That is, until Tivia had arrived and brought a stronger dose of reality with her that he had rightly been prepared to deal with.

“So… then? You planning on digging up my future grave and reanimating me?” As much as it came across as an obvious joke, the idea of somehow coming back from the dead was almost more disconcerting than dying and staying dead… “If that’s the case, then I should caution you to tread carefully, and consider who might be watching. Necromancy hasn’t been legal in Eyraille for hundreds of years. If I’m lucky, I’ll end up dying on Ilandrian soil.” He sported a mischievous grin. “Make the technicalities Safir’s problem. I’m sure he’ll love me even more for it…”

As uncomfortable as it was to discuss his imminent death (insofar as Tivia was convinced he was going to die, and he really had no reason not to believe her), the young king would have preferred to continue on the topic if it meant avoiding the subject of Sylvie Canaveris. Since Safir’s personal physician, Sommath, had taken over the young earth mage’s care, Caris had decided to distance himself from her and the entire situation surrounding her for the time being. He had come to this decision for multiple reasons: most notably that there was nothing he could personally do to improve her condition, and he could only shirk his own courtly duties for so long while waiting for her to awaken. He had no choice, if he meant to shrug off his old reputation of being an irresponsible brat of a king.

That is what he would have told those who inquired, at least. What he was keen to leave out was how drastically he felt things had changed between him and Sylvie: and whether her denial of any of their… less-than-professional involvement was connected to her condition, or if it had been more purposeful. Perhaps she had regrets, overstepping professional boundaries. Perhaps she had decided it wasn’t worth it to her to bear the rumours and whispers in his Court, however clandestine he had tried to be.

Then again, perhaps he should have thought harder about being ‘clandestine’ before he’d transformed one of the empty palace rooms into a crafting space for her textile work…

“Last I heard, she’s stable.” The Eyraillian King shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to look deliberately disinterested. “You’ll have to pester the physician for more details. I’ve had other matters to attend to. I’m sure she’ll…”

By the sudden distant expression on Tivia’s features, it became clear the star seer had stopped listening almost as soon as he’d begun speaking. He wasn’t even confident she was present in her own body: was this a result of her power? “Tivia…” The young king froze, realizing how wholly unprepared and unequipped he was to deal with this exact situation. He didn’t have Safir’s infallible charisma and ability to reach out empathetically; perhaps he shouldn’t have urged the new King of Ilandria to leave him alone with the crumbling Rigas woman.

Caris turned his head to either side, as if hoping someone might appear to step in and relieve him of this awkward turn of events. When it quickly became clear that he would find no such miracle, he moved to Tivia’s side, making his presence known while still respecting the star seer’s personal space, in the vulnerable position such as she found herself. “My disgraced older sister used to insist I had a habit of sabotaging myself. Like I constantly throttled my own potential, because rising to meet it was a far more frightening alternative. And because, deep down, she said I don’t really believe I deserve the future I could have. We may not be on speaking terms, at present, but I can’t exactly say she was wrong.” He paused, considering his words, and whether this tangent was even relevant or helpful, before moving forward. “I think we’ve got more in common than you think. You know you didn’t have to nullify your ‘engagement’ to Safir so dramatically. Whatever it is you are punishing yourself for… you don’t have to tell me. Hell, I know you won’t, and honestly, that’s fine. Regardless of the reason… I’m telling you now, and honestly, that you believe you might deserve it. But you don’t. That’s what I believe, even if all I have is my gut feeling to go by.”

“What…? Never. However you spin it, I could never regret loving Felyse, even if my reasons are entirely selfish.” Sommath shook his head, as if appalled that Ari would so much as consider such a question. “Nor could I ever regret Nia. Although I do harbour remorse for having her navigate this cruel world, unassisted--and that is my treason, Ari. What sort of father does that to their child? Watches from a safe distance while they struggle, suffer, and are mistreated before their very eyes?”

The creases in the royal physician’s brow softened, giving his countenance a look more akin to pain than shock or fear. It was clear that until Ari had suggested such a dire course of action, he had never so much as considered it. “I am content in knowing that she is well, cared for, and above all, loved. She has her mother’s resilience… and obstinacy. Aside from the fact I cannot fathom any circumstances under which she would be willing to so much as entertain the idea of forgiveness… what do you expect she would gain from such a revelation? How could knowing the man she always thought of as a simple family doctor with niche insight into her unique physical properties is actually her biological father?” His voice grew soft on the last two words, like they were too heavy to sustain. He looked past Ari, although his grey eyes appeared unfocused. His attention was elsewhere, on unseen thoughts and feelings that he had never articulated to anyone.

A moment passed, and when he turned back to Ari, his expression was grim. “You were there, the day she fled to the Ardane estate. You saw what just being there did to her. How the memories haunted her and tore her apart from the inside out… Being inside those walls made her relive the most frightening and traumatizing parts of her life. What assurance is there that unveiling a familial truth won’t reopen even more old wounds? Seeing her like that… well.” Sommath pressed his lips together and shared a knowing look with the earth mage. “I know I am not alone in how deeply it affects me to see her so hurt. As a physician, I will not deny that pain is sometimes necessary, but this… I am not convinced this situation constitutes such necessity.”

It never would have occurred to him that one as righteous and true as Ari would be capable of so much as considering betrayal--but perhaps that was only due to the blindspots Ilandrian culture encouraged, in its unwavering investment in truth and justice. So when the Canaveris lord briefly detailed a very real and very serious falling out with the Master Alchemist in question, he gave his rapt attention, and honed in on every detail. He almost wanted to pry further into the incident for a broader picture of the story, but realized that it would be nothing more than self-indulgent, as the past was the past. There was no sense or utility in poking old wounds that unsheathed guilt when his daughter and the D’Marian leader had already reconciled and chosen to move forward.

Ari did, however, have a point: he had known the truth about Nia’s patronage for quite some time, now, from his rather uncanny skills of observation alone. And, still, he had said nothing to the Ardane woman. It did make him complicit, and while Sommath took no pleasure in having him share in the guilt of withholding information from someone they both cared about… well, Ari had already chosen this path. Having kept Sommath’s secret, there was no opportunity to backtrack, now.

The physician drew a steadying breath, and pushed a hand through his silver hair, streaked only with the occasional weft of deep brown. Perhaps it could be chalked up to coincidence, but he’d only started noticing this obvious sign of aging around the same time he had met Felyse. “I’m not sure there is anything that I could say to change your mind on this matter…” He said as he released the breath. “And I am still not convinced it is in Nia’s best interests--but, then again, you know my daughter better than I do. The bigger question is, how does one even broach this topic? It isn’t exactly the sort of revelation one makes over dinner…”

He paused for a moment, and stared down at his feet with a thoughtful frown on his face. “...there is still the matter of the Ardane estate that needs to be addressed. As Nia is no longer a fugitive, and the only known remaining member of her family, the property--or, what remains of it, at least, legally belongs to her. And it will be her decision to fix, repurpose, tear down, or otherwise entirely abandon it. When--or should I say, if--she is mentally in the position to parse through the past that her mother left her… maybe then, she’ll be better prepared for what untold truths might mean for her future.”

The new King of Eyraille had yet to reaffirm his grasp on the passage of time, since being confined to his room for a number of days. Apart from day and night, he wasn’t certain precisely when festivities today had begun, or when they were likely to conclude. He’d rather hoped the crowd and noise would have died down just a little since leaving Tivia Rigas in the questionable hands of King Caris, but alas, he shouldn’t have been so foolish to indulge in such wishful thinking. There was no indication that the livelihood would diminish anytime soon; and perhaps he should be grateful for that. After all, if all the guests and patrons were preoccupied with wine, food, and music, then that meant less attention on him.

A few more hours… Surely, there weren’t more than a few more hours left, before the sober would retire for the evening, and the drunks would pass out. If he could quietly endure for just a little longer, from the safety of an unoccupied corner--

Once again, a fantasy; and a short-lived one, at that. Safir turned to the voice that addressed him, only to realize his chosen ‘hiding spot’ had not been so vacant after all. Not a familiar acquaintance; at least, he couldn’t recall ever seeing this man before. He only hoped this wasn’t a case of having forgotten an important face and name…

To his great relief, it appeared--by the stranger’s effectively formal greeting--as though introductions had not taken place before. Which, in hindsight, made sense to Safir… Because this was a face he wouldn’t have been likely to forget. Striking blue eyes, and a confident smile. A face he would have noticed in a crowd, from a mile away.

Most certainly a face he would not forget now.

“Ah. A ‘little bumpy’... is perhaps an understatement. And I fear I may become all the more unpopular for implementing boundaries on the one rare occasion there shouldn’t be any.” Safir’s lips pulled sideways in a wry smile that did not reach his eyes. “Then again, I suppose I’ve already toed the line of unpopularity to ensure I am doing what is necessary.” Unpopular, he feared, might even prove to be an understatement. It hadn’t yet been a full day since his father’s crown sat upon his brow for the first time, and already he was earning glances that seemed to wonder if the heavy ornamentation actually fit him. Without realizing it, he looked for the same skepticism in the cordial stranger’s face, as well, but found only ambiguity.

Then again, perhaps whatever incompetence he was unknowingly projecting was masked by the fact he looked undeniably spent. “My apologies that the wine does not meet your expectations; admittedly, this revel was assembled rather in a hurry, given the circumstances.” Safir quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly. Had he been more alert, he might have actually taken offense to the suggestion that the libations provided by the palace presented as subpar. As things stood, the new king was instead curious at the stranger’s boldness to insinuate as much; although, upon hearing him out, it became clear that the comment wasn’t an insult. It was instead a very clever segue into a full introduction that would accompany what very much resembled a business pitch.

“Just how long did you rehearse this encounter, Mister Revennel?” Safir flashed a clearly amused smile that did not intend offense in any way, but quickly waved off the comment with a gesture, just to save face. “You family’s unparalleled wares have filled our wine cellars for as long as I can remember. I hope you do not take offense that they do not line our libation tables this evening; frankly, a night where the majority of patrons seize the opportunity to lose themselves by the means of any acrid swill would not, in my opinion, do your unparalleled reserves justice. Regardless…”

The green-eyed king paused, one hand cradling his elbow as the other pensively touched his chin. He realized a little too late that in trying to read Corvane’s intent in his face and posture, perhaps he found himself looking just a little too long to be comfortable, and abruptly closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to rid himself of fatigue. “You have travelled quite some distance, if I understand correctly. And while I cannot honestly fathom just what sort of business you bring to me, aside from your already prestige products, I would be remiss not to arrange a room for you this evening so that we might properly discuss the reason for your visit tomorrow.” As if he didn’t already have enough on his plate… but there was a lot of change to incite and develop. Might as well start early, and consider what might be incorporated as part of that change--and decide whether Corvane Revennel had a place in any of it.

…She’d given up on the third reason, but her mouth betrayed her.

“No. No one is threatening me. If anything, I’m the one threatening him,” she said. A weak explanation, but she would honor her bond to the tenet of loyalty, and concede to cooperate out of respect for the two kings who’d invested their time and energy in her well-being, however misguided. Nobody helped a star seer, but they at least didn’t seek to control her, or deem her unfit to serve them.

