Memoirs of Your Local Small-time Villainess-Chapter 352 - Ask or no?

Scarlett stepped along the stone bridgeway, her gaze drifting past the illuminated railing and into the abyss below. The darkness stirred thickly, impenetrable and devoid of any sign of life or depth.

She’d never been one to fear heights in any debilitating sense, but they undeniably made her uneasy. It was the peculiar awareness of emptiness beneath her feet — knowing that nothing but void separated her from solid ground. That just one misstep, a slight loss of balance, could mean plunging into oblivion. And then there was the slightly errant thought of how that might feel.

She supposed that’s what some refer to as the ‘call of the void’, though she wasn’t quite sure she entirely agreed. To her, that phrase implied a twisted curiosity or an almost irresistible temptation to explore the perilous and foreign unknown just beyond one’s reach. Her feelings about heights weren’t nearly so poetic or intriguing, though. She simply found them disconcerting. They made her feel…exposed. Vulnerable, in a way that wasn’t quite fear, but close. And then her mind, unhelpfully, told her that understanding that feeling further would help overcome it, even if that was stupid.

She suspected most people felt the same. That they just mistook that primal discomfort and a desire to conquer it for some trendy concept they’d picked up from a book or video.

Frankly, the actual so-called ‘void’ could stay unexplored, as far as she was concerned. She had no desire to chase thrill for thrill’s sake. The world she inhabited already offered sufficient experiences. She wasn’t opposed to new ones, but she didn’t see why they had to be reckless or dramatic to be valid.

Was that overly cynical? Or strange? Or was everyone else simply pretending to be more profound than they were? Or worse — was everyone else just a little too unhinged?

It seemed to her that you needed to be a very particular kind of person to feel the true call of the void.

A voice slipped beside her, soft and very clearly mischievous. “Don’t you ever look down and wonder, ‘What if I jumped? Should I try?’”

Scarlett turned her head to Rosa, who gazed into the depths with a faint, amused smile playing at her lips.

“…Once again, Rosa, you reinforce my assumptions about your thought processes.”

Rosa’s eyebrows knitted slightly as she looked over. “Why do I feel like I was just insulted?”

“I am certain it is merely your imagination.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You’re a real natural for making people doubt their own thoughts, you know that? This is why people call you a villain.”

“People continue to call me a villain?” Scarlett asked.

“Perhaps not openly,” Rosa admitted with a grin. “But maybe they should. I’m starting to think you weren’t entirely off-base when you labelled yourself as a villainess. You’re practically diabolical, you.”

Scarlett fell silent, her gaze lingering on Rosa’s face. The bard’s grin faded somewhat.

“Sorry — too far? I don’t actually think you’re a villain.”

Scarlett held her gaze for another second before turning away, waving a hand. “Think nothing of it. You know full well I do not take offence so easily.”

“We could probably debate that,” Rosa said. “You seem pretty quick to offence — no offence.”

“…Rather, I am not easily hurt,” Scarlett corrected.

Rosa chuckled lightly. “Now that I believe. You’re about as steadfast and headstrong as they come.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. Just this once.”

“Wow. And kind, too. Is there no virtue you don’t possess?”

“I would ask that you refrain from calling me ‘kind’,” Scarlett said. “We have discussed the matter of my alleged kindness before, and I do not particularly wish to revisit it.”

Rosa let out a thoughtful hum. “Mm. I suppose we have.”

Scarlett glanced at her, then looked ahead. They continued walking.

The bridge curved around a series of broad terraces, many lined with crumbling structures and what might best be described as ancient scaffolding. One section even looked to be the remnants of an old marble quarry, of all things. Fynn walked several metres ahead, watchful and alert. The rest of the group followed at a respectful distance.

Since their strange encounter with the reflected projections of game companions, Scarlett hadn’t said much to the others. Maybe they’d taken her silence as a sign that she wanted to be alone, because Rosa was the first to break it. Scarlett hadn’t exactly sought the solitude, but she also hadn’t minded the time alone with her thoughts.

