Unable to match Nia’s fury for a situation that, like with most kingdom politics, didn’t affect or impact him, Hadwin spat out a few gritted curses to show his solidarity. “Lady Genocide’s coming back to this spot in two days. I’ll keep tabs on her. She’s tough to crack, but if she won’t show her yolk, her supporters might. Easy to find a bad egg among the crate. You just have to follow the trail of rot.” He clamped her shoulder, a sudden clap of pressure to startle her from the downward spiral of her thoughts. “Hey. We’ll figure this out. We’re a creative, resourceful lot. When we get back to the palace, we’ll draft up a plan, probably have one of those dreadfully boring council meetings of Galeyn’s ilk, and go from there. Between you and me, though—I don’t think blind faith in justice is gonna save the day for your would-be king. He needs to fucking drown this bitch. But in the meantime–”
Having anticipated Nia’s decision to head to the structural eyesore who had no choice but to front as a tavern, Hadwin said nothing, allowing her to take the lead. They parked the steed on the hidden and less fetid side of a piss-soaked alleyway (it surprised nobody that there was nowhere to stable the mare) and entered through a half-crumbling entrance, the door too distorted to fit into the jamb and hanging slanted off its hinges. With half the clientele face-down on the water-stained tables and the other too sloshed off stale ale to exercise restraint and coherence, Nia and Hadwin eased into the main room without notice or care.
“Damn,” he muttered, “I’ve seen better conditions in Tulrahan–a shantytown by fucking definition. Folks there were always hankering for a fix–and a pop or two in between the legs–but their spirits weren’t ground into ashes and dust. Not like here.”
But he hadn’t come to lament the shambling corpses of the living dead. His purpose sharpened when a familiar smell wafted toward his nose, its mixture best described as astringent and sleep. His periphery caught a dark shape floating up the stairs. At first, he hesitated. Accustomed to shades and haunts crouched in the corners, he dismissed their appearance as so commonplace, he’d stopped reacting to their frequent visitations. He changed his tune when Nia, who stared straight at the wraith, chased it up the stairs. Unless his delusions were contagious and Nia had succumbed to the disease, he assumed the shadow was not a ghost, and joined the hunt. He cringed when they creaked and groaned over the elderly floorboards. Who needed a guard on duty when the pressure-sensitive wood not only deterred assassins, but probably took out an ankle with a misstep through the rot-thinned planks?
Sacrificing care for efficiency, they sped (abeit with a galumphing canter) for the door at the end of the hallway and flung it open to…darkness. Hadwin faltered. Did he yet again hallucinate an entire scene? Nia seemed just as puzzled. “Either we’ve both gone mad or it look’s like our lad’s been taking lessons in puppetry and illusion.” He projected his voice, much like a ventriloquist. “Care to shadow-box, Izzy?”
Sure enough, their quarry “materialized,” gaunt and pale as a driftwood tree, bleached to bones by the tide. “Damn,” he sucked in a breath, “did you take up necromancy? Cuz you sure look like you died and brought yourself back to life. You ought to have consulted your tear brother, cuz you could’ve cast the resurrection spell a mite sooner. I can smell the worms wriggling under your skin. I’m shocked you’re even edible, with your new shadowy aesthetic and all. Figure you’d taste like coal smoke.”
It came as no surprise to either Hadwin nor Nia that Isidor did not share their eagerness for a reunion.
“Hm.” In response to Isidor’s request for their quick and dutiful exit, Hadwin kicked the door closed, leaving the three–and whatever shadows lingered–in the cramped room. “You know,” he ignored Isidor’s moratorium on all conversation, “I’d originally come all this way to bend your scrawny arse in three different directions. Seeing you broken and battered under my foot exceeds whatever cheap explanations you’d deign to tell me by a mile. So I’m glad we’re in accordance. But,” he steepled his fingers and bent them at an angle, satisfied with the chorus of cracks and pops, “I changed my mind, and it only took three seconds of looking at your sour mug to decide. You’re plenty pathetic as you are–and I’ve seen my reflection–but I think you’ve got me beat.”
He scrutinized the skeletal figure as if waiting for him to diminish into ashes. “Not that you care, but Tivia didn’t rat you out. She stayed tight-lipped on the subject of her despair, regardless of who asked. No matter, though. Not much effort to figure it out on my own. Did anyone ever tell you that love and fear are bedmates?” He raised his eyebrows, but elicited no reaction from the man who stopped living, and hence, stopped caring. “Thought you’d like to know the tumble your old flame took after your fraught little reunion. She fell apart in the center of the marketplace, a weeping mass of entrails and pus and a subject of quiet ridicule. Oh how they pointed and whispered. A real spectacle. Tivia Rigas—reduced to a whimpering puddle. Now, I’m no expert, but if I had to wager a guess, she collapsed from a broken heart. None of my business what you cats discussed to get you clawing at each other’s throats. But you’re a fool if you think your antics don’t concern me—on one point in particular.”
