Private Tales Virtue and Valor in Shades of Scarlet

The knock at the great oak doors of the manor shivered through the empty halls, startling the lone candle by which Evadne sat. She stilled, cup of dark wine poised in her hand, head tilted to listen.

A man’s voice. Worn, desperate, yet steady still..

She heard more than his words. The groan of chainmail as he shifted his weight. The rasp of his tired breath. The horse outside, trembling on the edge of collapse. And beneath it all, the beat of his heart, young, strong, achingly alive.

Hunger twisted inside her, sharp as knives. How long had it been since she fed well? Too long. This place was her prison, and nobody ever came here. Not anymore. Her tongue pressed to the back of her teeth, and her grip on the cup tightened until crystal creaked. One taste would silence the ache..

She rose, shadows unfurling with her as though eager to hunt. Candlelight caught the pale fall of her white hair, the silk of her dressing gown clinging where it plunged low, leaving nothing to the imagination despite the icy cold of the manor. When she drew the door open, she leaned lazily against the frame, cup in hand, gaze upon the knight who stood on her threshold.

“My Lord is not home,” she said, voice smooth as velvet, though her eyes slid past him to the storm gathering swift and black across the hills. “But the night grows cruel, and you… you are far from shelter.”

Her gaze returned to study him, exhaustion carving harsh lines across his handsome face. Temptation made flesh. A beautiful thing, beneath all that dirt and sweat. Under that sun that burned on his chest...

Evadne sipped her wine instead, letting the silence linger just long enough to sharpen the air between them. Then her lips curved faintly.. "I am not supposed to open the door to strangers.. But, I am sure that for a knight, it would be alright to make an exception.." she said softly, and stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

The knight’s bow was almost quaint, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her. Evadne let the corner of her mouth lift, faint and sharp, as if she were in on some private joke. She trailed one finger along the rim of her wine cup, her pale eyes following the tremble of the horse beyond him, then returning to Alaric with a languid sweep that left little doubt she was studying him.

“He has been gone some time, I'm afraid I'm unsure of when he will return” she said at last. She stepped back into the shadowed hall, allowing him passage with a gesture as fluid as water. “But you are not imposing, Sir Alaric…” her eyes lingered on his weary frame, the golden locks dulled with dust and sweat, the stubborn pride in the way he held himself upright though exhaustion dragged at his limbs, “…I am not so cruel as to turn a knight of Cortos from my door. You and your beast may rest in shelter tonight.”

How long since I spoke thus to another? Since I offered shelter rather than ruin? He smells of steel, of sunlight, of dust and salt sweat. Warmth clings to him like a cloak. How easy it would be to strip it all away, to drink him dry and let his bones cool beside the horse in the yard. Just one taste…

The thought twisted in her gut, sharp and hungry. She pressed her lips against the rim of the cup, letting the wine soften the ache, though it did little more than sting.

“You may call me Evadne,” she said, finally giving him her name, though the words left her lips like a sigh, weighted with something unsaid.

Her gaze lingered, pale and piercing, before softening, just slightly.

“Come. You look near to falling where you stand. I'm afraid I do not have much to eat, but there is plenty wine to warm you, and water for your steed. That much, at least, I can promise.”

“Yes, yes, rest assured, someone will tend to your horse,” she promised smoothly. Her tone carried the weight of certainty, though there was no bell rung, no servant summoned. And while his weary eyes wandered over the faded grandeur of the hall, candelabras weeping wax, curtains heavy with dust, a darker shape peeled from her own shadow. It moved with a liquid grace, hips swaying as though in mimicry of her own, and slipped silently out into the storm to lead the beast to the stables.

Evadne alone remained. She always did.

Once, this manor had teemed with life- twenty staff bustling through its corridors, laughter echoing from dining halls, children’s footsteps on the stairs. But time had hollowed it. Or perhaps she had. The house still stood in its finery, but it was a finery that grew brittle, tired, and neglected. Unlike her. Evadne had never changed.

She led him into the main sitting room, the hearth roared to life, flames licking eagerly at logs that had been cold but a moment before.

“Yes… kind,” she echoed his words, a dryness in her throat as she gave him the faintest smile, too tight around the edges. “Of course he is.” A lie, but one she dressed in silk.

“Please,” she gestured to the fireside chairs. “Sit. Warm yourself. I can have a bath drawn in the guest suite, if you wish…” The words came like an afterthought, though her hand lingered as she poured a generous goblet of Obanian red, the dark liquid rich as blood in the firelight. She pressed it into his hand, her fingers cool against his skin.

Then she reclined in her own high-backed chair, sinking into it with effortless grace. The fire caught her eyes. Crossing one long leg over the other, the silk of her gown falling away to her upper thigh, a casual unveiling, though nothing about her gaze was casual as it lingered on him.

“Seems like you’ve travelled far, Sir Alaric…” she said, her tone lilting into a question as she raised her own cup. Wine touched her lips, but it was not the drink that made her throat work in a swallow.

