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By the time she had crossed the drawbridge a guard was crossing the courtyard to meet her. In all honesty she had expected to meet one much sooner, considering how far the guards should be able to see from atop the battlements, but perhaps Isaea had never hired back the guards he had bribed to leave her family’s employ. More fool him if he hadn’t. New guards would have been more inclined to turn her away.
Not that it would have stopped her.
Either way, she recognised the armoured guard before he reached her. "Cernick?" she asked. "Is that you? Oh, it is a genuine pleasure to see you again!"
Cernick drew up short. "Lady... Nalia? What, uh... what are you doing here?"
It helped to be sure of her answer this time around. "I’m returning home."
"Oh!" He paused over that like it was the least likely thing she could have said. "I thought you were off saving the Sword Coast or something?"
"I did a bit of that, yes. But now I’m here to depose Roenall and claim what is rightfully mine."
Less than surreptitiously, he glanced behind her, as if looking for anyone else she might be hiding. "All by yourself?"
She deserved that. The last time she returned to save her home it had been with a band of more experienced adventurers leading the way. "No child of Bhaal this time, I’m afraid. It’s just me."
"No child of... -They were a what?!"
This was getting out of hand. Nalia looked around the courtyard, noting the distinct lack of other people coming to bar her way. Isaea certainly wasn’t living up to the obstacle he had presented himself as. "What about Daleson? Is he still at the keep?"
"He... uh, yes, my lady. Should I... uh, get him?"
"Yes, thank you, that would be lovely."
Cernick seemed visibly relieved to escape her company. She tried not to take it too personally. They had no reason to trust her after such a long absence. It would be up to her to rebuild that trust.
To her left, the kennels were empty. Another disappointment. Alongside the guards, it appeared Isaea hadn’t replaced the dogs lost in the invasion either. A pity. She had sour memories of what had happened to them in the end. Had anyone ever cast Resurrection on a dog, she wondered...?
Her thoughts returned to the present when she spotted Daleson crossing the courtyard. He seemed just as confused to see her as Cernick had, and bafflingly he stopped himself about twenty feet away from her, not meeting her gaze.
She tried to wave at him. It had no effect. When she finally did catch his eye he immediately bowed low, avoiding it once again. Oh, for the love of Helm...
Nalia closed the distance between them. Daleson seemed to sweat, looking around as if he was considering the nearest barrel a suitable hiding place. "Daleson?" she asked. "Daleson, what are you doing?"
"I’m attending you, my lady, like you requested."
"Attending...? I didn’t -"
He bowed again.
"Daleson, please stop bowing. I didn’t ask for you to attend me, I asked to see you."
He blinked at her. She waited him out. "... Uh, why, my lady?"
"Because I wanted to see how you were?" she said, unable to keep the incredulity out of her voice. "Because you have served my family for years? Should I not care about your wellbeing?"
"No, my lady," he said, completely straight faced. "I ain’t nobody. What would you have me do?"
She sighed, but resigned herself to defeat for now. She deserved this, too. As much as she tried to help the lower classes when she was younger, she had clearly never shaken her noble bearing enough to be fully convincing - or even passingly convincing. She had a lot of things to make up for.
But first things first, she supposed.
"For starters, I’d like to see Isaea. Is he here?"
"He’s in the main hall, my lady."
"If I asked you to stop calling me "my lady’ so often, would you?"
She let out a breath. "Very well. Would you show me to Isaea then?"
Daleson hesitated. Something in him seemed to run up against whatever stiffness had settled in him over the years, and it seemed to win out temporarily. "My lady, are you really here to help, or are you just here to say that someone should help?"
It was then that Nalia realised her reputation was truly worth less than dirt. Here she was, ready to strictly not fireball Isaea Roenall, and even the stablehand didn’t believe that she meant it.
Nalia clearly had her work cut out for her. But if this was the work that she needed to do, then she would do it. She could not change Amn if even her own people didn’t stand behind her, and she owed the people of her family’s lands more than she owed anyone else.
"In time, I will make everything right," she told him, "but I will start with Isaea. You don’t need to lead me there, I know the way."
