The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 716: Family Matters (Part One)

After bidding a polite farewell to Master Tiernan, Ashlynn and Isabell withdrew from the garden and the rain, returning to Ashlynn’s chambers in the tower she’d claimed for her coven. Normally, Ashlynn would have filled the walk with idle chit chat, pointing out the features of the castle or sharing stories of her time here along the way, but not today.

Today, the clouds outside mirrored the ones that had gathered in her heart and everything she might have talked about seemed trivial next to the conversation she was about to have. Even the castle’s servants seemed to sense the heavy mood, stepping out of her way and bowing silently at her passage rather than offering the warm greetings or congratulations on her betrothal to Lady Nyrielle that they would have just the day before.

The garden where she’d met with the guild masters wasn’t far from her tower, only a few minutes walk, the silence of the walk made it feel twice as far as they navigated the ancient stone hallways and the winding spiral staircase at the center of the tower.

When they finally reached Ashlynn’s sitting room, with the warm fire crackling in the hearth and the comfortable sofas sitting before the fire, Isabell finally broke the silence as she took in the luxury and splendor of Ashlynn’s living arrangements.

"I think, if your mother saw this, she would be happy to know that you’ve been living well this past half year," Isabell said idly as she approached the hearth that was large enough to heat large kettles of water for bathing in addition to pushing back the late autumn chill that hung in the air.

When Isabell had seen the furnishings in her own chambers, she’d already been impressed by their quality and the luxury that she was afforded as a guest. Whether it was the soft, thick carpets that covered the cold stone floors or the intricately carved wooden furniture, none of it would have been considered inferior to the pieces she’d seen in Lady Jocelynn’s quarters in Lothian Manor.

Ashlynn’s quarters, however, went a step further, reminding Isabell of the apartments occupied by the Emerald Prince in the early days of the civil war. Much like the young prince, Ashlynn didn’t surround herself with gold and displays of wealth, but instead created a space that was filled with a combination of comfort and refined, artistic touches including multiple paintings of vivid landscapes that had clearly been painted by the hand of a Master artist.

"Though I suppose things like this would probably worry the countess," Isabell added as she paused to examine the shattered remnants of a falchion that had been mounted on a slab of polished wood in order to display the broken weapon above the mantle.

Each piece had been meticulously positioned a fingersbreadth away from its neighbors, making the complete destruction of the weapon clear while preserving the general shape of the blade enough that even an untrained eye could tell what it once was. Much like everything else in the room, the fit and finish of the fittings on the unbroken hilt of the sword made it clear that this had once been a weapon of exceptional craftsmanship that even a person without training in swordsmanship could appreciate.

"You weren’t joking when you said you shattered your blade fighting in the High Pass," Isabell said, reaching up to touch one of the blade shards before yanking her hand back in surprise when she felt the metal react to her touch with a shock and a prickling sensation that shot from her finger tip all the way to the palm of her hand.

"Darksteel?" Isabell asked, turning to look at Ashlynn with wide eyes. "I, I thought darksteel weapons could only be destroyed with Holy Flames!"

The only other time she’d seen a weapon forged from the strangely heavy dark metal had been a broken spear displayed in Blackwell Manor’s great hall, dating back to the founding of the county. Even two centuries later, the edge of the spear was still sharp enough to cut flesh with the lightest touch and it required a man of Tiernan’s considerable strength to lift it off the wall for cleaning, and that had just been enough darksteel to form the spearhead and a counterweight on the spear’s butt.

Realizing that Ashlynn had been wielding an entire sword made of the same dark metal forced Isabell to reevaluate her already high estimate of the strength her younger friend had come to possess... and the strength of the dangers she faced in the Eldritch lands as well.

"It was broken by a sword made of Eternal Ice," Ashlynn said as she filled a pot with water for tea and hung it over the hearth to boil. "It’s an ancient Frostwalker technique, all but lost to them now," she said as she looked at the weapon with an odd pang of loss.

It had been Virve who collected the pieces of her broken sword, reassembling them to present to Ashlynn as a memento of her victory over the High Lord Ansgar. The blade wasn’t famous, it didn’t have a name and it had only accompanied her for half a year, but in the end, it saved her life more than once. It was worth remembering.

But Ashlynn didn’t keep it to remember the victory. She kept it to remember how close she’d come to shattering, just like the blade had. She’d fought with everything she had and more, but it hadn’t been enough. Not really. She’d been lucky to keep her life in that battle and it taught her just how far she still had to go before she could truly stand at Nyrielle’s side as an equal.

Standing next to Isabell and staring at the shattered sword produced a strange sort of dissonance. Isabell knew the woman she’d been, the woman who had kept to her garden and her books, only stepping occasionally into the world outside Blackwell Manor as if to remind the people that she still existed.

Ashlynn felt like she was leaving that woman farther and farther behind the longer she lived among the Eldritch people. Her mother would never have dreamed of doing the things Ashlynn had done. The idea of a proper lady in the Kingdom of Gaal taking up weapons, leading armies, or sitting in judgment over traitors and defeated enemies would have been almost heretical to her pious mother.

Her father, on the other hand, had been her first model of how a lord should rule his domain.

"Do you think Father would be proud of me?" Ashlynn asked as she stared at the sword. After all, even though he held the title of Count, he’d famously only fought a single duel when he was courting her mother. For all of his involvement in helping the Lothians to launch their Holy War, he’d never been a warrior, and even when he sentenced a man to die, it had always been one of his knights who swung the sword.

"If he knew I was fighting out there," Ashlynn said softly. "If he knew that I’d taken up arms myself to protect my people and find my way forward... If he knew what I was trying to build out of the shattered remnants of the Vale of Mists and the other Eldritch lands, do you think he would be proud?"

Left unspoken was an entirely different question which Ashlynn couldn’t bring herself to ask. Do you think that he’d be happy that I’m still alive?

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