[r.] I know you will follow me until kingdom come [18+]

Just as Nia felt undeserving of his unconditional trust, Ari felt the same, but wouldn’t belabor her beliefs by convincing her that she chose the wrong partner. Accepting her hand, he closed his eyes, soothed by the coolness of her touch. While he steadily began to wean off wearing his white gloves, he seldom made physical contact with anyone else. The gesture, he found, was too intimate but for closest friends and family—and for Nia, fundamentally.

When her hand traveled to his cheek, he shivered, but not with pain or from a bout of chills. His body responded to her, always. Regardless of his wishes, through frustration and illness, insecurity and doubt, the layers that separated them felt almost diaphanous when distance between them narrowed, moreso in his fevered state when every subtle shift in temperature wafted on his skin like a temptation.

Could this be why Nia saved his life? Attraction for each other seized their hearts and overwrote reason with desire. In truth, perhaps she would have remained bitten by his betrayal, but the sweet-smelling allure of him, which she exuded in kind—was too irresistible to fight. It was better to give in, to ignore past and possible future transgressions, than resist the other’s magnetism. There is little I would deny you, he yearned to say, but now was not the inopportune time for his impassioned confession. 

He stayed silent and listened as Nia briefly recounted her experience in a world closely mirroring their own but for a few notable details. At the time, seeing a version of himself fully cured by her hands must have been a wonderful dream from which she didn’t wish to wake. Adding to the fantasy, they were engaged, and their to-be union was accepted by the whole of Galeyn and Stella D’Mare, who welcomed her kindly. Osric was alive, and on assumed friendly terms. As a whole, it sounded like Nia was very well dreaming off her drunken stupor, and he would have questioned her account save for Tivia’s brief commentary on the matter and one other glaring detail. In no version of Nia’s perfect world would Hadwin, who Ari presumed had died, be absent. The rambunctious faoladh was a friend, her first in Galeyn. She would want him there, causing a stir—for better or ill.

But how could this happen? One could simply fall asleep in the Night Garden and wake up in an entirely different reality? No wonder why Hadwin was so confused. If others so easily traversed the worlds, he too would question the validity of his current existence.     

Nia’s confession also brought to light a few other curiosities. The dream he had about Isidor as his foster brother felt so realistic, like he lived it somewhere far away and long ago, and yet contemporaneously. Was it true, then? Did the Night Garden reach out to question his understanding of singular, linear time? It would explain why Tivia Rigas grew taller, fuller, and more mature, all in a matter of a few months.

I don’t know if you’ve ever met that Nia…

His eyes snapped open. He had met her. On the night he lost consciousness, before his life-saving operation. He walked with her in the garden on the grounds of the Canaveris villa and, bereft of hope, broke down in tears and emphatically exclaimed how he did not want to die. It was his most raw expression of despair, and the Nia sitting before him did not know of it, because it didn’t happen to her. Learning about it now, he didn’t know how he felt. On one hand, Nia was spared the horrible moments of a loved one experiencing existential terror, paralyzed by the belief he would never awaken. On the other hand, it was a sacred memory, because he spent it with someone he loved, safe in the knowledge that he could fall apart in her company. In that moment, he didn’t need to be strong or put on a brave face. She understood, and let him be broken.  

“Yes, I met her,” he said, his voice so soft, it cracked from lack of proper breath control. “She comforted me. Healed my hands when they turned to solid stone. She took something home with her. Something that may haunt her for all her days, I fear. She does not deserve what I said to her. Returning to her wonderful life embedded by the trauma of watching me die a second time, of hearing my death knells, my last words, echo in her heart: I don’t want to die… No, she is not the Nia I deserve, because I am not the Ari she deserves. We are for each other.” Carefully, he plucked her hand from his cheek like a dainty petal and pressed it to his chest like a precious keepsake. “Listen to my heartbeat, Nia. Does it sound like failure? If this is the result of everything you failed to become, then I am glad for it, because I am still here. No matter how flawed the hands, they are hands of healing. I will forever love to whom they belong.” He lifted the hand from his chest and kissed her knuckles tenderly. “And would forever be devastated if something preventable happened to the one I love. If your path should separate us prematurely, only then would I broach the question of failure. On your part…and on mine.”

It turned out, Nia had more she wanted to confess. Despite his assurances, she felt compelled—or shamed—to tell him everything. The difficulty in revealing what must have tormented her the last several was written across her face, and yet, Ari couldn’t help but crack an amused smile. “Is that all, Nia? The reason for your secrecy? The only purpose with which one would have any need for barrow soil? Ah, let me explain,” he said, noting her bemusement to his cavalier reaction. “Unlike the Rigases, the Canaverises are not required to keep our family line pure by blood. Our ties are to the land. Rightly, our longevity also comes from the land. A Canaveris can choose to marry another Canaveris, or one from the branch families; this is true, although not necessary. Because longevity is not transmitted by blood, a Canaveris birth must be anointed with the soil taken from the Green Barrows, the burial ground of our ancestors. After the ritual, they are blessed with long life. A Canaveris through marriage can achieve longevity this way, as well, although there is a caveat for foreigners not born of Stella D’Mare.” He released her hand and sat back in his chair. “They must never venture from Stella D’Mare, lest they lose the blessing. If we blessed you with barrow soil, Nia, it would mean your fate is forever bound to the land. In theory, anyhow,” he sighed, tucking his loose, fever-slick hair behind his ear. “It seems as though Tivia has found a workaround. Frankly, she should not know of such things—we keep our rituals incredibly private—but at this stage, it no longer surprises me what uncanny secrets the stars scream into her ravaged ears.”

He positioned a thumb and forefinger under his chin, idly scratching his goatee. “I suspected you were pursuing a recipe for longevity. As I’ve said, it would be the only reason—of which I am aware, at least—for acquiring barrow soil. It was why I was furious with you, Nia. I knew what you sought, and yet you kept silent, playing me for a fool, even when its acquisition directly involves me, my family, and my land, and which is in my power to grant. You might see it as fraudulent ignorance on my end, but it is what my anger has wrought. At any rate,” he rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt, exposing his overheated forearms to the cooler air, “I thank you for telling me, but you must realize why I initially reacted with amusement. You are a Canaveris in all but name. All Canaverises receive longevity, conditional as it is for foreigners. The moment we reclaim Stella D’Mare, and we perform the ritual, you will age in tandem with me. However,” he sighed, “therein lies the uncertainty. It might take years, a lifetime, or, frighteningly, never, to reunite with our rightful home. That being said, not all hope is lost. I shall speak with my mother. She is a prudent woman. In anticipation for our exodus, it would not surprise me if she stockpiled a barrel's worth of previously blessed barrow soil and vaulted them away somewhere in the Fallow Islands for safekeeping,'' he gave a slight chuckle. “Failing that avenue…we will just have to reclaim Stella D’Mare, won’t we?”

Scooting over in his armchair, he patted an available spot on the cushion. “Please, there is room for you to sit, Nia. You look dreadfully uncomfortable on the floor, and it hurts my neck to stare downward at the top of your head. Do you fancy yourself a dog? Are you looking to emulate your wolf-friend? Well, if you insist on this roleplay, I consign you as lapdog.” When Nia hesitated to accept his invitation, Ari shook his head, exasperated. “I will forgive you, Nia—so long as you do not underestimate my capabilities again, and you listen to Somath’s advice, never straying from his regimen until he deems it safe. Understood? And…yes, it would not hurt to foster friendlier relations with Prince Safir if we hope to see him function as king. Do these things, and forgiveness is all but solidified. I, too, will do my level best to be a bastion of security so that you may never again doubt to whom you can turn during times of trouble and strife. And if push comes to shove, rest assured that I will inform you of when I have ‘had enough.’ Now—sit with me. I do not wish to be angry with you any longer. It leaches my energy.” When she finally settled on the chair with him, a seat wide enough for two people to sit abreast, his gaze again flicked to the strange leather-bound package on the table, curiosity too great to resist. “What did you purchase at the market today?”

“Galeyn is no doubt beautiful,” Sylvie said, setting down her goblet. “And we are endlessly grateful for the charity of its queen and her people. The Night Garden, too, is a wonder of unique and fascinating flora. There is no other locale like it on the continent, I daresay. However, it differs significantly from Stella D’Mare. For one, it is landlocked. The D’Marian settlement may boast a lake, but it is no replacement for the beaches and tranquil, mottled waters of our home. For another, it is mainly a flat land, heavily forested closer to the kingdom’s center and dotted with rolling hills and farms in the borderlands. A little chilly in the winter, though certainly not on a level matched with snowy, mountainous Eyraille.” For a moment, she caught Caris’ elusive gaze as he unintentionally lowered his guard amid her brief historical account of Stella D’Mare. But just like a rabbit, it retreated into its burrow, speed unmatched. Am I really that intimidating a figure to you? As with the majority of Caris’ antics over supper, however, she took no offense, preferring to find the entire encounter amusing. King Caris was showing his age—and she had brought it out in him?!

I cannot let Papa know about this, she thought, dampening her enthusiasm before it gained wings and took flight. He would have me use this power against the king—if it be a power I could exploit at all.

It was also possible that the skittish king was not reacting to her, and she had given herself too much prestige over the scenario. Perhaps it was with disgust he averted his gaze. The gown she wore, after all, was closer to D’Marian in cut and daring than the more muted and modest dresses of Eyraillian design.

Suddenly, she felt not so sure of herself anymore.

“Oh, I did not intend to make D’Marian history charming. It is rather brutal. Rigas and Canaveris squabbles aside, we have been conquered by outside forces four times since the founding of Stella D’Mare as an official city-state,” she continued, glad for a distracting subject. “Well, I suppose Mollengard makes it five. Ours is a story of tyranny in multiple parts. Mollengard is by far the worst of our occupiers; if we knew beforehand of their destructive erasure of culture and spirit, I am certain we would have remained under Andalarian rule. At least then we might have kept our city a bit longer. Not to undermine the suffering of the Eyraillian people, of course,” she amended. “Tyranny, whether it be invoked by one ruling family or by multiple invaders, plays the same rhythm. Nor can I imagine that you, as a product of a tyrannical upbringing, have led an easy life. It is heartening to see, nonetheless, the positive change established in these halls, enlivened anew by the promise of a brighter era. Long may it reign; Eyraille seems a warrior nation, unlike Stella D’Mare. If anyone can defend against Mollengard’s offensive, I believe it will be you and your Skyknights, your Majesty.”

Alster raised his head when another question was posed in his direction, one so specific to him that it would prove impossible to divert to Sylvie. He lowered the aforementioned arm on the table, his expression turning wistful, and a little sad. “You are correct in assuming so, your Majesty. My prosthesis was presented as a gift by a Rigas metallurgist and installed by, believe it or not, a Mollengardian war physician whose specialty lay in outfitting prosthetics for amputees on the battlefield. It was later overhauled and refitted by…a friend,” he hesitated, curling the steel digits into a loose fist. “An extremely talented alchemist. He shaved off the hefty weight and refined it so that it operates more as an actual limb than a battering ram grafted onto my arm. It’s done wonders for mobility in that every micro-movement no longer feels like I’m losing my arm all over again. In any case, I’ll have to revisit Ilandria one of these days and check out their metal-craft firsthand. I’ve spent a good deal of time there as a youth, mostly in the West, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what’s changed in thirty years.”

The rest of supper went without incident, and all parties retired to their rooms. The following day, Sylvie, renewed in spirit, set off to her tasks, conveniently ignoring the elephant in the room which was her father, who eagerly awaited her correspondence every evening.

Papa, wait for me a little longer. I am to do this right. Little bloodshed. Painless as a prick.

She had an idea for the origin point of her proposed evacuation tunnels. A lone mountain outside the city, where a majority of refugees relocated after the raid on their neighborhood, was rumored to host a spate of naturally occurring caves and tunnels. If she could link the preexisting system and run it beneath the city into the palace, she could realistically have it built before the coming of spring or sooner, if she could gain enough manpower.

It was with this thought in mind she went off seeking Caris that morning—but it was not her sole reason. The reason was tucked away in her satchel.

Amid her search, she came across an empty chamber, door swung wide open. Curious, she crept closer, wondering what manner of work was being done on a previously empty chamber. Were they expecting another guest?

Sylvie!

She started at the sound of her name and whirled around right as the assailant placed his hands on her shoulders to do the same. The momentum caused her to shoulder him in the chin, hard enough to hear his jaw grind from the blow.

When she raised her head to look, the warmth immediately left her cheeks.

“Your Majesty! I-I did not mean to…my fervent apologies,” she sputtered. “You gave me such a fright. Rest assured, the assault on your chin was not intentional. I hope you are not? …Oh, you are bleeding!” She noticed a dribble of blood trickling from his bottom lip. “That will surely swell if it is not properly managed. Here; I meant to return this to you anyway.” She dug into her satchel and presented him with the handkerchief from the other day, though it was not unchanged. Freshly clean and pressed, it also contained a small figure of a roc in mid-flight, embroidered in golden thread in the corner just above his initials.

“I…hope you do not view this as desecrating your property. You may do with it as you will, your Majesty. Or throw it away. Conversely, you can pay it no heed aside from its initial purpose.” Finding a bare corner furthest from her creative add-on, Sylvie pressed the cloth to his bottom lip. “Do find some cool water or ice if you can procure it. I, ah, I shall speak with you later. In your study, yes. The tunnel project will occupy my time until evening, as it stands, so I shall pay a visit to your study after supper, if it pleases you.” Once Caris gained a handhold of his handkerchief, she took a wide step in retreat. “By your leave, please excuse me. And again, do accept my humble apologies.” Lowering her head (to hide her staunch embarrassment), Sylvie shuffled away from the king’s presence—and the curious door, as a consequence.

Ari returned to Safir’s study the following morning, accompanied by Nia. While he carried holdovers from his fever, Somath’s tonic, along with adequate rest and the necessary intervention between him and Nia, brought him back to a baseline level of wellness. But before they could carry on with discussions about Safir’s campaign to win over the people, the door opened, and in waltzed Tivia Rigas, but not the black-clad, funereal star-seer to which they had all grown accustomed. Shimmering teal fabric hugged her bodice, cinched together by a decorative gold belt, which marched the chains hanging from her gem-encrusted hearing apparatus. Her hair was again blonde, and wrapped around her head in a braided coronet, fringe curled and framed around her face. She lined the edge of her one eye with kohl and blue pigment, which reflected in her gray iris a mysterious purple hue. Her lips were colored a dark red, and curiously, the burn scars that marred the left side of her face seemed diminished. Covered-up…or perhaps glamoured with magic.

In her hand she held a leash. With a gentle yank, the wolf “Puca” joined her side, a collar placed around his ruff borne of tiny steel spikes. Heedless of the stares (or disinterested in them), she alighted by Safir’s desk. “Well, I’m ready for my debut. But it looks like you’re not.” Her eye-eyed gaze bounced between Ari and Nia. “Between the two of you, I know you’ll find him something suitable to wear. We’ll have to be seen together, and in a capacity notable enough for people to start talking. Perhaps we take a stroll around the garden? Or a jaunting carriage ride? I vote for the former.” She flicked the leash in her hand. “My vicious wolf-dog here requires a walk."

So Ari had met that other Nia... Another Nia who’d been a source of comfort for him, had helped him, had cared for him exactly the same way she did. Was it odd that the Nia Ardane walking this particular realm felt a pang of jealousy, that the alternate her had tended to the version of Ari she knew and loved? Perhaps it wasn’t born of the possessive feeling of losing the Canaveris Lord to a better version of herself, but in knowing that that better version of herself had already [i]done[/i] so much better than she had. Nonetheless, saying all of this felt as though a weight had lifted from her chest. It occurred to her only now that she’d refrained from saying anything about her unlikely excursion to another world because she’d feared his reaction, or secondhand guilt, on his part. On the contrary, he seemed to take it in stride.

Another part of her was grateful that the other Nia--the better Nia--had been there for Ari when she wasn’t able to be. At least someone was able to pick up the slack when she’d failed him so horribly that night, fleeing from Galeyn’s palace and into the Night Garden…

Something about feeling his heartbeat steadily against her palm brought tears to her eyes.  She hadn’t felt like she was going to cry, at any point, but every time she was reminded that there’d been a chance that very heart might not be beating, now, those desperate feelings from looming over his unconscious body, on the cusp of nearly losing him, resurfaced. Nia blinked the tears away and they trickled down her cheek at the warmth of his lips against her cool hand. It had never been any wonder to her, why and how Ari had won over the people of Stella D’Mare. He was an artist with words just as much as with paint, charcoal, clay, or stone. He chose them so carefully yet effortlessly, and always knew just what to say, even at times when she wasn’t open to hearing him.

So of course, she told him everything. She should have told him last night, when he’d asked, but had somehow thought it better to keep her secrets close to her chest by some asinine means of protecting him. And while she wasn’t sure just what to expect from him in terms of a reaction, she certainly hadn’t expected a smile. It took her off guard temporarily, and she blinked a few times to clear the remainder of tears from her warm, brown eyes. “What do you mean, is that all?” Nia wiped her cheeks dry with the back of her hand. “What’s so funny? Is it really such a laughing matter? I didn't say anything because I didn't know how you felt on the matter… I didn't know how far you were looking into our future.”

Heat bloomed in the Master Alchemist's face, like she suddenly shared Ari's feverish state. In part, she was embarrassed that something she’d held in such serious regard was laughable to him. Yet on the other hand, this reaction, while unexpected, was far preferable to the alternatives that he might not care at all, or be appalled at the fact that she had sought this opportunity without consulting him first. Since this directly involved him and his family, the Canaveris lord had every right to deny her. Instead, he seemed oddly less inclined to give up than she did.

Nia listened with vested interest as Ari explained the ritual behind the Canaverises extended life. At one point, frustration stirred in her stomach when he went over the details surrounding the necessity of foreigners to remain on Canaveris soil to benefit from the ritual. Had Tivia screwed her over even more than she’d imagined!? According to Ari, that didn’t seem to be the case. The star seer had found a work-around, but that sadly brought them no closer to obtaining the means to fully share a life together, with each and every year connected in mutual longevity. “I’m not going to deny that I should have told you.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t know… what you wanted. I know that sounds stupid, but Ari, I don’t think you realize how constantly afraid of the future I am.”

The Master Alchemist sat back on her heels and rubbed her eyes with the bottom of her palm. “I’m superstitious; or maybe it’s just paranoia. You can blame my family. Master Alchemists in Ilandria are notorious for it. We don’t talk about the dead--well, we’re not supposed to. We don’t talk about wishes and dreams for the future. Again, we’re not supposed to. If we do, it might not happen. The world has been out to get me for as long as I can remember--and if I want something, I’ll work for it, but I don’t like to say it out loud. You have no idea how scared I was to remove your curse… so many people knew. The universe knew, and I was so fucking scared it would take you away from me, Ari.” Nia sighed. It sounded stupid: he’d laugh at her again. “It’s like I said--I didn’t want to say something and get your hopes up. But more than anything, I was scared to get my hopes up--and I was right to be! What Tivia gave me is an impossible means to have a full life with you. It’s like you said; it could take years. And years have far more of an impact on me than on you, so… now you know.”

The corner of Nia’s mouth tugged into a playful grin as Ari shifted his body and insisted she rise from her uncomfortable perch on the floor. “Will it make you forgive me? I’ll be whatever kind of dog you want me to be.” She smiled and gladly stood to take the pressure off her knees, and deposited herself next to the earth mage. Warmth emanated from his body, and while it was concerning, it wasn’t unwelcome for someone who had just come from the cold outdoors. After a thoughtful pause, she met Ari’s dark eyes with soft apology.

“I agree.To all of it; you have my word, and this time, I promise, my word means something. But before all that… I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little angry with me one more time.”

Gently taking his heated face in her hands, Nia leaned in for a slow kiss--not simply for the sake of intimacy, but as her lips slowly moved on his, her hands drew the excess heat from his skin, absorbing it into herself, and trading the soothing cool of the winter wind to temper his bodily dysregulation. When she pulled away, she spoke, before he could voice any discontent at using her alchemical skills in the currently uncertain state of her body. “You’re too warm, and I’m too cold; now we’re both a little better off.” The Ardane woman grinned, with a little more colour in her cheeks than there had been before. 

Following his gaze to the small, leather-bound package she’d all but forgotten on the table, Nia’s smile softened in a way that made her look almost bashful. “Well, I bought Tivia several pieces of Ilandrian attire to make her look the part of someone with potential to wed Safir, and I bought Hadwin some clothes so that you don’t have to lend yours if you don’t want to. And, I…” The Master Alchemist drew a breath and exhaled slowly. “In the spirit of full disclosure--I suppose I was thinking I might buy your forgiveness. It was a stupid thought, and in hindsight, I’m not even sure it suits your tastes… but it’s yours to open, anyway. Not a bribe, and you don’t have to pretend to like it.”

Nia reached for the small package on the table, and placed it in Ari’s hands. Her face twisted in uncertainty as the earth mage unwrapped the item with care, worried he wouldn’t find what was inside suitable, yet that he’d tell her liked it anyway to spare her feelings. In the middle of the worn, matte leather, two tiny earrings shimmered in contrast. A couple of tiny, imperfect geodes were embedded in gold posts, glimmering in alternating hues of soft azure and sunlight gold, depending on the way the light hit them. “They’re not organic; it’s opalite. Ilandria isn’t exactly a treasure trove of precious or semi-precious gems.” Nia began, almost apologetic, as if she believed Ari deserved better. “But they caught my eye because… they reminded me of you. For a lot of reasons. On one hand--you look pretty sharp in light blue. It brings out the warmth in your skin, but… you don’t need me to tell you that. They…”

The Ardane woman paused, considering her words carefully, afraid that Ari might think them ingenuine since she’d already confessed the reason she’d initially wanted to give them to him. “They remind me of you. Of how you make me feel. They’re the sky and the sun, and when I met you, Ari… I can’t explain it, but it was like the dark clouds that had been following me for years suddenly cleared. I could see the sky and the sun again, but only when I was near you… and that hasn’t changed. Not even when you were furious with me. I’ve never seen you wear anything so unrefined, I realize, but there’s a reason for that, too.”

Searching his face for silent permission, Nia brushed his smooth, dark tresses behind his ears and gently secured the earrings to his lobes. They sparkled with all the warmth of a clear, sunny day against the rich tone of his skin. “I bought them from another Master Alchemist. An older woman, who no doubt required the help of her grandsons since she’s without fully functional hands… but the fact she was able to put these together at all really gave me hope. They’re not as helpless as I’d assumed.” 

The Ardane woman sat back to admire the way the minimalist, albeit stunning gemstones sparkled in suitable contrast to Ari’s skin. “And, to be clear, they’re not my apology; not anymore. I’m not buying your forgiveness, and if you’re angry--be angry. You think I don’t know I’m a handful to deal with? Besides…” Nia narrowed her brown eyes and smirked; she couldn’t help herself. “It was kind of sexy, seeing you so furious… but, if you need an outlet for that energy, you do know there are fun ways we can work out, hm?”

Caris was beginning to realize he had a real knack for startling people and invading their space, intentionally or otherwise; and he should have known it was only a matter of time before he’d suffer the consequences. The Eyraillian King momentarily saw stars as Sylvie’s shoulder collided with his jaw, and the unmistakable taste of copper bloomed on the inside of his cheek. He wordlessly accepted the handkerchief, a little too dazed to notice the subtle yet meaningful  modifications she had made to it. “I suppose I deserve this.” He sighed, pressing it to his bleeding lip. “We will speak later, Miss Canaveris… when we are both better able to hold a conversation.

He watched her hurriedly depart with a sigh. It wasn’t the first time he’d wished he had the tact and grace of Safir Vallaincourt, or even the charm of Sylvie’s uncle. Instead, he came across as brash, demanding, and altogether unlikable. Were the situation reversed, he would’ve punched him, too…

For better or worse, he had already planned to seek out Alster Rigas that day, and requested the mage’s presence in his study not a half hour later. “Alster Rigas. I’m much obliged that you were able to speak with me on short notice. But before I detail the initial reason for summoning you… might you be able to help me look a tad more presentable?”

True enough, Caris’ jaw had bruised, and the side of his mouth had swelled in the aftermath of Sylvie’s unintended assault. When Alster inquired as to what had taken place, he just shrugged. “Did it really not cross your mind as to how many people want to punch me in the face?” Mercifully, the Rigas mage did not inquire further, and was able to close the broken skin, reverse the swelling, and heal the bruise with what seemed like relative ease. Caris touched the side of his jaw experimentally when all was said and done. It felt as though he’d never been injured in the first place.

“Thank you; very much appreciated. I didn’t want to have to walk these halls and have people wondering who I pissed off. But this isn’t the only reason I wanted to speak with you.” The young king paused, looking suddenly uncertain, as if he might be revealing too much by consulting the Rigas mage for the purpose he had in mind. Alster was already well aware he was in the works of finding an appropriate gift for Sylvie’s birthday, and no doubt he’d already guessed its very nature… so, then, why did this topic feel so vulnerable to him? “I require your D’Marian expertise. While I recognize you are by no means an interior decorator, I did not grow up near the sea, and I don’t really understand its appeal. If I were to show you what I have in mind in terms of Miss Canaveris’ birthday… might you be able to advise?”

Nia wasn’t there the next morning when Ari rose; neither was she anywhere to be seen when he ventured into the common area. But he didn’t have to wonder for long, before the door opened, and stepped inside, quickly reading the confusion and concern on his face. “No--I wasn’t sneaking off, because I know that’s what you’re thinking. I’m holding myself accountable; just like I said I would. I went to see Somath--as per my promise.” As if she thought he needed evidence, the Master Alchemist rolled up her sleeves. The insides of her elbows sported numerous bruises from having blood drawn so frequently this past week. “I won’t be doing anything alchemy-related for a while… which means I need you to take care of yourself, too. If I’m not endangering myself, then neither are you. Deal? Oh, and I’m going with you this morning to see Safir. And yes--I’ll play nice.”

As soon as Ari dressed, he and Nia met the Prince of Blades in his study. It was clear Safir had only been anticipating Ari, but he needn’t give voice to his surprise when his childhood friend accompanied the earth mage. “Do you really have no one to style your hair?” The Master Alchemist accused the Ilandrian Prince, whose silky blonde locks, while clean and neatly brushed, hung limp around his shoulders.

Safir, taken aback by the comment, blinked in response. “Is that a problem?”

“Leaving it down is a sign of depression, and Ilandria will interpret that as weakness. We don’t need a weak Prince. Have a seat.” And just like that, it was as if the two childhood friends had suddenly managed to pick up their roles where they had left off over a decade ago: Nia called the shots, only wanting what she believed was best for the Ilandrian Prince, and Safir trusted her enough to go along with it. In no time, Nia’s skilled hands effortlessly wove two lace braids at his temples, and joined them at the nape of his neck into a neat fishtail braid that almost reached his mid back.

No sooner did she finish that the door opened, and the trio was joined not only by Tivia, but Hadwin--on a leash. Nia couldn’t help but snort, wondering if Hadwin had agreed to the indignity, or if it had been Tivia’s ultimatum. “Now, that’s much better.” The Ardane woman nodded her approval of the star seer’s return to her natural blonde. “And I was right; teal really is your colour. You actually look worthy of an Ilandrian Prince. But you’re right: we still need to make him look worthy of you--and this kingdom. I’ve done my part, and Ari’s the better suited to tell him how to dress.”

“Is it really necessary to infer I’m so hopeless?” Safir asked, directing the question at both Tivia and Nia. “But very well. I’m not an expert on style. We’ll meet you back here momentarily.”

Content that Nia, Tivia, and their new pet wolf could entertain themselves for the time being, Safir invited Ari back to his suite to gauge his wardrobe. Nia very well could have seized the opportunity to make it awkward that he accompanied another attractive man back to his chambers, and he was infinitely relieved she’d chosen not to. Whatever had happened between her, Ari, and Somath must have meaningfully resonated enough that she saw fit to give him a break. 

The Prince of Blades’ collection of attire--from casual to formal--was refreshingly not as devoid of colour as his kingdom’s sovereign hues might have suggested. While there was no shortage of charcoal and silver, pops of blue, green, violet, and vermillion stood out invitingly among the monochrome. The style of Ilandrian royalty was still markedly different from Canaveris taste, with far fewer embellishments, and more utilitarian cuts, but that wasn’t to say it didn’t have potential. “You are welcome to be brutally honest, Lord Canaveris; I don’t have an eye for fashion.” Safir said, though not without an air of insecurity. “And if you can’t work with any of this, inform me as to what is missing, and I will contact my tailor, posthaste.”

Whatever stirrings of amusement Ari had felt at the outset were fortunately short-lived. As Nia delved into the details, including her fear of investing in a future where she was uncertain if the other party reciprocated to her level, Ari nearly revealed his intentions to ask for her hand in marriage in the coming weeks; he needed only to acquire the ring. He bit his tongue and settled for reassurances of the closest equivalent. 

“Nia, it is not impossible. As I have stated, every Canaveris obtains long life. If for you it will require a little extra work, then I am not troubled. For all you have done me, it would be my pleasure. Besides, as Canaveris Head, it sits in my jurisdiction to ensure every Canaveris is provided for, and you are no exception. Why should you and others who are not D’Marian born be denied our gift? As for what I want,” he smiled, not from amusement, but out of genuine sentiment, “let me lay your worries to rest. Of course I want to age in tandem with you, Nia. I’ve no conceivable doubt about that avenue. So allow me to pave the way for you and make what seems impossible a surety. Again, I shall contact my mother, and proceed from there, yes? I will not allow this to take years.” He placed a finger under her eyes, wiping the residual moisture ringing her rims. “That is my sacred promise to you, Nia. Now it is your turn to put your trust in me, as I have trusted in you to save my life.”

When Nia climbed into the seat beside him, her chilled body against his, he nearly took her into his arms and pressed close, yearning for the relief she brought to his overheated skin. “Please,” he almost snorted. “We already have one dog roaming these grounds. No need for another. A pet is not the reason I keep you around, Nia.” She locked lips with him then, her cool breath melting into the fire scorching the insides of his mouth, until both temperatures melded into one. After she pulled away and he no longer felt as if he were cooking atop an open flame, he gave her a suspicious squint. “You are correct. My anger has been stoked anew. I suppose there is no helping it this time, but…do not make this a habit.”

Despite his words, and his tone, he didn’t feel as angry as he claimed, especially not after Nia presented him with a gift, which took him a bit by surprise. It was not often when someone handed him a present; usually, it was he who provided guests, friends, or loved ones with a special token or two. Carefully, he undid the wrapping and held up a pair of earring studs; little geodes within which shone iridescent pale blue, flecks of fire, and moon-glow white. He loved the sentiment, of course, but cherished Nia’s explanation moreso. The sun and the sky…she sincerely viewed him as two of the most essential, precious things in the world—apart from, naturally, the ground on which they tread?

He sat still as she took the studs from his hands and affixed them into his ears, the weight almost negligible; a departure from the heavy, dangling stones he on occasion wore. Once secured, he ran a finger over the coarse crystalline patterns, visualizing a powder blue sky on a sunny day as he did so. “I hope I do not often give the impression that I wrinkle my nose at things you consider ‘unrefined,’ when I, as an earth mage, appreciate all rocks, stones, and minerals, even in their rawest, most natural form,” he said, still fingering the earrings. “A block of marble is not inferior just because an artist has not chiseled it into a shape viewed by the public as more palatable and thus, desirable. I’ve several earrings of this caliber in my collection, if you recall. Druzy is a particular favorite of mine. Clusters of crystals, in my opinion, are a thing of beauty. You will have to tell the vendor she has sold a pair to no better an admirer. I might have to thank her in person; that is, if you would introduce me to your Master Alchemist contemporaries. You, as well, have chosen a color most pleasing. I’ve no complaints. Only praise.”

Cupping the side of her cheek, he leaned forward for another kiss, marveling at how quickly she had managed to regulate their internal body temperatures to where they equaled the same. “I will view this gift as tribute and a reminder of your promises to me and Somath. And if you are continually well-behaved,” he fixed his expression into a good-natured glare as he grabbed at her collar and yanked her until their noses touched, “perhaps you will see the return of my fury…elsewhere.”

