"You know that means you'll be traveling or gone four to five trials out of ten." Caius grumbled childishly, still smiling at her excitement as they curled together in the carriage, more than willing to keep the delicate pianist warm. He understood the amazing opportunity learning from a master like Malero provided Darcyanna, but the idea of spending so much time apart still tugged at the more selfish, possessive parts of his feelings for her. At least she'd be in Bellesoir and with Oliver, he comforted himself,
"You'll just have to coordinate your time at home with my days off of the Gazette—"
The sound from outside was more than enough to cut his words short, forced to shove a foot against the seat opposite to keep himself steady as the carriage came to a rough halt. The young Gawyne hissed, slipping his arm from around Darcy with his heart caught against the back of his throat. For a moment, there was only the panicked sound of horses, but hot melted metal seared through his veins at the noises that followed. It was the voice, however, the voice that needed no formal introduction, that stopped his fiery heart and forced him to hold his breath.
Pythera.
Caius' expression hardened and he swallowed the initial rush of pure fear that clawed down his spine when the blonde Venora next to him gripped him tightly. He was not prepared for this. He was far from capable of defending her against the Valkyr. Not now. Not yet. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Tilting his head to her, he moved to pry her fingers from his arm, irises pale like frosted steel. Lips curled into a sneer at the monster outside's next words and he exhaled slowly, anger and protectiveness flooding his senses when the woman had the nerve to speak his name.
She knew far too much, and his heart sank in the form of his chest like so much cast off lead.
"You will not give her the satisfaction of seeing your face." He leaned forward to whisper furtively in Darcy's ear, feeling the terror of her body. He pressed warm lips against her forehead and reached above her delicately, carefully grabbing his saber in its sheath above their heads. He held her gaze, his other hand brushing her face before he leaned back, drawing his weapon without subterfuge,
"This isn't the moment I imagined—"
Pythera said Oliver's name and the northern noble's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his blade. By the Fates if she'd hurt the man, he wasn't sure what he'd do with himself. She was counting and his pulse roared in his ears,
"—but I love you, Darcyanna Venora." Caius whispered without hesitation, a mix of emotions churning in his gaze, but then he blinked and his voice was firm,
"Stay here. Please."
Weapon drawn and glinting in the last of the sun, the young Gawyne ignored the roaring heat of terror in his chest to step out into the chill of Zi'da, finally taking in the woman who'd terrified the delicate pianist he truthfully cared so much about for himself. She'd been a monster in stories told in the dark until now, and, in all honesty, the northern noble wished he'd been more impressed. Younger, smaller-framed, if he hadn't known better, he would have already made the grave mistake of underestimating Pythera Venora. This woman was the youngest of the Bellesoir Venoras and yet had managed to keep Darcyanna under her thumb for her whole life. From the sounds of things, she'd gone and attacked Oliver, too. And gotten away with it? He couldn't let his concern eat at him, he couldn't let his fear distract him, but he also couldn't let his anger consume him. Her winged mount rumbled a growl from behind her and the wickedness that haunted the young woman's features wasn't anything to ignore, but he fought to stay focused.
Butcher of Warrick. Valkyr. Torturer. Stalker. Idiot.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Caius' face twisted into a defiant sneer, letting the heat that clawed at his veins fuel the vitriol in his words,
"What a Fates-be-damned mistake you've made to make yourself known to-trial! Fucking stupid, bloodthirsty beast, how foolish to let me, of all people, know that you're making a show of yourself in Andaris, in Venora, in anywhere across Rynmere. You say my name with vulgar intentions, but do you even know who I am? Do you even know what's happening in the kingdom around you? Clearly you're too busy feeding your inadequacies with blood and mayhem, but I come with fire." It was by pure luck and wordless prayers to the Seven that the northern noble kept his voice from shaking, saber leveled at the woman before him and every word summoned from his deep sense of protectiveness for Darcy. His threats weren't entirely empty, but perhaps foolishly unfounded. He had yet to test the full extent of his authority under the Lord Inquisitor, but for the terrified, tortured woman who held his heart, he would sarding well find out,
"Perhaps you've kept yourself hidden this long, but now that I know your face, now that I know you're within my reach, I'll have you and the rest of your fucking pathetic bandits declared a sleeper cell of mages the moment I step foot back in Andaris."
He had no idea if any of them were mages, but it didn't matter. The threat was enough, and the resources that had been shoved into his unwilling hands were like rabid dogs kept in cages, eager to be set free. Caius tightened his grip on his saber, quite sure that he would reveal himself sorely inadequate if Pythera chose to attack him, quite sure she'd make short work of him no matter how much of a fight he'd give her before she did so,
"I've told myself I'd never take pleasure in watching anyone burn, but for you? I'd set the torch myself. Now fuck off."
