Baron Corvo’s glazed pupils caught the afternoon glare. Ovidia blinked. Oh, Nereo. Such a dramatic flair! He’d always been intense, even as a waifish boy. Now, as a towering man, he truly understood the art of making an entrance. A whole *behemoth* and then… this. He was certainly making a statement about his dedication. “Who else has been looking at you?” Nereo’s voice, a low current beneath the din of panicked faculty and fleeing students, brought a slight grin to Ovidia's face. Possessive, yes, but in a charmingly edgy way. This game certainly delivered on the tragic male lead trope. She offered him a small, reassuring smile, careful not to jostle the bursar’s head. “No one worth mentioning, Nereo. Just a few curious gazes, the usual. You know how it is in Bastione. Everyone craves gossip.” She gestured vaguely at the scattered tea leaves and blood-splattered balustrade. “Though I suspect this *might* top the usual gossip.” The head administrator, a portly provost named Bellwether whose scarlet mantle clashed with his mottled skin, finally found his voice. “Sir Nereo! What… what is the meaning of this heinous… this *abomination*? You cannot simply…!” He choked on his words, his gaze darting from the Behemoth’s torn carcass to the bursar’s head. “This is a place of learning, of *decorum*!” Nereo rose, turning from Ovidia with a fluid grace that belied the recent carnage. He plucked a stray, iridescent tentacle shard from his battle-worn tunic. “Decorumb,” he echoed, his eyes, still holding that innocent, wide-eyed glint, fixing on the provost. “Understood. I require lodging. Adjacent to Ovidia Vencenza’s quarters, if available. For optimal ‘decorumb.’” A faint, ethereal shimmer rippled in the air behind Nereo, subtle tendrils of shadow twisting into the form of ink-black petals. They unfurled, silent and swift, coiling around the administrator's antique lectern, the oak groaning under their imperceptible pressure. Provost Bellwether’s jowls wobbled. He swallowed, a visible effort. “Adjacent? But… those are the senior dormitories, Sir Nereo. And you are… well, you are not formally enrolled.” His voice cracked. One of the shadowy filaments traced the outline of an urn on the desk edge. A hair-thin crack spiderwebbed across its glazed surface. “Enrollment is a formality,” Nereo said, his tone devoid of menace, almost polite. The shadow blossoms pulsed, a faint, abyssal hum filling the air. “My purpose here is clear. To ensure Ovidia’s… comfort. Sanctuary.” Another tendril, thicker this time, slipped beneath the administrator's desk, vibrating slightly. The ornate quill in his hand snapped. “Indeed! Constant vigilance!” Ovidia chimed in, stepping forward. “Nereo has always been exceptionally dedicated. We need strong, capable individuals like him in our halls, Provost. Especially after… well, after *this*.” She gestured grandly at the gaping wound in the courtyard. “Think of him as our new, highly motivated campus security, with, ah, *unconventional* methods.” She shot Nereo an encouraging smile. He looked so pleased, the innocent boy from her past, eager to please. “He’s just very passionate, you see.” Bellwether, his skin greying like spoiled lard, cleared his throat. “Of course, Lady Ovidia. Passionate. Ahem. A room, then. Adjacent to yours, Sir Nereo. Immediately. The… the ‘North Gate’ dormitory, perhaps?” He clutched his chest, breathing hard. “Someone, please, remove Baron Corvo’s… his person. And the… the other thing.” Nereo nodded, a faint curve to his lips. “Excellent. I shall prepare.” As he turned to follow the trembling aide, Ovidia’s Guide Book pulsed with a cheerful chime, glowing a brilliant, almost blinding, pink. [Nereo’s Obsession Meter: +5 hearts!] *My Nereo, always so eager to make himself useful!* Ovidia thought, a happy sigh escaping her lips. *He’s truly taking this ‘guardian knight’ role to heart. Just a few more pension applications signed, and I’ll be set!