My sincere apologies for the delay - depression, RL stuff and holidays came crashing down altogether, I barely found the strength to write this part.
Well, it's that and what this chapter contains; I believe some warnings for sensitive content (such as depressive thoughts and angst) are mandatory. It had been pretty hard for me, given that it kinda hits home with some things, so... yep, I just said it.
Oh, but there are a lot of new characters and more Highborne background! Any questions, you only need to ask :)
Darnassian:
An'da: Father.
Min'da: Mother.
Vashj'ir: One of the great Highborne cities.
Elun'dris: "The Eye of Elune", capital city of the kaldorei empire.
Ishnu-alah: "Good fortune to you." A greeting.
Stareye
"Your father had been looking for you all night, Lady Stareye. We are assigned to escort you back to him." The Black Rook soldier explains, his head still bowed to her, the very picture of respect and duty.
Her lower lip trembles just as the man holding her let his shoulders and arms fall down like heavy rocks, shock narrowing his handsome face. No, no. It was not supposed to be this way. He was not supposed to find out like this…
Illidan stares at her as if it's the first time he sees her in his life, and Mylenne can swear she can see the amount of questions running in his head, flashing through his golden and astonished gaze. He's still—so very still—only his lips moving, mouthing her family name over and over as if he can't possibly believe the word to be related to her.
"Please, don't panic right about now," She whispers, words coming out in a rush and only for him to hear, yet It sounds as if she is the one panicking. His mouth contorts into a sneer, thick eyebrows frowning hard, looking ready to dismiss her assumptions.
But one of the soldiers clears his throat. "Lady Stareye, morning is barely upon us. I am afraid we must insist," He says, outstretching a careful gloved hand to her, his tone apologetic yet not accepting a refusal. She cringes once more with the mention of her family name just as Illidan does.
"Could you, at the very least, give us a moment?" Illidan sneers with clenched teeth, irritation clear as rain, threat laced in his deep baritone voice. Mylenne steals a glance at his face, noticing the dangerous glowing of his golden eyes for the second time in that night.
And a very powerful display of his magic it must be, if she's capable of seeing that purplish-blue glowing with her lesser sights.
She reaches for him, attempting to soothe his sudden anger, but the guards don't take it as a safe movement and they both reach for their swords, thick tension almost palpable in the air. Her heart races wildly with apprehension, yet she wouldn't bet on Illidan—as well-skilled in the arts of the arcane as he may be—successfully knocking two veteran guards if the worst situation came to happen.
Mostly, she wouldn't bet on anything at all, not after him abruptly finding of her noble status and family name.
"Please, there is no need for this," Her trembling voice is a silver lining cutting down the tense silence, but she insists on keeping a fight from starting as she takes a step forward, her back to Illidan and her palms in the air—the universal sign of submission. "My partner was just about to leave. I will go and meet my father now."
She knows the Black Rook guards are only trying to do their jobs, and she doesn't blame them for that, but deep down Mylenne is also aware that she's trying to keep the inevitable from happening—finally facing her father… and his wrath for rebelling him once more.
"Mylenne—!" Illidan protests behind her, almost as if he can't believe what he's hearing. Almost as if he can't acknowledge her—as if she suddenly turned out to be a different woman rather than the one that shared a whole night with him.
And when she looks behind her shoulder, something clenches inside her chest, the sight breaking her heart into a hundred pieces. For when her eyes locks on his golden ones, his unwavering gaze and his thick brows are narrowed hard; sharp, sheer betrayal plastered on his handsome face.
She can't even say goodbye to him after seeing him like that; the hand that previously attempted to brush his arm falling down heavily to the side, feeling disheartened, disillusioned, just as her wishes, her hopes of…
Hopes of what? You just lied to him, you fool, what else could you possibly expect from him? A goodbye kiss? A promise of seeing him again?
