Anger seethed, turning the blood to liquid fire rushing through my veins, urging me to smite the young scion for his insolent proposal. I would have sprung at him with fangs bared and claws outstretched, were it not for Lyria’s shielding presence protecting him.

Sensing my rampaging emotions, Lyria calmly uttered, “Rils, listen to what he has to offer before you judge.”

“Nothing to explain here, Lyria,” I scoffed with virile anger flooding through me, “She is a real person, with vibrant feelings and tender emotions. Not a pawn to be brokered for the benefit of a title that she bestows.”

“Dame,” came Finn’s voice over Lyria’s shoulders, “ I am aware of the Duke’s meddling attempts. I offer her a way to freedom.”

“There is no freedom. She would merely be, exchanging her gilded caged for a gilded manacle by marrying you.”

Despite his cherubic features and candid aura of amicability, Finn was anything but a vulture hovering over a starving child. A remorseless creature, given only to further his own needs -- patiently -- at the misery of others.

“I swear, never to interfere in her choice of lovers. Her children will inherit the title,” pleaded Finn in a voice that was too earnest to be a facade.

“And when you have your own offspring?” I asked cynically.

“With the reputation of a War hero interlaced with the credibility of a local lord, I plan to reap my own private fortune. That would be my legacy for the children I sire,” he answered.

“The naivety of youth,” I chuckled, befuddlement at his declaration slowly eroded away the anger, giving rise to an amused sneer, “You are still too young and people change with age.”

In a placid voice of an infinitely patient sage, I explained, “When you hold your own child, you will find all the ever carefully erected titanic resolve crumbling before the smile.”

“Then, you be the executor of the pact. I swear, here and now. Don’t you elves live long? Strike me and my bloodline should I become an oathbreaker.”

After what seemed like an excruciatingly ambivalent moment -- uncertain if it was his genuine demeanour or Lyria’s support for his claim -- I gave in.

“If we all survive, then I promise a seat next to Lady Jessbeth over dinner. But the decision will be her own. You will receive no further help from me in that regard,” I answered firmly over his ridiculously bright smile.

Thanking both of us profusely, Finn took his leave from our tense presence.

After hearing the gentle closing of the door behind him, Lyria glared daggers at Taltil, sending the hasty goblin scurrying away like rats under a bright light.

On my return to High-Crag Hold, a host of thoughts; swirled like a maelstrom; threatening to overwhelm me. The unexpected quick advance of the Cambion Warlord. The mysterious and sly connotations of Reverend Mother Zar’amaris. The sudden plunge into demon civil war. The not-yet-definable alliance of the Knight of Ash and Smoke. And most importantly, the eyes of multiple realms and their sovereigns watching us intently. A domestic dispute on different values was not on the list.

“Lyria, in the future, I would appreciate it if you do not make blind promises to every stray that knocks on our door,” I said breaking the heavy silence that hung in the room.

This is a conversation that was long overdue. An issue that we would have resolved a while back had we raised Delyn together. Reconciling our different parenting styles. Setting boundaries on matters.

“Perhaps, I could demand that you should stop viewing people in black and white,” responded Lyria with her arms crossed in front. Only cold defiance rolled out in waves from her. Every bit of her posture screamed audacious temerity. She will not yield this argument easily.

My attempts at countering her claim were met with a quick flick of her wrist, lifting a single finger, halting directly on a level with my lips -- the universal sign of doom in a lover’s quarrel.

“And speaking of stray, Rils, I am not the one collecting them. First there is Arlene, then Lady Jessbeth Wysteria. Are you trying to find a replacement for Delyn? To play the mother that you failed for your own daughter?”

Her words cut deep. Her mocking sneer cut deeper. But her implications -- that I would abandon and substitute her with someone else, like a child ditching a favourite doll for a better one -- cut the deepest. As if a vicious serpent sank its fangs deep into the heart, injecting vile venom, pain cascaded through my very being.

With trembling hands, I grabbed a chair and slumped heavily. That did not lessen the heavy air of opposition lurking amidst us. Lyria cast a tall shadow that grew heavy with each breath.

Perhaps, a calm logical path would be the optimal route to pacify a raging Lyria.

“Lyria, Finn is puppeted by someone. Someone holds his string and the poor boy is not even aware of it,” I said. My attempts to beckon her closer, to hold her hand, were met with cold rejection. Lyria stood still, like a gargoyle perched atop a tower on a bright summer day.

“Children at his age do not have the maturity to plan their own finances or to decide their future and for their children. I have raised Savvas and Delyn. Both intelligent as any could be, they never had such maturity at that age.”

Surveying her stoic face for any signs of agreeability and receiving only a sceptical look in response, I pushed forward.

“Lyria, you have never been a mother, raised children. When you are a mother, you will notice these things in other children.”

