Wraithwood Botanist

Leeka Melhan checked the time from her bed stand.

4:17 p.m.

Her brain processed the time and then promptly forgot it. That had been happening more often as of late. She hadn’t slept in months. Her eyes had deep bags because her body was breaking down faster than her healing. It was hard not to. She had spent her days learning new "duties," from childcare negotiations to house management—duties held by high servants.

Her place as the First Domain’s Melhan Matriarch was only there so long as it took to finalize legal arrangements with her family and find a suitable plaything to amuse her husband for the next century until he could obtain a new child.

Then, that heartless thing would drop her, too, in favor of a "real" wife to bear his children.

Her emotions boiled over again, but something told her to check the time, so she did, and the time clicked.

4.20 p.m.

I need to make it…

Leeka got dressed and quickly snuck down the stairs, considering using mana masking methods—understanding the consequences of getting caught doing so.

She chose not to.

She made it to the bottom, glaring at maids to warn them to look away, then headed for the door. Just ten more feet.

"Where are you going?"

Reasan’s deep voice resounded behind her.

She turned with practiced calm. "To find entertainment," she said. "I haven’t left this house for months."

He smiled sinisterly. "Why do you think that is?"

"I refuse to entertain this. If you wish to beat me, do it. It’s grounds to end negotiations."

His smug smile soured, and he silently sneered at her.

"Now if you don’t have anything else," Leeka said, striding to the door.

A maid opened it.

"I have eyes on every mercenary troop in Helscope and beyond," Reasan warned. "We’ll kill them if you speak to them."

Leeka trembled and whirled around and screamed, "Why aren’t you fighting for your son?"

"Because your son has led us on the path to ruin!" he yelled.

"My son?"

"Yes, your son! You raised him. You enabled—"

"That’s because you were never there!"

"Why would I be there for your job?"

She scoffed. "Unbelievable."

"Watch your tone."

She fell into a defiant silence.

"Listen Leeka—this is your fault, but it’s not beyond salvaging. Mira will have orders this year—and Heath can’t deliver. That’s why the Melhan will supply her and offer to end hostilities if she ends this embargo. And maybe then—just then—we can overcome this nightmare that your son brought upon my family. And if you do anything that ruins this arrangement—I will kill you."

He took a step forward with vicious eyes.

"And that’ll be a mercy, Leeka—because what I’ll do to shame after your death will dishonor your family as much as mine has been. Do you understand?"

Leeka touched her neck by reflex and nodded.

Reasan presented the open door with his hand. "Enjoy your entertainment."

Leeka hugged her hands to her stomach and walked out the door, lost in her thoughts. She couldn’t remember giving the address to the entertainment district. She just woke up there. And only through paranoia did she shake her tails with illusion and mana suppression techniques to disappear. She couldn’t even remember where she was going, but she found herself staggering into The Nest, ordering a drink to the sound of raucous music and deranged gamblers.

One man had won a large pot of hawks, and a woman shamelessly straddled him and dropped her dress top, exposing herself to a cheering crowd. Another man spilled his drink in the chaos, and a man in a suit punched him in the face, screaming at him. It was loud, but the musicians played louder to drown out the sound and keep the fever pitch going as the man was beaten in a silent mime dance.

In that fevered dream of grand delusions and rich lies, Leeka’s mind twisted and gnarled and knotted out of her fear, and she found herself laughing.

Just a poor little laugh.

Almost a cry for help more than a point of humor.

Yet it was also vicious. Vindictive. Malevolent. Raw.

I refuse… Leeka thought. Suddenly, the image of a certain servant entered into her mind. A brunette—beautiful. Her name was Esalan, and she headed the house, issuing edicts to the other servants. She was respected, admired, feared—

Reasan’s ex-wife.

Not his last wife. Leeka didn’t know what happened to his last wife. But this wife was one of those who likely turned out okay in the end, finding purpose in ordering people around and being her husband’s plaything when Leeka wasn’t in the mood to entertain him.

Esalan. Once a beautiful woman, a powerful woman, a head of state, heading to meetings and mixers and auctions to represent the Melhan on the world stage.

Now, she was a maid.

A proud, respected, admired, beautiful maid—

—but a maid nonetheless.

