The Weight of Legacy

Interlude - The Ones Behind the Vows

Leaving a single nail, long and hardened enough to tap away at the wooden desk was the height of frivolousness—that was not something Sybrandt would waste his breath denying, for all it served him well. It was a thin line to be mindful of, between ensuring he retained the mystique most individuals had come to expect of him, and playing a character. A simple man could never have built something like this, after all—it stood to reason that something about him must have been special. Exclusive. .That the couple before him was left squirming under his gaze was merely a side effect, their discomfort palpable as he continued tapping away for what must have felt like an eternity, ‘pondering’ answers he had decided upon from the moment they walked in. He smacked his lips, looking off into the distance. Their request must have reminded him of something, not that they would dare ask of what. Shaking his head, Sybrandt allowed himself a quiet moment of contemplation, eyes shut.

He took a deep breath before speaking, the movement rehearsed all the way to the exaggerated slump of his shoulders as he exhaled. “Marie, Jan, tell me—have you thought of what would become of this relationship were your dear friend to live again?”

“Pardon?” the woman asked—of these two, she had so far lacked a filter the most. Sybrandt liked that, not that he would say so. While he believed their intentions—and feelings—genuine, her would-be groom was much more reserved, and when it came to matters of the heart, that simply would not do. Certain buttons needed to be pressed, for better or worse.

“Your husband, Claas.”

“ husband,” Marie flinched even as she issued the correction, her body stiffening. Sybrandt could not help but be pleased—he could see it in how she stiffened. The sorrow, the yearning—the kind of mourning that never went away, being only ever suppressed.

“I am aware, Marie,” Sybrandt leaned forward on his desk. If there was one thing he missed from the days before he had started shaving his head, it would have been the dramatic effect a proper hair-flick could add to any interaction. All he could do now was clasp his hands, ever the picture of a solemn authority figure. “Nonetheless, your proposed contract is missing a clause for this.”

He refrained from pronouncing that part as similarly to the deceased man’s name as he was tempted to.

“He will not live again.” It was Jan who spoke this time. Clipped. The man acted as if the mere act of opening his mouth weighed on him, though the brief wetness of his eyes told enough of a story. Enough to ease Sybrandt’s concerns, small as they had been. Of course they both felt the same way—a widow, and her husband’s lifelong friend. They both mourned him, both tried and failed to build for themselves a world in which they could have him back. Everyone always did.

But sooner or later, those without means—those who allowed themselves to dream—realized it was beyond them. No matter how universal the potential for resurrection was to be, it never truly was so in practice. Not for the poor, and certainly not for mortals without connections. Sybrandt had no deeper agenda in acknowledging that fact of life, no true intent to do something about it. One man could not change reality like that. That was simply the way things went.

“The point remains that chances are not , and, therefore, it must be accounted for,” Sybrandt offered them a simple wave of a hand. “I will say, it need not be troublesome. Just a question of how you would handle it, if it were to come to pass. Devils know accusations of bigamy were abused enough in the past, that no one would hold it against you.”

The couple’s gazes snapped to him, examining him as if he had grown a couple additional heads. Perhaps the reference was more obscure than he expected, but it certainly was true. He was all too aware of many periods in history, within the limited scope of marital patterns, either because he had researched them or because he had made sure to be involved in as many social circles as possible. Nobility in particular had gone through a phase in which they developed the habit of resurrecting their enemies’ unwanted spouses purely out of spite, oftentimes calling upon laws and regulations that criminalized multiple simultaneous marriages.

Was it a waste of accrued [Toll]? Obviously. It bordered on stupidity, nevermind that it turned literal lives into pieces on the board. Vindictive nobles were on a class of their own.

Still, his point remained—the precedent set by such stunts had led most countries to just create exclusions for such events, not bothering or outright forbidding the persecution of widowed individuals who remarried prior to their late spouse’s resurrection.

Would two random peasants normally have to worry about something like that? Absolutely not. Was Sybrandt in the mood to send some anonymous donations of mana to the fundraiser back in their village anyway?

