Sparkly Silver Flame in Her Heart

Chantalyn reads over the letter from her cousin. She smiles gently, thinking about the days she’d spent going to plays with him and her aunt.
“Princess!” A templar teases as he walks past, faking an honestly terrible curtsy, “yon battle awaitest. Careful to not damage thine fingernails.” She ignored them, the only attention they received was the iciest glare she could muster.

The memory was gone, despite how tightly she grasped it. It fell through her fingers like sand. She’d wanted to get back at them, and she had. Now she has to prove herself, and she will. But Tira’s Tits, it hurt knowing she was alone here. She wasn’t taken seriously, just like her parents hadn’t. 

No. No feeling pathetic. No feeling down. She shakes her head, pulling her hair up to fit inside her helmet. I am powerful. I make my own destiny. Through the Flame I will scorch my own path. 

Chantalyn saw her childhood with each slash of her weapon. The privilege that was so easily taken. Her cousin, so close and so far. Her passions, a discarded pile of fabric and leather and metal on a desk she was not likely to return to. She screams in the face of a Brel from behind her mask as she picks him up and throws him to the ground.

The battle wasn’t bloody, and the Thranes pushed the Brels back from the border. For now. But even as people sang victory as they drank their drink and ate their fill of the post-battle feast, Chantalyn was irritable.

The templars from before stand before her, mocking her yet again. She doesn’t let it slide a second time. Her vision goes red. She feels noses and jaws and cheeks crush beneath her fist. She hears herself “JEALOUSY GREEN LOOKS BAD ON YOU SOLDIER, LET’S TRY BLOODY NOSE RED INSEAD!” She reveled in the fear in the faces of her fellow templar.

Who knew that when you beat a fellow templar to unconsciousness they put you on leave for a short time while you are reviewed for service. Chantalyn wasn’t unhappy to see the front disappear behind the lightning rail and her home appear in front of it. There was a deep sadness, she was sure to be a failure now. She’d just felt... So alone. So angry. Like even her comrades were out to get her. Some sparkly flame in her heart? If there ever was one, it had gone out. Bags drag under her ice blue eyes like the hidden bottoms of icebergs making her cold stares colder. Her soft blonde hair is greasy, and also brittle at the same time. Her nails are short, dirty, her hands rough with callouses. An oppressive air of self loathing hangs about her like a miasma.

The recruit steps forth from the car, wearing simple, frumpy, wrinkled clothes. A knot in her stomach tells her she should buck up, stand tall, fake it. She does so. Fixing her posture, straightening her spine, shoulders back, chin held high. She looked down her nose at the world now.

The carriage ride home was blissfully silent, embroidered by the three angers that it contained. The delightful designs are only interrupted by five words said under her father’s breath as he exits the carriage. “A blight on this family.” She would be. Happily.

Drego. She’d have to face him. Eventually. A gentle inquiry to her mother, would they visit? For dinner? Or when could she visit them? Soon, after a bath, after a time, eventually, perhaps. Non-committal non-answers that placated an inferno. This is why she left. No control. She couldn’t simply do it herself. She had no power here.

A bath, a meal, a nap, another meal. It blended together in monotony. She trained in her room in the moments between. Keeping fit. Saying prayers. Looking at pictures in books of supernatural threats. Then, a letter. Drego would come visit with his mother. Her heart lighted immediately. They’d talk of his time with the theater. He’d regale her about his classes. They’d sew something-

No.

Not anymore.

Her hands were calloused. They weren’t fit for fine silks and smooth velvets. They were the hands of a powerful warrior. Of a templar.

When Drego arrives Chantalyn wears a very simple cotton dress, much to her mother’s chagrin, with a pale grey block print of simple flowers. It was the only thing in her closet she felt she was worthy of. She smiles brightly at her cousin, beaming at him from over her up-turned nose. She hadn’t been gone long, but he’d grown.

“I just totally missed you all way too much.” She explains as they sit down in the sitting room, “they said that I’d fought so well that I was allowed to come home for a visit. We pushed the Brels back far enough that they aren’t too much of a threat right now.” She brags. It wasn’t ENTIRELY a lie. But it was stained with a hidden truth that made the lie’s colors bleed.

Smile, be calm, be confident. He can’t know. He looks up to you. He can’t see you as a failure too. The shadow in her tiny flame in her heart crackles and hisses at the back of her mind.

