Samon was sound asleep when the sun rose, but urgent knocking on his door roused him from that slumber. He had convinced the fiery tiefling that they should have a separate room from the one Lura shared with Mikhail and whoever else they took to bed, and she had agreed. He knew she had left him after their lovemaking session, but didn't figure she'd bother knocking to come back in. Towel around his waist for precaution, he opened the door. To his surprise, two of his father's House Guard were there in full uniform waiting for him.
"Samon Armanov?" the taller of the two asked. He nodded. "We regret to inform you that early this morning, before sunrise, your father was found murdered in his bedroom."
The words almost didn't even register to the man, and he prompted them to repeat themselves. They did, and his strength left him. He dismissed them and closed the door, scrambling to put on a pair of relaxed fit trousers and a loose blue tunic. Approaching the door again, he ran a calloused hand through his dark hair, then left, making the quickest possible path to the common room. A leather-clad elf passed him, but he paid her no heed, and didn't even notice the wary glance she shot him as she passed. He needed Cyra, that was all.
But when he made the common room and saw her splayed out on a table, legs spread like a common whore, still wearing the night shirt she had worn with him, his heart fell again. Emotion put his mind in an animal state, and he knew only instinct. His gaze locked on Mikhail, who sat with his flaccid cock hanging out of his breeches, and a red fire of rage ignited in his mind. Cyra was his mate, and both Mikhail and Cyra had betrayed that. He threw himself at Mikhail in a fury, his fist careening for the sleeping man's head. He connected, and the resounding crack of splintering bone was loud enough to rouse Cyra from her slumber.
The tiefling was groggy, though, and did not know what was happening even as Samon grabbed Mikhail by the hair and jerked him off the booth seat. He mounted the unconscious man and began to rain down furious blows until a solid mass hit him square in the side. Cyra was atop him, snarling like a feral animal, eyes dark and horns long and curving atop her head. Her hands had morphed into cat-like talons and her snarling visage was complete with sharpened teeth. Primal fear welled up in Samon,, and Cyra released him, standing quickly and looking to Mikhail. His head and face was bleeding and his chest imperceptibly rose with breath.
Cyra's body returned to normal and she pressed her hands to Mikhail's head and spoke words that were foreign even to her. Radiant light emanated from her hands and an unfamiliar warmth flowed down her arms as healing magic repaired the damage that had been done to Lura's lover.
Naked save for the tattered night shirt, Cyra stood and whirled on Samon. "What in the Nine Hells are you doing?" she roared.
"I...I don't know," he stammered, standing slowly and backing into a wall. Cyra stalked him, taking measured steps toward him with anger in her eyes.
"I put trust in you, Samon, and is this how you will repay that?" Cyra asked in a low voice.
"The betrayal is yours," Samon said, gaining courage in the accusation. "I needed you, and I come down to find you splayed out like a common whore for another woman's mate. I don't need this, and I know that I sure as the Hells don't need you." A glare lingering on Cyra, Samon walked past her, never breaking eye contact until he passed her.
"Samon, wait," Cyra said, a measure of understanding hitting her. "What did you need me for?"
He stopped and turned in the same instant. "My father was murdered last night. I needed a shoulder. I'll go without." He made the door, but a sky-shattering scream stopped him. Samon recognized his sister's scream.
His eyes found Cyra's again, but didn't bother saying anything. He sprinted for the stairs, climbing them four at a time and charging into Lura's room. His sister was wrapped in a blanket, the serving girl Greta at her side, and both staring aghast at the figure crumpled out on the small balcony. He recognized Lura, and the black ichor that oozed from her slack mouth set him at alarm.
"Lura!" Cyra shouted. Mikhail was behind her, though still clearly dazed. She charged past Samon, the other human in tow, and leapt onto the balcony, the tiefling pulling the drow close and wiping her mouth with what remained of her nightshirt. Mikhail knelt opposite her, his hands grasping Lura's limp hands and bringing them to his face as he repeatedly murmured her name.
"She's not waking up," came a voice they all knew to some extent.
Iliara stepped slowly into the room, still wearing her leather leggings from the previous night, but with a loose white blouse, unbuttoned down to her small cleavage. "Give me your shirt," she said to Cyra. The tiefling tossed the torn garment. Iliara sniffed it, then put her tongue to the black stain. "Darkstalk poison," she said.
"Why in the Hells does she have darkstalk poison in her mouth?" Cyra asked.
"Shar," Iliara said, anger welling up in her throat. "The Lady of Loss visited this upon your friend. I know, because she did it to me as well. Lura's spirit is gone from this place, but not for very long." Iliara knelt between Mikhail and Cyra, her hand pressing against Lura's chest. "She's cold, bring her in and wrap her in as many blankets as you can."
Lura was light, even for a well-proportioned drow maiden, and Cyra lifted her easily in arms honed by swordplay. The tiefling carried Lura's cool body into the bedroom and Varla and Greta dispersed immediately, donning their nudity without shame as they abandoned the thick blanket they had been wearing.
"Who did you say caused this?" Mikhail asked Iliara.
"Shar, the Goddess of--"
