Fate's oddity volume 2, page 11
Murasaki glanced at him sidelong, curious. “Used what?”
He lifted a hand just above the surface, and with a flick of his wrist, a delicate shimmer passed over his skin. The Phoenix Crown appeared—not as a full circlet, but a slender ring of golden flame that hovered above his palm like a breathing ember, its feathers flickering without heat.
“Figured I’d see what it can do,” he said softly. “Might just burn everything to hell.”
He let the circlet hover for a beat longer before slowly pressing his palm to the water. The golden light flared faintly, subtle as a breath. Murasaki tensed, watching the surface closely.
Then, bit by bit, the chill began to fade.
Warmth spread through the water—not scalding, not unnatural. Just comfortable. Soothing. Like a hot spring finding its way back to life. Steam began to curl again, this time from real heat. A surprised laugh burst out of Murasaki’s throat.
“Well now, look at you. Flamebringer, steam-maker, occasional hero.”
Krimson chuckled, letting the circlet dissolve back into nothing, the golden flame winking out like a satisfied grin. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t work for free, y’know.”
Murasaki snorted, eyes half-lidded as the rising warmth curled around her. “What’s the charge, then? One foot rub? Two?”
He tilted his head, smirking. “First time I’ve used that thing since I got it, and you spend it all on bathwater. You’d better be generous with the tip.”
“Mm.” She stretched, letting her arms glide above the surface as her back arched slightly—utterly unconcerned with modesty. “Feels divine. Worth every coin.”
Krimson reclined again, watching her with that lazy, appreciative gleam. “Figures. First time I tap phoenix fire and all it does is get you more comfortable.”
“Aye,” she murmured, sliding closer in the water with a smirk. “And here I thought ye were a weapon. Turns out you’re just a fancy kettle.”
“Oh? And here I thought you liked the cold.” His tone was light, but his eyes traced the droplets running down her collarbone.
“I like it fine,” she said, drifting closer until their knees touched. “But I like this better.”
The water lapped gently around Krimson’s hips as he settled in closer beside her. Steam curled between them, but it was the closeness—bare skin, glistening droplets, the faintest brush of legs beneath the surface—that truly made the air thick.
Murasaki sidled behind him, water shifting with her movement. “Turn around,” she said, almost casually.
He arched a brow. “Giving orders now?”
“Aye. Consider it a service. In my tribe, we wash the backs of those we respect.”
Krimson chuckled but obliged, turning his back to her with only a hint of teasing. “I must be climbing the ranks.”
“You’ve earned it,” she murmured, dipping the cloth in the warm stream and wringing it out slowly, deliberately. Then, with a tenderness that contrasted her usual swagger, she began to wash him.
Her hands moved in slow, firm circles over his shoulders, following the lines of old scars and muscle with a kind of reverent attention. “You’re built like a blade,” she muttered, half to herself. “All edge.”
He exhaled, letting his eyes slip shut. “Careful. You’re starting to sound fond.”
She snorted softly. “I’m just observin’. Not blind, y’know.”
Her touch wandered lower—past his shoulders, down his spine, lingering slightly longer than necessary. The cloth slipped somewhere along the way, forgotten, and her hands grew bolder. Fingers tracing lines she had no business following. The space between tension and invitation narrowed to a single breath.
Krimson’s voice was low, amused. “You sure this is standard tribal hospitality?”
She leaned in, lips just brushing his ear. “This is for my Alpha.”
Krimson’s breath brushed her ear in return. “That so?” he murmured, voice low and rough.
He turned, water rippling between them, and Murasaki didn’t shy away. Her eyes were heavy-lidded now, mouth parted slightly, skin flushed from warmth—and something deeper. He reached for the cloth she’d abandoned, dipping it once more, but this time his movements were slow, deliberate, teasing.
“Your turn,” he said simply.
Murasaki raised a brow. “What, hospitality’s goin’ both ways now?”
He didn’t answer—just stepped closer, and her breath caught as he brought the cloth to her collarbone. The first touch was light, gliding over her skin in small, measured strokes. Krimson wasn’t hurried, nor was he timid. He moved with the same controlled precision that marked his every strike in battle—only this time, his aim wasn’t to kill, but to kindle.
