two moons walk into a ruined bar and...

Heart-in-a-Box, Frankie's heart-in-a-box, lived in a carefully crafted magically enforced glass case on the bedroom mantle. Magnus truly put up with more than she ever expected; from holding her in the night when she cried herself awake to granting her somewhere safe to preserve her dead husband's heart as she held the magical enchantment that kept it beating.

Eularia had shown no-one else the heart-in-a-box, for surely the children would curse it and others would not understand. She was never fully understood as a queen that wielded magic over necromancy. Death was a concept humans ran from but she embraced.

Adaria had burned the beloved Royale Tavern to the ground, attempting to break her mothers' heart no doubt. By burning the building to the ground, the girl had erased more memories of her father than she cared to know about.

The girl had not shown her face to her mother in the time following Francesco's death. And even now, Eularia was dressed in simple garb, one corner of the rubble cleared and magically barricaded to give the four toddling infants a safe space to play, within a barrier of pure magic held in place by the mother who was dutifully examining new blueprints for the taverns recreation.

She had fallen from grace; she no longer had the Campana fortune, but she had done well for herself as a Lovette. She'd done well for herself as a Lady of the Free Marches. And Magnus had more than enough funds to support them if her money ran dry.

She was seated just next to the children's safety bubble, sketching on the blueprint a correction for the construction foreman, who stood over her. So we want this to go... It did not surprise anyone that Magnus let the lady handle repairs; but it had surprised many people that the womnan was not behind bars.

Footsteps sounded on ruined floorboards, as Eularia handed the corrected blueprint to the foreman and sent him away. Her attention briefly found one of the children, leaning against the invisible barrier to make a face at her mother. But the footsteps drew her attention once more.

Second Talon. She did not move to stand; he would expect nothing else, though. She had held a higher position in the courts than he ever could hope, and she'd proven her wrath to him once. How do you fare with the moons? She inquired, slipping a hand through the barrier to tousle a headful of raven curls.

Two children were biologically hers, while the other two were similar look-alikes, but now they were aging and the two identical looked much different than the two fraternal.

Fiore Marquez walked gracefully through the rubble, his head held high with his peripheral focus on the ruined ground. The Talon was keen to assure his gait appeared nothing less than a gliding swan, even among unstable ground. His pocketed hands hitched the skirt of his dark burgundy doublet over his hips, draping down his back-side and into the folds of his cloak. He made eye contact with the foreman as he left, but did not return the nod from the man.

As he stopped before the dowager queen, the older Crow watched as Eularia’s attention turned to her children, playful and safe within their bubble. He envied them for a moment, so young and innocent, gleeful amidst destruction and impending doom.

His chest rose as he took a deep breath when she finally addressed him. As the moons drew closer to turning their full, glowing gaze upon the land, Fiore’s senses had sharpened only to drive a hunger in his gut that craved viscera. Bloodlust claws at my skin, eager to savage my flesh, He said plainly.  But I am, fortunately for everyone else, a man of great resolve. The Talon gave a brief smirk beneath his black mustache. It was, of course, no virtue of his character which held back his urges—as no one had ever broken a curse on virtue alone.

The humor disappeared from his weathered features and Fiore looked around at the charred wood and fallen bricks of the destroyed tavern,  It does seem that a destructive temper runs in the blood—or, maybe its simply a rite of passage for a mage, hm? He looked back to meet her gaze again. How do you fare, my dear? With the rage of your daughter and the blood of your husband finally on your hand? He asked.

There was an easy way to deal with Adaria, Fiore thought to himself, but he knew she would never allow it. Yet Fiore would send his spies to follow her where she fled, whether Eularia willed it or not.

Eularia smiled gently at the burbling child, each color coded with a bracelet around her wrist now that their differences (save for the two identical) were becoming more apparent. Ah, yes. Great resolve, for certain. She finally turned her attention to the man, regarding him with a slight tilt of her head.

Destructive tempers can do great damage, as she had learned. She'd been unable to undo the curse she'd cast in a fit of rage. My daughter has been enraged at me long before this incident. She stated, meeting his gaze.

It is nothing new. No, it was not new, but it unsettled Eularia because her husband had hoped she might guide the girl through the unfortunate inheritance. And yet, even that bothered the dowager. Her husband depended upon her for his steadfast support, and what did she receive in return but worship from a man that would have felled the very palace they lived within if his wife so desired?

She scowled, and cut her gaze from her father; for even adopted, Fiore had been more father than the man that had eventually used her to settle his debts. How do you think I am, Father? She snapped, reaching through the barrier to give a toy to one of the girls.

I stand here in these ruins, where memories have been erased from the very wood that once stood. She trailed her fingers through the toddlers hair, This was where I'd met him. Secured his heart. Fiore knew that. Had watched it all happen. Advised her against toying with a man's heart. But she had been quite certain she could garner more than the boy's death in the Crow's favor.

She withdrew her hand from her child, and shrugged. I dream of happier times, when I ensured he skirted death and remained at my side. An honest answer, though Eularia was not much for lying these days. Once, every word that left her lips had been a lie. But... lately, it was too much effort.

Nothing new, yes, Fiore said, And yet, her rage seems to grow with her. 