Gods, the warmth radiating from him. Dust, sweat, steel, blood, the scent of life itself clinging to every inch of him. I can hear it, pulsing through his veins. So close, so temptingly close. He does not see the hunger in me. Or does he?

She sipped again, her eyes never leaving his.

Evadne’s lips curved faintly at his offer, a flicker of surprise, then amusement, then something softer.

“How very chivalrous,” she murmured, the words almost a sigh. “A coat for me..”

She tilted her head, studying him as though she’d never seen such a creature before. She hadn't in such a long time, years in fact, and warmth looked strange to her now, alien. It clung to him like a halo.

“No,” she said at last, her voice smooth. “I do not feel the cold.”

Her gaze lingered on his hand, still wrapped around the cup, knuckles rough and scarred, veins alive beneath the skin. The pulse there called to her, slow, steady, human. She forced herself to look away.

“You are kind, Sir Alaric,” she said quietly. “The sort of man who would offer warmth to a stranger even when frozen himself.”

The fire popped in the hearth, and her eyes flicked toward it, as though drawn to its light, even though it hurt to look at. When she spoke again, her tone had changed, brittle around the edges, an echo of something broken.

“You should be careful with such kindness. It can draw the wrong sort of creatures to your door.”

For a heartbeat, the air between them seemed to thrum with a subtle tension. Then she smiled again, all composure and grace. “I’ll have your bath prepared. You’ll sleep well here, I promise.”

Evadne’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, the firelight catching in her pale eyes and casting fleeting shadows across her high cheekbones. She let the faintest sigh escape her, almost inaudible, like the brushing of silk against stone. "Hm.." she smiled. "A light these halls have not seen in a great many years.." she commented distantly..

Sleep. The word twisted inside her like a bitter blade. She had not known it in so long. Sleep. How simple it sounded, how unbearably human. How cruel that he could lie down and surrender to oblivion.

She watched him settle into the chair, body finally loosening, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Each slow blink of his lids, each exhalation, stirred something dark and aching within her. How I envy you, knight. How I would give anything, give everything, to feel that surrender, even for a moment.

And yet… the hunger hummed beneath her skin, a constant, insistent murmur. It was never quiet, never satiated. To touch him, to taste even a drop of his warmth, might quiet the ache for a heartbeat… but at what cost?

Her fingers brushed the silk of her gown, the small comfort of her own warmth. Pale as she was, she shivered, not from cold but from longing - for sleep, for touch, for something untainted. He was alive, unbound, human… and yet so close, so achingly close to what she could never fully take. She frowned at her momentary failure to hide her discomfort.

She sipped her wine, letting it coat her throat. The warmth it offered was faint, fleeting. A poor substitute..

“Then sleep you shall, Sir Alaric,” she murmured, her voice a soft melody. She rose, the movement fluid, the silk of her gown sliding over her skin with a whisper of sound. “Come… I shall show you to your chambers..”

She moved ahead, bare feet silent on the cold stone. The grand staircase loomed ahead, its banisters carved with twisting vines and grotesque faces, worn smooth by centuries of hands. Candles lined the walls, long burned down to pools of hardened wax, flickering as she passed. She raised a hand, brushing it along the dark wood; the carvings seemed to shiver under her touch, though the air was still.

The hall beyond was lined with paintings of men and women and children all with the same white hair, though their eyes were blue and grey. Dusty vases held arrangements of dead flowers, their petals brittle and curled in death.

Evadne paused before the final door before her hand moved to the handle. The faint light spilling from beneath it painted her figure in silhouette as she pushed the door open, revealing the guest chamber bathed in firelight. Her eyes narrowed against it. The hearth glowed warmly, crackling softly, and steam rose from a bath in the corner, carrying a subtle scent of lavender. The bed had been turned down, blankets folded back with exacting care, ready for him to fall into its embrace.

“Here,” she said softly, stepping aside to allow him entrance.. "I hope it is comfortable enough.."

Evadne lingered in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, her figure outlined by the fire’s glow. Shadows moved about her as if reluctant to let her go, pooling at her feet and crawling up the walls in long, languid tendrils toward him before she pulled them back again.

For a moment, she only watched him. The way his shoulders relaxed as he unbuckled his sword belt, the way fatigue softened his movements. His pulse - she could hear it from here, faint but insistent - thrummed beneath his skin like a distant drumbeat.

He trusts me, she thought, a hollow ache settling in her chest. Or, underestimates me.. A foolish man, either way.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the sword he’d set aside, then back to him. She smiled faintly, a ghost of a thing, more melancholy than warmth. “If you need anything, call for me.. I’ll hear.”

She lingered one heartbeat longer, as though warring with herself. The firelight glinted off the Bloodstone Amulet that rested against her breast, its crimson core pulsing faintly like a second heart. Her fingers brushed against it absently, and she drew in a slow breath.

“Goodnight, Sir Alaric,” she murmured, her voice a dark silk as she turned away.

Outside, the manor seemed to sigh, the timbers creaking, the wind pressing at the shutters, the faint echo of her footsteps receding into the long and lonely halls, his room all the warmer for the lack of her presence.