A weak sigh escapes her lips with the voice of Maiev in her mind, swallowing a lump that threatens to close her throat, turning away from the cobalt-haired man before he can notice the dejected tears forming in her eyes.
He just did as much for you, and certainly for free, now stop bothering him, the tender voice of Silgryn assaults her mind, attempting for her to see reason. It was good while it lasted, sweetie, but now it's time to face the music.
The soldiers move to the side, allowing her to pass, and as she walks away from Illidan she focuses on bracing herself for what's about to come, thoughts getting clearer and mind bolstering with every step she takes. The guards flank her sides and she does her best to shut down her ears—or, at the very least, pretend to not be hearing the angry fuming of the man she's leaving behind.
It is better this way, she tries to convince herself. He had already expressed his disinterest in noble ladies, anyway. I shouldn't be bothering him further…
An opulent and covered litter, big enough to carry four passengers, appears before her as she gets close to the corner of the street, its poles void of bearers and floating softly above purplish mists—probably the only magical source that the mighty Lord Desdel Stareye care to tolerate so close to him, given his known aversion for the arcane.
Lord Stareye doesn't even care to look at her as he points to a free spot inside the transport with his chin, his lips pursed just as tight as his midnight black mane, tied in a bun. She knows better than to defy him at that moment, quickly entering the litter and taking a seat in front of him, not daring to meet his gaze just yet.
She's about to greet him, or at least attempt to soothe his evident foul mood somehow, but Desdel is quick in speaking first—always the one looking forward to having the upper hand. "It's already sunrise..." He grumbles, pointing out the obvious, and Mylenne can only try not to flinch with the harsh sound of his voice, only a thin hum acknowledging his comment.
His breath brushes her face and the strong smell of distilled Nightwine reaches her nose; he appears to be drunk already—although the fact doesn't surprise her, not by a long shot.
"I'm here now, An'da. I…" Mylenne says, her voice soft yet careful, her eyes never reaching his face as the litter start moving.
However, she never gets to finish her sentence when he growls deeply, a calloused hand abruptly reaching her violet hair. "An'da…!" She gulps while Desdel grabs some chunks of her mane, pulling down and pushing her head as well with the movement. "An'da, n—wait…"
The woman chokes her words down her throat as Lord Stareye tears the translucent dusk lily off her hair, pulling off some locks tangled in his fingers in the process. "Bah! As if your choice of clothing isn't disgusting enough," He snarls, throwing the flower out of the window and shaking his fingers, his face looking as if he had touched something downright repulsive.
Her silver eyes open wide in shock, gleaming with unshed tears. With a hard intake of breath—only enough to keep her tears from falling—Mylenne dares leaning her head out of the window, watching the flower flying away with the soft gust of the morning wind; the last remaining memory of that lovely night, even despite some unfortunate events.
The dear token she had from the handsome Illidan Stormrage… and probably the only gift she will ever have from him. Even that gets to be ripped apart from her.
As if her heart isn't utterly broken already.
The magical flower lands softly at another male's feet—the kind Vanthir, uncle Silgryn's friend—and he picks it up without much hesitation, cradling it in his hands with the same tender care as Mylenne had done when she first got it. Behind the male's shoulder, a resolute Silgryn is holding Illidan by his arms, violet brows frowning hard and pinning him in place.
Next to the gloomy eyes of her uncle, she dares to glance at the cobalt-haired kaldorei for one last time, before the transport turns around the corner of the street. Even from streets away, Illidan's stare never wavers, his gaze barely scorching her from the inside out with its intensity, golden eyes filled with indignation and disappointment.
And it's a heartbreaking sight that might as well be haunting Mylenne for decades.
For the rest of the trip, Mylenne remains silent, holding down her tears and keeping sobs from escaping her mouth only by the force of her own will. Lord Stareye keeps sneering at her from time to time, yet she knows better than to answer him.
