Maeve arrived back at the keep under her own power. She had fished her blade out of the waters and powered back. Her gown was a wreck but still covered her modesty. If anything, it appeared to have taken the most damage of anything.

  The keep was remarkably intact. The Harkleys must never have received any warning. As she approached, her attendants appeared hale and whole, gathered to fuss over her. They always fussed. After twice fighting free of the flock—who did not seem to understand that the last thing she wanted was to be bathed and pampered—she caught the eye of the woman she was looking for.

  Her governess, Madame Rensleigh , met her gaze. A nod between them signalled the deed was done, but the simmering energy that thrummed within Maeve was not quelled. Something about her demeanour must have bled out, as rather than immediately start debriefing her, Rensleigh fell into step beside her.

  The governess's presence was like a hawk amongst pigeons, the attendants flapping away before they caught her attention.

  “Where are we going, my lady?” The voice was precise, like a scalpel.

  “To the suite where this all began. There's something of great importance there,” Maeve responded, receiving only a nod in return.

  Rensleigh’s lack of follow-up questions was unusual. The woman lived up to her raptor-like appearance: spotting weakness and diving upon it in a split second. Why she didn’t tear at her now was unknown, but not having to dodge the questions allowed Maeve to keep her focus on the tempest howling inside.

  Maeve couldn’t get her former fiancé’s words out of her head. She had lived for years under the pressure of her past failures. The tapering off of her incredible initial progress through the ranks, only to get stuck at the peak of Bronze, haunted her. Many she had once left in the dust were now striding ahead, each adding another stone to the crushing weight.

  Her failure was absolute. It squeezed the joy and fun of cultivation from her. She was certain it could not be overcome.

  Until now. Regus, that insipid little perfumier, was stuck at peak Wood, poisoned by his own family to stagnate there, used as a bargaining chip, and from the sounds of it treated worse than she could imagine. Yet he had won!

  It wasn’t false bravado. He truly believed—even as he wept literal tears of blood—that he had won. The logical part of her wanted to prove it true, to ensure he hadn’t confounded or tricked her. But the storm in her Hearth wanted to see his will through.

  They pounded through the grey stone keep, the runes flaring as they contained the magics within. She could see the husk of the 'chapel' through some of the windows. Even with layers of protection, it still made her shudder. Filthy 'Divine' cultivators.

  From the minimal damage to the spirit-wood panelled halls, it seemed that only the weakest of their entourage had escaped. Anyone at Iron would’ve taken out chunks of masonry too. Here and there, scars marred the lovely dark wood, but a team was already going through, repairing what they could.

  “Thanks to you stopping Squire Harkley from warning them, the ambush was flawless. They were deep in their cups and unprepared for our attack. Only some servants were outside of the spell runes.” As if sensing her gaze, Rensleigh filled in the blanks for her.

  “I didn’t stop the Squire from doing anything. He never intended to tell them a thing.” Maeve didn’t keep things from her governess, one of her staunchest allies.

  “You know this how?”

  “I spoke with him before the elders on Albion activated the blood curse on him. He was less their supporter than I.”

  “You don’t fear this was a deception because?”

  “I aim to prove it with my actions now, but I’m already of the opinion he was telling the truth.” She had felt it—the truth of his words—when the smoke parted. “He laughed when he was cursed.”

  “A madman, then.”

  “No, terribly sane. In his mind, the day was won. He defined what it meant to win this day, and he felt even with his death he had achieved that. He imagined himself a blade at the right time in the right place. He wished to die free, and he wished to bring harm to the Harkleys. He achieved both.”

  “A free death is worth something indeed.” Madame Rensleigh frowned as they rounded the corner. Maeve heard it a moment later: shrieks of laughter. The shrill, reedy whine was the hallmark of the Twins.

  “They should not be here.”

  Maeve did not pause. She powered on, her heart in her chest. The Twins ruined all they touched. She threw open the door to find the pair of them rifling through her things. Helene looked up and scowled.

  “Margarette, you lost the bet. She is alive.”

  “She looks half dead. Maybe if we wait a while, she’ll keel over,” the other harpy screeched.

  Rensleigh seethed in the corridor. Unless a specific set of circumstances were met—mostly revolving around the amount of blood lost—she was banned from interceding in ‘family squabbles’. In the past, her hovering had added to the shame Maeve felt, but this time it was a comfort.

  Maeve strode into the room, past the pathetic insults. She ignored the mess they had made of her belongings and didn’t see the faces they pulled. None of it was important. All that was nothing but a way to stop her blade from finding the right place and right time to strike. She could feel her glamour twitch, the statement resonating with her Hearth.

  She threw aside the mess, ignoring that too. What was important was the vial of perfume. Talking to them, caring about them—that was losing. Only the vial could get her the win, complete his triumph, and cement her own.

  “Cousin, you’re ignoring us. It is rude to do so to your betters.”

