Discordant Note | TBATE

Chapter 106: For All

"And that is?"

"You see my methods," she said, "But assume my motives."

I exhaled sharply through my nose, calming my nerves. "Then tell me what you want, Lady Shorn," I bit out. "You've been content to try and dissect my own person these past few hours. The least you could do is reciprocate."

Renea crossed her hands over her stomach. "You wish to help these people, Lord Daen. But some part of you recognizes why you will fail." I narrowed my eyes in irritation, but the woman forged on. "You are one man. There are thousands living in this district, and no matter your own personal abilities, you will never help them all. Perhaps your next assumption is that you need manpower and resources, such as the ones Lord Denoir or I could provide."

I opened my mouth to continue, but Renea cut me off. Her face was pinched in a way I hadn't seen before, passion seeping through her unflappable mask. "But you would be wrong. Even if I or your highborn friend were to pour all our resources into this small district, fundamentally, nothing would change."

"And why is that?" I snapped back, standing up. If Bloodstone Elixirs had intervened months ago, none of this would have happened. Hundreds of people suffered from blithe addiction because of their inaction. Mardeth tortured dozens of people at his leisure because nobody with power tried to stop him. "Are you going to make an excuse for why you, with all your power, couldn't intervene sooner? To wash yourself of the guilt of this?" I said angrily, gesturing to the girl on the bed.

Renea stayed seated, but her emotions seeped from her mask. For the first time, I felt something in the ambient mana. A lacing of intent broke through the woman's absurdly powerful cloaking artifact. It tasted sour and dark; the color of anger and... Something else. What else was she feeling? Was that resolve?

"Perhaps these people would live happier lives for a time," Lady Shorn said in measured words. "Maybe they'd even be happy. Grow and expand. But you were right about something else, Lord Daen. It's the system that breaks these people. I can feed and clothe and shelter, but if these people are bound to the same wheel that breaks them on every turn, then nothing will change!"

I stalled, surprised by the outburst. I hadn't known the dark-haired woman long, but rarely did she seem so passionate. I could feel it in her intent, which I wasn't sure she realized was seeping past her cloaking artifact.

"I've tried what you suggest before," she said quietly. "Maybe if I flushed the downtrodden with resources and wealth, people would rise up on their own. Push past their barriers. They could support themselves better. But that's treating the symptom, not the problem. I learned this. Instead of people leading better lives, the powerful swoop in like vultures sensing carrion, ripping apart anything I try to set up. Or sometimes, the oppressed become entirely dependent on my own systems instead of those the highbloods institute. And then people are left worse than when I started. They are simply dependent on a different tyrant."

Lady Shorn stood up, moving to square off with me so her face was nearly a foot from my own. This close, I caught the scent of her perfume. It clashed with the sterile smell of bleach and death in the clinic. Her breath interlaced with my own. She looked up at me, her eyes searching my own for something. "So I changed my tactics, Lord Daen. I don't flush these slums with resources. Instead, I give the people here the ability to fight. To rip apart the system themselves. To show those at the bottom that they can rise to the level of those at the top. That is what I did with your Rat. And that is what I've tried to do with you."

The woman's face was flushed from restrained irritation, her breathing ever-so-slightly stilted as she stared up at me from so close. I exhaled, stunned by her words. She... She actually cared. She wanted what was best for those here in East Fiachra. It wasn't just what she displayed on her face and in her tone. Her intent–detectable only by me–weaved around us in an undulating pattern, reinforcing her thoughts.