Banners and Farewells

The Queen's Message
The clanking of armored boots echoed down the cold, stone corridor. Torches lined the narrow path, their flames flickering against damp walls streaked with mildew and old blood. A chill lived here, one that no fire dared challenge—only deepening as the echo of approaching steps grew louder.

Queen Lysandra walked with slow, deliberate grace, her crimson robes trailing behind her like blood on marble. Her dark hair was coiled in a crown of braids, adorned with silver pins shaped like thorns. Her face, carved in icy elegance, betrayed neither anger nor pleasure—only a calculating calm that was more terrifying.

Two guards followed her, both towering, armored, and silent. One of them held a black satchel at his side, the contents hidden.

At the end of the corridor was a cell—darker than the rest. The iron bars groaned as the guards unlocked and opened them, and a stench of blood, sweat, and rot crept out like a beast unchained.

Inside, Darius hung limp from the chains bolted to the stone wall. His arms were raised above his head, wrists locked and bloodied from struggling against the shackles. His torso was a patchwork of purple bruises, dried blood, and cruel welts. His hair hung loose and matted with grime. One eye was swollen shut; the other glared dimly, the last flickers of fire clinging desperately to the edges of his soul.

Lysandra stepped inside with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Good morning, Commander Darius," she said smoothly, her voice like silk laced with poison. "Well—‘Commander’ no longer fits, does it? You’re just a broken traitor now."

Darius slowly raised his head, the weight of it clearly unbearable. He let out a painful cough then forced a rasping whisper through cracked lips. “Still… still not as broken as you’d like me to be.”

Lysandra chuckled, low and almost fond. “Oh, I admire the spirit. I truly do. But the thing about spirit, darling... is that it can be snapped just like bone. And you… you’re already halfway there.”

She took a slow step forward and crouched before him, tilting her head to study his battered face.

“Did you know,” she began, “that I received a whisper today from one of my little birds in Bellaflor? Apparently…” She paused, savoring the moment like a wine too sweet to rush. “Aurora has awoken.”

Darius’s one good eye flinched.

Lysandra’s smile widened.

“Ah. So it’s true, then. You care.” She stood, dusting imaginary dirt off her palms. “What is it between you two, I wonder? Love? Loyalty? Some foolish attempt at redemption?” She waved a hand, as though brushing away the thought. “I don’t care. I don’t care what she is to you. I don’t care why she came to save you the last time, but I do care that she’s alive.”

Darius coughed again, a hint of a laugh in it despite the agony that wracked his body. “Worried… she’ll finish what she started?”

Lysandra’s eyes sharpened into blades.

“I don’t fear Aurora. She’s weak. Powerless. Hunted. And if she has even a shred of sense left, she’ll keep hiding like the rat she is.”

She turned to the guards and gave a nod.

"Hold him steady."

The command was sharp and cold.

Before Darius could react, the guards moved forward, each grabbing an arm and yanking him tighter against the wall. He groaned in pain, every bruise lighting up like fire under their grip.

From the satchel, Lysandra withdrew a gleaming dagger—thin, curved, beautiful. The hilt was carved from gold, the blade’s edge was serrated. She admired it for a moment, letting the torchlight dance along its cruel edge.

Then she stepped toward him.

Darius's breath quickened. His chains rattled as he instinctively tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

“Don’t!” he rasped.

Lysandra’s eyes met his, calm and pitiless. “You’re going to be an example. A countdown. A message.”

She grabbed his left hand, and he fought, thrashed, but the guards were immovable.

Lysandra pressed the blade against his smallest finger.

“Let’s see how much she really cares.”

Then she sliced.

A scream tore from Darius’s throat, raw and savage. Blood sprayed the stone floor as the severed finger hit the ground with a soft, sickening plop. His body convulsed, chains rattling violently. He screamed again, the sound echoing down the corridor like something feral. The pain was beyond language.

Lysandra watched him writhe, unfazed. Her dagger dripped red.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” she said, cleaning the blade with a silk cloth as if wiping away wine. “And if Aurora hasn’t shown herself… we’ll take the next one.”

She knelt to whisper in his ear. “Day by day, piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left for her to find.”

She stood, turned on her heel, and walked out of the cell. The guards followed, closing the door with a loud, final clang.

In the darkness, Darius collapsed forward, the chains barely holding him upright. Blood soaked his hand and pooled at his feet.

He stared at the floor, biting back sobs, his jaw clenched so tight it could have snapped.

But eventually, the pain won.

He cried.

And cried.

Until he fell unconscious.