As he took a deep breath he could smell the sweetness from the bottles of wine which had burst during the blaze smothered beneath the soot. The dowager lamented bitterly and his features softened, sympathetic to her predictament. She'd loved Francesco dearly--deeper than Fiore himself had ever loved anyone--and he knew little of how to console her over such a loss. And in such a manner. She seemed defeated and he hated to see her like that.

His attention drew towards what remained of the tavern and he began to pace about slowly, examining the scorched walls. He frowned at his daughter, that brief softness disappearing beneath his rigid features. Fire doesn't erase, Eularia, it releases. He could hear the dust of his age touch his words and he sighed. 

His hands slipped under his cloak, donning the glove within his pocket, he reached out and scraped a single, metal talon against the the scorched wood, leaving a thick, black gouge. It sterlizes metal, even caulderizes wounds... He added, seeming in distant thought. He looked at the ash beneath his metal talon and tapped it off. 

He looked back to Eularia. Would you have preferred to stay haunted by the ghost of the memories? He asked,  pulling the glove from his hand.

Her father was similar, when angered. She reminded Fiore, her gaze following him as he paced through the remains of the tavern. It was no secret that Frankie had a self-destructive streak, that when turned against others, was deadly. And it was no secret that the late royal had relied on his wife to help manage his moods and impulses.

Eularia's gaze softened, as her father showed his age. Fire erases, father. I've witnessed it myself. She'd had his body cremated; he'd never wanted to be buried, lest the crazed being that was his wife bring him back from the dead as a puppet to necromance because she could not let go...

The only thing left of him, was his heart. Which she had yet to let go of.

He haunts me anyway, every time I close my eyes... every time I sleep. She relived what she'd done. What Elgar'nan had made her do. Her nights were spent screaming at herself to be stronger, to have more willpower, to resist.

Perhaps it's better this way, he a ghost and I wishing to see him again. She mused, as she moved towards the man that had brought her out of poverty; more father than she'd ever had otherwise. Or perhaps it'd do me well to remember what it means to be a Crow, to compartmentalize emotion until there is nothing left but stone around my heart.

Of course, Fiore shifted, a look of resignation falling across his face as he sensed the weight in Eularia's assertion. I can forget how absolute the fire of a mage is, lost in my laws alchemy. 

He listened to his protégé mourn, watching her closely with heavy eyes. He hated to see her defeated. Perhaps at another time in his life, he would have been able to find the sadiatic joy in way the wheel turned against Eularia--a schadenfreude of 'If you'd only done what I'd said, it would have been over quicker'. It was her defiance to become calloused and persevere still which had made her strong, and here she was, ready to throw it away finally.

If that is what you must do to survive, you know you can. He said as she stepped closer. His chest twisted as he said the words despite his own feelings. He closed his eyes and steeled himself before continuing. When he opened them again, he looked sternly to her, I wish I could advise you of a better way to wash the blood from your conscience, my dear. But I am little more than a hardened, old Crow myself. His gaze fell, slowly reaching the safety bubble the queen's four, eeirely similar children waited within. If you build that wall now, your children may never know you. He looked back to her,  And you've gotten this far by refusing to do that, Your Majesty. The honorific was one he scarcely used towards her in private--not out of disrespect but his own pride--using it only to punctuate his point. 

A suspicion crossed his expression. He didn't think Eularia would be quick to let go of Frankie. Knowing of her affinity towards the Fade and undead, a question began to form. This haunting you speak of-- He trailed off, rubbing his thumb against the pads of his other fingers as he searched for the words. He inhaled sharply, Is it simply grief and shame which haunts you? Or do you hold onto his spirit in the Fade?

Eularia tilted her head back to meet his gaze, dark eyes flitting over his features. He was easy to read, after so many years under his teachings. You were kind, where it counted. She reminded him, as if he might forget the kindness he had shown to a waif on the streets, starved and attempting to survive with parents who cared more about themselves than the many children they'd produced.

As he reached to touch the children in the safety bubble, her gaze followed his hand, Perhaps it's better they do not. I'm not a good person, papa. She studied the children, pursing her lips at the title. She knew he was proud; he'd watched her grow beyond what the Crows had wanted her to be, had encouraged that growth once he realized the potential.

He, too, was at fault for the way she mourned. For if she had only killed the princeling before she loved him, she'd not be in this position. Perhaps they'll grow to hate me, as my first two daughters do. As my eldest sons do, for even if Enzino refuses to acknowledge his feelings, sometimes I catch a look in his eye. That is enough. She averted her gaze from the babbling children, who were eagerly playing with their grandfathers' fingers and toppling one another over to do so.

He asked a question, and she looked away from him as well. I am not a good person. She repeated, refusing to answer. Magnus facilitated her inability to let go of her husband; going so far as to protect the still-beating heart. The Fade is gone now, father. Spirits go nowhere, now. As a mage, she'd been able to follow spirits into the Fade, dream with them, see them... but these pockets were few and far between now. Spirits simply ceased, and what else should she think when the Veil was ripped asunder and the world she had known was gone?

She sighed, straightening her shoulders. I cremated most of* him. If that's what you're worried about. She mumbles 'most of', hoping it might go unnoticed.