Chapter Text
Nearly a year has passed since Vaugarde has started to be infected by the aptly-named “Curse”.
Nobody is immune, except for the sole escapee of the attack on Dormont: Housemaiden Mirabelle, whose immunity is attributed to a blessing from the Change God. She’s the chosen one, the person who has gone on the quest to collect all five Orbs and stop the King.
Now, after months of travel, she and the four others who joined the quest along the way are in possession of the five Orbs. They’ve reached Dormont, and have been dubbed “the Saviors of Vaugarde”.
Even though they haven’t saved anyone yet.
And I’m still a fraud.
The afternoon is a perfect, gentle blend of warmth and wind. Housemaiden Mirabelle sits in front of the library, in clear view of the Change God’s statue at the town’s heart. She can smell bread and flowers while shuffling through the copious amount of papers in her grasp, which she’s been meaning to get around to for a while. But her eyes don’t really process what’s written- rather, they busy themselves with runaway trains of thought.
She still remembers the day she was “blessed”. Not by the Change God, but by Dormont’s Head Housemaiden. It’s a secret to which she’s not told a single soul. How could she, when Vaugarde would lose hope knowing that the chosen one was not truly chosen?
And the King is not alone. Mirabelle knows this for a fact, though few of the many settlements she’s visited over the months had known; even then, they had deemed it an unverified rumor. But it is true.
There is not just a King, but a Prince.
~
They were in a frenzy.
Lightless glaze scurried over the walls, floors, furniture, plants, people-
No one expected the infamous King to disguise himself, waltz into the House, and then start attacking full-force. But here they were, vulnerable, and falling apart. Sadnesses were already forming in the wake of those caught. The building was affected, its pillars shattered by stray beams of Craft. It was being warped into something far, far bigger than before: a castle fit for the horrid King.
Mirabelle was barely able to see through the tears that splotched her vision. She couldn’t do anything aside from run, trying to escape. The entrance was where the attack had started, so leaving through there was out of the question. But there were numerous other emergency escape routes. She sought out the one on an upper level. The King would be eerily close, and the Curse right with him, but Sadnesses had yet to populate that area- so the chances of interruption were arguably lower.
Then she’d found Euphrasie, defeated, slowly being frozen where she was sitting with her legs aside.
She threw herself forth. “EUPHIE!!!”
The Head Housemaiden lifted her weary head. “Young Mirabelle…they will hear you. Please, run. The escape is right there. You know how to get out.”
“W-we have to get YOU out of here! We NEED you!” Mirabelle cried, fruitlessly attempting to uproot her from where her dress welded with the floor.
With eerie calm, Euphrasie put her hands- glowing with warm, beautiful magic- on Mirabelle’s shoulders. “Take this.”
She knew what the sensation of a Crafted blessing felt like. Classes that taught how to make one were available in the House. However, it was quite difficult, and in her experience the effects were temporary. For amateurs like her, they scarcely lasted more than an hour.
But THIS was STRONG. The Head Housemaiden was talented in the art of Craft, true, and yet this enchantment was unlike anything Mirabelle had ever experienced. It was so potent that it felt like a part of her. Melting into her own Craft, then her flesh, bones, mind and soul.
A gasp tore itself out. “Wh-what? Euphie, what are you doing…?!”
“This blessing will give you immunity to the Curse.”
“WHAT?! No, you have to use this on YOURSELF!!!”
The Head Housemaiden did not seem to hear her, smiling with bitter acceptance tempered by hope. “No time. Please, stop him. Don’t let Vaugarde be frozen. I know you can. You must.”
The darkness reached the woman’s torso. Mirabelle jerked away as it dawned that there was no getting her superior (and friend) out of this. “W-why?! Why me?! It- it should have been-!”
There was the slam of metal. Euphrasie’s smile suddenly dropped, and not a second later Mirabelle felt cold, glacial magic strike her back. She cried out and stumbled, but the flourishing heat of the blessing quickly swallowed up the attack like a flame to frost. She whipped around, looking for the cause.