“For what reason you have to thank me, I haven’t the slightest,” she replied, focusing on the words of gratitude Safir lobbed at her earlier. Caris’s coat, the one he offered her as a privacy shield, slumped forward, threatening to fall off her bare shoulders. She didn’t care. Modesty was for the women who still had something left to lose, and judging by the dual welts on her back, whose sting she’d forgotten to care about, she’d already been marked by shame. “Unless it’s out of relief you won’t have to withstand my deranged methods any longer. But I won’t put words in your mouth. I know you’re a man of honor, and you mean what you say, but forgive me if I suspect that every person in existence waltzes with some shade of darkness. The more light one illuminates, the starker the shadow. It’s a laughably simplistic assessment, but I’m in a somber mood. Entertain me.” She leaned back on the settee, pinning the damp cloth to the backrest and pursing her lips when the pain returned. She no longer felt warm blood gushing out of the well of the stab wound, but the lips of ravaged flesh parted slightly from the sudden pressure, threatening another deluge. The burn mark flared in tandem, the echo of its sibling.

“Oh yes, there was another way of nullifying our engagement, but you wouldn’t like the other method.” She raised an eyebrow at Safir, as if reading his mind about Hadwin’s proposal. “If I didn’t find some drastic means to end our engagement, and we parted ways amicably, then the Ilandrian court would suspect our partnership had been a sham all along, and we were co-conspirators in some plot to undermine the council. Which, in all honesty, it was, but you can’t afford any scandal that impacts the stalwart image you’ve cultivated. It would have done less damage if you had loosened up at your own party. A party, might I add, that is meant for exploring a person’s darkest desires. For me, I took the ‘dark’ part to heart, and corrupted the whole affair, because it takes a fucked up move at a rules-breaking revelry for even your guests to question someone’s sanity. In which case, mission accomplished. To continue the charade, I will cry in my quarters all night long, reeling in devastation from the private dissolution of our would-be marriage while you waltz back into that party, ringless, a free man. And you celebrate. Caris is right. These are your people. Let them see you. This moment is essential in turning public opinion around in your favor. Dance with someone. Hell, just talk to someone. How about an Ilandrian you’ve never met? Start there. That’s what you can do for me, Safir. Then tell me all about it when you return.” It was more than she thought she could say at once, but he seemed reluctant to leave unless she displayed a modicum of normalcy–and that much, she could fake.

Relenting to the pressure from her and from Caris, the newly-crowned king slogged out the doors like he was headed to a funeral procession. Tivia blew an offensive strand of hair out of her face and with it, the shambles of her charade. She saw in Caris an intolerance for bullshit that resonated more than Safir’s tolerance for the same, and felt no compulsion to fill in the silence with useless blather. Just sitting in someone’s company without the expectation to perform as a fully-formed being propped up by invisible sticks was the cynosure she needed to restore some sense of balance. 

Of course, it was not to last. Not even the young king of Eyraille could stand to sit in her unfiltered misery for long. 

“You don’t have to do anything, Caris. People like to believe that words can heal, but my words have done nothing but cause damage, so I’ll be the first to tell you that’s a crock of shit. I’m more partial to…this,” she gestured between the two of them. “Sometimes the best ear to lend is no ear at all. It’s nice to have a break from paying astute attention to what everyone is saying. Nia’s device helps,” she tugged on the filigree-laden contraption on her right ear, “but it’s still exhausting.” When Caris mentioned his imminent death, she smiled ironically. “I regret to inform you that the dead do speak, and loudly. A certain companion of mine can attest to that, and I believe him, because the stars operate by the same damn rules. So no, I don’t think my secrets would stay safe in your grave. You don’t seem the type to stay put in it. That said,” she tilted her head to the ceiling, at the rectangular molding arranged in hypnotic patterns, “I will endeavor to ensure that your death doesn’t stick. That way you’ll have a story to rival Sylvie’s.”

Speaking of Sylvie. “How is she? Faring better, I take it, if you’re here. Sommath must be one accomplished alchemist, to neutralize the effects of her poison so ably…”

Something scratched at her brain. The itchy whisper of a star–that star. A fuzzy thing with fine barbs like spider legs that would irritate the skin when rubbed. A secret she hadn’t considered. Him! It was him! He aided Sommath. He helped Sylvie!

Unable to regulate the emotional heft of this sudden revelation, she bowed her head and wept in front of Caris.

Talk of Sylvie’s condition had almost vaulted Ari out of his ebullient mood. While his niece fought her coma, he mingled at a coronation celebration, surrounded by adults of certain proclivities, their carnal eyes predatory. But then he imagined how Sylvie would love to hear about an Ilandrian revelry upon waking, and Ari could not share the tale if he were not around to experience it. Without Alster or Tivia’s ability to bandy about gulfs of distance in a blink, Ari was stationed at a fixed point, and would need their assistance to change his position. Better for it to wait until the morning, pending their availability and cooperation. Besides, Sommath was correct in his assessment. Ari’s presence in Ilandria didn’t go unappreciated, not only from Safir, but from Nia, who needed as many friendly faces to assist in her transition from the condemned to the free. 

“I have you to thank for coming to my aid last night,” he said, swiping at his forehead where just yesterday at the same hour, he fought a virulent fever. “Without it I would have been unable to stand for the duration of the speech that ultimately made Safir into a king. Much as I do fret over Sylvie, and Nico, and my fretting has impacted my health and in so doing inconvenienced your health, I am happy to have shared in the event, even if I could do little more than stand in the cold and later offer a warm congratulations. As you said, small gains—though I would argue these are enormous wins for Ilandria and our chances for defending against Mollengardian incursion.”

In shifting the topic to a ceremony of another color, Ari expected resistance, but didn’t realize how deep-seated Sommath’s insecurities lie. To honor his companion’s misgivings, he listened patiently, nodding along to each point made while also keeping a lookout for Nia, who tended to pop up unexpectedly. They wedged near a table stripped of its bounties of hors d’œuvres and wine, and thus its value as a place of interest. While they spoke in plain sight of other partygoers, a burst of jaunty music seemed to pique their interest to the corner opposite theirs, and the crowd slowly shifted to accommodate the new locus of interest. 

Meanwhile, Ari watched Sommath’s mannerisms, impossible not to note how he stooped over as though from a heavy weight, willingly choosing to carry a boulder upon his back as a lifelong penance for daring to dream beyond his safe and well-trammeled enclosure.   

“Sommath—do you regret your choice in partner? For bringing Nia into this world?” He hushed his reply, not only to keep their conversation covert, but to flatten his tone and clip the barbs of his exasperation. “If you do not, I implore you cease acting like pursuing any relationship but the barest of pleasantries is tantamount to treason. These circumstances differ. Are you honestly content to act as her part-time physician who occasions a bon mot or a wise axiom? Pining after her under the shroud of shadow as you did her mother? Here is the beautiful opportunity for a new beginning, Sommath. A part of Felyse lives on; would you besmirch her memory by refusing to honor your covenant? Dare you repeat the same choice and stew in the past, never truly recognizing you are more than a body who needs more than a breath and a heartbeat to live?”

He blinked, realizing he had gone too far. Taking a breath, he grazed over the lump sitting in the inside pocket of his coat, and let its grounding energies guide his next words. “Forgive me, Sommath. I am not so callous as to ignore the very real fears you pose. They have plagued me, too. In the not-so-distant past, I did the wrong thing. I betrayed Nia. She was involved with a dangerous witch, and I turned her in to Galeynian authorities when she had sought refuge in my villa to heal from a grievous injury. I was so convinced the law would save her, and in a sense, it did. It took a collective effort to exonerate her, but at the time, she wrote me off as untrustworthy, and rightly so. I didn’t think she’d ever forgive me, let alone look my way again. And miraculously, one day, she did. If I know Nia as well as I think I do, then she will come around. Not right away, of course. It will hurt—for both of you. She will seethe and rail her anger and betrayal. But let her rage. Give her time to process. If Nia could restore her friendship with King Safir, then there is hope for you, too. This, I firmly believe. You will not be without support, either. If you reveal your truth to Nia, I shall offer to mediate this exchange and gently guide her through the process. You have my word that I will facilitate this matter and shoulder the blame to ease your burdens; after all, I am complicit in knowing of her parentage this whole time and saying nothing. Be that as it may, I am here to help. And rest assured,” he cracked a confident smile, “I can be quite persuasive.” 

Among the invitees, only a scant few from the Cradle made an appearance. A region rimming the border with Nairit, Eyraille, and a narrow passage with Mollengard, the Cradle earned renown as an area bursting with viticultural significance, thanks to the nutrient rich soil of the forestlands to the west, the foothills to the east shielding the cold winds of Eyraille, and the blue ribbon of the Vairdis river snaking through the valley, flooding the plains so reliably, it rendered timekeeping devices irrelevant. Due to its geographic sweet spot, winters were a milder affair, despite its northerly heading. It didn’t make the trek any easier for those Ilandrians who lived in the far-off countryside, so naturally it left Corvane wondering if he was the sole representative at the coronation and the ensuing celebration.

He sipped the wine on offer, a burgundy-adjacent substance more mud than color, and sighed. It tasted fuzzy and coarse, like the low tannin content of a cheap reserve, and sour wood, like the barrel had begun to turn. Whoever was put in charge of libations either did a rush job to procure a throwaway product good enough for the masses, or didn’t care about quality control, figuring that the revelers would funnel the wine into their desperate maws until their vision blurred. Instead of placing the barely-touched goblet on the table for an unsuspecting rube to snatch, he threw the contents into a nearby potted plant, not wanting to bear responsibility for offloading a bad buzz to somebody else. He spoke a little prayer under his breath while he disposed of the pig’s swill, blessing the little plant to hold fast against the offering.

He plunked the now-empty goblet on the table and, with his hands now free, ran them through the waves of his hair, exposing the soil-dark roots beneath the snow-coated layer of platinum blond. For someone who lived in the deep countryside, few would suspect he made his home far from the center of commerce and fashion. Aside from his dyed locks, he sported a tailored black long coat lined with a glacial blue that matched his eyes. A few hunks of silver metal glinted from one ear: a set of three looped earrings, pierced to hang in a tight row, one after the other. 

Alert in his corner, Corvane scoured the scene as couples sprinted across the ballroom floor in fits of maniacal laughter as they searched for the perfect spot to hook up, while others failed to keep step to a frenetically paced tune cooked by the minstrels and encouraged by the Ardane woman who’d been arrested and now was seemingly allowed a pardon in the span of a few days. As to the man who delivered the pardon? He was heading straight for Corvane—or rather, his quiet corner.

King Safir Vallaincourt. From his vantage point, the new ruler of Ilandria hadn’t lost his luster. He’d often wondered if the monarch had more in common with a painting than a person; nice to look at from a distance, but upon closer inspection, mired with cracks and raised splotches. It turned out, his assessment was wrong, and it both relieved and annoyed him.

As the king of Ilandria neared, Corvane stiffened to a respectful stance, then deepened into a bow. “Your Majesty. Long live the king,” he said, as was a customary greeting and wish for the new monarch’s health. He rose from his bow. “How are you finding the evening? A little bumpy, so far? I saw what happened earlier. You were right to step in. The man you admonished, I’ve been keeping an eye on him.” He gestured to another empty table off to the right, under which the offender was sound asleep, head buried in a goblet. He spoke with a slight rasp, his words stretched out and deliberate. Any Ilandrian would place the dialect as ‘country,’ but Corvane found no shame in it. 

“You look peaked, your Majesty. I would offer you a goblet, but don’t take offense when I say I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Now, I brought a few casks of a special cuvee from home as a gift, but the hour is late and I suppose it’s more appropriate for the morning after, if you would arrange an audience with me. I’m here on business, but not tonight—and neither should you be, to be frank.” He smoothed out the tails of his long coat and quirked a smile. “My name is Corvane Revennel. Again, not here to laud my business associations, but I figured you would want a name. I respect your time, your Majesty.” 

