thin as glass, fragile as spun sugar. Was it Rhongomyniad’s doing, or had time
itself stilled, waiting, watching? I couldn’t tell. But the moment felt
delicate, poised on the edge of something unseen.
Excalibur tilted his head, his storm-blue eyes
widening—catching the candlelight like fractured sapphire. His lips quirked, a
smirk just beginning to tug at the corners. Then, with a chuckle—low,
sheepish—he muttered, “Oh… House Wynn, you say? So the lad found himself a ma—”
His words shattered midair.
Rhongomyniad’s knuckles ghosted beneath his
chin—not a slap, not a strike, just the barest brush of movement. A whisper of
warning wrapped in silk. The shift was seamless, effortless, as if she had
merely adjusted her posture, but the intent was razor-edged.
Grayson snorted, shaking his head with a
grin—unbothered, bemused. “Right… Proper introductions are in order.”
He stood, broad-shouldered and built more like a
warrior than a scholar, yet there was an unexpected grace in the way he moved.
With exaggerated flourish, he plucked the absurdly wide-brimmed, pointed hat
from his head and bent into a sweeping bow.
“Grayson d’Acier, Sage of Turtle Alchemy, at your
service.”
Turtle Alchemy? My mind tripped over itself.
Before I could unravel the absurdity, Rhongomyniad rose with the kind of poise
that could halt time itself.
No movement wasted. No breath out of place.
She lifted the edges of her gown—just barely, the
gesture so refined it was almost imperceptible—before dipping into a curtsy so
precise, so effortlessly regal, that the very air seemed to still in reverence.
“And I,” she intoned, each syllable measured,
deliberate, “am Duchess Isabella of Calloway, third daughter of King Levon of
Grantdale.”
The name fell between us, heavy as stone.
House Calloway. A name steeped in power, history,
consequence. A name wrapped in legend itself.
Selene, Lyra, and I bowed—low, respectful,
silent. And then, as though some invisible cue had been given, we returned to
our seats. But the air had shifted, charged with unspoken friction—the old
world brushing up against the new, neither fully yielding.
Selene, ever the skeptic, leaned forward,
propping her chin in her palm. Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight, sharp with
quiet defiance.
“So… you’re <i>not</i> the legendary Excalibur
and Rhongomyniad?”
Lyra, halfway through a delicate golden biscuit,
tilted her head. “Or,” she mused around a mouthful of crumbs, “are you like
Aunt Enoux? Are you two retire—”
Her words cut off.
Her jaw snapped shut.
Her pupils expanded, swallowing the gold of her
irises, her breath catching in a slow, dawning horror.
Grayson smiled, slow and knowing, resting his
chin in his hand as he watched realization bloom across her face.
“Oh, by the way…” His voice was light. Almost
offhand. Almost.
“Those aren’t biscuits. They’re cookies.”