He talks about his lessons. How magic has been working so easily for him. How he’s been helping at his mother's shop. It’s so wonderful. The way he talks, the joy he finds in his work, the work he’s put into his joys. Oh right. The work he’s put in. Has the box he hands her always been in his lap? Chantalyn hadn’t noticed it. How hadn’t she noticed it?

She opens it. Grey and blue and silver shimmer and glint back up at her, dark, shiny leather, embossed with sparkling silver lines. She stands, pressing the gown against her.

“Can-” her voice cracks, “can I wear it?”

Drego nods, it was made for her. “Because you are beautiful and a warrior!”

It takes the young warrior no time at all to sprint upstairs and change. Sliding into the corset and crinoline. She struggles getting the gown on herself, but manages it eventually. Ignoring the bruises on her limbs from her months of training and sparring. She bounds back downstairs, pausing before getting to the sitting room, entering the room with a dignified air.

Her hips swing, her arms do too, she places a hand on her hip as she struts through the room. The bodice catches the light showering the room in silver sparkles. The scales clink pleasantly as she moves, the fresh new leather smells of oil and squeaks ever so slightly. When she is satisfied with her modeling, she pulls Drego into a tight embrace.

The emotions overflow. She can’t contain it anymore. The tears come. Rinsing the stains of anger away.

“OmiflameailaikereallyreallylaikeLOAWVEit?! It’s SOOOOoooo beAUdifowl?!” She squeezes on her cousin, continuing her vocally fried caterwaul. “AN tha spARKLES?! and the-hic-and the amOUR?! An- an- an I jus’ luh-ai-kuh. LOOOve it. I’ve just felt so ALONE-UH. It’s Hard-uh.” She FINALLY pulls back, her face swollen and red. “Like. Drego. You. MADE this? And it’s so FUCK-ing PERFECT.” For a moment... It seems the waterworks are done... But then she remembers, “ANyousaidthat,” she gasps for air, “youmaadethisjusforMEEEEE?! AnditsalllikebecauselikeyouthinkI’MSTRONG?!” Another gasp for air, “AAAANNNNDUHHHH thatI’mlikereallylikeprettyandthatlikethatdoesn’t-uh-meanI’manylessofa,” one last desperate gasp for air, “ TEMPLAR?!?!?!”

Her face streams with sparkling tears. “I wish I could take you with me.” She manages after a moment getting her breath. “You are, like, so good. And smart, and you shouldn’t let your talents go to waste.”

Chantalyn, in that moment, understood that she didn’t have to be JUST a warrior to have power over her future. That her passions can fuel her just as much as her spite, her anger.

She would never realize the impression these words would have on her cousin. Just like he would never know the spark he lit in her heart, bringing light to the darkest times of her life. Things wouldn’t be perfect. The war is far from over, and she is yet to earn her moniker, yet to be dyed in the blood of her enemies.

Rivulets of rain create rivers of misery between the tents of the Thrane forces. Knight Commander Sarhain sits, blood and mud streaked over her armor, shivering in her tent, one wall open to the rest of the camp. She watches the horizon. The past few days of fighting had taken a disastrous turn. The Brels’ ursine cavalry had wrecked the Thranes. Their arrows were near ineffectual against the beasts, and any simple spears could rarely hit a killing blow. And the Lhesh Haruuc’s mercenaries fought with a ruthless quality. It struck fear in the younger soldiers.

“They are beasts! Evil creatures sent forth from planes beyond! They seek to ravage and rape Thrane of it’s superior natural resources!” The knight could hear the minister’s preaching at the center of the camp.

Her blood rises. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. She grips up her bow and steps out of her tent. Her feet splash through the misery, leaving pools of anger in her wake.

“The only right, and just, and good thing to do is rid the world of the corruption these southern men spread!” The minister cries out to the handful of soldiers who listened, heads bowed in prayer. “It is our DUTY to invoke the flame’s power to SMITE these demonsssssAAAAHHH!” An arrow ablaze with silver fire whizzed past the heads of the soldiers, and pinned the hat of the minister to a pole behind him.

