For the first time in the fortnight, since his companions left Fewham, Vogir relaxes. Lord Rician has reduced his guard numbers to that of before the threat he’d made.
He’d kept out of sight, watching from outside the town perimeter.
What was weird though was the whole situation…
It smelled a lot.
It positively stunk!
A dragon in the form of a lady, mincing about pretending to be human while being served upon hand and foot.
A Lord feigning consideration for his people while living in luxury.
The flawed defence of the Lady Sybille being Theranthor’s daughter and therefore apparently keeping the Empress’ forces from attacking.
And finally, a secret that everyone seems to be aware of: The local nobility, the dragon empress, the guards and even the locals themselves.
So why wasn’t Lord Rician honest in the beginning?
Why the pretence?
Still, Vogir wasn’t fooled and he wasn’t to be put off. After weeks of waiting, of questioning visitors and travelers from and to the town, he was ready to act.
The mansion carefully cased, Vogir approaches stealthily and under the cover of darkness. Easily bypassing the locked doors, he drifts as mist through the corridors and under the cracks in doors.
Still, despite the hour, Vogir is too early. Lady Sybille is awake and still in conversation with her ‘Father’. Confident in his hidden state though, Vogir edges forward to listen…
The conversation is sweet. Loving even and worse, it seems sincere.
Lord Rician kisses her gently on her forehead before retiring for the night.
It would be easy now. Lady Sybille is completely alone but something stays Vogir’s hand.
Following her to her own bedchamber, she is met by an older women dressed in a robe of dark grey. She passably resembles a Black-cloak but her graying hair and lined face are unhidden by the hood.
The woman smiles when Sybille enters and the affection again seems genuine.
Despite not currently having a stomach, Vogir feels a sinking within it.
This woman is almost certainly the trusted Black-cloak who’d stolen the little wyrmling in the first place. That she was still here spoke of care beyond mere duty.
After combing and braiding Sybille’s long blond hair, the lady-in-waiting puts her to bed and retires to an adjoining room.
Vogir watches until Sybille’s breathing becomes deeper and he’s sure she’s asleep.
He could kill her now.
It’d be easy.
He could kill the nanny and Lord Rician too…
If he wanted to…
If it were the right thing to do.
An eerie sigh escapes Vogir’s insubstantial form and, like a shadow, he slips from the silent mansion.