"That's not a fitting hairstyle for a noble Lady," He grumbles in a low voice, almost as if he's talking to himself. However, she never replies, her gaze fixed in no point in particular. "You're not even wearing your jewelry…"
He keeps talking and grumbling all the way to the Manor, but the woman stops listening eventually, too entrenched in her own troubled thoughts to focus on her father's remarks and his endless disappointment of a daughter.
No matter how much she tries, she can't stop thinking about Illidan and his intense gaze—golden eyes burning into her mind. She should have told him her name, shouldn't have opted to hide her identity from him only for her own despise towards her social class; only for fear of what he may think of her.
For a mere moment, she wants to laugh at the irony of it all, for—somehow and in some way she can't really point of when—the beguiler has now become the beguiled. But she can't be amused by the thought, not really, not when the guilt tastes so bitter in her throat, threatening to break her composure and burst into tears at any moment.
When they reach the Stareye Manor the Black Rook guards are nowhere to be seen, but she doesn't waste her time pondering about when they left. It's useless, anyway—for with or without company, Desdel always does what he pleases, and nobody ever dares to either retort or contradict his actions.
A mighty high-ranked warrior from the Black Rook order, Lord of one of the most influential noble Houses in Suramar City, vassals of the Great House of Lunastre and a Highborne through and through. Anyone who dares to stand against Desdel Stareye or even get in his way might as well be suicidal.
And Mylenne knows that better than anybody.
His servants stand aside when he places a foot inside the Manor, their heads down and silence only shattered by the sound of his leather boots over the expensive carpet. Desdel is quick in throwing his coat to the closest one and dismissing them with a sharp wave of his free hand, clearly not needing of their services for the moment. Mylenne keeps silent behind him, but she notices through the corner of her eye that the servants are also quicker in fleeing out of his sight.
Just as the guards that previously escorted her, she either can't blame them for their obedience. But oh, how she wishes for someone to distract her father somehow, if only for a minute, so she can be left alone and forgotten. Preferably more than a minute, so she can work her way out and stay far apart from that sheer ire that never abandons her father's sharp, hard gaze.
But then, right when they are away from privy eyes and ears, Lord Desdel grips her bare arm, grumbling low under his breath as he pushes her up the marble stairs, heading to the bedrooms. Mylenne groans in pain with his tight hold, trying to lift the hem of her skirt with her free hand as she climbs two steps at the time, doing her best to keep up with him.
Walking around the hallway that directs to her bedroom, Lord Stareye tugs at her arm as he forcefully opens the door. "An'da, y—you're hurting me…" She knows it's useless, that her words always fall on deaf ears, but she can't help with her pleading—with her hoping that, maybe this time, he may see some reason.
But he doesn't—he never did, he never does—instead, he throws her into the room without further ado. Next, her cheek gets slapped, shutting down all possible pleas. "At least dispose of those robes before daring talking to me. You look like a low whore," Desdel snarls, giving her a disgusted look as he returns to the hallway. "You will come out dressed as a proper Lady. Otherwise… don't come out at all."
And then he slams the door shut, leaving her with her misery—a wounded bird returning to its cage.
For a couple of minutes—or hours, she may never know—Mylenne only stays still in the middle of the bedroom, one hand twitching when the blood rushes freely through the veins of her arm once more. Four dark purple bruises are starting to show on her forearm and her cheek stings, probably the best announcement of Desdel Stareye's return.
Everything she does, he breaks it apart. Wherever she goes, he's waiting at the end of the road for her. Always imminent, always looming, a midnight black saber concealed by the dark forest, patiently waiting for her next move to pounce on her.
Where once Aedriel Stareye had stood, now Mylenne is the one placed in her stead, like a puppet on strings, only required to dance before him until he's pleased. Like meat for crows, with expensive clothes and a fake smile on her face, only needed to attend to their guests or associate with whatever perfumed noble they happened to encounter, right until he gets satisfied and finds a better thing to amuse himself with. Like drinking, or spend a day or two at his favorite brothel.
