The times that her majesty had summoned her new left hand had diminished with the course of the years, the last time she'd been privately called through a black letter had been a little over eight months ago, when she'd been asked to eliminate a growing merchant that'd been discovered plotting with the Detrian Republic.

Rosalynde orders had been clear that time, it didn't matter how she would have done it, all she needed to make sure was to find out the exact location of the weaponry shipments before they would have been placed into the Dietran Republic's hands.

It'd taken a while for him to break under her touch, for the first weeks he'd been quite uncooperative, spitting to the ground every time he'd seen her step into the cell he'd been thrown into. Things started changing after the left hand of the Crown had found out about the only true secret that the man had so desperately tried hiding from the outside world: a lover, and a son born from her.

He'd been terrorized when she'd told him that she would have payed a small visit, and fearing for his son's life the man had come clean, revealing the positon and time when the shipment would have taken place.

That, however, hadn't been enough for her to spare his life.

He'd exchanged his son's life for the intelligence in his possession, not his own, he would have needed a new deal to propose to her, but there was absolutely nothing he had in his possession that she was interested in.

He hadn't broken down when she'd ripped his nails off, nor when she'd broken every single bone inside his hands - all it'd taken had been a photo of a young child with blond hair smiling brightly at the camera. He died trying to clutch with his broken fingers the photograph of his son, his salty tears soaking through the paper as they started mixing up with the blood coming from where his nails had once been.

He died with a pained smile and tears crawling down his cheeks, displaying the most horrendous emotion Rosalynde had ever been forced to acknowledge, love.

The most useless sentiment that the living could bring themselves to experience in their lifetimes.

"Lady Rosalynde, how rare to see you leaving the side of her highness during the day." She stopped dead in her tracks and turned around, her eyes taking mere seconds on pinning the source of the voice that'd made her halt.

It was rare to find him outside the Imperial Chapel except from when he had lectures with the two imperial heirs.

"Brother Jeremias, how fancy in finding you poking your nose outside of the Imperial Chapel, has a mouse perhaps scared you off?" She asked as the man stepped forward, hiding the hand holding the letter by shoving it away from his long umber robes

Brother Jeremias Bellwhistler, otherly known as Apostle VI, he who acted as the private delegate between the Helian Church and the Des Reslows and attended court life by being the private tutor to the imperial heirs.

"I actually just finished explaining the philosophy of Saint Lauren to his highness," he replied, showing her the books he'd kept hidden under the large sleeves of his pious apparel.

Teaching the words of a Saint that'd decided to throw herself into the battlefield to aid the soldiers and that the Helian Church had exalted for the last two centuries to a swine like his highness was just like talking to a broken mirror.

"Ah. I'm sure it was a highly educational lesson from your part, not sure if the receiver actually understood a single word you tried teaching him though." She made the hand free from the letter slide up, a wicked smile replacing the usual one she wore at all times.

"I hope that Saint Lauren's preaching will root deep inside his noble heart."

Rosalynde held the snort so close in coming out, for that boy's heart could not be even closely associated with the one that her master possessed. Pharah was stern, but extremely susceptible if someone of her aides were to be thrown into the lion's den.

Brother Jeremias took a fearless step forward, his dark skin glowing under the light of the candlelights, bumping sides with her, halting his walk to whisper in her ear.

"My congratulation by the way, let's see how much you'll survive in the position that poor old Brek occupied and that made him lose his life, even if I'm sure that unlike him-  you'll actually be worthy of the position," just like all other Apostles he too with time had been granted a name after years passing serving under the name of the Crown.

Two-Faced, the most controversial member of the group, who long ago had been expelled from the ranks of the Helian Church for the heresy he'd been professing before his scandal had been brought to life.

The Helian Church had deemed his sermons too pagan - too strained from the words of their ancient texts to allow him from teaching the ignorant crowds.

"You have my thanks Brother Jeremias." But he apparently wasn't done with her, for he raised an arm in front of her chest, stopping her from slipping away.