Eyes turn toward Knight Commander Sarhain. Her eyes glow silver, her yew bow bursts into radiant flame where her hand grips it. “Shut. Up.” Her voice echoes despite the heavy rain, enhanced by the magic coursing through her. “If there is a demon here, it is you. Go back to whatever hole you crawled from.” She prowls forward, body tense like a lioness stalking prey. “Any GOOD man would understand that the sparkly silver flame in our hearts knows demon from mortal.” The minister steps backward as she reaches the space he made for his preaching, finding his back against the post his hat was pinned to. “We aren’t fighting DEMONS, we are fighting BRELS and DARGUUL. We aren’t fighting evil, we’re fighting to keep Thrane out of Boranel’s hands. We’re fighting to ensure our siblings and our spouses and our children will grow up in a Thrane that respects Thranish values!” Her voice carries through the valleys between tents as she leans down into the priest's face.

She breathes for a moment, the shift of chainmail alerts her to the attention she had. “A GOOD TEMPLAR lays down their LIFE to protect the innocent, not fight a long dead king’s war.” Knight Commander Sarhain turns and looks at her forces, the cold rain pouring down her face. “A good templar knows that Tira wouldn’t want the bloodshed of this war.” She lifts her hands, which burn with silver-white fire, “When the sun rises, we won’t be good Templars. We won’t be good Flamists. But we will be good Thranes!” Her fingers dig into her breastplate, encircling the flaming arrowhead on her chest. The radiant flames tear into the steel, singing through the gambeson beneath. “My blade will strike with the Flame’s might, but I do not fight demons to protect the innocent, I fight Brelish soldiers for the sake of my country.” Chantalyn Sarhain holds aloft the symbol of her faith, ripped from her armor. She knows how it looks. She’d thought about it before. Her cleavage now exposed, she looked so fucking hot. “If you think that those we fight tomorrow are evil, are demons, stay the fuck in camp. You’re done. You’re not needed, not wanted. Those of us who understand the real reason why we’re here will fight ten times harder knowing that we do it for the right reasons.” Her voice booms like arcane spellfire.

She presses the removed sheet of metal into the arms of the Minister. “Take that to Flamekeep and whatever creep told you to spout disgusting propaganda.”

Chantalyn Sarhain returns to her contemplations, watching the moons spin, and the sun slowly rise. She was tired of these false statements from false men who spoke too much and acted too little. She wondered if what she did would ruin her career... Did she care about having a career? What would Drego say? Surely he’d hear about it. Chantalyn’s hand touches the space she removed in her armor. Her fingers touch her warm skin, she can feel her own heart beat.

Drego WOULD hear about it. He’d hear about how she’d be the most gorgeous and dangerous person on the battlefield.

Arrah rose, as she always does, the grey of the rain-soaked landscape only becoming perceptibly brighter. Cairn Hill backdrops the battlefield as the three armies amass. Knight Commander Sarhain barked orders to her men, putting them into formation where the general had commanded them to be. Arrows arc through the sky, spells BOOM, soldiers issue their war cries. The armies converge. Wyvern riders provide air support, and from their perspective high up in the rain clouds it may be easy to see the movements of the armies as they attempt to out maneuver each other. All Knight Commander Sarhain saw were the faces of those she had to strike down.

Bear Cavalry breaks her squadron’s line, the lumbering animals crashing into the Thranes. The Knight’s helmet is knocked off and she is barreled over, the mud of the once verdant field cushioning her fall. Chantalyn curses, pulling herself out of the muck. Her blonde hair already matted. She swings her blade, the edge erupts with silver flame that flies toward the bear. The creature calls out as its fur burns. The rider pulls on the reins, forcing the mount to round on the lone knight.

The Templar screams a primordial scream, issuing from the depths of her soul. She grasps her sword with both hands, and runs at a full sprint. The flame on her sword is quenched by the blood of the ursine mount. The Beast’s momentum carries it into a slide on the mud, then a tumble, crushing the rider under its massive weight. With sizzle and crack her blade bursts to life once more, sputtering on the crimson that sizzles along the edge. More knights bear down upon her, she doesn’t defend, her shield long abandoned. Instead she attacks with more ferocity, more anguish, more resolve. The blade makes white scars in the air as it strikes down Brel and Goblin alike.

 A blight of silver swept over the battlefield. It didn’t seem to matter how much damage she took, she did more than double the damage back to the invading army. As the battle rages for several days, all three armies whisper about the Silver Blight. The Thranish soldier with a hole in her armor, whose sword cleaved steel like paper. Whose ice blue eyes glowed with resolve. Who never chased a running foe.

