Memoirs of Your Local Small-time Villainess

Guifford Knottley stood at the broad window of his office, his calloused hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the errant signs of devastation marring Freybrook. His gruff face, etched with lines of exhaustion and disquiet, reflected in the glass as he gazed upon the occasional broken rooftop, charred dwelling, and shattered street below.

Count Hayden’s voice cut through the heavy silence from the communication device on his desk. “We’ve reached a consensus among us lords. We must petition His Majesty without delay. This situation cannot be allowed to deteriorate further.”

Guifford’s jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving his city. The ruin brought to it was enough to make his blood boil.

After a long moment, he turned and strode to his desk, his boots echoing on the old wooden floor. “Imposing additional burdens on our citizens at this point might be ill-advised,” he replied deeply. “While I agree that an imperial Security Edict is necessary, to a degree, aiding the realm shouldn’t come at the cost of further taxing those who have already sacrificed and lost so much.”

“You can only afford that sentiment because Freybrook weathered the storm better than Kilsfell and other cities,” Count Hayden said sharply. “Countless lives and homes have been lost to these attacks. Far too many are now left adrift and vulnerable, and it’s painfully clear that our current resources aren’t enough to shield them from this threat. We need to muster both funds and manpower to mount an effective counteroffensive against this blatant aggression. Even with the Imperial Diet’s support, only His Majesty can decree it.”

Guifford’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “Don’t lecture me on the stakes, Rawling,” he growled, his voice low. “I’ve witnessed the devastation firsthand, time and time again.”

“Then we have little left to discuss,” Count Hayden replied coolly. “I’ll take my leave, Guifford. We can speak again later.”

As the device fell silent, Guifford sank into his chair, the leather creaking beneath his broad form. His gaze drifted back to the window behind him, his mind replaying the chaos that had engulfed Freybrook just the day before. The armrests of his chair groaned under his tightening grip.

Reports from both Count Hayden and many others suggested that Freybrook had fared better than most during the attack. But the notion that Guifford should consider himself fortunate ignited a profound rage in his chest. One should never feel grateful merely because circumstances could have been worse. An injustice remained an injustice, regardless of scale, and accepting the opposite mindset only invited further injustice.

While the general populace still reeled from the assaults and still did not fully understand what had caused the sudden monster attacks, those in power harbored no doubts about the perpetrators. All evidence pointed unmistakably to the Tribe of Sin—and, by extension, the Hallowed Cabal—as the architects of this destruction.

The true mystery lay in how they had managed to marshal and control such a vast array of monsters, including dragons, for these coordinated strikes across the empire. The destruction wrought in a single day rivaled that of the dragon of devastation’s rampage eight years prior.

More than a decade had passed since Guifford last stood on the front lines inside any of the empire’s own cities. After a grueling day of united efforts among various factions—knight orders, mage towers, the Assembly, the Shields Guild, mercenary groups, and noble retinues—most cities had repelled the immediate threats by nightfall. While Wildscar and Ambercrest reportedly still grappled with lingering beasts, the reactivation of the Kilnstones this morning promised that would be resolved soon enough.

But Guifford harbored no illusion that this was the end. To his knowledge, there had been no direct sightings of the Tribe’s or Cabal’s agents, suggesting that these attacks were merely a prelude to something far more sinister.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he ran a hand over his bare head. It seemed to him that the current state of affairs was returning to how things were back in his youth, when the empire last engaged in open warfare with the Tribe. In those days, the Undead Council had simultaneously embroiled the eastern border in conflict, leaving scarcely a moment of peace for him and his peers. But even then, the empire’s heartlands had never suffered to this degree.

His eyes fell upon a small painted portrait on his desk depicting his family, with him and his late wife smiling as they stood behind their young children. Guifford extended a hand, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

He pondered what Rilla would have thought of the current chaos. Undoubtedly, she would have been horrified by the destruction, but perhaps she would also have been proud of their efforts to defend their home. Guifford had personally overseen the training of many of Freybrook’s defenders, and they had displayed remarkable courage in yesterday’s battles.

