The Tower (WIP)

   The portrait tore like flesh beneath Kieran’s grip as he clawed into the dry surface. His fingers raked over the canvas with a smooth, methodical violence, the aged fabric crumbling like dust in his hands. 

    Kieran stood in the family room, his one exposed eye as cold and as hollow as the harsh winter winds outside. The large, elaborately furnished parlor seemed to sit still in the young lord’s presence, as if holding its breath to hide from a long-simmering wrath. The home he had lived in for years had become a stranger to him, a husk of forced opulence. Malice wove itself through the silver that gilded every surface. The portrait, once proud and regal, now hung in strangled ribbons above the fireplace. Its painted eyes still glared down at him, its smile still fixed, mocking and reflecting the smug pride of a boy Kieran had long forgotten. The crafted gaze laughed at him now, the frayed ends of the fabric fluttering in the flames’ draft, pathetic, curled, and dying. Like a ghost, the ruined likeness loomed above the hearth, taunting Kieran with the promise of what could’ve been.

    For a moment, all he could do was stare back. Surrounded by lavish furnishings that only the long-dulled and dead could deem welcoming. How could his family become this? After everything? 

    The black fabric of his coat flowed down over his frame, melding with the room’s growing, flickering shadows. It was quiet, save for the crackles of firewood splitting just below. With a focused stillness, Kieran stood over the yearning fireplace, an eerie presence in the once lively salon, like a phantom returning to haunt the grounds. 

    Kieran moved with meticulous control as he plucked a branch from a hefty stack of firewood before bringing it to the flames below. With a sharp pop, the thin piece of wood ignited. For a moment, he let it burn and watched the flame travel down the twig between his grip, the colors shifting in its descent. It was the most beautiful thing in the room, he thought. Another beat, and soon enough the flame licked at his callused fingertips, he didn’t flinch. 

    The fire’s light cast long, distorted shadows across the room as he returned his steady attention to the mutilated canvas. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he pressed the burning end into the shredded portrait. Oil paint hissed and flared. Fire raced across the image, consuming his dated visage in a blaze that stank of turpentine and resentment. The scent wove through the air to flood the ancient space, acrid and final.  His eyes did not leave the painting. Not for one second as it diminished to ash.

    For a supposed symbol of strength, it didn’t put up much of a fight. 

    As the young lord stepped back from the scene, he wasn’t sure if what he felt was the satisfaction he expected. A deep, lurching, swirling pooled in the very pit of his stomach, meanwhile his heart, his heart remained still. Kieran turned on his heel, his coat following and grazing the now falling flames with a violent flourish. He didn’t have time to think about it, he took up too much already anyway. Quickly, he collected a worn leather-bound journal from the table in the center of the room. Its spine was cracked, the poor thing just barely holding its pages together, records sticking out and scrawled with half-legible notations. He was late, not much later than usual on those days, but that night it mattered. That night, someone was waiting.  

    As Kieran stepped out into the cold embrace of evening, the estate loomed behind him with all the grace and gleam of a mausoleum. Not much further ahead, the silhouette of the academy loomed. Another relic of the past to reinvent in flame, he joked to himself.

    Kieran climbed to the bell tower’s peak countless times, but on that night, his steps rang heavy and frantic. His breath came in sharp bursts as he scaled the spiral stairs, jumping two at a time if he had to. He swore he could feel the old stones hum beneath him as he picked up his pace. Maybe they knew what he did, that soon, everything would change. 

    As the young lord burst into the tower’s top chambers, he expected Rosemarie’s crooked smile and ink-stained fingers to greet him. He rushed up, launching himself the last few steps to get her in view just a few moments sooner. Instead, the chill in the air sharpened as his eyes fell on someone else.  

She stood beside one of the three tables that stood in the chamber’s center, her elegant form half-lit by moonlight, her hand drifting lazily across their carefully laid maps and dashed journals. Her painted lips curled into an amused grin as her eyebrows stood raised above a gaze that wept venom. She was a serpent lying in wait, and he had leapt right into her trap.

“Mayar.” It was a breath rather than a greeting, “What are you-”

“What am I doing here? Oh, love, since when were you that boring?” The taunt rolled off her tongue like honey, it always did.