When the first tear escapes her eyes, Mylenne can't contain the rest of them much further, flooding like a river and soaking her face. But when she should feel thankful to be left alone in the privacy of her room, when she should feel relieved and glad to have a moment for herself, a moment of peace, she instead feels… caged.
Sheer sorrow grips her throat like a vice, but she doesn't wail nor scream, doesn't make a single noise as her whole body trembles with her sobs.
I have been a fool… such a fool to think I could have a life of my own.
Her hands close into fists, purplish-blue waves of magic flaring out and clawing their way out of her skin—strong and desperate, almost as if a part of her being is attempting to escape from their own impending fate. The entire room starts to shake like if struck by an earthquake, furniture levitating in the wake of the intense emotions flooding through her.
Books from her shelves, leather shoes, some trinkets, and even a lamp get floating around her, pulled along with dark tendrils of purplish energy. Everything vibrates—she vibrates—and she's like a living bomb, her magic pulsating and about to explode at any moment…
I will always be caged.
Until a sob escapes her mouth, deep and filled with unfathomable sorrow, right from the bottom of her very core—so deep that the sound breaks the low-frequencies of her magical expelling like a sharp knife, her most intense emotions resurfacing.
All the objects in the room fall down with a loud thump, just as her body slumps down to her bed, knees wobbling and muscles trembling with exhaustion.
No matter how much I try, I will never be free. Min'da never could, so how could I?
She feels so overwhelmed by everything—her feelings, her thoughts, her previous struggles, her own body—so she lets it all go, burying her face in her pillow to muffle her sobs.
When I thought my friends would be able to help, I dragged them into the fray instead. Now Jarod is bound to me and Maiev has her hands tied—forced to watch as her brother and I are used as puppets for my father's pleasure.
With all the strength she can muster, she allows her tears and her sobs to wash away all she held for so long; decades of running away, centuries of denial, two thousand years of struggles and oppression.
What's the sense of anything when I know that everything always ends up like this? What's the sense of trying, of hoping for something to be different? Nothing changed after Min'da left… nothing will ever change.
Her loved ones cling to her mind like pictures before being washed off with the rest of her tears. Her mother Aedriel, smiling at her with the sun rays caressing her face, perched on a branch of a big tree, always gazing at the forest. Jarod and Maiev hunting along in the wilderness, laughing and adjusting the saddle of Rak'shareh to keep her from falling off her new cub. The sweet, so sweet Sister Thania singing a prayer to the Goddess with her, their voices echoing happily as they are washed by the soft moonlight.
At last, her mind drifts to Illidan Stormrage and those stunning golden eyes of his, adorned in shades of amber and yellow—his gaze fixed on hers and filled with awe, as if he's looking at a gift from the very Goddess.
"Oh, Illidan," Mylenne cries to her pillow, her voice rough, like sand running down her throat. "I am so, so sorry…" But no matter how much she tries, every memory fades away except his golden gaze, scorching her from the inside out, burning and flaring with disappointment.
It is better this way. I shouldn't have met him at all, he's better off without me. I can't give him anything but trouble and pain…
All that's left before drifting into exhausted sleep is that fire in his eyes, golden fire turning everything into ash. And—at long last—Mylenne finally gives up, all that remained of her hope gone within the last of her tears.
Two months later.
The fireplace may be burning for half the night, yet Mylenne still feels her hands cold, her silver eyes only glinting thanks to the reflection of the fire on her face. The servants keep coming and going, attending to Lord Stareye's never-ending requests, but she doesn't pay attention to them or to her father—placed as usual on the head of the large table, neck deep on a big pile of scrolls and parchments which cover a large part of the table's surface.
Far away—almost as if coming from the other side of a mountain—a male voice calls for her, but she doesn't answer, burying deeper in her armchair, her gaze fixed on the flickering fire before her.
