There was something off-putting about an office at night. The portion of Werond’s life that existed inside her office did so during the day, which was altogether proper. Whenever she had papers to read, documents to sign, contracts to pour over, it was all done with the sun at her back, streaming through the windows behind her desk. There was something about it that made her work more bearable, almost enjoyable. A reminder that, despite all the work, the day wasn’t over yet.

Trying to get anything done without that reminder, then, was unbearable.

Werond begrudgingly sat at her mahogany desk, hands folded in front of her, chin resting against them. On one end of her desk sat an intricate lamp, it’s body that of a silver griffon holding aloft a glass ball, which filled her office with a dull yellow glow. It illuminated the mess of papers scattered about her desk; cast odd shadows over the couches and bookshelves; made her cloak and traveling mask – made specifically for concealing herself upon entering Castle Waterdeep – look like a hunched over phantom; and reminded Werond that she’d rather the glow illuminate a book in bed rather than papers on a desk.

“Gods damnit.” She mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

It was ridiculous for her to think she could get anything done this late at night. She should have been back home, sitting on the couch, lying in bed, standing on the balcony – anything other than trying to get work done.

How often had Graham preached a healthy separation between work and home? It must have been years now, and Werond had only just now come around to it. It had been quite some time since she brought anything home or forced herself back to the office at odd hours of the night. Growing older had forced her see the wisdom in Graham’s words.

And yet, despite that, she still came back tonight. Werond had told herself that it was because of the work she’d been putting off, but she knew that wasn’t the real reason why.

She glanced towards the bottom most drawer of her desk, the one she knew hid her wine. It would be easier to get things done with a muddled brain. She’d just have to fix everything in the morning. But she had made a promise not to drink, and Werond wasn’t about to go back on her word.

Grunting, she straightened up, grabbed a stack of papers, and tapped them straight. A part of her wanted to bolt, her eyes constantly drifting to her cloak by the door, but she had just arrived not ten minutes ago – it would have been ridiculous to leave so soon. She needed to get something done. Not everything, of course, just something. And the moment she did, Werond could head back home, crawl into bed, and wait for Serena to burst in to tell her all about their successful raid.

On a tunnel that Werond already knew about.

Scowling, she plucked the first paper from the stack and laid it in front of her, shoving aside the rest. Werond read it over, paused, then read it again. She grimaced, tried to read it over a third time, before finally giving up, burying her face into her hands with a sigh.

It frustrated her just how easy it was to pretend that she didn’t know what Jo was talking about. Werond had been fully prepared for Jo to reveal where she’d gotten her information from, and yet, for whatever reason, Jo remained mum. It had forced Werond to sit in silence during their conversation, least she say something to give herself away.

Which she thought she had, after she warned Serena about the alarm the Guild had down there. And yet Serena didn’t question it in the slightest, simply accepting her words and naively moving on. Werond couldn’t blame her, though, not after the promises they had made to each other.

That was why Werond had banished herself to her office, after all. The guilt of her lies would eat away at her if she had tried to remain at home and wait for Serena’s return. Too many times had Werond promised to be forthright her; to sit and pretend all was well was just too much.

And how much she wished she could simply tell Serena everything – of the Guild, of Jarlaxle, of her obligations to those who ruled her. She’d tried to be truthful, letting Serena in on perhaps her biggest secret, but anything further would have been to her detriment. The moment the last of her lies dissolved away, so too would Serena’s safety. There was no doubt in Werond’s mind that Serena would cast aside her own life and do everything in her power to help Werond out of her situation. And despite her want to do so, Serena would never compare against Jarlaxle. It was suicide in a way, just like with –

Werond jerked and shook her head violently, trying to banish those thoughts from her mind. But they refused to leave – haunting reminders of what she’d done, and what she was continuing to do.

How much Werond hated herself for it.

The doors to her office rattled.

Werond looked up and frowned, those painful memories slipping to the back of her mind. She had snuck into the castle well enough. Aside from the few guards she had passed, no one knew she was in her office. Not even Damian was on duty tonight.

She stood up and sighed. She’d have to put the mask back on to tell off whoever it was, but a part of her feared that doing so would give her an easy reason to go back home. Gods knew she hadn’t used that excuse before.

Before Werond could leave her desk, however, the doors to her office burst inward, cracking open as the lock broke; she cringed as they flew open, only to catch on the rug before they could smash into the stone walls.

Standing in the threshold, black and gold tunic wrinkled, hat askew, eyes wide with fury, was Jarlaxle. The darkness of the hallway beyond outlined him as though he’d crawled from the blackest pit, to arrive right at her door.