“I found you because I was looking for you. Because you were right, about everything, and I wanted to thank you. I won’t claim to understand your power, or your means of ‘helping’, but I am Ilandrian. And I like to think, more than anyone, that I understand both the bitterness of hard truths, and also the necessity of them.” The crease between his brows softened, but did not disappear. “I am no stranger to delivering hard truths, myself. But our situations are vastly different, and in a nation that values truth as strongly as Ilandria, no one shoots the messenger. I can only guess that that has not been your experience as a messenger…”

The Ilandrian King’s initial supposition was that the star seer was hopelessly angry with herself, and despairing the fact that while her messages from the stars were important, they left her isolated and widely ostracized. And perhaps that wasn’t entirely untrue, but Tivia lost him altogether at her unprompted mention of ‘him’. Safir exchanged a look with Caris, who lifted his shoulder in a small, helpless shrug. “Who is ‘he’, Tivia? Is someone threatening you?” The King of Blades asked cautiously, all the while knowing he would not receive an answer. Tivia was not known for being direct, or providing clarification on topics she did not wish to discuss in the first place.

Whatever this ‘him’ she referred to meant to her would remain a mystery, as she was quick enough to change the subject. And much though Safir wished she would confide a little bit more, he knew when not to press. Even if he did not buy, even for a moment, that her lewd display had much to do with any effort to provide believable reasons for ending their “engagement”. Her reasons were her own… however frustrating.

“You know there are plenty of other ways we could have nullified our ‘engagement’, Miss Rigas. It is beyond me why D’Marians seem to feel the need to settle on the most dramatic option…” The Ilandrian King thought back to Hadwin’s previous suggestion, and couldn’t help but grimace at the thought--only because even more drama and scandal, on top of what he had already shouldered, was quite certainly the last of his desires. It was enough that he had to attend this party, in celebration of an occasion that he wasn’t even sure he’d actually earned…

Caris, who had been standing aside with uncharacteristic patience to allow both the star seer and the King of Ilandria some space, didn’t have to turn his eyes back on Tivia to confirm the sorry state she was in. Instead, he focused on the dying fire in the small room’s hearth. It must have been burning for hours, for the sole purpose of warming the chilled hands of anyone seeking refuge from the winter cold. Yet in this room, left empty for hours, it had nearly burned itself out, all while waiting to be useful. For reasons the young king was not quite about to put into words, he couldn’t help but feel like he could relate. Perhaps, on some level, everyone in that room could for their own reasons, known or otherwise.

Arms still folded, he pushed away from the wall, eyes still averted from the Rigas woman. “You speak as if the Canaverises lean any less toward the penchant to be brutally dramatic.” He muttered, although it was not clear if he was speaking to anyone in particular, or simply voicing his thoughts aloud. Caris’ sharp, blue eyes appeared distant for a moment, and he didn’t elaborate. He wouldn’t have, even if prompted.

“Well, you heard the star seer, King Safir. My condolences on the nullification of your engagement; may your hearts heal over time.” He forgot to smile at his own joke as he turned his attention to Safir. “If I recall, you have rooms full of hundreds of people celebrating your coronation at this very moment. Is it not considered an Ilandrian faux-pas for the host to be absent from their own revelry?”

“At this point, I am not sure I will ever be able to face my people again…” Safir rubbed the back of his neck and aimed a tense glance at the doorway. For someone who had always been able to hold himself confidently in the public eye, for the first time in his life, the idea of being surrounded by people made him feel sick. Unfortunately, Caris was right; the longer his absence, the more time people had to gossip and come to outrageous conclusions. Flapping lips would never be entirely silenced, but at this critical time, he had to do what he could to control the political narrative.

He looked at Tivia, miserably shriveled into herself upon the settee, and far, far from unwell. “Regardless of your healing prowess, I cannot in good faith leave you here in this condition, Tivia…”

“Dismiss your concerns, Your Majesty of Ilandria. I’ll ensure our unpredictable friend is well. It’s your party, not mine. And you’re only coronated once… well, foreseeably.” The young King of Eyraille reassured Safir with a partial smile. Whether or not it inspired confidence in Safir remained to be seen, but that didn’t change the fact that returning to face his public was ultimately inevitable, regardless of the star seer’s condition…

Safir wouldn’t have looked ever nearly as defeated at losing a sparring match as he did now, offering a confirming nod to Caris. “Very well then. Please, do not hesitate to call for Sommat, should you decide his services are, in fact, necessary. And… please take care, Tivia.”

Leaning into a brief, respectful bow, the King of Ilandria took his leave, and pulled the doors softly shut behind him. With the small sitting room now feeling decidedly less cramped, the young King wordlessly took a seat on the opposite end of the settee. The silence stretched on for several minutes, as neither of them knew what to say, or perhaps had nothing to say. The situation spoke for itself, and like Safir, Caris perhaps knew that the star seer had already said everything she was willing to say. 

Leaning forward, with his elbows resting atop his thighs and his hands tucked under his chin, the haughty young king’s heavy sigh broke the silence at last, as he righted his posture. “Well, I’m particularly useless in situations like this. In case you haven’t noticed.” His smile was wry and unconvincing. “I’d offer an ear, if you think it would help. I understand wanting to keep thoughts close to your chest. Divulging secrets and concerns to anything adept with words is always a risk. Then again… I am going to die anyway, aren’t I?” Caris arched an eyebrow and tilted his head curiously. For someone shouldering such a heavy fate, he seemed to be taking it rather well. “And the dead can’t speak.”

“Ah. This is your first Ilandrian celebration of the sort, isn’t it.” The elder physician gave a knowing smile, one which, for a brief moment, recalled a far more youthful (albeit genuine) version of himself. “Would you believe me if I told you that all of this is decidedly tame, as far as this kingdom’s festivities sometimes go? And the night is still young: I daresay a well-presented young man such as yourself will be met with yet more ‘propositions’, likely until dawn, if you can endure the behaviour that long.”

Whether Ari had chosen to partake or not clearly was of no matter to Sommath, who was well-acquainted with Ilandrian traditions. Perhaps he, in his youth, and prior to his high-standing in the eyes of the noble family, had partaken in the liberty to break social conventions and etiquettes during celebrations such as this, but in recent years had chosen to abstain from any risky or controversial behaviours. Then again, as much might be expected from someone who had weathered more than his fair share of controversies and tragedies in his lifetime.

Ari would find no judgment on the royal physician’s part either way. But Sommath still took quiet reassurance in the earth mage’s decision, which was, he knew very well, a reflection of his commitment to Nia. “I wouldn’t have left Eyraille had I not felt assured Sylvie was stable and poised for recovery. And I believe she is in good hands with Lord Rigas; much though I wish she’d open her eyes, I hope you can take comfort in the small victories.” The royal physician patted Ari’s shoulder and smiled warmly. “Although I am sure he has already said as much to you, I’m confident King Safir is overjoyed for your support this evening. Especially after all he has had to shoulder these past few chaotic days… Indeed, how any of us are still standing is undoubtedly a miracle.” It was no exaggeration: he, too, bore the telltale pallor and shadow of one who hadn’t seen the inside of his eyelids for too long for the past few days.

“Regardless--I hope you are managing to enjoy the evening, at least a little bit.” Sommath added, and gestured toward the live performance of strings, brass, and woodwind. Even in the midst of a party where ‘anything goes’, Ilandria still had the decorum to include festivities that didn’t tempt to bend morals for those who preferred to adhere to them. “If not, I had a feeling that little secret box would bring a smile to your face. But please, don’t worry about me. Seems to me like you might have more important preparations to dedicate to your concerns.” 

He winked knowingly, even before Ari confirmed his suspicions as to what the ornate little box contained. The royal physician recalled hearing of the Canaveris lord’s plans to propose to Nia; frankly, he was thrilled to hear that Ari wished not to delay. A sound decision, even in the midst of such uncertainty, with the looming threat of Mollengard… After all, tomorrow was never promised. “Lord Canaveris, I would frankly be offended if I were not invited to your ceremony. I hope it goes without saying that I’d be delighted…”

As Ari finished his thought, Sommath’s brimming smile began to dim. It disappeared altogether upon the realization that the earth mage was, in fact, being quite serious. His tired eyes darted around the room once again, as if paranoid at who might be listening in, and upon deciding the room was far too occupied to continue the conversation.

Placing a hand on Ari’s shoulder, he guided the D’Marian aristocrat further from the throng of chattering attendees, and toward a less populated corner that featured a table of empty wine bottles and glasses. Predictably, people were more likely to be drawn to where food and booze were still in abundance. “Ari. I want you to know that I do understand the nature of your thoughts. I still find it hard to imagine how, after so many years of betrayal and being forced to look out for herself, Nia managed to find someone who loves her so dearly, and who looks out for her and her best interests.” In other words, someone other than himself. Someone, frankly, better than him.

“I can’t begin to tell you how often I thought about what it might be like to be her father: and I mean to truly be a father to her, not just a biological relation. Believe it or not, I actually used to be something of a romantic.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, at a memory that was too laden with sadness and regret. “I thought about a life where I fled Ilandria without a trace, along with Nia and her mother. One where we would all retreat to a place where none of us were beholden to familiar or societal expectations. A life where Felyse wouldn’t have to continue to adhere to a life of Master Alchemist, free not only of the practice that wreaked havoc on her body, but the abject toxicity of her own family. And, most importantly… a life where Nia would have room to grow and thrive, and understand unconditional love.”

Further explanation on what had very clearly been an unobtainable dream was unnecessary. Nia had been the third of four siblings; her mother, married with two children already, couldn’t well have taken one child and disappeared into the night. Nevermind that Sommath had already long since been in the employ of the crown family, and walking away from such responsibility would have been nigh impossible for a myriad of reasons… 

Any Ilandrian would likely argue that remaining static even in the wake of the tragedy that befell the Master Alchemists (and the Ardanes in particular) was not only logical, but the only right answer. To Sommath, however, although he’d felt the decision had always been out of his hands, it didn’t mean his inaction had ever felt right. It was no excuse for his neglect, both before and after it had all been too late. And that was a decision that he knew he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

The royal physician sighed, appearing suddenly older than he actually was, and far more tired than he cared to let on. “I was not there as a father for Nia when she needed it most. And in that, I am well aware that I have failed her… and I am not sure forgiveness even exists for such negligence.” Sommath turned to Ari, and lay a warm hand upon his shoulder as his eyes searched the earth mage’s face for understanding.

“I know well that you only want the best for my daughter. Never in my life have I felt so confident that she is finally safe, and so dearly loved, and for that, I am relieved and infinitely grateful. But I beg you to consider, Ari, what this information might do to her. Learning that not only is her own father alive, and had never gone in search of her, but… but that he had been in her life all along, and remained silent. Tell me, is that something that you, personally, would forgive?” His shadowed eyes suggested he already knew--or at least assumed--the answer. “You know Nia, probably better than I do; can you tell me now, in all honesty, that such a revelation would not shatter whatever tentative trust she still invests in me, along with the budding hope for a comparatively uncomplicated future with you? Do you truly believe that that is what she would want…?”

The royal physician’s hand slid from Ari’s shoulder, as if there was no strength left in it. “As an Ilandrian, I cannot help but live by the truth… but that is not to say the truth is always warranted. Nor is it always the solution, or the right answer. Forgive me, Ari, but I find myself unable to envision any circumstances where what you are suggesting would yield favourable results for anyone involved.”

When Safir returned to the gathering, Nia and Hadwin were not difficult to find: the latter, upon an empty table, spun and twirled with none other than Jenikah Elisaron, who had also found it in her to imbibe, it seemed. In fact, she was smiling and laughing, and actually looked like she was having fun… 

Nia, meanwhile, was egging on the minstrels to pick up the tempo, wielding one goblet in each hand--both which appeared empty. Between the faoladh and the Master Alchemist, Tivia’s scene appeared to have been long forgotten… for the moment, at least. There would surely be whispers tomorrow and in the days to come, but as the star seer said, there were now fair grounds to nullify their “engagement”.