His son, Garrin, had also shown impressive valor, befitting his role as heir. Despite his shortcomings, Guifford felt a swell of pride for the young man.

Finally, his gaze lingered on the image of his daughter, Livvi, in the portrait. Painted when she barely reached his waist, her long brown hair framed a pair of keen eyes that seemed to gaze back at him with an uncanny intensity.

Concern for her safety weighed heavily on his mind. He hadn’t received any updates on her since the attacks, and he was uncertain where her Guild responsibilities currently placed her. Though he tried to reassure himself that she was likely well-protected and more than capable of looking after herself with her sharp mind, the worry persisted.

Closing his eyes, Guifford rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the full load of his responsibilities as both the lord of Freybrook and a noble of the empire. Part of him longed to set aside all other duties and ensure Livvi’s safety personally, but he knew that was impossible. Still, a father’s concerns were not easily dismissed, in more ways than one.

Much to his chagrin, his thoughts inevitably drifted to one of his daughter’s ‘closest’ friends and a frequent source of irritation for him — Baroness Scarlett Hartford.

It still astounded him that the callous woman had been proactive in implementing several emergency initiatives around Freybrook, as if anticipating the very crisis they now faced. While he had initially supported some of these efforts out of a sense of duty to her father and sympathy for her sister, he hadn’t truly expected they would prove relevant so soon.

A cynical snort escaped him. There was a bitter irony in the fact that someone like Baroness Hartford was so well-prepared to help in these circumstances. He could already envision the Empyreal Chronicle’s glowing features and the citizens’ praise for her foresight and generosity — all of which he supposed were part of her calculations. With the recent tensions simmering across the empire, it seemed she had shrewdly anticipated a major event like this to bolster her standing after alienating herself from most of the nobility. How far-reaching were her schemes, he wondered?

Reluctant as Guifford was to admit it, however, the Baroness’s initiatives were poised to provide crucial aid to many in the hour of need. Ultimately, the intentions behind her actions mattered little if they resulted in the saving of lives today.

Yet it galled him to think that Livvi, ever the optimist, would likely view this as further evidence of her friend’s supposed transformation, raising her hopes unnecessarily. As perceptive as his daughter typically was, Guifford sometimes feared her idealism verged on dangerous naivety.

Shaking his head, he pushed himself up from his chair, casting one final, lingering glance at Freybrook through the window before reaching for the massive greatsword propped against his desk. As he strode towards the exit with long, purposeful steps, he steeled himself for the many challenges that lay ahead. There was much to be done, and he needed to focus his full attention on the tasks at hand for the greater good of his people and his empire.

 

 

“We’ve arrived, My Lady,” the coachman’s voice pierced through Scarlett’s reverie, bringing her back to the present. Looking out the carriage window, she realised they had already reached the Freybrook mansion.

Her gaze swept across the cabin, noting the palpable tension that had settled over the space. Hardly a word had been exchanged since their arrival in the city, and she knew the fault lay with her.

Rising silently, Scarlett stepped out onto the snow-dusted ground. Garside, flanked by a group of servants, greeted her with polite deference.

“Welcome back, My Lady,” the elderly butler said. “It is a relief to see you’ve returned unharmed.”

Scarlett detected a trace of fatigue in his voice, mirrored by the weary expressions of the servants. Her attention remained fixed on Garside as she spoke, her tone authoritative. “What is our current situation?”

“It is stable here at the estate,” the man responded. “The monsters largely avoided this area, and none approached the mansion directly. As such, there have been no injuries among the staff, allowing some of our people to lend assistance in the city where possible.”

“Does that include you?” Scarlett asked.

The butler hesitated briefly. “Once I confirmed the estate’s safety, I did take it upon myself to venture into the city to check on Your Ladyship’s interests there and offer support where needed. In the process, I did engage in a few minor conflicts.”

Scarlett studied him closely, searching for any signs of injury but finding none.

“I see,” she eventually said, her voice cool as she turned to survey the estate. It appeared untouched.

Not that she’d been expecting any attacks on her property. Even without her pact with the Hallowed Cabal, the loci would likely have prevented any portals from opening and unleashing monsters on her land. It might even have deterred weaker threats entirely, though she still wasn’t entirely sure of its full capabilities.