The King was lumbering into the room, armor brushing against the walls while the ceiling was scraped by the prongs of his crown. Between the fisted hands, impossibly long hair, and outpouring of tears, she could meet his gaze. Angry bewilderment mixed with resolve.
At his side, almost hidden by the steel plates of the King’s greaves, was a…person. Messy, darkless hair and pale skin. They wore a pointed hat and a cloak with several decorative pins, the most notable of which was a strange losange. Identical to the shapes on the King’s chestplate and gauntlets. The fact that someone was working with such an awful man made Mirabelle sick to her stomach.
Then she realized she’d just been hit by the Curse, the same Curse that had frozen her friends right in front of her. All other problems paled in comparison for a moment.
The blessing had worked.
Euphrasie raised her fear-tinged voice. “Mirabelle, GO! Leave me, just GO!”
The Head Housemaiden was a composed woman, who had never shouted with such anger and desperation for as long as Mirabelle had known her. This was jarring enough to snap her out of her daze.
She turned on her heel and dashed to the end of the room, ignoring the King’s bellow of “How?!”. She frantically yanked the strings connected to a tapestry of concentric circles, triggering the mechanism in the wall to open up a narrow passageway. She ducked into it right as another wave of Craft was sent her way, and she kept running. Looking back meant faltering, so she didn’t, even while hearing the King ram the wall and punch it. He was too big to fit into the route, after all.
“That housemaiden is getting away!” He boomed, “Stop her!!!”
“I-I got it!”
Mirabelle gritted her teeth. The path was a straight shot- it would lead to the outside, right next to a thin pillar which was meant to be used as a pole to slide down to the safety of earth.
She smelled sharp metal right before it grazed her ear. With a yelp, Mirabelle planted her feet and swiveled, casting a Paper spell in turn.
That cloaked person had followed her down the corridor. Her magic hits them in the shoulder, and- having barely felt it- they click their tongue, raising their index and middle fingers.
Mirabelle was a dual-Crafter, but Rock did not fall under that personal umbrella. A Scissors versus Scissors fight was far from ideal. The King was stomping around the entry point; his colossal size was no less frightening from her perspective.
The spell came. Mirabelle stopped the piercing magic as best she could with an array of flimsy deflections. Once it was over, the person immediately attempted to try AGAIN.
This was going to be a stalemate, she realized. And the Head Housemaiden’s blessing would be wasted more than it already had been.
How DARE this person be in league with a man who was destroying an entire country. What sensible reasons could they possibly have had?!
She felt furious.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!”
She used the best Scissors attack she could muster, fueled by anger, and blindly sent it out. The slashing motion filled the whole space and brought a streak of intense light.
Her opponent cried out as they were thrown against the enclosure, and they crumpled on the ground, clutching their face; blood trickled between their slender fingers. The King let out an enraged roar. Mirabelle paced until they were right at her feet. She created a surge of bladed fragrance, ready to-
To.
…
They stared up at her, frozen, but not by the Curse. The previous spell had scored their face, from the scalp to the area between their eyebrows and then across the cheek and left eye, which was fluttering rapidly under rivulets of blood. They were trembling, scared, breaths hitched with sobs that failed to be silent.
It occurred to Mirabelle that this person, lean as they were, was a young adult. Perhaps around her own age.
She felt ill.
A shockwave of mountainous Craft rattled the foundations of the House. Mirabelle was blown backwards; losing her footing, she redirected the spell to the ground and sent up a gust of wind.
The King sent another wave of magic towards Mirabelle, and this time it actually reached the interior of the passageway.
The cloaked (injured) person gasped, snapping their fingers rapidly before seizing Mirabelle’s dress and forcing her to the ground in front of them- right as the Craft reached them.
They screamed.
Mirabelle felt the aftermath of the attack; it winded her, and if she’d been in its path, she’d likely have been rendered unconscious in an instant. They had to have known that, and yet despite being opponents, they took the brunt of a Rock spell.
“NO!!!” bayed the King. “NO, NO, NO!!! NOT HIM!!!”
The person’s quivering visage, painted with liquid life, stared blearily into her eyes. They leaned forward and whispered.