Tired and spent as he was, the spectacle put a faint smile upon the new king’s face. He locked eyes with Nia momentarily, who looked about to abandon her post and check on his well-being, but he merely shook his head and, with a gesture, bid her to keep up what she had going. A moment to stand aside and simply breathe, without being the center of attention, was in and of itself a gift, and he knew he could depend on these two friends in particular to keep these guests occupied until they were too tired to move.

This was worse. Remy couldn’t seem to blink away the flash of the gem on Madison’s left finger, and the word ‘fiancee’ echoed in mind like a thunderclap. Like a curse. The ache in his chest sank deeper into his gut, and he wanted to vomit. No, he wanted to run out of the study and take Madison in his arms, to sweep her away from all of this and disappear back into the woods. The passion they’d felt in the library that snowy night all those months ago…surely she did not feel the same with this man sitting in the armchair opposite him. Surely not enough to commit her life to him, to surrender her name and her purpose and her morals.

Morals. He might’ve laughed at that. Here he was, playing the villain the world thought he should be. His father’s perfect son. And yet…somehow it was easier to slip into that role in the presence of Lawrence Terril.

“Before business, it seems congratulations are in order,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging beneath his skin. “When are you and Ms. Sterling to be married?”

That’s the least of our concerns right now, Remy heard Quinn say, as if the general were here with him, listening in. He was keenly aware that lives hung in the balance if he couldn’t reasonably delay this shipment for Clover without arousing suspicion. The danger was that he had to play it as if he wanted it sooner. And for that, he had to put Madison out of his mind. The doctor cleared his throat and scribbled a note on the papers strewn in organized piles before him on the desk. It didn’t matter if Madison never knew he’d been on her side all along. All that mattered was the present mission.

“Last week your office gave notice of the arrival of our next munitions shipment,” Remy said. “I was told we would have had an update by now. Do you have any more information for me?” He underlined a date on the note in front of him, but left the pen poised in his fingers. “I’m sure you understand we need it as soon as possible.”

———

“Magnolia.” He tasted the name, letting the syllables linger on his tongue. “Of course commoners aren’t all the same, any more than those of high station. Insipid though many of them may be. And I should know. I’ve known both…intimately.” A smirk tugged at his lips. There was more to this woman than met the eye.

“Mr. Terril’s father was a close friend of the High Commander’s, as I’m sure you know.” He pursed his mouth thoughtfully, a glimmer of mischief dancing in his amber eyes. “Only Mr. Terril and a privileged few others could get away with calling a visit to Wymberly an ‘unwelcome disruption’ to their day.” The general paused, the mirth in his gaze sharpening to a predatory edge. Quinn was nothing if not observant, and he could see in the way she carried herself—in the way she guarded her expression—that she was a wolf in a fine velvet dress.

“You seem to make quite the impression on Northam’s highest, eh?” A long, calculated pause. There had been whispers of a wild woman who had been captured along with the commander’s son in the woods, but no one, save for the soldiers in the squadron at the time of Remy’s rescue, had any real information beyond the grapevine. Remy’s own recount of that day had been tight-lipped and cautious. The general couldn’t blame the man for keeping things close to the vest, but sometimes omission was not the protection it made itself out to be. Plenty could be gleaned from a story crafted too carefully, and Quinn suspected there was far more to this narrative than the Walther heir let on.

Still, he let his question hang in the air, unclear to whom exactly he was referring—Lawrence or Remy.

He flicked his bright gaze back to Madison. “I’m speaking of Mr. Terril, of course,” the general clarified, the innocent drawl of his voice a direct contradiction to the expression in his eyes as he regarded her. She was undeniably beautiful, with an edge coming through that he didn’t often encounter in women of the upper echelons of society. But he, too, was a weapon—perhaps the most infamous in Thebes—and he would not hesitate to clash blades with Lawrence Terril’s fiancee. In fact…he would enjoy it. Whatever her mysterious history with Gregoray Remington Walther II.

Quinn followed her to the half-open door, peering over her head into the meeting space within. A fire crackled on the hearth inside, and he reached around her—leaning close, close enough to catch a breath of the perfume on her neck—and pushed the door fully open. When she stepped inside, he lingered behind and paused in the doorway like a protector, like the soldier that he was, hands clasped behind his back.

“The Davenport is a fine estate,” the general conceded at last. The room they were in now was modest, a space designed for mixed company, for otherwise prying eyes, for those close enough to the High Commander to be invited for meetings but not close enough to be part of his inner circle. “But compared to Wymberly, the Terril house is a bumpkin shack in the countryside.” His words weren’t kind, but his tone was considerate. “Even compared to my own Avondale, in fairness. Wymberly is much more than a house, Ms. Sterling—Magnolia. It’s a palace. But more than that, it’s a fortress. Guests are treated to a very curated view of it, for security purposes but also for privacy. Especially now that our heir has returned, I’m sure you understand. I’m afraid the Mother’s Lament would await me if I showed you any of the Commander’s personal wing.”

He watched her carefully, but his smile was bright. “You’ve heard so much about me, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about you. Where are you from, Magnolia? What brought you to Thebes?”

He saw that hope rekindled when none other than King Safir approached, with Nia on his arm. She wore her new freedom like a perfume she couldn’t palate with how her nose wrinkled and scrunched in itchy spasms—but a far better look than chains and bars.

“Nia!” He matched her enthusiasm, giving her arm a teasing pinch. “They say to ask for a pinch to rule out if you’re dreaming, but here I’m pinching you to see if you’re real. How’s life off the lam treating you?” He didn’t have a chance to chum it up, or ask about her half-formed request, when poor Jenikah chose now to shoot her shot with the king, who looked ready to shed his carapace and leave her with the shell as he buzzed away to safety. To his credit, Safir offered an ear to the noblewoman as she began to rail off her confession. Oh, you brave, misguided rosebud…

Before she could finish, a spectacle in the corner grabbed not only Safir’s attention, but his and Nia’s, as well. They followed the king to a table pushed up against the wall, the three figures upon it, the line of spectators that watched, and the unwitting star of the show, branded and slashed for her sadistic audience. Hadwin would have celebrated the bold and public statement by Tivia Rigas, if he'd known she meant to debut her sexual deviance proudly. But this…wasn’t it. She had given consent, but not for pleasure. For punishment—and not the kind he relished, where the prospect of humiliation lured him into all sorts of compromising positions. 

He was no stranger to kinks. He had explored them with Tivia, during their many trysts. He knew her positive triggers—and her hard limits. The second the candle and the hungry flame licked her flesh, the climax of her fears hammered the nail into his head, rusty tip and all. He saw wisps of memories; the conflagration that caught her like a wax doll, melting her eye in a puddle of pus and leaving deep gouges down the apples of her cheeks and the delicate flesh of her lips. You want someone to burn—so burn me, he’d growled into her ear during their latest and most destructive affair to date. Show me what it’s like to light up like a torch and split into ashes.

Initially, she agreed. She grabbed his hands and flared her etherea, singeing his palms with a burst of radiance. But then she hesitated and refused to do more. He wanted to burn for the same reason she burned now, and she read it in his eyes as easily as he read fears. Finish the job, fire. Cast us into the pit, into hell, and maybe it’ll all hurt less, to feel nothing but the pain.

Before he could respond to the scene before them, or think on whether Tivia wanted this outcome, for mysterious reasons only a star seer would know, Safir stepped in and acted in his place. And hell, did he flout his authority and roar like a king. His subjects, especially the main perpetrator with the candle and blade and no sense of how to play in intimate settings, bristled over his forcible removal. He even had the gall to argue, insisting on his excuse for violence regardless of his partner’s enjoyment, or safety. But he didn’t have a leg to stand on when the spirit of the night he’d called upon to assist him thought it hilarious to double the number of irate kings to send in his direction. King Caris of Eyraille materialized, his youthful vigor burning hotter than the wimpy candle dripping wax over the flustered man’s hand. Knowing when not to belabor the point lest he lose his damn head, the man abandoned his post and fled, leaving his tools of torture behind. Damn, Tivia, Hadwin would have whistled if the scene called for merriment. You’ve got fucking monarchs at your beck and call. You understate your power. 

The subject in question opened her eye, watching the dispute as if she were underwater, so far removed from the result that she didn’t care who helped, or didn’t help. She might have used the words ‘I consent,’ but to those worried gazes in her sphere, it seemed more accurate to interpret her words as ‘I relinquish my consent,’ for how her eye shone not with the spark of sentience but of glass. The gloss and sheen were there, but gone was any spirit. She all but collapsed into Safir’s arms, a broken doll with limbs limp and stuffed, a life imagined only by the will of another who would move and play with her.

He couldn’t stand the sight. Just as well that Nia signaled his help to redirect the crowd. A sizable mob of bystanders gathered to whisper and gawk, and even through the filter of his sensitive ears, their snippets of conversation did not pass for quiet, or subtle. 

“That’s Tivia Rigas.”

“The king’s betrothed.”

“Is she drunk?”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Is this a D’Marian custom?”

“Right then!” Hadwin turned to the gaggle of geese and clapped, breaking their little gossip circle. They squawked, startled out of their flow.

“You’re looking for a spectacle? I’ll give you a spectacle! It’s time we all upped the ante, wouldn’t you say?” He swiped two goblets of wine from a passing server, downed both at the same time, one in each hand, and threw them back onto the tray. “This is a night we’re supposed to forget, yeah? So let’s make it fucking count! Maestro!” He hailed the musicians, who had stopped playing to balk at the two kings carrying off their half-naked charge, “play something with a lively step.” The musicians obliged, playing the first few notes of a familiar reel. Hadwin leaped on the closest table he saw, knocking a few empty trays on the floor. “Now, I need a partner. My lady,” he offered a hand to Jenikah, who looked more dejected than before. “you of all people can understand that pretty words aren’t going to do shit for us tonight. Take my hand, and we’ll dance into oblivion. All of us!” He shouted, indicating the gathering crowd. “Let’s break some rules.”

One minute Tivia was reliving the night she should have died in a pit of hellfire, and the next, she was borne aloft by a bracing yet cooling breeze. The angry blisters on her back ached, but like the ache of a salve on a fresh wound—a healing pain. But Tiva was at odds with her body, internally screaming for more heat, more fire. She didn’t deserve relief. Everyone would prefer the charred husk left behind in the aftermath. An absolute ruin, but unable to ruin the lives of others. She already blackened the fingers of all who touched her; better that it stay literal than figurative.

Her eyelids hung so heavy, like curtains ready to shut their only window to the world, but she summoned the care to blink into a modicum of awareness. She focused on her new setting, an unfamiliar room, but unmistakably Ilandrian in design. Utilitarian, but classy. Something plush cushioned her upright. Her hands drifted atop the flower-embroidered upholstery of an elegant settee. She glanced at the two men standing before her. One of them spoke; the other draped a coat over her exposed breasts. A light pressure on her back elicited from her a slight hiss of discomfort. It was then that she remembered how she received the gashes and burns–and why the two men tried so desperately to hide their unease.

Safir. Caris. They were there. They’d plucked her from the scheme in which she cast herself as the sole villain. Let the Ilandrian people hate her. Target her. Let them rally behind Safir as he publicly denounced her on the grounds of insanity. What she refused to account for was the man’s unshakeable honor. He would never cast his aspersions on her to a crowd, not even for show. Instead, he saved her from herself. Again.

