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Four days pass with gloomy skies of drizzles and snow. Giza appears back at Kinguin castle whose soldiers are not in their posts especially outside and along the drawbridge. Its silence deafens her to look around. The sewage water under the drawbridge remains murky and the gates are open. She trots her horse in, casually so that she finds its no greeting-welcome home strange.
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No servant is running around the usually bustling corridor. No soldiers stationed outside of each chamber. She goes straight immediately to the throne room, sighs out in relief to see the throne intact. She runs for the treasury but the treasures are still there, relics, gold, tapestries, paintings, nothing seems to be untouched. Except the fact, there is no one.
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Then, there are footsteps. Along the rightern hallways comes out an undead shambling and running before Giza crumbles it to stone. She hurries her steps, once again making a pebble mess with every undead that she meets but there is really, no one. Rumen’s laboratory is locked from the inside. Giza knocks but there is no reply other than groaning and bones clicking. Another undead that she does not bother herself with.
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Eventually, she rushes back outside. There is really no one around. Until, she hears a man grunting and screaming in pain at a chamber just slightly below from the drawbridge. There, she sees the castle clinic that she barely remembers being here. And injured individuals laying on the bed and muttering about barbarians.
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Two Heshapes whom Giza slightly open her lips apart—questioning, “Who are you two?” In suspicion,
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“Bulba, the nurse. Happy to finally meet you High princess” bluntly saying without flavor just as how she feeds a guy with plain water and telling him that it is medicine.
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“Popo, the doctor, pleased to finally meet you too High princess. It took you, forty-three years to finally meet us your majesty. We are honored to have finally been found by you” Smacking a lady’s head out of her dizziness
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“Wh-“She stutters, taking in the tiny clinic, “forty-three years?”
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“Indeed, we have always remained here ever since your great grandfather requested for medical Heshapes during civil wars. 200 years ago, was it…” Popo says, not bothering to count before planting an herb still with its roots straight down the patient’s mouth. “We are the best healers in the castle, if you did not know.”
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Then, a familiar dwarfized man comes down to the clinic and ask if they saw the high princess which is literally standing in the middle of the room. “Gaah! My beardy apologies your majesty!” Ghibli bows, before asking her if she wants to know where the high royals and everybody in the castle are.”
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“Of course I do” she says calmly, “Tell me where they are”
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“Well, they decided to head first to the Mægfæge and the Casetllan together with the military elders decided to go there. First. Your guests were also growing impatient, sorry to say, your majesty but they were going feral with the wait. Especially with High Princess Rumen’s undead walking around.”
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“Then who is managing the castle and the capital?”
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“Lord Adviser Horney. I believe he is at the leftern great library.”
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Giza marches through the halls, her footsteps echoing in the eerie silence of the castle. She reaches the great library, throwing open the doors with a resounding bang. Inside, Lord Adviser Horney starts at the sudden intrusion, nearly knocking over a stack of books.
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"High Princess Giza," Horney stammers, quickly composing himself and bowing. "We were looking for you and—"
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Giza's eyes narrow, her expression cold and unreadable. "Horney. Why was I not consulted about the high royals' decision to leave for the Mægfæge and the Casetllan?" Her voice is calm but there's an undercurrent of barely contained anger.
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Horney swallows nervously, his pride warring with the instinctive fear Giza inspires. "Your Majesty, the situation required swift action. The guests were growing restless and your sister's... creations were causing unrest."
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"And you did not think to send word to me? I am the High Princess." Giza takes a step forward, her presence dominating the room despite her smaller stature.
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"Of course, Princess. I meant no disrespect." Horney bows his head, but there's a calculated glint in his eye. "In your absence, decisions had to be made for the good of the kingdom. I only acted as I thought best."
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Giza studies him for a long moment, her gaze piercing. "See that you remember your place, Horney. I will deal with this matter myself now that I have returned."
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“Princess—If you are planning to head for Mægfæge then take me with you.”
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“Stay and manage the capital Horney. “
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“But— at least think about bringing a squad with you. There are native barbarians and bandits out there!”
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“As long as I have my eyes” Which they flicker to deadly gold and Horney immediately knows to shut his mouth, “I will execute those vermins off my land.”
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She turns on her heel, striding from the library with her head held high. Horney watches her go, a mix of fear and resentment simmering beneath his carefully schooled features.
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Giza rides swiftly towards the Mægfæge, her horse's hooves pounding against the dirt road. The capital fades behind her, replaced by rolling hills and vast stretches of plains. Scarecrows are being replaced by plain sprites and wandering barbarians. She makes no eye contact with her mind set clear for a swift gallop, hitting reins and forcing the horse to pant faster than it can speed up.
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And in less than fifteen minutes, she arrives to see a cluster—no, a mass traffic of peasants and commoners.