* She watched him go, a faint, lingering scent of brine and ozone in his wake. First things first, though, she needed to check on Tullio. Her brother, Tullio, lay pale and still in his cot, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the afternoon sun. He looked smaller every day, his narrow ribcage shaken by the creeping blight that plagued Altamare. A small silver goblet sat on his bedside table, half-full of the expensive ‘Blessed Dew’ from the Church of the Ascendant Flame. Ovidia pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, her fingers tightening on the damp linen. Tullio was the only truly pure thing in this world, the only reason she endured the absurdity of noble life. “Ovidia?” he rasped, his eyes fluttering open. “You’re back.” “Of course, little brother.” She helped him sip some water. “How are you feeling? Did you take your tincture?” Tullio nodded weakly. “Yes, the Sisters brought it. Said it would make me strong.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. Then, with a gasp, his body seized, and he brought up a mouthful of viscous, black fluid onto the pristine white sheets. It smelled acrid, metallic. He trembled, tears welling in his eyes. “It burns.” Ovidia froze. Black blood? The ‘Blessed Dew’ was supposed to be holy water, a cure. She stared at the goblet, then at the spreading stain on the linen. The rot wasn't supposed to produce foul sludge. This wasn’t healing. This was… corrosion. The Church's sacred draught was actively destroying his throat. Days melted into a bizarre routine. Ovidia spent her mornings researching curative flora in the library, desperately seeking an alternative remedy for Tullio. Nereo, true to his word, had integrated. Not smoothly, but with the force of a storm. He attended no classes, but his presence was undeniable. He’d often appear silently beside her, offering her strange, perfectly peeled fruits or tracking down obscure tomes before she even knew she needed them. He was a doting, if slightly unnerving, presence. One afternoon, while Ovidia was hurrying through the packed main hall, a student, Lord Garrick of the Volante house, a notoriously clumsy oaf, rounded a corner too sharply. He lurched, his elbow catching Ovidia’s shoulder with a jarring force, nearly sending her sprawling. “Watch where you’re going, you dolt!” she snapped, steadying herself. Her books clattered to the floor. Before Ovidia could bend to retrieve them, Nereo was there. He moved so fast he seemed to blur. His hand shot out and clamped around Garrick’s wrist. There was no shout, no warning. Just a sickening series of sharp, wet clicks, like dried twigs snapping. Garrick gagged, his cheeks draining of color. He whimpered, a thin, reedy sound, as his hand twisted at an unnatural angle. “Careless,” Nereo murmured, his grip unyielding. “The Lady Ovidia deserves space. Such clumsiness is… unacceptable.” He released the young lord, who collapsed, cradling his mangled hand and retching with pain. Ovidia blinked, then shook her head, picking up her dropped books. *Oh, Nereo, always such a stickler for etiquette!* She internally chuckled. *He’s really taking this whole ‘aristocratic manners’ thing to heart. Very old-school. A bit much, maybe, but endearing.* “Thank you, Nereo,” she said, offering him a serene smile. “Though perhaps a warning next time, for the poor fellow?” She nudged Garrick with her foot, who was curled in a tight ball. “He does look rather distressed.” Nereo’s gaze softened as it met hers. “As you wish, Ovidia. I shall endeavor to be more… instructive in the future.” He then bent down, carefully gathering her fallen parchments and stacking them neatly, his blood-stained fingers surprisingly gentle. That night, Ovidia sat at her desk, a small, flickering oil lamp illuminating her face. Tullio’s black coughs echoed in her mind. The holy water was a sham. She had to find something, *anything*. She pulled out her Guide Book, intending to search for curative lore. The familiar floating parchment text shimmered into view. [Nereo’s Obsession Meter: +10 hearts!] [He loves you! He wants to keep you safe forever!] Ovidia smiled, a bittersweet curve to her lips. *Yes, yes, I know he does. But right now, I need him focused on Tullio's safety too.* She sighed, rubbing her temples. Suddenly, the Guide Book’s cheerful pink text flickered. The bright hearts glitched, morphing into distorted, jagged shapes. The 'Obsession Meter' line dissolved, replaced by a chaotic scramble of runes. Then, with a chilling finality, the words solidified, no longer pink, but a deep, viscous red, as if written in fresh blood. [He will cage you.]

Etiquette and Executions