The battle was won by the Thranes. Their lands clawed back from the Brelish forces, in part due to some betrayal of the Dar. The words of praise fell on deaf ears as the battleworn Chantalyn trudged through her camp. The cheers of “Silver Blight” sounded like rushing water against the sound of her own heartbeat. She felt the Shiny Silver Flame in her heart sputtering. So much death. So much pain. She’d done the patriotic thing. And for what? To protect her people, sure. But did it have to really be this way? Was this what Flamekeep really wanted? The bloodshed?

Over weeks and months and years, Chantalyn grew into the Silver Blight moniker. She continued to be a force of reckoning on the battlefield. When she was able, however, she wrote to the people in charge in Flamekeep, to Blood Regent Queen Diani, to anyone. Stop the war. End the fighting. There’s no need for Thrane to keep doing this.

She didn’t see what happened to Cyre on the Day of Mourning, but when she heard she asked to be relocated to that front. She wanted to help the fleeing Cyrans. Her request was denied.

The Silver Blight isn’t a force that helps.

Blood dripped from the edges of her armor. The Silver Blight had seen Breland’s floating fortress go down. An unfortunate misstep of the Brels. She was called to take prisoners. Evidently there were plenty of people still in the fortress after it crashed. Generals, commodores, and all sorts of expensive people.

The Thrane army split as the Silver Blight stalked toward the fortress. As she approached the rumors that had spread like wildfire on the battlefield were whispered. “She removed that part of her armor because she’s not afraid to be struck there, because she’s literally heartless. It’s why she doesn’t show mercy on the battlefield.” “She killed a man in basic training for looking at her wrong.” “The Silver Blight single-handedly killed an entire platoon of Ursine Cavalry.” “She’s vowed to end the war by spilling the blood of all who oppose Thrane.” “She’s a follower of the Shadow in the Flame” “She was selected by Krozen himself”

Whispers ceased as she passed. Any voices that lingered were subject to her eyes. Almost perfectly Thranish Blue. Almost always glowing with silver fire. Almost always deeply dead inside. It sent shivers down one’s spine.

After she passed the whispers caught back up again, in a fervor. “She is the daughter of a rich man, who went to war instead of marrying a layabout.” “She’s a Couatl in human form.” “She tore out her heart and fed it to the Flame.” “Under it all, she’s a beauty, but I weep for any man who would be forced to marry a force of nature like that.” “She killed a priest before the battle, and consumed his soul.” “The Silver Blight isn’t to be trifled with.”

Knights were tying the hands of Brelish soldiers as they systematically swept through the once floating castle. She pauses to watch two templars provide first aid to a Brel who was actively bleeding out from some arcane shrapnel. When the Brel’s gaze meets the Silver Blights, their eyes go wide, their breath shallow, and they faint. The Silver Blight lifts her chin, looking down her nose at any who dared catch her attention.

Stepping through the halls of stone and metal, a reinforced door bursts open, separating the Silver Blight from her retinue. An angry fat man, burns all over his face and hands, holds up a wand. The spell dies at the tip of the wand, and the general dies at the tip of her blade.

Her expression did not change. No surprise, no joy, no triumph, no irritation. Her ice blue eyes dead-cold, like the deepest depths of Risia, made ever more intimidating by the fresh wound down the left side of her face, only just starting to heal. The tips of her once-blonde hair stained with days of blood added to the aura of silent intimidation that she exuded.

“Silver Blight, Ser -I mean.... Commander Sarhain. We’ve found a few locked chambers.” A templar salutes the commanding officer, after turning a corner in the labyrinthine halls of the fortress.

“Silver Blight... is fine.” She gives the man permission, her retinue making mental note. “Show me.” Her Thrane Valley accent scratched against her throat, like a nail-file, gravelly, and deep. Pulled down by her actions these past days.

The now shaking templar leads the Silver Blight through the hallways. Not pausing to check any other doors, or look in on the efforts of other knights. The templar pulls on the handle of the door, showing, how ineffectual he was at opening it. Above the door, engraved in the stone, it said “Communications”. The Silver Blight looked at it and tilted her head, like a hawk assessing prey, or a raven working through a puzzle.

Before she can take an action, a door further down bursts open. Why did these Brels think kicking open doors and attacking with wands was a good idea? The Brelish commander calls out “Wait, You’re Her! The Silver BlightaaaaaAAAHHHHHHhhhg!” Why do men so high in the military think a battlefield is a good place for a friendly chat?