With the promise of positive changes to come (bedroom shenanigans notwithstanding), Ari awoke revitalized. Not entirely back to baseline, but enough to tackle his newest project. Donning the pair of earrings Nia gifted to him, he dressed in a complementary blue overcoat and bound his hair to expose the glimmering geodes on his lobes. He nearly regressed to his feverish and limb-aching state when he walked into the sitting room only to find Nia wasn’t there, but his concerns were short-lived when the door swung open and the missing person revealed herself.

“Heavens, Nia,” he sighed, lowering his hand from his chest. “Would it hurt to leave a message for me before you leave? While I am glad you are keeping to your arrangement with Somath, I have not yet grown accustomed to your unaccounted-for disappearances, especially as we are in the heart of Ilandria and you are not quite a free woman. Would you fault me for requiring additional notice on your end? Just for peace of mind?”

Together they ventured to Safir’s study, Ari to resume his duty to bolster the Prince’s appeal and Nia, presumably to apologize. Understandably, the Prince of Blades reacted to the latter’s presence with a wary eye, but seemed to relax after she offered to style Safir’s limp blond hair into a simple weave more appealing for one of royalty—and of fair complexion.

“I am inclined to agree with Nia. It is wasteful not to utilize your innate…pleasantness to its full and desired effect.” He did not need to elaborate on his borderline flirtatious comment as at that moment, Tivia stepped into the room, accompanied by Hadwin on a leash. The wolf in question seemed unbothered, but it was hard to determine if it came from his carefree nature, or if his recent deficit of vivacity impacted his ability to care.

“Don’t get used to this,” Tivia pushed an offending lock of blonde hair from her face. “It’s hard to claim Rigas heritage without our iconic, telltale signs. That’s all.”

It wasn’t Ari’s place to question the star-seer’s vehement dislike of her Rigas name, or her fascination with black dye, so he focused on what he was better able to influence. “You are bound to have a few suitable outfits in your wardrobe, I am sure,” Ari said, standing up to follow Safir to his personal collection, thinking nothing at perusing another man’s personal effects—until his gaze rested on Nia for a glimpse. While she hadn’t reacted or passed along a snide comment, he hoped she hadn’t thought the worst of him, or second-guessed his intentions with the handsome Ilandrian prince.

It occurred to him that he could deliberately choose an unflattering coat for Safir to don, or put minimal effort into outfitting him with the appropriate attire, and the fashion-averse Prince would be none the wiser. Not as an act of sabotage, but to ensure Safir wouldn’t outshine him in appearance. Glad the petty wisps of envy scattered from his mind, he felt guilty, nonetheless, for cultivating such obscene thoughts in the first place. In penance, he resolved to find the most infallible combinations he could scrounge, and failing that, put in specific requests to the tailor. I have already achieved the pinnacle of desirability, he thought, thinking of Nia waiting for his return, of their plans to age in tandem—and of the ring he would present her to clinch their union. You, Prince Safir, have not yet lived to your potential.

“My first suggestion to you; do not be afraid of color.” After touring Safir’s expansive wardrobe, he pulled out a green waistcoat lightly accented with thin whorls of gold. “Try this on. Not only will it pair well with your ‘partner’s’ ensemble, but it will intensify the green in your eyes. Later, I shall rearrange your closet according to what I deem most fitting and make some notes to pass along to your tailor. In the meantime, this will suffice for a relaxing stroll around the garden.”

When Safir re-emerged from his private chambers to change, Ari noticed he continued to wear the ametrine broach. Accompanied by the green and gold-accented doublet, it technically matched, though he wondered if for future ensembles they would need to work around the jewelry piece, instead of vice versa.

It was his prerogative if he insisted on wearing it, but Ari had a different inquiry in mind when he broached the subject.

“Your broach,” Ari said, before they reconvened with the small retinue waiting in the study. “I do not mean to pry, but Nia mentioned how you meant to offer it to a man you fancied, long ago. The purpose of your broach, then—is it custom in Ilandria to gift an article of jewelry to the one who catches your eye? And is there any significance in the particular stone, or its color combination? I realize I can easily ask Nia, as she no doubt crafted this broach for you, but,” he paused, hesitating. “Would you be able to keep a secret?”

He didn’t wait for verbal confirmation before launching into his ‘secret ', not realizing how much he’d wanted to vent his next course of action to someone with an affiliation, however tepid, to Nia. “I wish to ask for Nia’s hand in marriage. It is Canaveris custom to grant the beneficiary a ‘Crystal Name,’ and the ring in question will be crafted from that particular stone. When asked if she had a favorite or preferred gem, she told me, ‘Ametrine.’ I wanted to acquire a naturally occurring specimen, but my pursuits thus far have been fruitless, and it would be imprudent to obtain it from Nia herself. To be clear,” he added, “I am not asking for your broach, as it would still equate to gifting something Nia created for a different purpose. I am merely curious if there lies a deeper connection to the stone, and if, perhaps, I might find a few forgotten carats stashed somewhere nearby. Whether from Nia’s hand or not, I am invested in finding ametrine as soon as possible, as I hope to design, create, and present the ring to her before the end of the year.”  

By the time they returned, Safir was attired in the green doublet, a small cream-colored cravat to offset the color, accompanying trousers, and a sash belt to accentuate the sway of his hips as he walked.

“Much better,” Tivia said, pushing off from the desk where she half-sat, half-leaned. “Now you look halfway closer to securing your role.” Even the wolf had noticed, raising his head to capture Safir with his unblinking yellow eyes. “It looks like my wolf agrees, as well. Seems you have a hypnotic effect on animals when you’re all gussied up,” she said with a sideways smile, lightly smacking Puca on the head when he wouldn’t stop staring. “If we’re finally ready to go, then by all means,” she linked an arm around Safir’s, “lead, and we’ll follow. Take us to the gardens. It’s a lovely day today, unseasonably warm, so I’m sure we’ll have plenty of encounters while we’re out.”

“It would be in their best interest if we observed these proceedings, from a distance.” Ari turned to Nia, presenting his arm for her to take. “Shall we?”

While he was no star seer, Alster accurately divined the Eyraillian King’s reason for summoning him the following day. They met in his study, a well-lit space that did nothing to hide the blooming bruise swelling on Caris’ lower jaw.

“Your Majesty—did you get into a squabble?” When Caris glibly wrote off the entire affair as if it hadn’t mattered at all, Alster nodded, figuring if the random assault were important, he would hear about it from the palace staff, who often gossiped like clucking hens, no matter the culture or location.

“I expect you want that healed, then. Say no more.” Stepping forward, he hovered a hand over the affected area. The faint glow of etherea leached the discoloration from his skin, leaving it as pain-free and blotch-free as before the incident occurred.

“I’m sure healing minor scrapes isn’t the main reason you called me into your study,” he said, returning to his position behind the king’s desk. “What do you need?”

Caris’ vague explanation left much to be desired, but taking their previous conversation and supper into account Alster perfectly understood the nature of the king’s request. Like before, he disguised his amusement beneath a mask of thoughtful and serious contemplation. “Ah, so you found Miss Canaveris an empty room, and you wish to decorate it with accents reminiscent of her D’Marian home. That’s very considerate of you, your Majesty. Now, let’s see… To be honest, you’re better off consulting Lord Canaveris. He’s the artist. Though, I’m no stranger to designing a concept. Let me see this space and I’ll offer my opinion and suggestions.”

Less than an hour later, they were touring the room, which had since been emptied of its furniture and was left bare save for the fireplace and its accoutrements sitting by the roaring hearth. “Since we don’t have access to the sea, we can’t decorate with seashells or anything tangible,” Alster said. “At the very least, I would suggest a mural. You have plenty of wall space to paint here a sweeping vista as if she’s looking directly out her window at the Canaveris estate. As I’ve stated before, I’m no artist, and Lord Canaveris, were he available, specializes in the human form. However, I know just who to consult for this project, and it is a simple matter of walking through a mirror. I speak of Sylvie’s brother. Nicodeme Canaveris.” 

Safir could understand why Ari might have thought he suffered a phobia of colour; after all, unlike Eyraille, with its stunning contrast of silver and royal blue, and peninsular Atvany, boasting luxurious gold and vibrant green, Ilandria’s colours--charcoal and silver--were too similar in nature not to be mistaken for monochromatic. The Prince of Ilandria had never thought too much into it; unlike Ari, he was neither an artist, nor did he have a particular eye for fashion. He’d relied on the suggestions and opinions of his father and personal tailors since he was young; perhaps they had no real affinity for fashion, either, if the consensus among his new allies was that he was hopeless to properly dress himself without intervention.

“I suppose, looking at my collection of attire, I can’t fault you for thinking any trace of colour gives me a headache.” Safir smiled sheepishly and took the waistcoat from Ari. “The Kingdom of Truth embellishes nothing, I suppose… including its clothing, it seems.”

He obediently stepped behind a privacy partition near the wardrobe to change--which Nia would surely mock him for, if she knew. He was so used to her voice, then and now, that he could hear the words in his head without her there to say them, with that ever-present smirk: Don’t you both have the same body parts? What are you trying to hide? To anyone who wasn’t in the know, regarding the nature of their friendship, they might be appalled to bear witness to how the Master Alchemist talked to Ilandria’s Prince (and hopefully, future King). But Safir knew her well enough that she didn’t tease if she didn’t like a person; and he suspected Ari would catch on sooner than later.

He stepped out from behind the partition with an air of uncertainty. Safir Vallaincourt was comfortable with a sword, in a leadership position, and had no issue speaking before crowds. Now it was clear to see the frayed edges of his confidence related to the possibility others saw him as not enough--even if it came to dressing in clothes that best suited his body. “I’ll be honest--I can’t remember the last time I wore this. Or if I’ve ever worn it.” He confessed to Ari, as he glanced at his own reflection in the full-length mirror with obvious uncertainty. Anyone with eyes, however, would’ve scoffed at his insecurity. Safir had the sort of face and eyes that turned heads by their virtue alone; now that the rest of his body followed suit, “Well, if green is my colour--or one of my colours, then I trust your judgment, as I have authority in the business of fashion.”

Indeed, the Prince of Blades had managed to work the ametrine brooch into his outfit, as he did all of his outfits. At this point, it was more an unconscious habit than a deliberate decision, and one that he hadn’t considered anyone would notice. Of course, he should have known the single fashion expert among his new allies wouldn’t miss even the slightest detail. 

Suddenly self-conscious, Safir covered the brooch with his hand. “Ah, I forgot--I’ve incorporated it into every outfit I’ve worn for as long as I can remember… forgive me if this comes across as a stupid question, but does it clash?”

Ari, however, didn’t seem offended or disapproving of the brooch, and the question that followed wasn’t related to fashion at all. “Oh--well, I suppose I can't rightly say Ilandrians don’t feel inclined to present gifts to those of interest to them. Although there are no customs surrounding presents that other kingdoms don’t partake in.” Safir furrowed his brows thoughtfully. “It is most definitely more common, here, among the wealthy. If you and your family are well to do, then there is no logical reason why you can’t show your affection with a gift. So if you’re wondering, in Nia’s mind, she felt--well, she probably still feels--that I had no good reason not to approach the… well, the person I…”

He couldn’t say it; Ari knew exactly the situation to which he was referring, and still, the Prince of Blades struggled to confront such a fundamental part of himself. But now wasn’t the time to try and confront it, or to entertain what he should or shouldn’t have done. Not when he was gearing up to pretend (and somehow, convince all of Ilandria) that he was just as enamored of women as any other man. Safir shook the thoughts and the shame from his head and didn’t bother to finish the sentence, or even the thought. “I wasn’t even aware of ametrine as a stone, before Nia made it for me to present as a gift. I think it happened to be her favourite stone, and an opportunity to practice her alchemist tampering. So while I cannot speak for everyone, in my case, there was no significance to the stone beyond the fact my best friend made it for me. Why do you ask, Lord Canaveris?” He turned a curious look on Ari. “Forgive my prying, but I didn’t anticipate discussing Ilandrian gift-giving customs, this morning. Is there some way I can be of help to you?”

Perhaps Safir was even more oblivious than he cared to admit. Who else would Ari be looking to find a gift for than Nia, herself? Furthermore, he really should have anticipated the nature of the gift Ari was implying. 

As it turned out, not only could Ari trust Safir with his secret, but upon hearing his intention to propose to Nia, the Prince of Blades looked completely elated. “Is that so. Well, I don’t want to invite contrary fortune by congratulating you prematurely, but I’d be lying to claim I’m not excited on your behalf.” The Prince smiled warmly, genuinely happy, it seemed, to hear of Ari’s intentions, and what it would mean for the earth mage, as well as his childhood friend. If Ari had any lingering suspicions regarding even the slightest possibility that Safir might have the ghost of romantic interest in her, then they must have been put to rest at that moment. “I can’t imagine Nia denying you, regardless of what kind of ring you give her--or if you even give her a ring at all. She isn’t particularly materialistically inclined; at least, that was never the case when we were young. It doesn’t appear to me that much has changed. And as much as I would like to tell you I’m aware of a natural Ilandrian source of ametrine… well, my knowledge of semi-precious stones is about as vast as my knowledge of fashion.” He flashed a lopsided grin, then temporarily halted his pace and put a hand on Ari’s shoulder.

“However, I may still be of help. The jeweler who crafts jewelry and accessories for Ilandrian nobility has been known to source a wide variety of stones, raw and refined. Allow me to arrange an appointment with him. If he does not have what you are looking for, then I would be surprised if he doesn’t have the means to source it. Perhaps, when I have fulfilled my requirement of being enamored of Tivia Rigas today…” His smile wavered; he was in no way looking forward to what lay ahead of him that day. “You can accompany me to consult the jeweler. You know the quality and nature of what you are looking for far better than I do.”

When at last they rejoined the two women and the wolf in Safir’s study, Nia stood from her seat with surprise. “Now that is what I’m talking about!” She exclaimed with a wide grin, with such sincerity it almost made Safir blush. “You walked out of here a gloomy prince, and returned a fairytale prince. Now you just have to act the part.”

“May I just say--with no offense intended toward anyone, here--how much I hate this?” Safir was not referring to the clothes or his prompt restyling, or for having Tivia on his arm. It was the amalgamation of everything this farce required. He hadn’t even begun, and he was already overwhelmed.

Mercifully, Nia recognized this moment of vulnerability as requiring a gentler touch, for once, and it even took the Prince of Blades by surprise when she took his hands and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Everything is in place for you to succeed. You’ve got this--and we’ve got your back. Just… don’t talk too much. And try to relax your face; you look like you’re in pain.” She smiled sympathetically and stepped back. “You don’t look like you want to join your father in his grave, anymore. That says enough. And when people see Tivia on your arm, they’ll put two and two together.”

“Your unwavering faith bolsters me, Nia.” Safir said sarcastically, then drew a breath, and led Tivia and “Puca” out of his office.

Not a moment later, Nia’s face fell, and she exhaled. “Oh, he is so fucking hopeless…” She said to Ari with a shake of her head. “And not for lack of effort on our part. We need to be their shadow to make sure one of them doesn’t fuck it up; because if it’s not Safir, it will be Hadwin.

Oblivious to their “shadow entourage”, Safir escorted Tivia to the gardens, which today were particularly populated for the unseasonably warm weather after days of plummeting temperatures. And to say they turned a few heads was an understatement. In a matter of minutes, seemingly everyone in Ilandria with influence and a voice noted the Prince with a woman on his arm, looking far brighter than he had in weeks; a stark contrast from his dreary presence at his father’s funeral.

While they captured the interest of many (and no doubt, would soon become the central topic of kingdom gossip), no one dared interrupt the Prince’s late morning stroll. Well, almost no one.

“Your Highness. May I say, you look well, this morning.” An order woman with silver hair, woven tightly around her head, and clad in trousers and a waistcoat in Ilandria’s charcoal and silver, offered a partial bow to the Prince. “The Council has felt your absence, these past weeks. I would offer my deepest condolences for your father’s passing, but… it seems to me as though you have finally emerged from grieving.” Her cool eyes fixed on Tivia with vested interest.

Safir didn’t miss a beat, which was probably enough to astound not only Tivia, but Ari and Nia, who remained unseen, several paces away. “Lady Jahnst. Allow me to introduce Tivia Rigas--my fiancee.” He even managed a smile in Tivia’s direction that didn’t seem strained. “Tivia, meet Liesefa Jahnst. The Minister of Justice and Safety.”

“Your fiancee.” The older woman’s expression appeared stuck between surprise and disbelief. “Recently, I presume?”

That question, Safir chose not to answer. The fact he’s managed to lie at all, let alone convincingly, was more than anyone had expected--himself included. And since that was almost the full extent of his potential, he had to end this conversation, fast. “Rest assured, you may learn of our story at the next Council meeting. After all, Miss Rigas, as my future wife, will also be my equal. It is pertinent that she comes to understand the workings and process of Ilandrian politics. Now if we may, Lady Jahnst, we’d prefer not to waste this bout of favourable weather.”

“Of course, Your Grace. My apologies for interrupting.” Liesefa offered another shallow bow. “Miss Rigas.” Was all she said in acknowledgement of Tivia, before going on her way. When they were once again alone in their own bubble of secrecy, Safir let out a long sigh.

“Yes--she might be a problem.” He said to Tivia, knowing the Minister’s intentions were not lost on the star seer. “And if anyone objects my right to my father’s throne… it is going to be her. She will try to convince not only the rest of the council, I imagine, but also the majority of Ilandria. The next Counil meeting is tomorrow evening… and, for transparency’s sake, I hope you will attend.”

“As much as I respect and agree with your opinion, Lord Canaveris is not here, and as of now, there is no word as to when he’ll return to Ilandria.” Caris touched his lip experimentally, amazed to find there was no blood, pain, or tenderness. Eyraille must have been rightly mad to ban magic like this… “He and the Ilandrian woman promised to work on convincing Prince Vallaincourt of the benefit of portal mirrors. I haven’t heard much from either of them since, and Miss Canaveris’s birthday is on the horizon. So…I must work with what I have. And what I happen to have is you, Lord Rigas.”

Standing from his seat, the young king gestured to the door. “Please allow me to show you what I have to work with. With any luck… I won’t encounter any more interruptions.” He really couldn’t handle running into Sylvie again, so soon.

After giving Alster a tour of the room, which was little more than an empty shell at this point, the Rigas mage, at the very least, did not leave him without some notable suggestions. “Perfect--a mural. That sounds not only feasible, but relatively painless, so long as we find the right person. You mentioned Lord Canaveris himself is an artist?”

Indeed he was--but not the sort that could be of help. Fortunately, he was not the only painter amongst the Canaverises. “...Sylvie’s brother, you say. And what of their relationship? For one, do you think he’d be open to such a commission? And, more importantly… can he keep a secret? I’m not sure how we will conceal his presence from his sister, unless I keep her busier than usual and away from the palace. Either way--I would be much obliged if you’d help me reach out, Lord Rigas.You have more ties to Sylvie’s family than me.”

For several reasons, Safir’s warm and enthusiastic response put Ari at ease. One; it showed that the Prince of Blades, for certain, harbored no romantic affection for Nia. For another, it helped draw a firm boundary line of possible flirtations, or misunderstandings interpreted as flirtations, between Safir and Ari. If he ever felt like Ari’s fascination with capturing his physical form on a canvas amounted to an attraction beyond the aesthetic, proclaiming marriage to Nia was sure to make the situation clear among all parties except for, ironically, Nia, who still believed it appropriate to pair the two as kissing prospects during the coronation’s wanton after-party.

“I would much appreciate any aid you could provide in the search for ametrine,” he bowed his head gratefully. “Were I home in Stella D’Mare, I would have a much easier time procuring the resources I require. As an earth mage, rare is the ore or stone beyond my reach. While Galeyn has provided ample bounties from the earth, none have yielded ametrine, I’m afraid. Perhaps I might create my own by synthesizing amethyst and citrine via magic, but that will be a last resort. Do keep me informed about your jeweler. Now,” he clapped his hands together, a little more energized than before, “let us see how the others respond to your colorful transformation.”

The two women (and wolf) responded well to Safir’s change in wardrobe. Color-averse Tivia even delivered the closest thing to a compliment she dared. On the hierarchy of things to say in polite conversation, ‘Much better,’ placed above, ‘I cannot stand to look at you,’ at least.

“If it is any consolation, your Grace, you glimmer like a peridot, and cut a figure like the facets of a diamond,” he said, figuring he might respond better to male attention. “You already know how to behave as a prince. It is not so far a stretch to behave as a king. Nia has it correct; relax. This is your home. You’ve every right to walk on the arm of a woman and simply exist.” 

Words of encouragement, unfortunately, only sailed so far when Safir was so far out of his element, he might as well be swimming in the sky.

“Think of it this way,” Tivia turned to Safir, seemingly also invested in allaying the Prince’s fears, either out of genuine concern or to prevent him from dashing their performance. “We’re not lying. We are engaged. For now. Engagements are easily broken. The moment you tell yourself nothing is a lie, the more convincing you’ll become. So don’t lie. Let me do that for you, if I must.”

As soon as the two, arm in arm, left the room, the leashed wolf in tow, Ari turned to Nia, his expression the same as hers. “He is no performer, at least in terms of this specific ruse,” he sighed, brushing off the wrinkles of his sleeve. “I am not sure what we will be able to do from afar, but we shall have our eyes on them, at best. Hadwin was ogling him like a plate of roast mutton. Perhaps we might ensure he doesn’t gnaw on his arm.”

Tivia put on her most practiced smile as she paraded through the gardens with the Ilandrian Prince on her arm, while her other arm managed the leash of ‘Puca,’ who followed dutifully, but closer to Safir than to her, padding nearly on his heels. Tivia didn’t even find it annoying. Humorous, rather, and encouraging to see the faoladh not gloomily invested in the cracks on the pathway, ensuring he didn’t fall into some abyss beyond rescue.

From the corner of her good eye, she caught Ari and Nia trailing behind, attempting stealth for no necessary reason when it was painfully obvious they would accompany the prince and his ‘fiancée’ from afar. They were the least of her concerns, however, as she noted the people—mostly noblemen and noblewomen—who ceased their stroll to hold hands over their mouths and presumably whisper at the surprise their pairing evoked. Excellent, she thought. Let them talk. Let them spread rumors.

“I never asked—do you prefer dogs?” Tivia angled her head at Safir inquisitively. It was important they looked engaged in pleasant conversation, and soon, lest others remark upon Safir’s stilted walk and wonder what disturbed him. “Otherwise I imagine this would bother you.” This referring to the wolf occasionally nosing at his backside. “Among other things, true. I’m sure a little bit of animal friendliness would rank quite low on your list of scruples right about now.” Well, wasn’t she horrible at small talk? She sighed inwardly.

For that, she was relieved when someone had the gall to approach them. An older woman, austere in dress and appearance. Liesefa Jahnst, Minister of Justice and Safety. She remembered the name from Safir’s list of council members, and the woman before them ranked as least trustworthy. Tivia kept her expression neutral as the Ilandrian Prince introduced her, but broke into a pleasant—and pleased—smile at Safir’s convincing proclamation. For that, she gave his arm a small squeeze of approval.

Not surprisingly, ‘Lady Jahnst’ responded to the news with skepticism and wariness. “Yes, fiancée,” Tivia repeated, bowing her head in greeting. “You might have seen me in the company of King Caris of Eyraille. As you may be aware, I am playing an advisory role to Eyraille and currently act as liaison here in Ilandria. Prince Safir and I have crossed paths extensively in the weeks since our alliance began. There is no need to make a fuss about our announcement; it was a rather sudden development, as it came to fruition shortly after the king’s funeral—may he rest in peace,” she added, lowering into a modified genuflection, one knee outstretched. She let Safir take the lead on ridding them of the minor nuisance, satisfied with his polite yet assertive handling. As she left, Tivia, with her minimal hearing (even when bolstered by the apparatus) picked up on the subtle notes of disdain that colored the Minister’s voice, like she was a peasant and not a member of nobility. Seen as a ‘Miss,’ not a ‘Lady.’ While she seldom lorded her title, one she never renounced despite distancing herself from the Rigas name, if it would sell her bid, she very well might remind everyone in Ilandria exactly who she was.

“Oh yes—I am duly aware,” she said, agreeing with Safir’s commentary. “She will likely name you as impetuous, secretive, unreliable, and weak of mind, citing your dalliance with me as a prime example. All avenues I’m sure Ari will aim to debunk when you campaign to turn public opinion in your favor.” She gave the Canaveris Lord a pointed look from where he and Nia failed to obscure themselves from the bushes. “I will most certainly attend tomorrow evening’s council meeting—with one caveat.” She brought the wolf to heel at her side and scratched behind his ears. “I want Puca to be there, too. We D’Marians have the quaintest customs, but it is not altogether a pointless one,” she said, raising one eyebrow meaningfully. Now,” she reintroduced her arm around Safir’s, “let’s walk a few more laps around the garden. Then you can rest.”

As promised, Tivia deemed their outing satisfactory after they ringed the garden a sufficient number of times and retired back to Safir’s study, where they had a “chance” meeting with Ari and Nia.

“I hoped you enjoyed the view,” Tivia smirked as she ushered them inside, closing the door (and locking the latch, for good measure.) “But I think we fared just fine. All the same, it doesn’t hurt to have an extra pair of eyes.” As an act of thanks—and mercy—she released Safir’s arm and removed herself far from his personal space. “You did well. You kept your composure. Care to do it a dozen times more?”

Briefly, they discussed the encounter with Lady Jahnst and the council meeting held for tomorrow evening. While Ari and Nia exchanged glances at the inclusion of “Puca,” neither were they puzzled. The wolf, and his uncanny, fear-seeking eyes, had his uses.

“In anticipation of tomorrow evening, I propose we arrange a public appearance beforehand,” Ari said, going over the closing timeline and the ever-encroaching necessity to act before other hands of power took command over Safir’s narrative and poisoned the public’s image of the valiant Prince of Blades before granted the chance to defend himself. “It needn’t be extensive, but at minimum, a short speech delivered in view of your citizens will suffice. Simply remind them you exist. Your period of mourning has reached its end, and you are prepared to resume your duties, but require their support. We shall keep the contents of your speech innocuous; nothing to rile suspicion from the council members who plot your downfall. Preach your good character. Make yourself available, accessible, and most important of all: involved. Show the people you care, without sounding overwrought. Together, we shall practice how to balance sincerity with temperance. They mustn’t think you too softhearted. You are, after all, the Prince of Blades.”

Though an only child, Alster understood the nature of siblings; their ability to praise you at the same time as they plotted your murder. Sylvie had to contend with that dynamic six times over, and in different permutations. She made it no secret how she resented her role as caretaker for the freedoms it denied her. All the same, she hadn’t despised her brothers and left their company on positive terms—save for Nico. The second eldest child of Casimiro refused to make an appearance at Sylvie’s farewell gathering; the only one from the Canaveris villa who didn’t show. While Nadira gave an equitable explanation behind his shirking of duties, Alster suspected that behind closed doors, the Canaveris matriarch berated the boy for his perceived slights and uncouth behavior. No doubt he felt guilty in the aftermath, perhaps guilty enough to look for redemption.

…Or, alternatively, sulk. The contrariness of youth made it impossible to predict a clear direction.

“I won’t lie. They’ve had their…differences,” he admitted, touching the bare wall adjacent to the hearth. “If nothing else, he might be open to the project for renown, or simply as an excuse to venture outside of the Canaveris villa. He’s a bit of a recluse, so I don’t think you have to worry about aimless wanderings on his end. In any case,” he turned to face the king, “I’ll set up an audience if feasible and we’ll determine his eligibility for the job. If all else fails, gather your best artists as a contingency. I’ll be able to project into their minds an image of seaside Stella D’Mare and they’ll have something of a reference point on which to start.” 

Caris’ comment about ‘ties’ to the Canaveris family elicited an ironic smile. “Remember well the history Sylvie briefed you on. Rigases and Canaverises famously don’t get along, and I’m the worst Rigas of them all. If you want to talk about reputations, your Majesty, I eviscerated mine several times over, and in exponentially elaborate ways. I won’t bore you with the convoluted details. Fortunately, I had a hand in saving Lord Canaveris’ life, so I might yet convince their matriarch to lend her artist grandson for a good cause.”

Oddly, it didn’t take much persuasion on Alster’s end. When he traveled through the mirror to the Canaveris villa, he met with Nadira, whom he informed of the plan beforehand via resonance stone. Thinking it a lovely idea for her only granddaughter, she gladly volunteered Nico for the position, heedless of his opinion or say-so. Careful with how he approached the teenage Canaveris, Alster took a different tack from Nadira and presented him with the choice; either come to Eyraille and speak with the monarch, who at the least would compensate him for his time and work, or decline the offer, and suffer no consequences (aside from his grandmother’s wrath). In reply, Nico shrugged, seeming disinterested in both options but ultimately choosing the former. 

“With respect, Lord Rigas,” Nico said, attiring himself with thicker outerwear in preparation for Eyraille’s frigid temperatures, “let us not pretend I had the opportunity to decline. Grandmama would disown me for my insolence.”

The two of them stood before the portal mirror to Eyraille, where Caris awaited their arrival on the other side; an enclosed room in an unauthorized wing of the palace not even Sylvie was able to tread by accident (or otherwise). “Nico, if you don’t want to do this, I’ll talk to your grandmother. Despite your beliefs, she is not unreasonable enough to disrespect your reservations.”

Nico snorted in response. “You do not know her well enough. No matter. It is done. Besides,” a glint of curiosity shone in his dark eyes, “I would like to view for myself this kingdom of rocs and mountains where my sister so desperately wished to escape. It must be quite the sight, but not sight enough if Sylvie still pines for the sea.”

Whether Nico desired it or not, he joined Alster through the mirror without complaint. After finalizing its finishing touches, Alster and Nia had moved the mirror into a nondescript interior room used for storage—easy to go on ignored by staff if stashed into a corner and covered by a sheet. Nico caught the Eyraillian king leaning on the armrest of a dust-layered settee. He didn’t look long before he came to a few conclusions about the young king, as he so eloquently stated not a moment after arrival.

“Your Majesty,” he swept his arm into a bow. “I am Nicodeme Canaveris. I have been briefed as to the nature of this audience. You seek my artistry on behalf of my sister. I am inclined to accept this commission, though I must ask—and forgive my curiosity,” he straightened from his bow. “Why?    Do you fancy her? I understand the inverse would be true, as well, given Sylvie has chosen to stay in your kingdom in lieu of returning to Galeyn to celebrate her birthday with family.” He gave the king another once-over. “It is not difficult to see the crux of her decision. All presumption aside, I ask your reasoning because it is a grand gift you offer, and she might misconstrue your gesture as beyond mere generosity. Before I consider your offer, it would be important for me to know your intentions.” He lowered his gaze respectfully. “If you will.”            

When The Master Alchemist, the Canaveris Lord, the star seer, the Prince of Blades, and the wolf all reconvened in Safir’s study early that afternoon, little explaining was needed on the results of the new “couple’s” foray about the gardens. It seemed Ari and Nia did not do as great a job at remaining as ‘shadows’ as they’d hoped, and all had borne witness to the conversation between the “engaged” pair and the councilwoman. Nia, in particular, had a few choice words for the situation.

“Janhnst… That bitch.” Nia snorted, twisting her mouth into a grimace. As her family had worked so closely with the crown for quite a long time, it went without saying that she would be aware of those whom King Ullir had kept close to advise him on his council. “Yeah, she seems to enjoy expressing her unsolicited opinions on other peoples’ marital unions. Did you know she’s the reason talks of having you engaged to my sister, Celene, ceased because she brought up the value in you marrying Vega Sorde, instead?”

