so naturally please show me your

[oncedriven]

"So, what you're saying is that there are no laws here?"

Everyone twists in their seats at the sound of the voice. You've only heard the masked cavalier of the Eighth speak once before, a murmured curse the first time the cavaliers had a sparring round and it became clear exactly how fast Velvet the Fourth was. Otherwise, he's been entirely silent, letting his necromancer speak.

The man in question looks the most surprised of all. Van the Eighth is a cunning man, of that you have no doubt - after all, he's without doubt keeping at least one key to himself, probably two if you've read the signs correctly.

But he seems unsure how to react, when his cavalier continues, "We're outside of the jurisdiction of the Houses, and there will be no legal repercussions for anything that happens here?"

"Now, Asch," Van says, recovering himself a bit from the unexpected question, his expression gentle, almost fatherly. (At your shoulder, Mythra goes on alert. She doesn't like that tone any more than you do.) "Surely there's no need for such - "

Your attention on the necromancer of the Eighth, you almost miss the way Teacher folds his hands somberly and looks at the floor, his expression stricken. But Asch didn't.

And no one could miss what happens next.

Mid-sentence, a rapier sprouts from Van's throat. The end of it is attached to the hand of his cavalier, pulled free in a single swift and slammed home without a trace of hesitation. Van didn't even get the chance to reach for his throat.

The room springs into a chaos of reactions, cavaliers stepping in front of their necromancers reflexively, Velvet the Fourth drawing her sword, Asbel the Third only half a step behind her. You remain still, however. You know well enough how to read a threat, and you don't think Asch a threat to anyone else in this room.

Much like the tip of the rapier he holds, the Eighth cavalier is precise, and strikes only his intended target with precision. It's a hypothesis confirmed by the words he speaks to the gurgling, soon-to-be corpse on the point of his sword -

"One flesh, one end, you son of a bitch," he practically spits into the face of his necromancer. "And it was always going to be on my sword."

And then he jerks the blade free and lets the body fall. Blood drips from the tip, gushes from the shattered remains of Van's neck. You feel the surge of thanergy that accompanies the death of a powerful necromancer - both more and less than you expected. More than Van put on the appearance of having; less than would have been required by the experiment you're almost certain that he won a key from.

And then Asch shakes the blood from his rapier before sheathing it, and that blood hangs in the air, floating and glittering drips, and the realization strikes you immediately.

Both necromancer and 'cavalier' were thanagenic. The Eighth submitted two necromancers, one trained as a cavalier and, apparently, with a deep grudge against the other.

Blood magician is certainly a specialty you haven't seen before, however. Your gaze remains on the floating droplets - more now, the bleeding wound's spill rising in dark red to join the rapier's in the air - even as Asch strips the mask from his face and throws it to the floor. You wonder how he came to the specialty; it's the first time you've seen necromancy performed on something obtained as easily from the living as the dead.

The mask strikes the tile floor with a clatter. Asch drops his white hood, as well, revealing hair even redder than the blood, longer than your own, shaking it free as though he is for the first time unburdened. Which he may very well be, considering the vitriol he held for the man dead at his feet.

Asbel the Third says, very succinctly, "What the hell?!"

You say, voice dry, "Congratulations."

Every gaze in the room snaps to you now, even tiny Laphicet, peering around his cavalier's waist even as Velvet attempts to push him back behind her. Even Asch looks at you, the first time he's truly met the eyes of anyone here without the mask in place. It's a dfferent sort of look from the barely-contained horror of the rest, though, more surprised-curious. (His eyes are rather green, you note absently. He's also young, younger than Mythra, young enough that the gap between him and Van must have been quite large indeed.)

You incline your head and say, "Simply observing that it seems you've been wanting to do that for quite some time." This was no crime of passion, only opportunity. Malice with enough aforethought to bide its time until the opportune moment, to strike as soon as that opportunity was presented.

And none of you can do a damnable thing about it. If there is nothing keeping you from murdering each other, then there is nothing keeping you from murdering each other, not even cavalier to necromancer.

"Years," is Asch's only reply, turning his gaze back to the body. The blood, you realize, has soaked into Van's clothes, but as you watch, it forms a shape not unlike a snake, dragging something out of the man's collar. The key ring.