Minutes passed as they moved along the curving path, Rosa quietly matching her stride. Scarlett found the normally chatty bard managing to keep quiet for so long rather unusual. More than once, she glanced over, half-expecting a quip or snide remark.

Each time, Rosa only smiled instead. Both gently and knowingly. As if saying ‘I know what’s on your mind’.

For some reason, Scarlett found that smile oddly irritating. She doubted Rosa truly understood her thoughts, but that didn’t seem to matter to the bard, who looked entirely at ease. She wore the expression of someone ready to accept whatever Scarlett did or didn’t say.

The occasional teasing jab did not count as protest.

Try as she might, Scarlett’s eyes kept drifting back to those patient smiles. Eventually, her brow creased.

That was when Rosa finally spoke. “Got something on your mind?”

Scarlett’s eyes lingered on her, then shifted to Fynn ahead. “…Do you truly intend to ignore what happened earlier?”

“You said you didn’t feel like talking about it. What’s left to say?”

“Then what is it that you are doing now?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to clarify.” Rosa’s voice was all innocence.

“You know precisely what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Scarlett cast her a sharp look, gesturing vaguely towards her. “Your behaviour. Your persistent smiles, and your casual demeanour.”

Rosa raised an eyebrow. “I’m…not allowed to smile?”

“That is not what I said.”

“Kinda feels like you did.”

Scarlett clicked her tongue and turned away, face smoothing into cool composure. “Pay it no mind, then. It appears as if it is merely my imagination.”

Behind them, the others chatted in low tones, but Scarlett didn’t listen.

Rosa remained quiet for a while longer before speaking again. “…Correct me if I’m wrong, Scarlett, but are you annoyed that I’m not asking about it?”

Scarlett’s frown returned. “I am not. In fact, it is the opposite. I prefer your discretion.”

“But you’re definitely annoyed.”

“As you yourself noted earlier, I take offence easily. That tends leads to annoyance.”

“Mm. Fair.” Rosa ran one hand along the railing, fingertips brushing one of the glowing crystals. “Does that bother you?”

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Scarlett hesitated for just a second before continuing her stride. “Naturally,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Who would enjoy a constant state of irritation?”

It had been a lot worse when she first arrived in this world. She’d had to learn how to manage the sharp edges of her personality. How to handle the irritability that flared too easily.

Even now, it still got the better of her at times. And it didn’t always have to be logical.

“You know,” Rosa replied, tone light but not insincere, “you’re a bit of an enigma.”

“I have been told that before.”

“What’s your usual response?”

“I do not believe I have one.”

“Huh. That’s dull.”

“It is not my goal to amuse.”

“That’s fine. You manage it effortlessly despite that."

Scarlett’s lips thinned. “…I hope you realise, Miss Hale, that you possess a singular talent for provoking my frustrations.”

“Oh, I’m very aware. I take great pride in it, actually.” The smirk in Rosa’s voice was unmistakable. “…Though you might want to be a bit more careful with your phrasing.”

Scarlett turned to her again with a slow, deliberate glare. “You are incorrigible.”

“And yet, still alive. Your mistake, really. You should’ve had me beheaded ages ago. You know what they say — teach a dog bad habits, and it’ll keep doing tricks you didn’t ask for.”

Scarlett resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She was seriously regretting initiating this conversation. It didn’t help that the others—Arnaud and Kat included—were definitely in range to hear everything.

“Wait,” Fynn said, suddenly halting up ahead.

The group stopped. Scarlett looked toward him. He stood at the edge of the next terrace, staring into a cluster of stone pillars and what looked like it might have been an actual outcropping from a real mountain, jagged and jutting from the ground.

He didn’t move.

Then, with a powerful gust, wind surged from him, whipping his clothes and hair violently.

He turned back to them, face set, yellow eyes glowing faintly.

“There’s something I need to do,” he said.

Immanence.

A state of presence. Natural. Permanent. Eminent.

It was all there, just beyond Raimond’s grasp. Though his vision was filled with nothing but the sonorous, ever-hungering abyssal waltz of darkness, he could feel the immanence pressing in from all sides. As though it called to him, beckoned him forward. A spark in the void. A candle in the fog. A sun buried in the deep velvet of night.