“Silver Blight, Ser. The door?” One of her retinue says, standing in front of the communications door.

The woman doesn’t clean her blade or even sheath it. She stands behind as two of her knights simultaneously kick the reinforced wooden door. The sound of wood splintering echoes through the fortress. 

Whatever Chantalyn expected... It wasn’t this. A terrified man, dressed in Brelish Blues, a mote of silver hovering over his hand. A spell waiting to be cast. The room was burning, bodies littered the floor. None of that mattered. The rest of the world fell away.

Her sword fell from her hand. Did it make a sound? Not important. She takes a step forward. Then another, then she covers the distance between her and this... He looked like a child to her. He’d always looked like a child to her. Even now at his full height, with stubble growing in, and the muscles of a soldier. He was a child in a hand-made costume looking up at her.

The Silver Blight stunned her men again that day, as she pulled Brel into a deep embrace. Pulling his head toward her heart, kissing the top of his hair, his forehead. Wiping away the dirt of battle from his face.

“It's okay.” She said, “I’m here.” She soothed. “We’re safe.” Perhaps these words weren’t meant for just the man in Brelish clothing. Perhaps it was for her too. “Drego... Your heart. It is so empty.”

She saw it in his eyes. The hollow look she felt, the emptiness. Seeing her beloved cousin in such a state, it sparked her heart. It fed her flame. It pissed her off. But it also frightened her.

She didn’t ask any questions, they didn’t matter. Instead she held him close, whether he wanted her to or not. “I missed you.” She whispers, steaming hot sparkling tears trickle off her cheeks, making hideous tracks in the dirt and blood she was caked in. “I missed you.” She whispers again. “Please... I’ll stay by your side.” She didn’t know why she felt like she was losing him. It had been so long since they’d seen each other... But something in him. More than the hollowness. More than the weariness of battle. It was something dark. A backwards-looking shadowed claw wrapping around his soul. That’s what it felt like.

“Men, get me a horse! I’m taking this brave Thranish Spy back to camp.” Chantalyn barks the order, but her men don’t move... They know the Brels are tricky, this could be the effects of a spell. She isn’t annoyed, but they are wasting precious time. “Come with me, Drego Sarhain, you fought, like, really bravely.” She over enunciated Drego’s name, letting her battalion understand who this man was, and why he was important. She pulls him toward the door, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand grasping one of his hands. She’d carry him if she needed to... But she wanted him to have dignity. Whether he knew it or not, what he did won the battle.

Knight-Commander Gennara ir’Damilek stands in her tent, staring down at the map of the battlefield. The Brelish and Goblins had retreated. There was a commotion outside the tent.

“M-ma’am, you can’t.”

“I’M THE FUCKING SILVER BLIGHT I DO WHAT I FUCKING PLEASE!”

“C-calm down, this isn’t the front. The battle’s over, commander.”

“MOVE OR BURN.”

The flaps of the tent singed with silver tongues of fire.

Wreathed in white flame and red blood Commander Chantalyn Sarhain rushes the tent. Screaming a guttural “GENNARA!!!”

Knight-Commander Gennara isn’t shaken by the display, but she didn’t expect the woman to continue her charge, vaulting the table, and her fist making contact with the Knight-Commander’s cheek. Silently she swears that will be the ONLY hit she permits this unruly child to get on her.

Chantalyn pulls her fist back. Covered in blood, Gennara’s? Someone else’s? It didn’t matter. It crackled as the flame in Chantalyn's heart burst her hand into flames. She strikes again, but the older woman blocks. And blocks again, and again. The onslaught not quite giving her time to cast a spell to create distance between them.

“YOU BROKE HIM!” Chantalyn’s voice booms, she’s made so many scenes during this battle... Not very political, is she? “YOU BROKE HIM WHEN I TOLD YOU NOT TO!” The younger woman’s voice cracks, tears well up in her eyes. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO. AND NOW, I’M GOING TO FUCKING BREAK YOU.”

Her blows don’t let up, but they do get sloppy through the tears. Giving the more experienced woman an opening. Gennara hits Chantalyn’s side, where her breastplate and greaves meet. This knocks the wind out of the Silver Blight just long enough for the Knight-Commander to put distance between them.