Nalia nodded her farewell and strode across the courtyard. Daleson seemed to watch her go for a moment, then he hurried to catch up. For a wonder he even kept pace with her, walking at her side. "My lady, you truly intend this? He is cruel and unforgiving."
"I do, more than anything," she assured him. "And trust me, I’m aware. He had me falsely imprisoned once."
That brought Daleson up short. "My lady?"
"Don’t worry. I can handle myself now." At the doors to the keep she turned to him. "Would you mind assembling any staff who would be willing to hear me out? I have a long list of changes I would like to make, but I would like to hear everyone’s thoughts first. I’m afraid I owe everyone a terrible apology."
Daleson stared at her for a long moment. Then something in him seemed to change, and he nodded. "I can do that, my lady. But Lord Roenall...?"
"Will not take long," she finished for him. "And thank you, I appreciate your help. I will be in the main hall after I’m done with Isaea, but let everyone know I will personally come and see them if they can’t make it."
"I will let them know, my... uh. I will let them know, Nalia."
Well, that certainly wasn’t nothing. She smiled at him. "Thank you."
As Daleson left, Nalia placed a hand on the door but did not open it just yet. She had often wondered what this final moment would feel like. She had imagined throes of nostalgia, or being flooded with good memories and pride. She had even wondered if she might weep. In truth, she felt none of those things. Though she knew she was doing the right thing, this place didn’t feel like hers, not any longer. It no longer resembled the home it had been in her youth, and she had no right to claim a tearful reunion from anyone she had left behind.
But it was her birthright, and if anyone had the duty to fix it, it was her.
She opened the door.
The keep’s main door opened into a hallway, the stone interior lit with torches and hard floors covered with long rugs she didn’t recognise. The paintings that ran the length of the walls were not ones she had seen before, and Nalia could not decide if that was a good sign or not. She itched to remove every single change that Isaea had made to her home, but at the same time her home had not been kind to anyone who wasn’t noble by birth, and perhaps replacing the previous trappings would only be trading one set of bad memories for another. Better to tear them both down and start afresh, and perhaps fewer framed paintings would mean more mouths fed.
From this hallway the kitchen was to the right, and the armoury was to the left. She marched straight ahead instead, crossing the hallway and descending the stairs right into the main hall.
It was darker than it should have been, had someone been taking care of the place. The floor and walls were matching stone, laid in a way that was pleasing to the eye when candles and braziers brought the place to life. Now it was just gloomy, matching the shadow over her heart. Large tables still marched the length of the wide open room, but covered in Roenall colours rather than her own. The main table at the head of the room held a gaudy chair she did not recognise, clearly intended for Isaea. But Isaea Roenall himself was not here. Another man was.
Hearing her voice, the brickwall of a man turned to her, his armour clinking audibly through the empty chamber.
Glaicus smiled. "Ah, Young Nalia, it is you after all. I was sure I had misheard." He nodded to her, and she refrained from feeling too pleased at the warmer reception. He had been a prized guard of her family for a long time. He had reason to expect better treatment from nobles than the servants had, even now.
"It is a relief to see you well," she said, returning the nod. She meant it. Seeing him here let her know she had made the right choice about her approach. Magic had not been kind to him. The last time this keep had been stormed Glaicus had been dominated and forced to battle her against his will. She had no idea how long he had lived under that mind control in the end, and it would have left a poor taste in her mouth if she had taken back the keep with sorcery all over again. He deserved better than a life controlled forcibly by magic. They all did.
She made to ask further about how he had been, but they were both interrupted by a noise somewhere between a shout and an indignant screech. A bat? She looked to the other side of the hall and - no, it was Isaea, descending the stairs opposite her with a look of fire across his face.
Isaea Roenall. He looked so different than when she had last seen him, being stripped of his titles and investigated by the officials of Athkatla. She had no idea how he had managed to worm his way out of that situation and return to power after such a humiliating defeat, but... well, it was probably bribery. There were only a few tools in his arsenal, and bribery seemed to be his favourite, alongside pettiness and threats. At least this man’s ambition had only ever reached its limits in local government and never stretched any further.