A hard squint marred my Love’s gorgeous face. Her lips curved, at an impossible angle, like a sickle and dug into her face, corrupting her wonderful features with pain. Drawing a stool closer to me, she sat with legs close enough to support her trembling knees.

“Rils, when you are a mother, the only thing you notice is an unconscious comparison of other children to your own. And besides, you were wrong about me, about not being a mother,” she replied while holding back whatever emotion that ate her from within.

“You mean Celerim?” My response was neither a question nor a statement.

Steadying her quivering lips, she smoothed the folds of her skirt with her shaky fingers, deliberately invoking a much-needed pause to filter her thoughts. Whatever I instinctively uttered, stuck a nerve with Lyria.

Clearing her voice, she looked deep into my eyes and continued -- digging through painful memories that she would rather not have.

“I was no older than a snotty little street urchin when I had my first child. The irony of it all is I was a child myself, raising another.” she gave a wry depreciating laugh.

“Your child?” I asked while slowly squeezing her hands in assurance. Lyria never talked about her past and respecting her wishes, never did I broach that topic. But my initial opinion of Lyria growing up as a vagrant orphan held very little value before her revelation.

“Actually, it was my brother who found him. Tiny little thing abandoned, barely a day old. Forsaken for no crime of his own, except being born in a normal appearing family.” A sibilant hiss of venomous spite escaped her lips as she cited the last three words.

“It was a different time, a far simpler time. I was by my brother’s side. He was the noblest of all. You would be surprised by how even Celerim would pale before his dazzling radiance.” Light shone on her face and the cheery brightness in her features would make sunflowers turn and ships raise their sail as she mentioned her brother.

“Your brother was an Aasimar?” I asked with befuddlement at her revelation.

Lyria batted my hands playfully and a peal of laughter issued from her lips.

“Don’t be daft. He is a devil-kind like me. But he was more valourous and virtuous than any high-born Aasimar. Anyway, my brother could not abandon the baby and despite the objections from the cult elders, I decided to raise him.”

“Ran through the wilderness, trapping nursing sow to feed the baby. Did all sorts of odd jobs, including begging and thieving just to keep him fed. Before I realised, I picked three more tiefling babies.”

Lyria released her hand from my tender grasp and wrapped them around herself, seeking solace in the self-withdrawn inner solitude before continuing.

“And I killed them all.”

Her solemn voice was a dam withholding an infinite pang of pain threatening to mangle her very being, reducing her to a speck of dust. Crushing agony filled the space between her ears. Enthralled by ignominy, violent spasms ripped her.

“Lyria, it is not your fault that you failed to protect them. You were no more than a......”

“Rils, I sacrificed them to billow the flames in the undying forge. My filthy hands still remember the feel of my son’s cheeks, the curves of his neck and the sound that his tender bones made when I snapped them.” Her sobs, silent and yet powerful filled the room.

In spite of the shameful disclosure of her vile acts horrified me -- for even the vilest of the drow ritual would pale in contrast --- my own feelings on how I felt about Lyria were not ambivalent. I cannot comprehend what kind of hardship would corner her into sacrificing her own. Deep inside, at the very depths of my heart, I knew the situation must have been dire for Lyria to have acted the way she did.

“I still hear the echoes of their cries, their wails and their accusation, every single day. Every moment. Those invisible manacles of my sins are mine alone to bear.”

Reaching out I slowly wrapped my arms around her shivering body. Gone was the proud stalwart form of Lyria, replaced by a wailing sorrowful woman seeking pity. Words failed her and only incoherent mumbles fell forth. My hold around her tightened, shushing her to calm down. I, tenderly, reached her face, rubbing my cheeks with hers. Lyria reciprocated by meekly allowing my presence to fill her whole. Drawing in my scent, she buried her face in the nook of my neck.

Leaning closer, I turned her face toward me, my mouth brushed her lush lips.

As if jolted into awakening from a bad nightmare, Lyria stiffened and pushed away with all her might.

“Lyria, it is just a kiss to comfort you,” I stammered, surprised by her reaction. Was the trauma from her buried past intense that even a tender kiss was revolting to her?

“I do not need that kind of comfort now, Rils,” spat Lyria with a sudden anger flooding through her.

Realisation dawned on me. My comforting act was wrongly interpreted as a move to initiate intimacy.

“Lyria, it is not what you think....”

“I am sure the commander of a Hold under siege will have enough work cut out and I need to tend to the forge,” said Lyria decisively, cutting my sentence.

“Let me explain.....”

“You should leave. Now,” growled Lyria.

“Lyria, give me a chance to explain,” I pleaded.

“Either you leave with dignity on your own feet or I unceremoniously throw you out.”

With a heavy heart, I left her forge.