Safir hadn’t, in fact, been aware of that, but it didn’t surprise him in the slightest. “She’s made every detail of the monarchy’s life her business for as long as I can remember. Today, I was not so open with her--and it certainly doesn’t appeal to her to be left in the dark. While my… ‘engagement’ to Lady Rigas may make me appear more relatable to the public at large, she no doubt wishes to exploit it as a weakness. Perhaps an impulse resulting from the vestiges of grief from losing my father.” The Prince rubbed his temples and took a seat behind his desk. “The agenda for tomorrow’s council meeting includes relations with Eyraille, but we must inevitably debrief the coronation. And I guarantee that Lady Jahnst will seize the opportunity to twist my sudden decision to wed prior to the coronation as a reason to suggest I am unfit for the role. This charade, unfortunately, will not be without its consequences.”

“Yeah, and if you continued on as you were with your lackluster outfits and unstyled hair, they’d deem you too damn depressed and useless for the role. The fact remains that if Jahnst wants to prevent you from securing your father’s throne, it won’t matter what you do or don’t do: she’ll find a reason. You were fucked the moment your dad died--because she’s been meditating on how to make you look unfit from the moment he fell ill.” Nia said with flat intonation, her arms folded tightly across her chest. 

A brief silence followed that declaration, suggesting that everyone in the room--Safir included--suspected she was right. 

The Prince of Blades rubbed the back of his neck. “All we can do is go into the council meeting tomorrow, prepared to face backlash. At least we have time to meditate on a sufficient rebuttal. I shall oblige your advice as well, Lord Canveris… The vote of the council is important, of course, but public opinion still far outweighs their thoughts and feelings. Until then…” The Ilandrian Prince rubbed his green eyes with the heels of his hands. It was only barely afternoon, and that ordeal alone had already exhausted him. “I need a break. I’m not as practiced in the art of deceit as some of you. Let us pick up the farce tomorrow.”

As the others prepared to leave, Safir spoke up once more: “Lord Canaveris, before I forget, may briefly trouble you with an inquiry regarding wardrobe? And Lady Rigas, could you by chance inform me as to what you’re preparing to don, tomorrow?”

When it was safe to assume Nia--the only one to take leave of the study--was out of earshot, Safir dropped the ruse of being fatigued (well… it was a partial ruse, at best). His countenance grew serious and he lowered his voice, once Tivia had drawn close enough to hear. “There is something else you must understand about Lady Liesefa Jahnst…” His green eyes grew cool and serious. There was a reason he had waited to bring this up, only when the Master Alchemist wasn’t around to hear it.

“Years after Ilandria’s massacre and dire crimes against its loyal Master Alchemists… I came to learn that both their persecution, as well as the punishment my father carried out were not his idea alone.” He drew his lips into a thin line, and lowered his voice ever more, making sure to face Tivia so that she might read his lips, in case she couldn’t hear him. “It was Liesefa Jahnst that caught wind of the fact Master Alchemists often require suffering and sacrifice on behalf of other living beings in order to progress their skills. And from what I gather… it was her idea. The persecution, and the punishment. She had my father’s ear for a very long time, and like everyone on his council, he trusted her implicitly.”

Safir paused to let that information sink in, for the Canaveris Lord as well as the star seer. “It goes without saying that that woman is more than just a nuisance… she is dangerous. As the oldest member of my father’s council, she has everyone’s ear. She has been informing and developing policies surrounding justice since before I was born. And if she manages to succeed in overthrowing me… I admit, I fear what Ilandria will become. I want to take my father’s place, in hopes to correct the damage done during his reign. I want to liberate Nia. But even if it becomes clear that my chances of winning over the peoples’ confidence and respect…” The Prince of Blades curled one hand into a fist. His knuckles strained white against the taught skin. “We must, at all cost, prevent her from elevating herself to a higher position of power. Even if I secure my father’s crown, it will take time to remove her from the council, simply for her seniority. But we must maintain the fact that she has, for a long time, sought more power than she already has, within our direct line of sight.”

The Prince of Blades was confident his words hit home enough that neither Tivia nor Ari would forget about the danger that lurked within the royal council--but it wasn’t the only issue at bay. The next day, following Ari’s suggestion to campaign, and before attending the council meeting, Safir was as good as his word, and accompanied Ari to meet with the royal jeweler, an older man who had been sourcing and creating accessories for the monarchy for as long as he could remember. They met with the man in his workshop not far from the market, and pleaded their case in search of pure, natural ametrine. Safir provided his brooch for reference. “This is synthetic--or rather, man-created, but Lord Canaveris is hoping to find a natural source, intended to be crafted into an engagement ring. Do you think this is possible?”

The old man took the Prince’s brooch and examined the stone closely with a magnifying glass, noting the clear violet with swirls of bright, golden yellow marbled throughout. “This isn’t a stone I’ve often come across… but neither is it one that’s proven impossible to source. Some have reported finding it along Ilandria’s southern coast from time to time.” He returned the brooch to Safir and folded his aged hands on the desk to address Ari. “Permit me a couple of days, Lord Canaveris, and I will send some practiced scouts to see what they can find. I don’t recall ever coming across this stone in large quantities, but for rings, my confidence is not shaken. And my scouts have good eyes for what they are looking for.”

Satisfied with the efforts promised by the jeweler, Safir and Ari took their leave, both sporting faint smiles. “I hope I am not being too forward in declaring my hopes that I might attend the wedding when it comes to pass?” He said to Ari, albeit sheepishly. “I can understand that Nia and I have a… well, an unconventional friendship, to say the least. But I have only ever rooted for her happiness. I’d be forever grateful if you’d permit me the privilege of being there for her on what will undoubtedly be the best day of her life. For now…” His smile faded ever so slightly, accompanied by a sigh, as he looked ahead. “It seems I must attend to my own ‘fiancee’. If all of this pays off, I hope there will be enough left of me to stand for a coronation in a few weeks’ time.”

Safir sent for Tivia to meet him in his office early that evening, just before the council was about to meet. Dressed today in shades of turquoise that complimented his eyes (and still complemented the star seer’s attire), with earrings and a decal to secure his sash to match, he’d even allowed Nia to line his eyes with dark kohl as well as flecks of gold paint. He’d never been so ‘done up’ in all his life, but it would certainly make a bold statement. If nothing else, he would no longer appear as a passive pawn for the council to move around at will. “Tivia. I hope you’re ready for this, because I most certainly am not; may I?”

The Prince of Blades extended his hand to the star seer, and slipped a simple ring of gold and a pattern of diamonds onto the ring finger of her left hand. Curiously, his own ring finger sported one that was identical. “In Ilandria, it is customary for both parties to flaunt their commitment to one another, not only after they are wed, but upon engagement. I should have thought of this yesterday…” It was also something he had mentioned to Ari as well, before they’d met with the jeweler. Not because he toted Ilandrian customs of engagement as superior to that of the D’Marians, but just as food for thought, in case the Canaveris Lord intended to mix customs, in light of their differing nationalities.

“Well… shall we?” He offered Tivia his arm. “Unlike yesterday, this is not going to be a walk in the gardens. Prepare to find yourself amongst Ilandria’s cleverest, most powerful… and some of its most sinister.”

The two of them descended several flights of stairs, all the way to the councilroom, where a full house awaited them--although they were not expecting the wolf.

“...Your Grace. Is… that necessary?” Unhappy as they might have been with Tivia’s attendance, ‘Puca’s’ presence was, to say the least, the most startling and uncomfortable to the Ilandrian council. Some visibly recoiled from the beast.

“He is Lady Tivia’s charge; and harmless, I’m sure.” Safir dismissed their concerns in a heartbeat. While lying was still very much a field of his own discomfort, he had no problem presenting himself to the council as the Prince of Blades who suffered no fools, and not simply as Safir Vallaincourt. “Shall we begin? I’d like to review the details of our efforts to assist Eyraille, as well as discuss fortifications to our own borders.”

To the council’s credit, all proceeded according to the agenda. Liesefa Jahnst even spoke only when necessary, remarking upon safety measures, as well as what the kingdom was able to provide in terms of aid to Eyraille. No one questioned Tivia, although there were several wary glances in Hadwin’s direction, despite the fact that the wolf was lying down obediently next to Tivia.

It wasn’t until all items on the agenda were cleared, and Safir almost thought that the painful confrontations they’d feared wouldn’t come to pass, that he found himself sorely mistaken. “Your Highness. Might we have a quick word?” Jahnst asked, just as he was ready to take his leave, along with Tivia and ‘Puca’. “...alone, if you will.”

So this is it, the Prince of Blades mused. He schooled his face into a stony expression. “Whatever concerns you or the council might have, Lady Jahnst, you may express them in the presence of my fiancee.”

“While it is not untoward for the King and Queen to mutually attend to affairs of the council, Your Grace, Miss Rigas is not yet your wife. Please.” Liesefa clasped her hands in front of her and stood tall. “We will not keep you long.”

“...very well.” Safir turned to Tivia and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be but a moment, my dear. You may leave Puca with me.” He was confident the council would be less likely to present their discontentment  with him so openly in the presence of a wolf, and Hadwin obediently stood, no longer the passive animal he had seemed.

It was only in Tivia’s absence that Liesefa Jahnst introduced exactly the ‘concerns’ that he’d anticipated she would. “Your Grace… all of us here, on the council, could not be more elated that you’ve finally found happiness in love. However, we have reservations about Miss Rigas’s intentions…”

“Lady Rigas, if you please.” Safir interrupted, much to Jahnst’s annoyance.

The Minister of Justice and Safety only frowned. “Your Grace. Lady Rigas, as she has said, herself, secured a position as advisor to the Eyraillian King. And then, after the tragic death of your father, she now suddenly has eyes for you… does this not strike you as suspicious?” She raised her eyebrows. “The council fears she might have sought to take advantage of you, while you were at your most vulnerable. Clearly, she is one who values positions of power… Have you considered the possibility that her motivations have less to do with being your wife, and more to do with potentially being Queen?”

Potentially. Safir did not miss the Liesefa’s careful choice of words. As if there was no guarantee that Tivia would be Queen--because it wasn’t yet decided he would be Ilandria’s King. “Lady Jahnst, Ilandria is no stranger to political unions. Was it not proposed that I marry the daughters of several influential families when I was just a boy, including King Caris’ own sister, Vega Sorde?” Safir’s expression betrayed nothing. Jahnst was dangerous, but at least she was predictable. This was nothing they hadn’t anticipated. “The Rigases of Stella D’Mare are a family of old power and influence. Even if love were not part of the equation, both Ilandria and Stella D’Mare seek to benefit from this union.”

“Stella D’Mare is now occupied by Mollengarid,” Jahnst pointed out, in almost a pitying tone. “Ilandria stands to benefit little. It is only the Rigases who will find their status bolstered by such a close affiliation to Ilandria.”

“And the Rigases have just as much reason, if not more, to oppose Mollengard. Just like our new ally. Would you care to make your point clearly, Lady Jahnst? Puca is growing rather restless.” He motioned to the wolf who, as if he were in on this exchange, was beginning to show clear signs of agitation. “In anticipation of assuming my father’s position upon his throne, I must attend to the affairs of the people. With all due respect, the council has no say in my marital affairs.”

Of course, Jahnst didn’t have enough fodder, as of yet, to prove Safir was unsuitable for the throne--and she knew it. “...please accept my apologies, Your Grace. Know that myself and the rest of the council only want what is best for you.”

“Good evening, then.” With a curt nod, Safir turned and left, with Puca close on his heels. Tivia awaited him in the corridor, and was quick to take his arm and lean in. “The council suspects you… which means they also suspect me. But that was their only complaint, for now. And thank you for letting me borrow your wolf.” He hazarded a quick pat on Hadwin’s head. “Perhaps I do prefer dogs.”

As awkward as Caris anticipated it might be, explaining himself and his intentions to Nicodeme Canaveris, Sylvie’s younger brother, was, it seemed, his best option for the birthday gift he intended for the young woman. Once arrangements were made to rendezvous, he awaited the arrival of the even younger earth mage through the portal mirror, in a dusty, unattended room. “Welcome, Nicodeme Canaveris. I am much obliged that you would consider my request…”

Nico, it seemed, had questions of its own--many which the young King was not prepared to answer. “My--I beg your pardon?” There it was, that feeling of blood rushing to his face. Is that truly what everyone was thinking? That now that he sought to actually do something nice for someone (who just so happened to be of the opposite sex), it was only because he fancied the Canaveris girl romantically? What had ever become of the simple notion of chivalry, or expressing gratitude?! “Nicodeme… your sister has proven far more useful to me and my kingdom than I rightly anticipated. Her presence here has been nothing less of an asset, although of late, I fear the the dry chill of Eyraille’s landlocked mountains has taken its toll on her mood and wellbeing. It has also come to my attention that her birthday is approaching posthaste--am I wrong to assume D’Marians bestow gifts upon others for their birthday? Surely, not all gifts exchanged between men and women in light of such an event are interpreted as purely romantic gestures?”

He was coming across as defensive--but what did Nico expect, with the sudden demand for insight into his ‘intentions’? “...if you believe my gift to be ill-advised, then I would very much appreciate your take into what an appropriate gift might be. Birthdays in Eyraille are only optionally celebrated, to my understanding. I’ve never celebrated nor received gifts of my own for such occasions. Therefore, I am perfectly willing to accept that I am taking the wrong approach to this endeavor. Correct me if I am wrong, but there isn’t much that one of Sylvie’s status is lacking, or would otherwise desire in terms of a gift. However, she did express interest in having her own space for her textile crafts. There is more than enough room in this half-empty palace to fulfill such a wish. Perhaps you could accompany me, so that I might show you what I mean?”

The Eyraillian King took a rather roundabout route to the room in question, so as to avoid any obvious corridors that would cause him to cross paths with Sylvie yet again. “Word has it, you are quite the artist where it comes to landscapes, and you are familiar with Stella D’Mare’s unique view of the sea. I cannot come close to emulating in Eyraille what your older sister misses from her home… but, if you could paint a mural of the seaside, I imagine it would make her stay here in Eyraille much more tolerable. My intention is to make her feel welcome… even if my kingdom can no more feel like a second home than Galeyn can. Does that make sense?”

Caris wasn’t confident he’d convinced Nico that he wasn’t enamored of his older sister; but so long as the young man could keep a secret, and was willing to accept this commission, he supposed it really didn’t matter. “Of course, I fully intend to compensate you for your hard work. Whether you’re interested in simple currency, or other means of compensation, I can say for certain that you will regardless receive recognition among Ilandrian elites. My people… well, we have our skills, but we are not known for being particularly artistically-inclined… so.” The young King clasped his hands in front of him, suddenly nervous. “While I’ve been advised your uncle is also quite talented, I’m afraid commissioning him would be too obvious, and would spoil the surprise. I’m convinced you are best suited to this job… should you choose to accept.”

Now that the dangers of Liesefa Jahnst and her coterie were fully conveyed, Ari wanted to prioritize securing Safir’s bid for king more than ever. If she indeed was responsible for proposing the kill order of Master Alchemists, she posed a greater threat to the kingdom than at first surmised. It also meant that Nia, if Jahnst discovered her, would forever remain hunted, a wanted criminal in her own homeland.

Fervently, Ari continued to insist they campaign the following day—a brief appearance and speech in the town square, spaced hours in advance of the council’s meeting to afford Safir plenty of time to transition between roles. Instead, the Prince of Blades found it more prudent to take him shopping.

On any other occasion, the appeal to his materialistic side would win him over, especially as the outing concerned procuring a certain stone for a self-appointed time-sensitive engagement. However, Ari found himself questioning the practicality of this visit when a greater and even timelier threat loomed. 

“I should not have stressed the importance of sourcing this stone,” Ari said as they walked out of the jeweler’s shop together. While grateful to the Prince for arranging the meeting, and the jeweler for instilling hope that a natural source existed (and he was quick to offer his mining expertise if they acquired extra assistance in unearthing the semi-precious stone), Ari felt a touch guilty for distracting Safir from addressing more pressing matters. “Your assistance has been undeniably helpful and prompt, do not mistake me, but you’ve a lot pressing on your mind, at present. Unless,” he tilted his head, “organizing this brief excursion was as necessary for you as it was for me. If so, I understand the unavoidable desire to step away from the tonnage of insurmountable responsibility.” He thumbed his signet ring with its gold-embossed honeybee design, presented to him when he was appointed Canaveris Head. 

“Never has art been more of a sanctuary than during the tepid and tumultuous moments of my rule. Say,” a sudden idea sprung to him. He glanced at the sword strapped to Safir’s hip. “One method of reaching a divided audience is sharing what you love. If swordplay is your passion, why not consider a demonstration of your skill? It needn’t be a tourney or anything grandiose, but a few performative flashes of the blade here and there are bound to warrant the attention of even the ficklest of crowds. But I am getting ahead of myself,” he flicked a dismissive hand in the air. “Here you are thirsting for a reprieve and I am muddying the waters with talks of business. Forgive me. To answer your previous question,” he gave Safir a warm smile, “I would be honored if the rightful—and only—monarch of Ilandria were to attend our wedding. However much Nia might hem and haw and complain; good-naturedly, of course. I too am certain she would welcome you. I for one am heartened she has come around and resumed somewhat normal conversation with you. She promised me to behave, but beyond simple promises, I do believe she is genuine in wanting to repair vestiges of the friendship you once had. View me as optimistic if you’d like.” 

They traversed the short distance to the carriage, understanding the importance of emphasizing Safir’s royalty claim; not cheapening it by slumming it on the streets disguised as common folk. “Going back to the rings,” he said, once they were seated comfortably in the carriage, “perhaps I should adopt Ilandrian custom and create two. It depends on the amount of ametrine available to source, true, but I am quite taken by the idea. Though, I am acting in haste.” He shrugged sheepishly. “There is a possibility, however slim, that she will say ‘No.’”

As the subject inevitably turned to Safir’s instantaneous betrothed, Ari shook his head, aiming to commiserate. “If need be, I shall prop your weary form on stilts to sell the illusion of full functionality. In all seriousness—this is a group effort, and we have a dedicated team at your beck and call to ensure you look and behave your best. At the very least, you are not alone.”

Evening soon arrived, just shy of the scheduled hour of the council meeting. Tivia entered Safir’s office as requested, Puca leashed and loyally at her side. Trussed up in a gown of darker teal with flowing, diaphanous sleeves and a circlet of gold-sculpted laurel leaves, she flaunted her D’Marian heritage with a look most representative of the seaside city. Even Puca seemed adequately groomed, his ruddy coat taking on a healthful sheen.

“We’ve coordinated rather nicely, I must say,” she clicked her tongue in approval as she noted his kohl-rimmed eyes and gold paint. “This is no doubt Nia’s handiwork. Did she used to gussy you up in the past or is this your first time? Ah, no matter. I am prepared enough for tonight. As the daughter of a councilman who I would best describe as the male version of your Lady Jahnst, I’ve sat in on plenty of meetings. On a similar note, I am used to being an object of scorn by now, so this doesn’t faze me. To be fair, it also helps to have a wolf and powerful magic on my side. I invite you to borrow what you need. Whatever will strengthen your case.”

Aware of what was coming, Tivia extended her hand as he slid on a gold ring studded with diamonds like tiny stars. To sell their illusion, Safir must have gone out and purchased the rings, which was an expense, even for royalty. Spreading out her fingers, she examined the ring. It fit snug, but most importantly, it concealed the ugly inflamed patch of red she compulsively picked at for months. Even now, the small rash itched under the cool metal, prompting her to scratch and scratch to the bone, but she could only do it if she tossed the useless piece of jewelry aside. However fabricated, their engagement was still a commitment. It was real, and happening, and she hated how a simple ruse made her stomach roil and her cheeks flush with nausea. Her two realities, which she held separately thus far, were merging, clashing, and she could no longer ignore the sensations being evoked. At least it isn’t yellow topaz, she thought, tilting the ring so the lantern light departed, desaturating the warmth of the gold and the luminosity of the diamonds. This, I can tolerate. …I must.

“I hope you didn’t empty Ilandria’s coffers to purchase these rings,” Tivia said wryly, catching her second wind. “Don’t worry. I won’t keep this. As soon as you’re crowned king, I’ll arrange to break off our engagement and you can present the ring to someone more deserving.”

Not wanting to wallow in discomfort a moment longer, she took his hand in hers and, flicking the leash connected to Hadwin with the other, they headed for the council chambers; though one could hardly call it a den of wolves, judging by how they treated one of their ‘own.’

“You’ve nothing to fear from Puca,” Tivia said to the council member who recoiled from the large canine in his studded collar. She could hear in her head Hadwin chuckling at the combination of words she uttered. A bald-faced lie, if she ever sprouted one. And she would know. Cyprian Rigas never recovered from the fear and madness tailored just for him. “Unless you provoke him,” she amended, a disarming smile to ease her alarming statement. “As you can see, I am blind in one eye, and a touch deaf. He helps me to navigate. …Among other tasks.”

She let the implications hang in the air as she and the wolf took a seat beside Safir and listened to the proceedings in silence. She wouldn’t presume to inject her opinion when they didn’t view her as a welcome or appropriate addition, despite her role as liaison to the king of Eyraille. Hadwin, comparatively, oversaw everyone from his vantage point on the floor, gold eyes almost glinting with forbidden interest.

At times, the meeting was so simultaneously dull and raucous, she nearly pulled out her earpiece to bask in some much sought-after peace, confident she wouldn’t miss anything important. Eventually, the council members adjourned and filed out of the room, granting her cordial but cold nods as they exited. Neither she nor Safir were taken by surprise when Liesefa Jahnst approached him, decidedly unsubtle in the subject matter she wanted to broach with him—alone.

“No, I am not bothered, your Grace,” Tivia said, feigning cooperation and good manners, despite wanting to throw an irradiated disk of etherea at her face. “Some things are not for my ears. I shall take my leave.” Before she did, she stood before Jahnst. Their eyes met. Nothing demure or submissive reflected from her gray-eyed gaze, even if her pleasant smile remained. “We have not been properly introduced. My name is Lady Tivia Rigas. I believe the honorifics for nobility are the same here in Ilandria. As Minister for Justice and Safety, you know well the importance of etiquette as a form of ensuring relationships remain peaceful and just. I look forward to working with you in the future.” She handed the leash to Safir and whispered loud enough for Jahnst to hear, “Puca’s getting restless. I think he’s hungry.”

Indeed, after Tivia left, the wolf bent back his ears and curled his jowls to show a little teeth. Not a full-on snarl, but it was obvious to anyone in his vicinity that if Jahnst insisted on prolonging discussions, she would have to contend with a fussy canine.

“I take it things went well?” Tivia sidled close to Safir in the corridor, under the illusion of affectionate closeness. But as he whispered what she already suspected in her good ear, she nodded, and telepathically sent him her opinion. “We anticipated they would. I for one prefer their suspicion. It shows they intend to tread very carefully around you, lest they destroy the delicate alliances Ilandria has built. They know they can’t show me outward aggression as it will translate as aggression to Eyraille, Galeyn, and Stella D’Mare. They also know you’ve surrounded yourself with powerful allies. And powerful beasts. Speaking of,” She handed him back the leash. “Why don’t you keep him for the night?” she said, changing back to regular speech. “For protection. I’ve no doubt you’re capable with a sword, but it’s best to be always on your guard. He’ll warn you of intruders, at the very least. And don’t worry about his disposition,” she smirked as the wolf bumped his leg and grunted his approval for the head-pats. “He likes you.”

Given his proclivities toward solitude, many would argue that Nicodeme Canaveris knew precious little about the human condition. Growing up, he remained separate from his brothers and sister, preferring the quieter corner of the nursery to mix his pigments and immerse himself in the sweeping vistas outside his window. Unlike their uncle, he painted landscapes, each one curiosity devoid of people, as if they didn’t exist, or died off in a virulent plague, or never tread upon such pristine territory, for the act of a misplaced breath negated its purity. His brothers often teased him for the choices he made. “Why paint a city without anyone living in it?” Valerian, the most level-headed of his brothers, once asked.

“They do not have a place in my world,” Nico simply said, with a shrug.

Nico was not fond of people, but dislike did not equate to ineptitude on the subject. Therefore, King Caris’ scattered actions—the heat on his face, the hitch in his voice, the over-explaining—alerted Nico to a possible, and probable, conclusion. Somehow, within the short weeks of her arrival, Sylvie made an impression on the king, the same king everyone went through great pains to describe as surly, immature, cruel, and loveless. What had happened between them?

“I see,” Nico said, neither arguing Caris’ point of view nor agreeing with it. He merely accepted the answer like a painting; seen at face value, but recognized for its hidden depths. Some never found the depth. It was different for everyone. Still, it didn’t stop some people from forever searching for meaning within someone else’s universe, and trying desperately to absorb it into their own. “You are not wrong in your assumption, your Majesty. D’Marians celebrate birthdays. However, a Canaveris birthday becomes more opulent with age. In other words, Sylvie and I—for I am two years younger—would not receive any extravagant festivities until much older. Approaching middle age, or, more commonly, in our elder years. That is why I am curious about your intention, and how Sylvie might receive—and misinterpret—your kindness. I do not wish to undercut your generosity. Please, proceed with your original plan. My sister does love a party. I am only warning you about what you might expect from her as a result.” He paused a moment, considering. “Perhaps you have chosen correctly in requesting my artistry for this mural. Nothing kills a romantic mood more than directly involving family, especially a brother she despises. So if you truly do not want her to shoot you starry eyes, then I am more than happy to act as your buffer. Well,” he pressed his hands together, “let us see this room. I’ll give you my definitive answer once I see the space and what I have to work with.”

They were silent as they traversed the halls, which equated to the servants’ quarters, presumably to avoid a run-in with Sylvie. When they entered the chambers, Nico took a leisurely tour of the area, silently and mentally measuring the dimensions of the walls and calculating how much paint he would need for the endeavor. Finally, after what seemed like long moments of staring into space, he returned to Caris with his answer. “If you compensate me for the materials, and provide at least two helpers, then I accept your proposal. Sylvie’s birthday is in three days. I’ll stay in this room. I need only a mat and some bedding on which to sleep. To avoid encounters with Sylvie, have an attendant deliver all my meals. I will have to make a few trips through the mirror to gather my materials, but aside from that, I’ll be ready to begin as soon as tonight. We’ll talk of compensation once I’ve finished the job.” He bowed his head to the king, an Uncle Ari-approved, touchless version of a handshake. “Pleasure doing business with you, your Majesty.”

When it was decided that Hadwin would spend the night sleeping in front of Safir’s door to listen for intruders, he didn’t have a problem with the arrangement…at the time. Blithely, he went with the prince and obediently laid down where instructed. In terms of his mental health, he felt better than he had in weeks, and thought nothing more of it when he closed his eyes to rest.

Nightmares awaited him in sleep. Never dreams or darkness. Always he walked between vast chasms, his precipice like a tightrope. It wavered in strong winds, and he didn’t have the balance or dedicated skill of Briery to cross. Only the nerve, and the necessity. To refuse the crossing meant the cliff beneath his feet would crumble and he would fall forever into the abyss, behind rescue or saving, and beyond life and death. He would just be…lost.

Before he stepped onto the platform and made his usual crossing, the ground beneath him cracked, opening up huge fissures where he stood. This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon! He rushed for the platform, but it was too late. The ground gave way and he fell, fell, fell…

With a loud yelp, he shot awake. Looking around, he tried to gain his bearings. An unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar land. He tried to scramble to his feet, when he realized his legs lost their fur, and grew long and lanky. Similarly, his forepaws sported hands, and wide, splaying fingers. Somehow, in the midst of sleep, he reverted to a man.

Still dazed, he didn’t notice someone approached him from behind with a drawn sword until the blade was resting on the back of his neck. Everything came back to him in a flash. Ilandria. He was Puca, guarding the room of Safir.  The Prince of Blades.

Well, fuck.

“Ok, I know this looks really awkward, a naked man in your room and all,” he blurted, raising his hands in surrender, “but I’ve got an explanation for this, I swear. I’m not armed, obviously, so put down the sword and we’ll talk.” When Safir at least removed the sharp weapon from his neck, Hadwin scampered a few feet away and turned so that they faced each other. “That’s a start. So, I know I said I’d explain, but it’s better if I just show you. Chances are, you might have figured it out yourself,” he pointed to the spiked collar around his neck. As a human, it wound so tightly around its more muscular circumference, that it nearly throttled him.

A few rearrangements of his skeletal structure later, and he reappeared as Puca, the russet wolf and part-time dog.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” A little later, he was human again and sitting by a restoked fire, wrapped up in sheets Safir hurriedly threw him from the bedroom for decency. “I always meant to come clean. Staying as a wolf was easier at the time, and I’ll resume my role, no problem. Better that way. You know, for listening in on your enemies and all that. No one suspects a dumb beast. Oh, and don’t worry about the others—Nia, Ari, and Tivia know who I am. Hells, Nia and I are good pals. Something me and you have in common. Sort of.”

One arm slid out from beneath his protective sheaf of forced modesty. “Might as well introduce myself good and proper. My name—my real name—is Hadwin. Hadwin Kavanagh, at your service. But for you, you can still call me Puca, if you want.” At that, he gave a flirtatious wink. 

As much as Safir appreciated Ari’s support, and was heartened by the earth mage’s assertion that he would not be navigating these few weeks alone, the fact remained that he was still the key player (and target) in this charade. Certainly, Tivia would play a prominent role, and had already proven capable of toting this lie, but ultimately he was the one under scrutiny of his people--and the council. A lot relied on his ability to be as convincing as everyone else, and not to slip up verbally, or otherwise. For a man who had thus far lived nothing but an honest life (almost to a fault), this ordeal was more taxing than he could properly describe.

The Prince of Blades managed to maintain a stoic, stony countenance throughout the council meeting, and even in the face of Liesefa Jahnst’s ‘concerns’. But as soon as he left the council chambers, and the heavy doors closed behind him, exhaustion coloured his features, and he was glad to find Tivia was the only one to bear witness.

“It is only going to get worse from here on out.” Safir murmured his reply in Tivia’s good ear. The guise of being affianced was at least enough to provide an excuse for what appeared like public displays of affection, and no one would question their proximity. “Now that she knows I won’t be so easily influenced by her ‘advice’, she will turn to convincing the rest of the council that my opposition to her ideas is, in fact, defiance. And, failing that, she will then turn to the people. Ilandria is not like Eyraille, Tivia. We do not win our battles through brute force: we take enemies down systematically, and strategically. If Lady Jahnst does indeed plan to thwart my chances of securing the throne, then she will do so without invoking the ire or suspicion of our allies… and now she is convinced we have already made our move.”

The Ilandrian Prince looked over his shoulder, as if he expected the woman to materialize at the mere mention of her name, but they were still mercifully alone in the corridor. “We must be very careful, from this point forward, and pay close attention to what she does next. By no means can we let our guard down… and in fact, perhaps keeping a wolf in my quarters isn’t such a bad idea.”

Although assassination wasn’t something that had occurred to Safir (yet he had to admit, it wasn’t impossible), he couldn’t deny that keeping such a bold animal nearby would certainly dissuade anyone who might be entertaining the very idea of simply offing the next-in-line to the throne. After all, even if Jahnst wasn’t foolish enough to make such a reckless move, who was to say it was beyond her to hire someone else for the job?

When the Prince retired to his chambers, later that evening, he led ‘Puca’ by the leash, and into his suite, where he then removed the rope from the wolf’s collar. “I hope Tivia was right about you liking me,” he said to the animal, fully unaware that that animal was also a man, and could understand each and every word he said. “As confident as I am defending myself against an armed human, I can’t say I’ve ever had to fend off a wolf.”

More exhausted than he should have been, after a day predominantly spent with Ari, and then more temporarily with Tivia and the council, Safir was quick to wash the layers of make-up (care of Nia) off of his face, and carefully remove the clothes and jewelry that had been expertly selected by by Ari. He paid the wolf little heed, allowing it to quietly lounge in front of the fireplace in his bedroom. Puca didn’t exactly draw much attention to himself, and it made the Prince wonder just how Tivia had managed to tame a wolf as if he was a dog…

“Well… I guess it’s good night, then.” He said to the canine, patting its head before he donned appropriate nightclothes, and crawled into his bed, drifting off without another thought.