From what she’d seen of the city earlier, the damage to Freybrook had been relatively minimal. While not all buildings were spared, the city had fared better than she suspected others had.

She turned back to Garside and the servants. “Ensure that everyone who maintained vigil through the night receives adequate rest,” she commanded. A couple of servants visibly tensed at the sharpness in her voice, but she disregarded their discomfort.

“I will see to it, My Lady,” Garside assured her.

“That includes you,” she added.

He paused, then bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Of course.”

“Good.” Scarlett’s voice remained cold as she strode past him, her feet clicking sharply against the cobblestones of the courtyard. Garside and the others hurried to keep pace with her. “What other updates do you have for me?”

“From what I have gathered, the Count’s forces succeeded in clearing the last of the monsters by evening yesterday,” Garside reported as they walked. “We are still awaiting direct communication from the Count himself, however. Small numbers of refugees have been arriving via the Kilnstone since this morning, and if I am to understand it correctly, the Followers of Ittar are spearheading the local relief efforts, though I have not observed their work personally. There is some uncertainty among the people regarding the fate of outlying settlements during these attacks, and we are still waiting for further details about the situation in Stagmond. For the time being, however, it does appear as if the attacks were concentrated on the cities.”

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed, processing the information. “Very well,” she said. “I need you to inform Seneschal Kinsley that he is to oversee the initiatives Evelyne was organising. It may be premature, but we cannot delay the matter. Tell him that he is to begin immediately.”

“I will do so. But if I may ask, is there a specific reason for such urgency, apart from yesterday’s events?”

“Yes. As long as the empire still stands, those responsible have not achieved their goal. Until they do, these attacks will not stop.”

“…Are you certain, My Lady?” Garside asked.

“I am.”

“That is concerning indeed.”

As they approached the mansion’s entrance, Scarlett began climbing the stairs there. “What more can you tell me?”

Garside cleared his throat. “Lady Withersworth is currently staying at the estate. She arrived with Lady Evelyne this morning through the Kilnstone.”

Scarlett stopped in front of the mansion doors, turning to face the man. “Lady Withersworth?” she repeated.

He nodded solemnly. “It would seem she suffered injuries when monsters attacked their estate in Autumnwell. She is now recuperating here.”

Scarlett turned back towards the entrance, her voice carefully controlled. “And Evelyne?”

A heavy silence fell before Garside’s reply came. “…Lady Evelyne is currently resting in her chambers. However, My Lady, you should know that—”

“I will go see her myself,” Scarlett cut him off, ending the conversation there.

As she stepped into the mansion’s foyer, Scarlett discreetly extended her senses through the Loci, confirming the locations of Evelyne and Lady Withersworth. Noticing the concerned glances from Rosa and her other party members, she quickly schooled her features, replacing her scowl with a neutral expression and offering a reassuring nod. With a curt gesture, she directed Garside to carry out her earlier instructions before ascending the grand staircase alone, her footsteps echoing bleakly through the mansion’s hushed corridors.

Her mind was a whirl of thoughts as she approached her destination, a turmoil of conflicting emotions she could scarcely define. Was it anger? Concern? Fear? The latter two descriptors felt as unlikely as the first felt lacking. No clear answer emerged as she reached Evelyne’s room, pausing before the sturdy oak door. She studied its paneling for a moment, then finally entered.

The room was shrouded in a dim light, heavy curtains drawn tightly across the windows. The pungent aroma of disinfectant assaulted her senses, mingling with the faint smell of blood lingering in the air. As Scarlett’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, they focused on a figure lying motionless on the bed, buried beneath a mound of blankets. Beside the bed, a low table held a bucket, several wrung towels, and a batch of medical supplies neatly arrayed on a tray.

“…Garside?” a weak voice murmured from the darkness.

Scarlett felt the simmering stream of violence she had been suppressing for some time force its way to the surface, and she fought to keep it in check.

Her success was tenuous at best.

“…It is not Garside,” she said slowly, each word measured and deliberate. “Hello, Evelyne.”