And still, it eluded him.

Too vast for mortal senses. Too complete. Yet if he strained—focused past the veil of darkness into the echoing expanse behind it—he could just barely trace the shape of something. A voice? A whisper? A memory?

It defied language, the way a scent defies memory. It simply was. And what it was — was immanent. Part of the divine tapestry that saturated these halls. And it urged Raimond towards itself. To reach closer. To step into it. He felt that he was closer than ever.

Then — a presence broke his fugue.

His eyes snapped open, and the carved walls of Beld Thylelion greeted him, bathed in golden light. His Lanternborn incantation floated over his shoulder—a radiant orb, scattering motes like drifting fireflies—casting reverent shadows across the stone.

He turned toward the corridor on his left, eyes fixed on the darkness pooling at its edge. He stared for several long seconds, then exhaled a quiet laugh. Rising smoothly, he brushed nonexistent dust from his robes and stretched with a creaking of joints.

A yawn escaped him as he attempted to shake off the bone-deep weariness the meditations often left behind. It had been some time since he’d last lost himself so completely in centring prayer. He was, of course, nothing if not a paragon of youth, vitality, and handsomeness, but on occasion, his body forgot to act accordingly. At present, for instance, his backside disagreed most vehemently.

A faint shimmer of gold flickered at his fingertips, weaving through the threads of his robes as what might have been a minor trickle of the Soft Grace incantation eased the stiffness from his limbs. But who could say, really? He certainly couldn’t.

And there definitely, assuredly, most sacredly was no one else here who could. Indeed. For Raimond was quite alone right now.

He was also in a rather inconvenient situation, lacking food, water, a map, and an actual plan. He was also quite possibly within the heart of an ancient Zuverian ruin filled with unknowable magical defences and dormant guardians. The sort of ruin, legend claimed, that held secrets capable of rewriting the fate of empires.

More regrettably, he had no real notion of where within the ruin he was.

Or, incidentally, how one left.

As far as dire circumstances went, he rated this one a solid three out of nine. He’d awoken in significantly more embarrassing locales in the past. At least this time, he had been free to conduct his centring prayers mostly uninterrupted, which was a rare blessing, all things considered.

Raimond cleared his throat—for no reason other than that it felt appropriately dramatic—and smiled. “A humble pause brings a humble wisdom,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Now that I am well-rested, I wonder how I shall abscond and return to the civilised surface world. This is no place for a delicate priest such as I — a harmless soul armed only with charm, hymns, and arguably passable tea-making skills.”

He did not, in fact, know how to make tea. But it was on his list of things to master.

He glanced down the corridor—still and dim—then, after a moment’s pause, began to walk. The only sound was the soft echo of his footsteps. But as he neared the bend, something shifted beneath his light.

The shadows moved. Not scattered as much as coalesced, taking the shape of a figure. Short, cloaked in crimson. A white mask peeked from beneath a hood, strands of pale blonde hair spilling like silk. Most striking, however, were the three lavender eyes staring out from the mask — semi-transparent, unnervingly wide, pupils impossibly small. They blinked in eerie unison.

The figure tilted their head. The three eyes slid downward, slowly scanning his priestly robes.

Raimond, gentleman that he was, took a generous quarter-second to act surprised.

He took a dignified half-step back, hand rising to his chest with admirable flourish. “Goodness, what a fright,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you often appear from shadowed corners to terrorise defenceless clergymen, little one? I admit it’s a bold hobby, though a touch macabre. Surely there are gentler ways to pass the time. May I suggest cake?”

The figure simply stared, head still tilted. The three eyes blinked again.

Then a voice emerged — a cluster of whispers, breathy, slightly girlish, yet uncanny. “…You are a priest.”

Raimond took a moment to better examine her, then offered one of his warmest, most winning smiles. With a shallow bow, he replied, Why, I most certainly am. Father Ray Abraham, at your service. Though do feel free to call me Father Ray.”

The masked girl continued to stare. “You are not our father.”

