We walked in tense silence. The streets of Qohor were a grim sight. Braziers and effigies of the Black Goat burned at every street corner, casting long, demonic shadows over the cobblestones. Thick ash had been smeared across the wooden doors of the shops—desperate wards against the coming slaughter. Sellswords roamed the outer districts; some stumbled drunk on cheap wine, trying to forget the meat grinder they had just survived, while others marched with grim, purposeful strides.
As we moved deeper into the inner city, the stink of the camps and the chaotic chatter faded. The buildings grew taller, carved of dark stone and ancient timber, exuding the true, hoarding wealth of the Free City. We eventually reached Eranis Manor, an estate sitting squarely at the end of a wide avenue. It reeked of untouched opulence. High iron fences protected perfectly manicured gardens, entirely untouched by the mud and blood of the siege. The halberdiers at the gates parted instantly at the sight of our guide.
The interior was suffocatingly rich. The braziers and candles cast a warm, steady glow over the floors and a grand, sweeping staircase. We trailed the regular down a long corridor adorned with massive tapestries and painted murals. Even I felt my gaze linger on the walls; the artworks depicted the dragonlords and soaring towers of Old Valyria, a stolen heritage hanging in the halls of goat-worshippers.
We were led into a private supper hall. The air inside was thick with the smell of roasting pork and spiced wine. I immediately stepped away from Ana, melting into the shadows near the hearth, keeping a calculated distance from the five armoured household guards stationed around the room. My hand rested near the concealed hilt of the claymore.
"Commander Ana. Welcome," Taroh Eranis called from the head of a long mahogany table.
Seated to his right was a younger man clad in fine, immaculate silk. The firelight danced across his features. He bore a striking resemblance to Taroh—the same sharp, aristocratic jaw and dark hair—but his sapphire eyes lacked the panicked, bleak hollowness that marred his uncle. They were cold, assessing, and utterly pragmatic.
Ana stepped into the light. "Elder Taroh," she greeted smoothly, before turning her vibrant gaze to the silk-clad youth. "Lord Drahas."
So, this is the cunt. Drahas offered no warm smile, only a polite, acknowledging nod as Ana took her seat opposite them. I mapped the room. Two guards flanked the heavy oak doors we had entered, two stood by the far exit, and a fifth lingered a few paces behind Taroh's high-backed chair.
"Please, pour yourself some wine. The suckling pork is quite exceptional tonight," Taroh offered, gesturing to a spread of delicacies that the starving peasants in the outer rings would murder for.
Ana poured a goblet but her hands did not touch the silver platters of food. Taroh noted the slight, his jaw tightening, but he forced a thin smile.
"As you are no doubt aware, Commander, Qohor is now officially under siege. The gates are sealed," Taroh began, leaning forward, his fingers steepled. "We are locked behind stone until Volantene reinforcements arrive. Under these static circumstances, we find ourselves with an abundance of time. Thus, it would be prudent to proceed with the wedding ceremony between yourself and my nephew immediately."
Ana set her goblet down, the metal clinking sharply against the wood. "We are enclosed, yes, but we are not burdened with an abundance of time, Elder Eranis. I would argue the exact opposite. We are caged. The Romans continue their bombardment uncontested. Relying solely on the hope of Volantene reinforcements is a fool's gamble. It would be far more prudent to focus our efforts on finding ways to stall the Imperial siege engines, lest they breach the western wall before the week is out."
"The walls of Qohor have stood for centuries," Drahas interjected, his voice silken and devoid of fear. "They will not crumble so easily to Roman rocks."
"Well said, Drahas," Taroh agreed quickly, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him. "Qohor will not fall. We need not let the crude battering outside halt our traditions. Holding the wedding now is the ideal course. You shall become an Eranis, Commander. That name carries far more weight and privilege within these walls than the title of a mere sellsword."
Ana leaned back, studying the two men. "I would be most agreeable to this arrangement, Elder, were it not for the realities of our situation. We are at war. The Romans will undoubtedly attempt to infiltrate the city or assassinate the leadership. Furthermore, taking the mantle of an Eranis would necessitate I step down as Commander of the Falling Stars. If I abandon them now, thousands of hardened, blood-soaked mercenaries will be left stranded within these walls without purpose or pay. That breeds mutiny. A sellsword rebellion inside the gates is the last thing Qohor needs."
"Trifling problems," Taroh dismissed with a wave of his hand, clearly desperate to bind her to the family before the city burned. "Once you are wed, the Eranis family can officially retain the Falling Stars as our personal household guard. They are loyal to you, are they not? They will serve excellently in rooting out any Roman infiltrators. Let us not delay this further. We shall hold the ceremony before the week is out."
Ana ground her teeth. The walls of their trap had closed around her, leaving no diplomatic avenue of escape. I felt her agitation as I too did not want her wed to Drahas but declining now may leave us with no avenues to leave the city.
She swallowed her pride. "I... would be agreeable to it," she finally conceded, the words tasted like ash to me.
"Excellent," Drahas said smoothly. There was no joy in his sapphire eyes, only cold, calculated satisfaction.
"Then please, indulge me. We shall conduct the betrothal ceremony right now," Taroh declared, clapping his hands together as he stood.