Two keys, aside from the access key. The serpent of blood twists upward into the air to offer the key ring to Asch, who takes it and then releases his necromantic grip on the blood, letting it fall, splash, splatter across Van's face. Aside from that, no one moves.

Morag the Second attempts to salvage her authority in the situation. "I must insist you hand those over to me," she says, hand now on her own sword. "And submit yourself to detainment. Whether or not the rule of law carries any weight in this jurisdiction, Asch the Eighth, you are a murderer, a murderer of your own necromancer - " The woman's voice breaks a little in revulsion, her necromancer putting a hand on her shoulder. (Brighid the Second is a dreamlike, aloof woman, but she is without doubt a force to be reckoned with in her own way.)

"No." The response is a single blunt word, as Asch loops the ring of keys in on his belt beside his sword. His expression is only a hair easier to read without the mask covering his face.

"I must insist - "

"Fuck off."

That gets Morag to blink in surprise, at least. Asch rounds on her.

"You have no idea what that man did to me," he says. "What he and his entire regime in the Eighth have been doing. You have no jurisdiction here, and you do not have the ability to force my compliance, Morag the Second. You are far from the strongest cavalier here."

Richard the Third steps out from behind his cavalier, placing a hand on Asbel's sword-wrist. "Surely you cannot propose that we simply allow you to run free," he says, tone calm, mediating, almost too-casual. "A cavalier who killed his own necromancer might do anything."

"And?" Asch returns, his voice tinged with irritation. "Any one of us might do 'anything.' There's at least one other murderer among us who is considerably less transparent about their work. I had motive for only one man; I don't give a damn about becoming a Lyctor or the Emperor at all. How many of you can say the same?"

Silence. You know as well as he there will be no answer. Even those who do not have personal aspirations to Lyctorhood come at the will of the Emperor; to do otherwise is a blasphemy, though not so great a one as that which Asch committed with his sword. Even you, who came only to sate your curiosity, are not fool enough to say so in front of these people. Mythra takes a step closer to you, and you glance at her in a way that confirms that you are both keeping your mouths shut. She nods with only her eyes, but doesn't look like she likes it.

Asch snorts into the silence, and turns to leave. Velvet says, "Then why are you keeping the keys? Even if you're a cavalier who is also a necromancer, you still can't solve the challenges alone."

"I don't intend to," Asch says. "And if any necromancer among you proves worthy of the knowledge these keys keep, you can have them, and my sword as well." Another silence, in which Asch turns a bitter smile over his shoulder. "But you have to fucking impress me, and I don't think a single one of you bastards is up to par."

"How high and mighty of you," Richard observes into one lacy sleeve. If the words have any impact on Asch, he doesn't show it. He's already started walking again.

"...Why?" Laphicet says, leaning around Velvet's protection again. "I thought Van was a good person. What did he do?"

The boy truly is a child, you remind yourself, and probably the only person in this room deserving of the title of 'good person.' Perhaps Mythra, but certainly not yourself.

Asch's footsteps slow to a stop. This time, he doesn't turn to speak to the group.

He says, "Do you know what happens when you have a necromancer child who gets no training? Who isn't told what they are, and instead they're handed a sword and an oath? You get a child with a massive build up of thanergy and no outlet for it. The perfect cavalier battery - if they manage to survive to puberty, that is."

You hate how much sense that makes. No wonder Asch learned to work the most transient medium available to him, perhaps.

"Of course," Asch continues, "the children of the Eighth alone weren't sufficient for such a program. Imperial doctrine loves to talk about how necromancers are only born here, around this sun - but that isn't the case. They're just incredibly rare, and won't develop their potential outside this system. And when the Eighth found such a child, no one would question their disappearance, or if they did, it was easy enough to make the rest of the family disappear."

You reach up, adjust your glasses. Beside you, Mythra breathes out a long, slow, disgusted exhale. Apparently she can't hold her silence any longer, which is altogether fair, considering everything that's happened.

"You were a stolen child," she says. "A child stolen to be - just some power source of a cavalier - "

There's only the tiniest of nods.

"So fuck Van, fuck the Eighth, and fuck your Emperor," he says. "I'm alive for my sake and no one else's."

No one further interrupts him, as he walks out the doors and out. No one dares to speak, until his footsteps have long faded down the hallway.

"Well," you say into the silence. "I did suspect it was personal."