“No, Commander Sarhain, I built him up. I didn’t coddle him.” Fingers curl and spin, somatic movements for a spell.

“Go Ahead, bitch. Do to me what you did to him. See if I’m as kind as he is and forgive you. Or if I move through the pain and put my sword in your throat.” Chantalyn growls.

There was something that gave Gennara pause. The threat wasn’t an empty one. In fact the malice that dripped from the young woman’s voice almost frightened her. Her bloodlust wasn’t sated on the battlefield.

Chantalyn’s charge is cut short when Gennara says “Down!” the knight is hit with a force... No. Something else. Her body moves without her consent. She kneels on her right knee. Her right fist closed and touched the ground, her left hand up on the left knee. In a bowing fealty position. “Emotions are strong, Commander Sarhain. You’ve just helped win a decisive battle. I won’t hold this against you.” That was a lie. They both knew it. “Take some time and cool off.”

Chantalyn couldn’t move her limbs. Her face wrenched up and she called out. “Gennara, this isn’t over.”

By the time the spell lifts from Chantalyn, the Knight Commander is long gone. Off to speak to some important people, the Silver Blight was sure. This wasn’t the end of this... She’d make sure of it. But all of a sudden she was tired, and she longed to speak with her cousin, and drink wine, and eat something.

The war was over. The Silver Blight listens to the news, smiling. It had started to weigh on her. Even if there weren’t any big battles the past two years. Sitting at the Brelish front, watching. Terrified to find out if they were the force behind Cyre’s destruction. The tense silence did give her plenty of time to sketch, draw, plan, and think. She drafted what her future would be.

After a meeting with Jaela she is named Minister of Saiyar. A small town south of the Harrowcrowns. She knew it, despite some embarrassing miscommunication.

The retired knight stands in the home provided to her. Reasonably sized, meant for a family, with plenty of rooms for children and siblings and parents and guests. She was used to large homes. But this felt... Empty. Chantalyn was determined to fill it.

“The Silver Blight.” It was whispered as she walked through the town. It was likely they didn’t know what to expect of her. This hero from the front, now their spiritual leader. Chantalyn’s first stop was to the local magewrights and smiths. Pins and needles and special gloves and hammers and nails were ordered. What sorts of evil does she fight with these tools? The speculations sped faster than she walked. The apiarist heard of her strange requests well before she got to his doorstep where she ordered beeswax in great amounts and plenty of honey. She took with her only a small amount, and asked to be provided stock with the next harvest. How interesting. Wax and honey and gloves and needles? Perhaps she was preparing for some sacred rite they’d never heard of. Perhaps it was some ritual developed at the front. When she entered into the Cannith Enclave, and met with the artificers secretly, the rumors exploded. She was creating a device that would keep the town safe. She was actually working on something dangerous and malevolent. She was an eccentric who cracked during the war and she was pawned off on the town. The requested machines would be delivered. That was all the gossiping ganders of the town heard.

MACHINES?! What minister has need of MACHINES?! Did this minister expect them to worship some creation of Cannith imbued with the flame? Throughout the day people slowly got more caught up in Chantalyn’s movements, speculating, running her name through the rumor mill. So caught up that they lost track of her. They didn’t see her visit the weavers, or the dressmaker, or the apothecary.

Only a small handful of the townsfolk appeared for the morning rituals the day after Chantalyn arrived. Very few saw the blonde woman, hair curled perfectly, silver shimmer on her eyelids, making her icy blue eyes even colder, as she stepped onto the pulpit. Chantalyn doesn’t smile. Not yet. But soon.

“There’s, like, so few of you here. Tira taught us that numbers are not strength, that even the few can be mighty. But, like, she also teaches that for the few TO be mighty, we must create strong bonds. So that if one loses footing, the others can uplift them until they can stand again. One thread will buckle under pressure, but braid in a few more, plait them and spin them, and no longer will the threads break. I know that I’m, like, supes busy getting settled, so I’m not gonna, like, keep you here all day. But, like, find a way to uplift your fellow community members, and lend a super sexy helping hand where you can.” Her smile emerges as she monologues, looking out at the handful of her people. Finally when she’s done she manifests a small flame in front of her heart. “Kindness is what kindles the shiny sparkly flames in our hearts.” The flame dissipates in a shower of sparkles and the priest puts up two fingers by her eye, gives a big exaggerated wink, blows a kiss and says “OKII BAIEEEE!” Before extricating herself from the pulpit and seeing the congregation off.