By now, he’d forgotten Nia in the room in favor of his agenda. The ultimate reason he sought Isidor in the back end of Ilandria. He steadied his hands at his sides, commanding them not to squeeze into fists as Tivia’s words from earlier echoed in his thoughts. How does it feel to have him sweep in and claim blood ties to his sister? They’re family, and you’ll never be, and the truth eats you up inside. …He doesn’t deserve to be her hero. Despite his initial mastery of control, his fingers hardened into fists.
“Whatever you’re doing for Teselin, if you’re doing something for her,” he chuckled to ease the tension. His tension. “...Don’t fuck it up, because if you do, and you send her careening into a worse state,” he took one step forward, letting the hostility radiate from his skin like furious suns, “I don’t care what unholy deals I have to make, what gods or devils I have to petition, but I’ll put you where she is now, and make sure every individual particle of yours screams for a death you’ll never receive. You think you’ve reached the annals of despair now? I’ll crack you wide open and feast on your downfall like a luscious steak.” Leaning so close he could have bitten off Isidor’s nose, he split into his most menacing grin and landed a faux-playful punch on his shoulder, pretending, imagining, that he swung with full, annihilating force and launched him out the window. “If you see Rolf, tell him I said ‘Hi. He got reassigned to West Mollengard, so I heard, but I’m glad to make the trip and fuck his bones clean off his skin again. Who knows? I could be your neighbor.” He flung the door open wide, the light from the half-broken lanterns in the hallway harsh compared to the thicket of shadows Isidor had layered around him. “I leave the floor to you, Nia. Ta-ta!” And he stormed out of the room.
Sylvie, wilting in her seat, shot to ramrod attention like a soldier who’d been caught sleeping while on duty. “That is absolutely not the case. The studio is a wonder and I cherish it, I really do. I’ve no complaints. The room is structurally sound and equipped with everything I could ask for, and more.” She painted over her ostensible exhaustion with a fresh layer of cheer and gratitude. “Forgive my complaint. I was simply explaining my less-than-stellar condition. The fault is all mine, I’m afraid. I should have known better than to work with volatile elements in an unventilated space, but as I was only producing enough for an experimental swatch, I did not think the fumes would be so virulent in its opposition to my lungs. Lesson learned, I suppose,” she said with a tired smile.
Even the auspices of oblivion could not immure her from Caris’ poorly worded comment. She blinked up at him, her smile turning wolfish. “Oh, to accompany me to bed. There would be no space for you, I fear. Myr is a growing cat and requires his stretching space. As it stands, he seeks to push me off the bed and claim it as his own, in entire. It seems we must settle with the physician.” She accepted his outstretched hand and graduated from her seat. Once steady, she nodded at Caris to take the lead, as her palace wayfinding skills were underdeveloped at best. In her current, foggy-brained myopia, she didn’t know how she succeeded in locating Caris’ study.
Pausing a moment to catch her breath, which had shortened to a yarn-clipping’s length of lung power, she proceeded out the door with her royal guardian. “My personal valet,” she joked. On the outside, she exuded lightness and grace. On the inside, doubt clawed at her heart. As they took slow, careful steps down the hallway, Sylvie glanced at their intertwined hands. Just a few days ago, unprompted contact like this would have filled her with glee and warmed her hand hours later. Now, she felt…nothing. No pleasant tingle. Not even natural body heat. All was cold, and hard like stone. In a surge of panic, she wrenched her hand free and stared at the lines etched on her palm, looking for evidence of crystallization, but she saw no calcified open wounds. No rubified calluses on her fingertips. She palpated the flesh with her opposite hand, and the pressure dimpled her skin. Normal, as far as her examination showed. Then why was Caris’ hand as stiff as marble?
“My…apologies,” she said, breathless. “My hand,” she scrambled for a feasible excuse, one that would not offend, “is a bit inflamed from the dye. To answer your unspoken question, yes, I wore gloves, but I suppose they were not tight enough around the cuffs, and the irritant trickled through the opening. Am I ever the careless, clumsy one today?” She reached for a laugh, but received only the weeds of one, gnarled and brambly. “Are you sure you still desire my company this evening?”
Despite the opening she created for Caris to leave, he stayed at her side, perhaps out of a sense of obligation to an honored guest of Eyraille. Owing to her “condition,” she clasped her hands by the wrists as a deterrent against bodily contact. A temporary measure, she assured herself, until she met with the royal physician.