  The twins tittered, seemingly amused by their total lack of wit. Maeve knew she had been surpassed by them, both having reached low Iron rank. They had been poor losers when she was powering ahead and were worse winners.

  She stamped out the thought. They weren’t winning. They would still be like this no matter how far they rose: nasal, horse-faced oafs.

  The storm in her Hearth grew as she ignored them, finding the perfume. With that, she could set up her revenge. She had spent the last two years refusing help with the Twins and their ilk, always trying to handle things on her own as a cultivator should. The sty they had turned her room into, their pathetic bullying—all of it was just them opening their chests and exposing their hearts to the blade she just had to find.

  Finally, she found it. It was presented in a small wooden box. She opened it to find the vial sitting there: a neat piece of shaped crystal holding an amber liquid within. Glamour rolled off of it. It was a princely gift. Magical perfumes were rare and expensive, as they required great alchemical skill yet still sold for less than other things an alchemist of that level might make. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now she was looking for it, she could sense the memory crystal in the stopper. He hadn’t been lying.

  Like all bullies, the Twins could sense their time to strike. They could tell what she cared about. Iron was on a whole other level than Bronze. Giggling, Margie put this into practice, hurtling across the room as her clone looked on and laughed.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Her fighting senses twitched. She could and would smash it. Destroying everything, wasting all his work. Taking her win. Knocking aside this poised blade.

  What did the win take? Getting this crystal before her grandmother. That was the win. What else did she need?

  The bottle was heavy in her hand, and he had told her to make good use of it. Ripping off the stopper, she smashed the perfume bottle into the oncoming Margie. The pathetic woman—despite all her additional power—always lacked skill. Not expecting an attack, the crystal exploded over her.

  She fell screaming, and the wave of magical perfume, no longer contained, hit them all like a hammer.

  “Rensleigh, I have something of value to the family head,” Maeve managed to choke out, just as Helene rose like a fury of ancient tales. Rensleigh arrived foot first, kicking her into the far wall.

  Maeve grinned, that was definitely a win.

  They stood in the main hall, facing an empty throne. It was simple in design, with a motif of ravens winding up the sides. As ever, Maeve tried to spot her grandmother's familiars, Eyeball and Peggy. They were always there somewhere.

  Rensleigh hovered beside her, not quite a hawk now, but more a fretful hen. Unconcerned, Maeve stood tall and waited.

  To her left, her cousins strutted about while their father grimaced. He kept casting looks at her.

  “You’ve done it now.”

  “Just because you were her favourite—”

  “Be quiet, girls.”

  Uncle Jacobi was smarter than his progeny. He was watching her carefully, his expression like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. A master tactician but a sloppy parent, his brows knitted as he tried to decipher her angle.

  He had to know that her actions would drag her grandmother into the matter, not to congratulate him on a task well done but to address the twins’ antics. He must have realised she would never have pulled her grandmother's influence like this before. Such a move would appear, on the surface, to admit that she was stuck or required help.

  No, it didn’t matter. She had already won something this day. Margie and Helene were a mess.

  “We’re going to give you such a beating when this is done.”

  “Girls!”

  “But Father—”

  “You should listen to your father,” a voice boomed. It was good-natured, but as the woman responsible entered the room, they all felt the pressure of her personal glamour. Margie let out a shrill meep in shock as everyone stood up straight.

  Privately, Maeve wondered how long her grandmother had been waiting around. It was daft to assume she was only there when you could see her.

  “Now, now, what’s all this? A great victory has been won this day, and yet you all look as if someone’s shat on your dinner. And worse, it appears three of my lovely granddaughters have faced hardship this evening.”

  Grandmother flopped onto the chair. She was a bear of a woman, heavily muscled and wrapped in furs like some barbarian of old. Lacking sleeves, her arms had lost none of their strength, even though her hair was shot through with grey.

  An affectation—her age was unknowable. At times she acted like a spoiled child, and at others, she felt as ancient as the Chox House of Renown itself. Maeve fought down the urge to explain herself. She was going to win, and the pressure to prove she wasn’t a waste had faded. That didn’t matter today.

  As her grandmother got settled, Eyeball fluttered up to Maeve. The monocular raven lived up to his name, his one good eye darting about. When she didn’t react, he began clacking his beak, trying to distract her or perhaps steal a treat. Her cousins grimaced at the obvious favour shown by the familiar.

  One of the girls tried to speak, but Jacobi’s tactician instincts sensed an overwhelming defeat on the horizon, and he shushed her hard. He knew there was no way they could improve his situation.

  Clearing his throat, he spoke. “Mother Chox, I wish to report that we have completed the task without a single casualty. Our foes in House Harkley are dead without exception. Essential to this task was Squire Maeve. When her betrothed came across the preparations, she managed to stop him from alerting his compatriots. Others who proved themselves in battle include...”

  Jacobi continued to give a breakdown of the ambush. It was a masterstroke—a combination of poisons, surprise, martial grit, and a great deal of careful planning. For a moment, Maeve questioned why he gave her credit before cursing herself.