    The chamber was octagonal with scored stone pillars reaching upwards and elaborately carved railings to seal it. Ashcroft’s grounds had stood long before Kieran’s noble blood had ever spilled on its soil. Its founders were a mystery to even the most loyal and persistent of students. But still, if there were any signs to be seen, it would be the carved gargoyles whispering to their passing guests that the scholars of old preferred their knowledge to be given luxuriously. Among the limestone angels, a simple table was placed haphazardly in the center of the chamber. Books, maps, and journals of various sizes and generations lay scattered over the wooden surface, as well as bundles of herbs and flowers that Kieran wasn’t yet familiar with.

     The young lord still stood in the entryway, his hands held firmly at his side, the tension in his grip serving as the only attempt to steady himself. Wind whistled through the gaps, tugging at their clothes and threatening to blow all his secrets off the table and down into the abyss. The bell loomed above, suspended and watching.  

    “I see you’ve taken up some additional studies.” Her eyes flicked over to another notebook, a castle floor layout sprawled over the opened page, “What is this? A Guide to Ruining Your Life?”

     Short breaths were all Kieran could muster as he struggled to recenter himself. Now, his heart beat, quick and stuttering like a caught mouse. Mayar had always made it a point to carry herself a certain way, and that night was no different. For her, the moonlight wasn’t enough. Instead, she dazzled with the twinkling of her many adornments. All gold, all gleaming against the richness of her complexion. From her delicate ears to the sharp heels of her shoes, Mayar shone with a radiance she would say only she could capture. 

    “Is this how my favorite dog spends his time?” Even her voice lured you in as she cut you to the quick.

    Kieran’s jaw tensed and his shoulders squared. He took a step forward, his presence heavy with all the fury and conflict he hadn’t quite figured out how to use. That night had been reserved for the next round of planning, a private meeting between conspirators. Instead, their sanctuary had been breached. Their quiet secrets and their stolen crimes, all now sifted through by the one person who knew exactly how to hurt him most. 

    “What are you doing here, May?” 

    She studied him for a moment, the magnetic depths of her eyes trained firmly on his own. He’s seen that look before, the careful gaze of someone waiting for a weakness. She wore it well. 

    Ultimately, it seemed the heiress had decided to relent, “You knew it was bound to happen eventually, right?”

    Apparently, he had made some kind of expression because Mayar soon let out a long, dramatic sigh.

    “Oh, Kieran, tell me you didn’t expect your actions to go unnoticed.”  With a click of her heels against stone, Mayar began maneuvering around the table, “You can’t interfere with the livelihood and legacy of several noble families and get away unscathed. I know, you’re fully aware of that fact.” 

    Kieran felt his eye twitch under its covering, he knew that fact well. 

    Finally, he allowed himself to take a step further under the bell’s watchful gaze. “And what makes you think I had anything to do with the misfortunes of our peers?”

    “One doesn’t need to be clairvoyant to see something that plain, love. That’s nothing to say of the little collection of work you have here, either.” 

    As if hesitant to touch it, Mayar plucked a stray sheet of paper from the pile, only to flick it away once more as she strolled towards the stone railing, “Let’s look at the circumstances we find ourselves in. 

    “Not too long ago the Lockharts received a strange, unmarked letter claiming that their long time partnership with one Sir Verick Truesdale has allowed the Truesdales to drain the Lockhart vaults behind their backs for years. Documentation was provided along with said letter, and apparently it was convincing enough to spark a feud not only between the two factions, but also all their branch families and respective business partners. What makes the whole situation even curiouser is that the letter was sealed with the Archambeau family crest, a detail I personally feel is a little too on-the-nose but it seemed to be enough to draw the Truesdales’ ire. 

    “Meanwhile, the eldest Vasiliev son is, of course, now suddenly dead. As well as his father, leaving the estate in a war of inheritance among relatives of varying importance. But also, leaving their once iron-clad standing in society to be questioned. An empire of cleverly corrupt banking gone in the blink of an eye,” With a suave twirl to again face Kieran, the heiress continued, “Would you say those were both natural deaths, or would you agree that falling on a sword isn’t a common way of leaving this world?”

    “It could happen.” 

    “Maybe with some assistance, it could.”