The two kings turned to each other and bantered a bit, but she heard little. Her ears rang; what little sound they gleaned became undecipherable mud. It wasn’t until Safir took her hands like they were precious things, like she meant something to him, that she found her foothold in this reality. Her senses slowly sharpened. His words filtered into her ears, a warmth that didn’t burn. In the face of his delicate kindness, a tear welled in her eye, blurring the vision she only now allowed herself to see. 

“I thought there would be some small part of you who would find delight in my humiliation,” she whispered, so soft she wasn’t sure if she spoke in her head or out loud. “You can admit it. A moment of catharsis…even if it’s not near an apology for the pain I’ve inflicted. What I’m required to inflict–if it achieves the greatest path to victory.” She swallowed, but there was no spittle in her mouth. Only the tang of blood. A nick in her tongue. Self-inflicted, when she tried not to cry out from the flicker of flame claiming her unmarred skin. “If they broke me, marred me, burned me, maybe he would see it, too, and he would feel something. What degree of torture must I endure for him to recognize that I–” She paused, her eye widening in horror. She said that last part aloud, she was certain. The dark, destructive wish, nested within the furled petals. A truth within a truth. In the end, all paths, all desires, inevitably led to him.

She fiddled with the ring Safir had planted on her finger just a few short weeks ago. Pulling off the diamond-encrusted piece, too fine for her, she placed it in Safir’s open palm. “Our arrangement ends tonight. You’re free of me. Were it a pleasant engagement, but we both know the inverse is true. I don’t need anything from you, Safir. Quite honestly, there’s nothing you–or anyone–could do for me. My wounds will heal so there’s no need to bother Sommath, or anyone else. If you would believe it, I’m happy and relieved that we made it to tonight. The culmination of all our efforts. Maybe we would have gotten here faster without my meddling. I made things more convoluted for sure, but we’re here at least. Congratulations are in order, King Safir.” She dipped her head, the strand of black hair Safir had delicately tucked behind her ear again falling into her face.

“Looks like I’m back in your employ, your Majesty,” she looked at Caris and scoffed, a wretched equivalent to a laugh. “If you can stand it. I hope you believe me now when I say that Rigases are all drama. Though, in another world…I was a Canaveris.” She faltered, falling into a long, dreamy bout of silence. “But what’s a name, when blood flows thicker? As long as I am a star seer, I am always a Rigas.”

Ari had spotted Sommath on the fringes of the ballroom, close to the exit. Unfortunately for the mild-mannered royal physician, his inconspicuous placement did not spare him the attentions of a few chattering couples, who would have continued railing on about this matter and the other if not for Ari’s polite interference. The couples dispersed, catching their eye on a flurry of activity on the opposite corner of the ballroom and heading over for the promise of excitement.

“Sommath. Good evening.” Ari greeted the older man with a curt but respectful bow. “I would have found you sooner, surely, but I was waylaid by several men, women, and couples, propositioning me for…well, you’ve attended more festivities of this ilk, so I am sure you understand to what ‘propositions’ I am referring.” What Ari failed to mention was that, while he rejected every request, he couldn’t help but feel flattered that he caught their eye. While he was no stranger to baccanals–D’Marians practically perfected the practice–tonight was the first time he weaved through one, instead of standing to the side, forced to spectate but never participate. He’d never do anything so untoward without Nia at his side, but the feeling of inclusion had thrilled him. Vanity, indeed.

“I hope you are well. To be honest, I almost did not attend. I worry for Sylvie, but you’ve provided her with such exemplary care, and Lord Rigas has given me his word he will contact me whenever she awakens from her coma. There is little I can do in the interim, and Nia needed some levity. Not to mention, yes, it would have been uncouth of me if I did not wish the new king of Ilandria my very best. So here I am. Ah, but I digress.” He released a quick puff of air, catching himself before his unmoored tongue continued to palaver on in its bid to recover the past several hours of reticence with gab. “It has been a long couple of days, as well you know. How I am functioning remains a mystery.” 

In league with Sommath, Ari spared a few surreptitious glances around the room. Once they confirmed no Nia in sight, Sommath passed an ornate wood box into Ari’s hands. To please the superstitious in him, who wanted no eyes on his prize lest it curse his chances at a successful proposal, he shielded the box under the folds of his coat and cracked it open. Sure enough, the ring he’d commissioned sat wedged in a cushion of crushed purple velvet, his drawing come to life. Sculpted petals of gold branched around the circumference, little florets beset with twinkling diamonds. The rose cut, as requested, rendered an honest representation of the main centerpiece: the ametrine. Needing little light, it seemed to glow, like a firefly in a thicket of dark forest, beckoning to be cradled in one’s hands. 

A sudden epiphany struck him. They were approaching the winter solstice. And now that Nia could travel freely…

Ari closed the box and slipped it into his inner pocket, guarding it there like the precious thing it was. “It is simply masterful. I will be certain to pay a visit to the jewelers and shower them with coin and my gratitude. This could not have reached me at a better time, when hope felt so unattainable.” Ari turned a sympathetic smile to Sommath, noting the tired lines on the man’s drawn face. The royal physician was not without his share of harrowing days, attending to Sylvie’s dire condition and shirking a good night’s sleep. “I implore you to rest whenever you’re afforded an opportunity, Sommath. But before I give you the chance, there is one last thing I mean to say. And please, don’t take this as an offense.” He sidled closer to Sommath and lowered his voice. “You know what sits in that box, and what I aim to do with it. If Nia agrees to the promise inside this box, I would like for you to be at our ceremony.” His brow lowered with meaning. “As her father.” 

Safir lifted and dropped his shoulders, waxing as nonchalant as he could appear. “Accessories: something I admittedly, and to no surprise for anyone, know very little about. Your beau had taken a liking to some extent of Ilandrian fashion, prior to all of this madness unfolding. As a small thank-you for all the help he has extended to me, I promised to procure a few items to his taste.” And as much as he proved a lousy liar, the King of Blades was at least something of an expert of talking circles around the truth--and steering conversations in other, non-threatening directions with a little gentle manipulation. 

“You do realize you are not a prisoner here, yes? As of today, you stand a free woman” He gestured to the glass doors, where Ilandria still celebrated in warmth and firelight. “Go: enjoy yourself. Don’t feel beholden to putting up with me… I am barely a shell of a human being right now, and I realize as much.”

“Nice try, but if you think I’m going to let you stand outside all by yourself in the bloody cold and brood, then you have really forgotten who I am.” As if acting out of defiance, the Ardane woman looped her arm through Safir’s elbow, and pulled his bewildered form toward the door. “My eyeballs are practically freezing out here, so I know yours are, too. Let’s go.”

Arm-in-arm with Ilandria’s new King, Nia pushed through the balcony doors with her shoulder, sighing in relief at the blast of warmth on her winter-cold cheeks, flushed red. It was then that Safir took the opportunity to ensure she did not wander in search of Ari, and spoil his carefully cultivated surprise too soon. “I do want to find Tivia. And I’d be remiss to so boldly claim I couldn’t do with some help…” Had they still been outside, his heavy sigh would have accumulated in an exaggerated cloud of mist in front of his face. “I can barely weather where I am or what I am doing, let alone find another well-dressed aristocrat among so many in this room.”

He knew Nia would jump at the chance to help: and she did, keeping her eyes open for the elusive star seer, all the while dissuading anyone from approaching Ilandria’s new King by making it appear he was occupied. Just because she was no longer a legal enemy of the nation did not mean the ill-fated sentiments toward her and her ‘kind’ had dwindled since that morning. It would take more than a King’s decree and decriminalization of Master Alchemists to insight such a lasting change in Ilandria’s outlook on the controversial practitioners. Such a social issue might never be reconciled, and even if it was, it remained to be seen whether it would ever occur in her or Safir’s lifetime. But for the moment, at least, it was worth using to her advantage, even if only to help provide her childhood best friend the space he needed to breathe on his first night as King.

After a number of uneventful sweeps around the entire area dedicated to festivities, however, the two of them did begin to wonder if Tivia Rigas had even decided to show. Even if the number of attendees was far lesser than what had been anticipated, it was no less difficult to move through the rooms without unintentionally brushing a few shoulders. “And here I was so confident she’d be inseparable from at least one of the tables bearing wine.” Nia mused, and stood on her toes to look over the shoulders of the guests. “I can’t remember, did we check the one up ahead? Maybe--oh, we might have a lead!”

It wasn’t Tivia who had in fact caught her eye, but rather, someone else whom the Master Alchemist was not surprised to see imbibing on as much wine as his body could tolerate. 

“Hadwin! You look… exactly as I’d expected.” Nia clapped the faoladh on his shoulder and sported a cheeky grin. “You don’t happen to have seen…”

Had she noticed exactly whom Hadwin was currently keeping as company… Nia might well have reconsidered and steered in the other direction. Alas, it was already too late, and Jenikah Elisaron had taken note of both of them. Safir had officially run out of excuses to turn away without shedding light on the fact that he wanted nothing to do with the noblewoman with ironclad persistence to one day catch his eye. All he could do was try not to deflate quite so visibly. “...Miss Elisaron.” He sighed quietly, struggling not to sound as dejected as he felt--and probably looked. “I…”

“Safir… Your Majesty. Please.” The councilman’s daughter held up her hand, imploring the King to stop and allow her to speak. There was something different about her eager, youthful face. A look of soft defeat that he could not quite place. “I realize verbosity is my vice… but if you’d let me speak just now, I promise I’ll be brief.” Lowering her hand, Jenikah then clasped both of them together and hung them below her waist; a stance of apology if ever there was one.

“There is no splitting hairs over the fact that I… have been vying for your attention. For a long, long time, and you’ve shown me nothing but patience and decorum without outright shutting the door in my face--which would be entirely within your right, especially considering you are engaged. But today, it became clear to might just how much you have been shouldering, without letting onto any such devastating burdens, and suffice it to say, seeing you in this new light…”

She trailed off upon noticing that Safir’s gaze had strayed somewhere over her shoulder, having become entirely fixated on something off in the distance. Upon following his gaze, it became evident what had captivated his attention: or rather, whom. Without a word, the King of Blades set off according to his line of sight, pushing past shoulders as if they were environmental obstacles, and not attached to actual people attending the celebration. With a shared look of alarm, Nia, Hadwin, and even Jenikah followed him, all the way to a particularly perverse corner of the room, where Ilandria’s new King located the very person he’d set out to find. 

For a beat, he only stood there in silence and abject horror at what the star seer was--seemingly--consenting to. No one seemed to notice his presence until he opened his mouth to speak a single word, that carried with it all the power he now held: “Enough.”

That was when the growing line-up realized exactly who was in their presence, and subsequently dispersed, much like rats scurrying away after being caught red-handed with food by the cooks in the kitchen. Suffice it to say, the activity surrounding Tivia stopped, including that of the man doing deliberate harm to her body, as if she were some object to be used and discarded. As if he had any hope of proclaiming innocence, he sputtered; “I-It’s in the spirit of the occasion, Your Majesty, is it not?” He released Tivia, and shuffled a few feet away from her, as if to put distance between himself and his own heinous acts. “She said herself that I could… S-she consented…!”

“Do you lack proficiency with the Common Tongue? Shall I rephrase in our native language?” Safir’s eyes were sharper than the steel of his sword as he repeated himself in perfect, audible Ilandrian: “I said, enough.”

“Who would dare have the gall to question their newly reigning monarch on the very eve of his coronation? And as a guest in his own home, at that?”

The comment that followed indeed belonged to a young, blonde king, but it rang louder than Safir’s, and with a far haughtier edge. Sidling up beside the Ilandrian King, Caris Sorde--bearing his own, notable circlet, in the event he wasn’t recognized--locked his own piercing gaze on the accused, arms folded, and standing with all the power and responsibility that should have been too heavy for his young shoulders. And yet, he seemed to wield it all with unnerving ease. “You should kiss the ground upon which you crawl, scum. For Eyraille would enforce far more dire consequences than you’ll find here, for taking advantage of your very King’s grace.”