Yes. Absolutely . His only regret would be that he would not witness their reaction firsthand, but such was the price of keeping the act to himself. Giving gifts was too much of a doubleedged sword for him to do so openly. Besides, it would be for his own amusement—their ignorance towards the matter only further cemented his resolve.

And who knew? Perhaps they would come crawling back to amend the agreement once there were three of them. On that thought… yes, Sybrandt would be sure to convince them to start with a short-term contract. They were mortals, after all, and commitments were troublesome, especially for people still in mourning.

He almost licked his lips, far too lost in his own reverie to notice he might have been pushing a bit much—not that it mattered. Within a second, the door to his office swung open, his overgrown assistant having not even bothered to knock.

“An urgent matter has come to my attention, master,” Calvin spoke, only sparing the couple the briefest of glances. Perhaps he would have paid more attention to him had he not nearly hit his head on the doorframe—seriously, Sybrandt still remembered when this kid could barely reach the height of his hands for a headpat, being one of the many children he fostered. When had he gotten this tall? “I am afraid I require your input, .”

Sybrandt hummed softly, resting his chin upon his arms. Slowly, he turned to Marie and Jan, not bothering to heed the warning. Through narrowed eyes, he addressed the couple. “I I can part with some of my time—convenient, is it not? I do believe you needed some time to amend your proposal, anyway—”

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Marie seemed torn between a scowl and a look of genuine confusion. “No, we truly did not—”

“Ada!” Sybrandt called out, hoping the old woman was hiding behind the curtains, as she almost always was. He got the confirmation he needed as she slid out, bowing her head. “Right, Ada. Would you be so kind as to escort these dears to one of the guest rooms? I fear I must put our meeting on hold, but I wish for them to continue their deliberations comfortably.”

“We really don—”

“One of the good restrooms, or the one out in front?”

“… rooms, Ada. One of the guest rooms.”

“That makes considerably more sense,” the old woman gave him a serious nod, turning towards the couple. “If you would be so kind as to follow me?”

At the very least, the exchange had disarmed Marie enough that she offered no further rebuffs as the two of them followed Ada out. Once they were beyond earshot, Sybrandt exhaled. “Was that truly necessary? I do not believe I was playing a bad part.”

“Father. There is an !” Calvin hissed out, his hands clasped behind his back. He remained standing straight, no hint of jest in his tone.

Sybrandt froze, blinking slowly. Then he slapped his desk with both hands, all but pushing himself up through the motion. “Wait, an emergency? Why did you not just say so?”

Calvin looked ready to strangle the older man, gaze hard. Without a word, he sped out the door through which he had entered, barely dodging the doorframe this time around. His footsteps made considerable noise as even the fine carpeting of the hall failed to muffle them—probably the work of one of his abilities, knowing the man.

With a scoff, Sybrandt chased after him—despite the implicit seriousness of the matter, he struggled to stop and consider that there might truly be a problem. Perspective was a finicky thing, and most of his subordinates considered mild inconveniences to be crippling disasters. Such was the folly of children still lacking experience in life—one of the many reasons for which Sybrandt had started this organization. The young needed to before they overreacted and overcommitted to basically anything in their path.

Led into one of the backrooms—one he had visited recently—Sybrandt felt his blood run cold. Within, a loom flickered, threads shifting with a faint echo, their movements more closely resembling the strings of a harp.

The device was not the reason for the pit forming in his stomach—the woven words were.

That final clarification was utterly unnecessary—the otherworlder on the other end had never been one to joke about something . Truly, that only worsened his palpitations. Sybrandt was no mere mortal, to be shaking like this. No, this feeling… it was something he had not truly felt in a long, long time.

And someone out there was about to, for the first time in nearly a millennium, find out what it felt to have the Immortal of Rites descend upon them like the wrath of banished gods.

Unconventional as it was, the hollowed-out branch served as an excellent replacement for a straw, especially given their current shortage. One of these days, Khaiman would find out who was responsible for the disappearance of most conveniences normally available in the royal kitchens, but that would have to wait—Henrietta was in the middle of something.

