Chapter 116 – An actor

"Emrys Stormblessed’s ring."

Isolde’s eyebrows rose at Meadow’s words. She looked at the ring, squinted instinctively, and indeed felt the same natural aura that surrounded Emrys radiating from it.

Her mouth curved into a smile. "Did he really steal it?" She almost burst out laughing, finding it genuinely hard to believe.

She had always thought of herself as an anomaly among nobles, someone willing to do things others in their circle would never dare. A real outlier.

But stealing had never been part of it. She had never seen any need for it to begin with. And she was not, by nature, a greedy person.

Her husband, however, was so different from her on that point that it made her cackle.

"Cass truly has no limits." She managed between laughter. "He will do absolutely anything he wants without the slightest regard for his standing as a Tier One noble. So shameless."

’And that is exactly what makes him unpredictable.’

"That is indeed who he is." Meadow agreed, quietly surprised to find Isolde warmer and less rigid than she had expected.

The beautiful woman in the white robe looked at her steadily, her emotions not entirely hidden, present enough to be read without effort.

At that, Meadow felt at ease almost immediately.

She appreciated it when people were genuine with her. Whatever their feelings, she would always prefer a hard truth over a comfortable lie.

"But how did you end up with it?" Isolde asked, curiosity flickering. "Without anyone seeing, I mean?"

"Ah!" Meadow exclaimed, the memory coming back to her, a soft chuckle escaping. "It was right when the attack began." She started, instinctively pushing her glasses up her nose. "Knowing my combat abilities are very limited, I immediately decided to move toward him for protection."

She paused, blinked.

"Now that I think about it, I am not sure why I did that. I didn’t even know his true strength at the time, but...but..."

"You felt safer near him?" Isolde finished, reading her expression.

Meadow smiled awkwardly. "Aye, safer." She nodded, then quickly, "But I must be clear, it is nothing like that!"

"Oh, I know." Isolde chuckled. "I know you don’t see him that way, Meadow. That is the only reason I am smiling at you right now, you know."

Her purple eyes glowed. Her smile turned dead cold.

"If it were any other whores out there wishing to get her hands on my husband, I would be smiling at their corpse..." the smile widened "...not at them."

"Wait, seriously?" Meadow’s lips twitched.

"Seriously."

’And she is genuinely serious.’ Meadow noted inwardly, catching the White Light of Truth around Isolde. ’I thought she would be more reasonable than Cassius. But what did I expect from someone that madman loves so deeply?’

She grieved internally. ’Both of them are completely insane.’

And now she was working with them.

Meadow began to quietly pity herself.

She sighed and decided wisely not to address it. "As I was saying, I felt safer near him without understanding why. So I moved toward him. I was too slow, though, so he pulled me by flinging my hand toward him."

"He slipped you the ring then?" Isolde guessed, turning it idly between her fingers. "When he grabbed your hand?"

"Aye." Meadow nodded.

"And you just went along with it?" She chuckled.

"What other choice do I have now?" Meadow smiled, glancing at her phone and wincing faintly before continuing. "I am a Fallen Angel."

She pointed a black-nailed finger at the sleeping Cassius.

"And whether I like it or not, this troublesome man is now my leader. Ah, and my Editor."

"I am relieved to hear it. I have always wanted to know what it feels like to be sponsored by a wealthy person." Isolde said with a quiet smile.

Meadow’s eye twitched. "Do you actually see me as your personal wallet?"

"Me?" Isolde blinked, then shook her head. "Not at all. I am not greedy. But my husband certainly is."

She gestured at Cassius without hesitation.

The young tycoon rolled her eyes. "Which means you are too, by extension. I have only seen you both for a single day and I can already tell you are not as different from each other as you might think."

"Are you complimenting me, Meadow?"

"...because it sounded like one to you?"

"Isn’t the goal of any marriage to become one with your partner?"

Meadow’s face flushed suddenly at those words. "...to become one, you say?"

Isolde blinked, surprised by the reaction, then her eyes widened slightly as understanding arrived. Her own face flushed in kind.

"What kind of unholy thing is going on inside your head?" She said, caught off guard by this side of Meadow. But then shook her head quickly, seeing the woman preparing to be swallowed whole by embarrassment.

It seemed she had inadvertently spoken her inner thoughts aloud.

"Ah well, I can see you are in a hurry." Isolde said, steering them back firmly. "I won’t keep you, it’s quite late after all. Once Cassius wakes up, we will likely meet again to finalise everything and officially launch both the Company and the Sect."

"I will be waiting for that." The young heiress said, gathering herself and nodding with composure. "Then... uh...good night."

At those slightly nervous final words, Meadow pivoted and left the room promptly.

Her maid was waiting outside, and her First Brother had been calling her repeatedly with growing concern. She quickened her pace, feeling a strange, giddy warmth in her chest as everything from the day replayed through her mind.

’Is this what it feels like to be part of a hidden sect?’ She wondered, just before stepping out of the palace, and then smiled wider as the full weight of it settled on her.

’This is perfect material. Ah...but first, I need to go back and update my journal for tomorrow. I have so much to write!’

At that moment, Meadow Wealth had to admit something to herself. With Cassius Desdemona involved...

’...becoming a bestselling author might actually be possible.’

She giggled, stepped inside her luxurious carriage with a swift nod to her maid, and disappeared into the night.

Back in the room, Isolde looked at the ring for a long moment before shifting her eyes to the sleeping Cassius.

She smiled.

She tucked the ring away without inspecting its contents, then climbed onto the bed carefully, slowly, and with a nervousness she found somewhat embarrassing in herself, and settled beside him.