She’d heard the rumors, the whispers, these were small-town people, of course they’d talk. She’d HOPED for more people to show up... But she was a patient woman. She knew they’d come. For now, she needed to continue unpacking.

Chantalyn’s footsteps echo through her home, she discards her habit as she makes her way to the bedroom she was using as a closet. The trunk was sitting where she’d left it, on a short table in the middle of the room. It had held most of her clothes for the past few years. But now she had a permanent place, there was no reason to keep lugging around the expensive clothes.  She hums to herself as she reaches into the trunk, pulling out garment after garment, hanging them up on racks around the room, or tucking them into drawers.

Her hand touches a worn box inside the trunk. She knows exactly what it is the moment her fingers fish it from the extra dimensional space. Carefully the Silver Blight pries the top of the nondescript box off, and unfolds the tissue paper, revealing the shining fabric. It was beautiful, as beautiful as the day he made it for her, all that time ago... Drego... He’d enlisted. He was never a fighter, though, he was too smart for that. There were whispers that he’d been enlisted to do more than just mage work for the country. They both went far. Exceptionally so. And even if they didn’t fight together, this dress, and knowing he was doing all he could with his extraordinary gifts? That made her feel at ease.

There is a saying in Siyar. When there is a moment’s rest, the beasts come out. It would be a lovely idiom for never having idle hands, for always working on something... If it weren’t twice-damned true. Whenever the town is calm, beasts from the Harrowcrowns descend from the wood and attack.

That day the town watched as Minister Chantalyn Sarhain strutted from her home, in a ballgown made of silk and steel and engaged with the creatures from the depths of nightmares in a dance to the death. Her arrows struck true from afar, and her longsword never missed. This was the power, the beauty, of the Silver Blight.

Minister Chantalyn Sarhain smiles, sipping wine from the glass, “oh mai flame-uh, a girl never kisses and TELLS. But yeah, the Siberys mark is all over his ENTIRE body.” Her trip to Sharn had been fruitful. Another interview on the Echoers promoting her new line of clothes and the runway show happening in a few days.

Naturally she still had a few things to do, the garments had been fitted to her models, but the adjustments were still waiting for their final touches. And she hadn’t decided what she was wearing. That was her least favorite part. She didn’t want to outshine her work, but fuck, she’s SO hot and it ALWAYS happens.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” she says to one of the models, giving her a little spin in the dress, “I just don’t think I should wear anything from the collection.”

The model shrugs and says “C. C. Shanell does it.”

“Yeah okay but C.C. Shanell is a fucking bitch.” The model can’t argue. C. C. Shanell IS a fucking bitch.

“Some just wear casual stuff. Like I heard that Eelsa Scallopelli just wore casual farming clothes for her Spring in Eldeen collection last year.” The model is trying to be helpful. She’s not.

“Ohmaiflame but, like, it was so fucking inspired to dress that way, because like, she was making a statement about Eldeen being the breadbasket of Khorvaire and that gorgeous fashion can’t happen without the labors of the farmers, a.k.a. the designer.” She takes another sip of her wine, staring at the way the fabric swirled around the model.

“Maaaaybe wear something that is evocative of what you needed to get to this point? That’s the theme of the collection, right? Combat functional fashion and your want to be hella hot on the battlefield during the war, as well as the horrors of the war and how war will always be ugly because it pits us against each other?”

Chantalyn stares and blinks and nods, a tear forming in the corner of her eye, “you are, like, so fucking smart.” And she begins to reflect... What got her here?

That night she took a trip to the Kundarak bank, showing a key, giving a passphrase, opening an extradimensional vault, and pulling out a very worn nondescript box. It had inspired her so many times, it was the reason for her being where she was.

Dress Rehearsal (it’s a pun, get it?) was needed to ensure everything looked PERFECT on the runway... And yet... None of the models showed up. A deep sense of dread spreads through Chantalyn. She can’t just FIND NEW MODELS. Perhaps it was because of the dress she just finished hanging, but she remembered the name of a detective Drego had mentioned.

“Okay every buddy, let’s get this dress rehearsal going!” Chantalyn comes into the dressing room, clapping her hands together. It was quite early in the morning. The dressing room was silent. There was no chatter, no steam from styling stones, nor ruffle of skirts, clacking of shoes, not even a catfight and snarky remark.

