The Scarlet Maison

Beams of moonlight lit the courtyard, the air still with an uncomfortable calmness.

Wallachia Scarlet stood serenely by the courtyard fountain. He glanced to his right as he heard muffled, even footstep coming towards him.

A man was slowly approaching his person. He had ivory hair, styled into something that had resembled horns, matching ivory eyes and a thinly veiled smug expression. He wore a pair of purple earmuffs, each side had been etched with the Chinese character for "harmony"(和). He wore a black robe, the hood down  and revealing his identity. Black terrain boots thumped on the stone pavement.

"Good evening, milord." The man greeted. "You're looking well."

Wallachia scowled. "Enough of the pleasantries; have the results returned?"

He nodded. "Indeed. Congratulations, milord."

The noble sighed deeply. "Then it has come to pass. I shall make the arrangements for transport. I expect her to be in proper care until the preparations are complete."

The robed man bowed. "But of course, milord. We offer nothing but the finest for the young mistress."

"Very well", said Wallachia. "I bid you farewell, Shou."

"Likewise, milord."

Moments after the two had left the courtyard, a flutter of wings shook a nearby grove.

"Look at me. It's going to be OK."

She kept repeating the same string of words over and over again.

She was bound to a chair with flowing red tendrils, nullifying her abilities. Before her was a glowing transparent box, roughly two meters tall and one wide, holding a lone captive. Her sunny blonde hair was distraught and her former red and white dress was now torn into pieces. Red eyes cried as talons slashed at the barrier, only to phase into a haze of red mist.

"Look at me! Look at me!"

Her sister kept at it, spilling more and more blood onto her face and clothes.

"Just keep your eyes on me. You're going to be OK."

She soon halted, grinding burnt fingers against the walls. Tears trailed down Remilia's face as she saw Flandre mouth the words, "help me".

"I'm going to get you out of here, Flan." Remilia kept tugging at her restraints. "Flan, look at me. We're going to get through this."

The ivory-haired man behind Remilia nodded. Two men in full-body suits lifted the box and carried her away.

"NO! LET HER GO!"

Flandre thrashed harder inside the cage, her mute screaming only heard in her ears.

"GET AWAY FROM HER! NOT HER!" The chair fell over, sending her into the cold stone floor. "NOT MY SISTER!"

The men had nearly carried the box out of her sight, the glow of the prison illuminating Flandre's terrified face.

"TAKE ME, PLEASE!" Remilia turned to the ivory haired man, her tear-slicked face sticking with gravel. "I'LL DO ANYTHING!"

"PLEASE! PLEASE, DON'T HURT HER!"

A door slammed shut.

"FLANDRE!"

Apollo knew that he was a gifted individual; talented and strong to be acknowledged as such.

He was heralded as a prodigy in his profession and prided himself on his accomplishments.

Until now.

Never before had he felt so small and inconsequential.

'Monsters, the lot of them.'

The stone fences around the estate had become gossamer walls of crimson, imprisoning those within. The courtyard was now a battlefield of a myriad of phantoms and ghouls, clashing in the ever changing tide of white and red mists. Silhouettes of shifting shadows, transforming into beasts and men, could made out as flashes of light struck in the dichotomic haze.

So far, it appears to be a stalemate.

Despite the recent turn of events, what had truly caught him off guard was the one running away from the scene.

A pit stemming from his stomach ached with something he couldn't recognize.

Disbelief? Betrayal? If so, what betrayed him?

He needed answers. Now.

On a night where proverbial ghouls and monsters warred, a specter of his past descended upon him with dread.

Literally.

Apollo stared at the rust-red creature before him, innocently staring at him and making faux pecks at the ground. It mocked him, with its idle twitches and slowly hopping its way closer.

He knew it beckoned him away somewhere, to follow after it like a lost puppy returning to his master.

Biting back a snarl, he reached for his blade. His fealty was not something to be played with.

And neither was he.