The physician, she realized with dim horror, who would notice, if he were to draw a significant sample of blood, the basilisk’s curse she carried in her veins.
She slid to a full stop.
“On second thought,” she recalibrated until she faced the direction of her bedchambers, “I would much rather head to bed. I shall call for Lord Rigas. I feel a magical component is in part responsible for my sudden malaise.” A lackluster excuse for her ongoing erratic behavior, but it would have to do.
“Alster is indisposed at the moment, but if your concerns are of the arcane variety, I’m available to assist in his place.” In the corner of her eye, a figure approached from a half-obscured antechamber. Tivia Rigas. Had she stationed herself along their path, waiting for her opportunity to pounce?
“Ah, Lady Tivia,” Sylvie shuffled into a half-hearted curtsy. “Good evening. Thank you for the offer, but I am happy to wait for Alster, even if I must delay the appointment until morning.”
Undeterred, Tivia remained within Sylvie’s sluggish stride. “Oh, I have quite an effective method of healing, as his Majesty here can attest,” she cocked a nod at Caris. “It’s a little unorthodox, but as they say, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ I personally find the adage to be rubbish, but in it lies a spark of truth, if you disregard linear time entirely.”
Sylvie’s polite smile wore around the edges. “I am certain a long night’s rest is enough to clear my malaise. If my condition has not approved by morning, and if Alster is not available, I will consider your services. Now, if you will excuse me,” she turned to Caris and bobbed a weary nod, “I am confident of the way to my rooms, your Majesty. I shall take my leave. Many thanks to your patience and consideration this evening. I shall call upon you in the morning and resume my duties posthaste, contingent upon my health. Good evening.” Withdrawing from the small retinue, which had fast grown into a stultifying heat, Sylvie retreated, leaving Tivia and Caris alone to speak–or bicker. Whichever they fancied.
Once the subject of her fascination dipped out of earshot, Tivia cocked her head at Caris, preparing for his displeasure. “Believe it or not, I sought to help, and in the nicest possible way. Neither did I lie. Alster has business in Galeyn. But you and I both know that little Sylvie Canaveris’ ails amount to more than a piddly headache. Something is wrong, and we won’t know unless we get close to her..”
Something was wrong, but nothing Tivia had seen or predicted. While Alster did not return from Galeyn that evening, he sent word to Elespeth that he would have to extend his trip a day or so longer. It soon became apparent why, when Elespeth delivered the news the following morning. Nico had vanished. And no one could find him.
There was no denying that the person in front of them was Isidor: his height (which almost bordered on intimidating, at no fault to him,) the quiet baritone timbre of his voice, the slick, ebony hair that hung to his shoulders like obsidian silk, eyes that rivaled shimmering onyx, all accompanied by an unspoken air of loneliness that followed him like a shade…
And yet, Nia felt as though she was faced with someone else entirely. A parody of someone she considered a friend (even if the feeling was never mutual, and might never be), someone who looked the part, albeit much rougher than she remembered, and decidedly… hollow. Even moreso than the last time she had seen him, leaving Galeyn behind as barely a shadow of his former self.
This wasn’t by any means the first extreme deviation from his personality and mannerisms. Back when she had still foolishly been working with the witch, Locque, Isidor Kristeva had been a skittish, socially awkward man who could nary string a cohesive sentence together among friends, let alone those he did not trust. And then, his brief tryst with Tivia Rigas… well, he suddenly carried himself with a light and a confidence that hadn’t been there before. That demeanor had shifted considerably when their relationship abruptly dissolved, leaving him wounded, dejected, and withdrawn from his friends (and just unhinged enough to take a tumble in the sheets with her, at the time.) But this… The person before her did not give the impression of someone who was simply wounded and embittered. There was something irrefutably dangerous about his aura, enough to make her believe that if they pushed him too far, and for too long, he was not beyond retaliation.
And Isidor, like Nia, was a Master Alchemist. She knew what he was capable of--although perhaps not to the full extent.
Before the Ardane woman could get a word in, for better or for worse, Hadwin took the opportunity to unload on Vitali’s brother. Nia’s knee jerk reaction was to cut him off and reel him in before he pushed Isidor past a point of tolerance, and incited unnecessary violence, but not only did she fail to find an opportunity to get a word in, she didn’t have any words to interject. Like so many other occasions, she had made a split-second decision with no obvious intentions or goal, and no plan as to how to proceed. It was really little wonder as to why she loved and valued Ari’s presence and guidance: just how she had managed to get as far as she did without a grounding voice of reason was beyond her…
“What does it take to be left alone…” Isidor muttered darkly. His eyes fixed on the faoladh and the Ardane woman with a sort of disinterest that left Nia decidedly unsettled: like it wouldn’t matter to him if they dropped dead in a heartbeat, and that he wasn’t beyond removing them from the land of the living. “Since you all seem to lack basic understanding, I’ll repeat myself only once: I am not here for Tivia. She made the decision to approach me when I’d have preferred to avoid an encounter, and I sought to turn her away as fast as possible. Hold me responsible for her public breakdown if it soothes your own consciences to lay blame, but, again, I am not here for any of you. My reasons are my own, and I do not owe those reasons to anyone--especially not the likes of you.”