Safir’s first thought, upon being rudely awoken in the middle of the night, was that Tivia’s suspicion had come to fruition: someone did have the gall to try and take his life in his sleep. Fortunately, the Prince of Blades, living up to his name in many ways, never slept far from a sword. In a single, smooth motion, he transitioned from a prone state of unconsciousness, to springing quickly to his feet, blade in hand and pointed at the back of a man’s neck--or, more specifically, a naked man.

“Careful: your next move may well be your last.” The Prince’s voice, steady and deadly, cautioned the intruder. “I don’t know how you got in here, past the locked windows and doors, but if you care to tell me, I’ll either kill you quickly and mercifully, or spare you. Which it will be depends entirely on what you do or don’t do.”

The intruder, however, did have a point: he was very clearly unarmed, and aside from the sword pointed at the man’s neck, there were no other weapons in sight. Perhaps he hadn’t come to assassinate him, after all, but that still didn’t explain what the hell he was doing in the Prince of Ilandria’s private chambers. “Explain.” Safir demanded, and he slowly lowered his sword--but not his guard.

Fully prepared to run the intruder through at  his first suspicious move, Safir took a cautious step back as the stranger turned to face him. Fortunately, the dim light of the moon revealed little of his naked body, sparing the Prince of Blades secondhand bashfulness. As strange as it was that this person had somehow managed to find a way into his chambers without alerting anyone, it was far stranger that he wasn’t wearing any clothes…

The crease between Safir’s brows deepened. “Show me what? Wait…” What was around the man’s neck? It looked oddly familiar, though he couldn’t quite place how, or why. But it was only then that he realized something else of note. He hadn’t gone to sleep alone in his room, hours ago: the wolf had been there, sitting in front of the fireplace… But now, Puca was curiously nowhere to be found. 

Had Hadwin allowed it a few more seconds to sink in, Safir might have put two and two together. But before the thoughts could connect, the man’s body and bones shifted before his very eyes, until there was no other man at all--and Puca had returned.

Safir dropped his sword. “What--what in the actual hell…” Was he dreaming? Drugged? The Prince of Blades took a seat on his bed. “...and here I was wondering how the hell Tivia Rigas had tamed a wolf.” He almost laughed, but this situation didn’t even warrant ingenuine humour. Not only was he taken aback and thoroughly confused, but felt quite the fool for being kept in the dark. Tivia… what the hell were you thinking.

On the bright side, the wolf--well, man, whose name incidentally wasn’t Puca, but Hadwin, hadn’t been there to kill him. However bizarre this situation was, it wasn’t the worst case scenario, given that he wasn’t actually in danger. Once Safir had regained his composure (which was some time after Hadwin had shifted back to a man), he’d thrown a handful of sheets at the unclothed man, and led him out into the sitting room, where he somehow felt slightly less vulnerable. The change in scenery did little to assuage the belated embarrassment at the fact that he’d unknowingly undressed in front of a sentient being (and a man, at that), and it was only after pouring himself a half-glass of the spirits that King Caris had so reviled that he felt calm enough to address the shapeshifter in his presence.

“Yes. Of course, everyone else was fully aware of this. And I’m sure they didn’t tell me because they have any confidence that I can pretend to be engaged, let alone keep it a secret that my fiancee’s pet wolf is actually a pet man.” Safir snorted and collapsed on the settee opposite Hadwin. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest that Tivia and Nia had consciously made the decision to keep him in the dark. But it stung a little more that Ari had also allowed him to be deceived. Somehow, he’d thought the Canaveris Lord to be a little more like himself, someone who wouldn’t allow one he considered a friend to be played a fool, whatever the reasons might be.

“Well, I cannot begrudge Tivia her strategy. I can guarantee that no one in Ilandria will believe the animal in the room is actually a spy.” The Prince of Blades ran a hand through his hair. There was such irony in the fact that it was the middle of the night, and instead of sleeping, he was sharing his suite with another man who wasn’t wearing clothes… Oh, Nia would have quite the field day with this, should she learn of it--and she surely would, sooner or later.

“Hadwin, then. Well, since this is the first time we’re actually meeting, man to man…” Safir trailed off. Pleased to meet you didn’t quite suit the situation, but as one who had been brought up on propriety and politesse, he was completely at a loss as to how to handle the situation he was currently in. “...you know, I’m not even sure what there is to say, at this point. Do take pride in the fact you had me properly fooled. I cannot rightly blame you when I have a feeling Tivia was the mastermind behind this, and I can’t deny that it’s a strategy I wouldn’t have considered. And it just so happens that at this time, we need every possible ace hidden up our sleeves.”

Downing the remnants of the spirits in a single swallow, the Ilandrian Prince set the glass down heavily upon the table between them. “Well… I’d offer you clothes, but they won’t be of any use to you as a wolf. And if I was seen leading a wolf into my room, I am not about to stir rumours when another man is spotted leaving my room. So, Puca,” Safir stood and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable in front of the fire again--with fur and on four legs.”

Caris couldn’t help but furrow his brows at Nico’s insistence that such a grand gesture as what he planned for Sylvie would be misconstrued. From what he’d seen of the Canaverises (well, three of them, at this point), all devilishly well-dressed and wanting for nothing, he had a hard time believing that birthdays were not celebrated with extravagance until old age. Not that the younger man had any real reason to lie to him… or did he?

“...correct me if I’m wrong, Nicodeme, but I’m under the impression you are rather reluctant to accept this job.” A sudden realization dawned on the young king as he began to understand the situation from Nico’s perspective. A younger brother, with an older sister that many adored, and who had gained the favour of their uncle… Not a particularly unfamiliar story. In fact, it almost sounded vaguely relatable.

The Eyraillian King ran a hand through his blonde hair and sighed quietly, cerulean eyes fixed on the landscape beyond the windows of Sylvie’s would-be textiles workshop. “Let me frank: were this situation reversed, and someone asked me to do something of the like for Vega--provided I actually had any talent--I would probably only follow through on the threat of death as an alternative.” He snorted. As if there were anything he could do to Vega’s benefit… He was certainly no artist, but this was all hypothetical. “And, even on pain of death, I would probably put in minimal effort, or depending on how spiteful I was feeling, I might sabotage it altogether. I’ve lived in my own older sister’s shadow from the moment I was born. And, if you’re wondering, that didn’t change in her absence.”

It wasn’t often--if ever--that Caris Sorde felt he could relate to anyone, and even more seldom that he felt impelled to reach out over commonalities. But the way Nico insisted that Sylvie might interpret this as a romantic gesture, the young king couldn’t help but wonder if his ‘cautions’ were actually his attempt to get out of having to do this at all. As much as he needed the younger man’s help, he did have a contingency plan, just as Alster suggested. And he wasn’t about to make Nico commit to something he had no real desire to do.

“Just as much as I am offering you this job, please understand, I am equally offering you the space to refuse it.” Caris continued after a thoughtful pause, and turned to address Nico directly. “And if you are answering to someone else--which I suspect you are--then I am more than willing to provide an excuse on your behalf. After all, I’ve been known to change my mind at the drop of a hat.”

It wasn’t purely out of solidarity for their similarities (insofar as they were both spiteful younger brothers who grew up in the shadows of their older sister) that Caris chose to extend this courtesy to Nico. Primarily, if the younger man was reluctant to be a part of what was ultimately a gift for his sister, the Eyraillian King didn’t need him doing a crap job for how little he cared. However, even when offered the out, Nico still seemed willing, if not enthusiastic. Surprised, but not disappointed, Caris nodded. “Of course; whatever you need, I will make sure you have it. But you are more than welcome to have a proper bedroom, here; I would not ask you to confine yourself to this very room for slumber…”

Then again, Caris was not himself an artist, and thus, wasn’t well-acquainted with their eccentric natures. If Sylvie’s brother preferred to eat in sleep in his workspace, far be it from the young king to deny him. “While I cannot speak for Stella D’Mare, or even Galeyn, here in Eyraille, both parties typically settle on adequate compensation before before an agreement in made… but, as I’ve already showed my hand in declaring you my best option in a short timeframe, I have no choice but to trust your idea of compensation will be reasonable.” He sighed quietly. “In the interim, I’ll try to see if I can keep your sister busy enough not to get nosey. Otherwise, I’ll get to work at once to gather everything you require.”

The Eyraillian King almost crossed the threshold of the doorway, but at the last second, he paused. “...thank you, by the way. I realize this is all very last minute, and it is a tall order that isn’t all that appealing to you. But I hope, one way or another, I can make it worth your while.”

Hadwin never saw himself as a peacekeeper. Quite the opposite; he often poked sleeping lions and stood from a safe distance to watch them tear into each other, tooth and claw. Or, were he itching for a fight, stroll into the fray and admit his accountability. As Safir expressed his frustration over being left in the dark about the wolf who was also a man, Hadwin would take accountability, but in this rare instance, to prevent a fight.

“Nah, it’s not like that. Not really. It’s because I told them to keep mum. If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame me.” He drummed his fingers on his lap, patently avoiding the drink clutched in Safir’s hand. Nowadays, he seldom craved food, but when he thought about ale and swill, he couldn’t help but salivate. “I wasn’t exactly planned for in Tivia’s grand scheme. It just so happened I needed a way out, and she invited me to Ilandria.” A vague explanation, but the lack of detail spoke for itself. Hadwin didn’t exactly hide his haggard and worn-down appearance. The bags under his eyes, his underfed body, the mouth that refused to erupt into his signature shit-eating grins, full of mirth and mischief. What people saw was a half-drowned thing, staying afloat by some mystical undercurrent that kept him buoyed in the water. Because if it were up to him, he would have fallen under long ago.

“I wasn’t in the mood to deal with new folks, so I stayed a wolf, and Tivia accommodated my wishes. Hells, I flat-out told her she could use me as a device to spy for the crown. I’m handy in these kinds of scenarios, and not just because I can assume an animal form and watch from afar.” Typically one for meeting a challenge—and eye contact—head-on, it was only now that he raised his head and looked Safir in the eyes. “These eyes can see a lot,” he said cryptically, but didn’t venture to explain. “Anyway, it ended up as a symbiotic relationship between us. I’ll do her dirty work, and she’ll honor my request. But now that the cat’s out of the bag, after a fashion, my request is moot. Rather an accident that you saw me in the nude and as a man tonight, but I’ll make up for it and turn back to the ‘good dog’ you thought I was.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, the sheets threatening to slide off his shoulders. “I’ll let you in on a little secret though. Tivia ain’t no mastermind. She’s a slave to fate, just like the rest of us. She’s just really good at making the most of a bad hand. I guess that’s why I see her as a kindred soul because I’m the same way. You move some pieces on the board and hope for the best. She’s got that part down pat—the strategy—but I’m here to provide the spontaneity. Pretty appropriate you call me an ace, because I’m a gambler, and I’ll cheat my way to a winning hand if I have to.”

He relaxed into the settee and let loose a cavernous, jaw-splitting yawn. “Well, before this ‘pet man’ grows a tail and curls next to your fire,” his eyes sparked with amusement, “I’ll say you took this ‘reveal’ pretty damn well, all things considered! Only took one drink on your part to deal with it; not bad. And for the record,” his lips pressed into some semblance of a smirk, as if reading his mind (which, when it came to fears, were one in the same), “I was respectful; I never looked when you undressed.” Though I wanted to, he almost said. “I’m aware of your sterling reputation. You need to keep things clean until the coronation. No debauchery, no naked men romping around your room, no fun. Make yourself untouchable so no one can dig up dirt on you and wield it as a weapon. But to be completely transparent, I know what you crave, and it’s definitely not your fiancée, or anyone of her feminine caliber, for that matter.” Rising to his feet, he loosened the sheets around his concealed form. “Look or don’t look; I don’t care. Either way, I’m giving you a heads-up.” He dropped the sheets. They spooled around his feet, which in moments, became paws covered with fur.

While Nico had kept things professional and dared not bother the allegedly smitten king with diatribes about his sister, the lack of information hadn’t stopped Caris from making a connection, based solely on the relationship between their older sisters. As it seemed to please the king to commiserate in mutual misery, Nico didn’t clarify the fact that the situation concerning Sylvie was more complicated, and nuanced. In truth, he didn’t despise his sister. She acted in hostility first, and in self-defense, he followed suit. While she never targeted him in acts of casual cruelty or cutting words, she did something far worse, in his opinion. She pretended like he was not worth her time. If they crossed paths in the corridor, or were forced together by family events, she would nod in his direction to keep up appearances, but the moment the public’s gaze drifted elsewhere, she resumed her years-long game of, “You’re Dead to Me.”

Why, Sylvie? He wanted to ask her, so many times. You cannot ignore me forever. Eventually, we will need to discuss what happened that day.

Sylvie was his only sister and his only full-blooded sibling. Whereas their younger half-brothers had a surviving mother, self-involved, negligent twit she was, Nico and Sylvie had lost both parents. In that vein, they were the closest living kin to each other. They ought to have bonded in solidarity. Instead, they discarded the other like slurry dredged out of a riverbed, left to accumulate in piles, but never addressed.

“Oh, I am able to exact my vengeance in small, unnoticeable ways,” Nico supplied, swirling a finger experimentally on the bare wall. “Rest assured, I hide any signatures of artistic tampering. It is more for my amusement than as a vehicle to cause her grief. Above all, I have integrity. It is beneath me to sabotage my own work in defiance of another.” Not really, he thought, recalling the many paintings depicting grotesque, dying, and conventionally ugly things, which he could not allow to live or thrive in a world that would forever ostracize their existence. If he truly had integrity, he would not shy away from the subject matter he preferred to paint. Yet, fear of his own ostracism, of his grandmama, his uncle, his brothers following suit alongside Sylvie to diminish his worth kept him complicit in the devaluation of his true, but flawed, unloveable self. Perhaps being ousted from his family would not hurt so much, but the one person who supported him in cultivating his offbeat interests literally dispersed into the winds, and left him with nothing but a trail of broken dreams.

“In exchange for your honesty, your Majesty, I will admit my reluctance to undertake this project.” Nico stepped away from the wall and gave the king his full attention. “All the same, I am happiest when I paint, whatever the need and whoever the patron.” He refused to offer an additional reason, and perhaps the most important one; that Sylvie would recognize the labor he put forth in her name and cease casting him aside like a ghost. It was a far-flung wish. Credit for the mural would go first to the king for commissioning it, second to Nadira who forced him to paint it, and third to their uncle, who mentored Nico in his artistic pursuits. Realistically, he wouldn’t receive direct acknowledgement for his gift. “Separate from my sister, I view this as an opportunity to improve on my techniques. On that front, I am content to accept. I thank you for offering me an escape clause, your Majesty. It does not go unappreciated.” He bowed his head. “And to be clear, I delay compensation from indecision, not because I will ask more than you are willing to pay. As soon as I devise what I deem a fair exchange, I will inform you posthaste. As for my sister,” his lips curved into a smirk, “she is less likely to snoop around this area if there is an equal or greater distraction in the opposite direction. She is nosey by nature, as is her love for the flashy. The greater the spectacle, the better.”

After Safir’s surprise discovery of Hadwin’s true identity, the following morning saw the prince leashing Puca in preparation for meeting with the others in his study. Although the action was for appearance's sake, knowing now that the creature was not only tame, but intelligent, Hadwin sensed the hesitation in Safir’s movements, as if he second-guessed treating a man like a canine, even if, at that moment, he was one.

Once the awkwardness subsided (which wasn’t helped by Hadwin’s impatient nudges to just put the damn leash on him), they left for the short walk to his study.

Everyone was already waiting for him when he arrived.

Ari was the first to rise from his chair, his features grave. Though the type to smile and say good morning before conducting conversation, be it business or pleasure, the fact that he skipped the greetings didn’t bode well. “Your Grace, we cannot tarry a moment longer. We must go out and campaign before the council poisons the minds of the people. I’ve done the liberty of penning you a speech.” He pulled a rolled parchment out of his pocket as evidence. “We have all agreed that it should occur today. Tomorrow at the absolute latest. I know this news is not the first you want to hear so early in the morning, but it is only because swiftness is key to clinching an early victory. …What is wrong, your Grace? Did I overburden you?”

It turned out, Safir’s glum mood stemmed from an entirely different matter, and his accusatory glance was reserved mostly for Tivia. Gesturing to Puca on the leash, it became clear to everyone what had occurred last night.

“Well that’s a relief. Now we can end this charade.” Tivia said, unbothered by the incident. “Hadwin,” she detached the leash and unfastened his collar, “go out to the antechamber and make yourself decent. There’s a set of your clothes in a satchel I left for you. When you return, I’d like to hear your unique perspective on the council meeting.” Obediently, the wolf padded over to the askew door at the far end of the room where, incidentally, Safir had stored a significant cache of liquor. While he was gone, it became apparent that Safir was unsatisfied by Tivia’s lukewarm reaction and wanted proper answers. Or perhaps an apology.

“You had enough on your plate than to worry about unnecessary details you would have learned eventually. So you mean to tell me I should have waltzed in with a wolf on day one and loudly proclaimed, ‘I brought a wolf to help us; oh and by the way, he’s a shapeshifter?’” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her midnight blue dress. It was a slight departure compared to yesterday’s attire, but no less a grand addition to her queenly wardrobe. “I didn’t know for how long we would have him. I still don’t know. But he’s agreed to help for as long as he feels up to it.”

“This was not done out of a willful intent to deceive,” Ari stepped in, hoping to clear the air when Tivia’s explanation lacked remorse. “Hadwin is,” he lowered his voice to combat the wolf’s acute hearing, “troubled. We,” he indicated Nia, “assumed he would not be getting directly involved and did not reveal his identity as a means to protect his interests. In fact, I recommend that we do not involve him at all. At present, he is a danger to himself and cannot be left alone. Were I you, I would send him home, before he causes irreversible damage.” 

“Being in Galeyn worsened his condition. He’s better off here,” Tivia argued. “If we send him back, he truly will become a lost cause. And might I add,” she raised an eyebrow at the elephant in the room, “Nia has been nothing but a risk to herself since coming to Ilandria and yet you’re perfectly fine with letting her stay here, despite her status as a fugitive.”

Ari’s face puckered into a glare. “Let us not bring others into your flawed argument. This is not a one-to-one comparison. I presume you care only for your charge’s health so that his skills may be useful to you?” 

“Call a spade a spade. I am fucked in the head.” It didn’t matter how softly they spoke; Hadwin heard them. Before Tivia could find a rejoinder, he swept into the room wearing a simple undershirt and trousers. No shoes. Perhaps because they were concerned for his mental health, he successfully resisted the temptation trap of the liquor cabinet glowering right before his impromptu dressing station. “Look, I understand perfectly well that investing in me is a risk. I’m a ship, sailing adrift without an anchor, completely at the mercy of the weather. So,” he spooled back his rusty hair from his forehead in some semblance of order, “if you want me to turn tail, I’ll go. But just to clear the air, I’m here of my own free will, lending a hand—or a paw—to help.”

“I for one would like to hear what you learned about Ilandria’s intrepid council members,” Tivia said, ignoring everyone else’s would-be protests for enabling Hadwin’s “delusions.”

“Sure thing. Here’s my parting gift. You wanna know about my ‘unique perspective,’ so here it is.” He stood across from Safir, the only one in the room who didn’t know about his special abilities. “Jahnst or whatever the hell you call her—the power she holds only goes as far as her reputation. I take it she has a fair amount of respectability among other members of the council. She seems the type to rule by fear, and the best antidote to fear, in my opinion, is laughter. Belittle her. Humiliate her. Make it damn obvious that her iron hold is collecting rust. Get her to feel her age, her irrelevance—because that’s what she fears most. Time. She knows this is her last chance to make a move before she ages out and falls to obsolescence. Once the crown is claimed, it’s a damn sight harder to wrest it off your head,” he jutted his chin at Safir.

“And if you need more than that, then I’ll give you a comprehensive run-down of the council and their greatest fears. Knock down her supporters like dominoes and she’ll have nothing on you if she’s fighting alone in the end. But,” he rolled his shoulders lazily, “that’s my two cents. Fear is my currency, after all, Prince of Blades.” He fixed his golden eyes on him, unwavering. “I can see it like ripples in a pond. I don’t get a clear reflection of who I’m looking at because the ripples never cease. And folks wonder why I have a distorted look at the world, but it’s not false, what I’m seeing. Fear is everywhere, like the wind. It’ll never stop whistling through the trees.”  

Much though Safir appreciated Hadwin’s candour, and the transparency he offered in light of this very unprecedented situation, it wasn’t much of a comfort to learn that Tivia was decidedly less in control than she liked to let on. Here, he’d been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt regarding her intentions for withholding information. After all, he would be the first to admit he was a terrible liar, and the fewer falsehoods he was required to tote, the more convincingly they might pull off this ruse. But if what Hadwin was saying was true (and he spoke far too plainly to suggest he was in any easy stretching or embellishing the truth), and Tivia was far less in control than she was letting on… 

The Prince of Blades drained his glass of spirits to stop his thoughts in his tracks. He was already in too far, fully committed to Tivia’s scheme, that there was no turning back from it. Safir wasn’t sure it was even possible, having already established the farce that he was engaged to an upstanding D’Marian woman. Calling it all off would be about as useful as cutting off his nose to spite his face.

“Nothing within the ordinary has occurred, since King Caris sent Tivia Rigas to reach out to me and my kingdom on his behalf.” He shook his head slowly, battling the urge to refill his glass. He couldn’t go forward with tomorrow while battling a hangover, no matter how tempting in the face of surprises, such as the one he faced now. “My best friend, who I’d assumed must have been dead, reappeared after more than a decade… and my own council--well, my father’s council has secretly been waiting for the opportunity to take me down for a while, it seems. At this point, a wolf who is actually a man is no longer beyond the realm of what I am apt to expect.”

It might have been the spirits, drawing blood closer to the surface of his fair skin, although the timing of the flush that found its way up Safir’s neck, over his cheeks and across was impeccably timed to Hadwin’s final comments. Had the wolf-man read his mind? Or was he really just that predictable, as easy to interpret as an open book? Perhaps it went hand-in-hand with his staunch adherence to honesty. If Hadwin was only saying what everyone else was thinking, but was otherwise too polite to articulate… then the Ilandrian Prince would do well to become a better liar. “I beg your pardon?” He hissed, feeling the denial in his own voice as plainly as he wore it on his face as he rose to his feet. “You know…. I think I’ve had enough.”

Safir turned his back on the wolfman, trusting him to resume his animal form as he returned to his bedchamber and closed the door. But with humiliation simmering beneath the surface of his skin, sleep did not find him again, that night.

When dawn broke some hours later, and the Prince of Blades could no longer chase the prospect of rest, Safir splashed water on his face and dressed in attire of muted blue, an outfit that had been pre-approved by Ari. The Canaveris Lord had taken the liberty of going through the Prince’s wardrobe to suggest and set aside certain combinations of tops and bottoms, with a few additional accessories that he deemed flattering for Safir’s hair, skin, and eye-colour. This had saved the both of them the trouble of having to reconvene every morning to decide how the Prince of Blades might present himself to his public. Although beyond the earth mage’s suggestions, poor Safir was still otherwise hopelessly ill-adapted when it came to coordinating colours and styles.

After splashing water on his face and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he made for the sitting room, where he’d hoped to find Hadwin--not because he wanted to see the deceitful shapeshifter again, after the rude awakening last night, but in hopes that he’d returned to his wolf form. The last thing Safir needed was to be forced to explain why a grown man that no one in the palace (save for his guests) recognized was leaving his room first thing in the morning. To his great relief, Hadwin remained in his wolf form, obedient, if not slightly unsettling.

“So Tivia really sees no qualms with putting a leash on a creature she consciously knows to be a man?” He asked, obviously without expecting Hadwin to answer, as he fastened the leash back onto the ‘wolf’s’ collar--though not without his own sense of awkward discomfort, especially following their conversation from the night before. 

Then again, he also wasn’t aware of the other… ‘arrangements’ that existed between Tivia Rigas and Hadwin Kavanah. Nor did he know the faoladh well enough to suspect that he might like that collar.

When the Prince of Blades arrived at his office, he wasn’t particularly surprised to find Ari, Nia, and Tivia already waiting for him. With Tivia now declared his ‘fiancee’, he had already given her clearance to enter at her will--and take anyone she deemed useful to the cause. All three seemed raring and ready for business, including Ari, who was eager to begin campaigning in earnest. However much his urgency was warranted, Safir’s face clearly depicted that the Prince of Blades was very much not in the mood to win anyone over, and the earth mage picked up on the way the atmosphere soured upon his arrival quite quickly.

“My apologies, Lord Canaveris. I found myself unable to achieve adequate rest last night, and I fear neither your exquisite taste in clothes, nor Nia’s skills with hair or coloured pigments can sufficiently hide this fact.” His green eyes flicked to the ‘wolf’ on a leash, at which point the reason for the Prince’s unrest became very clear. “In the middle of the night, I was rather surprised to find the wolf who’d followed me into my chambers was curiously absent… and in his place, there was a man.” Those tired, now mistrustful eyes settled on Tivia. “Might I ask--when, Lady Rigas, were you planning to divulge the true identity of your ‘pet’? Or was it just easier for all of you to keep me in the dark? Never in my life have I felt such a fool… no less among those whom I considered allies and friends.” His eyes then turned on Ari and Nia, albeit with decidedly less ire, and a touch more sadness.

Although Tivia exhibited little to more remorse, Ari’s apology was decidedly genuine. Something that Nia’s usually smiling face also mirrored in the form of a frown. “Hey, having Hadwin here was decidedly not my idea--nor was it Ari’s. We were taken off guard just like you, Saf. Well… perhaps just a little less, considering we were already well aware he’s not only a wolf. But, while Tivia’s methods might at times seem… questionable,” she glanced sidelong at the star seer, with whom she shared a particularly tumultuous and uncertain alliance. “I doubt it was her intent to pull a fast one on you, either. Hadwin’s my friend, and she’s right, he’s been unwell for a while. He… lost someone particularly close to him. Not unlike you.” The Master Alchemist’s frown softened. “If she says he’s here because he was not doing well being left alone, then I believe that’s as stalwart as any Ilandrian truth.”

Just as soon as she defended the star seer, however, Tivia saw fit to take a direct hit on her, implying that her presence in Ilandria was just as dangerous (if not moreso) than Hadwin’s. Nia bit the inside of her cheek and narrowed her brown eyes at the star seer. “...actually, nevermind. I take it back; Tivia’s a manipulative bitch, and you work with her at your own risk. This is--this was my fucking home.” She added bitterly. “And it’s my choice to be here. You’re welcome to pretend to have nothing to do with me if that makes you feel better, but you do not get to dictate the terms of my return, however much you’re convinced I shouldn’t be here.”

Safir had already had enough, and opened his mouth to put an end to all these excuses and the bickering, but Hadwin--who returned wearing human skin and clothes--beat him to it. “I’m more interested in hearing what you’ve observed than listening to any more bickering and excuses.” He seconded Tivia’s notion, and listened patiently as the shapeshifted explained what he’d gleaned from Liesefa Jahnst, and the remainder of the council. Suddenly, it very much made sense to him, how Hadwin had so quickly picked out his deepest insecurities and darkest secret. Of course, the Prince of Blades’ greatest fear was that of being true to himself and true to his heart, knowing well that breaching conformity and kingdom wide expectations for him might earn him the scorn of his people… or worse. 

“While what you say holds merit, knowing what I do about councillor Jahnst… what you are suggesting is incredibly dangerous.” The Ilandrian Prince commented with a skeptically furrowed brow. “A direct attack on her, such as subjecting her to humiliation or calling into question her integrity… I don’t even want to think about what she might resort to in retaliation. She has had a place on the council for far longer than I have, and her connections extend beyond my own, even if her power does not.”

“Be that as it may… What makes you think any retaliation on her part wouldn’t be dangerous? I think Hadwin has a point here, Saf.” Nia interjected, schooling her face into a grim expression that mirrored the reality she believed her friend might face. “Sooner or later, whether or not you’re prepared to take it, that bitch is going to strike. You might as well land the first blow to make sure she’s incapacitated before she gets back on her feet and strikes back. You’re a swordsman, aren’t you? Isn’t there some theory that ‘offense is the best defense’?”

Safir sighed heavily through his nose. “When the offense is calculated and capable of disarming, then yes. That philosophy stands. But never in my life have I ever sought to cut someone down or make an example of them for my own gains. It is out of my character… and all of Ilandria knows it. I’m not my father.”

“...then therein lies your problem. Well, our problem, because regardless of what you think, we are in this with you. Saf… I am only ever going to say this once. And I can’t believe I’m saying it at all, so you’d better listen.” Nia pushed herself away from the Ilandrian Prince’s desk, closed the distance between them, and reached up to cup his face in her hands. A gesture that might have easily been perceived as intimate, if everyone in the room did not know otherwise. “You’re no match for the scheming council as Safir Vallaincourt: but they will have met their match against the Prince of Blades. It’s time you really live up to all the connotations of that name. Even… if it means being a little more like your father.”

Understandably, Safir was taken aback by the comment, if for no other reason than because it had come from Nia. “I… can’t do that.” He breathed, looking as defeated as he did shocked. “I can’t pretend to be any further from myself than I already do, when addressing Ilandria…”

“When it comes to the people, listen to Ari. Heed his counsel for your campaign. But you need to show a different version of yourself to the council--and to Jahnst. They’re going to fuck with you because they know they can, and they aren’t afraid to do it. So…” The Ardane woman dropped her hands from the prince’s face. Something about her expression darkened. “Make them afraid. You already have the means of knowing how to do it.” She nodded to Hadwin. “You have the advantage--so use it.”

Safir pressed his lips together and stepped aside, pinching the bridge of his nose. “...so you want me to be ruthless.”

“I do. But only to Jahnst, and anyone else on the council who dares threaten you. Because they aren’t going to hold back toward you, Saf. I get it: you don’t fight dirty. But they will, and honest sportsmanship isn’t going to cut it.”

“I understand--really, Nia, I do. But to tote yet another farce--”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Safir. It doesn’t have to be a farce. You can be honest with yourself, if you’d let yourself be. Tell me: how do you feel about your… ‘fiancee’, right now?” She raised her eyebrows and gestured to Tivia. “Or rather, how did you feel when you walked in here this morning, knowing she purposely and unabashedly didn’t tell you the truth about her wolf pet?” Nia stepped back and folded her arms. “Say it: in your own words.”

“How did I feel? I was pissed off, Nia. Frankly, I still am--all of you, for Tivia did not brandish this lie of omission alone. You’ve all hurt and disappointed me, to put it plainly.” The Prince of Blades frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Yet I fail to see what being angry with the lot of you has to do with anything.”

Nia held up a hand all of a sudden. “Hold it--right there. That’s what I’m talking about. You can get angry with your friends. So what about Jahnst? Has she really done nothing in all her time on the council to incite your ire? Can you think of no reason to show her the face you’re showing us now? Goddamn--be angry, Safir! I know you’re capable of it, and I know if you really leaned into it, you could be fucking terrifying. Jeez…” The Master Alchemist looked between the Ilandrian Prince and the Canaveris Lord for a handful of seconds, and heaved a long-suffering sigh. Funny, that Safir was not the only one who struggling to lean into and embrace anger as an entirely justifiable--and useful--emotion. “You know, it’s scary how similar the two of you are, sometimes… But at least think about. For now…”

The Ardane woman gestured to the seat in front of Safir’s desk. “Sit down and let me do something with your hair. And we need to do something about the circles under your eyes, before you set out with Ari to put your best foot forward.”

Safir hesitated, but not because he was not on board. On the contrary, Nia had touched on something he hadn’t thought about: that he really did have a reason to be furious with Liesefa Jahnst. After all, she was indirectly responsible for Ilandria’s massacre and maiming of its Master Alchemist population. She was indirectly the reason for the fall of Nia’s family, and why Nia had to flee. She was the reason why Nia, as things stood, was not safe in her own home…

His childhood friend was right. He was angry: and he could never forgive Jahnst for what she’d done. And her policies, which had resulted in the still-active warrant for Nia’s arrest, was precisely the reason he could not lose entitlement to his father’s crown.

