>>5238614“Of course I love the old man!” you hear your father’s sister, Miriam Vaz, crying in protest. “Would I bother trying to spare him these… These EMBARASSMENTS if I didn’t? I’d just take his damn place! You think Prince Rufos wouldn’t rather be dealing with ME than Father?”
“Dear…” you hear the warning in the masculine voice, emanating from the same room.
“Oh please, it was a childhood crush, at least that’s all it was for ME,” she says dismissively. “But… Yes, very well, I’ll not speak of it. “
“Thank you,” Lord Vaz says. “And I well know you care for your Father. I’m simply saying that, well, perhaps he could be better dissuades from these… Headstrong actions, taken without consultation, if he felt you were listening to—”
“I HAVE listened to it all!” she cries. “And for far too long, Odalis. It wasn’t only he who lost a son—I lost my brother, and Mother was never the same afterwards either, and where was he for either of us? In the weeds, with his ‘research’ and his conspiracy theories about damned secret lizardmen!”
There is a pause, and then the Lord asks: “Did you ever give much thought to it? Tow hat actually happened to Hirschel?”
“His girlfriend killed him, took what money he had, and skipped town.”
“And burnt him to death?”
“Don’t YOU start!” she cries. “This entire city is falling to paranoid madness, but if my own husband starts to lose his mind to these mad theories of imminent invasion because of some silly wizard-war, I SWEAR that I shall SCREAM!”
Lord Vaz starts to answer, but it is at this exact juncture that you open the door just a crack. Lady VAz’s back is to you, but the Lord is facing her. He sees you, starts to open his mouth to say something…
>19…And catches your dagger—your non-magical one, brought from the depths of the earth—in his throat.
Lady Vaz stares in confusion for a moment at her gurgling husband, blood bubbling from his mouth and the new opening just below it. He clutches the dagger, then his eyes roll and he topples. Only then does she turn around, and see you.
She is right: she does scream.
It lasts only a fraction of a second, the smallest and shrillest squeal, before your hand is upon her mouth and your frost dagger in her gut, stabbing again and again. No margin for error—this is a promise, made to the most awesome architects of the Great Design. You shush her as she claws weakly at you, attempts again to cry out.
You lay her body upon the carpet, next to her late husband. Together in death: your aunt, your… Well, technical uncle-through-marriage, you suppose.
‘Aww, babe,’ Irinnile whines. ‘Their souls are—’
‘Not important,’ you say. ‘Efficiency takes precedent.’
Irinnile sulks, so you appease her, promising (without specifics) a later meal.
‘Why not now?’ Irinnile asks, directing you attention to the third aura in the room—the only soul remaining, besides your own.