It was perhaps a reflection on how far her family’s estate had fallen that no-one more competent had considered wresting the land from his grasp in her absence. But there would be time to repair that later.
"You dare show your face here?" Isaea said, attempting intimidation. The effort made her smile.
"I do," she said. "I’m even daring to let you go, if you leave immediately and without argument."
His face flushed. "The nerve! You have no power here, you-"
"By all rights, Isaea, you are lucky to be alive." Nalia’s voice snapped, loud and clear, ringing back to her as it echoed through the room. It came second nature to her now. You had to be precise with your words when spellcasting, and even more so when spellcasting under pressure. This, by contrast, was cakewalk. "You are lucky that I believe in justice, that I believe in fairness - two qualities that you have never demonstrated to anyone under your care."
"You dare insult me in my own home?"
Her smile only deepened - for her own benefit, not his. Was this really the man who had threatened her family’s legacy for so many years? After beholders and mind flayers, this man just seemed like a sad little onion throwing a tantrum. "No, Isaea, I insult you in mine. You have never been welcome here."
Almost typically, Isaea turned to Glaicus. "Guard! Seize her!"
Nalia turned to Glaicus expectingly, but he made no move towards her, only scratching the back of his head. "No. I don’t think so."
Glaicus turned away from him, looking to Nalia instead. "My lady?"
Her heart soared.
Isaea’s, evidently, did not. "Guards!" he cried, this time shouting towards the doorway. "Guards! Arrest them both!"
Glaicus took a step towards him then, but Nalia placed a hand on his arm, and he stilled. She approached Isaea, noting the cleanliness of his lavish clothes, the silken shoes, the gaudy rings on every finger. Despite the dilapidated state of the keep, he seemed to spare no expense when it came to himself. The only ring Nalia wore was her signet ring, bearing the De’Arnise family crest, which she held out for him to examine more as a formality than anything.
"Isaea Roenall, as a peer of this realm and rightful heir of these lands, I hereby charge you with..." Nalia paused. "Oh, there’s quite a list, actually. But we’ll start with insurrection, slavery, bribery, and corruption, for starters. You have manipulated your way into power, mistreated those in your care and, worst of all, you have failed to live up to even the low expectations that people have of the Amnian nobility."
Glaicus coughed at that, or at least he pretended it was one. Isaea’s anger only seemed to intensify. It was almost sad.
"You can’t do that! You do not decide the law!"
"No," she admitted, "but I can detain you until the Amnian government takes you away for trial at their earliest convenience. The justice system will decide your fate, Isaea, and this time I will stay to make sure you don’t bribe your way out of it."
Isaea seemed to lose faith in his ability to threaten his way out of this. He looked around at the lack of guard presence, his face dropping. Nalia followed his gaze to see Daleson and Cernick at the doorway. Catching her eye, Cernick bowed his head at her. "This man bothering you, Lady Nalia?"
This time Glaicus’ cough sounded more like the bark of a laugh it truly was. He turned to Nalia. "Alright, this was fun. Shall we take him away?"
And this was it. She would have taken Isaea away herself if needed, but this was better. If they were offering their help freely, that gave her hope that their relationship with her could still be saved. She could still make it up to them.
But for now she turned to Isaea. "Well, Isaea? Do you submit yourself to justice?"
It turned out that he did not, in fact, submit, but the guards took him away all the same. Isaea shouted something as Glaicus dragged him away, but Nalia found she no longer cared what he had to say. She approached Daleson instead, he bowed his head at her. "The others will be here shortly," he said. "All of them."
But this was not over. This was just the beginning.
It was time to make things better.
Ianira had never been one for fancy titles. She’d always found them too ostentatious, indulgent and bordering on repulsive. She was a sensible woman, content to stand behind her betters and present the perfect, inscrutable image of passivity. But as she studied her face in the golden mirror on the wall of the dining room, she began to think a little selfish indulgence might not go amiss.