The fire had turned out to be the bare source of light she had seen for the last two months, although its warmth hadn't been a nice replacement for the bright Moon at night. However, she hasn't found a good reason to come out of the Stareye Manor all those nights—for all the good that the bright moonlight may do for her health, the Goddess' light had stopped soothing her mind and soul as she used to.
Eventually, all the reasons and motivations to come outside had disappeared, one by one. Jarod hadn't been around the city; too busy with his patrols and taking Lord Stareye's shifts to have some time to spend on Suramar. From Maiev, Mylenne didn't get any recent news, but she figured that her friend may be busy as well, probably filling more than the decent amount of paperwork and continuing with her basic training before heading to Hajiri with the Sentinels.
Her uncle hadn't made an appearance either, not even sent a letter, but the woman knows that it's the best for Silgryn to stay out of her father's sight. As the third remaining member of House Stareye, Desdel couldn't take his brother-in-law as anything but a threat, a man he can't control or place wherever he wants to in the way he does with her.
Besides, Silgryn had already faced Desdel's wrath once or twice, while her mother, Aedriel, still had a place in the family. No matter how much his niece would need of him, Silgryn's loyalty will always remain with his long-lost sister—as well as Aedriel's secrets.
But then, as nights went by, Mylenne got tired of thinking about them or even missing their company; for every time her thoughts drifted to the Shadowsong siblings or her friends on the Temple, a sharp surge of pain and longing followed her memories of them. So, she spent her nights in isolation, occupying herself in pleasing Lord Stareye's demands, looking pretty and cordial when visitors arrived at the Manor, her heart growing numb within each night passing.
"Bah! Are you even listening?" Lord Stareye grumbles from his usual spot, a couple of meters ahead of the fireplace. Lots of piles of parchments lay before him, yet he always manages to not stain his expensive gloves with ink.
"Of course, An'da," Mylenne half-lies—she had listened to some musings about Jarod, but nothing further than that, probably the usual praise of him. "And no, I'm not aware if Jarod had been already considered to be promoted to Lieutenant-Commander."
She doesn't look at him but, from her periphery, she can see how her father shifts on his spot, growing frustrated within each second. "Of course you're not. As if you can be useful at something," He sighs in deep disappointment, making an effort of finishing the letter he's writing—to whom, Mylenne will never know. "I sent you to the Temple to work your way as a Priestess, so you may at least be good at something, and yet you always seem to find a way to be useless."
She doesn't flinch with his words, too tired and used to hear to the same offenses for centuries. Useless, unappealing, naïve, silly rebel—she knows how the long list goes. Yet, for the first time in that month, a loud alarm rings on Mylenne's head.
"An'da," The woman still doesn't know how to approach the subject without raising suspicion or face Lord Stareye's ire for, somehow, defy him—yet still, she feels the impending need to try. "It may be… unwise, for us to take Jarod among our family with him being only a Lieutenant. Even for me as not being a Priestess yet. Maybe we… uhm, maybe you should—"
"Do you take me for a fool? I have already considered our options," Desdel interrupts her, for once regarding her with that dull silver eyes of his. "I'd not be giving you to a lowborn if it weren't for that being my last choice. Captain Ravencrest doesn't have a son for you to join with, after all, and the Lords of the vassal Houses of Astravar are already taken as well."
"What about vassals of Duskmere or Stelleris?" Mylenne wonders, feigning interest in Highborne politics for once. Besides, if it's all she could do to prevent Jarod from sharing her fate, maybe she should insist. "I believe Thaedris of House Feathersong hasn't taken a wife yet..."
Yet she knows her plans have failed when Desdel only rolls his eyes at her. "In which century do you live, Mylenne? The Feathersong are vassals of House Duskmere, and Duke Duskmere has allied with the Great House of Stelleris three hundred years ago." He explains, not hiding his annoyance while rolling his parchment with a little more force than necessary. "Every kaldorei knows that the Stelleris and the Lunastre are rivals."