With two young (albeit powerful) blonde kings standing before him, one wielding the sharp, piercing chill of Ilandria’s judgment, and the other threatening the weight of Eyraille’s infamous wrath, the accused man in question needed no more reason to realize any further argument would land him over his head in treacherous waters. The candle and blade were hastily discarded, and with a string of stagnant, unintelligible apologies, he fastened his trousers and hurried away with all the shame of a tried criminal., leaving Tivia burned and bleeding on the floor.

“What’s your problem? There’s nothing to see here; food and wine is that way!” Safir needn’t ask for assistance in dispersing the onlookers and their perverse interest in watching a woman burn and bleed. Nia, with a voice that was impossible to ignore, was on top of it in a moment, pushing on those who resisted and ushering them away. “Keep moving, keep moving!” With a glance and nod of the head, she gestured to Hadwin to help, leaving the King of Ilandria and the King of Eyraille to pick up the pieces of the broken and disgraced star seer.

No words were exchanged between them, as Safir knelt to lift Tivia into his arms, and Caris remained close behind him, like a vicious animal ready to strike at anyone foolish enough to try and insert themselves in royal business. Trusting Nia to keep guests occupied and focused on other things, the King of Ilandria took leave of the celebration venue entirely, and found an empty sitting room, where he set the star seer gently down upon one of the sofas. Meanwhile, the King of Eyraille closed the door, and proceeded to retrieve a decanter of water from the other end of the room.

“You don’t have to explain; I know why you did it. I just don’t understand… why go to those lengths, Tivia?” Of course, the Ilandrian King didn’t really expect her to respond; he didn’t require an answer, and she did not owe him one. The rhetorical question only served to platform the raw concern in his voice, along with the bewilderment and sadness of how and why it had all come to pass. Part of him felt mildly responsible, even though he couldn’t place how, or why.

“So I take it that what I witnessed wasn’t exactly the acceptable extent of rule-breaking at a coronation celebration, King Safir?” Unprompted, Caris handed him the water and a clean handkerchief, to staunch the seer’s superficial wounds and cool her burns, which the King of Blades proceeded to do. “You did the right thing: establish firm boundaries. They were about to walk all over you, so good that you squashed their egos before they could make a full mockery of your own party.”

“How long have you been here, Caris? I didn’t even realize you’d arrived… or planned to attend.”

The younger king snorted, and proceeded to unbutton his striking green doublet. “All too long, and yet not long enough, it seems. It was you who was all the talk of Eyraille these past few days, and yet when I arrive, it is none other than Tivia stealing the spotlight.” With the garment loosened and free of his shoulders, he offered it to Tivia for modesty, in light of her gown that was torn beyond repair. “Congratulations by the way, King Safir. Whatever drama was brewing behind the scenes, I, for one, never doubted it would be you upon the throne.”

“I never thought I’d wish for a fragment of your hubris, Caris. But… thank you. For your vote of confidence, and for showing up at all.” Out of respect, both Kings purposely kept the star seer only in the periphery of their vision, until Safir moved from the sofa where Tivia sat to instead kneel in front of her. “And you…” His fingers were still chilled from his brief foray outside as he took her hands in his. “I was looking for you to thank you… and it appears I found you too late. You were right; everything came to pass, just as you said it would, and now the only threat to Ilandria is that of Mollengard. So, tell me what you’d like me to do for you.”

A gentle hand extended to tuck her hair behind one of her pointed ears; a gesture that felt helpless, on Safir’s part, however much he wanted it to be comforting. “I can take you to your room. I can call on Sommath to lend you medical aid, or leave you to your privacy. Or if you’d simply like me to lend an ear, I can tell this smarmy little entitled Eyraillian to get lost, and respect your secrecy.”

“Little? Come off it; I am nearly your height! And, you are just as entitled.” Caris could have chosen to be truly offended; instead, he rose to Safir’s light-hearted attempt at humour. Just one of the many signs that depicted his own growth as a king, since Tivia had first met him. “Besides, after all of the times you’ve so expertly sliced me head to toe to knock me down a few pegs while sparring, she’s practically seen me naked to reverse all the damage you dealt. We can safely consider all ‘secrecy’ out the window, between us.” The King of Eyraille grinned and straightened the collar of his pristine white tunic. “And to think, people point at the Sordes for the drama we stir… I think it’s safe to say we hardly compare to the Rigases and Vallaincourts.”

By some merciful grace, Sommath was in the right place at the right time to have been spared to the scene that had prompted not one, but two kings to say a firm ‘no’ to what was taking place. The royal physician hadn’t even had a chance to speak with Safir that evening; the new King had been whisked about, tending to this and that and being called on for anything and everything since he’d donned the crown that very morning. By the time he was free to talk, it was impossible to reach him in the crowd, and Sommath himself had taken his own share of questions and comments the moment festivities had begun…

Needless to say, it was nothing short of relief when none other than Aristide Canaveris approached, giving him a reason to excuse himself from a trite conversation with a noble family who was more about show than dedication to their crown and kingdom… “Lord Canaveris. I’m beyond thrilled you found yourself able to attend.” Smile lines and crows’ feet replaced his previous drawn look of exhaustion as he greeted the D’Marian aristocrat. “Regrettably, I haven’t seen His Majesty Safir since this morning… But I got word of Nia’s arrest warrant. Dissolved, null, and void: a blessing that the both of you can freely traverse Ilandria without fear of persecution. Though I have a feeling that isn’t what you’ve come to speak with me about.”

To find Ari without Nia suggested that the Master Alchemist wasn’t nearby; he’d purposefully come without her. And there was only one reason the earth mage would have sought him out alone. Sommath briefly scanned the crowd to ensure the Ardane woman wasn’t simply hiding in plain sight, before he retrieved a small, polished wooden box half the size of his palm from inside his waistcoat. “Our King sent word instructing me to collect this for you from the jeweler. I haven’t looked, myself, but he seemed quite proud of his work, and was reassured that you would be pleased.” He placed the box in Ari’s hands, with a smile that suggested he truly couldn’t confirm its contents, but having been instructed to deliver it to Ari in private, he was confident that he could guess.

“After all that has come to pass… Thank you for being here for Safir today.” He added with an air of deep gratitude. “I know his allies and friends mean the world to him right now. He is lucky to have found a friend in you, as much as he is to have reconnected with Nia.”

“Oh, you’ve given her quite the run-around,” Hadwin said, still ignoring the dandelion spore that trailed the baby monarch, her restrained and ethereal float among the crowd too performative for subtlety. “ You’re a rabbit diving for the hutch before the fox can spring. Let me tell you, there’s hardly a scarier combination than a young, impressionable noblelady with her eye on something. Or someone. Even worse when the word ‘no’ isn’t in her vocabulary.” He thought of sweet Sylvie at the masquerade, the tassels of her bandit mask flapping in the late summer breeze. The ill match of his lips on hers, the tenuous twist and snap of his senses, brittle like a twig underfoot. Rowen, in the crowd, tittering, her mouth opening to reveal reams of blood and broken shards. 

Unlike Safir, who voluntarily rejected the libations on the table, Hadwin swept up a goblet of wine and took a steady swig. He drowned the memory. Tapping his foot, he checked for sturdy ground and found the marble tiling firm. No fissures in the fabric of reality. No other worlds to pry his fingers in search for her, wherever her spirit flitted. I am the bridge, he reminded himself. The anchor. If I drift too far from shore, I can’t reel her home. 

He breathed. Counted his breaths. Focused on the twang of the strings, the clink of glasses. The ebullient laughter of a couple about to shag in the corner. Desire wafted into his nostrils from all four corners. Reality incarnate–the carnal didn’t breed in cobwebs, in the stale and undisturbed. He found his footing, or some fool’s approximation of it. C’mon, you can’t fall apart at another bloody party! Especially not this kind of party!

“C’mon, it’s your big night,” he said, oozing self-assurance. Leave it to him to smooth over an inner crisis with a smile and a head toss. “If you want to kick back a few drinks and let loose with an alluring beau or two, no one’s gonna blink twice. I saw our good mate Nia traipsing about earlier, so if she’s off the hook–no thanks to you, I’m sure,” he nudged the king gratefully, “then why don’t you take a page from her book and act like you own the place? Which–well, you do. I hate to dampen your spirits any, but your days of public-eye evasion are for the grave, I’m afraid. Mourn the loss and move on. Don’t you think you’ve been standing in the cemetery for way too long?” He met the king’s glassy green eyes, and nodded at what he saw in them–and there was no place for him. He removed his arm and stepped away at a respectful distance. “But I know when I’m not needed.” He tried not to snort in his drink when Safir took him up on his offer. The wrong offer. The offer he threw out there as a half-joke, and hoped the king wouldn’t accept as a viable option.

“Charmer?” He raised an amused eyebrow for the generous euphemism. “Well, I must be doing a shit job of it cuz I can’t charm you.” He winked, then cast a furtive glance at the shadow in frills and lace. She looked like a tick about to pop. All enthusiasm for the night ahead withered like an old man’s balls. The Eliasron stalker stank of desperation and desire–two other traits that often grasped hands in partnership. Hadwin knew what kind of evening awaited him. The stirrings of a headache formed in his temples. “Fuck. I would say you owe me, but consider this a coronation gift. In the interest of honesty–I hate this. I’ll be expecting something for the burns later. Wish me luck.” And despite the grating sensation behind his eyes, he left Safir’s company and entered the spoiled noblelady’s orbit, his grin a mile wide. 

No sooner did Hadwin exit than Nia, accompanied by Ari, join the exposed and paranoid Ilandrian king on the floor. For the occasion, Ari wore a peacock-blue frockcoat with aquamarine drop earrings and blue kohl rimming his outer eyelids. His hair remained loose and unbound, but combed to a sheen. While he much resembled the put-together Lord of Stella D’Mare, he shared less in common with the gamboling noblemen who chased their heart’s desire on the dance floor, and more like his petrified friend, who seemed in the midst of a curse-laden flare-up. 

For Ari, the last few days had been a panoply of highs and lows. Nico’s disappearance, Sylvie’s illness, Nia’s arrest, a last-chance coronation, his vacillating health—but also; Safir crowned king, Nia’s acquittal, a kingdom united, in essence. The whirlwind of events had stymied Ari to the point of speechlessness. Following the frosty-venued coronation, he returned to the palace and rounded the corner on a curious tableau. Nia stood outside their door, the guards unshackling her restraints. The Ardane woman’s warrant is hereby disbanded, by order of the king, the guard explained when Ari inquired. He was so verklempt that he could only hold her in a tight embrace, words failing. Ari’s second great gift aside from his art–and the stressors and rigors of life had stripped that from him, too. 

In a surprising reversal, Ari had no desire to attend the evening’s festivities but rallied to the occasion out of deep respect for Safir, who risked his newly appointed position to free Nia as his first decree as king. When they happened upon the man of the hour, who looked much like a colorless statue in a field of whirling flags, Ari wanted to convey those feelings with the appropriate eye contact, but he demurred to Nia, happy to let her do all the talking.

They took their conversation to the balcony, and the change of venue garnered little reaction in Ari, a testament to the numbness that afflicted his body like a killing frost, which blackened limbs and left them at the mercy of a bonesaw. Despite living several winters outside of temperate Stella D’Mare, Ari was a southerner by blood, and any winter blast from the north wind would chill him to a mess of shivers if not properly attired. But even when the frigid gusts whipped through Ari’s hair and lashed his coattails around his ankles, he didn’t wrap his arms around his chest for warmth, or retreat to the overhang nearest the door. He stayed, anchored between Nia and Safir, a plaything for the wind, and passively listened as the two discussed what it meant to rule Ilandria. He agreed with Nia, of course, but even if he could find the means to manipulate words around his tongue, the raw message she conveyed would lose some of its punch and flavor in his eloquent, euphemistic parlance. 