All her life, she thought, she had been Ianira the Motherless. Ianira the Curiosity. Ianira from Nowhere, Ianira the Nobody. She had, guided by her Lady's hand, long since become Truescar Ianira, the Maiden's Scourge: her most obedient servant and executor of her will. But under Anathema's gaze, beneath her bloodstained hands, she was that most precious and rare of things: Ianira the Beloved . Treasured by Bhaal's Chosen, and bound to Bane's too - Lady Loviatar had made sure of that.
But the bond she shared with Anathema ran deeper than any gold band, any dowry or law or vow of obedience and eternal love. No, the bindings of marriage lasted until death only - and yet she knew, without hesitation, she would follow Anathema into death and beyond. The Bhaalspawn was as deep inside her as any living thing had ever been, having taken root in her soul and choked out all others with her voluminous, encompassing presence. She had no room for anyone else - not while the woman's clawed hand gripped her heart in its fist.
And it hurt . Sweet, bone-deep agony, all at once the searing burn of torn tendons and the biting kiss of the whip. She relished the pain, relinquished herself fully and allowed it to wash over her in waves of exquisite anguish. She had been blessed beyond imagining, with a path to ascendance - to holiness - in the eyes of her Goddess. Anathema had presented her something without equal, laid before her a veritable feast, and all she could think of was how badly she wanted to taste .
Enver of course did not know of these feelings, her desires. She imagined he didn’t care to, with enough on his plate as it was. And how could he? He hardly looked at her these days, his fathomless eyes casting only cursory glances across the dinner table while she ate, stealing glimpses of his wife - his pretty, caged bird - as he delved into his manuscripts and research. He studied them diligently, not noticing that she’d stopped eating.
She wondered if he would visit her chamber tonight. She wondered if the thought had even crossed his mind. Their fiery passion had cooled somewhat in recent times, though the embers of desire still smoldered between them. At the very least, she could sense his wanting - it was abundantly obvious to her, and he cared little to hide it. Though she knew it wasn’t her he wanted. She hardly needed to scratch the surface of his mind with her magic to reveal it. His thoughts swam with her - dark, blood slick skin, stark white horns, sharp-toothed smile. Perfect , his voice crooned softly in Ianira’s mind, My dearest. She could almost feel Anathema's lips, the heat of her breath, the sigh that came from her throat when he closed the gap between them. It drove an icy shard of envy through her stomach, churning and swelling within as bile climbed up her throat.
He would never love her. She’d known that before she married him, and welcomed the inevitability of it. She had happily accepted a marriage of convenience, arranged from on high, for their mutual benefit and the greater glory of their respective patrons. After all, what was love compared to untold power? To the absolute assurance of one’s place in the world? Nothing. Perhaps even less than nothing, a pathetic, sentimental defect of the puny mortal conscience. She was a Lady of Baldur’s Gate, the favored child of her Goddess. She had all she could ever want and more - what use had she for love?
Nevertheless, the nausea remained. She dug her nails into her palms and her spoon fell to the table with a clatter. Enver looked up from his book, eyeing her critically before returning his attention to his reading. These days she ate very little. She sought a way to commune with her Lady on a higher level - hunger, fear, doubt, agony... Jealousy . All of it facilitated her devotion, bringing her ever-closer to the enlightenment she sought.
Her husband, to his credit, had always supported her efforts. He understood her ambitions better than any other, could put his finger on the root of it: Her need for knowledge and security, superiority even. It was a hunger - starving and animalistic in its intensity, demanding much of those who fed it. More than any mortal could give. But her Lady could. Loviatar had made many promises to her and, with the sacrifices Ianira enthusiastically provided, had brought each and every one to bounteous fruition. She could trust the Maiden, more than any man’s honeyed words, more than any woman’s warm embrace.
She loved her Mistress more than bitten lips, more than bruised-tender flesh, more than pomegranate sweet-and-sour taste that tingled and burned on the tongue. But Loviatar was not a jealous patron, and Anathema had gained her favor. She had proven herself most valiantly, her worthiness no longer in question if indeed it had ever been. Her Lady had been most enthusiastic when Ianira began her penance the previous evening, the air surrounding her buzzing with frenetic energy. By the time she concluded, for the first time in months, she had been given instructions.