“Just… go a little easier on the coloured pigments, this time.” Safir requested with a sigh, before taking a seat and letting Nia get to work.

Feeling as satisfied and secure in his arrangement with Nico as he possibly could, under the circumstances of a tight timeframe, Caris obliged the young artist’s every request. In no time, Nico had his assistants, his materials, and his everything set into place to ensure Sylvie did not happen upon what he had in store for her. However, knowing that the Canaveris girl had already grown comfortable enough within his home that she didn’t think twice to wander into places where she didn’t belong, the Eyraillian King quickly came to the conclusion that the only means of keeping her securely out of the way was to keep her busy.

As soon as the next day, Sylvie would suddenly find herself with far less downtime on her hands. Caris’ instructions sent her further beyond the palace to consult with the condition of the refugee families, and kept her longer at the foothills where they would eventually prepare to mine. Even her riding lessons would become more thorough, as he’d given direct orders to her instructor to be a little less easy on her, and insist she try again and again to correct a mistake until she got it right. At the end of the day, by the time she returned to the palace to dine in the evening, it was his hope that she would simply be too exhausted to go exploring, and that she would simply retire at her earliest convenience.

Incidentally, Caris was not so emotionally stunted as to be unaware of the possible consequences of increasing her responsibilities. Without a doubt, it would piss her off; and she’d already made it clear that she suffered no fools, even if the fool was a king. But if the worst case scenario entailed enduring her heated diatribes in his office, once again, then that wasn’t something he couldn’t endure. After all, the young King of Eyraille was used to experiencing direct hatred from all angles: from his staff, his people… hell, even from his family and friends. In fact, he was so used to it that he’d learned to lean into it, and use other’s ire to his advantage when circumstances permitted.

So, then… why did the thought of falling out of favour with Sylvie Canaveris, even if only temporarily, bother him?

Sure enough, that very evening, there was a knock at the door of his office. “Your Majesty. Lord Canaveris’s niece requests an audience with you.” A sentry announced, looking a tad uncertain. “Has she scheduled a time to speak with you? Or should I turn her away?”

“No! I mean…” Caris very narrowly curbed his urgency. Better to have her here, where he knew where she was, than to have her wandering about. “I am not currently preoccupied with dire tasks. The girl may speak.”

Moments later, Sylvie was escorted inside, and left alone with the King when the sentry took his leave and closed the door. “Miss Canaveris. What can I do for you?” Despite that Caris’ heart was already in his throat, he managed to keep himself astonishingly composed. Perhaps that had to do with the fact Sylvie’s current attire leaned more practical than it did revealing, today… and the fact that there was an entire desk between them. “What of the status of the refugees? And of preparations for the mines, for that matter? I hope you have time, because I am interested in hearing the details--which I assume is why you’re here, anyway.”

If she was already too tired to go poking her nose into business she shouldn’t know about, then he might as well finish off the day by keeping tabs on her. It was astonishingly easy to fall back into old rhythms, speaking to her as if he had never embraced her while she’d cried on his shoulder, or like she’d never pressed her frightened body up against his back as they’d taken to the skies on Kalaur. So easy, in fact, that he almost wondered if he had successfully shaken his petty infatuation with Sylvie Canaveris. He almost wished Nico were there to bear witness, so as to convince the young man that he truly didn’t harbour any romantic thoughts for his older sister. Although, why Nico’s assumptions about his intentions still bothered him… well, that was anyone’s guess. Or was it?

Perhaps Caris was simply afraid that Nico was right.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Hadwin, who was first to speak up after Nia’s encouraging speech, quirked a smile at her in support. “Nia is dead right on target, and she knows you well, to boot. Better than anyone else in this room. With a council this into scheming, you can’t be seen as a pushover. Here you’re focusing on the noble pursuit of truth, but you gotta go mucking in the murky underside, too. Otherwise, can you really stand for your morals if they fall apart at the first sign of danger? And if you don’t scoop up the slime and fling it first, sure as shit they’re gonna land the first blow, and it’ll be you who’s covered head to toe in the very thing you tried so damn hard to dodge.”

He picked up the collar his wolf form donned moments ago, running fingers along its spiked edges. “Since you claim to like the truth so much, here’s something for you. This ain’t a fight you win by evasion. This isn’t an endurance game. No ‘Last Man Standing.’ Here’s another hard truth. You keep secrets, too.” He raised a knowing brow. “You’re not honest, least of all with yourself. So why should you expect others to fight with honor if we’re all such goddamned dishonest pieces of shit? Take ‘em down without guilt, cuz they won’t spare you a thought when you’re on the ground at sword-point. If you don’t plan to oust me, use me.” He stretched his arms out wide. “Man or wolf, I’m plenty scary, and I’ve got other methods that’ll come in handy. Y’know, in case you need to stop a few folks dead.”

“By ‘dead,’ he doesn’t mean that literally.” Tivia supplied, careful to remain neutral and unfazed. “But it’s not pleasant, either. I can attest. He drove my father insane and…” she hesitated, a slight tick appearing in her otherwise inscrutable expression. Hadwin was not fooled.

“Poor sod was fucked either way. I just pushed him there faster. Sorta like what we’re doing here, eh? Our wimpy time frame’s forcing us to cut corners. So say the word,” he tilted his head to Safir, “and I’ll bring in the nightmares. It’s what I’m good for. Well…fucking, too, but I can’t sleep with everyone on the council. Especially when I’m supposed to be incognito.” He placed the dog collar into Safir’s hand and winked. “As you can see, I'm willing to do anything. Chains and collars—the works. Anything is possible when you’ve surrendered the last shreds of your dignity long ago.”

Fortunately for Safir, and whoever else grew uncomfortable with Hadwin’s blatant innuendo, Nia turned her attention to inciting the Prince’s anger—or lack thereof.   

“Pardon?” Ari frowned at Nia’s comparison, to say nothing of how she had placed her hands over Safir’s cheeks. It wasn’t jealousy that fueled him, but inadequacy. If we are similar in your eyes, am I no better than a replacement for someone you can not have? Intrusive thoughts aside, he cleared his throat. “Are you implying I cannot show anger? I can, under controlled circumstances.”

“Psst,” Hadwin scoffed. “Anger is spontaneous. If you’re controlling it, that’s not the same thing. It’s gotta be triggered like a blow to the face, not curated like a fine painting. ‘Controlled’ is performative. Use that for the campaign. For a battle, anger’s your friend. It’ll get shit done.”

“Anger is all well and good, but don’t waste your energy directing it at me for every little infraction,” Tivia said, crossing her arms. “Do remember. I’m a star seer. There are secrets I must keep. If I told you any of them, chances are high you’d still want to wring my neck.” 

“Goddammit, why are we still fighting about this?” Hadwin growled. “I’m the one who asked you all to keep a secret. If we want to present a strong front here, first thing you do is stop throwing everyone under the table. That includes you, too, Lady Starbright.” He waved a hand at Tivia. “Like we’ve established before, we’re all packing secrets.” He gave Safir another pointed look. “No one’s on the high and mighty righteous path here. So pipe down and aim your anger in a productive direction.”

Tivia seemed to consider Hadwin’s words a moment, before turning to Nia. “I never said you shouldn’t be here. I advocated for you to come here, if you remember.” Just a few weeks ago, Tivia had approached Nia in her Eyraillian quarters and asked if she would return to Ilandria at the behest of her distant friend. While negotiations went about as well as her diplomatic tact, which was nonexistent, Tivia opted for a hands-off approach around Nia, whose volatile nature made it impossible to corral into the appropriate enclosure. “Now you’re calling it home when you wanted nothing to do with it a short time ago. But yes, it was ‘your’ choice. Solely your choice. Forgetting the fact that free will doesn’t exist and our choices are never our own, I wasn’t making any damning inferences about you,” she sighed, trying to rein in her blunt, and thus easily misinterpreted, tone. Despite the words others misconstrued as harsh, Tivia didn’t despise Nia. Hells, she didn’t hate Hadwin, either. Not anymore. “Factually put, you’re not some paragon of mental or physical soundness at the moment, and it’s dangerous for you to be here. So what’s another danger? What’s another sprinkle of madness when our options are so few and time is running out? If these plans see us through to the coronation, then fine. I’ll accept ‘Manipulative Bitch’ as a title of high honor.”

“Oh, so that means you want me to stay. I’ve got one endorsement.” Hadwin surveyed the rest of the room. “What of the rest of you?”

With some hesitation from Ari, it was settled that Hadwin would remain in Ilandria, at least until the coronation. After he shared his list of the council members and the panoply of their fears, ranging from the simple (dogs, drowning), to the complex (war, poisoned food), Hadwin returned to the back room and reverted to his wolf form, allowing Tivia to attach the collar and leash without fuss. “Well then,” Tivia curled the leash around her hand, “I’ll leave the three of you to the campaign trail. Hadwin and I will stay and observe the council. Pick out potential allies and the weak-hearted. Those who are easily swayed. Or spooked. We’ll report back on our findings at the end of the day. Good luck out there.” Her face softened. “None of you may like me, but I only ask you to trust that my goals are aligned with yours. Whatever secrets I keep are for a reason. I’m,” her mouth twitched as a difficult word formed on her lips, “sorry I can’t be more forthright, but I refuse to influence a bad outcome. This isn’t a game for me. I take no pleasure in any of this.” She held up her left hand, Safir’s matching diamond ring glimmering on her finger. “And for the love of all that is good, Safir, everyone in this room already knows about your romantic preferences. Among us, you can hardly call it a secret. I say this so I make myself clear that I am not putting on this charade because I fancy you or believe you to fancy me. Nor do I have any interest in scrambling for your throne. In the grand schema of the universe, it’s such a tiny, inconsequential thing to want. So no need to worry.” With Hadwin in tow, she made for the door. “My ambitions are elsewhere.”

When the two of them left, Ari sat back in his chair, massaging a sore spot on his temple. “While I do apologize for being an unwilling and unwitting conspirator in this latest bout, you may be happy to hear that you are not the only one in possession of a headache.” Lowering his hand, he reached for the parchment, which he had settled on Safir’s desk. “I realize you may still be cross with me, but I must reiterate the importance of our campaign. While Nia prepares your cosmetics, we shall go over your speech. It is a short one, I assure you, with plenty of opportunities to address the crowd and demonstrate your formidable skills with a sword.”

They set off to the city center within the hour, Safir attired in one of Ari’s pre-chosen outfits and lightly dabbed with Nia’s face pigments. As always, the ametrine brooch took its position of honor on his lapel. During the short carriage ride, Ari continued to instruct him on memorizing the highlights of his speech, complete with the appropriate inflection and hand gestures meant to invite and beckon the crowd. “In my varied experience, I find that the words you speak mean less than their execution,” he said. “Worry less about the content and more about the message. How do you aim to reach your people? What is the one takeaway you wish them to remember after your speech? In that vein, strive to be memorable. You lose an essential element of engagement if you simply read off a parchment. As a matter of fact,” he wrenched the parchment from Safir’s hands and rolled it back into his pocket, “you no longer need this.”

As the carriage lurched to a stop, Ari swung the door open and encouraged Safir to step out of his zone of safety. “The town square is the ideal platform. No need to worry about attracting a crowd, either. I guarantee they will come flocking here the moment you step outside and begin to speak. You are not alone in this.” He indicated himself and Nia. “We shall implant ourselves in the crowd. As…what is the term the wolf-man uses sometimes? Ah,” he slapped his hands together in recollection, “as ‘shills.’ In case you need extra support and direction. I know we do not exactly ‘pop,’ as it were,” he indicated the drab-colored tunic he opted to don for blending in the background, a begrudging choice for the Canaveris Lord, but a necessary one for the sake of discretion, “but look to us if you require assistance. I have faith, either way, that you will make an impact, however small. Sway one person to your cause today and by a week's time, one will become many. This much I believe to be true.”

Unbeknownst to Sylvie, her estranged brother was taking up residence several hallways from her sleeping quarters. Not like she made much use of them over the last handful of days. At first, she believed her intensified workload was Caris’ misguided attempt to shock her into normalcy after her long spate of depression. But as her tasks steadily increased, she began to question her initial beliefs. Back in her quarters, he seemed understanding of her limitations and permitted her to take on as little or as much as she saw fit. Had he changed his mind about giving her free rein?

In the beginning, she didn’t complain. To compensate for her layabout behavior, she doubled her efficiency, determined to be seen again as an asset and not a liability prone to bouts of melancholy in her room. By the third day, however, the workload was starting to wear on her. Long hours of riding lessons stiffened her muscles until she ached, to the point where she could hardly walk. During the day, she hobbled from place to place, coping with the exhaustion with the help of stimulant teas so strong, they left a bitter aftertaste lingering on her tongue.

A few good developments happened during her marathon work schedule, at least. She successfully broke ground on the evacuation tunnel system outside the city and even carved out a few extra caves for the refugees to shelter for the winter. Having lost their window to retreat into the mountains before snows filled in the pass and too fearful of returning to their ransacked neighborhood, they were grateful to Sylvie for providing them an enclosure free from the biting cold when tents were hardly effective during blizzard conditions.

She shouldn’t have defined the second development as ‘good,’ but her days had left her so spent that she hadn’t the energy to contact her father. The second she retired to bed, enrobed in furs and downy sheets, she fell asleep immediately. Fortunately, she couldn’t spare a moment of guilt when the following morning shoveled an extra load of responsibilities to parse.

This…is becoming unsustainable, she thought, finally at her wit’s end. How does he expect me to have a working set of legs when all is said and done?

She managed to obtain an impromptu audience with Caris that evening. Even if he denied her entrance, she would have rattled the doors open with her magic and demanded to be heard. Blessedly, he wasn’t a complete idiot to deny her entry.

“Good evening, your Majesty.” By permission of the palace guard, she slipped inside, forging a curtsy. “I would genuflect and show my due respect as is proper, if only I had the mobility to do so. Stiff as I am, I am afraid you will receive only this much.” She gave a curt bow of her head. It wasn’t out of respect, however, that she refused him eye contact. “Yes, my lessons are progressing such that I have made up for my absence. Several-fold, in fact. And the refugees are relocating to the caverns for the winter while I lay the groundwork for the tunnels. Everything has returned to schedule, per your design. Before I delve into my report proper, I would ask you how long you intend on pushing this strenuous agenda? I am a Canaveris and as such, do not tremble from toil and labor, but I would ask for enough time to draw myself a bath in the evening to wear off the rigors of the day. I do not require much, but at this grueling rate, I fear I shall again be rendered bedridden for different reasons entirely.”

She glanced at the front pocket of Caris’ doublet, wondering if the handkerchief she’d returned him was sitting inside, or if her extra flourishes sickened him and he tossed the offensive piece of fabric aside out of disgust. Perhaps it explained his change of demeanor around her, and the end to his leniency. That, or he was still fuming over the unintended blow to his jaw that left him bleeding and with a fat lip. 

“If it pleases you, I would negotiate to have tomorrow off, as a recovery day. If you recall, it is also my birthday, and I expect Uncle Ari and Miss Nia to return for the interim, if possible. Alster agreed to ferry them here via his magic, so you will not need to expend resources to deploy rocs to and from Ilandria. Will this arrangement suffice?” She nearly opened her mouth to add, ‘If it does not suffice, I will make it so,’ but opted for diplomacy before she openly voiced her displeasure. And her hurt. A mere handful of days had passed since they last spoke and he acted like she was naught more than an unnamed attendant to whom he bore a passing familiarity. What had happened in so short a time frame?

There was little explanation other than he was punishing her for past infractions. Did he find her too juvenile? Too emotional? Too flirtatious? I have misbehaved gravely, haven’t I? To think we formed a rapport…

Considering it wasn’t so long ago that Ari’s own pent-up anger had been eating at him from the inside-out, burdening him with a fever that had lasted for days, Nia could only raise an eyebrow at the Canaveris lord over her shoulder. “Maybe you can try and convince me of that later.” Was her reply to Ari’s assertion that he was capable of ‘usefully’ expressing anger. Then she turned to Tivia, looking far less convinced at the star seer’s words.

“If by ‘advocated’, you mean you tried to bribe me to come over here and play nice with Ilandria’s grief-stricken prince so that he might be more useful to you, then sure. Let’s call it that.” The Master Alchemist folded her arms. “I’m not gonna argue with you that I’m not at my best, mental or otherwise. But that still sounds an awful lot like projection… coming from the woman who turned her hair black and tried to pass it off as a casual decision.”

“Am I nothing but a game to the lot of you?” Safir stepped back, out of and away from Nia’s touch. “Has all of this been nothing but a game? For the lengths you all go to, just to keep me in the dark, have you really not considered the benefit of being forthright with me? I have never felt so… disrespected.” The Ilandrian Prince’s verdant eyes met each of theirs, glimmering with frustration and disappointment. “To stand here, deceived, and then be told it is all for my own good…. Do you really not see how you’ve demeaned me, in all of this?”

Maybe he’d finally struck a chord with the group--or at least, with Tivia, as the star seer proceeded to plead her case, however much it didn’t make sense to Safir. Her mention of his romantic preferences brought a flush of red to his cheeks, but he said nothing, knowing that she was right--however much he wished she wasn’t. “You all seem to really enjoy pointing that out…” He murmured at last, but it was followed with a defeated sigh as Tivia and Hadwin took their leave. Perhaps the worst part of all of this was that he believed the Rigas woman; as deceitful and manipulative as she might be, he knew she was not his enemy. And he would need her help, to get through all of this…

The Ilandrian Prince had never felt less inclined to be adorned in cosmetics so as to address a crowd. But he knew Ari was right: there was no more time to put off campaigning, and secure the peoples’ favour before Liesefa Jahnst or anyone else on his council (or otherwise) got ahead of him. As Nia carefully braided his hair, lined his striking eyes, and applied just the faintest amount of colour to his cheeks to compensate for the faint pallor of a poor-night’s sleep, he went over the speech Ari had taken the time to pen for him. His eyes skimmed the words over and over without really committing him to memory, preoccupied as his mind was with every other matter. By the time the three of them piled into the carriage, the speech was still no more than a jumble of words in Safir’s overburdened mind.

He’d hardly had time to memorize any of it, before Lord Canaveris snatched it from his hands. The Prince heaved a sigh. “If I knew you were going to deprive me of it so soon, I would have made a more solid effort to commit it to memory…

“Don’t sweat the details, Saf. Ari’s right; and only you know what it is you want your people to take away.” Nia offered, in an attempt to reassure. “Not even he can write for you what you know Ilandria wants to hear.”

“That’s the problem, Nia. I fear what Ilandria wants to hear and needs to hear are two very different things.” The Ilandrian said, and almost proceeded to rub his tired eyes with his palm. 

Nia reached forward and caught his hand before he could smudge his carefully applied make-up. “The good news is, you don’t have a lot of convincing to do. This kingdom already loves you, Prince of Blades. You just stirred up a bit of concern, with your… well, depressive period. Show them that you are back to yourself, ready and willing to pick up from where your father left off.” After a pause, she added, “...they don’t have to know about the parts of Ullir Vallaincourt’s reign that you wish to leave behind. For that, wait until that crown is on your head.”

Feeling less than confident, but knowing full well that this was necessary, Safir stepped out of the carriage once they reached the town square. It wasn’t long before his presence alone began to draw attention. It certainly didn’t hurt that the Prince of Blades was as striking in appearance as he was adept with swords. He had a lot going for him, perhaps more than he realized. There was no doubt he looked the part: all that was left were for his words to complement his image.

In no time, a crowd began to gather around the Ilandrian Prince, who--to his credit--did manage to shift his demeanor from tired and annoyed to both confident and personable. Prior to launching into the speech Ari had prepared for him (or, rather, what he could remember of it), he took the time to speak to a handful of Ilandrian denizens personally, even answering questions about word of his recent ‘engagement’--which he expertly deflected, suggesting those who were curious speak to Lady Tivia Rigas, herself, since it was not his story alone to tell. It felt rather fitting--especially considering it was her lie to begin with, and she had already offered to do the talking if Safir could play the part.

While maybe not quite as adept as Ari, when it came time to address the crowd as a whole, it would quickly become obvious to the Canaveris Lord that Safir was not inexperienced in addressing a crowd. After all, it had been one of his responsibilities for years, to speak on behalf of his bedridden father. If he wasn’t already a natural, he was well on his way--and after about an hour of crowd-pleasing, without so much as hinting at the negative mood he’d portrayed to the people who called themselves his ‘friends’, just an hour before. Safir Vallaincourt might not have been a convincing liar, as far as utilizing deception to his advantage. But he was fully capable of understanding when it was necessary to set those feelings aside, and put forth a better front, according to what the situation required.

Safir spoke of his hope for the kingdom, going forward. He spoke of playing to Ilandria’s strengths, and in assisting Eyraille in fending off Mollengard, spoke to how the two newly-allied kingdoms might lift up one another in the aftermath, and stand all the stronger for it. He expertly played into his kingdom’s dedication to and pursuit of truth, and for his desire to guide Ilandria into what he wished to be its greatest era. On one hand, Ilandria hinged on words moreso than Stella D’Mare, but there had been a modicum of truth to Ari’s assertion. It wasn’t simply Safir’s words that swayed the crowd, captivating their gazes and shouting their agreements and enthusiasm for his grand (albeit vague) plans for Ilandria: it was his delivery. Because Safir did believe in each and every word that passed his lips. He believed in his kingdom, and in his peoples’ belief in him… he was also beginning to believe in himself.

Much later that day, when they wrapped up Safir’s campaigning and Nia and Ari returned to their suite, the Master Alchemist (who had just left a check-in with Somath--actually committing to her word to allow the physician to oversee her health), Nia wore a disappointed expression, upon setting foot inside. “Tomorrow’s Sylvie’s birthday, isn’t it?” She asked Ari, who confirmed. “I hope she doesn’t hate me… but I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to Eyraille. Somath wants me resting more, eating better, and… drinking less.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh, and collapsed in one of the armchairs. “He’s not convinced the idea of attending a party will do me any good. Even if I promised to be good… somehow, I think he knows me too well. But--you need to go. You can’t miss your niece’s birthday; you’re the closest thing to a father figure that she has. Besides, I need you to do me a favour.”

Nia raked her fingers through her thick, brunette locks. She did look a little tired, a little paler than she should: perhaps Somath wasn’t wrong to advise what he did. “That cat--the one I used to test the portal mirrors? I left it in the care of the stable hands as a barn cat. But, I think both it and Sylvie would be happier if it lived with her. She took quite a liking to it; I was hoping to give it to her on her birthday… think you could do that for me?” She asked Ari with a smile. “Alster sure as hell won’t; he doesn’t exactly hold cats in high regard. And… I need you to tell Syl that I really wanted to be there. If you wouldn’t mind…”

Caris had been prepared to face Sylvie’s ire, knowing full well what he had done to earn it. He wouldn’t have blamed her, either; were the tables turned, he would have had more than a few words for anyone who dared to indiscriminately intensify his workload and responsibilities without any prior warning, preamble, or negotiation. The possibility that his tactics to keep the earth mage’s nose out of business that was not yet hers had not escaped him: that she might hate him, or refuse to speak to him any further, or, at the absolute worst, might decide to retreat to Galeyn to celebrate her birthday after all. 

The latter possibility was rather unlikely, at least, given how the Canaveris girl had already gone out of her way to prove herself an asset to him and his kingdom. At worst, she would (hopefully) return to Eyraille at the end of the day, and be presented with her gift then. The young king had turned over each possibility in his mind throughout the day, in an attempt to anticipate her reactions and all possible outcomes. And just when he’d felt confident in his foresight, prepared for anything and everything she might do or say (including this impromptu audience--for which he’d made sure not to be otherwise occupied), he came to find that he had not, in fact, considered all outcomes.

What Caris was met with, upon Sylvie’s arrival, was not reactive anger or frustration. Before him stood a tired young woman, who was perhaps a little irritable, but more than anything else, appeared confused. Of course she would be; no one in her situation would accept any of this as normal. Even worse, behind all of that fatigue or confusion, was it possible that he detected… hurt?

The Eyraillian King felt his throat constrict in a wash of guilt he hadn’t been expecting to feel. In his mind, this was all entirely justified, because it was all for Sylvie. Now that she stood before him, looking worn out and disappointed, like someone who was struggling to understand how or where they went wrong, Caris began to wonder if he should backpedal and forget about the ruse that he wasn’t planning anything for her birthday. Knowing full well he was a difficult person with very particular expectations on a good day, who seldom saw fit to indulge in tactful discourse, he wasn’t cruel… and this felt exceptionally cruel. 

He had only intended for this to be a means to keep her from wandering the palace and encountering her younger brother, whose presence she wasn’t aware of. It hadn’t occurred to him that his plan might have worked too well… to the extent that she was both physically and mentally exhausted.

Struggling to think on his feet, as he teetered between sticking to his original plan and abandoning this ruse completely, Caris bit the insides of his cheeks. It required far more effort to maintain a stoic countenance than he thought it would, but he hoped his face betrayed nothing of his mental conflict to the Canaveris girl. “You do recall how you neglected the duties to which you had agreed for a handful of days, upon returning from Ilandria, don’t you?” He reminded her, and leaned his elbow upon his desk with his chin in his palm. Feigning nonchalance and disinterest was all he could to not let his warring thoughts and feelings come through on his face. “And you do remember that Eyraille may well be on the precipice of war? It is imperative that we make up for lost time, Miss Canaveris.”

He arched an eyebrow when she inquired about taking a reprieve for her birthday. Unbeknownst to her, it had always been his plan to allow her time away from her duties on a day that was of particular importance to her. She was clearly unaware of this, given the stubborn set of her jaw. No doubt, she would demand it if he did not grant her request--but he couldn’t fold so easily. To his knowledge, Nico had yet to put the finishing touches on his mural, at which point Caris had to arrange to have the furniture and textile supplies arranged. Sylvie had no idea of the long night that awaited the Eyraillian King, knowing he would have to sacrifice sleep and comfort on his own part just to ensure everything was sufficiently ready and prepared.

“If it pleases me? In all my time as King of Eyraille, the throne and its duties never seemed to care whether I was granted a ‘day off’.” He commented, after a thoughtful pause. It wasn’t even a slight departure from the truth. “Although… I suppose that is the difference between a king, and those who work for him. And you still wish to observe your birthday here, in Eyraille, I presume?”

He hoped as much--and so as to secure an affirmative response, he straightened his posture and clasped his hands in front of him. “We are fighting time, in preparation for Mollengard… but, you have shown up for all the work I’ve assigned to you these past few days without complaint; well, until now.” He arched an eyebrow. “Against my better judgment… I suppose I can allow this. Provided you’ll be willing to resume your duties the following day. Does that sound fair to you?”

Sylvie couldn’t possibly have any idea as to how wretched he felt, putting in this charade--and Caris Sorde never felt remorseful for the orders he gave. But she looked so tired, and so hopeful to celebrate a day that was special to her with her uncle. It made him wonder if his gift would be enough for her to forgive him for the unrealistic workload he’d dumped on her shoulders, just to keep her busy.

Well… he would find out, tomorrow.

Out of sight of the gathering crowd, Ari and Nia exited the carriage in a surreptitious spot around the corner and mingled with the people who flocked to the town square when rumors of the crown Prince being spotted turned out to be true. Prepared to step in if necessary, the couple found a spot close to the raised platform reserved for performers, town criers, public executions, royal proclamations, and in this case, royal visitors. As the hour elapsed, however, they learned early on that not only did Safir have a firm grasp of engaging an audience, but he also had a way with words, and knew how to inspire. With a flick of his hands and the rolling back of his shoulders, his confidence preened, and his voice grew rich in tone, filling the space with its warm timbre, certain to reach the ears of everyone present. Unlike other campaigners, who said their bit and promptly left, he opened the floor to questions, gave prompt, unhesitating answers, and allayed concerns about his health with cheerful, albeit broad, assurances. Considering it was the first time seeing him in action, Ari was impressed. Safir’s approach needed polishing in areas, but as a whole, he seemed to understand his people, and they in turn trusted his word—all essential hallmarks of a promising rulership. The Prince of Blades had the ears of the people, and in Ari’s informed opinion, popularity won the most favor, especially amid a kingdom that valued majority rule.

Unfortunately, power spoke louder, and filled the coffers to saturation, skewing the majority toward those with the clout to turn the vote in their favor. As long as the council had a chokehold on Ilandrian officials and nobility, it wouldn’t matter what the people wanted, if Jahnst’s ambitious pursuits were allowed to ignite and inflame the land.

Following the speech, the trio reconvened in the carriage. On the short ride back to the palace, Ari shared his opinions, which were overwhelmingly positive. “I say, you have quite the firm grasp of how to enchant a crowd,” Ari said, nodding with approval. “At this rate, my assistance will be extraneous. I should designate myself as your fashion consultant foremost and save the campaigning to you. While I do have a few notes, they are for purposes of improvement rather than hard criticism. Take them as you see fit. You have done well today, and I daresay you’ve deserved to take a day of recovery. But perhaps I only say as much for I shall be spending tomorrow in Eyraille for my niece's birthday. My absence will be brief, I assure you. I will return and resume my duties the day after next. Unless,” he cocked his head to one side, frowning in concern, “you no longer seek my services. It is as you said. We have been deceitful and made you feel a fool. Not for nefarious reasons, mind, but it is often that decisions made in ignorance are far more damaging than those done to cause purposeful harm; the progenitor of the wrongdoing sees himself as free of wrongdoing and thus cannot view his behavior as faulty. Since we have met, I have been nothing but untrue. I lied about Nia; I lied about Hadwin Kavanagh. One might say I lied to protect them and I agree wholeheartedly. Sometimes, it is important to act in deceit. I do not apologize for what I have done, but I do apologize for how it has hurt you—if my paltry words mean a lick to your highness.” He bowed his head in self-effacement and out of respect for Safir’s boundaries, elected to remain silent for the remainder of the ride. When they reached the front gates to the palace, Ari exited, along with Nia and bowed his leave.

“I shall grant you the space you require, your Highness. Until we meet again on the day after tomorrow. Granted, if you still desire to indulge my indecent presence.”

Later that day, Nia, on returning from her regular appointment with Somath, expressed her regrets and apologies to Ari with regards to not attending Sylvie’s birthday. He frowned; not from disappointment (as he knew the importance of maintaining her health), but in anticipation of how Sylvie would react to the news. After recovering from near death, he’d learned that his niece had given Nia an icy reception and she’d only recently begun to welcome her with the same ebullience as their first meeting. Much as he adored Sylvie as a daughter, Ari was often left concerned about her temper, who, when met with a perceived slight, real or imaginary, responded by conveniently forgetting the recipient of her hostility existed. Despite his best efforts for reconciliation, Sylvie still employed this tactic on Nico. For what reason they fought, he couldn’t say, but with Nia as her most recent victim, Sylvie’s penchant for deploying the cold shoulder extended beyond family matters.  

“I understand,” Ari said. “It will mean less if you are unavailable to present the gift yourself, but I shall do what I can to plead your case, much as it might have little effect on an irate teenager.” He gave a lilt of a smile, hoping to put Nia at ease.

“Before I forget,” he sat on the bed, inviting Nia to join him, “I spoke with my mother while you were away. Good news; she does have a store of barrow soil available. Not in Galeyn, but in the Fallow Islands. It is not an easy voyage, and the waters are likely monitored by Mollengardian vessels, but it is a journey infinitely more accessible than setting foot on occupied Stella D’Mare and hoping for the best. When we are done here in Ilandria,” he reached for her hands and cocooned them under his own, still warm from the effects of residual fever, “we can make for the Fallow Islands, together, and obtain the essential ingredient for the longevity tonic. Your hoped-for outcome—it is not so far from your reach.” Leaning over, he planted a tender kiss on her forehead. Then, struck by a sudden thought, he wrinkled his nose as he pulled away from Nia’s inviting proximity.

“Do you truly believe that Prince Safir and I are strikingly similar?”