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Gripping the rope reins tight for her skin to irritate, but her attention cannons her surrounding in question. Her horse pants to a trot. The crowds part reluctantly, murmuring amongst themselves as they notice her golden blonde hair and stone face. Snippets of conversation reach her ears - talk of barbarians joining the festival, and bandits taking advantage of the chaos to plunder the delivered goods. Monsters and undead rising every night with the guards being incapable of defending a stall, the constant drizzle causing the muddy ground to feel wet and disgustingly slimey. In short, her ears catch on fire. A disaster that only made her jaw tense as she inhales sharply in seeing a weathered and anxious man approach her,
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"High Princess, it is not safe for you here," he warns, bowing his head. "The roads and Orlorn plains are crawling with bandits and barbarians. They're attacking the supply wagons meant for the festival."
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“Then fight back” Giza's lips press into a thin line, raising her voice to address the crowd. "I am High Princess Giza. And I urge you, my people, to keep your arms strong. If not then make way, I will deal with these bandits myself."
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At first, the people hesitate, but then slowly begin to clear a path. Some calling the others cowtits which being retaliated back by being called warmongers. Nicknames being named as Giza urges her horse forward, but the seriously concerned murmurs grow louder.
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"The bandits do not care about royalty!" a woman cries out. "They will rob and kill anyone! They even took my baby!"
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"I heard them say terrible things about the Princess," another voice chimes in. "Called her no better than a brothel lady, they did!"
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Giza's face remains expressionless, but her hands tighten on the reins—digging bruises onto her palm along with her cheeks sinking hollow in every bit of her breath. Suddenly, shouts erupt from the front of the crowd. A group of hulking men---Native barbarians, push their way through. Their indigenous tattoos with furs and leathers marking them as outsiders.
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The people cry out in fear, but the barbarians ignore them, striding directly towards Giza. The leader, a massive man with a braided beard, raises a hand in greeting
"High Princess," he rumbles in heavily accented words. "We come to Mægfæge. Mean no harm. But bandits, they attack. People get scared. Nautrens get scared. We fight them off."
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Giza regards the barbarian leader coolly. "By what do you wish?”
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“None, simply assurance. Just as our fathers did to past leaders. To fend off bandits.
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Which begs Giza’s irises to differ, “And you think to gain my favor by playing the hero?"
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The barbarian shakes his head. "No favor. Just want peace. And thanks, for not forcing my people out of home. Let us escort you to festival. Keep you safe."
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Giza weighs her options. The barbarians seem sincere, if rough around the edges. And having them as allies could prove useful in quelling the bandit threat. Plus, it does not need her to arm her own people.
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"Very well," she says at last. "You may accompany me. But try anything, and I will not hesitate to end you."
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The barbarian leader chuckles before nods solemnly, “Your threats. Just like previous leaders. Means nothing for homeland’s people.” He turns before gesturing for his warriors to clear the way. Giza spurs her horse forward, the barbarians falling into step around her like a living shield. While the leader is staying behind to speak…possibly argue in their own language at a younger male. Their words lashing the tongue harshly that she can still hear them from afar. Then, the younger male nods and kiss the bigger one by the lips before heading off with individuals covered in blankets. The leader head quickly to the front of the high princess while those he spoke to went for the forest.
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And Giza does not wish to ask, simply urging the people to clear the way as they canter—the barbarians able to keep up, through the heavy traffic road of Orlorn plains.
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Giza and her barbarian escorts ride on through the Orlorn plains, the damp, muddy ground squelching beneath their horses' hooves. The skies above remain overcast, a dreary gray that seems to mirror the somber mood of the people they pass. Commoners and peasants huddle together, their faces drawn and anxious as they whisper of the bandits and the dangers that lurk on the roads.
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As they near the festival grounds, the sounds of revelry grow louder - but there's an undercurrent of tension, a sense that things could spiral out of control at any moment. Giza's stone face betrays nothing, but her eyes are sharp, taking in every detail.
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They arrive at the Mægfæge to find a scene of barely controlled chaos. Stalls and tents are set up haphazardly in front of Fogsight fort, their wares spilling out onto the muddy ground. People mill about, some laughing and drinking, others huddled in groups, casting wary glances at the shadows. And everywhere, there are signs of the princesses - their likenesses painted on banners and flags, their names invoked in drunken toasts and bawdy songs.
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Giza dismounts, waving and talking to the barbarian to leave her be. And they do so, leaving the question,
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“Is this the Mægfæge?”
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Giza does not care as she strides through the crowds, ignoring the stares and whispers that follow in her wake. Her eyes search for Thean, but there's no sign of the younger princess.
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Suddenly, a commotion erupts near the central stage. Shouts and jeers rise above the din, and Giza quickens her pace, pushing through the throng of people. As she nears the stage, she sees Thean coughing in the middle of her speech, her face pale and drawn, her eyes bloodshot. The younger princess is trying to speak, but her words are drowned out by the crowd.
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"Filthy disease-spreader!" someone shouts. "Get off the stage, you're making us all sick!"
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Thean flinches as if struck, her hands trembling. She looks out over the hostile faces, opening her mouth to continue, but her words are lost in a fit of coughing.
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A hulking figure emerges from the crowd and strides onto the stage - a man with a silver streak in his hair. "That's enough," he says grimly, his voice cutting through the noise.