The cloth trailed along her throat, dipped just beneath the line of her breasts before tracing upward again in lazy, spiraling arcs. Her chest rose and fell more quickly now, not from cold, but anticipation. The heated water lapped at her hips, but it was nothing compared to the heat blooming beneath her skin.
Krimson's fingers brushed hers—lightly at first, then firmer, grounding. “You’re shaking,” he said, not unkindly.
“Am not,” she breathed. But the tremble betrayed her, just enough.
He set the cloth aside and used his hands instead—fingertips gliding along her waist, her ribs, then rising to cradle her back. He drew her forward, slowly, letting the water close the distance inch by inch.
“You always act so in control,” he whispered.
“I am in control,” she said, but her voice wavered.
He smiled. “Then stop me.”
She didn’t.
Instead, her arms slid around his neck, her body pressing against his, slick and warm and utterly bare. Their skin met in a breathless shiver, and when she tilted her face toward his, it wasn’t timid—it was hungry.
Their mouths met hard, all heat and tension and something too long held back. Her fingers threaded through his hair as he deepened the kiss, their hips aligning beneath the water in a rhythm too natural to be accidental. His hands roamed her back, drawing soft moans from her throat as she arched against him, every nerve alive beneath his touch.
Murasaki pulled back for only a moment, breathless, eyes half-lidded. “Y’know, I thought ye were just a cheeky bastard with good aim.”
Krimson leaned in, brushing his lips along her jaw, down her throat. “You’re not wrong.”
She laughed, husky and rich. “Shut up.”
And then she kissed him again—harder this time, pulling him into her with a need that bordered on desperate. He pressed her to the bank, the world narrowing to the warmth between them, the rush of blood, the pulse of steam curling into the winter morning air.
The moment didn’t need words. Their bodies spoke in heat and pressure, in gasps and friction, in the silent language of two people who had danced too long around something they both wanted.
By the time they parted, breathless and tangled in the shallows, the sun had risen higher—but neither had noticed.
Just as Murasaki slid into his lap, hips grazing his cock beneath the water, her breath hot against his neck, Krimson tilted his head to meet her—hands gliding low over the small of her back, fingers tightening with growing intent. Her lips parted against his jaw, her body aligning with his in a slow, deliberate grind—
A shriek cut through the trees.
“Oh my—! Spirits preserve me!”
Krimson jerked back instinctively, water sloshing. Murasaki froze, eyes narrowing.
Up the slope, half-concealed behind a willow, stood Vivienne—one gloved hand over her eyes, the other clutching her mirror like a holy relic. Her face was scarlet.
“I—I was just fetching water! I didn’t think—!” She turned hastily, nearly tripping over her own feet as she fled, muttering, “Unbelievable. First it was dinner, now this…”
Murasaki sighed, resting her forehead on Krimson’s chest. “That makes twice now we’ve been interrupted mid-fun.”
Krimson chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Starting to think it’s a curse.”
She smirked. “Better be a slow one. I’m not done with ye yet.”
They parted the water reluctantly, dressing with quiet mirth. By the time they returned to camp, Celestia was plating breakfast with singed dignity, Tazrak was already packing, and Azazel gave a silent nod from the perimeter.
Vivienne, conspicuously busy with her boots, refused to look anyone in the eye.
Krimson caught her glance once—flustered, pink, and thoroughly scandalized.
He winked. She scowled.
The day began. But the tension lingered.
***
The rising spires of Marivier loomed ahead like silent watchmen, their cold stone bathed in winter’s pale light. Perched on the edge of rolling hills and misty groves, the walled city that housed Duke de Lothaire’s ancestral stronghold was as formidable as the man who ruled it. Banners in blue and black fluttered atop the turrets, noble crest gleaming—three silver hounds circling a tower—waving stiffly in the chill wind.
Krimson rode ahead of the caravan, his white hair tousled by the breeze, cloak snapping behind him. The clatter of hooves echoed through the narrow approach as Ruby Road made their way past rows of farmland and into the outer village, where peasants paused their work to gawk in awe—or suspicion.