She sighs next to her father, aware that she had messed up. It wouldn't be prudent to declare a joining with rival Houses of Lunastre, she should have considered that. However, no matter how high the stakes are, she can't bring herself to lament her lack of knowledge on Highborne politics and families.
She barely knows a thing or two about the Great Houses of Suramar—Astravar, Duskmere, Stelleris and Lunastre—and their vassal Houses, but nothing more than what she'd been taught at school. She wants nothing to do with them, anyway, and would rip off her noble family name without hesitation if she had the chance to.
Lord Jarod Stareye, she thinks, repeating the name in her head to see if, in some way, she can get used to it. He will hate it the very first second he gets named—permanently bound with her and, consequently, with Lord Desdel forever. And despite having the choice of not abandoning his family name, it's not like he will have any say in the matter.
Probably her concerns turned out evident on her face, for then he stands up, not so elegantly, sending her a disappointing look. "I'm growing tired of your ignorance and your never-ending insolence," Desdel snarls as he seals his parchment before saving it. "I haven't been working tirelessly all these centuries for you to spit and destroy all I've done to maintain our place among the Highborne."
Three maids are coming her way, one of them holding a dark-silver gown for Mylenne to wear, another carrying the adornments for her hair and ears. The woman can hardly remember which special event awaits them at midnight—although judging only by the amount of jewelry, she guesses they'll be preparing her to greet a very important guest—but she nods at the maids in acknowledgment regardless; the girls will probably inform her in the dressing room while embellishing her properly.
"Father," Mylenne insists once more as she rises, turning away from the fireplace. Regarding the way his forehead creases with the sound of her voice, she manages to find a way to continue, "Maybe I should say that Jarod is not… pleased with this arrangement. And while I get your intentions, I think that—"
Then again, she can't finish what she starts when a pair of enraged, dull silver eyes pin her on her spot, fire blazing in his gaze. "Bah! Who cares about what you think?" Lord Stareye spits, taking a threatening step towards her and the maids.
Just as the women beside her, Mylenne can't hold his gaze for long, cold pain sending a shiver down her spine. He's right, after all; nobody cares about what she may think, her opinion never held any weight when it comes to her father—and never will around that Manor, regardless, not when she couldn't even bring herself to feel that place as hers. Even the servants and maids are hired and specially picked by him, and they would obey and respect him as long as they get paid.
"You should thank me for arranging a marriage with Shadowsong instead of loathing me for it!" Desdel barks, waving a hand and dismissing her previous words as if they're garbage—as if she is garbage. "Who'd look after such a worthless woman as you, anyway? No magic in you to enhance your beauty, no use for healing or leading, you may as well be a useless merchant if it weren't for you wearing your mother's family name."
Everyone stays still as the only man walks away from the table, probably heading for his opulent dressing room. Yet as he opens the door leading to the main hallway, he looks behind his shoulder.
"No, you will be of use—for once—and take Shadowsong as your husband," He declares, his tone denying any possible objection, "With two Stareye and him so close to earning the rank of Commander, we can lay claim on Black Rook Hold. Duchess Lunastre will be most pleased with that…"
A wicked smile narrows his face as he crosses the distance to the main hall, a long crimson cloak following his tracks, waving gracefully as he retires to the hallway.
It could all be so easy if she just could hate them, despise the servants, Desdel's allies, the whole Highborne for their willingness towards Lord Stareye's way of getting pleased. At least, hate the injustice that's placed upon noble Ladies such as her—for she's not, couldn't be the only one—loathe the invisible chains that, unconsciously, indirectly, reign the lives of the Highborne women.
Or even so, hate the evident lies and deceptions that for millennia were placed upon her people's ears: That women choose their lifemates, that their place in the world—as for a Priestess, a tailor, a merchant, a warrior—is for when the Mother Moon wishes for them to be, that magic is a gift given by the very Goddess to her most cherished children, used for knowledge, for peace, meant to create a better, greater world for all kaldorei.