Her task would have been simple to any other. Any mortal with desires of the flesh dreams of something so simple as acquiescence . Surrendering to animal instinct, to the basest of impulses. But her circumstance was a complicated one, and with its many blessings came curses in equal measure.
She was not free. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down her spine. She was not free to go where she pleased. She was not free to speak with whomever she chose. She was not free to wear what she chose, to eat what she chose, to love who she chose. Nor could she fuck who she chose, the painful irony of which was abundantly obvious to her as her husband, wrapped in his thoughts, plunged his tongue into Anathema’s mouth with all the grace of a writhing eel. Ianira’s choices were made for her, each one carefully selected by the calculating eye and cold, unfeeling hand of her husband. Sometimes she would imagine they were sentimental in nature - a dress in her favorite color, an exotic fruit she’d told him about once. But it had become abundantly obvious over the years that Enver Gortash was not a sentimental man.
He, as opposed to her, saw no value in such things. Every word, every gesture, every single miniscule movement or decision was a crucial part of his grand plan, and he was determined to ensure each were exactly to his specification. He was confident, decisive, absolute in his power. Absolute in all things, she mused - it almost brought a chuckle forth from her pursed lips.
Anathema, though, was different. Mine when Anathema spoke it did not mean ownership. It did not mean enslavement. It meant belonging. It meant she was a part of a greater whole, a part of her - her left hand, her beating heart. Ianira had long resigned herself to the space she was allowed to occupy as Enver’s wife. The pretty, caged bird - how beautifully she sang for so many long years, a canary in the dark of a mine. She sought nothing more. But Dove from Anathema’s lips carried a sweetness to it, the temptation of a promise.
She would sooner die than live another day not knowing its taste.
"I think I shall retire early. I should like to pray awhile." Her voice, soft and calm, settled like snow over the quiet of the room, gently splitting the comfortable silence that lay between the two heads of the table. Most often they ate with minimal conversation, one or both of them usually occupied with matters beyond enjoying the food laid before them. In her case it was any number of things - ancient, crumbling tomes to read, alchemical diagrams to decipher, formulae to perfect. Her husband, on the other hand, preferred tinkering with his little machines when the mood struck him. Though he seemed quite taken with his books of late, researching something or the other for reasons she could not guess.
"Mhm. Of course, my dear." Enver hardly looked up, giving her only a slight nod of permission from behind his stack of papers. He looked almost small then, and so far away, consumed by a sea of old parchment and leather-bound journals. His voice was weary. "Don't wait up for me."
He would not be visiting her bed. His words were all the confirmation she needed. For a man who so fervently sought legitimacy for his reign, the proliferation of his line seemed low on his list of priorities. And although Shadar-Kai fertility was a subject of much conjecture, parthenogenesis was seemingly not among the abilities she possessed. She wondered if he saw it as a mercy on her, that he would not subject her to such things. Such undignified, painful things. She would have to provide him with an heir someday, however, and neither were getting any younger. Enver in particular. She did not know how he imagined she would give him a child if he never slept with her. A flaw in his grand plan, she thought.
She wondered what he might say if she opened her mouth. Told him how she felt, put the confusion and hurt and want to words and spilled them forth onto the table between them like sick. It would ruin her lovely new dress. It would ruin her . It would make a mess of their immaculately set table. It would make a mess of everything . So she chose, with what little free will she had, to remain silent.
The words remained on her tongue, though, finding a home in the back of her throat, eagerly waiting for their moment. Fuck and Prick and Traitor , Trust and Obligation . He had broken his vows. Made a mockery of her, of their union, even if it had always been a sham. Love and Heart and Need , words he never quite learned to understand. Not to her satisfaction, anyway.
"On second thought... I might visit Anathema then, if I may. It feels like an age since last I've seen her." Ianira chose her words carefully, having swallowed her foolish ideas of recalcitrance.
"By all means. Bring a Watcher with you, and give her my..." He stops himself before he can say what he truly means, the word which yearns to fall from his lips unfettered. "Regards."

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