With that, a soft splatter fell onto the stone tiles of the upper east balcony.

Another had taken its predecessor's place. This one had proven persistent, dodging the first two attack Apollo attempted.

Oh, someone will rue for this.

He made for a forward slash, which the bird had nimbly dodged around his right wrist. Light cascaded down his forearm and shot out at it.

The animated avian managed to evade most of the attacks until a stray shot grazed its leg. It sprayed blood along his side, but he paid it no mind.

There was a charlatan to kill.

A third one.

How stubborn. Just like her-

Banishing that thought away, he glared at the fluttering thing before him.

Despite his better judgment, Apollo supposed he wasn't making progress with being petty.

'Alright, I'll humor you,' he thought. Nodding to the bird as it flew down, the assassin followed after it. 'Let's hear what you're just dying to tell me.'

Ugh, and to think he thought he'd gotten past her terrible puns.

He could feel something was before him, a lucent anomaly that was commonly used for cloaking purposes.

Unbeknownst to whomever it was, he started to bend the light nearby. Steadily, a shape was taking form.

The attire was overwhelmingly robust, but Apollo could still detect traces his late friend in the woman before him.

She had the same lackadaisical slouch that gave no cares; the smell of copper and pastel paints lingered faintly, the odor reminding him of fonder times.

No, he had to remain professional. Apollo knew he couldn't risk himself to be distracted by the rose-tinted glass that clouded his judgment.

"Speak, worm," the light manipulator growled.

Apollo may not have much respect for the dead, but he held his friends and comrades in the highest regard.

And this harlot goes and defiles it?

Simmering his rage, Apollo narrows his eyes at the Not-Tara. "I will give you one chance to explain yourself or I will carve your liver from your torso and force you to choke on it. And if I don't like your answer, I might do it anyway."

Whomever this was, had disturbingly intimate knowledge.

"For what reason would my comrades lie to me for? You speak of nothing but trifles and conjecture."

He had to probe for what else she knew.

That... that wench.

How dare she? To question the loyalty of his brothers and sisters. To mock the beloved memory of a long dead woman.

Enough of this. He will not tolerate any more sullying of that he holds dear.

Distorting the light around him, he left an afterimage behind as he skulked away.

There were more pressing at matters at hand than indulging in his retribution.

Such as informing the family of this imposter at once.

He nearly stumbled at that.

He hadn't heard anyone call him by that name in years.

Despite the growing ache settling in his stomach, Apollo turned to look back.

'Who... are you?'

Needles pricked at Apollo's pores, sweat beading at his forehead and trailing down his temples.

'Control yourself, remember your discipline. You are better than this.'

Despite his inner mantra, he turned to stare at her.

At the back of his mind, he heard someone screaming, the voice hoarse with grief and turmoil.

He realized it was his own as he lunged for the woman.

"DEFILER! DECEIVER!" Apollo screamed, arcs of shimmering light racing down his forearms. He pointed them at the harlot, firing bolts of plasma.

He could feel his heart pounding, veins becoming more pronounced as he blasted away.

"IMPOSTER! YOU SHALL RUE THE MOMENT YOU DECIDED TO MEDDLE!"

The arcs grew more dense and vibrant, enveloping the entirety of his body.

Apollo could no longer see outside his corona of light, the intensity ruining whatever night vision he once had.

That was fine. Collateral damage was no longer a concern.

All that mattered was eviscerating her.

The haze in the courtyard began to clear, the two within the mist staring one another down passively.

Wallachia chuckled, bringing his hands together in a slow, taunting clap. "Well done. The reports did not do you justice."

Mari glared, her eyes narrowing into amber slits.

An erupting pillar of light pulled their attention away from one another, bits of debris falling down from the air.

A small cloud of dust hung over from the mansion's east wing, followed several more smaller flashes.

The Lord of the manor frowned. How rude, coming in uninvited.

Before Mari knew it, Wallachia was gone.