Not only was the room silent.... It was empty. Well. not EMPTY. It had clothes and mirrors and dresses and styling stones and shoes and props and all sorts of things. What it DIDN’T have was her six models. This just wouldn’t do. They were ALWAYS so punctual. They knew how important this was to her. It dawned on her - she had heard about something like this happening to Gristian d’Orien. All of his models skipped out on him and walked in a C.C. Shanell’s fashion show which was conveniently scheduled for the same day. Chantalyn shuddered. C.C. Shanell was a bitch. Hopefully her models were fine.

The Minister of Siyar paces the room, one... three... five... ten... fifteen minutes pass, and she wouldn’t stay here any longer like a helpless damsel in distress. Instead she’d be a help me less damsel in this dress... she read that in a book once. One of those self-help things written by people who haven’t ever actually struggled. But it applied here, she thought.

It only took her two hours to source the correct fabric for her dress and jacket, and only one hour to sew it all together. Forty five minutes at Davandi’s Fine Tailoring for the hat and handbag. And Fifteen minutes to figure out where in the khyber-fucked city this woman Drego bragged about was located. No... make that thirty, and half a dozen people pointing her in various directions. Really, this investigator needed better marketing and signage.

“A lavender latte tal, whole milk, extra foam, half sugar, double garnish, and a slice of Couatl Cake please.” Chantalyn smiles brilliantly at the server of the cafe, and takes her complicated order to a shaded table outside the window, waiting for this investigator to come back. The drink was mid. The cake was fine. A gentleman came out and took away her cup and plate. And she waited. And waited.

“Miss, I have to ask you to leave.” The gentleman says to her, politely, smiling awkwardly.

“Wait... what? What do you mean I have to leave?” Chantalyn lowers her sunglasses to the tip of her nose, somehow looking down at the man despite being seated and physically looking up.

“Well, you have finished your drink, and you’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour...” He says gently.

“Then get me more fucking cake. If I have to keep up with your consumption rate in order to wait here for a friend, then I, like, guess I’ll have to do that. But just know that, like, it’s kind of corrupt and totally emblematic of the dissolution of safe, free, and available third spaces, and is the reason why Sharn has gone so downhill in the last decade.” Chantalyn points a perfectly manicured finger at the man.

He... didn’t understand half of her words with the speed at which they poured forth from her mouth and he simply shook his head. “I’m sorry Ma’am... I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Oh... OH. It’s fucking Ma’am now? Instead of miss? That is SO typical, using language emblematic of an older woman to suggest that I’m being a problem. How agist and sexist, next you’ll be calling me fucking sora.” Chantalyn stands up with a huff, suddenly towering over the man. “That’s fine, I don’t want to patronage your problematic fucking shop. Also, I KNOW that you used skim milk instead of whole, and the regular amount of garnish. I’ll be leaving a scathing review with Ghallanda.” She picks up her bag and walks 20 feet to the next cafe over, and sits down at one of the tables just outside their window.

When a waiter comes by she orders a Lavender latte tal, whole milk, extra foam, half sugar, double garnish, and a slice of Couatl Cake... then she tells the waiter to keep the cake coming so that she won’t be asked to leave. The waiter, who had seen her argument with his neighbor, did not question it, and acquiesced to her request.

There the Silver Blight waited.

And Waited.

Aaaaand finished her cake.

And waited.

And another slice of cake.

And another.

Eventually she catches sight of them... this company of adventurers that her cousin spoke to her about. She pusses her sunglasses up, and turns her face away from them, pulling the lapels of her jacket up. Good. They wouldn’t notice her at all. Just had to wait a few minutes after they went into their office. That’s how it worked in the Inquisitive Serials. She’d walk into a swanky thurimbar rod trill, the room would be smokey, and the light would shine just right to show everything and nothing.

Wait.

The woman with black and white hair was approaching.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go...” She whispers to herself, trying to think about what she was going to say if the woman came over to her instead of up to her office.

The woman turned instead and went into her office. PERFECT. This is exactly what Chantalyn had planned. The adventurers who weren’t detectives sat at the very table she’d abandoned a few hours before, at the cafe next door. She sighs, dropping some coin on the table, and standing up. Her strut across the cobbles was perfect, confident, mysterious.

She knocks on the door, then enters without waiting.

“Sarhain... Chantalyn Sarhain.”