A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor
Chapter 80: Dryad

Chapter 80: Chapter 80: Dryad

Ian paced the room, arms folded tightly across his chest. A knot of confusion twisted in his gut. What in the world was happening? Beric lay sprawled on the floor, half-conscious. Lady Mereloff, bound and seething, perched on the edge of the sofa. Even restrained, she held herself stiffly, back ramrod straight, a fierce, determined glint in her eyes.

"What the hell...?" Ian muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Lady Mereloff," Ian said, his voice dangerously low, "we have much to discuss."

The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

"You will explain everything," Ian continued, his gaze unwavering. "From beginning to end. Make me understand. Otherwise, we will both find ourselves in a... precarious situation."

"It’s just a mild aphrodisiac," Lady Mereloff said, feigning innocence as she lifted her bound wrists. "Nothing to get worked up about. Why all the fuss?" The tight, neat ribbons binding her were a testament to Hanna’s meticulous work.

If it were merely an aphrodisiac, as she so blithely claimed, there would be little cause for concern. Such concoctions were as common as wine at the parties of dissolute young nobles, and even easier to acquire in this forgotten backwater.

"This isn’t an aphrodisiac," Hanna stated flatly, crouching beside Romandro. "There are many varieties, of course, but most have a yellowish hue or a coarser texture. This, however, is as fine and white as dusting powder. And I’ve never heard of anyone fainting from merely smelling an aphrodisiac."

Apparently so. Ian turned to Lady Mereloff, his gaze demanding an explanation. She merely glared at Hanna, disbelief etched across her features.

"Who is that girl?" Lady Mereloff demanded, her voice tight with disdain.

"...She’s part of our household," Ian replied smoothly, "and rather knowledgeable."

A wide, pleased smile spread across Hanna’s face at being called "family."

Lady Mereloff, however, clamped her mouth shut, a sullen expression settling on her face. Ian gestured for Romandro and Hanna to step outside. He needed privacy for this conversation.

"I’ll fetch a wet cloth for Lord Beric," Hanna said, breaking the silence.

"Uh? Oh, right. I’ll just, uh..." Romandro trailed off, clearly flustered.

With a final, knowing glance between them, Hanna and Romandro quickly exited the room. The door clicked shut, leaving only the sound of Beric’s ragged breathing. Ian pulled a chair closer, positioning himself directly in front of Lady Mereloff.

"Lady Mereloff," Ian began, his voice low and serious, "the more I consider this, the more inconsistencies I find. Quite a few, in fact."

"So, that’s..." Lady Mereloff began, then hesitated.

"Let’s not waste time with prevarications," Ian said, his voice sharp. "I’ll lay out my concerns point by point. You are familiar with the Dripper, aren’t you?"

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring.

"Specifically, its true value."

Lady Mereloff bit her lower lip, a small sigh escaping despite her efforts to suppress it. The gesture didn’t escape Ian’s notice; she was clearly hiding something. He studied her face intently, a sudden suspicion forming in his mind. On a hunch, he asked:

"Tell me... are you from Lazasan?"

"...What?" Lady Mereloff sputtered, momentarily stunned.

Lazasan. The fabled birthplace of the Dripper. She glared at Ian, her expression one of utter incredulity. And with good reason. To be from Lazasan was akin to...

"To put it plainly," Ian clarified, pressing the issue, "I’m asking if you’re a member of the Dera race."

"Have you lost your mind? Do I look like a mole?" Lady Mereloff scoffed, her voice dripping with indignation.

"Your familiarity with the Dera’s appearance suggests otherwise," Ian countered, his voice calm but firm.

Lazasan was a mountain range on the opposite side of the continent from Bratz. Before the Dripper and other such inventions brought it renown, even those dwelling in nearby lands remained unaware of its existence. A place shrouded in obscurity, unknown to all but the most local inhabitants.

"I... I..." Lady Mereloff stammered, her gaze fixed on some distant point, lost in thought.

"I am... friends with them," she finally stated, the words hesitant.

"With whom? The Dera? Impossible," Ian scoffed, his disbelief evident.

The Dera were notoriously reclusive, shunning all contact with outsiders. A subterranean folk who dedicated their lives to tinkering in their tunnels, endlessly assembling, disassembling, and creating.

A race that lived each day seemingly identical to the last, yet ultimately forged a different future for all. Such was the legacy of the Dera.

"...It’s the truth," she insisted, her voice unwavering. "I was born and raised nearby. My mother is a dryad."

Ian’s jaw dropped slightly, surprise flickering across his features.

"A dryad?" he echoed, a note of disbelief in his voice. "You mean, the dryads of legend?"

"Yes, precisely. Beings whose destinies are intertwined with a tree."

Lady Mereloff stated this calmly, declaring that she carried the blood of a tree spirit. Her face remained utterly impassive, a mask, leaving no doubt that this was no jest.

"But I refused to inherit my mother’s fate. A true blessing. Can you imagine the horror? Devouring the body of your beloved, only to live out your existence rooted to a single, unchanging spot for all eternity."