But then, such a strong feeling, such a dark sentiment… she can't even bring herself to hate her father for the nightmare of a life he brings to her. She could say it, yes, like any man would say how nice the moonlight feels over one's skin when she's at her peak, yet really, really feeling it—that belongs to a whole other level which Mylenne never really could reach nor acknowledge at all.
"Duchess Aurore is about to arrive," One of her maids attempts for a conversation, the same one arranging her violet long mane, making braids on the sides of her head and working them up to join the longer, thick one at the back. "It is said that we will be hosting many important members of her court tonight…"
"I am sure you will like Lady Ailen, mistress," A maid at Mylenne's right continues with an encouraging tone as she adorns her ears with various amounts of silver jewelry, "I believe she is about your age as well, and just had returned from Vashj'ir. Oh, the tales she must have to tell!" The maid squeals a bit, obviously daydreaming about Lady Ailen's adventures.
The third of the maids, while concentrated on painting Mylenne's lilac lips, narrows her eyes to the other woman, brows rising in interest. "Is Lady Ailen an acquaintance of Princess Azsune, then? Why would she be on Vashj'ir otherwise?"
The referred woman clicks her tongue, "I believe you were referring to Princess Azshara, my friend," The tiny maid corrects with a shaking of her head. "Princess Azsune lives in the capital, Elun'dris, yet a little far from the Well."
"I could not see how Lady Ailen would be interested in visiting such places… or how wise it is to distract just as easily from helping the mistress," The woman arranging Mylenne's hair peers from above her head to scorn the other women. "Now, hurry up, Bara, Loratha! Lady Mylenne needs to be stunning tonight!"
Mylenne stops following the trail of the conversation after a while—too many mentions of perfumed Lords and Ladies could only do as much—making a great effort of not looking at her own reflection in the mirror before her. She's quite aware of what she'd see if she dares to, yet she can't bring herself to care about it.
Even less so when the maids are there precisely to take care of covering any sort of imperfection that she may have.
And that's how, half an hour later, she ends up completely embellished. From wearing that dark-silver gown—with long sleeves that help in covering the bruises on her arms—to having simple beauty spells applied on her lavender face to make up for the dark bags under her eyes. She doesn't complain about the extra pressure on her corset—with one of the maids excusing it because of her loss of weight—nor about the heavy jewelry she wears while on her way to the dining room.
At the very least, the physical extra weight helps in balancing out the emptiness inside her.
Lord Stareye is already greeting their guests of that night when Mylenne comes down the stairs, bowing in that much-practiced way of his and kissing the outstretched hand of a Highborne Lady who stands—face stoic, eyes neutral—in the middle of the hallway, her court standing in line right behind her.
"Milady, may I introduce you?" Desdel gives his guest a dashing smile before snatching an arm around Mylenne's waist, the woman returning the action with the best smile she can fake. "Mylenne, this is Duchess Aurore and her daughter, Lady Ailen, of the Great House of Astravar. Your Highness, I believe you have met my dear daughter a couple of centuries back, yes?"
The Duchess gracefully nods her head at her, a nice smile crossing her lips. "Ishnu-alah, Lady Mylenne. It is been a long time since I have seen your lovely face…"
"Unfortunately so, milady," She regards the Duchess in her best manner, bowing and holding the folds of her dress—it's the best she can do with the unwavering stare of her father from behind her, always studying her. "I am glad that all is well."
After the salutations, the Astravar and their court start to move to the dining room, Lord Stareye's midnight-dark coat waving as he leads the way, right beside the Duchess. Servants are set to work, some holding discarded robes, some others removing chairs for all to sit around the big table.