"Could you ask Her Majesty to stop by the Chapel after you've done? There are some interesting texts I just recovered from the Fendrian Catacombs that I would love to show her." Pushing his arm away in a curt move she then was quick in fleeing the scene her footstep being the only sound made her aware that he still hadn't moved from that spot, and the persistent weight right under the base of her neck telling her that his olive eyes were still hoovering over her.

That's why they called him Two-Faced, for his unique ability to never make the person in front of him actually guess what was going on inside his head, mockery and compliments walking on the same paths when he was involved.

He could have invoked the deaths of many, but all they would have understood when speaking with him would have been kind words of encouragement, words filled with apparently nothing but sweet confort.

Saint Lauren he'd said, the very same Saint Lauren that unknown to the herds of ignorant farmers and chunks of population had gone insane after the end of the conflict, burning villages to the ground to satisfy the demons that'd taken control over her heart.

If the lesson had really been on Saint Lauren then Rosalynde already had a good idea of which words he'd spoken to the young heir. An interesting lesson that had been indeed.

"Oh, and Sister Steel, don't you find it rather the circumstances in which our dearly missed Brother Brek left us behind? The reports said he drowned, but we both know he was an excellent swimmer," And there it was, the first assault with that sly mouth of his.

"He was even well known for abusing alcohol a lot - I would investigate that, if I were you," she didn't bother in waiting for his reply to reach her ear, she already had a battle awaiting her a few corridors ahead.

"The truth will always come forward Sister Rosalynde, it will always find a way to emerge from the darkest depths of our conscience, just like a vindictive ghost on the hunt for the perpetrator that took its soul away," He yelled out, making her turn for the last time before she involuntary cracked a sneer after hearing those words.

She was at ease with her actions from the past, she knew she had nothing to apologize for, and no one to plead forgiveness to.

꧁꧂

If Pharah had inherited something from her mother that was the habit of receiving the guests not in official parlors but in small private offices as if to make the guests feel more at ease, but that place didn't elicit the same effects on her.

She didn't mind going there, the best part of the trip was the number of detours she would make to escape the prying eyes of the servitude to get in front of the refined pine doors that separated her from the private workplace of her second master, it made her feel as if running away from an unknown demos after her life.

Make sure to not be seen, don't talk to anybody, don't even cross gazes - the exception to these rules had only been Bellwhistler, the tricky Bellwhistler.

She knocked twice, then waited for five seconds before knocking against the hardwood thrice, alternating hands, using first the right and then the left to make the sound of her banging against the door change.

A single long knock from the other side made her open the door, sliding inside the warm room before pulling the door behind her, locking it from the inside.

Her majesty Empress Amalia didn't bother in raising her head to look at the entering servant, her eyes dead set on the stock of heavy strolls sitting on her desk.

"You failed," was the only thing Empress Amaliasaid after a while of silence.

Rosalynde kneeled on one leg, bowing her head as she dropped both hands to the ground, palms pressed against the pavement.

"Forgive me, your majesty, for I have indeed sinned to make you sleep dreamless dreams," those were the only words that managed to escape from the lips of the left hand of the Crown.

She'd failed in capturing Madame Hellenia, and surely her majesty had been informed of that.

It wasn't terror she felt when crossing her door, just a rush of adrenaline threatening to freeze her feet, blocking her movements for as long as her second master would have wanted.

"Not even a month into your new position and you've already proven yourself unsuited for the role you acquired. Makes me wonder if I should have ordered Sternstorn to leave you freezing beside the corpses of your parents all those years ago instead of taking you inside my home, raising you along with my own."

Her veracious words sliced the air, making Rosalynde bow her head until her view was filled with nothing more than locks of her moon-like hair and the fibers of the carpet she was kneeling on.

Others would have called the words Empress Amalia had used on her uncaring and brutal, but that still didn't erase the truth contained in between them.

They  didn't diverge from the truth, simply just leading them on the only path that she'd been taught since young age.

"I appear to have underestimated the enemy, had I known her intentions beforehand would have taken other precautionary measures to restrain her," Rosalynde nearly stumbled as she spit out those apologetic words with the few emotions she was able to express, her words meeting the floor as a dissatisfied sign was met on the other end.