Dryads are considered dangerous, even among the fey. Perhaps because they are bound to protect the tree to which their life is tethered, they are renowned for their capricious and cruel natures. The very act of absorbing a beloved human alive, all for the twisted sake of eternal union, stands as a chilling testament to this.

"I could never understand my mother or her ways. So, I felled the tree myself and fled into the world. I didn’t even have time to retrieve my father’s... hardened corpse."

Lady Mereloff’s gaze drifted to the window, drawn by the ghosts of that day.

With each heavy *thud* of the axe, the forest resonated and the ground trembled beneath my feet. Birds took flight, their panicked shrieks mingling with the guttural roars of beasts echoing through the ancient trees. Perhaps those were my mother’s screams, carried on the wind.

"And that... series of misfortunes brought you here?" Ian asked, his voice carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.

"Hmm." She paused, considering. "It’s a lengthy tale, perhaps best saved for another time. In short, I was captured by a passing merchant caravan and sold into slavery. The Fates were cruel indeed; the first people I encountered upon emerging from the forest were slave traders. I didn’t realize it then, but looking back, I suspect it was my mother’s final, bitter curse. If it’s no trouble, may I have a cigarette?"

Ian wordlessly held out the cigarette. "Here."

"Thank you, Lord Ian," Lady Mereloff said, accepting it with a slight nod.

She took a long, slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that mingled with a weary sigh.

"So, to answer your earlier question: yes," she confirmed, taking another long drag from the cigarette. "I was aware of the Dripper’s inherent value, though perhaps not its specific function. The Dera never create anything without a distinct purpose. But I’m curious, Lord Ian, how did you come to acquire such knowledge?"

"Let’s just say I have my sources," Ian replied vaguely, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Sources that seem remarkably well-informed," she countered, a hint of suspicion, and challenge, in her voice.

Truth be told, the decision to gift her the Dripper had been half impulsive, half a calculated gamble. The moment I laid eyes on the Dripper in the storage room, I’d reached for it, my instincts telling me that anything crafted by the Dera must possess some hidden value.

"Lady Mereloff," Ian asked, abruptly changing the subject, "were you, by any chance, responsible for disseminating the merchant caravan’s arrival schedule throughout the entire territory?"

"Why do you ask?" she countered, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "Does it matter?"

"I have a nagging suspicion that you’ve been assisting me in some way, Lady Mereloff."

"You’re an amusing man, Lord Ian," she said, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. "That’s not a cause for suspicion, but rather for gratitude."

"That, Lady Mereloff," Ian countered, his voice hardening slightly, "depends entirely on your *intentions*."

In response to Ian’s words, Lady Mereloff slightly lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing the extent of her abuse. Her ankles were a tapestry of angry red and blue bruises, her calves marred by festering sores, and her knees crusted with thick, ugly scabs.

The sight was enough. Ian frowned deeply, his stomach churning with a mixture of disgust and pity, and deliberately averted his gaze.

"Shall I show you more

"That won’t be necessary," Ian said, firmly.

"Count Mereloff—my husband—is utterly insane. Elevating a woman purchased from slave traders to the position of Countess... well, it speaks volumes about his character, wouldn’t you agree?"

That explained the lack of a proper wedding and the clandestine nature of their union. Mary’s subtly condescending attitude towards Lady Mereloff suddenly clicked into place; the pieces of the puzzle falling into alignment within Ian’s mind.

"Does the Count know of your... dryad heritage?" Ian asked, carefully choosing his words.

"He does not. I resemble my father far more than my mother in appearance," she replied, a touch of bitterness in her tone.

Yet, as the saying goes, ’blood will tell.’ Her striking beauty, the almost imperceptible aging process, and her slightly enhanced lifespan and physical capabilities—all served as undeniable hallmarks of her dryad lineage.

"As someone of low birth, divorce is an impossibility in this wretched place, and I refuse to spend decades trapped in this gilded cage. To think, I severed my mother’s tree, fled the only home I’d ever known, only to find myself here."

"And?" Ian prompted, his voice a study in neutrality.

Lady Mereloff remained silent, her gaze fixed on Beric’s sprawled, unconscious form. The implications were chillingly clear.

So that was her motive. Realization hardened Ian’s expression into a mask of grim determination, and he seized her wrist with surprising speed.

His grip tightened.

"...Is it poison?" he demanded, his voice low and laced with steel.

"No, not poison," she clarified, a hint of smugness creeping into her voice. "It’s a newly distributed sleep-inducing hallucinogen from the Hawan Kingdom. Supposedly, consistent use for about a month results in fatal sleep apnea. Though I’ve never heard of anyone losing consciousness simply from a whiff of it."

"And you’re certain of this information?" Ian pressed, his gaze unwavering.

"Both myself and Lady Mary handled the compact without incident. I imagine she’s having quite pleasant dreams right now, in fact," she said, a delicate smile playing on her lips.