Prior to her arrival in Eyraille, every soul who had met the famed King Caris had choice words to say about him—including his own sister. They called him immature, temperamental, dismissive, and a grudge-holder. Although she did not know him, she considered their views unnecessarily harsh, which prompted her to prove their assessments wrong. While Caris earned his reputation fairly, she learned firsthand of their exaggerated nature. He wasn’t any worse than her brothers on a sour day. Yes, the boy-king had a propensity for sullen behavior, his expectations for excellence sometimes superseded realistic standards, and his tactless words came off as borderline rude, but Sylvie never viewed him as too much, least of all cruel. Flippant, but he never punished his subjects for no good reason.

She therefore did not want to believe he sought to punish her. Not when he’d been so kind and understanding of her limitations just a few days ago. Before, she thought they’d crossed a threshold together and grew closer as equals. She’d even entertained the silly idea that he fancied her, and that she…

She read too many silly novels. Why would a king have eyes for a noblewoman in exile? It is better this way, she thought, glancing down at the incarnadine shine of her ring. If his death is what will save you, papa, I cannot venture too close. I cannot want him. Kindness and desire, they are deemed disingenuous. I will lead him astray, into his undoing. Let him hate me. I shall punch him again, if it will solidify our enmity.

“Neglected?” Her shoulders stiffened. She lifted her chin and practiced her tongue into a cold, clipped oratory. “With all due respect, your Majesty, I neglected nothing. If you must argue semantics, then I will allow I had taken an unintended sabbatical, but I have more than compensated for my impromptu holiday, something I already planned on doing, regardless of your interference. Out of respect for your kindness, I looked forward to resuming my duties, and resolved to work hard, but I fear you have miscalculated gravely in the execution and delegation of tasks.” Her hand curled into a fist. “I have not had a substantial meal in two days, your Majesty. I have not found the time. My ‘birthday’ tomorrow will amount to little more than catching up on rest. I am not engaging in petty frivolities, as you so think of me to do. As a matter of fact, I am reconsidering asking my uncle and Nia to come. Ilandrian affairs no doubt have consumed their lives. After all, we are under the auspices of war. It would be indecent of me to presume anyone has the time for leisurely pursuits, let alone something as insignificant as a birthday. So yes,” she crossed her arms, no longer concerned with propriety, “view my diatribe as a complaint, and not a criticism. Complaints are little more than meaningless noise, a buzz of an insect shooed away by a dissident hand. That said, thank you for listening to my ‘complaint,’ and granting my unreasonable request, much as it damages your infallible judgement to confer. I shall resume my duties the day after tomorrow, as it pleases you,” she almost spat, knowing how he seemed to dislike the term. “Do find a means to go on without me for that unbearable length.”

“By your leave.” With the barest of curtsies, she exited Caris’ study and sped down the halls. The moment she put a wide enough berth between her and the king, she slowed down and slumped against a wall, breathless. She couldn’t believe it; she said such crude things to his face. They weren’t untrue, but she had gone too far with a monarch who made it abundantly clear that he suffered no fools. For certain, this unseemly behavior would release her from his service. But hadn’t she intended to aim another blow, a metaphorical one to add to the physical assault to his face? Yes, she had done what she considered necessary to decimate whatever burgeoning ties still lingered between them. Yet…why did she feel so terrible?

Because I was supposed to save you from death and instead, made my pettiness painfully known…

It didn’t take long for Nico to catch wind of Sylvie’s modified, last-minute plans for her birthday when Caris knocked on the door to the spare chambers to check on his progress. Considering he was granted three days to complete the mural, and had sparse help—two assistants and Alster Rigas, who projected images on the wall to sketch and trace before they added the paint layers—Nico had only to even out a few rough patches, add highlights, and clean up the pigment-spattered rags strewn about the room before announcing its completion, which he estimated would happen just before dawn; in time for Caris to move the furniture and other materials in preparation for Sylvie’s arrival. While far from his best work, Nico was proud of actualizing a sweeping, multi-paneled vista on short notice, and with minimal help. And he’d only sacrificed two sleepless nights, dehydration, and minor eye strain. A normal, and often commonplace price to pay for creative inspiration.

“Ah, so Sylvie no longer wishes to celebrate.” Nico nodded, unfazed at Caris’ account of the last few days, and the harsh methods he chose to thwart Sylvie’s curious gaze from peering down one particular wing of the palace. “Permission to speak candidly?” Once granted, he wiped paint-smeared hands on his smock before unlacing the laces from around his neck. “You pushed her too far. As far as I see it, she has already pledged her services to you, willing to work without the necessity for intensified instruction. You need only lay a few distractions on her path for her to discover on her own, not heap a library load of busywork at her feet. That is the surest path to earn her resentment. Believe me, I know.” Sighing, he removed the smock and folded it neatly on the floor next to his bedroll.

“I shall provide you some context. Over two years ago, our father passed away. It was civil war; the beginnings of Stella D’Mare’s fight for emancipation from Andalarian rule. The mad prince Messino set the D’Marian camp ablaze with hellfire. I believe your advisor, Tivia Rigas, was the sole survivor. They never recovered our father’s body. Most were believed to have disintegrated to cinders. Nonetheless, we held a funeral in his honor. Sylvie was especially distraught. She held him in such high regard. I, on the other hand,” his mouth twisted into a rictus of disgust, “saw him in a different light, and refused to mourn him as was proper. Sylvie observed my perceived disrespect and confronted me, asking why I would not bow my head or shed a tear. I elected for honesty, and told her how—Casimiro Canaveris was not a good man, or a decent father. I cast aspersions on the dead, before my sister, who worshiped him so. It was too much for her to bear, too soon, and as a result…she shunned me. Turned away, wrote me out of her life, and that has been the dynamic between us ever since. Learn from my mistakes. To earn her trust, ease her, don’t corral her, to your side. Respect her autonomy and independence. Allow her the space to reach her own conclusions, however wrong they are. Because she is wrong.” He rolled his shoulders into an affected shrug, like the subject didn’t bother him. Just another footnote in the Canaveris compendium. “About our father, at least. Perhaps she will one day understand…that he was a monster. Either way, she will never forgive me until I admit that he was a kind and just man. A loving father. Which,” he scoffed, “will never happen. So,” he scanned the room, taking in the vibrant cerulean blues and bougainvillea purples of his creation, “my contribution here is pointless. Pray that your efforts will not be viewed in the same light, either.”

On the way back to the palace, seated across from Ari and Nia in the coach, Safir was unusually quiet. Perhaps he was simply depleted from talking nonstop for well over an hour, answering questions he hadn’t anticipated, and wearing a smile for so long that it hurt; or, true to Ari’s suspicions, he might still have been annoyed with the couple for keeping secrets from him.

As it turned out, it was a little bit of both, elucidated only when the Ilandrian Prince sat forward with his elbows on his knees and sighed. “I can’t deny any of your claims, Lord Canaveris. Never in my life have I found myself at the center of so much deceit; the only one ignorant to a number of important truths. It does not sit well with me, and if I were to adhere firmly to my pureblooded Ilandiran roots, as one who does not--and should not--tolerate lies and deceit, then I would dismiss each and every one of you from my ‘service’.”

He paused, then, and in the heavy pause was his very clear hesitation to go forward with such a blatantly overzealous decision. “However, there are far too many factors at play that would render such a decision not only foolish, but dangerous. Would that my utter lack of fashion expertise be my only problem…” A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I understand your reasons. I don’t know what I would have done, were I situated in the same position… but I understand that none of it was done out of malice. And, besides… I’ve unfortunately found myself growing rather fond of the lot of you. Well--some of you more than others.” It needn’t be said that Hadwin, for all his possible utility, had yet to really win over the Prince of Blades. But that had more to do with being taken completely by surprise, and the circumstances that had surrounded the ultimately dissolution of the faoladh’s particular deception (even if it had been Tivia’s idea.)

“In any case--I do require more advice in accessorizing the outfits you have so helpfully selected from my wardrobe. As attached as I am to this…” He touched the ametrine brooch at his throat, and turned his attention to Nia. “You are right--this was never mine to keep. And You have my word that one day, I will pass it onto another, Nia… should fate ever see to it that I find someone as significant to me as Ari is to you.”

Nia grinned, clearly pleased with this decision, and leaned back against the plush velvet seat. “I’d certainly hope so. Besides, if you want a gift actually intended for you, Your Highness, I’m sure between Ari and myself--we can think of something suitable. For the day of your coronation.”

“My coronation? You know that gifts are not necessary for such an occasion, Nia.” Safir argued, a crease forming between his brows. “That day is for Ilandria--not for me. It is for the monarch to swear his or her loyalty to the kingdom that saw fit to put them on the throne. A chance for me to express my gratitude that Ilandria would see me lead it.”

“Well, too bad, because I’ve already decided.” The Master Alchemist folded her arms stubbornly. “We don’t have to make a big deal of it. But I’m not going to not acknowledge one of the most significant days of my best friend’s life.”

The Prince of Blades did not reply right away. Until now, he hadn’t been sure of the status of his friendship with Nia Ardane, and had been too afraid to ask. But best friend? He hardly knew how to process that information… but it did not displease him. Not when he had never stopped thinking of Nia as a friend. “Then I suppose I know better than to try to stop you.” He said with a faint smile, before turning his green eyes on Ari. “But, back to the topic of ‘accessories’... I’ve received word from the jeweler, Lord Canaveris. Perhaps we can pay him a visit when you return?” Only Ari would know that Safir was referring to something more specific than simple fashion accessories; and by the sounds of it, Lord Canaveris might well have his hands on natural ametrine quite soon.

Following Nia’s appointment with Somath later that afternoon, and the bad news she had to deliver to Ari, her face fell when he confirmed her suspicions as to how Sylvie might interpret her absence. “No… you’re right. It’ll look like I didn’t care, and you’re trying to make it look like I cared by giving her the gift on my behalf… fuck  it.” The Ardane woman sat up straighter in her seat, and set her jaw stubbornly. “I can’t miss Sylvie’s birthday. I’ll talk to Somath: he doesn’t trust me not to disregard doctor’s orders. But he trusts you. My promises mean shit-all, but if you were to promise him that you’ll make sure I behave, he might well relent.”

Out of the blue, Ari then changed the topic to one she hadn’t thought would surface again so soon. “...you think it’s really worth the risk, Ari? If either way, we’re at risk of encountering Mollengard?” She asked him quietly, squeezing his hands. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t want this. I’m just… really afraid to set my hopes so high. But, if we can find a means to cross the waters… that’s an experience I’m not opposed to.” If they could find someone willing and capable of getting them there… which would be a feat, in and of itself.

Nia’s soft smile faded when Ari suddenly pulled away, and challenged her with a question that took her off guard. “...are you serious, Ari? Are you still running a fever because you’re all too aware that you’re not the only pretty face I’ve ever known?” The Master Alchemist sighed heavily and ran a hand through her thick, brunette locks. “Look--yes, you and Safir are infuriatingly similar. I don’t know how you don’t see it. But if you’re afraid that I only fell in love with you because you reminded me of someone I can’t have… ugh, gross. Me and Safir?”

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and a long-suffering groan escaped her throat. “There is absolutely nothing--no magic, no special circumstances--that could make me want Safir romantically. He is far too much like a brother, not to mention I have always known he does not have eyes for women. And if he did? Well, then that’s his loss, because I’ve already found someone, and I don’t change my mind easily. Besides… the two of you are not identical. When we first met, maybe I liked you because your mannerisms reminded me of Safir. But I love you for reasons that have nothing to do with him.” Nia took Ari’s hands in hers again and held them firm. And her eyes held his gaze just as firmly.

“Safir struggles to be true to himself… and meanwhile, when your mother did not approve of me, that was not enough to make you give up on us. Furthermore, Ilandrians aren’t known for being particularly romantic… and I must say, I’m particularly relieved that Canaverises don’t have a vendetta against affectionate gestures. Aside from the more superficial reasons, being that no one can out-dress you, and you turn a lot of heads… you gave me a reason to want to be alive, Ari. When I was ready to give up.” Her brow smoothed at the memory of those fireflies in the Night Garden… and how she’d come so close to willingly agreeing to die symbolically for Locque’s crimes. “Safir isn’t the reason I am still here. You are.”

“Generally, Lady Canaveris, a sabbatical is not only something premeditated and predetermined--but also permitted.” Caris challenged, sounding simultaneously bored and matter-of-fact… and it had never displeased him so much to do so. Why did her opinion of him suddenly matter? Hells, why did her feelings suddenly matter? The young king had long since come to expect that others would not receive him well, either for his lack of experience and wisdom, his Sorde lineage and the blood on his hands that he’d inherited from his father, or for his short temper--characteristic of all Sordes, it seemed. At some point (although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly when), he had decided it was easier to simply live up to their expectations of him, and become the terrible King of Eyraille that everyone expected him to be.

It wasn’t until he’d met Sylvie that his stance had suddenly changed, of its own volition. And he did not know why… but he did know that it hurt, to play up this ruse and to make her hate him.

Just as he feared, this conversation began to veer in the very direction he’d hoped it wouldn’t. No--Sylvie could not reconsider having her uncle and the other mage attend. One step further would mean disregarding her birthday altogether, and Carid couldn’t let that happen. He had already made too many careful preparations--the room and mural aside. In fact, it was embarrassing, how much time, effort, and resources he’d invested in a gift for a girl he still hardly knew. Nico was right to question his intentions, because the Eyraillian King himself couldn’t explain why he was going so far for Sylvie Canaveris. And the worst part was, come tomorrow, he would have to explain himself to her, if not to everyone.

But that was only if he had the opportunity. And this opportunity was one he had to protect, at all cost.

“Sylvie.” As the Canaveris girl turned and was halfway to the door to take her leave, the young king stood from his seat and spoke her name like an order. It had the intended effect, stopping Sylvie in her tracks, as if he’d startled her--and he probably had. But it didn’t feel good… “Rest assured, your efforts have not gone unrecognized by me or any other. I am impressed with your progress; I thought you useless, upon my first impression, and you have succeeded in proving me wrong. So you may have your day of convalescence. Spend it however you will--but tomorrow evening, just before sundown, there are further matters I wish to discuss, and I would have you see me here. I can promise you it will be brief, but this is otherwise not negotiable. Have I made myself clear?”

He could not have her skip out on everything he had planned… and he could think of no other way to ensure she would be here, than to give her a direct order that, short of leaving her position entirely, she could not refuse. 

While she did not agree, neither did she challenge the order, before taking her leave without looking back. Well… to say that his efforts had complicated matters to an extent he hadn’t anticipated would be putting it lightly. But Caris Sorde was not well versed in going out of his way for other people. This was a learning curve; mistakes were made, and he certainly was not unaware that there was a lot he should have done differently.

His only hope was that when Sylvie saw what he had in store… that there might be a chance she would forgive him. And if she didn’t--then he could not rightly blame her.

When Caris sought on Nico shortly after, he had no choice but to explain what had occurred, and that they had only until tomorrow evening to put the finishing touches on Sylvie textile workshop: and that included final touches, a general clean-up of the space, furniture, supplies, and necessary decor. It would be a stretch, to say the least, but with enough hands (and with Sylvie sleeping most of the day, he hoped), it could be done.

The young king had not solicited the young artist’s opinion of his tactics to keep Sylvie busy, but Nico saw fit to comment on them, nonetheless. Caris folded his arms across his chest and frowned, leaning against one of the far walls that was not part of the mural. Those walls had been painted in solid hues that complemented the cool-toned hues of Nico’s art, without distracting from the masterpiece. Luckily, they had already dried. “Your hindsight analysis is indeed appreciated.” He told the younger Canaveris, although his flat tone and flat look suggested otherwise. The unspoken: this would have been nice to know before I fucked it all up rang clearer than the words that passed his lips. “Well, now that I seem to have successfully secured her resentment, I wonder if any of this will make a difference at all.” He gestured vaguely to the unfinished room. “I do not know your sister well enough to anticipate what sort of ‘distractions’ would even suffice. The only reason I know that all of this is something she has wanted for some time now, is because I heard it plainly from her own lips.”

Caris had the grace to at least listen as Nico explained his reasons, and the context for why the Eyraillian King’s tactics were counterproductive to fostering what was--or had been--a healthy working relationship (or any relationship) with Sylvie Canaveris. While he’d been aware that Sylvie had lost her father (and as such, now had her uncle Aristide looking out for her), he hadn’t been aware of how much that loss had affected her, or how close she had been to her father. It was hardly something to which he could relate: from what little he remembered of his own father, the man’s death had not been a reason to mourn, but a reason to be angry, and all for the position in which it had landed him.

But King Valdrick Sorde had been dead for a very long time, and it was difficult to remain sufficiently angry with the dead. Instead, Caris had redirected that anger toward Vega--not unlike Sylvie had found an outlet for her anger in projecting it onto her younger brother. It felt strange, being able to relate to both Canaveris siblings, but for very different reasons… “Then I take it tact is not your strong suit if it contradicts what you believe to be the truth? You’d make a perfect Ilandrian.” He couldn’t help but snort. “But I am not one to talk. I say what I mean, and people hate me for it--but it still gets results.” And he could still say as much, tonight. Unfortunately for Caris, he struggled to gauge when the very tactics that warranted results were worth the cost…

“Regardless as to whether any of this will make-up for what your sister surely perceives as my egregious tyranny… I would not say that any of this is pointless.” He nodded to the mural, and while he was in no way a sufficient judge for how well it depicted Stella D’Mare, there was no question that it rivaled any other piece of art to adorn the walls of his palace. Of course, this was only an opinion. “Sylvie may well turn her nose up at all of it. And if that is the case, then at the end of the day, you have still done a service to my home in bringing more colour into it than I am sure it has ever seen. I appreciate it; someone else may also appreciate it, if not Sylvie. And I will see to it that you are justly compensated for what you have brought to these otherwise bleak walls.”

There was truth to each and every word. Caris was not the sort to use words to endear himself to others as a means to manipulate them; hadn’t he already described his tendency to employ exact opposite tactics? As much as the Eyraillian King hoped that Sylvie would lay eyes upon this room and forget all about ever being angry, a part of him knew he had to accept the fact that Nico might be right: that the damage might already be done, and it would not make a difference. But it did not detract from the fact that the mural was a work of art, and any and all furniture he planned to move into the room could be repurposed.

“There is still much to be done, here. I do not anticipate I’ll be finding any rest, tonight, so do send for me if there is anything I can do, or anything you need.”

Later the next evening, when Sylvie followed through with Caris’ orders toward the end of the day, she was met with a guard just outside of the King’s study. “Lady Canaveris. I’ve been instructed to have you follow me.” The tall, stoic man told her, before proceeding to lead her away from the study. He took her down stairs and several corridors, until she stood just outside the same place where her elbow had collided with Caris’ jaw a few days ago. The guard then gestured for her to open the door, simply shrugging his shoulders at any questions she might have. The King had told him little, but assured him it would all be clear to the Canaveris girl once she went inside.

Somehow, after a night of unrest for many people (the King included), Caris had managed to pull it all off. Sylvie found herself not in another bedroom, but in a room furnished with a spinning wheel, a loom, and all manner of fabrics, needles, thread and ribbons, all carefully and aesthetically organized by colour and textile. The window was decorated with a sheer, turquoise curtain, to the left of which was Nico’s mural: a D’Marian vista, and a relic of Sylvie’s past.

Upon what appeared to be a brand new drafting table was a folded piece of parchment, sealed with Caris’ wax sigil. Inside, the Eyraillian King’s handwriting was scrawled across the tea-coloured paper: 

This gift is yours, accompanied by the freedom to either accept or deny it. You will find more in the dining hall.

Ari liked to think of himself as a man of honor. In terms of following a code of conduct, he was extremely stringent about rules espousing common decency. He took his hospitality duties seriously, for one, and often fell into situations where others took full advantage of his principles. Chara Rigas, for example, strung him along for decades based entirely on a verbal contract he’d concocted, effectively binding him to her at will. He, therefore, understood Safir’s adherence to Ilandria’s moral edicts of truth and honesty, but wondered, and worried, about the Prince of Blades’ interpretation of the code. The man seemed to operate in extremes, with no spectrum of circumstances to consider. As a student of law, Ari knew that an inflexible perception of a multifacetedly defined set of ideals would not account for the many corollaries, variables, clauses, and case studies, proving that even the most innocent, incorruptible concepts were seldom so simple. For Safir to cast aside his team based on an incompatibility to his ideal, when the Ilandrian council led by Liesefa Jahnst schemed with impunity, was frankly, short-sighted. He was glad Safir recognized some of his folly, if not the hypocrisy.

“You might disagree with me, but deceit is not the opposite of honesty,” Ari said, his brow folding thoughtfully. “Neither is lies with truth. The opposite is inauthenticity. One can lie and yet still uphold the edicts they preach if the lie in question serves a noble purpose. The deceit that surrounds you isn’t being done to disassemble your system but to support theirs. They are fighting for a greater good, and the greater good is not always honest. But in their authenticity, they are living their truth. It will be nigh impossible for others to follow your exact model if it is inauthentic to them. Others are bound to disappoint you immensely. Forgive the analogy, but look at it like a painting. Oftentimes, a painting is not an exact rendering of the subject, but if the artist is talented, it will evoke a sense of raw realism that supersedes what we would notice on our own. The artist inscribes the components they wish most to evoke, whether consciously or unconsciously. And yet, few would lament that a painting is untruthful. Perhaps a critic would use terms like, ‘jarring,’ ‘grotesque,’ ‘childish,’ or ‘inane,’ but rarely would you hear, ‘I felt deceived by this piece.’ Simply, what we see is a viewpoint, not inherently false, but different. All of this is to say; you needn’t abide by lies if they aim to harm you, but we have all gathered in support of you, and said support might vary in degrees, depending on the person. Tivia Rigas lies because she must lie. Hadwin Kavanagh lies because tragedy guides him. I lie because I care. So does Nia, I am sure.” He smiled and reached for her hand. No sooner did Ari end his speech than she announced Safir’s designation of ‘Best Friend,’ which seemed to shock him, but not unpleasantly.

“It would be my honor to continue imparting my fashion-related wisdom on you,” he smiled, patting down his drab overcoat, which somehow managed to be cut and tailored to flatter his form. “I cannot say what Nia regards as a fitting coronation gift, but I intend to paint your portrait. Do not think I have forgotten. And if you are considering a statue, do consult me before any other sculptor, yes?” His playful tone hinted at a jest, but the sharpened angle of his eyes suggested a serious layer residing just beneath the surface, ready to bust free at the slightest demurral or rejection. “From one friend to another.”

Speaking of gifts, Ari perked up at Safir’s mention of the jeweler. He had found a source of natural ametrine so soon? He cast a surreptitious glance at Nia, making sure she wasn’t paying rapt attention to their change in subject. “Ah, very good then,” he said, presenting his most unaffected expression. For all Nia knew, they were discussing what jewelry Ari deemed appropriate for Safir to wear at the coronation. “Upon my return. I look forward to it.”

Later that evening, discussions of Sylvie’s birthday reached a shakier conclusion when Nia changed her mind and declared her attendance. Ari’s frown remained, but he was mainly annoyed at himself for wanting the best for Nia and Sylvie such that anything he said would favor one over the other, but not both at the same time. “I did not mean to influence your decision. If Somath ordered you to rest, I respect his professional opinion. I will speak to Sylvie on your behalf. I am certain she would understand that matters of state are far more pressing. As is your health.”

He knew he was preaching to the wall at this point, as Nia had made her stance on the matter determinately clear. She would be attending Sylvie’s birthday festivities in Eyraille, and it was up to Ari to ensure she didn’t overextend herself, be it from the cosmic journey via Alster Rigas’ magic, or the foods and drink she consumed. He relented with a nod. “I shall speak with Somath tonight. Considering the celebration is for my niece, I am certain he will realize it will not devolve into a sinful bacchanal. Then again,” he gave a wry smile, “it is due to Ilandrian repression that all festivities, even those outside this kingdom, are suspect to thorough scrutiny and investigation.”

With one talking point resolved, he moved on to the next. “My mother traversed the treacherous waters of the Bismuth Sea to arrive in Galeyn. That was but several months ago. We shall speak to her about the best available route by sea. Unfortunately, we cannot utilize Lord Rigas or even Tivia Rigas’ portal magic to enter the isles as the entire region is encased in a protective barrier, allowing only those with a very specific set of instructions to navigate through the barrier of mist lest they be left wandering the sea for eternity. It is an effective deterrent against invasion, but near impossible for trade and business purposes—unless you are a local seeking services from outside. Fortunately, we enjoy an honorary status among the Fallowan elite, so our protection is well assured once we arrive. It is the voyage from shore to that point, however, which brings me concern.” 

Striding across the room, he stopped before a map mounted on the wall. Tracing a finger along the shoreline, he landed on a craggy island off the coast of Atvany and south of East Mollengard. “Collcreagh. While it is at a northern latitude, it provides the most direct route to the Fallow Islands in the south. The two island nations regularly do business with each other. Collcreagh is under Mollengardian occupation, but my mother sailed this route and she assures me that Mollengard has less of a handle over the island than at first assumed. Mollengard only has a stake on the northern lowlands, but a tenuous grasp on the highlands to the southeast.”

“If we reach the harbor at Ithione,” his fingernail marked a notch of land jutting into the Sea of Irogus like an olive branch, “there are an abundance of ships on which to set sail. According, at least, to intelligence several months dated. Of course, we can always find a ship here in Ilandria, but I doubt any know the way to the Fallow Islands. I have not been there before, so I could not give verbal instruction. We would need to visit Collcreagh for our best chance to board a Fallowan-bound vessel. Barrow soil aside, it would behoove me to visit the population of Canaverises who opted to relocate to Falkahan in place of Galeyn. Perhaps our Fallowan hosts may also contribute their formidable armada to blockade Mollengardian ships from attacking vulnerable areas down the coast, or retake Collcreagh in its entirety. Reclaiming the land would provide a strategic spot on which to plan a counteroffensive against Mollengard. Say,” he turned away from the map and tilted his head at Nia, “Hadwin Kavanagh is from Collcreagh, is he not?”

But he couldn’t focus on the logistical and political intricacies of sea travel when he’d posed what he thought sounded like an innocent question, and who Nia, knowing better, addressed with the care given to one made of glass. He felt his face flush, and nearly blamed the condition on the residual effects of fever, as Nia too had referenced. Call it what he may, it was disingenuous and thus deceitful to name the heat in his cheeks anything but embarrassment for his unrelenting insecurities.

“Forgive me, Nia. You must think me in need of constant validation. What I said, what I implied, are the inane thoughts of a man who cannot overcome his vanity and see past the mirror to what blessings are before him. It is incredibly unbecoming, I realize. Please disregard my words. You needn’t humor them with a response. Be that as it may—thank you.” He smiled and raised her hand to touch her knuckle-tips over his lips. “I know we bear similarities—Prince Safir and I. I wrongfully assumed you found me an inferior replacement to the unattainable Prince of Blades, rather than as someone incomparably desirable. I suppose I’ve much to learn about love, as I fear my years spent under the dominion of Lady Chara have tainted my self-worth in some respects. However affectionate you find me, I am worried it is not enough. So I reiterate; thank you.” He transferred his hand to her cheek, his touch featherlight. “I am forever devoted to you, Nia. I cannot begin to thank you for the many times you have saved me. I am only here because of you. I do hope you will stay by my side—for an extra lifetime.” It was the closest he dared elude to a proposal without the commitment of one. But if Ari gleaned Safir’s message correctly, the jeweler found natural ametrine. If all went smoothly, Ari could propose to Nia with the ring as soon as Safir’s coronation.

“No, not hindsight analysis,” Nico mused, reorganizing the freshly cleaned paintbrushes on a makeshift table. “The only hindsight I have shared is offering you a thorough account of my sister’s volatile personality. A few days ago, I suggested you distract her by gentler means, though I suppose I could have explained myself better. Fortunately,” he stepped away from the table, “she has known you for a far shorter period of time than me, so whatever damage she believes you’ve inflicted upon her cannot possibly compare to that of a sibling or a dear friend. So long as you do not insult our father to her face, I believe you’ve a chance at redemption.” In conjunction with Caris’ snort, Nico also snorted. “Oh, I have tact, but it seems like servile, unhelpful words do not appeal to you. Nor would they to Sylvie, at the time. She already noticed I remained unfazed by our father’s passing. She would not have believed me if I lied. Could I have been kinder? Yes. But it would not have made a difference if the conclusion—‘I hate my father; he is a terrible man,’ was the same.”

“Anyway,” he worked the paint from under his nails, “I shall be finished by dawn at the latest. I will give you free rein of this space and retire to an empty chamber next door. If you need anything else in this palace painted, I am at your beck and call.” He bent into a rigid bow. 

“I have considered your offer for compensation,” he said, straightening to his full height. “I merely wish the opportunity to come and go as I please for the purpose to paint. Eyraille provides a unique landscape to depict on canvas, and I would love to capture it in perpetuity.” Before Mollengard arrives and destroys it all, he thought firmly to himself. “I shall not interfere in your and Sylvie’s affairs, I promise. I am more than happy to keep my distance, of that you can be certain.” 

Sylvie was as good as her word. After exiting Caris’ chambers, she visited Alster Rigas and his wife, informing them that she would not ask for her uncle and Nia to attend her birthday festivities tomorrow as she would be catching up on rest and was too exhausted to participate. Despite Alster’s appeal to reconsider, she planted her feet on the ground and made her stance known. Once she collected their understanding, she swerved around and headed back to her chambers, skipping supper yet again in lieu of sweet, supple relaxation…

Only, when she reached her chambers, she didn’t make immediately for the bed. Hesitating, she glanced at the tourmaline ring on her finger, and wore at her lip. For every year until his purported death, her father would arrange a small ceremony in her honor for her birthday. He would send for the kitchens to prepare her favorite confection—orange-glazed olive oil cake with a dollop of fresh cream on the side. Then, he would present her with a gift. It was always a new novel, its pages crisp and sweet-smelling, like sandalwood, or woodsmoke. Together, they would play a game—dominoes or ludo—outside, if the weather held, or inside by a roaring fire if not.

Fidgeting with the ring, she brought it close, its crisp, luminous image blurred by the filter of her tears. This year would be especially hard, knowing he was alive, yet living in constant peril waiting for her layabout daughter to develop the courage to do whatever was necessary to save him.

Trembling, she cupped the ring like a precious, fragile shell on the beach, and breathed the resonance gem to life. “Papa,” she said, her voice airy and out of breath. “Papa, can you hear me? …Will you stay with me, until I fall asleep? If it is possible, I would like to silence all thoughts of Mollengard and Eyraille. For one night, please? Tell me…would you tell me a story, in lieu of the novel you cannot send?” A small, weepy laugh wheezed from her lips. “It is silly, and childish, but to hear your voice…is the best present I could want.”

Much as she’d rather stay in her rooms and sleep all day, she kept her appointment with Caris and headed for his study early that evening. She frowned when she came upon a guard who bade her follow him to a different location. Obligingly, she nodded, even as her brow furrowed. Why would Caris instruct her to meet him in his study, only to send a guard to relocate her elsewhere? Her suspicions mounted when the guard escorted her to the spare room at the end of the hall where, just a few days ago she happened upon, to Caris’ alarm—and hers, too, as she elbowed him in the jaw.

“If I may ask, why are we here?” She tilted her head at the guard, who said nothing, but gestured for her to enter. With caution, she cracked the door open, expecting a trap…

Until she saw the color splashed on the walls, and the accompanying furniture.

Dazed, she entered the room, noting the elaborate mural spanning three walls. A partial panorama depicting the mottled turquoise shores of Stella D’Mare on one side, the marble-columned and bougainvillea-wrapped structure on the other, recognizable in an instant. The Canaveris estate. She saw the sea caves in the distance, and the little lumps of seals bathing in the brilliant sunlight. It occurred to her, after remarking on the mural a while, that the artwork reminded her unmistakably of…Nico.