She closed her eyes, felt the presence of her husband beside her, the soft, steady exhale of his chest, bringing her tranquility and warmth she hadn’t realised she had been missing.

She drew closer, as if wanting to close every last gap between them — be one with him — and nestled her head against his chest with a sigh that rose from somewhere deep inside her, the kind of sigh that only came when something was just perfect.

She smiled and let herself be drawn gently into sleep, finally beside her husband after weeks apart.

However, not even five minutes in, Isolde heard the grating, deeply inconsiderate snore of Cassius reverberating directly into her head.

She nearly slapped his face. But she held back. Barely.

Instead she quietly used her sound ability in front of his mouth to kill the noise before it reached her.

Only then did she finally sleep.

And only after cursing Cassius a couple of times first.

...

An old man sat alone, in the cold and long hours of that night, inside an empty cafeteria of the Fangs, hidden in plain sight somewhere within the Badur Kingdom.

The old man was none other than Horus himself, in the middle of his dinner after finishing another gruelling round of training.

Being an assassin was genuinely and entirely different from being a soldier. The old man was learning that lesson every day through aching bones and an entirely new way of living.

But he had to admit being placed here was not so bad. His tumour was being managed by a Rank Four Apothecary, treated regularly to ensure it didn’t spread further.

A true cure remained impossible for someone at that rank. A Rank Five Apothecary might be able to manage it. But finding one at that level was like tossing a coin into a lake and making a wish.

It would remain exactly that...a wish.

Very few people who walked the Alchemy Path chose the Apothecary branch when they reached the Fourth Rank, the Perfected Rank.

And even fewer endured without losing part of their sanity along the way or abandoning the path entirely; not simply because of the difficulty, but because it was the most punishing branch of the four available.

That reality meant everyone understood: whoever chose to be an Apothecary was not doing it out of vanity or love of material reward. They were answering a calling.

A calling to heal, to protect, or at worst, to guide their patients as gently as possible into the next life.

And it was a calling that destroyed many of them, as they broke under the weight of the guilt when they failed.

Horus respected them deeply.

That was why, the first time he had met the Fangs’ Apothecary, he had immediately told the man that his death — whenever it came — would not be his fault.

That he was going to die either way.

The man’s answer still surprised him when he thought of it now.

"I appreciate your concern." The Apothecary had said, with a faint chuckle. "But the moment my eyes settle on a patient, their healing becomes my responsibility...no matter what. Their success becomes my joy and motivation. Their death becomes my burden and my motivation equally."

Remembering that day, Horus exhaled, closing his eyes, letting his thoughts drift to his master, Cassius Desdemona.

He wondered what he was doing right now. And what, concretely, he was supposed to be doing here.

Should he try to climb through the Fangs? Or stay low?

What was actually expected of him?

His thoughts began to spiral, and were cut short by a respectful, gentlemanly voice arriving with a presence Horus had come to know well.

"My good man." Omar Ibn Hakur settled into the seat across from him with his cane, black suit, hat atop his head, and the shy pink bull mask resting on his face. "What manner of thoughts, pray tell, are weighing so heavily on your mind?"

Horus smiled, looking at the man he had somehow come to call a friend during his short time here. "Many things, Omar. Many things. You can see how difficult it still is for me to... feel at ease here."

"I can see it, my friend." Omar said, his voice carrying a smile. "But, friend, I must not see it."

He lowered his voice and leaned his head forward.

"Appearance, good man. I have whispered this word in your ear many times now. Appearance. You lack the confidence to be here, that is fine. None of us are always confident. But, my good man, do you see it written plain on any of our foreheads?"

Horus shook his head.

"Then heed the advice."

"Tell me, Omar, are you always pretending?" Horus asked.

"Aren’t we all?" Omar replied immediately. "We live, Horus my good man, on a vast, intricate stage. A stage built for the gods to watch, observe and enjoy the show we put on for them. Yet, sadly, very few of us — even among the strong — ever realise that."

He paused. Horus felt a deep, timeless gaze settle on him despite being unable to see Omar’s face.

"All of them are characters." Omar resumed. "But I am no character, good man. I am... I am an actor."

"You are losing me. What is the difference?" Horus asked, feeling again the same sensation that always came when he was with Omar, as if he were speaking to someone far, far older than himself, despite Horus being an old man already standing one foot from Vorn’s gate.

"The difference is quite simple." Omar said, then explained with his usual calm. "The actor knows he is on a stage. The character believes there is no stage."

He chuckled quietly. "So don’t be a character, my good man. Being a character means being a fool who believes he chose to drink from that cup, with that hand, at that precise hour, entirely unaware that a script describing him doing exactly that was written long before his eyes ever opened to the world."

"Then what is the point?" Horus asked, a flicker of indignation crossing his face. "What is the point of being aware of it? Personally, Omar, I would much rather believe my actions are my own than otherwise. Do you have any idea how miserable it is to live thinking nothing you have done was ever truly by your own design?"

His expression darkened. "No one can live like that."

"An actor can, good man." Omar replied, then shook his head. "However, let us not continue down this interesting but rather unsettling path. I did not come here tonight for this discussion. Neither to convince you, again, that you should read ’The Woman with a Thousand Harems’..."

Horus’s lips twitched. ’Thank Vorn!’

"...I am here, instead, to share a rather interesting piece of information I came across only minutes ago."

Horus arched an eyebrow. "You have my full attention. Anything is better than your obsession with that novel."

Omar ignored the rudeness with serene grace and answered simply.

"It concerns the Crimson Daggers." He smiled behind his mask. "They have made the rather foolish decision to attack the Royal Palace during the Royal Event."

Horus went still.

"I beg your pardon?"

—End of Chapter 116—