Encounters of Past and Duty
The reason why the meeting with the Young Lady of Blackfist and I had been scheduled was simple.
The Fireheart clan was of standing equal to the Four Noble Clans, and Richa Blackfist and I were both of the same age.
Had events transpired as they should have, I would be the coming Lord of the Fireheart dynasty. This marriage appeared to the Blackfists to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. My family and theirs would combine power and influence like strands in a woven fabric. Nothing about this match appeared out of the ordinary from the outside.
The fault was with me, though. I had a reputation for trouble, for acting rashly, for inviting scandal with nigh on mechanical consistency.
The marriage contract could have survived my transgressions, if not for the constant rumors—the hushed conversations of my misconduct, raging like a firestorm throughout the Martial World, even touching the Blackfist Clan. My reputation, as seen from their perspective, was sullied.
Naturally, the last, irrevocable insult had been mine: the instant I'd said words too raw, too offensive for decency, to her face.
"Why…?!"
Richa had screamed then, her voice cutting as broken glass. Shock painted every curve of her fine face.
But I was more puzzled than outraged. Why had she come?
Emberhold City was a ride by carriage from Vellore, and while not impossible, it was by no means casual.
So why had a member of the Blackfist Clan traveled all the way here, amidst the Fireheart clan's pivotal clan ceremony?
"That's my place," I said easily, stepping ahead. "What do you want?"
Richa winced, instinctively drawing back as if my very presence itself held danger. Her escort—a calm, dangerous-looking woman—stepped forward, inserting herself between Richa and myself. It was a defensive move, deliberate and instinctual.
Shit. Were we actually as much at odds as this?
After she collected herself behind the escort, Richa said something in a steady voice, though with the slightest quaver of fear.
"I merely have some business here. You do not own all of Emberhold, so do I need to report every move I make?"
"Hm… nothing to say to that," I said softly, my mind already elsewhere.
I walked toward the steam pocket stall, disregarding her. I couldn't afford to remember my own mission here—pleasant as the surprise of seeing Richa was, it would only delay me.
Richa's eyes went wide with shock. I was ignoring her. Actually ignoring her.
But I didn't mind. It was better to drop the past, if she was here on a business trip. Anything else would only complicate things for both of us.
The steam pockets came quickly, steaming and gold, piled up in tidy little stacks. Their aroma—warm, savory, a little sweet—watered the mouth. I picked them up in my hands and was about to leave.
"Wa-Wait."
Her soft, tentative voice caught me halfway down the step.
I turned. Richa stood nervously, her hands tightening a little in front of her.
Her words spilled out in a strange, half-hesitant jumble.
"…I overheard the Fireheart clan is going to recruit new Swordfighters tomorrow."
"Huh?" I raised an eyebrow. Yes, the Fireheart clan would recruit new Swordfighters on the second day of the ceremony. But why did she ask?
Her face, stiff but nervous, beckoned me to ask. I drew nearer. "Why are you inquiring about that? Are you joining?"
"Why would I join?! And why are you so casual? I'm a year older!"
Right. I had forgotten.
"My apologies, miss Richa, I forgot."
"Don't call me that suddenly, you're going to make me puke."
Her disgust was evident, born of past resentments. The breakdown of the engagement had left scars, and it was obvious my being there now, carefree as it was, opened them up again.
It was better to just leave her alone. I turned away again.
"Right, anyway, enjoy yourself here, whether you're here on work or holiday."
I gave her one last look as I retreated, the steam pockets clutched in my hand. She winced again at my look, a flicker of old tension flashing across her face.
And I took my eyes off them again. I concentrated on my own way, ignoring Kevin's lag behind. I was still very much aware of the feeling of being watched by her, though, unyielding.
________________________________________
The meeting haunted her. Richa recalled the flippant talk she had exchanged with Richard Blackfist, her brother, recently. She could not help but feel partly guilty over the ensuing turmoil, and therefore had rushed to Emberhold City.
.It already hurts my head, having to put up with my brother, why did I have to bump into him?" she complained to herself.
To Richa, encountering Davis Fireheart—was an unlucky encounter of cosmic proportions.
Richard Blackfist, Young Master of the Blackfist Clan, was a person whom others envied throughout the Martial World. Categorized as one of the few prodigies, he had the potential to become great but was always looked at as lazy, as if the burden of his prowess overwhelmed him.
Whenever he spoke of his dreams, he always blew leadership lightly and stated reality held him back. But fate had its way of showing him otherwise.
At last he rose to be chief of the Celestial Dragon Academy, which was subordinate to the Martial Alliance, making him the youngest Lord in history. However, he still had his air of languid elegance, as if about to fall asleep at any given moment.
One day, Richard had casually asked Richa if he could leave the clan. She had answered with her typical sarcastic flair, agreeing without expectation. To her surprise, he had taken her words seriously, replying, "Alright then, I'll do that."
Shortly after, he vanished, leaving only a brief note: I'll be back after a little while.
The Blackfist Clan burst into worry. Following Richard's trails became almost impossible, vexing even the most resolute search parties. It was only after recruiting the Fakir sect that they collect pieces of information: he had traveled to Emberhold City.
The Blackfist Lord, hearing this, tasked Richa with an order that seemed ridiculous in its simplicity: return Richard Blackfist. Regardless of their arguing and sharp mouths, he knew she was the only one he could trust to see this done right.
But guilt nagged at her. Her memory of that previous talk with her brother made her feel somewhat guilty about his vanishing. And so she had come galloping here, ready to make matters right.
"…It already hurts my head, dealing with my brother, why did I have to see him?" she grumbled again, her fists clenched on the escort's arm.
To Richa, seeing Davis Fireheart now—an embodiment of her past—was an unwanted complication in an already problem-ridden day. Fate, it seemed, loved irony.