The Canaverises believed that self-pity was a wasted emotion. It spurned good sense and insulted the beneficence of elders and friends. A selfish sentiment, it did not serve or rectify; it only gave further definition to the bleak. Yet, wasn’t that what Ari had invited into his soul? A turgid pool of shame? His well-deserving friend had been crowned king. Nia no longer had to fear retribution from her home county. Sylvie would recover. As for Nico and Laz? Laz couldn’t die, and Nico…was resilient. And Ari would find him.

He almost didn’t hear when the conversation shifted to him. “Pardon?” He asked Safir, not quite understanding–until he did. How had he forgotten that one, essential detail? Somewhere in the mire, he abandoned the glint of light in the bottom of the lake, and ceased looking for hope when survival became paramount. How many days had he spent riding in the frozen muck outside of Galeyn, suffering sores in his soles and thighs on a horse he scarcely knew how to steer? How many days in a row did he stop thinking about the promise he looked to immortalize in gold and crystal? What happened to the color? 

“Ah–is that so?” Ari adopted his most casual tone, as if the matter involved a new set of tailored clothes and nothing that would trigger Nia’s suspicions. “Well, I shall have to remove Sommath of the burden sooner than later. If you’d excuse my brief departure—you will be well, in the meantime?” He bowed before Safir–both as a polite gesture of his withdrawal and a delayed congratulations. Ari was doing everything out of order tonight, but better to have a little disarray than ongoing silence. Gratitude for Safir’s unintentional morale boost returned a measure of garrulousness to his flitting tongue, and he finally ladled its dose upon its recipient. “I meant to add–you shall always have a seat at my table, King Safir.” He smiled at the new appellation. It suited him, even if Safir didn’t believe so. “For what you have done for Nia. That small act alone tells me that you are far more deserving of the throne than you believe. It proves you are a man of your word–a nobility that exceeds many of our contemporaries, who spin flowery promises for clout and abandon their conviction at the first sign of adversity. Forgive me for in the past I have doubted your words, and led you astray with my D’Marian sensibilities. We lead with theatrics, with poetical politicking –and I misled you to play a game when the real game was no game at all, but a bid for honesty, which you demonstrated with grace–however clumsy in the execution,” his lips curled slightly, unable to help himself for the jab. “I may also owe Lady Tivia an apology. She wanted you to lead without artifice–and I would have instructed you to build a false idol. In the end, all idols crack. I did, and my people watched the mythology I built crumble to pieces. We are not gods, but men. You know this better than most–and this is why you have my trust.” 

Ari straightened from his bow, removing the tendrils of hair that blew across his face. “I shall return. Vanity calls. If I see Lady Tivia in my sojourns, I will instruct her to you. Look after him, Nia.” He gently brushed her arm on his way to the doors. “Next time, let us not meet somewhere that is so blisteringly cold. My aching joints would thank you.” And with renewed hope, Ari plunged indoors in search of Sommath—and the possibility of an imminent proposal.

If Nia and Safir were to return to the ballroom, they would have trouble locating Tivia. Even if they recruited Hadwin, he would also find it difficult to track the elusive star seer, remarking that she didn’t carry a scent, or even a presence, as if she didn’t exist within the parameters of this plane of existence. If they searched by visual cues, they would not succeed, but only if what they were looking for was a woman with blonde hair and a burn-scarred face.

What they did find was…disconcerting. A woman in a dress uncorseted so haphazardly, its red lace strings were gouged out like innards. Without upper bodice support, the straps sagged and slid off her exposed shoulders, threatening to pop her breasts into view. Hair unbound, it fell almost to her waist in viscous spills like black molasses. It spooled over one side of her face, an incomplete human, scrubbed in obliterating shadow. The other half, tilted to the light, had set her lips upon another woman, and the two sucked at each other like they wanted to snuff the other’s life-breath out for good. A man sat behind the two women. Far from a passive observer, he gripped a dagger and scored it across the exposed back of the black-haired woman, leaving jagged welts of blood in its wake. The wound looked careless, a little too violent. She exclaimed, a grunt of effort—or pain—but it muffled against her inamorata’s lips, a choked sound. She arched her back, and in the sudden shift, a curtain of her hair parted, revealing the telltale pointed ears of a Rigas. 

In the man’s other hand, he held a lit candle. Admiring his blood-portrait, he moved in, and branded her exposed flesh with the tongue of flame. The woman whimpered and thrashed, her visible eye snapping open in terror. The man held a fistful of her hair in place to make sure she’d stay put. A perfume of cooking meat filled the air.

Safir and Nia would notice that a small queue formed beside the table that the trio had commandeered for their perverse sexual display. They would also hear a curious bystander ask a member of the queue why people were lining up, and the matter-of-fact answer he received. “That sick bitch over there says we can take turns doing whatever we want to her. And I mean,” his eyebrows raised with emphasis, “anything.”

The bystander, curiosity piqued, stepped into the queue. He squinted at the woman, catching a glimpse of the warped half of lip and the burn-ravaged flesh beneath the tangles of her faded ink hair. “Say, isn’t that—”  He smartly shut his mouth when he saw Safir approach.

Had this gone as planned, had the fiasco Jahnst had created never come to fruition, and Ilandria chosen him days before, this ceremony (if you could even call it that, at this point) would have taken place that evening. Dressed in full royal regalia, the palace’s throne room would have been filled to the brim with witnesses, and those who couldn’t fit inside would have awaited their king’s presence when he stepped into the fresh air to acknowledge them after the fact. He’d have knelt upon a waiting cushion, recited his vows, accepted the crown, and then sat upon his father’s throne in completion of the ritual. Instead, he endured numb lips, near-frostbitten fingertips, and the bite of white-hot ice against his knees. 

Additionally, the celebration that followed would have spanned the entirety of the following day, touching various locations throughout the kingdom. But those plans had long since gone out the window, and a kingdom that only understood function through protocol was suddenly beside itself with the task of postponing and rescheduling a highly-anticipated event that had never been postponed in its long history. Primarily, this meant significantly less food, as that which had been prepared was no longer fit to be consumed, but what remained of food and festivities all ended up taking place in the palace’s ballroom. 

Despite the whiplash preparations and execution of the event (not to mention the notably smaller number of attendees than what had been initially anticipated), those in attendance appeared to be in passably good spirits. A fair number of them even honoured the tradition of completely letting loose in the absence of consequences, with excessively imbibing on Ilandrian wine, performing public displays of affection, and otherwise making the most of a celebration that most Ilandrians would only experience once in their lifetime. Certainly, this was not the only event where the well-disciplined nation was permitted to let its hair down, so to speak, but none had ever compared to the crowning of a new monarch.

To anyone who had never witnessed nor partaken in this particular Ilandrian celebration, nothing would seem out of sorts. But Safir knew all too well how meaningful the attendance (or lack thereof) truly was: not just a result of a simplified party, but understanding the sheer number of Ilandrians who had outright chosen not to partake. Not that he blamed them; the new King himself could hardly fathom how, just that morning, he’d been a prisoner in his own chambers, and not twelve hours later, he now stood as the legal reigning figurehead of father’s kingdom.

Everything that had taken place in-between was choppy and undefined in his working memory, save for one task upon which he had insisted. No sooner had the coronation concluded that Safir made good on a promise as his very first act as Ilandria’s King. Before official witnesses, he saw to it that the arrest warrant for one Anetania Ardane was permanently destroyed, thusly freeing her from any threat or constraints of Ilandrian law. Moments later, she was freed from the room to which she had been confined, both to the palpable relief of Ari and Sommath. It was by this act that she learned of the kingdom’s final decision regarding the Prince of Blades, against all odds, and it was not one she would forget anytime soon.

Safir had already shouldered numerous regrets in his lifetime--but this was not one of them. It did not atone for his complicity in standing by while Ilandria committed its most unforgivable crime against its Master Alchemists, nor for going along with the status quo of his father’s lead for as long as he had. But the King of Blades knew that freeing Nia from the threat of persecution was something he would never regret. Small an act as it was, it was his--and his kingdom’s--first step in the right direction.

He wouldn’t see Nia (or any of his friends and allies, for that matter) until much later that evening, amidst the ballroom festivities. Safir had never been so grateful to find the majority of attendees too engrossed in their own affairs to pay much heed to the pale, whiplashed new king standing off to the side, looking as positively bewildered as he felt. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since that morning; he could scarcely remember donning the forest green doublet and matching emerald earrings that Ari had once suggested as a suitable ensemble for public events. He couldn’t recall leaving his room or even making his way down to the ballroom, nor when the festivities had officially begun or how long he’d been standing among them. Too many sleepless nights, neglect of adequate nutrition, and the speed at which the series of events had unfolded these past two days had left the Ilandrian King in a state that was worryingly akin to shock.

Everything sounded like white noise, indistinguishable and pushed to the background: the conversations, the string quartet, and for a moment, even Hadwin’s voice, until the faoladh came into eyeshot. “Hadwin.” Safir’s own voice sounded foreign in his ears; he hadn’t spoken even once since festivities had commenced. It was perhaps the first time he’d returned to being truly rooted in reality since that morning. “Glad you saw fit to attend. Do send my regards to the Sordes; whatever the nature of their support, I hope they know how much it is appreciated.”

Truly, Safir was all too aware that he hadn’t the slightest grasp of all the help he’d received behind the scenes---and not only from known and trusted allies. Even if their reasons had never been directly in support of him, the scorned Master Alchemists had been key in standing against Jahnst, ultimately making him the best choice for the throne by default. Tivia was right: he had never truly been alone in this, and it had been foolish and juvenile for him to assume as much.

“I haven’t heard word from King Caris, although given his impulsivity… it’s probably best that Vega keep her distance, just in case. And, ah… thank you for the belated vote of confidence.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about those he held closest and most dear bearing witness to the way he’d laid himself so painfully bare before Ilandria. Standing completely naked at the center of the amphitheater would have frankly left him feeling less vulnerable; but what mattered was that, somehow, it had all worked out in his favour.

Before he could politely decline Hadwin’s suggestion to leave his quiet corner of shadow, the faoladh’s arm was around his shoulder, and he was leading him away from the comfort of the forgotten corner. “What do you…” That was when he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision: Jenikah. The young woman who positively refused rejection and, even on the heels of his less-than-inspiring speech, still seemed foolishly hopeful. “I suppose there are some dreams people refuse to let go of, no matter how impossible…” He sighed quietly, and pointedly avoided making eye-contact with the councilman’s daughter. “I almost admire her for it.”

Passing by a table serving a variety of premium-aged Ilandrian wines, the new King very nearly felt the urge to reach for a goblet (or several). Of all the unhinged suggestions he might have expected Hadwin to propose… that most certainly was not one of them. “You know--in the spirit of utmost honesty, since that seems to be the only thing I’m capable of… I’d need to be under the influence of several tall glasses of wine to so much as entertain the prospect.” It wasn’t a dig at Hadwin, and as someone who was privy to everyone’s fears and insecurities, that much should have been fairly evident--if Safir’s palpable aura of unease wasn’t already enough.