A cold horror flashed through Werond’s body, freezing her in place as her heart leapt into her throat. She immediately broke his gaze and stared at her desk, hands beginning to tremble.

“Sit.” Jarlaxle growled, closing the doors behind him.

Werond obeyed, falling into her chair. The trembling grew worse already, her chest aching as her heart threatened to burst.

She pulled her hands into her lap and focused on her breathing, trying to starve off the panic attack that threatened to consume her. It wouldn’t help matters if she couldn’t speak. The faster the Drow got what he wanted, the faster he would leave, and Werond was all too willing to do whatever it took to make their interaction as short as possible.

Jarlaxle, however, did not approach her. A minute crawled by, then another, and another, yet he refused to say even a word.

“Sir?” A guard’s voice suddenly called through the closed doors; Werond flinched. “Is everything alright? We heard the doors slam open –”

“Everything is fine.” Came Werond’s distorted voice.

Werond started and, despite herself, looked up.

Jarlaxle still stood by the closed doors, one hand pressing Werond’s travel mask against his face; despite being simpler than her work mask, it still had the ability to change the wearer’s voice. And somehow, Jarlaxle mimicked her tone perfectly.

He looked sharply in her direction; Werond jerked and looked back down.

“Are you sure?” The guard asked.

“Of course.” Jarlaxle said. “Now, go back to your rounds. I have enough work to do as it is.”

“Ah, yes sir!”

A tap of the guard’s boots on the floor let Werond know that he saluted, even from behind the door. His bootsteps slowly faded as he marched away, taking with him Werond’s only hope of safety.

Another moment passed before Jarlaxle approached Werond’s desk, the thud of his boots heightening Werond’s panic. Her mind emptied save for an overwhelming urge to flee, though she knew that escaping would have been pointless. He’d find her eventually.

Jarlaxle’s hands slammed onto her desk, sending a jolt through Werond.

“Twice now I go out of my way to find you and both times you’re inaccessible.” He spat. “At the coliseum and now tonight! That blasted life you think you lead is getting in my way more than I’d like.” Jarlaxle sighed, breath blowing across Werond’s face. “I’d have come sooner but I didn’t believe it at first. Too many variables to confirm, too – Nine Hells, look at me!”

Werond snapped her head up and cringed; she could see the rage smoldering in his red eyes, and a single vein poked out from under his wide hat. It had been some time since he’d been this angry, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.

“How long have you been harboring Vorn’s child?” He demanded.

“W-what?” Werond sputtered. “Who – Vorn? I don’t –”

Jarlaxle hands shot out and seized Werond by her tunic; he heaved her out of her chair, dragged her across the desk, scattering stacks of papers, paper holders, and books alike, and threw Werond to the floor. She smashed into the wood, pain exploding across her arm, her gasp drowned out by the crashing and clattering of supplies as they fell to the floor with her.

“Vorn’s child!” Jarlaxle spat as he loomed over her; Werond cringed, remaining in place. “His damn child! After all these years and he just lets her out like this?! Goes back on his word and lets her wander into Waterdeep?!” He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Under my nose the entire time. Didn’t believe it at first, it’s too fucking ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense. And yet it was staring me right in the face. I had to be sure. Had to have others check. Have a whole network in place but a child proved it first. That fucking choker, that – look at me!”

Werond stared up at Jarlaxle and couldn’t help but grimace. His face had gone red, almost a shade of purple, and he looked as though he hadn’t been blinking.

“She’s not to leave this city, under any circumstance. Do you hear me?” Jarlaxle growled. “She stays in Waterdeep. The girl doesn’t move.”

“What?!” Werond blurted out. “Why?! Jarlaxle, she –”

Jarlaxle kicked Werond in the face. His boot smashed against her nose with a sickening crunch, the force bouncing her head against the floor.

Bright pain exploded across her face and the back of her head; warm blood gushed out and poured down her face, over her mouth, and onto the floor.

Face throbbing, Werond dug her fingers into the wooden floorboards; how much she wanted to clutch at her face and scream, though she knew that doing so would only further Jarlaxle’s anger.

“I’m not sure why you believe you’re allowed to talk back to me.” The Drow spat. “First in the alley, now this. All because I let you out of my sight for too long. Used to be so meek before that damn caravan, made my life so much easier.”

Werond continued to stare at the ceiling, coughing as blood trickled into the back of her throat. Her vision blurred as Jarlaxle crouched down and grabbed her chin, twisting Werond’s head until their eyes met.

