Swords & Snakes
- ARC I
Ciel of the House Assur wore his sword on his back, which is a terrible hassle if one were to sit down comfortably. A terrible hassle still to have it lean against the table. He arranged it vertically by his side and straightened his posture, his hand subconsciously reaching out, every now and then, to fuss with the blade.
The elder lounging on the cushion in front of him did not seem to notice his distractions, he rattled on endlessly, while Ciel nodded to show that he understood. His older brother, Zara, walked into the room languidly and crouched down to sit beside him on the majlis, further shoving the damned sword into Ciel’s thigh.
The beautiful scabbard was inlaid with golden swirls, the body an alabaster white. It looked more ceremonial than the deadly device it was intended to be. But the visuals mattered little; it was a sharp thing alright.
“Of course, once you’re on the council you will come head to head with the Aram swine. If matters prove beyond your ability to handle, you must immediately send word,” his uncle said. Ciel understood the backup offered would come in the form of forcibly disappearing the troublesome member of the opposing faction.
A position on the Queen’s Domestic Council held high prestige. One would imagine any son of the House Assur would be vying for such an opportunity.
One would be sorely mistaken.
The council, headed, according to tradition, by an Aram chancellor and accompanied in the Prime Minister’s seat by an Assur, is a dreaded bout of bad luck if befallen on anyone’s head.
A history of three out of five such placeholders, losing their heads’ attachment to their necks, might have contributed to the general distaste.
“Your father was a great man, a great man indeed,” Uncle Khaled bemoaned, shaking his head ruefully. “He would have taken great honor in seeing you both make it to such heights,” he lamented.
Zara, the ever benevolent, tilted his head politely and gave the elder a smile worth a thousand stars. “We will not let you down, uncle,” he promised.
Uncle Khaled patted his shoulder reassuringly, then left the common room, leaving the two siblings to their own devices.
“He’s full of shit,” Ciel groaned, the moment the elder shut the door behind him.
Zara furrowed his brows at his little brother, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second.
“Your clothes are all wrinkly,” he nagged, ignoring Ciel's comment.
Ciel rolled his eyes.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the elderly footman by the gate.
The man on the other side of the fence shook his head.
“Then I can’t let you in. Leave your name and address; if the masters wish to see you, you’ll be sent for,” he informed him, solemnly. There was something off about the stranger’s demeanor, thought the footman.
His head tilted, appreciating the towering castle behind the fence, but his eyes carried a hint of something untethered.
“You will,” he whispered.
“What did you say?” The footman strained his ear closer to the fence to hear him.
“You will let me in,” the man repeated, letting streams of his power slither out between them. A shudder crept through the footman’s spine.
“Send one of your boys to notify the elders of my return. Tell them Alvares Aram is requesting an audience,” he ordered.
The footman turned around and motioned for one of the gardener’s kids to run up to the castle and do as he was told.
What felt like an hour later; an Aram disciple returned with the gardener's boy in tow. He looked rather bored and unimpressed.
“Who here claims to be that rotten carrion?” spat Malik Aram, heir to the Aram clan and first among its disciples.
Alvares smiled at him. “Hello, cousin,” he greeted.