A new drug that induces hallucinations while slowly corroding the body from within. The reason for procuring it from an external source was patently obvious. Should Count Mereloff’s death arouse suspicion, they would need to circumvent any post-mortem investigation, any autopsy potions that might reveal the truth.

"This is madness," Ian muttered, his mind racing through the implications. "Lady Mary was also using this?"

"I couldn’t say for certain," Mereloff replied, a carefully neutral expression on her face. "I don’t know if she personally used it. Initially, I believe the intention was to administer it to Derga. But she must have realized," she paused, choosing her words with care, "that it would be more... advantageous... to partake herself."

"Why?" Ian pressed, though he already suspected the grim answer.

"Why?" Lady Mereloff echoed, a hint of cruel amusement flickering in her eyes. "Lord Ian, *your* very existence provides the answer, does it not?"

Ian, the bastard brought in from the outside. Was he not living proof of Derga’s numerous infidelities? A sudden, sharp image of Mary’s gaunt, wasted appearance in that hidden cellar flashed through Ian’s mind. Withdrawal. It had to be.

"Lord Ian," she said, her voice heavy with self-loathing, "I despise the name Mereloff. Tell me, how am I any different from my mother, bound to a single place for all her days?"

Even this desperate act, this attempt to kill her husband, mirrored her mother’s own violent history. Was this the inescapable fate she’d so desperately wished to avoid? A cruel, ironic inheritance?

"All I desire," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "is the freedom to choose my own destiny. That is all I ask."

"I believe the Count has a brother," Ian pointed out, a subtle challenge in his tone.

"It matters not," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "As long as I can choose my own place in this world, free from this wretched family."

Besides, at the rate things were progressing, she would likely perish before the Count, succumbing to his cruelties.

Ian considered her silently, his gaze unwavering, weighing his options, the potential benefits and risks swirling in his mind. Though neighboring territories, they were, in reality, rivals constantly seeking to expand their influence—at each other’s expense, of course.

"I have a proposition," Lady Mereloff announced, breaking the tense silence.

She extended her bound wrists, a silent, almost defiant plea for release... or perhaps, an offer of alliance.

"’The enemy of my enemy is my ally,’ and there’s no reason for us not to cooperate, Lord Ian. If you were to assist me—or, more precisely, turn a blind eye—I would be willing to provide substantial support... in the form of financial contributions." She let the word hang in the air, a subtle emphasis on the offer.

"’As much as possible’," Ian repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "Define much, Lady Mereloff."

"...That’s difficult to quantify precisely at this moment," she hedged, avoiding his gaze.

Outside, the last vestiges of the sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of twilight. Lady Mereloff’s expected return time had long passed, and Ian was now merely weighing whether sending her back—or keeping her here—truly served his interests.

Bang! Crash!

The sudden, jarring commotion from outside shattered the tense silence that had fallen over the room.

Ian slowly opened the door a crack, assessing the situation. An unfamiliar man, dressed in what appeared to be a servant’s livery, was engaged in a heated dispute with the household servants.

"Are you jesting? Why can’t I see my lady?" the man demanded, his voice rising in frustration and a hint of desperation.

"Well, sir," one of the servants stammered, clearly intimidated, "he’s in an important discussion with Lord Ian at the moment..."

"I told you, I have urgent business with her. It’s highly suspicious that you won’t even relay a message. Step aside, now."

"I said, you can’t go in there!" the servant insisted, his voice wavering between defiance and fear.

"Move aside, you imbecile! What have you done to my lady?!"

"Are you daft?! Gods, this is infuriating! It’s your lady who’s done something, and to us!" the servant retorted, his face flushed with anger and a hint of desperation.

"You, there."

Ian’s low, authoritative voice cut through the commotion like a knife.

"Tell him the lady is occupied at the moment and to wait," Ian instructed, his voice calm but firm, with an undercurrent of steel.

But the servant, heedless of the command, his face contorted with worry, rushed towards Ian. He then caught sight of Lady Mereloff, her wrists bound, and his eyes widened in a volatile mixture of shock and fury.

"What in the *hells* is going on here—?!"

"Clark! Stop!" Lady Mereloff cried out, her voice sharp with alarm.

But Clark, ignoring her plea, lunged at Ian with reckless abandon. The household servants, startled by the sudden, violent movement, tried to intervene, but they were too slow. Ian, reacting with preternatural speed, caught Clark’s outstretched wrist in a lightning-fast grip and unleashed a surge of raw, crackling magic.

Zing!

Boom!

A strangled cry escaped Clark’s lips as he collapsed.

"Clark!"

Lady Mereloff rushed to Clark, who had crumpled bonelessly to the floor, and shrieked his name. She cradled Clark’s head in her lap, his body spasming violently from the shock, her face a mask of concern... or perhaps something else entirely.

The others stared down at Lady Mereloff, expressions of utter bewilderment etched on their faces. Then, from his prone position on the floor, Beric slurred something in his sleep.

"Bloody hell... what a load of crap..."