Lady Eveline’s carriage rolled smoothly behind him, protected on either side by Azazel and Tazrak, the latter giving a quiet nod to any child bold enough to wave. Celestia and Murasaki were inside the carriage, the former humming to herself while the latter cast sharp, protective glances at every rooftop and alley they passed.
As the city gates opened, Duke de Lothaire’s guards gave only a cursory inspection before ushering them through. The reason was obvious—word had spread. Ruby Road had arrived.
The inner courtyard of the ducal keep was immaculate—flagstones scrubbed, soldiers at attention, and liveried servants bracing for noble company. Duke de Lothaire stood at the center, arms folded behind his back, posture iron-rod straight. He wore no crown or ostentatious jewelry, only the heavy cloak of his station and the cold glint of awareness in his eyes.
The moment Eveline descended from the carriage, a wave of tension eased from his frame. He crossed the distance in long strides and pulled her into a brief, tight embrace.
Eveline smiled softly, her relief clear. “Thanks to Ruby Road, Father. They protected me admirably.”
The Duke turned toward Krimson and his companions, offering a respectful nod. “You have my gratitude. You've performed an invaluable service.”
Krimson inclined his head politely. “We’re honored, Your Grace. But there’s something you—and the others—should know. The threats to your daughter weren’t just rumor.”
The group stilled.
The Duke’s expression sharpened. “Go on.”
Tazrak frowned, sensing tension. “Did something happen?”
Krimson nodded, voice level. “Five men slipped into camp while everyone slept—professional cutthroats, not amateurs. They tried to take Eveline right out of the carriage.”
A tense silence followed, the revelation settling heavily in the courtyard.
Celestia’s brows rose in disbelief. “You’re serious? You didn’t say anything this morning—”
“Didn’t seem urgent. They’re dead,” Krimson said simply. “Dragged the last one out past the perimeter. Quiet work.”
Vivienne’s mouth opened, then closed again. “You handled five assassins alone? While we slept?”
Krimson shrugged, almost apologetic. “Didn’t want to wake anyone.”
Tazrak stared, incredulous. “Next time, wake us.”
“Next time, I might want the warm-up,” Krimson muttered with a crooked grin.
The Duke’s gaze had darkened. “This confirms my fears. If assassins were deployed within my own lands, then the rot runs deeper than I thought. My rivals must be emboldened by the shifting tides across Gaia.”
Azazel’s voice was quiet, firm. “And they’re growing bold enough to act openly.”
Celestia crossed her arms, her expression grim now. “And if they’ve seen us defend Eveline once, they’ll assume we’ll do it again. We’re in this now.”
The Duke gave a slow nod, eyes flicking from Krimson to the others. “I am in your debt. You’ve uncovered a plot I’d feared was brewing, but hoped I was wrong about.”
He exhaled, then softened. “Rest, all of you. You’ve more than earned it. Tomorrow, we speak further.”
As he turned to lead Eveline inside, she paused beside Tazrak, her smile soft and personal. “Truly, thank you. I felt safe knowing you were near.”
Tazrak gave a humble nod. “It was an honor, Mademoiselle Eveline.”
Krimson remained still as the noble pair disappeared into the keep. Around him, the cold wind picked up slightly, but it wasn’t the weather that put weight in the air. He could feel it—wheels turning, knives being sharpened in the dark.
This wasn’t the end of the danger.
It was the overture.
Codex Entry #49: “Marivier, the Duke’s City”
Marivier is not a city that welcomes—it endures. Built upon a series of terraced hills where winter clings longest, it overlooks the northern plains of Gaia like a sentinel carved from its own legend. Stone walls, older than most noble lines, rise in concentric rings around the inner keep. Each layer tells a story of siege, survival, and rebuilding—proof that Marivier has never fallen, only hardened.
Its architecture mirrors its temperament: narrow streets paved in slate, tall spires crowned with iron gargoyles, and courtyards where the wind itself seems to bow to discipline. The city’s colors—blue, black, and silver—dominate even in the banners and clothing of its people. The air smells faintly of iron and smoke, a reminder that this land was forged on labor, not leisure.