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“Tywin…” Thean weakly calls out, reaching out before being held like the friend she is to him. But the crowd looks as if he is a prince saving his princess.
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“I told you aren’t fare to come out” Tywin escorts Thean firmly but gently off the stage. Keeping his hand against over her shoulders and pressing her against him, keeping creaking twig legs from stumbling, her coughs wracking her snow body. Tywin supports her, speaking quietly to her as they disappear into the crowd.
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Giza stands frozen, her face an unreadable mask. Inside, a maelstrom of emotions swirls - anger at the disrespect shown to her sister, frustration at the situation spiraling out of her control, and a grim determination to set things right. She looks out over the festival, her gaze hard and unyielding.
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Tywin escorts the sickly Princess Thean through the festival crowds, his strong arm supporting her as she stumbles and coughs. He can feel the heat of her fever even through the layers of her gown. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and her eyes are glassy and unfocused.
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"You should be resting," Tywin murmurs, his brow furrowed with concern.
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Thean shakes her head weakly, attempting to straighten her spine. "I have to...to make the speech. It's my duty." Her voice is barely above a whisper, each word punctuated by a painful sounding cough.
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Tywin's jaw clenches. He wants to argue, to insist that her health is more important than any speech. But he knows the weight of duty, the crushing pressure of expectation. So, he simply nods and tightens his grip on her arm, helping her navigate the uneven ground.
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They reach inside the ragged fort, and Tywin carefully guides Thean up the steps and into the cool, shadowed interior. Servants with strange red eyes scurry forward to assist, but Tywin waves them away with a glare. He will see the princess to her chambers himself.
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In Thean's bedroom, he gently lowers her onto the bed. She looks small and fragile against the rich brocade bedspread, her breathing shallow and labored. Tywin pulls the coverlet over her shivering form, his hands uncharacteristically gentle.
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"Rest now, Princess," he says softly. "My mates and I will stand guard and ensure no one disturbs you."
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Thean's hand, cold as ice, grasps his wrist. "No need, goodness," she breathes. "Enjoy yourselves to the festival, bring Sol with you too. Make sure she is enjoying more than I am on a sick bed, ugh." Her eyes flutter closed, her grip going slack as she slips into an exhausted slumber.
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Tywin stands vigil for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turns and strides from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
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His footsteps are heavy as he descends into the underground chambers where his mates await. The air grows colder, danker, as he moves deeper into the bowels of the fort.
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When he enters the dimly lit room, he's greeted by a scene of grief and anger. His four remaining knights - Gordon, Hubert, Zera, and Dori - are gathered around the lifeless body of their comrade, Sam. Resting on a table. Their faces are etched with sorrow and rage.
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"What happened?" Tywin demands, his voice rough with barely suppressed emotion.
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Gordon looks up, his eyes red-rimmed. "We found her like this. No sign of injury or illness. It's as if the life was just...drained out of her."
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Tywin's hands clench into fists, his nails biting into his palms. He looks down at the blood drainend body before tapping around the dry skin, looking for something.
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“Do you think---” Zera wonders before getting cut off by their leader’s growl,
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“You all should think over your heads.” His fingers ripping off the cloak and clothes, seeing two sharp wounds, “Bladed by vampiric wings, pierced, before the blood…” Resting a palm on her abdomen and pushing down for a shockwave pulse that blew the mates’ hairs back. They wait, watching where Tywin is looking and there, a beetle comes out, “…the blood was cleaned and sucked dry by her beetles.”
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“But you crushed Dramescula’s heart” Zera recalls, “You took it out from the princess and crushed it.”
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“Yes, It has always been like that. Crush the heart of vampires and they will die, for the count mother’s case, it would be ridding them of their hosts. But…somehow, she is still here. The organ was not enough. Sol," he growls, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. "This is her doing. I should have shredded her when I had the chance."
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Hubert lays a comforting hand on Tywin's shoulder. "You can't blame yourself, brother."
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“That is true” Dori adds, “Stop blaming yourself for everything.”
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“No, I should blame myself. I was there, had the chance, did not do it properly and now Sam…is dead. Who else to blame than me?” Shrugging off Hubert’s touch, his anger boiling over. "I am the leader! Their blood is on my hands!" His voice cracks, anguish bleeding into his tone.
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Zera and Dori exchange worried glances, moving to flank their leader. "Tywin, this isn't your fault," Zera says gently again. "We will avenge Sam, but we must be smart about it."
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Tywin barely hears her, his mind consumed with thoughts of vengeance and self-loathing. He stares down at Sam's pale, still face, feeling the weight of his failure pressing down on him like a physical thing.
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Abruptly, he spins on his heel and strides towards the door. "I'm going to Sol's chambers," he snarls over his shoulder. "And this time, I will end this. Once and for all."
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His mates call after him, their voices laced with concern and warning. But Tywin is deaf to their pleas, consumed by the dark fire of his rage and grief. He will have justice for Sam, for all the lives stolen by Dramescula's evil.
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Even if it costs him his own life in the process.
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Tywin heads for Sol’s chambers. Zera worriedly right behind his raging clenched fists.
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