"Tell me, Left Hand, do you wish to amend the problems you have caused me? " Rosalynde slammed her palm once on the carpet, just like Lord Regulus had instructed her to do all those years ago.

One knock meaning yes.

Two knocks meaning no.

"Mary Clark, she's your next target Hound. Now go," in nineteen years of knowing each other there hadn't been once where her majesty had referred to her daughter's private attendant in private without the slander coming up, throwing it between every single conversion the two had had during the course of the year.

That was all she was in those womans' eyes, a hound to use till all the bones in her body would have turned to ash, or until a gruesome death would have finally made her part from the world she'd been .

And that's how her majesty would have wanted Pharah to treat her, like a true servant, not like a confidant.

"You'll be hearing about it tomorrow at dawn," Rosalynde assured her ruler, standing up before carefully approaching the desk, rounding it as she curtseyed, kissing the back of Empress Amalia's pale ringed hand before turning around – dead set on her new mission.

Less than twenty-four hours to deal with the nuisance bearing the name of Mary Clark, and with a body still not completely healed that was bound to become nothing else but interesting, for an imperial hound like her could just not wait to have her muzzle and collar unleashed.

A hound on the loose was what she could identify herself in, especially when the most fun part of the game was about to start.

The hunt was on, and poor Mary Clark had just run out of time to plead for forgiveness.

Rosalynde's smile grew as she shut the office door, staring out of the window as she thought of the best plan to carry out.

She would have struck when the devils were rumored to crawl out of the earth, when nobody would have seen nor heard her raising her weapons against her.

And that's what she did after patiently waiting for the moment where the last rays of the sun began descending to the west, the light hours finally coming to an end. Rosalynde had stayed by Pharah's side all day, aiding her with every little protest that the latter would speak out loud, most of the time without even realizing about her innocent slip of tongue.

They hadn't spoken about what had happened in the morning, silently agreeing on not continuing all the things they'd said to each other the previous hours, both diligent and silent as they kept on working until dinnertime started to approach.

"Where are you going tonight?" Pharah was the first one to break the silence between them, finally taking a break after the numerous hours passed reading and signing urgent documents she'd been working on since morning.

Rosalynde halted her habitual act of sorting out the documents requiring immediate attention from the ones that could have waited another day before being discussed and raised her gaze towards Pharah's immense desk.

She still hadn't told Pharah about Verity, for the information she possessed was still not enough to bare any type of claims or accusations.

"A nightly stroll downtown, I have the hunch that I'm going to get not a lot of sleep tonight," she answered with amusement pending from her lips.

"Just make sure you come back alive tomorrow at dawn, I need your help to define the final touches on the ball that her majestys' going to host next week." Pharah finished signing a document, raising her arms to knock the numb feeling that had been accumulating like a dead weight within the past hours.

"Tell that to someone that didn't stand in between an explosion and your body next time, maybe they'll actually take your advice to heart, can't say the same as I'm sure Lord Regulus already informed you of what happened after you lost your senses."

"I'm being serious here, do the job and immediately come back," But that was something Rosalynde could not promise her.

"And you should make sure to get your beauty sleep, your highness, as these aren't going away anytime soon," Rosalynde gestured to the stacks of documents on the desk, some on the brink of falling disastrously on the floor.

Pharah didn't dare to look at that dangerous loom pile of cutted wood, averting her eyes and making them land on a painting behind her attendants awaiting for her to be officially dismissed.

Humming to herself, Rosalynde gritted her teeth as her forehead started pulsing once more.

꧁꧂

Rosalynde made sure to not emit any form of noise as she climbed up the roofs, carefully studying the tiles she was going to step on as she made her way towards the Botanical Gardens close to Merchant's Road, the cheerful laughters reaching her ears.

She'd used an unknown exit to get out, a tunnel located under the last stable present in the secondary adjoined building.

She's made sure to not get caught by the stable boys that slept in the free boxes, waiting to move out after watching them swap the old hay with a newly fresh batch just before their shift turned towards the end.