Turning from the mural, she took in the rest of the room. A spinning wheel, a loom, and dressers stacked with all sorts of sewing notions, from needles and thread, to buttons, bobbins, bolts of fabric, proliferated the room. In her awe, she almost overlooked the folded parchment on the drafting table, but when she read the note, everything made sense at once. Why Caris kept her incredibly occupied the last few days, why he seemed so overprotective of this one particular corner of the palace…

It was for this. The room she alluded to at dinner last week. He was paying attention? Not only attention, but he aimed to fold it into reality?

Overwhelmed by this kindness, she took a seat beside the drafting table, tears spilling anew. And I said such horrible things to him. I am such an idiot.

It was imperative for Sylvie to return to her bed chambers and slip on something decent before heading to the dining room, where she suspected Caris, Lord and Lady Rigas, and Uncle Ari and Nia would be waiting. With apologies to the guard accompanying her, she darted inside and made a mad dash for the first halfway decent gown she spotted, a pastel purple number with a lace bodice and a silken silver sash to cinch the waist. She all but threw it on, brushed her hair and scooped it into an acceptable updo, pinned it in place with jeweled barrettes, and quickly powdered her face and lined her eyes in kohl. Slipping on a beaded pair of slippers on her way out, she flew through the door, past the guard, and honed in on the dining hall.

They were all there. Uncle Ari and Nia—despite her personal request to leave them unbothered—the Rigases, and even Nico, though he banished himself to a shadowy wall in the corner. And…Caris, standing by a cake laid out on the table, an admirable replica, at least by sight, of an orange-glazed olive oil cake, despite the dearth of oranges or olives in mountainous, chilly Eyraille.

They converged on her, wished her congratulations on another year lived, another year older, and she felt the threat of another round of tears sting behind her eyes.

“Was this…your idea?” She approached Caris, her smile equal turns uncertain and apologetic. “The textile room, the mural—this?” She indicated the table laden with her favorite foods, the guests, the little whorls of festive trim hanging from the ceiling. “I…I do not know what to say. It is far too grand. Beyond the limits of my imagination. I—thank you, your Majesty.” She fell into a deep curtsy, her knee almost grazing the floor. “Please forgive my grotesque behavior over these last few days. I fear I do not deserve your wonderful generosity. Be that as it may, I appreciate it all the same. …Permission to thank you properly?” Before the king of Eyraille could respond, Sylvie rose from her curtsy and landed a small, chaste kiss on his cheek. 

Considering this was the single grandest gesture that he’d ever put together for anyone--and for any purpose--it was understandable that Caris might start to get cold feet, when the sun rose on Sylvie’s birthday. Perhaps lack of sleep contributed to the jittery nerves that hummed beneath his skin, but he couldn’t blame it on exhaustion alone. Had Nico not already painstakingly put time into that mural that he would never get back, had the room not been ready and furnished, and the food and baked goods already in the process of being made, the Eyraillian King had reached a point where he might have backpedaled entirely. He had no idea what he was doing, he didn’t even know Sylvie that well… and after talking to Nico, he was far less confident about any and all of it.

As the day progressed, with morning yielding to afternoon, and afternoon leaning into evening, the young king’s nerves did not still; if anything, they frayed a little further, with every moment bringing him closer and closer to finding out the results of his days of careful effort. It could only result in two alternative ways: Sylvie would be thrilled, and forget all about the perceived mistreatment he’d put her through for the past three days… or, she might still turn away from him and from Eyraille. There was the very real potential that he might lose more than a very real asset to his kingdom.

Sometime that afternoon, Lord Canaveris and the woman named Nia arrived, taking a temporary leave of Ilandria and Prince Safir, solely to attend this surprise celebration… that, he feared, might not even end well. Caris was nowhere to be found when they arrived, but fortunately, Elespeth had been awaiting them, and was there to greet them (and to fill them in) when they arrived. “I’m sure Alster has already told you both… but Sylvie is not aware of any of this.” She explained quietly, after the four of them sat down together in the Rigas’s suite. They couldn’t return to the one they’d been sharing with Sylvie, for reasons the former knight went on to explain, however vaguely. 

“I am not entirely sure what it is that His Majesty has in mind, specifically, but I can tell you that he’s been keeping your niece especially busy, Ari. Simply to keep her occupied while he’s worked on a very specific and labour-intensive gift that he did not want her to happen upon too soon…” Even Alster and Elespeth had not been privy to a glimpse of what was inside that room, although they knew full well the nature of it; after all, they had been present for that very conversation over dinner, that had inspired it in the first place.

“Sorry to interrupt--but… I want to make sure I’m understanding correctly.” Nia raised her hands halfway, brow furrowed. She was still feeling curiously disoriented after Alster’s assistance in reaching Eyraille by impossibly quick means. She [i]really[/i] had to get on Safir about allowing her to get to work on another pair of portal mirrors… after she got on Somath to give her the go ahead to do so. “So, we’re talking about the same ‘Majesty’, right? King Caris, Vega’s Sorde’s handful of a little brother, who was ready to send Sylvie packing the moment she arrived?” The Master Alchemist shared a look with Ari, before searching the Rigas couple’s faces. “...the hell did we [i]miss[/i], while we were in Ilandria?”

Elespeth raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “I’m not sure that is for me or for Alster to answer. He showed interest in organizing something for Sylvie’s birthday, and requested our help--along with her brother’s.”

“Nico? Goddamn, Ari, we are out of the loop.” Nia whistled and raked a hand through her hair. “Where’s Sylvie now?”

“In her room… with no idea about any of this.” She exchanged an uncertain smile with Alster. “His Majesty has, perhaps, been keeping her a little too busy, so as not to catch wind of his plans. I have a feeling she doesn’t currently hold him in very high regard, for his ‘efforts’--and King Caris is very much aware of this.”

“And here I thought we’d be leaving all the melodrama behind with Safir…” The Ardane woman shook her head. “Anything we can do to help…?”

The former knight looked to Ari. “I’m sure His Majesty would very much appreciate your input on what he has prepared for dinner. After all, you’re closer to Sylvie than anyone else here.”

Elespeth was not wrong: as the afternoon yielded to evening, and the time drew closer where Caris would quickly discover the results of everything he’d organized (and has done to upset Sylvie…), the young king’s delicate composure suffered under the pressure. As food was prepared and presented, he found himself facing decision paralysis as his confidence began to wane.

“Your Majesty--she we place the cake at the center?” Two of the serving staff asked, as they put the finishing touches on setting the table for dinner. Both looked to Caris for advice.

“How the hell should I know? What do people usually do for a birthday?!” The overwhelmed young man sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “What do you think looks best? I have… no fucking idea what I’m doing.”

“Might we be of help, Your Majesty?” Nia and Ari stepped into the dining hall--and none too soon, seemingly, given how glaringly obvious it was that the Eyraillian King had bitten off more than he could chew, and was hopelessly overwhelmed.

Caris spun on his heel, startled for about a half-second before relief flooded his features. “You two--thank the gods.” He sighed, and gestured to the spread being prepared on Sylvie’s behalf. “In short, yes. You know Sylvie better than I do, and I… don’t even know where to start.” He rubbed the back of his neck, appearing curiously flustered for someone who wasn’t known for giving a care about anyone but himself. “I am open to suggestions.”

“Then it looks like we are better late than never. Ari can oversee the remainder of the preparations. And I can help [i]your[/i] preparation, Your Majesty, if you’ll let me.”

“...meaning what, exactly?” The young king frowned, unsure whether or not to take offense.

Nia only smiled sweetly, and leaned in, lowering her voice as if to relay a secret. “You look like you got exactly twenty minutes of sleep--two nights ago.” She said, though not without an undertone of sympathy and understanding. “If you’re not opposed to a little powder and some colour on your face, I’m quite good at making others look refreshed, no matter how sleep-deprived they are. No magic involved, whatsoever.”

The Eyraillian King opened his mouth, as if preparing to declare just how offended he was, but promptly closed it, upon having second thoughts. “If… you think it will make even a marginal difference…”

“Oh, it most definitely will.” The Master Alchemist smiled and placed a hand on Caris’ shoulder, then cast a glance in Ari’s direction. “We will be back shortly.”

While Ari assisted in the arrangement of the table, as well as the placement of a handful of decorations, Nia assisted Caris in helping the young king look slightly more rested and slightly less high-strung than he likely felt. They returned about twenty minutes later, joining not only Ari, but Alster and Elespeth, and even Nico, in the dining hall. All that was left was to wait for the subject of this evening; the person for whom this was all intended.

And to say that, as the moments passed, Caris was beginning to get cold feet… well, that was very much an understatement.This was a mistake, the Eyraillian king silently fretted, simultaneously tapping his foot and worrying the signet ring on his finger. She’s already angry; if she shows up at all, it won’t make a difference…

Perhaps Nico had gotten too far into his head, poisoning what little hope he had with the propensity of his cynicism. As much as Caris was something of a risk-taker, he had never felt less confident in his odds, despite the reassurances of his other D’Marian guests. His insecurity was so palpable that Nia even began to take pity on him. “I have no idea what we missed,” she murmured to Ari, keeping the King of Eyraille in her peripheral vision, “but for whatever reason… this is very much a big deal for our young, royal friend.”

The only thing that finally brought Caris out of his thoughts was the arrival of Ari’s niece, at last, resplendent in pastel purple. Not exactly attire he would expect from someone who intended to unleash their ire on him and throw his gift and all of the preparations he’d made back in his face… Then again, Vega’s impulsive younger brother had never done this before, and didn’t know what to expect. Without even realizing it, he drew in a breath and held it, as Sylvie surveyed the room: the food, the cake, and the people. All gathered here for her. 

“Happy birthday, hon.” Nia grinned and pulled Ari’s niece into a half-hug. “I hope you didn’t think any of us forgot about you.”

It was difficult to glean just what it was Sylvie felt, at that moment; but her attention seemed to drift solely to one person. And that person was the young, Eyraillian King, who suddenly looked as though he wanted to disappear. Not because he was at all disappointed in her reaction, but because it only occurred to him in the moment that he had not planned anything past this point… What was he supposed to say? To do? Dealing with irate individuals, upset with his decisions, or simply with him as an individual, was easy. At this point, responses to those were second nature, but to respond to gratitude? To happiness?

Caris was entirely at a loss for words as Sylvie stepped up to him. “Ah… well…” He drew a steadying breath, struggling to maintain eye contact with the young earth mage, yet at the same time, finding himself completely unable to look away. “There are… I enlisted the help of many people to--”

His thoughts and words were cut off as she planted a quick kiss on his cheek; innocent, and sweet, and… evidently, enough to unravel the Eyraillian King. At least a little. “Ah… please, sit,” he indicated the table, with the cake and foods that were expertly set about in the dining hall. Enough--or maybe even too much for a birthday.  Hopefully enough to divert attention from him, and onto the subject of this evening.

Fortunately, as everyone else took a seat, Sylvie wasn’t long to follow suit. With enough people at the table to carry the conversation, most which centered around the Canaveris girl, eyes weren’t on him. The majority of the chatter that took place pertained to the food, and its likeness to true D’Marian cuisine, among the exchanges of vague updates that downplayed both what was happening in Ilandria, and what awaited Eyraille. All of this, Caris managed to tune out for the most part, although he wasn’t oblivious to the not-so-casual glances that Nico shot in his direction. Ones that seemed to say: Didn’t I tell you to consider how Sylvie might interpret such a grand gesture? Or, worse: Now I see what you intended with that gift, and you were lying to yourself all along.

Following the food and libations, the small party took to a communal sitting room, where (thankfully) the young king learned he was not the only one with gifts for the Canaveris girl. Even if one of the gifts wasn’t particularly to his liking…

“Not much of a surprise, since he’s been living outside in the stables, but… I thought he might enjoy your company more than that of the horses.” Nia declared, having left temporarily to retrieve the gift from her and Ari. In her arms was the same young cat with sleek, grey fur and golden eyes that she had used to test the portal mirrors between Eyraille and Galeyn. Around its neck was a bright yellow bow, and it looked to have recently been brushed, giving it less the appearance of a stray, barn cat, and more of a pristine house cat. “He still needs a name, you know.”

“...the cat?” Caris, standing with his back to the wall and arms loosely crossed, raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t said much, before, during, or after dinner, but this particular gift from the Canaveris Lord and his paramour wasn’t one that would end up solely as Sylvie’s responsibility. “And, pray tell… where will this ‘gift’ be kept?”

“Why, with Sylvie, of course.” Nia said sweetly, yet her brown eyes signaled a caution for the Eyraillian King to tread carefully with his words, and consider what he decided to protest.

Although Caris couldn’t claim to fully understand, he knew well enough to stop while he was ahead, and simply nodded as the Canaveris girl happily took the cat into her arms. The creature purred in her embrace; there was no possible way he could take it from her, now. Not when he’d done enough to upset her, these past few days, even if she’d seemingly forgiven him in the end.

While Sylvie thanked Nia and Ari for thinking of her and attending (despite her maintaining they did not need to come), the Eyraillian King stepped aside to speak with Nico, who had kept equally as quiet throughout the evening. It appeared as though he hadn’t been exaggerating about the tumultuous relationship he had with his sister… He hadn’t seen either of them exchange words all evening. “...thank you for your help. This wouldn’t have been possible without you.” He said to the younger Canaveris. “And while I understand and accept you particular request for compensation, and of course you are free to come and go in my kingdom as you please… If there is ever anything else that I can do to be of service to you, as you were to me, then please do not hesitate to ask. Really.”

It was less a conversation, and more a brief expression of his gratitude; neither of them were particularly enthusiastic when it came to exchanging words, and it was becoming clear quickly enough that Nico felt a little awkward. He couldn’t blame him, and certainly didn’t judge him, when he was the first to leave. And as the sun dipped further over the horizon, others began to retire, as well; first Elespeth and Alster, who were themselves a little tired for the time they’d put into helping organize this event, followed by Nia, who looked to have been fighting sleep for a while, now. Ultimately, Ari, made the call that they should return to Ilandria, and catch Alster before he retired for the evening, in hopes that he could muster the energy to transport the couple back. They did share a bit of truth with Sylvie, confiding that Nia was rather under the weather, and under orders of a physician to take it easy, so as to quell any suspicions that Ari’s niece might assume they preferred to hurry off.

“You won’t keep us away for long; I think I’ve convinced the Prince of Blades to approve another set of portal mirrors. I just need to rest up enough to get to it… and, some Ilandrian physicians happen to be control freaks. I’m lucky I was able to sneak away for this long. When I come back, I hope your feline friend will have a name.” With her warm, characteristic grin, the Master Alchemist pulled Ari’s niece to her in an affectionate hug. “...and whatever you’re doing, here, keep it up.” She seized the opportunity to whisper while they were close. “The King of Eyraille is… different. And I am confident you are the reason.”

Caris had been weighing the pros and cons of slipping out for at least the past half hour, wondering if he would find the opportunity to quietly take his leave before anyone--particularly Sylvie--noticed. But mulling over it for too long, as he had, ultimately lost him the opportunity… until, following Ari and Nia’s departure, he was the only one left. Well, aside from the cat. And now, he couldn’t leave withou

Nervously clearing his throat, he pushed away from the wall, though kept his arms folded. “...I suppose I owe you an apology.” He blurted at last, not knowing what else to say. “I went too far in trying to keep a secret, and…” The young king trailed off, realizing too late that he had no idea where he was going with his words. At last, he let out a small sigh, accompanied by the ghost of a smile. “...happy birthday, Miss Canaveris.”

When all the requisite birthday greetings had been exchanged, it was Caris that Sylvie couldn’t stray from. She happily approached Ari and Nia, returning their hugs and wide smiles, and repeated the action in kind for Lord and Lady Rigas—not so for Nico, who retreated further into the wall—but when she made her obligatory rounds, she seldom lingered far from the Eyraillian King’s surrounds. It was the extent of her boldness; since planting an innocent peck on his cheek, she avoided his eyes and didn’t engage in active conversation. Still, when she spoke with her party guests, she made a deliberate effort to include Caris via proximity, speaking loud enough for him to hear and gesturing inclusively in his direction.

“How ever did you acquire the ingredients for the cake?” After dining on a wonderful supper reminiscent of a D’Marian feast, albeit with Eyraillian substitutions—river trout over ocean tuna, highland goat cheeses over the lowland dwelling variety, and winter berries over citrus—she was surprised to discover the cake tasted nearly identical to the D’Marian version, moist and rich-colored, with a glaze both sweet and tart. “Though Eyraille’s harvests are bountiful, what equivalent has it to olives and citrus? Unless one of you walked through the mirror into Galeyn and collected from the Night Garden’s treasures?”

“Locally collected, actually.” Alster placed a small sample on his plate, piercing the crisp outer layer and the fluffy inferior with a fork. “A deliberate choice, to prove a point. Despite the harsh environment, I would argue—and feel to disagree, your Majesty,” he tilted his head at Caris, “that Eyraille is quite the land of plenty, if one knows where to look. A short growing season means the harvest comes in like a flash flood. Crops are huge and flavorful. Not to mention, striking in color. You’ve seen it yourself, in the rainbow-assorted gourds on display everywhere in the city. It’s not a far cry to assume color and sheen and size would also produce a tasteful bouquet. Give the credit to the kitchen staff for rising to my challenge and replicating the recipe with exacting detail.”

With the cake distributed, Sylvie considered the gathering essentially over, except Nia and Uncle Ari stepped forward with an additional surprise. She recognized the bundle of fur scooped into Nia’s arms; his button black nose and large, inquisitive eyes. “Lovely to see you again.” She cooed at the cat, but her expression changed when Nia passed the docile, purring creature to her. It hardly flinched from the transfer of hands, content for the warmth and attention of those who treated it with care and respect. “You—you are giving me the cat, as a pet?” As if in response, the feline lolled its head to stare up at Sylvie, eyes blinking slowly. Her hesitation to behold a tiny predator possessed of sharp teeth and claws quickly melted like candle wax. “He is perfect. Thank you, Nia. I shall have to keep him far from my bobbins and skeins of yarn, but he is more than welcome in my rooms. I think I will name him Myr. Short for ‘Mirror.” Short for Casimiro, she thought, but kept this secret meaning to herself. “The first cat, I daresay, to explore the experimental liminal space between portals and return to herald its successful journey.”

“A wonderful name,” Uncle Ari mused, risking an extended hand for the cat—Myr—to smell. “I hope you have not tired of gifts, Sylvie, for I have one more for you.” He presented her with a gilded box, inside of which rested a curious raw stone wired in gold necklace chain. The outer rim was ringed in green, its center a round, dark pink. “Watermelon tourmaline,” Ari explained as Sylvie passed Myr over to a nearby servant and lifted the chain from its decorative box. “I thought it would match well with your ring, while adding a unique element to your wardrobe.”

Sylvie cradled the necklace to her chest. Although he didn’t mention it out loud, she understood the significance of gifting her tourmaline. For papa, and a reminder of his legacy, his life. How she yearned to tell Uncle Ari the truth. He is alive! I have spoken to him. He is imprisoned in Mollengard and needs our help! Instead, she smiled, clasped the chain around her neck, and threw out her arms to hug Uncle Ari and Nia. “Thank you. Both of you. All of you,” she stepped away to address everyone in the room—which included Nico. “While it was unnecessary to celebrate when I am too young to have earned the honor, I cannot begin to express my gratitude for making my day so memorable and special.” She cast a sideways glance at Caris, her fingers playing with the sides of her gown. “I am truly humbled by your generosity and thoughtfulness.”

Meanwhile, Nico, who hadn’t joined the gathering, seated at a chair at a far table, shook his head and rolled his eyes at Sylvie’s fluted speech. If she truly were so grateful, she would thank him personally, as she did for everyone else in the room but him. Instead, he was relegated to the collective like an afterthought, ensuring Uncle Ari or Grandmama would be appeased by including him, even if she made the barest minimum of effort.   

Why did he believe anything would change? Did he think splashing a few colors on some walls would repair the rift between them?

He looked up from the untouched goblet of wine he swished around in his hands at King Caris’ approach. Despite his relative isolation in the corner, he sat up straight, exuding quiet dignity, deliberate in execution and most of all, not pathetic, or pitiable. He lifted a brow at the Eyraillian king. “I am surprised she left you out of her sight for longer than a minute. I would caution you not to linger around me, if you value remaining in her good graces.” Swerving over in his seat, he placed the goblet on the adjacent table. “Though, to be honest, you have done well to secure her loyalty to you. I would not worry about losing it, short of spouting something disastrous to her face.” A quirk of his lips suggested Caris had bought more than just Sylvie’s loyalty.

“While I have nothing of means to contribute to your war effort, feel free to use me as a resource, even if it is only for beautification purposes.” He stood from his chair, lowering his head into a bow. “My sister is fortunate in knowing someone who cares enough for her well-being to throw her an elaborate celebration. Look after her, your Majesty.” With his last words said, Nico exited the room, nodding to the others before he disappeared through the door.

Ari noticed the ongoing tension between Sylvie and her brother, but withheld his commentary until the end of the evening, when he informed her that he and Nia would return to Ilandria, not only under the insistence of Nia’s ordering physician, but to continue in helping Prince Safir stabilize the kingdom, an essential step before they could make any headway on the portal mirrors.

“We shall keep in touch, Sylvie. If you ever need us, we are connected by resonance stone and thus, seldom far. Happy birthday, sweet Amethyst.” He gently kissed her forehead. “Would you do me the honor of granting me a small request?”

“Of course, Uncle Ari.” Sylvie fingered the chain of her new necklace. “What do you require?”

“I would love it if you spoke to your brother. Nico,” he specified, in case Sylvie responded with some coy retort about which brother he meant. “He painted you a beautiful mural, and did so in less than a week, with minimal assistance. I expect you to grant him the credit he deserves. However you believe his services were acquired, through coercion or compensatory incentive, it does not matter. He painted the mural for you. By refusing to acknowledge his efforts, you disrespect him, his artistry, and also me, his teacher,” he said sternly, but not with cruelty. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “At the end of the day, he is still your brother. I implore you to repair your relationship, lest heavens forbid something were to happen and you forever lose the opportunity.”

At first, Sylvie said nothing. With her head lowered, he could not gauge her expression, but he assumed it was from the shame of his admonishment. “Yes, Uncle,” she said at last, shuffling her feet. “I shall speak with him.”

“Do not let this put a damper on your evening, Sylvie. You understand I am not deliberately trying to cause you upset. I merely ask that you be kinder to your brother. He does not appear well.” Again, Sylvie stared at the floor, suddenly too reticent to offer more than monosyllabic responses. Sighing, Ari stepped away from his niece, and hence, putting distance on the conversation. “It is time for us to depart, before Lord Rigas retires. Do enjoy the remainder of your day, Sylvie.”

Raising her head, she immediately brightened, all gloom shed from her like a snake skin. “Oh yes, I most certainly will, Uncle.” She turned to Nia with a smile. “Thank you again for Myr. I shan’t think to change his name next time you visit, so assume the name will stick. Please feel better, Nia.” Her expression turned sympathetic. “Be sure to listen to your physician and get plenty of rest. I know you have the tendency to disregard common sense, so…take care, yes?”

After another series of goodbye hugs and well wishes, the couple departed, leaving Sylvie alone in the room with the cat…and Caris. She clutched the sides of her gown, not knowing how to properly engage with the man she spoke with only once that evening, a short statement of gratitude followed by a kiss. A rash of heat singed her cheeks as she worried about the implications of her actions. How did he interpret what she had done in a fit of emotional elation?

Glad that he broke the silence between them first, Sylvie took a few strides across the room, closing their gap. Even with their new proximity, she found it difficult to make eye contact when her usually pristine composure was starting to fray from standing too close to his orbit. “All is forgiven, your Majesty. It is I who should apologize to you. I’ve said some terrible things. In anger, yes, but frustration borne from exhaustion does not excuse how I behaved. It was wholly undignified, and…I am sorry.” She lowered into a deep, deferential curtsy. “I feared you came to despise my existence and I fretted over what I had done wrong. Perhaps you did not like my unauthorized desecration of your property,” she gestured to the front pocket of his doublet where one would keep a handkerchief. “Or the unceremonious elbow to the face,” she chuckled weakly. “Perhaps you thought me more trouble to keep, and the realization…bothered me. Your sudden distance, I will admit, was confusing, for I have grown to genuinely enjoy your company. You must obviously feel the same if you have gone to such great lengths for a day of little significance.” She smiled coyly. “Unless my interpretation gives me too much prestige. Best tell me now before my head explodes with the possibilities.” Their eyes met, and she searched his blue depths for an answer. “Why go through such trouble to celebrate my birthday? What…what am I to you?”

While Ari, Nia, and the rest celebrated Sylvie’s birthday in Eyraille, Tivia kept busy maintaining her deception. Puca at her heels, she attended an afternoon tea hosted by the wives and daughters of prominent council members, who were all too curious to get a closer look at the woman who had managed to snag the hand of the elusive Prince of Blades. Commonplace in events such as these, gossip and gossipers ran rampant. Everyone at the table fleeced Tivia for questions, ranging everywhere from simple, to downright invasive. All done, of course, with polite smiles and carefully worded phrasing, so as to bury jealousy and suspicion under poised, polished speech.

“Oh yes, this is my loyal friend, Puca,” she said of the ‘dog’ that lay obediently beside her chair, looking sleepy and bored, far from the menacing canine her gracious hostess had reservations about accepting, if not for Tivia’s insistence that he played an important role in helping her navigate the world while half blind and mostly deaf. “As one of you was too kind to observe aloud, yes, my face is scarred, and I am missing an eye, and on occasion appreciate the assistance he provides. This should have no bearing on my eligibility as Prince Safir’s betrothed, since that is the answer to the question you truly yearn to ask.” The ladies at the table openly gawked and assured they meant no such disrespect, but Tivia continued, taking a sharp sip of lukewarm tea. “The Prince of Blades values a self-sufficient, capable partner, does he not? What better mark of character than a scar to prove my resilience in battle? If occasionally utilizing the services of a dog weakens my claim, then it seems rather unfair, when we are amid a kingdom that lauds fairness above all else. Let my actions be the judge that either exonerates or condemns me. If it is not my status as a warrior or that galls you, but my ugliness and asymmetry, well,” she set the porcelain cup on its saucer with a clatter, “it is far better to allow Prince Safir the unopposed honor as the fairest of the kingdom. Why compete to reach his unattainable level? As it stands,” she leveled a stare at the ladies present at the table; not one of them returned the favor, “am I really so appalling to gaze upon? I sure hope I have not curdled anyone’s appetite for the indignity of sharing my company. I would not want to strike anyone blind, now.”

“Those women were relentless,” Tivia later recounted to Safir in his study. Hadwin sat next to her, in his human skin and fully clothed, the same lifeless expression on his face as his wolf counterpart. “They drilled me with endless questions, and some of them thought they were being subtle, but one asked me if I was a witch who had you under my spell. Ridiculous. I’m sure they’ll relay what I’ve said to their family members on the council. I’ve become quite a divisive figure in your court, but it’s exactly as planned. They’re focusing more attention on me than on you. So I’ll continue to act like a sanctimonious bitch in their company.” She shrugged. “Not like it’s much of an act. Hadwin,” she tilted her head at the faoladh, “what did your Sight gather from the women at tea today? Anything useful, or incriminating?”

“Tough to say,” he drove knuckles into his eyes, as if trying to wrench himself into full awareness. “I dozed off for a bit, there. Someone—the one with the poofy hat—she’s in league with Jahnst, but not willingly. Bit of blackmail going on in the background. Sounds like Jahnst’s drumming in unilateral support by cashing in a few favors from bigwig families she’s helped in the past. It’s cuz of her that a lot of people secured their lofty positions at the top, so they’ll follow her out of obligation. But that’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s information we can work with,” Tivia mused, nodding approvingly. “The fact that we’re aware of a greater conspiracy should grant us an edge. Revealing their corruption is one way to dismantle their legitimacy.” 

“Not if they’re all in league with each other,” Hadwin said with a sigh. “They’ll cover their asses if you call them out. Gonna need proof of their underhanded dealings before they’ll sing. Is there anyone in your gods-forsaken council you can rely on, pretty boy?” He turned to Safir. “Other than your physician? Best find out who’s loyal to you, and quick, so you can flush out an insurgence before it—“ he froze, his gaze drifting to the window, golden eyes dilating.

“What is it?” Tivia glanced out the window, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. “Are you…?”

He stood from his chair, approaching the window. “It can’t be her,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t show up here. She…came looking for me. I was too damn far away.” As if realizing his audience, and the fact that they were staring at him with deep concern, he gestured to a door the next room over that led to an open-air balcony. “I need some fresh air. Gimme a moment.” Without waiting for a reply, or protest, he headed for the door and stepped outside like a man possessed.

“Great,” Tivia groaned, also getting to her feet. “He’s having a moment. He thinks he sees someone outside. Someone dear to him that he lost. I’ll need a minute. Or better yet, take a break. We’ll reconvene later.” She made for the door Hadwin entered. “In all honesty, I don’t know how long I’ll be.” 

“As much as your caution is appreciated, Nico… if you think for a moment that I will let the presence of your sister affect whom I choose to engage in conversation, then clearly, my stellar reputation has not yet reached your ears.” The corner of Caris’ mouth turned upward in a grin, and he shrugged his shoulders, as if to indicate how little he cared about what Sylvie thought regarding who he chose to speak with. Of course… that couldn’t be further from the truth, and perhaps Nico already realized as much. “And I daresay, you underestimate my ability to alienate people.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t be accurate for Caris to say that he considered Nico a ‘friend’; after all, they didn’t know one another very well, and had only found commonalities through the mutual toils of being younger brothers to rather ‘powerful’ older sisters. But he would be remiss to claim that he wasn’t growing to like Sylvie’s younger brother. Not only for his talent, but for his decision to care enough to help the Eyraillian King’s spur-of-the-moment cause. After all, he didn’t have to agree to any of this, especially not for the sake of a sister with whom he shared tumultuous relations--almost as much as the dilapidated bridge between Caris and Vega, although perhaps not quite so dramatic.

Then again, while Caris couldn’t care less about mending that bridge (at least, that’s what he told himself), he had a feeling Nico perhaps cared a bit more about salvaging relations with his sister. Which, of course, was entirely his business, and he did not fault him for it at all. Merely, it was a curiosity. “You are more than welcome to come and go from Eyraille as you please: for the purposes of your art, or any other.” He confirmed, offering a nod to the young man. His last comment, however, left the young king feeling slightly… confused. Take care of her… Did that not imply that Nico believed he had already established feelings toward Sylvie, that transcended that of the symbiotic relationship between two professionals? Enough that he would see fit to look out not only for her safety, but… for her happiness?

The Eyraillian King’s cheeks burnished a light shade of crimson, not knowing how to respond. “I…” He began, but Nico was already walking away, making for the door. Then, without another word, he was gone.

And not only him, but the Rigas couple quietly took their leave soon after, leaving only Sylvie uncle and the woman named Nia to remain. It was his own fault, he thought, for not quietly dipping out while he’d had the chance. With others occupying the Canaveris girl’s time and attention, he’d had ample opportunity to avoid conversation (or, more specifically, confrontation) with her… and, just like that, the opportunity was gone. And it was only the two of them left… well, not including the cat.

He had no choice but to break the silence, with the only alternative being succumbing to awkward silence. A kind word of closure before safely taking his leave… except, he didn’t get that chance. Sylvie closed the distance between them, cutting off his only means to remain within his comfort zone, a curious glimmer in her warm, brown eyes… Only now, facing her one-on-one, in the aftermath of the birthday celebration that he had both incited and organized, did Caris realize he had bitten off far more than he could chew. Not just with regard to the amount of time, energy, and resources that had been necessary to put all of this together, but in being faced with the necessary to answer the question: why?

And hadn’t Nico cautioned him about this? That the gesture was far too grand, not only for a Canaveris of Sylvie’s age, but in the general context of her reason for being here. It was not as though they were longtime friends, and they hadn’t known one another for very long, at all… And while this celebration and her gift had achieved the desired goal of pleasing her and bringing a smile to her face, the why of it all was quite glaring. Her brother had mentioned something along the lines of taking care not to leave an impression that he had not intended, something that the Eyraillian King had brushed off at the time. Now, however, he understood exactly why Nico had asked… Not only that, but it was as clear as day that he truly didn’t know the answer.