The ducal crest—three silver hounds circling a tower—flies from every gate and barracks. In Marivier, the crest is not mere decoration; it is identity. The hounds symbolize loyalty, vigilance, and obedience, while the tower represents steadfast endurance. To betray the Duke is to betray the city, and that is not an act of rebellion—it is treason against the soil itself.
The citizens of Marivier are proud and wary in equal measure. They are craftsmen and soldiers both, molded by the climate and the Duke’s unyielding rule. Outsiders often remark that even the silence here feels organized. Nothing is wasted—not breath, not word, not loyalty.
At dusk, when fog rolls down from the hills and the bells of the keep toll in slow succession, Marivier feels less like a place and more like a fortress of memory—guarding its people, its secrets, and the ghosts of wars that have not yet ended.
Chapter 5: The Quiet Before Daggers
The grand council chamber within Duke de Lothaire’s stronghold was imposing yet elegant, dawn’s light filtering through tall windows as Ruby Road assembled. They’d been summoned early—after a restless night and a tense breakfast—ushered by the Duke’s steward with a sense of urgency not lost on anyone.
Duke de Lothaire sat at the head of the table, his bearing dignified but his eyes shadowed by fatigue. He poured tea himself, hands steady, as if reminding his guests (and perhaps himself) that he was still master of his house. For all his composure, there was a tension in his posture, a soldier’s readiness beneath the noble exterior.
Once everyone was seated, the Duke broke the silence. “You have my thanks. My daughter is safe, thanks to your vigilance. I wish I could say the same for my city.”
Krimson inclined his head, his expression polite but edged with alertness. “Your Grace, it wasn’t just luck last night. Five professionals slipped into our camp. I handled them myself—quietly. They were good, but not good enough.”
Murasaki’s ears flicked, impressed, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Celestia offered Krimson a brief, private nod of approval.
The Duke’s face tightened further. “You searched them?”
Krimson produced a small, wrapped bundle—objects taken from the bodies. He laid them gently on the table: a ring, a short-bladed dagger with an unfamiliar hilt, and a scrap of parchment with a ciphered mark. “This ring—foreign make. The rest of their gear was standard for hired blades, but this stood out. If I had to guess, they weren’t local. I’d wager their loyalty was bought by someone with outside connections.”
As the Duke leaned in to examine the ring, Krimson felt an uncomfortable chill. The design was deliberately ostentatious—Noxian, or at least what people believed Noxian craftsmanship looked like. His eyes lingered on it a beat too long, recognizing the intent: not just foreign, but “other.” Dangerous.
Azazel studied the items, his eyes flickering briefly to Krimson—catching, perhaps, the tension in his jaw. He said nothing, but his silence carried weight.
“There have been rumors…” the Duke murmured. “Viscount de Salvador left from the south only days ago. He’s held land in Gaia for years, but his business has always been… murky. And his sympathies—well, he traffics in Noxian labor.”
Krimson glanced at Murasaki and Celestia. Celestia’s lips thinned in understanding. Murasaki’s gaze sharpened, her expression guarded. They understood—this was no simple hit. It was a message, a warning, and perhaps a weapon aimed at more than just the Duke.
“If Salvador’s involved,” Celestia said carefully, “he isn’t acting alone. Someone in Gaia’s nobility is funding this, but they’re also seeding suspicion. The evidence is meant to be found.”
The Duke let out a tired breath, glancing at the city beyond the window. “My rivals grow bold. And if they’re recruiting foreign blades, they expect to get away with it.”
Krimson spoke, voice measured, but with an edge of unease. “If someone wants to make it look like outsiders are to blame, Noxian trappings are the surest way to spark a panic.”
Lothaire slid several documents forward—notes on rival families, a brief summary of shifting fortunes, and a list of recent unexplained expenditures by certain noble houses. “These are the likeliest parties. But proving a connection to Salvador, or to the men who attacked us last night, will not be simple.”