Having practically folded over herself, the Prince’s chest was pressed against her knees as she sobbed. Perhaps a gentle touch could have improved her mood, but the Foremost of all Saints did not actually feel close enough to the woman to justify the approach. In truth, she did not even know if it would be properly comforting—she should call in one of the old governesses that attended to their line. Surely, one of them would have a better idea.

Not now, though. She would let the woman vent, and have her moment. It was , even if Khaiman struggled to empathize with the display. All he would do was wait, unobtrusively, downing her drink—

The Saint drew in air. Annoyance flooded her instantly, and she shook her cup, soon repositioning at an angle to drink the last drops of the imported fruit juice.

Since when had Henrietta been staring at her like that? The Prince was looking up now, brows furrowed. It was probably a good thing that she had straightened a little, seeing as too much time crying in that position could not possibly have been good for her back, even if all discomforts would be temporary for someone so deep into the Tree Veins.

“Khaiman,” Henrietta called.

“I am still here,” the Saint confirmed, swirling the makeshift straw around. “Are you done?”

Silence lingered for a moment, the room growing tense enough that even the Foremost could feel in the air, before Grēdôcava’s newest Executor merely groaned and rubbed her temples, those faint traces of emotion that had leaked through her magic fading with her voice.

“Yes, Khaiman, I am .”

That was good, no doubt. Even Khaiman’s patience was not endless, and while she would never keep someone from expressing how they felt—even if it all amounted to weeping—the truth was, she would have inevitably gotten quite annoyed if she had to keep listening it for hours. “Good, good. I told you it would do you good to just let it all out. I am proud—stress can get to the best of us, but you aren’t letting it crush you. You are doing an excellent job, Henrietta—it is perfectly understandable to feel overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed is one way to put it,” Henrietta sighed, gritting her teeth. She nearly screwed her eyes shut then, and for a second, the Saint feared she might have been about to start crying again. Instead, she let out a low whine. “Oh, . I am terrified, Khaiman. What if he is dead? What if something befell him? For him to prove untraceable, despite our best efforts… what if my nephew is dead?”

More accurately, the boy was her cousin’s son, but Khaiman offered no such correction. Not to mention, calling any of their actions so far anyone’s ‘best efforts’ bordered on offensive. Hiring adventures, sending random noblemen out—even a whelp half as competent as Theodosius could have run circles around them with this much ease.

“I never would have expected it to take this long,” Khaiman spoke truly, mostly because she had assumed the boy would come back running once he realized how hard it was to strike out on one’s own. If she had known his choice to run away would lead to his father’s death and borderline destabilization for the Executor’s court, she would have never turned a blind eye to his escapades. “Perhaps we should rethink our approach?”

And the word might have been doing some heavy lifting there, but Henrietta did not complain or refute it, instead shaking her head. “I know not, Khaiman. All I feel is that I am failing him—and if I cannot do well by my own nephew…”

Khaiman wanted to hold on to the Prince’s shoulders and start shaking her.

A Second was meant to choose their Executor’s successor—they were not meant to actually become the Principality’s next ruler. What they had pulled off, by circumstance and convenience, was nothing short of unorthodox, and only the absolute chaos Adalhard had left in his wake had served as safeguard against most of the backlash. But as soon as matters grew less hectic… Henrietta would be vulnerable.

And Khaiman had not gone through this much effort to put an Executor she liked in power, to be thwarted this far into it. Never.

“Tell you what, Henrietta,” the Foremost smiled, setting the cup down. It hit the ground, as she had failed to actually place anything other than these two chairs in their shifting meeting room, but she paid it no mind. “I will personally select a team of Saints, and I will have them look for the boy in my name.”

Henrietta gaped at her. “? Are you mad?”

“Yes,” Khaiman nodded. “They would not dare disappoint me, would they?”

Incredulous as her initial reaction had been, the Executor tipped her head. Her expression went slack before she steeled herself—a hint of resolve had made its way back, after all.

“…Tell me more.”