“Never in all my life have I wanted to be out of the public eye, as I do right now, at this moment. I hardly remember getting here; and I don’t know how I’m managing to hold it together. So as much as I appreciate your well-timed offer…” His verdant eyes scanned the crowd, as if looking for an escape route. With his luck, he wouldn’t make it halfway across the floor before getting flagged down by someone’s ‘congratulations’, sincere or otherwise. “...it isn’t what I need, right now. I don’t even know what it is I need, but if I did, I doubt it would be within anyone’s power to help me.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Beneath his well-dressed attire in emerald and forest green, and the crown upon his brow that commanded authority, Safir seemed to be holding it together by willpower alone. Stuck in fight-or-flight for so long, and fueled by adrenaline alone, he was lucky to remember who he was and what he was supposed to be doing--but that was where it began and ended. One more “surprise” might well do him in and cause him to come apart completely. Just as easily as Ilandria’s faith in their prospects of what constituted “truth” and “justice”...

“Here I was hoping my abysmal fall from grace as a result of my actions would put Lady Elisaron off of fancying me for good. You’ve got a reputation as a… charmer, don’t you?” Perhaps that wasn’t the exact word to use to describe the faoladh’s tendencies, but it was the most polite. “If you don’t mind leading her off in another direction… That won’t be the answer to my problems. But it most certainly would help.”

“Safir!”

The now-King of Blades almost didn’t turn around--and in fact, prepared to flee--primed as he was in his hyper-awareness of Jenikah Elisaron’s proximity. But the woman who ultimately forced her way into his line of sight wasn’t the strawberry-blonde council’s daughter. Accompanied by the familiar earth mage, Nia--far more well-dressed and brighter than the last time he’d seen her--fixed Safir with a blatant look of concern. “You look like shit; the fancy clothes aren’t fooling anyone.”

Safir’s reaction wasn’t immediate. Her words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, they resulted in a sharp laugh. Not exactly jovial, but it was the closest the King had come to smiling in days. “I’m Ilandrian; ‘fooling’ isn’t my strong suit.” He looked about to say more, but decided against it at the last minute. Out of small talk, and any other words he’d typically lean on to fill the silence. Fortunately, he was in the company of several people who talked quite a bit, so it didn’t matter.

“We received word this morning about the warrant for my arrest… you dissolved it. So fast.” On any other occasion, the once-Ilandrian-fugitive wouldn’t have dared to be seen in the presence of her best friend, let alone put her hands on him. On this occasion, however, anything went; including pulling the newly-crowned King into a hug that not even he could escape. Perhaps he’d grown curiously weak in the days spent languishing alone in his room; or else he’d never taken the time to appreciate the strength in those notably smaller arms. “I’m being petty: this hardly compares to more serious, looming threats… but to be able to openly walk around my home again means more to me than I can begin to describe. I don’t have to hide anymore. Not from my own people, anyway. And… after all of this, I don’t even know how to thank you.”

Through the thick fog clouding his mind, the King of Blades was slow to process her words, and even slower to react. Not because he felt nothing, or that he didn’t know how to feel; on the contrary, he felt too much, and feared that feeling even more would be the catalyst to crumbling into pieces, right in front of everyone, without the means of putting himself back together. He wouldn’t be so lucky as Tivia, whose brief meltdown collapsing as she had in the market square was largely inconsequential to the crowd. Nia must have understood, or otherwise detected the stark imbalance of homeostasis through touch. Instead of puzzling over her friend’s lack of response, she exchanged a glance with Ari, and took Safir by the arm. “How do you even breathe with so many people packed into a room? C’mon, we could all use some fresh air.”

Led by the arm, Safir put up no resistance as his childhood friend, accompanied by her soon-to-be fiance, guided him toward the ornate glass doors leading to a vast balcony. The brisk winter air whipped his braid against his neck and stung his eyes, but the sudden shock of cold chased some of the fog from his mind, enough to ground him within his surroundings. “This is stupid. Everything going on inside… pointless. Ridiculous.” Varied emotions--anger, despair, hopelessness--fought for dominance in his features as he gestured vaguely to the room he’d just left. 

“This isn’t a celebration. No one in there is celebrating; they’re chasing fear and uncertainty with wine and rich food. They aren’t even sure what they stand for anymore, because the man they have sat upon that throne isn’t their chosen leader. He is there only by default…” The new king looked away from the revelry and toward the dark expanse of the kingdom, as the indigo blanket of evening rapidly unfolded on the horizon. “Because there was no other option… and Ilandria does not know how to function without some semblance of a figurehead. Without trust in policy, and the people to represent it, this kingdom is… broken.”

“You’d better cut that crap, lest you start believing it, Safir.” Gone was Nia’s infectious smile, replaced with what looked like cold fury. “More than just Ilandria is riding on your ability to keep your shit together. You made some bold promises to your people, and probably spoke more truth than they’ve actually heard in their entire lives. Because you’re an absolute shit liar--and you wouldn’t have said any of that, if you didn’t actually believe it.” Her grip on his arm tightened, and the Master Alchemist leaned in. “And those people wouldn’t have you here if they didn’t believe in you. You know it; so just because a few people with too much power turned out to be self-serving, conniving bastards, don’t shit on the people who put that crown on your head, and cut the fucking pity party, alright? Give up on yourself now, and we are all fucked.”

To someone softer, her words might have rung harsh. But there was nothing truly “soft” about Ilandria, and in the silence that followed, Nia’s honesty struck him--perhaps in the same way that his honesty had struck all of Ilandria. Not enough to offset feeling his victory had been rather bitterly secured, but it did clear the thick fog from some of his thoughts. However much Nia Ardane’s mannerisms differed from that of a typical Ilandrian, she was still very much capable of sound reason when the moment called for it.

A ghost of a smile played on Safir’s lips. The cold had caught up to him, bringing out colour in his cheeks for the first time all evening. At least he was starting to look more put-together than he felt. “Never thought you would end up being a voice of reason. More than ten years away from home hasn’t taken the Ilandrian out of you… thank you.” A sigh manifested in a cloud in front of his lips. “I believe it is what you believe. And I truly hope you are right. I can’t thank you both enough for… everything, really. Had I faced this alone, it would have led to a far bigger and more irreparable disaster than being an undeserving king…”

His words trailed off and eyes shifted to Ari as something else seemed to come to mind. “Ah--Ari. Before I forget: the two items you recently inquired about? Evidently they have been finished for a few days now, but alas, I only received word today of their completion. I sent Sommath to fetch them for you, so you may collect them from him at your earliest convenience.” While Nia would clearly have no idea as to what he was referring to, Safir hoped he was clear enough that his reference to the engagement rings Ari had commissioned did not fall short of the earth mage’s understanding. “And… has either of you seen Tivia this evening? I believe… no, I know I owe her an apology.”

The door to the study opened wide for them both and he walked without invitation to the usual seat he often occupied when meeting with Gregoray himself. However, he did not sit. While the Terril might poke the bear from time to time with less than subtle jabs, he was no fool. He knew where all the power resided in this room. He knew that without so much as an explanation that the other male in the room could end his life, seize his assets, destitute his sister, and imprison his fiancé. And he knew that this office was chosen with purpose, not just because the High Commander had been pulled away.

The next High Commander, indeed.

“How can I be of assistance?” He asked, rounding dark eyes on the sandy-haired man. Lawrence examined him then, more fully, evaluating his posture, beard, face. Everything about him was perfectly assembled. The little that Madison had told him about her time with (supposedly) this man before him, did not align with what he saw now. What he knew of his fiancé, as irregular as she was compared to the rest of polite society, would not fit together with the Commander.

---

The halls of Wymberly were warm, and she could smell wood fires in various rooms – the sweet scents of local trees burning to ash in the hearths. At first, she could not shake herself from the storm that had raged in Remy’s eyes – so familiar to the tempests that had roared to life on the road together. But the dazzling sun that was Quinnley Belvedere soon drew her to her present situation.

“Magnolia, please, General. Despite my months with the Terrils such formality grates against my skin.” Elora had walked her through how to hopefully set the military man beside her at ease, even if she didn’t have much expertise in the matter. She could not fail to notice the jab at Lawrence, and it made her laugh before she could stop herself. It was a quick bark of a thing, even as it was genuine and sweet.

He likes beautiful things, the Executioner, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty in that department. But be careful. For years he frequented Catherine’s and even the most seasoned harlots would render their services free of charge to spend a night with him.

“And what evidence do you have with the prowess of other men, General?” Crystalline blue eyes captured his, one brow raised in challenge even if her features remained as innocent as a babe’s. “Not all commoners are the same. As I assume not all Generals are of the same stock. Or are your interactions with those of lesser station so limited?” Bold, Madison, reign it in. You’re here to do reconnaissance, not stoke the ire of a mass murderer.

“It is grand indeed.” She admitted after a momentary pause, “And the honor of such an opportunity is not lost on me,” even if it entirely was (Madison did not understand the hype of walking around an old building), “but between the two of us…” she motioned a hand to the space around them. “Is a house not a house?” She leaned slightly to catch a glimpse of the cracked door of the room nearest to them. It appeared to be a small meeting space. “What makes Wymberly any different from The Davenport?”

No, not his. No matter how much time passed, no matter how often he reminded himself that their connection was forever severed, he couldn’t quite accept that she belonged to another. But even that felt wrong. Madison Gallow had never belonged to anyone but herself. Remy had considered it an honor to be chosen by her, and a privilege. Lawrence Terril could never understand that, could never feel what Remy felt for her. How could a Terril understand what it was like to survive the mountain Cold? To carry all his belongings on his back? To freeze and starve and fight the elements every moment of every day?

It took all of the doctor’s mental fortitude not to react to Lawrence’s crass commentary. His stomach turned at the nickname—Maggie—and worse, he felt the deep burn of anger kindle a flame behind his ribs. His gray eyes snagged on the ring she wore on her left hand, the biggest ruby he’d ever seen; blood red, ostentatious, catching the light like a wound. A wound he wanted to stitch up and bury beneath gauze. Her crimson dress did little to disguise it, nor did it disguise her lean frame or strong bare shoulders. He allowed his gaze to linger, snagging on the ring once more, then flicker up to meet hers. And he smiled. A warm smile, perfectly convincing, perfectly polite. But his eyes remained stormy.

“Yes, Mr. Terril, let’s proceed,” he agreed. “Our business is time sensitive. And I would hate to keep you from your prize.” He glanced once more to Madison, then turned back to Lawrence. “My father appears not to be using his study. Let’s convene there.”

“And let us convene as far from there as possible, Miss Sterling,” Quinn quipped, flashing a dazzling smile at Madison. He offered his arm to her, tossing a suggestive wink to Lawrence as the two other men headed for the study. If he noticed the bite to her words—and he certainly did—he made no show of it. Rather, he planned to embrace it if he could. This mystery woman had been the talk of the upper social echelons since her unexpected debut all those months ago. Remy had been disappointingly tight-lipped about the exact nature of his connection to her, but Quinn was nothing if not a bloodhound. This was not an opportunity to be squandered. “Let’s start to the east, shall we.”

The general led the Sterling woman slowly down the corridor, their feet light on the marble tiles as they strolled together. The sprawling Walther residence was more estate than mansion, more fortress than manor. Quinn may have grown up at Avondale, but he and his twin sister Maria had spent plenty of time within these gilded walls during their childhoods. He knew its layout as well as anyone outside the Walther family, knew where its meeting rooms ended and its quarters began, knew the preferred routes for guests as well as the maze of servants’ corridors. It was part of his job as a high-ranking militia officer. And it certainly came in handy as the formerly-highest-ranking operative for Clover.

“Tell me, Miss Sterling,” the general drawled, his voice all genuine charm and curiosity. “What sort of commoner are you that you would consider a visit to Wymberly an unwelcome disruption to your day?” A crooked smirk tilted his lips. “Or beyond all evidence to the contrary, is Lawrence Terril’s company just that good?”