Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius sank into thought, considering the refusal.

...He had been too hasty. If he were thinking clearly, he would have known not to openly give a task that could be seen as dishonorable.

He rubbed his temples, frustrated that a woman-- of all things, could make him distraught for so long.

"Hmph," Tycon grimaced. "Granted. Thunder God, accompany the Captain. Spare only the lives of those you find worthy."

Morality was not a weakness. It could be likened to a shield, protecting the two from the worst injustices the Realm had to offer.

...Still, that was no excuse to complete a task halfway.

He would send Ishmael after them in secret. The Venomous Shadow would do what Krysaos and the Thunder God could not-- and without affecting their pride.

"My thanks, Maedar," The Thunder God nodded, pleased with the illusion of honor he kept intact, "And, I entreat thee, dear friend: my heavenly name is--"

"So what's this for?" Krysaos interrupted. He picked up Tycon's vial with a napkin, examining it with great care.

Tycon flicked his wrist once more.

A blank spell scroll. A pen. An inkpot, its contents conducive to mana-- its cost in coin obscene.

He began to write... using cutting scrawls that reflected his frustrations.

"Mina was afflicted by the same injury poison in that vial. It is my solemn wish that the Vulkoori High Priestess is killed in the same manner."

"Huh," Krysaos raised his eyebrows... but nodded, "Got it."

"How do we know the dark elf poison... works on dark elves?" Wroe asked.

"Please stop ignoring me," The Thunder God muttered.

Tycon pushed the wet-ink scroll forward, "This a Fourth-Circle spell called ⌈Suffer in Silence⌋. It will disable the dark elf whore's magical defenses, render her speechless and immobile, and increase her sensitivity to pain for approximately eight minutes."

"F-fourth Circle??" Wroe yelped.

"I thought you said that regular people can't cast past Third-Circle?" Krysaos narrowed his eyes.

"Tss. They cannot," Tycon scoffed, "You're a f*cking god, Krysaos."

"Such... a cruel spell," The Thunder God mused. "I have never heard of it."

Tycon responded with a casual shrug, "I named it just now. The script is half-incomplete-- but divine mana will be able to fill in the gaps to activate it properly."

As he could field two literal gods, it would be a waste to give them Second or Third-Circle spell scrolls.

Krysaos narrowed his eyes to more-fool-than-usual squints, "Yer tellin' me, LT... you can just make up spells whenever you want?"

That was a stupid question.

How else were spells made?

Ignoring him, Tycon waved his hand, "Ishmael."

Krysaos, Wroe, and the Thunder God turned at once. They stared at a shadowy humanoid as he stood up from a corner table and walked over.

Ishmael bowed politely while gingerly offering the bill for his table with both hands.

...Tycon saw that the Shadow had ordered the expensive wine.

...were he in the mood, he would have chastised him for it.

"Ishmael, kill the two dozen or so mercenaries waiting for us outside. I suspect they belong to Whitehearth's Bone Rat Guild."

The golden-eyed Shadow rendered a clean salute. Then, its form inverted and it phased through the nearby wall.

"...The Maedar is a terrifying individual," The Thunder God whispered.

"Let's... let's get going," Krysaos grimaced-- "as soon as possible."

Wroe placed his fingers on his temples, "How long was that shadow guy here?"

Tycon stretched his arms and sat up properly. From the smells emanating from the kitchen, his food order would be ready soon.

"Once your missions are complete, check in with me at the inn across the road. Do not fail me, Sol Invictus."

...

Ophelia Moonwell meditated quietly in her office.

Her latest designs were on eliminating the inefficiencies in her Divine Armor Cores, the Mark III series, in particular.

To that end, she'd filled two chalkboards with layered calculations.

If she switched her focus or-- stars forbid, if she allowed her fatigue to whisk her off to sleep, not even the heavens would know which equation meant what.

It was easier to get lost in her research, rather than to appease the various organizations of Whitehearth.

Numbers and abstractions were cold and unfeeling.

Ophelia didn't have to care as much if the applications didn't work as her theories went.

With a wave of her hand, the wooden sides of the chalkboard grew vines. The tendrils picked up the board erasers and wiped the slates clean.

If it was just her work-- just the numbers, she could start anew whenever she wished.

Ironically, she'd probably be better off, for it...

As for her other issues... they involved people.

Those... were far more complicated.

People were greedy for coin and connections. People always wanted something to advantage them.

People never forgot slights against them... never forgot the mistakes of those they deemed unworthy of their position.

...Ophelia was the same.

The fact was something she grew to despise.

Whenever the pressure to rule or intermediate was too much, she withdrew into her office.

Whenever she felt... so, so alone, she retreated from the world.

She closed her eyes.

She saw him.

Prince Landris Wyndham.

Her husband.

Tall, blue-haired and blue-eyed.

Handsome.

Sweet.

He always knew what to say to make her feel... loved.

...to make her feel wanted-- like she mattered.

He made her feel... not like she was one of the many slaves to the system-- but like a person.

Despite her whims, Ophelia was well aware that she couldn't abandon her position. The city of Whitehearth would be torn apart if it wasn't for the glue that was House Moonwell.

But despite her riches and status... she was a greedy woman, too.

She wanted her husband back. It wasn't fair that he left her alone.

Landris lived free... running off to adventure with Quies Morninglord... or Droghan Ashlord... or Tycondrius Charm.

Free... maybe so free that he'd found another woman.

It was possible.

It would splinter her heart into a thousand fragments... but it was possible.

",