Interlude - Mirabelle 2

Impatient steps rang through the castle hall as Mirabelle strode towards the council room. Her hair flowed behind her, its silver hue wildly shining in the morning light that leaked in through the windows. She approached the doorway, waving away the approaching guards with a dismissive flick of her hand. When they realized who she was, they obediently stepped away. 

With a kick, the door burst open in a crash, causing all but one of those inside to jump at the ruckus. The only stand-out sat at the head of the table, as if used to such commotions. Mirabelle walked inwards and forcefully slammed her hand on the table in front of him. The cups near her spilled over, pouring wine onto the floor. 

“Can you tell me,” Mirabelle began, voice strained, “Why every healer and doctor in the city cowers in your villa? Do you have so many wounds?”

He sat unconcerned with her query. He was a stern looking man, with a face defined by a long, sharp nose, his countenance bearing wrinkles that only recently adorned it. His dress was sharp, expensive, and befitting of those in his station. His hands, callused in only the way that a swordsman’s were, tapped the table in front of him — it was the only tell of his wearing patience. 

“What concern of it is yours?” He asked. His voice drawled into a patronizing tone. His eyes didn’t meet hers, as if she were a fly buzzing in his ear. 

“My concern is that of the people bleeding in the streets, one foot in the grave. My concern is that my foolish father has damned his own people!” 

Her voice raised as she spoke, nearly shouting as she finished. Her father met her eyes for the first time since she had walked in the room. 

“Your people are being treated at home. The rabble you speak of has no relation to you.” 

His voice was calm, as if explaining something to a child. Mirabelle flushed at his tone, about to speak again, when the door, having been closed by the guards, was knocked upon. 

“Enter.” His harsh voice rang out. 

A young man stepped in. A messenger. “Lord Duke, sir, there’s been an uproar in the city!” 

Arthur Leyland raised a hand, gesturing for the man to speak. Mirabelle stood frustrated and ignored to his side. She stepped back and ruffled her hair in annoyance.

“A Saintess has appeared - she’s been healing any and every affliction, your lordship sir.” 

“A Saintess?” Arthur’s voice rose in a scoff, a rare expression of emotion. He looked towards Mirabelle with amusement. “You have your healer, then. Do with her as you will, so long as it is out of my breath.” 

Mirabelle’s face flushed red. “I will not be dismissed with idle rumors!” 

Arthur rose from his seat, his face darkening. “You test my patience, girl. Take your Saintess and your complaints elsewhere, or see your father’s grace as it wears thin.”

Mirabelle stood for a moment, before slamming the table once more and walking away. She heard the chair scoot back into place, before the doors closed cutting off the sounds from the room. She controlled her breathing, coaxing the bile in her throat back into place. 

Damn him. Damn him to hell! She thought of the wounded she’d seen as she patrolled the city, administering limited aid. She was exhausted from the battle, the night raid that had claimed the lives of men she’d known for years. She had done her best, convincing the guild that an attack was coming, had even evacuated one area of the town, leaving only that area’s walls seemingly lightly defended. She’d hoped it would not come to it.

The plan worked - if they were to breach, and breach they had, best it occurred in an area unpopulated by the innocent. She personally helped rebuild the barricades after the raid, made sure it was infused with a deceptively powerful defensive magic. It wouldn’t hold forever. The Demon General Atrax needed to die, painfully so, if she could help it. 

To leave the city in her father’s hands… no, it couldn’t be done. He was a fearsome tactician, were he to apply his trade, but he wouldn’t care. He would stand idly by and watch the common folk die in agony, only stepping in if his own people were threatened. She clicked her tongue. 

She needed to strike Atrax swiftly, without notice. A large group could never exit the city under watch. It would have to be her and a spare few others. Henry from the guild, maybe. He was a skilled tracker, excellent with ranged weaponry. Mirabelle herself was prodigal with a spear, but she needed a vanguard. Someone to control the frontline, keep the attention from herself. That, and a healer. Someone with the ability to safeguard the party and eliminate Atrax’s demonic bloodline. 

She cursed. No healers were left in the city to help her. No, there was one. Mirabelle bit her lip. Hopefully this so-called “Saintess” was worth the rumor.