“Believe me when I say your ‘outburst’, if you want to call it that, was nothing compared to what I’m used to dealing with.” The corner of Caris’ mouth turned upward in a half-grin. What he didn’t say was that, although Sylvie’s ire was rather negligible on the scale of vitriol that he was generally met with, her temper, in particular, curiously left him more nervous and shaken. Not because he feared her, but because he… didn’t want to see her upset. Or to give her a reason to be upset in the first place--even if he didn’t know why.

Even her sincerity in the moment, her words and the meaningful gesture of her curtsey stirred discomfort in the young king. Were it anyone else, he might well have let them stew in their remorse and lower themselves to him, but… not her. And not now. It didn’t feel right. “Please--enough with the apologies.” Caris said, perhaps a little too quickly, and a little too eagerly. “Right yourself, Miss Canaveris, and do stand up straight. There is no one else here for you to worry about such baseless propriety.”

And wasn’t that just the problem? There was no one else around: only them. And the Eyraillian King genuinely didn’t know what to do about it. “Just accept that I have already absolved you of any behaviour you considered untoward. It is only reasonable that you would react in such a way, for the abrupt change in the way you were treated here, in my home. There is no crime for how you altered my handkerchief… and, had someone startled me the way I did you, I daresay they’d have suffered worse than a swollen lip, in the end. You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

Certainly, he’d expected gratitude. But Caris had not expected her assertion that she enjoyed his [i]company[/i]. Even if he had suspected as much, to a minimal extent, hearing her say it aloud was… almost jarring. Then again, perhaps it was simply in her Canaveris nature to be so forward. Not just in terms of stating her thoughts, but also, in her assumptions and deductions: such as assuming he fancied her company, as well.

“What… are you…” The young king turned her questions over in his mind, very clearly taken off guard. Her words, that coy smile… and the underlying tone that she might already know the answer…

Not for the first time that day, Caris’ face felt impossibly hot. “Really? Is it distinctly D’Marian to question someone when they offer you a gift, or is this quality simply unique to you as a person?” He demanded, unfolding his arms. His body language didn’t suggest he was angry, but rather… startled. If it hadn’t been clear before that he had yet to ponder the answer to her question, well, it was certainly evident now. “Can you not simply accept this with grace, a thank you, and move on?”

Evidently, no. The Eyraillian King felt himself come undone by the way her brown eyes locked on his, looking for the answer he could not--or, rather, preferred not--to put into words. “Surely, you realize that if I took such issue with your company… you would not still be here,” he said at last, but it wasn’t enough. That was not the answer she was looking for.

Caris felt his heartbeat in his throat. Silently, he willed someone, anyone, to walk through those doors and interrupt them and provide him with an excuse to leave… Alas, such was wishful thinking. “...what is it you want to be?” He said at last, his voice adapting a quieter, softer tone. Not one people heard often, when speaking with the stubborn young King of Eyraille. The crease in his brow smoothed. “To this kingdom… and to me.”

If she was so determined in her boldness, then she could very well say what was clearly on her mind.

Although Ari and Nia would only be gone for a short time (less than a day, as Somath preferred to keep the impulsive Master Alchemist to remain where he could easily keep an eye on her), a lot happened in the time they were away. Tivia had been invited to the weekly afternoon tea, where the wives and daughters of council members all congregated to… well, exactly what they talked about, Safir couldn’t say for sure. Although he knew well enough to have reservations about Tivia attending at all. It didn’t take a genius to deduce the only reason the Rigas woman had been invited was for the sole purpose of sussing her out, in hopes she might say something incriminating, or simply to intimidate her enough that she might abandon the idea of marrying the Prince of Blades. Not that Safir suspected Tivia couldn’t hold her own (particularly if she was accompanied by her ‘fierce’ wolf companion), but because he knew these people all too well… And, frankly, he’d be hesitant to sentence his own enemy to sitting for tea with some of these women.

Tivia, on the other hand, had argued it was imperative she attend for very similar reasons. They knew well enough who was not on the Ilandrian Prince’s side… But they had yet to secure any allies, beyond one another. Safir had his doubts that they would find any among the families of council members, but if nothing else, it was better for them to focus their attention on Tivia as a potential threat than to invest their negative energy in plotting against him.

And… it went about exactly the way the Ilandrian Prince had expected, Safir learned later that afternoon, when Tivia and Hadwin met him in his study. Leaning back in his chair, the Prince of Blades couldn’t help but snort at her account of the ‘light conversation’ that had taken place among the women and daughters of the council members. “You mean you only got called a witch?” He teased, and raised an eyebrow. “Believe me, they went easy on you.”

The name-calling wasn’t what interested him, however. Hadwin brought up a few details that he hadn’t considered, regarding Jahnst and her involvement in securing fortune and comfort for a handful of notable families. “...interesting.” Safir narrowed his eyes and leaned forward on his desk. He unfolded his arms in favour of clasping his hands on the polished wood surface. “That the Minister of Justice and Safety may well have acted entirely unjustly, in such cases. But… even if we manage to stumble upon the means of proving that Liesfefa Jahnst does not live up to the merits and standards she forces onto others, I’m afraid that may not yet be enough for me to secure my father’s throne. It might de-throne her, in a sense, but it will not give my people ample reason to see me in a more favourable--or worthy--light.”

Hadwin's question, however, gave him pause to consider something. Jahnst might have several other council members in her pocket, but if their loyalty to her was borne of obligation through fear of blackmail, then perhaps it wouldn’t be impossible to sway at least some of them to his side…

“...there may be one person.” Safir mused, although by his frown, his confidence in whatever possibility was on his mind was not particularly stalwart. “Delemir Eliasron, the minister of Trade and Finances, may be a potential ally--or, perhaps it’s better to say he would have been, once…”

The Ilandrian Prince brushed a stray tress of blond hair from his face and straightened his posture again with a defeated sigh as he looked to Tivia. “By chance… did Jenikah Elisaron happen to attend the tea, this afternoon? Small, strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes? You’ve met her once before.” He was referring to the young woman who had all but accosted him in front of Caris and Tivia, not long after laying his father to rest. A young woman who made it no secret that she had sought his affections (and possibly still did), and who had, curiously, kept her distance rather sullenly since news of his ‘engagement’ had reached the ears of the public. He doubted she was happy about being forced to give up; and he doubted her father was happy about losing the prospects of his daughter becoming a future queen…

“For all this ‘engagement’ ploy certainly has its benefits, I’m afraid that it is not also without its drawbacks; particularly in this situation.” Safir sighed and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Indeed, it draws attention away from me and onto you, Tivia, while you use just the right words to get under their skin… I’m afraid their low opinion of you does, in fact, also reflect on me. While I did feel as though I had Delemir Eliasron’s support at one point, I’m afraid the only way we might maintain him as an ally would be through his daughter. Otherwise…”

The Prince of Blades spread his hands, palms up and open, upon the desk. “If I could fall back into favour with Jenikah, that would be one thing. But as I am already betrothed, unless you see any sound reason to risk the possibility of being coloured ‘unfaithful’ by suddenly deciding to rise to her affections, then that is a loss we will have to bear.”

Noting the curious look on Hadwin’s face, and the way the shapeshifter’s words suddenly trailed off, Safir frowned. He leaned forward on his desk, in an attempt to see whatever it was the faoladh was seeing out the balcony doors. “Is… something amiss?” He inquired, but Hadwin did not seem to hear. As the wolf-man suddenly darted outside, the Prince of Blades rose and a concerned glance on Tivia. “What is happening? Is there some danger only he can see, of which I should be made aware, or… is he unwell?”

He thinks he sees someone outside. Someone dear to him that he lost.

As much as Safir couldn’t deny the benefit of having an ally in a man who wore wolfskin for the purpose of eavesdropping, he would be hard-pressed to say he liked Hadwin. Something about terrible first impressions (insofar as encountering him as a bipedal being, naked in his room at night) really had the potential to sully future relations. But loss… That was not something he took lightly. Not when he had gone for years, believing his best friend gone--and, at worst, dead. Not when he had only recently lost his father who, for all his flaws, was his only family.

“Does this happen often?” He further inquired, and followed her out. For one, because he wasn’t sure exactly what these ‘episodes’ entailed, or how they would influence the shapeshifter’s behaviour, but because, for all this pair was infuriating… they were still guests in his home. And, they were helping him. Even if their reasons were ultimately self-serving, and their interests lay in ensuring Eyraille continued to have a strong ally, help was help. And the deeper he plunged into the shadows of his kingdom’s politics, the more he realized how uncertain he was that he could do any of this without them.

“In some circles, D’Marians are known to be quite brash, but a Canaveris exercises grace above a liberal tongue—except for this one.” Sylvie smiled with a show of teeth, another unladylike display verboten in Canaveris polite company. But as Caris was quick to point out, they were alone, and the need for propriety had rolled away with the last party guest—if one did not include the cat, who, having no need for such human constructs, curled up on a chair and fell asleep. Why should her continuance of formal displays outside the scrutinizing public persist among familiar company? “I have remarked on my appreciation multiple times this evening, but I have yet to question your reasoning. It does not negate or erase my earlier words of praise. Indulge my curiosity, and when you’ve satisfied it, I’ll return to shouting your praises for the next month. You lose nothing. Save for a few moments of embarrassment?” She noted his uncertain stance, the quick glances at the door as if awaiting a rescuer. She had him trapped, like a fox cornering a rabbit in its den.

She was tempted to edge closer until their noses almost touched, or run a hand down his arm just to see how he would react. Funny how a teasing game her brothers often played on her took on a different meaning when adopted for her own purposes. She refrained, however, remaining near but with a wide enough berth to respect his space.

“What…do I want to be?” She blinked, not certain she heard him correctly. What sort of noncommittal answer was that? Well, if he wanted to play a game, she would happily indulge. “I cannot say.” She yawned, pretending boredom. “I will have to give it long and thoughtful consideration over a meditative period of several months, perhaps more. Until I find the appropriate response, I suppose you will have to contend with my unspoken-for presence dirtying your hallowed halls. The answer might find you in the meantime. Sooner, hopefully, than later.” All restraint lost, she ran one finger up and down his arm before promptly retreating. With care, she roused the cat and scooped his sleepy form into her arms. “I shall see you bright and early tomorrow, Caris.” In a fluid motion, she left the room before her swiftly beating heartbeat betrayed her manufactured composure. Stiff-legged, she shuffled to her bed chambers and didn’t relax until after she shut the door and set the cat on the floor of his new home.

“What was I thinking? I cannot…I cannot do this.” She lowered to the floor, extending a hand for Myr to bump with his furred head. “I am plotting his downfall, surely. To pursue more than a professional relationship with the king of Eyraille…is dangerous. For the both of us. Papa…”

The cost for Papa’s safety is steep, but necessary. Caris’ head. I could easily secure it for him. A private room, proximity…

and a sharp blade.

“They’re fortunate I too went easy on them.” Tivia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I happen to know a little about their futures through wails from the stars. If it was a witch they wanted, I would have happily provided them proof. Be grateful for my restraint. Much as I have the sense not to toss your claim to the throne into contention by association, I will say my impulse to knock their silly hats askew was high.”

As Safir inquired about the smitten daughter of the Minister of Trade and Finances, Tivia shrugged. “She was in attendance, yes, but she didn’t say a word and refused to look me in the eye. My very existence seems to snuff out all her hopes and dreams. If I had to give one favorable opinion of her, at least she didn’t contribute to the two-hour inquisition.”

Her brow raised with intrigue upon Safir’s rather diabolical suggestion of winning her—and her father, by default—to their side. “Are you implying a ploy to string along that poor woman’s affections for you in a bid to win over their unyielding fealty?” She clicked her tongue, but not to shame or condemn his actions, but as a tease, knowing he hadn’t meant anything sinister by the statement, but she played along with it all the same. “The company you keep is doing a number on your sense of honor. I’m willing to humor this cutthroat plan, but my only concern is, what if she eventually realizes she’s being played by you? As you do not plan to marry her or take her as your mistress, the Eliasron family will withdraw their support of the Vallaincourts, and you will find yourself again without the aid of a member of Ilandria’s most influential. However, if we were to make this work—“

She paused, her train of thought interrupted, as Hadwin stood and shuffled out of the room like a man possessed, prompting her to run damage control on the faoladh before he did anything stupid, like throw himself off the balcony. Before she met Hadwin outside in the chill, blustery weather, she was surprised to find Safir close behind.

“Not always,” she explained to him, catching her hand on the door latch, which Hadwin left askew in his hurry to exit. “He’s had his moments before, but his lapses in reality have increased since Teselin disappeared. I wish I could say I prefer him this way—a depressed husk of a man. He’s easier to deal with. Usually he’s feisty and out of control. But,” she pressed her lips and shook her head, “it’s difficult seeing someone you used to despise lose his vibrancy. It almost makes you want to give up the fight, too.”

Refusing to elaborate on her meaning, she swung the door wide and stepped onto the balcony. Hadwin was hunched over the railing, looking like someone had punched him in the gut. A sinking realization seemed to set in his features. Tivia laid a careful hand on his arm and spoke his name like a firm slap to the face. It didn’t reach him. Sidling up next to him, she checked his eyes, vacant and far-seeing, as if he could view events from hundreds of miles—or dimensions—away.

This time, she did slap him. A sharp crackle resounded, reverberating on stone. A red mark bloomed on his cheek. He blinked, and his gaze found her.

“You’re losing it. Get it together, Kavanagh.” She grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him from the balcony. He offered no resistance, which made her grit her teeth with increased frustration. “Stars, Hadwin, you’re a fucking disgrace! Don’t tell me you have no intention of doing anything else with your life but pine and wait like a lovelorn maiden! Are you a wolf, or are you a whipped puppy? You want to squander the opportunity I gave to dig out of your ditch, fine, but fuck if I’m going to be the one to read your last rites, and I sure as hell won’t be delivering the news to Teselin that your pathetic heart was too brittle to survive a few months without her. Let me put this in plain terms for you. If you give up, she won’t have a prayer! You’ll damn her to the winds and we’ll all be long dead before she reforms on this plane!”

Hadwin’s shoulders tensed. A sign, albeit small, of his awakening. “You think Isidor’s doing any better?” A croak, like an emaciated chuckle, parted his mouth, showing the demolished remains of a grimace.

Her eye widened, a cold fury swimming in her veins. “Can’t you see I’m investing my hope in you, and not him?!” she seethed, fingers curling with the urge to land her knuckles into his punchable face. “If he stood a chance at making a difference, I would have followed him, and hounded him like I’m hounding you, but no, Hadwin, he’s just a misguided fucking idiot whose piss-poor decisions make you look tame by comparison. And yes, you’re doing better than him. By miles! Because you’re here, and you’re trying, and he…he’s not, he doesn’t,” her breath hitched. He doesn’t care. She tried to take a revivifying breath, but found that her throat had closed. With nowhere to go, the pressure floated to her head, pulsing from an absence she couldn’t fill, because the absence was emptiness and emptiness was all she had become. Releasing Hadwin, she turned from him and headed for the door. Meeting Safir on the way, she managed to recover some of her breath to mutter a few winded instructions. “Look after him. I’ll speak with Jennikah and figure out an arrangement we can all agree on. I’ll return by tonight. Excuse me.” Shrugging past him, Tivia headed inside, collected her things, and walked out of the study, pulling out her earpiece. In case they tried to call her back, she could claim she simply didn’t hear them. 

Hadwin, who had come to his senses, pushed away from the railing. Running a hand through his windblown hair, he regarded the bewildered prince with a pinch of mercy. “Get me a drink and I’ll tell you everything.”

True to his word, Hadwin opened his maw halfway into the malty liquor Safir provided, albeit with hesitation, knowing the instability of his unwitting guest. Considering what he’d experienced of Hadwin so far, he was right to be cautious. Even so, one drink wasn’t going to send the faoladh over the edge when he’d been there already. Greedily, he downed half of the amber liquid in three draughts, comforted by the familiar burn. It had been months since he partook in a proper drink. The Gardeners were a strict folk. They’d even confiscated his pipe and tinderbox, though mainly so he wouldn’t start another fire.

“So you’ve overheard my tale of woe and now you’re involved by default. Congratulations! Welcome to the shit show. I won’t hide anything from you. Honesty is an important part of your whole deal, eh?” He leaned back on the chair cushions. They hadn’t ventured from the study, for obvious reasons. “So Tes is like a sister to me. And she’s not dead, but…scattered. She lost her physical form a few months back—and it was done to keep Nia alive.” He swished the remains of the liquor in the pewter cup designed for the thumb-length measurement of the strong beverage. “I’m sure you heard the story about Ari’s life-saving operation, which Nia helmed, to a whole lot of fanfare and success. Except it put her under, and there was no guarantee she’d ever wake again. Enter Tes, misguided little cherub with formidable power and faulty control. Fuck, that kid could move literal mountains if it would save some poor schlub. In this case, the schlub was Nia. So she’s off living life with her beau—and that’s great, really happy for her—but Tes is stuck in some in-between state while we’re all expected to move on and let her figure out how to resolidify on her own. I look for her, y’know. In the wind.” His gaze locked on the window, but this time he didn’t feel the pull to wander back outside and listen for her screams in the air. “Hard not to hear her…everywhere.”

He shifted in his seat, taking an unsteady sip of the draught. “Hah, so get this,” he said, electing for some levity. “Her actual brother, Isidor, who’s a Master Alchemist, too, fucking raged at the Galeynian council and stormed off to who knows where, probably to figure out some solution, and your betrothed is doing a shitty job convincing everyone that she’s not still in love with that soggy piece of wood. Nowadays you can hardly mention his name without setting her off.”

“So there. That’s how we’re all connected.” He downed the rest of the drink and puckered his lips, unused to the strong concoction after months of involuntary temperance. “Just don’t tell Nia what I told you. About Teselin. I’ll spring it on her eventually, but she’s got enough on her plate as is and she’s not gonna take the news well at all. Better than me, I’m sure,” he chuckled, but it rang hollow in his throat, “but that’s no fucking surprise to anyone. I played the game with reality and lost." He stared at the far wall, his vision losing its sharpness. "And lost I’ll forever be…until I pay the debt I owe.”

Tivia arrived at the Eliason residence shortly after supper, a modest but well-to-do estate at the edge of town and a quick jaunt by carriage. So as not to blindside them and in so doing, lose their support, she bribed a palace envoy to hand deliver a message to Jennikah, giving her several hours' notice of their meeting. Several hours was the perfect range of time for Tivia to shed her afternoon clothes, take a bracing, cold water bath, and scrub her wet skin dry until it chafed. Enough time to scrape the horrible taste off her tongue and recover a modicum of control. If she couldn’t hold it together in front of Hadwin, who made mere mention of Isidor, and not with the intention to tease or unseat, how did anyone expect to trust her counsel as sound? They’d view her as mad, dismiss and consign her to the wolf’s path. Just another lost cause who believed she would make a difference. Star seers didn’t live lives studded with stability. They lost themselves to madness, housed in a room locked from the outside, no windows to mark the passage of time or gaze at the stars above, screaming their demands to an empty head, a vacant mind. Deaf and mute and forgotten.

She had no choice but to press on, else suffer their fate.

A butler answered the door and escorted Tivia to the parlor, where Jennikah would receive her. Despite the unorthodox gathering, Tivia smiled inwardly, knowing Jennikah’s curiosity would be too ignited to turn down the invite outright.

“Thank you for having me at this late hour.” Tivia bowed her head to the honey blonde awaiting her in the parlor, who, in contrast to their first meeting during the funeral of Ullir Vallaincourt, acknowledged her as worthy of attention. “As it is an impromptu arrangement on my end, I will not waste much of your time. It would not have sufficed to single you out at tea among overly chatty women,” she raised an eyebrow, “when what I have to say is for your ears only. Safir’s bid as king is in jeopardy. If you help secure his bid,” she cocked her head, “I will overlook your affections for him. There is no love between me and the Prince of Blades. We share a common goal and nothing more. And engagements—they are as breakable as glass.” 

“You? Brash? I never would have guessed.” Caris snorted, and folded his arms, but there was no hiding the fact in his voice or body language that he had very quickly grown terribly nervous. Something of which Sylvie already seemed very much aware… to the point where she decided to toy with him, evidently.

Whatever was happening between them right now, both the Eyraillian King and the Canaveris girl were on the same page, even if neither of them could put down their pride long enough to say it. And she had the audacity to try and pressure him into saying the words.

A shiver traveled down his spine when she drew close, ran a single finger up and down his arm… before promptly leaving him with nothing more than vague words, and no real promise of future confirmation. Caris was left standing in confusion and curious trepidation, alone in the sitting room, his heart still racing. After the time and effort put in to organize this birthday celebration on her behalf… and this was how she left him?!

The young king’s nerves and embarrassment finally came to a head, along with his quiet resolve. Fine, then, Sylvie. Tomorrow it is.

The next morning (after what was, yet again, very little sleep), Caris resumed his usual duties as if nothing out of his ordinary routine had occurred the day before. After taking a light breakfast in the privacy of his chambers, he then dressed in the royal Eyraillian blue and silver, accentuated by a circlet at his brow, he made his way to his office--just like he did every morning--and awaited his first private audience that morning: Sylvie Canaveris.

He was sorting through a pile of papers when Ari’s niece made her entrance. Whether he was preoccupied, or it was purely out of spite, he waited a solid moment before looking up. “Miss Canaveris. Please detail your plans, today, for approval.” He requested--or, perhaps, ordered. Since she was juggling more than one responsibility within his kingdom, it only stood to reason that she be given the freedom to prioiritize. Of course, her plans were always pending approval; only the King of Eyraille had the final say as to what happened in his kingdom.

She was met with disinterested nods as she detailed her plans for the day; it appeared as though Caris was only half-listening. No verbal word of approval, but enough of an indication that he had no objections. Perhaps he didn’t care what she had to say, which could well come across as rude. It didn’t seem like he cared, either way; no one could blame Sylvie if and when, out of frustration, she turned to leave.

“Miss Canaveris.” Before Sylvie could read the door, the Eyraillian King’s voice, strong and authoritative, stopped her. “We are not finished.”

By the time she turned around, he had stood from his desk and come around the other side. Suddenly, he was close--very close, too close to claim it was at all maintaining professional boundaries. But those boundaries had already been crossed, on several occasions, as recently as just the other day, when Sylvie had coyly touched his arm, and then walked away. He’d had all night to think on it, to decide what he would say, and when, and how he would say it--and, ultimately, he decided that he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Instead, he lifted a hand, and his knuckles grazed her cheek as he leaned in and very softly, very lightly, kissed her.

What it came down to was that Caris Sorde simply wasn’t good with words. One could argue that he wasn’t good with people, in general, and was far more comfortable with actions than words--which was why he couldn’t give Sylvie an answer yesterday. That said, he wasn’t so oblivious as to not understand the implications of being so forward in this moment. Perhaps, as someone in his position--one of power and authority--he had no right kissing her. Some might argue it was a gross abuse of power, and for that, he had already resolved that if she pushed him away and stormed out, he would not give chase. Or, if her fist once again connected with his jaw, he would let it happen. Regardless, in his opinion, he couldn’t be clearer in his stance as to what he thought she was to him. If the feeling wasn’t mutual, then so be it; but it was up to Sylvie at this point to make it clear to him whether they were, in fact, on the same page. Or if he was sorely, embarrassingly, mistaken.

With no knowledge of what was happening, or what had precipitated this ‘episode’ to which Hadwin had evidently succumbed, Safir was helpless but to be a bystander as Tivia pursued the faoladh, in hopes of dissolving whatever spell of madness had overcome him. The verbal back-and-forth that ensued only served to confuse him further, and soon made him question whether or not he should be standing there at all. The ‘conversation’ (not quite the right word, but he was frankly at a loss for words) seemed too deeply personal, and he was missing too many details to be able to follow.

Clearly, the two of them were well-enough acquainted that they knew all the right (and wrong) things to say to elicit a reaction. And just when he was sure that Tivia, with her all too sharp and clever tongue, would manage to verbally corner Hadwin… it was the star seer, who seemed to come undone. Safir, as an innocent third party with no insight into the ‘she’ to whom Tivia referred, or this ‘Isidor’, whose name seemed to have touched on some unhealed wound who she had failed to acknowledge previously. But he didn’t need to know the details to know that it was Hadwin who had won this round. 

“Tivia…” The Prince of Blades didn’t know what to say to diffuse whatever fire this argument had stirred, but even if he did, the star seer had removed her earpiece before fleeing. She didn’t want to talk; and she certainly didn’t want to listen.

Safir turned to Hadwin, about to demand an explanation, but the faoladh beat him to the offer first. “Damn right you will…” He muttered, following the wolfman inside.

Perhaps it was ill-advised to offer him alcohol, after witnessing what he could only assume had been a psychotic episode. But he seemed to have come down from his madness quickly enough, and the strong spirits appeared to make Hadwin seem relatively calmer. All the same, Safir decided it was only responsible that one of them to be sober. Such was his choice not to partake, as he sat across from the shapeshifter, rather intent on listening to understand what he had to say. And to say that he had been out of the loop… well, suffice it to say, it was an understatement.

“Tes… she is the one you thought you--well, that you believe you can still see. Or feel. The source of your loss…”  Safir rubbed one of his temples. This was a lot: far more layered and complex than he had realized. “And she is--she exists in a different state, if I am understanding correctly, because it was necessary in order to save Nia’s life. That’s… does… Nia know this? Does Ari know this?”

Nia, evidently, was also out of the loop, at least when it came to this small detail. Safir couldn’t imagine how she would handle it, if she were to learn that she was the reason this girl--Tes, whomever, or whatever she was--no longer existed in corporeal form. And he certainly would not be the one to tell her. Not when she had found happiness. Not when she and Ari hadn’t even truly begun their future together, and damnit all, she--they--deserved that future! It didn’t mean that Tes deserved to exist in small pieces, though… and he could not fault Hadwin for his distress. It frankly sounded awful, and he didn’t know what he would do, or how he would feel, if he were in the same position…

“Hold on. This girl’s brother… Isidor, was it? Did you say he’s a Master Alchemist? Is he Ilandrian?” The name didn’t sound familiar; not an Ilandrian first name, at least. And he didn’t exactly keep tabs on every possible Master Alchemist that had managed to survive the massacre… “And are you saying that he and Tivia are--or were--romantically involved? Is Nia, then, acquainted with him?” If she was, he wondered if they were at all on good terms--or if this Isidor blamed her for what had happened to his sister. 

Safir narrowed his eyes. “Where is he, now? Do you know? And do you think he means Nia, or anyone else here, harm? I feel for him, as I feel for you, losing someone close in order for someone else to thrive… but if there is any chance that this other Master Alchemist might be a danger to anyone here, then I have to know. And if Tivia knows, I cannot count on her being entirely honest with me. Not if she still has feelings for him.”

Jennikah Elisaron, not so unlike Tivia, had been born into nobility, and hadn’t lived a single day in another person’s shoes. As an only child, and daughter of a particularly powerful man, who served on Prince Safir’s council (and had served for many years on his father’s council, as well), the young woman likewise couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t gotten what she’d wanted. Be it new gowns, jewelry, lavish birthday celebrations, or a night on the town, the privileged young woman wasn’t used to being denied much of anything. As a result, the word ‘no’ in any such form was one that she more often than not interpreted as a challenge to find a means to gain a ‘yes’, than as a resolute answer.

That might explain her years upon years of incessantly making advances at Prince Safir Vallaincourt, with little to no progress to be shown for it. While it didn’t help that the Prince of Blades had never outright said ‘no’, or directly requested she stop trying to be anything more than a friend to him, any other (reasonable) person probably would have taken a hint. But not Jennikah; for better or worse, and however foolishly, she persevered. Surely, it was only a matter of time before Safir came to his senses and realized that the two of them were perfectly compatible, not to mention an excellent match…?

Such had been her reasoning, at least, until late… when the Prince of Blades, with no more living family of his own, had suddenly announced his abrupt engagement--to a foreigner, no less. To say that Jennikah’s heart fell when she caught wind of it on a recent afternoon was an understatement. What had happened? What could Safir possibly be thinking…? He had only been in contact with Tivia Rigas, the D’Marian advisor to the newly-allied Eyraillian King, for a handful of weeks. And, to her knowledge, his business hadn’t even been with her, but with King Caris Sorde, himself.

So what, then, could have possibly occurred between him and the King’s advisor so quickly? Had he been so lonely and defeated in light of his father’s death that delusional grief had led him to feel some sort of false connection with Tivia? Or had the D’Marian advisor simply seen an opportunity to have not one, but two (potential) kings under her thumb…?

The privileged debutant had gone over the possibilities in her mind again and again, until she was exhausted, and no longer felt as though it mattered. For the first time in her life, she had run into something--or rather, someone--that she simply could not have, and for which there were no possible means to obtain. Safir was engaged… It didn’t matter that she couldn’t figure out why. But it still left her feeling empty, and recently, fairly directionless.

Imagine her surprise, then, when she received notice one afternoon that none other than Lady Tivia Rigas wanted to speak with her. Her: not her father, who sat on Safir’s council. Her vindictive streak encouraged her to deny it right away, but it didn’t appear as though she even had that option, at the time. The envoy had delivered the hand-written letter (it wasn’t exactly worded like a request), and left just as quickly. All the better, maybe; she would find far more satisfaction in denying the haughty Rigas woman face-to-face. While Jennikah had had the decorum not to speak up or out of turn during the tea, earlier that day, it was quite another matter for Tivia to come to her place of residence and to expect courtesy.

So, come evening, the pretty young councilor’s daughter was ready to turn Safir’s fiancee away with the carefully planned diatribe that she had been sitting with and meditating on for several hours. However… Tivia had been right, about Jennikah’s curiosity. And when King Caris’s advisor finally arrived at her residence by carriage, after sundown, she was loathe to admit that it interested her more to hear what she had to say, or what possible reason could have brought her to her parlour, than to slam the door in her face.

Jennikah received her unlikely guest in the parlour after supper that evening, with a fresh pot of tea and some biscuits arranged on a coffee table. She almost hadn’t bothered with refreshments, given the nature of her company, but alas, her hospitable upbringing got the best of her after all. “Lady Rigas.” She nodded her greeting to the woman, but there wasn’t a trace of a smile on her face. “Pray tell, to what do I owe the… pleasure of your company?” Just because she had to go through the motions of being a decent host did not mean she had to like it.

She had no idea what Tivia meant to discuss with her, beyond the strong possibility that it had to do with Safir. But the topic of the Prince of Blade’s future as Ilandria’s next king--and the fact that what she’d assumed had always been a certainty was, in fact, now threatened, would have been one of the last issues to come to mind. Jennikah, after all, did not attend the council meetings; and little of what occurred during them was discussed with her. It hadn’t escaped her attention that the Rigas woman was most certainly under scrutiny of the council members… but Safir, himself? It didn’t make sense.

Tivia had her attention now. “Pray tell--what are you talking about? Prince Safir has always been slated to take his father’s place. The King, himself, reaffirmed this some years ago, before his mind began to slip…” Jennikah furrowed her brow and leaned forward, lowering her voice so that any serving staff nearby would not be privy to the conversation. She wasn’t the only one in on gossip. “What is happening at those council meetings…? Were they all just waiting for Ullir to die, so that others might swoop in like a committee of vultures?”

The only thing more surprising than this bizarre, insidious development, was the offer Tivia proposed, should she agree to help Safir maintain his momentum in his venture for his father’s crown. Jennikah blinked several times and sat back again on the settee. “You’re… Surely, you are not suggesting…” But, yes; the Rigas woman was suggesting precisely what she thought. “I… well, then.” The noblewoman smoothed her skirts over her knees and cleared her throat.

“If you have come to me on behalf of Prince Safir for help, Lady Rigas, then consider your bid secured.” Jennikah tucked loose curls of her golden blonde hair behind her ears. “I assume it is my father to whom you wish I will appeal? As I am not part of the council, and I have never been privy to any of such meetings, I can make no promises. But… I will see what I can do.”