Troublesome pests hindering her before she started her work was the last thing she wanted to take care of.

For this hunt she'd opted for more than one set of weapons to carry around, strapping alongside her trusty guns two sets of small knives on her things, while hiding two other unique knives she'd ordered from a blacksmith on the outskirts on the capital, his shop lying in between the Barracks and District Street.

She'd thought of bringing a sword at first, but the memory of that venomous viper that'd sank its teeth in her more than a decade ago had been able to dissuade her without posing much of a resistance, her walls breaking slightly with each sliver of memory running down the memory lane

Waiting for the patrol guards to turn the corner, she reminisced about the slim file her majesty had given her before she'd escorted herself out of the office.

Mary Denise Clark, born Mariè Denise Glayston had been operating in the field of embroidery and silk for nearly a decade, stamping her initials on nearly half of the tissues that the young ladies used to send love messages and convey coordinates of secret rendezvous they would have used to meet up their intimate lovers.

Charity was another thing that Mary Clark had become famous for, her generous donations had always been one of the main talks around the sororities that high society used to keep their mask of noble lineage keep on going.

Every young lady would have loved having her as their chaperon the day of their debut, but it seemed like Mary Clark wasn't the angel every newspaper acclaimed her to be, for the claims that the files she'd brought with her seemed to portray her in a whole different light.

Mary Clark lost her husband while he was traveling overseas only after three years of marriage, and his absence in her life had made her open her heart to the people around her, making her look like an angel gifting happiness to the friend around her.

Pharah however had always had her doubts regarding that matter, voicing her suspicious years before the empress' papers had landed into Rosalynd's gloved hands.

Mary Clark had married to assure herself a spot in the aristocratic world, and coming from a fallen lineage had surely made it difficult for her, especially marrying since she was able to marry into a wealthy family like the ones of the Clarks.

It had seemed a bit too far-fetched when the newspapers had announced their marriage, but the crowds had made it pass for a marriage blooming thanks to their true love.

Had Mary Clark always aimed for the wealth of her husband? And if so: why doing what all the papers in her possession were accusing her of committing now?

Her leather boots broke a tile under her weight, swiftly passing from roof to roof using the chimneys to make less noise.

She'd gone first to see Cleia, tricking Raphael into believing that she would have cut his tongue and then left it under his pillow while he was sleeping if he would have not brought his caretaker out to meet her. Getting scolded by Cleia Spinster hadn't been in the plans, but a single stare from the Smiling Dame had made her informant choke on her words, staying silent for a while before agreeing in telling everything she'd found out on her target.

Passing close to an ajar window, a heavy scent of spicy and garlic invaded her nostrils, forcing her to slam a hand over her mouth and nose to stop any sound of noise that would have compromised her position and job.

She'd never failed missions as the one she'd been given tonight. and it would have not been a single sneeze to undermine her job.

After passing onto the next roof she was finally at her destination, crouching once more as a new set of guards passed right under her, quickly backing against the outer walls to not get caught.

A bloody hound drenched in her own blood, that'd been how Pheron Des Reslow had called her once, after catching her from coming back from a hunt covered from head to toe in blood.

Making her way to the side of the building that gave in to the dark alleys on the back, Rosalynde forced a window open with one of the daggers she'd strapped on her arms, unbolting a bolt before quietly entering the room apartments of Clark.

She'd landed in what looked like a closet full of plants, brooms and what looked like empty sacks.

She'd expected the woman to still be up, for midnight had just passed, marking the start of a cloudless night, but when two distinctive voices reached her ears - she thinned her smile and narrowed her eyes.

Closing the window behind her as silent as she could, she took small and calculated steps towards the door from where the voices seemed to be coming from, halting her walk as she looked from the brass door lock.

Mary Clark had her back facing Rosalynde, while her guest had taken a seat in front of Clark, his eyes shining like marble slates reflecting a reddish glow thanks to the fire raging in the fireplace a few feet away.

Rosalynde gritted her teeth as her eyes landed on the smiling figure of Hector Grey leisurely drinking tea without apparently no idea of what was going to happen next.