The Vampire & Her Witch

As the days and nights passed, while Ashlynn trained with Dame Sybyll and the forces of the Vale gathered for the next phase of Ashlynn’s war, cold autumn rain drummed against the diamond-paned windows of Lothian Manor’s great hall, where her enemies had gathered to discuss the sudden and unexpected raids on the westernmost baronies.

Outside the great hall, chill winds flung rain and occasional bursts of hail against the windows of the hall, rising and falling in intensity like the cold breath of fabled ice horn demons lurking in the darkness of the approaching winter.

Compared to the storm that had raged a few nights ago in the western territories, the weather could be considered mild but it still prompted the servants to heap extra logs on every fire burning in the hearths of the great hall.

Marquis Bors Lothian sat upon the ornately carved and gilded Lothian throne, hewn from the trunk of one of the demon’s sacred trees, and surveyed the gathering of his court with a deep scowl.

Three tables had been arranged into a U-shape before the dais that held the throne. Normally, the central table would have been one of the shortest, occupied only by Owain and his retinue, representing the Lothian family and their interests. By ancient custom older than even the Kingdom of Gaal, Bors Lothian was expected to set aside his family’s concerns in order to focus on the good of the entire march, while his heir would represent the Lothian house.

At the central table, tension radiated between the Lothian brothers despite Loman’s attempts to present an image of family unity. The younger brother looked more comfortable in his refined tunic and half cape than he had the last time Owain had seen him, but from the furtive glances the younger man kept directing at the table representing the Church, he was clearly feeling out of place.

"You look nervous, brother," Owain observed quietly, his eyes fixed on the gathering lords rather than Loman’s face. "Second thoughts about abandoning your vows? Perhaps you should invite your good friend Sir Tommin to join you, or has the Church turned its back on you the way he turned his back on me?" Owain asked with a cruel twist to his lips.

"I haven’t abandoned anything," Loman replied carefully, adjusting the unfamiliar sword belt at his waist, trying to find a way to sit comfortably while wearing the elegant, golden-hilted blade his father had recently presented to him. The sword itself was light and meant for one-handed use, but to a man who had dedicated his life to healing and service, it felt as heavy as a millstone, dragging him further and further away from his original calling.

"I have not left the Church," Loman reminded his brother. "Father should have made it clear that he’s called on me to help prepare for the coming war. Trust me, Brother," he added gently. "When the men from the old kingdoms arrive to fight for the glory of the Holy Lord of Light, you’ll be glad that I’m where I am so that you can do what you do best."

Sitting next to Owain, Jocelynn shifted nervously in her seat. The steam from her untouched cup of mulled wine carried the rich scents of cinnamon and cloves that reminded her of happier autumn evenings in Blackwell County. For a moment, her heart trembled as the scent blended with the sound of hail striking the windows to conjure a ghostly whisper of Ashlynn’s voice the first night she’d ever tasted mulled wine during a winter storm that rolled in off the sea.

"Don’t tell mother or father that I gave you this, Jocey" Ashlynn had whispered to a much younger Jocelynn. "You’re too young to drink wine that isn’t watered down, but a few sips won’t hurt you and it’s so cold out there..."