I refuse, Leeka thought again. And for a moment, she seemed to get a glint of clarity, and she could see, sullenly, that the reason that she enabled Kal in the first place, the reason she raised him strong and mean, was to prevent people from pushing him around—people like Reasan from pushing him around.

The best way to prevent people from pushing you is to be the person pushing. That’s what she thought somewhere deep down. Now she could see it. But then the moment passed, and she said, Ridiculous, and lifted her hand to order a drink.

"On the house," the bartender said before she asked, pushing over a golden-lined glass with a straw. It had a fruity drink inside, a mixture of colors in a frosty slush.

"What is it?" Leeka asked.

"Traitor’s Reprieve."

"But I’m not…"

"Don’t waste my time. He’ll be here soon."

"Who…" Leeka bit her lip and stared at the drink. She drank.

It was spiked with salla—a unique anxiolytic stimulant. She knew it on contact because she took it often. It was especially popular because it didn’t influence decision-making—it cleansed the mind and calmed the nerves.

Reasan and other business leaders used it before every substantial meeting. And they would do it in front of each other’s presence so that there could be no question of a person’s mental state after the fact.

Suddenly, a man said, "Lady L?"

She turned and saw a well-built man who was definitely her type staring down at her. "Yes?"

"Come with me."

She nodded and followed the man down a corridor and walked into a room where Brexton Claustra waited with a charming man with long brown hair in a ponytail.

"Welcome," Brexton said. "Lady Melhan, this is Gaska, a man who pillages for profit. Gaska, Lady Melhan, a woman who’s seeking such a person."

Gaska smiled a charming smile, leaning back in his chair to appraise her. She didn’t speak, and he found that humorous.

"I would think the Melhans would have more experience with this type of thing," he said. "Gods know their competitors do."

Brexton laughed and cheered the air with his drink and drank.

"It’s not you," Leeka said. She turned to Brexton. "It’s you. Why would you help me kill her?"

The Claustra kicked up his feet on the table, knocking a heel over an ankle as he shrugged with a gentle smile. "Can I ask you something?" he mused.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you really think I’d respond to that statement?"

Leeka Melhan frowned.

"Of course not." Brexton smiled and leaned back. "You’re here to hire a mercenary. I’ve connected you to a dependable one. Respected and frequented by your competitors. A fact that meets your standards, yes?"

Leeka frowned and eyed the mercenary. He was one of the Cackling Kings, a well-known mercenary group that had a two-century track record of maintaining a one-year flip rule whereby they refused to work for an individual’s competitors on the same general conflict for one year. As far as mercenaries were concerned, it was a sign of wealth and professionalism.

"She looks rather spooked, now don’t she?" Graka asked.

"Indeed she does." Brexton narrowed his eyes. "You’re not thinking about backing out… are you?"

She swallowed and shook her head. "No. I want her dead."

"Well, we can surely try," Graka said. "But let’s get some ground rules straight." He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. "I ain’t fightin’ a Dante. I ain’t fightin’ a Melhan. I ain’t fightin’ any of the families. We’ll ensnare her, bribe her, threaten her, and mess ’er mind up to get her to leave The Mouth alone—but if she starts making deals or sticks around, it’s off. We’re suicidal, sure, but we’re not idiots."

Leeka turned to Brexton sharply.

He shrugged. "Best you’re gonna get."

Graka raised his eyebrows. "Money?"

Leeka’s eyes trembled, and she considered the profound implication of setting out a hit on Mira Hill. She would become a world enemy.

But.

What was there to lose, really? She didn’t want to live without her son—her only son—the only one she would ever have. She didn’t want to go through the abuse and humiliation that was sure to follow.

Leeka Melhan had no future—at least not one she felt deserving of. And she would rather die avenging her son than suffer a bleak life without meaning. So she reached into her purse and pulled out a gem that shimmered in the light, reflecting shades of black and gray on the furniture like a nighttime prism.

Grask gulped.

"Brexton knows of a marked area with a million hawks," Leeka said. "Try, and you’ll get half. But if you succeed… this will be yours."

Leeka watched hunger flicker in the man’s mind when he saw the artifact, and she could tell that even if it killed him, he would try everything he could to kill the woman who killed her son. That was good. Very good. It was too late to turn back now. Mira Hill would fall next year before she could accumulate any more power and influence in this world. Mira Hill would fall. She would.