“You know how much I hate repeating myself. For the last time,” He said, voice low, eyes burning with fury. “the Lash girl is not to leave Waterdeep under any circumstance. I’ll know if she does.” Jarlaxle’s eyes narrowed. “I hold no qualms with killing her. She’s beyond her use to me, and it would be far easier to negotiate using a corpse. Still, despite everything I need to prepare now, I’d prefer her to be alive. Something I believe you’d agree on.” He smiled a hateful smile. “Wouldn’t want another Tai on our hands, now would we?”

Icy dread sank its talons through Werond’s chest, ripping away her breath and being. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out, as a single sob racked her body. She could barely nod her head, so violently did she tremble.

“Good.” She could hear his grin.

Voices sounded by the door – a conversation between two passing guards. Werond’s eyes snapped open as Jarlaxle’s head looked towards the front of the room, brow furrowed.

Had Werond the bravery that Serena always seemed to have, she would have screamed for help, her identify be damned. And yet, as the voices faded down the hallway, she remained quiet, fighting off another sob that tried to work its way through her.

She hated how much of a coward she truly was.

Jarlaxle released his grip on Werond’s chin and stood up; he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and dropped it to the floor in front of her

“Gag yourself.” He said, voice suddenly flat.

Werond blinked and stared up at the Drow. The anger had vanished from his eyes, replaced by a cold, even stare.

“I will not repeat myself.” Jarlaxle said. His eyes flicked towards the door, then back to Werond. “Lay your hand out as well.”

Confused, choking back another sob, Werond reached out and grabbed the handkerchief; it seemed larger than usual, as though it was made for something else beyond what a handkerchief was normally used for.

Blood still trickling down her face, Werond wadded the cloth into a loose ball, then, glancing at Jarlaxle, stuffed it into her mouth. It barely fit, though the Drow didn’t seem to mind.

Cloth firmly in place, she laid her trembling hand out in front of her, pinky resting against the wooden floor. Fearing the worse, Werond squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face into her arm.

In one motion, Jarlaxle placed his boot atop Werond’s hand, stepped down and crushed it, the bones snapping with a sickening crunch.

Werond screamed as pain exploded in her hand, her voice muffled by the cloth. It felt as though knives tore through her skin, lancing up her arm, almost into her chest. She turned onto her back and tried to tug her hand away, only for Jarlaxle to twist his boot, grinding her now shattered hand into the wood, ripping another scream from her lungs.

“Perhaps that will be a reminder not to keep me waiting.” Jarlaxle said evenly. “And should it happen again, you will lose more than just your hand. Understand?”

She nodded, mind numb from the pain. The motion sent a wave of dizziness washing over her, the room beginning to spin.

“Good.”

Jarlaxle stepped off her hand; Werond pulled it against her chest and squeezed her eyes shut, listening as he slipped out of her office, closing the doors behind him without a sound.

She remained where she lay, body breaking into a cold sweat. Her heart sped up and with it the pounding in her hand and arm, aching with each pulse. Though she desperately wanted to push herself up and stagger to the couch, Werond’s body refused to listen, her mind utterly consumed by the pain, and the situation that she was now faced with.

Tears began to stream down her face, mixing with the dried blood around her mouth. She just wanted the pain, the pounding, to stop. She didn’t deserve this. Did she deserve this? There was no way to tell anymore. But what was she to do?

Head pounding as well, Werond reached up and dug out the cloth from her mouth, flinging it across the room. Exhaustion pulled at her, vision beginning to swim as she fought to stay conscious.

She had to find a way to save Serena. There had to be a way. Gods only knew what Jarlaxle wanted with her; having her stay in the city would be suicide. But to warn her of the danger would only worsen the situation; Jarlaxle would eventually catch up with her and –

A single sob broke through, along with a cold, dreadful realization.

None of that mattered.

There wasn’t a point in trying to get Serena somewhere safe or find a way to keep her ignorant. There wasn’t a point in racking her muddled mind for a solution. There was no solution. No matter what she thought of the moment Serena saw Werond tonight, she would vow to stay and find a way to help her. There would be no convincing her otherwise, no pleading, no urging, no reasoning – nothing. Serena would never abandon Werond, a conviction born of love just as much as it was youthful folly.

And thus, she was trapped. All because Werond decided to love again.

Sobs racking her body, Werond remained against the wooden floorboards of her office as her world came crashing down around her, before finally slipping into a merciful unconsciousness.