“No, I am not. But I am a father. A father of the cloth and spirit, as they say.”

“Cloths are not alive.”

“How wonderfully astute you are. Quite right, naturally. The title is not meant to be taken so literally.”

She was silent for several long seconds, and Raimond eventually realised she might not intend to respond at all. His smile softened a touch. “If it’s not too forward — do you have a name?”

The girl tilted her head the other way, strands of pale hair slipping against her mask. “Nol’viz,” she answered simply.

“Nol’viz, you say?” Raimond touched a hand thoughtfully to his chin. “A unique name, but a charming one, if I may be so bold. Tell me, Nol’viz, do you also find yourself lost in these winding halls? No map to guide you, no companions to share the road, adrift in the endless dusk without hearth or harbour?”

“No.”

“Oh?” Raimond brightened. “How fortunate! Because I, as it happens, am entirely lost. What wondrous luck, then, to stumble upon someone so evidently better-equipped than myself. Might I prevail upon your mercy, dear Nol’viz, and humbly request a scrap of succour guidance for a weary priest?”

Again, she didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes blinked once. Then—

“…Are you a threat?” she asked.

Raimond placed a hand over his heart. “Me? A threat? Perish the thought! As I said, I am but a simple priest, tragically and mysteriously misplaced into these hallowed halls. I could hardly harm a moth.” He gave a beat. “Or a maiden, for that matter.”

“Lie,” Nol’viz said flatly.

“Pardon?”

“You are not a simple priest.”

His hand lowered, though his smile remained intact. He considered her carefully. “And what makes you say that?”

“You defy Fate,” she said, her voice an eerie blend of softness and certainty.

Raimond paused, brow furrowing just slightly. “I defy fate? Well, I have been accused of many things in my illustrious life—most of them only partially earned—but I must admit that is a new one. Could you elaborate? I am terribly curious.”

“You are in Beld Thylelion.” Nol’viz shifted slightly, a minimal gesture that somehow conveyed a sweep of the surroundings. “You are this deep. You defy Fate.”

“Hmm. Is that so?” Raimond turned over the words in his head. “And that alone is enough to make one a defier of fate?”

Nol’viz didn’t answer.

Raimond studied her. Was she suggesting that merely reaching this place meant stepping outside the bounds of fate itself? Or, perhaps, that only those who had explicitly defied fate belonged within its walls?

Either way, the phrase itself seemed to confirm what he’d already suspected the moment he sensed the girl’s presence. For there was only one group he knew of who ostensibly held such a fixation on the workings of a supposed ‘fate’.

The Hallowed Cabal.

He did not know the girl before him. He did not know how she came to be here. And he certainly didn’t know whether she was alone. He also, admittedly, had no clear understanding of how he had arrived here — or where his own allies were.

Mysteries and uncertainties aplenty. But one thing was certain: his and the others’ plans had unravelled somewhere. And he might have to be prepared to now personally confront those who would do the empire and its people harm.

Still smiling, Raimond spread his arms in a show of easy innocence and gave a lighthearted chuckle. “I must confess I’m unfamiliar with this ‘defying Fate’ business and why it would apply to a simple man like myself. But even so, I can assure you I am the furthest thing from a threat. In fact, I pride myself on being a most benign companion.” He winked. “On that, you have my ironclad, wholly trustworthy guarantee.”

Nol’viz showed no visible reaction. She simply observed him, as if weighing something unseen. Then, without a word, she turned and began walking down the corridor, gliding past him in utter silence.

Raimond watched her go for a beat, then fell into step beside her with a few long strides.

“Say, little one,” he said, matching her pace without too much difficulty, “since fate—ironically—has brought us together, what say you and I explore these strange halls as companions? Strength in numbers, as the old adage goes. Besides, I find conversation far preferable to chatting with the walls.”

She looked up at him, blinked once, then turned her gaze forward again.

Raimond had absolutely no idea how to interpret that.

Still, he continued walking alongside her, whistling a light, meandering tune as they vanished into the labyrinthine dark of Beld Thylelion.

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