"My dear, could you show the guards their way to their posts?" Desdel asks from behind his shoulder, barely regarding her, and returns to speak with the Duchess and her daughter. "You must pardon our manners, milady; it is been far too long since we received such an amount of spellcasters on our Manor. Mylenne will be right back…"
Although nobody expects an answer from her, for then the door is shut, leaving only four guards, her maids and Mylenne alone in the hallway. She barely keeps a frustrated snort from escaping her face, yet the woman rolls her eyes at the door before dismissing the servants and leading the way to the courtyard—if she recalls correctly about where the guards should be placed, anyway.
Yet it isn't until she opens the door for the men to come through when a familiar face is shown to her, right after he nods politely. She gapes at the Moon Guard man as he walks past her, wide-eyed, a memory of a long past night flashing before her eyes.
"Lothrius? I thought you were at the Stronghold…" He said, golden eyes blinking twice in apparent surprise.
"I just escaped," The man shrugged as if dismissing his comment, nodding past them, "Doesn't matter now, what matters is that the hurricane is coming. To your right,"
A gloved hand is placed upon her shoulder, returning Mylenne to the present time—and, if unwillingly, far away from happy memories of a lovely night—almost making her jump in surprise. "Milady, are you feeling alright?" The soft voice of a man regards her, laced in concern.
A heavy exhale of breath escapes her lips, right before shaking her head—if she does it to answer to the guard or just in an attempt of shake the memory away, Mylenne may never know; or maybe it's a mix of both. "Do not mind Lothrius, milady. He has this tendency to be careless, sometimes. He is working on it…" The guard attempts to lighten the mood, a soft chuckle following his words. "Are you well, though?"
Mylenne nods thoroughly, trying to regain her composure and recover from her slight shock. The sight of his friend is the first familiar face she happened to come across since the last two months in seclusion, and certainly someone she had completely forgotten about—not for their brief encounter but more for the other pleasant memory of her dancing partner.
"Oh, yes, I am fine," Mylenne insists in her best attempt to reassure her companions—and deep down, herself. "Something just came to my mind, that is all. Please, pardon my manners, sir—"
It's in that very moment when the worried guard shows his face, finally facing her, and she is left breathless.
A short and rebel cobalt mane gets on display, next to a charming smile, a set of sharp teeth showing from behind dark, plump lips. A pair or pale golden eyes lock with hers, flashing in evident appreciation of what he sees. A small blush creeps up her cheeks at the sight of the handsome man, her mind instantly remarking his similarities to another particular man that—almost hauntingly—still lingers in her memories.
In what may be a bold move—considering the place and the situation—the man nods respectfully at her before grasping her hand, "Officer Hargo'then at your service, milady." He introduces himself, his silky voice lowering to a seductive tone, golden gaze still locked with hers as he kisses her hand. "It is my very pleasure to finally meet the Violet Star…"
For the first time in two months, a smile slowly clings to her painted lips. "The—the pleasure is mine," She awkwardly clears her throat, trying her best to recover her voice, only succeeding in his smile widening. "But, please, Mylenne is just fine."
"As you wish, though you must excuse my surprise; despite your public references, I am afraid there are no recordings that could warn me of such beauty," He says, almost solemnly, a gloved finger slightly brushing the back of her hand before letting go. "Yet, if Mylenne is fine, then you may call me just Hargo."
Her blush strengthens with his praise, the small smile on her lips threatening to get wider and wider. That charming manner, those remarkably similar features and thick cobalt brows moving teasingly over his dark face, that dashing smile—Mylenne can't help but relax and lower her guard, feeling as for how her previously numb heart slowly starts to work again after two months of deep silence.
For that man can only remind her of a younger version of Illidan Stormrage.
It may not be him, he may not have that long and oh so beautiful long cobalt mane of his, that deep baritone voice which makes her knees wobbly and weak, and certainly he doesn't have that intense gaze which sends her heart racing.
However, Mylenne is quite aware of where they are. And what place could be better for her than the Stareye Manor to—at least for a moment—just… pretend?