  If she looked past her self-obsession, his actions were totally expected. She had previously liked Jacobi before his daughters got involved. Now, as her anger at everything was taking a backseat to her focus on this task, she was able to re-evaluate him. He remained a useless parent, but now that she thought about it, not one of those aiding her detractors. He had trusted her with a key role, after all.

  His report began to tail off. He looked back to her. “I was made aware just before this meeting that Squire Maeve returned from her task, and I believe she has uncovered some further assets that she wishes to make us aware of.”

  Taking her cue from him, Maeve began to speak.

  “I feel the need to correct my uncle.” She could see him and both girls flinch before she continued. “I believe that my chase of the Harkley Squire was not as critical as he implied. Instead, I commend him for the planning and execution.”

  Her uncle’s mood had rocketed up and down with her sentence, ending with a small nod of appreciation.

  “An odd correction. Do go on, Mads. Explain why.” She winced at the nickname.

  “Squire Harkley proved to be acting against his family. He took action to aid me when I fell through the ice while in pursuit of him. As I recovered before a fire, he explained he only sought to get free of their influence. He also colluded to spread their secrets and do further damage to the Harkleys.”

  “He found a way to work around the blood curse?” her uncle asked, genuine curiosity painted across his face. She shook her head.

  “No. Last I saw him, he was weeping and dribbling blood. He’d always known he’d die but chose to die free, and he felt he could score a ‘win’ over them with this.”

  She held up the little stopper from the perfume bottle. Eyeball grabbed it from her hand and flew it up to her grandmother.

  “That’s why you attacked us? Some sob story from a Harkley?” Maeve didn’t care to look, to see which twin had just stepped in it.

  Her grandmother’s expression changed—a rare look of wonder swept across her face, only to be replaced by a squawk of anger.

  In a heartbeat, the vast hall felt far too small. No longer a feasting hall but just the six of them and Eyeball packed into a stuffy study. Her grandmother's voice shifted, now quiet but omnipresent.

  “Rensleigh, I sense your glamour on my granddaughter. Care to explain?”

  “Mother Chox, I was assisting Maeve in retrieving the asset. We came to the suite to find these two tearing it apart. They expressed disappointment that their cousin had survived and discussed a bet about her survival. When Maeve ignored them to find the asset amongst the mess they'd made, they became more agitated. When the perfume vial was finally found, Margie tried to strike it, in an apparent peevish moment of spite. Maeve, sensing a threat to the asset, responded with appropriate force. Then she announced the asset as of importance to you. This did not stop Helene from trying to attack her. That is when I struck Lady Helene.”

  “Is that true, Mads?”

  Maeve went to respond. To say some variation of ‘it is but a spat between family’ or ‘it is nothing I feel warrants your concern,’ a mantra she’d repeated since the bullying started. She believed she had to force herself forward through sweat and tears, surmounting challenges alone.

  “That is true, Grandmother,” she replied. A thrill ran through her body at the blade sliding into place, perfectly aimed to end this beast of a conflict.

  Silence fell in the hall. The pressure from her grandmother was all-consuming. All eyes watched the crystal stopper as the old monster twirled it in her fingers.

  “You two, do you know what this is?” She held up the crystal.

  The pair, seeing their father’s pale face and sensing waves of pressure, finally grasped that this wasn’t going to go their way. They couldn’t even muster a response, only shaking their heads.

  “This crystal contains a hoard the like of which stirs even the interest of an old dragon like me. It’s the Harkleys’ alchemy secrets, their training regimen and mentors, information about family politics, maps of their castles, lists of their hunting grounds—the list goes on. There’s even a section on various family members’ preferred dances.”

  She brought the little gem up to one ice-blue eye, letting silence once again fill the room.

  Maeve fought the urge to let out an unladylike squeal. She’d won. The manic energy that had powered her since she’d seen that blood-soaked face and heard his laugh transformed into a calm lake. The blade he’d polished and sought to use for but a single drop of blood was now held by a giant, ready to wield it. The blood spilled would rush across Albion like a tide.

  Mother Chox’s voice returned, barely a whisper, yet it vibrated in their very bones.

  “Our slaughter today was the opening of a war—a war we expect to be long and bloody. This crystal may well speed its end. It will spare the lives of our friends, it will save members of your family. It is the work of someone who gave their life to undermining our foe—and YOU WERE GOING TO DESTROY IT TO BULLY YOUR COUSIN!”

  Her bellow shook the room. The hall now felt like a cage, her displeasure ricocheting off every wall.

  Despite the pressure, Maeve lost the thread of the speech. A laugh burst from her lips. No matter the volume or glamour her grandmother wielded, right now, she was too full of joy.

  Regus—no, the son of Gwendolyn Artoss—had been right. It was madness to let others define success for you. Not when conquering the challenge you set yourself could feel this good.

  The blade, at the right time, in the right hands, aimed perfectly, bit deep.

  As she dissolved into laughter, her hearth roared, and she began to break through to Iron.