“He’ll kill you.”
It sent a chill colder than Time Craft down her spine. The person proceeded to shove her away. Mirabelle scrambled to her feet and bolted.
She had to leave; she was so useless, never strong enough. The blessing should never have been used on someone who was so reliant on strangers, friends, even enemies alike.
Mirabelle stole one last glance over her shoulder.
That person had stumbled out of the passageway, back into the House. The King appeared to be cradling their limp form in his arms; he was a giant, and the person was nearly eclipsed by his grasp. Yet there was something deeply personal about the howls that followed, which broke in rage and grief. “Little prince,” she believed he was sobbing on occasion.
She kicked open the brickwork which made up the exit door, and then grabbed the pole and slid down. The passageway audibly crumbled behind her, most likely due to the King.
Mirabelle let go of the pole before reaching the ground, causing a slip, but she barely felt the pain as her side connected harshly with grass and soil. It would bruise later. Later was not at that moment.
At that moment, she fled. The House continued to warp until it was bathed in ice, and the spires kissed the clouds, and it looked more like a castle ripped from a nightmare storybook.
Not even an hour earlier, she had made her way through the darkening halls that rang with the wails of its residents. There had been other housemaidens who accompanied her and were picked off by the Curse one-by-one. At their dogged insistence, and so that their sacrifices might not be in vain, she had left them behind.
And now, veins imbued with magic, she was alone.
How am I supposed to save the world?
~
The answer had come soon enough. It was: with good allies!
Mirabelle is so very grateful for Isabeau, Odile, Pétronille, and Bonnie, though the last one really shouldn’t be here. They didn’t have much of a choice; the siblings refused to be separated from one another under any circumstances. Nille has been doing a great job at being Bonnie’s primary guardian, thankfully.
(But Mirabelle doesn’t feel any less guilty about the few times when they’ve failed to prevent the kid from getting hurt.)
Approaching the Favor Tree, Mirabelle gazes thoughtfully into its canopy. One of its leaves blows by, and for no reason in particular, she chooses to catch and fiddle with it. Tomorrow is the big day. They’ll be going into the House to stop the King once and for all.
And the Prince, as she’s been calling them in her mind.
Oh, how that event has bothered her endlessly! Traumatic loss of her loved ones aside, Mirabelle couldn’t figure out exactly what this Prince’s goals were. Or if it was possible for him to switch sides. Maybe they could reason with him. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Idealistic, she can hear Odile scoff. He’s still an accomplice to the King.
Mirabelle is certain that the Prince is alive. She’d injured them, yes, but not fatally. She had stopped before she could…well, for lack of a euphemism, before she could kill him. Back then, her emotions were at an all-time high, and she’d nearly made a messy and unnecessary mistake.
Today and tomorrow are a different story. Mirabelle despises the unchanging state that Vaugarde is being forced into. Yet, her mind continuously doubles back to the Prince’s terror, and the King’s violent sky-shattering grief. He’s a horrible man, she believes, but perhaps there is still a part of him that hasn’t gone completely heartless and has the ability to care. Her current running theory is that the Prince is the King’s son or relative.
It doesn’t really change her resolve. If need be, both faux royals will die.
But she also believes in Change, and if there’s even a chance…
With the leaf twined between her fingers, she claps once.
“I wish for Vaugarde to be saved…”
Silence responds. Birdsong can be heard in the background, and the wind blows in a way subtle enough to make the tree seem as if the branches are shoulders, swaying up and down. Mirabelle brings her hands up nearly to her lips, turning the leaf over and closely admiring the shiny surface.
(Somewhere, someone else is praying.)
(“I wish to end this without death,” they whisper. “I wish to end this without death.”)
(Without death, without death, without death.)
A thought briefly crosses Mirabelle’s mind; of darkless hair and anger and fear- but above all else, confusion.
“I wish I could know more about them,” she murmurs. It’s absentminded, spoken arbitrarily as she distracts herself with the simple patterns on the leaf. An utterance of longing, missing a strong basis in realism and ritual.
But it is a wish all the same.