If he was telling the truth, and his presence in Ilandria was mere coincidence, then Nia personally felt inclined to believe him. As dangerous as Master Zenech’s former acolyte was, Isidor was a defensive creature by nature, and not one to seek trouble. Not so unlike a wild animal when cornered, if he lashed out, then it would be retaliatory in nature, and not an instigation. That in and of itself would have led her to the decision to respect his wishes and leave well enough alone; after all, it wasn’t likely that being confronted by some of his objectively least favourite people would be the catalyst to bring the solitary Master Alchemist back down to earth, and back into a support group that was yet still willing to accept him. All they’d be doing by pressing was further agitating a threatened, wild animal, thereby inviting whatever repercussions followed.
The Ardane woman was, however, quick to change her mind on that stance the moment Hadwin mentioned the very nation that was threatening Eyraille--and, through association and proximity, Ilandria.
“Mollengard?” Nia turned her attention from Isidor to Hadwin and then back again so fast she almost suffered whiplash. “That’s not… No way. I’ll believe you’re capable of some crazy shit, Isidor, and some of it I can’t even begrudge you. But if you’re here with Mollengard--”
“Then what, Nia? Go on, finish your sentence.” Isidor snapped, and the fact he interrupted her at all was more jarring than the acid dripping from his words.
Then what, indeed. The Ardane woman wanted to believe it was a lie, simply because she could not fathom any rational circumstances for which Isidor Kristeva--a man who had escaped his own forms of oppression--would willingly seek out yet another entity hellbent on subjugating him again. There was nothing to be gained by working for Mollengard, and if he thought for a moment that he somehow had the upper hand on them, then he was sorely mistaken.
And, to that point alone, Nia would never have imagined Isidor would be so stupid as to believe otherwise. Perhaps dregs of naivete still lingered from his days as a sheltered alchemist, holed up in his tower… “Hey. I know I’m not the most suitable person to say this,” she sighed, knowing before the words passed her lips that they were futile. “Whatever you think of us, Is… we’re not your enemies. We want Teselin back, too. Hells, whatever it is you’re doing, I’ll help you! You don’t have to shoulder this alone.”
“You?” The word was like acid on Isidor’s tongue, and his voice, the weapon it coated. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Nia felt… afraid, in his presence. “You will be the one to help me? When you are the reason she is gone? …get out.”
Nia knew this was not a request, and the dark undertones of his voice, tainted with anger and pain she could hardly grasp, were enough to make her turn on her heel and head after Hadwin without hesitation.
With the shabby inn behind her in a mere moment, the Ardane woman found Hadwin waiting next to their ‘borrowed’ horse. Whatever had riled him up, the cool night air seemed to have calmed his nerves a bit. “Is it true? Do you know for sure he’s here with Mollengard?” She whispered, all the while knowing the faoladh had no reason to lie about something so dire… and it wasn’t as though Isidor denied it. That, in and of itself, was confirmation.
“What if he needs help, Hadwin? What if… all of that,” she gestured vaguely toward the inn, “was just a mask because he’s afraid to tell us too much? I just… I can’t bring myself to believe he’s here to hurt us.”
That much, the necromancer’s brother did confirm, in his assertion that none of his former allies were the reason he was here. Maybe she was reading too much into it, or maybe she was just naive, but even if Isidor was here with Mollengard, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he meant harm. At least, not directly.
But with greater problems hanging over their heads, and no foreseeable resolution regarding the Master Alchemist from Nairit, they had no choice but to cut their losses and move on. “...fuck it. Let’s get back to Safir.” Nia huffed her frustration, and mounted the steed behind Hadwin. Whether the sudden flush of her cheeks was due to pent-up anger or the creeping winter chill was anyone’s guess, and on the way back, she remained curiously silent for someone who wasn’t known for shutting up for any period of time.
Ilandria’s central city and its palace had already retired by the time they returned. All but Safir and Ari, that is, who seemed to be waiting impatiently in the residential corridors after they returned the horse to the stables and went inside.
“Where have the two of you been?” The Ilandrian prince’s countenance was one where relief warred with frustration. It wasn’t far off from Ari’s; there was no question that the Ardane woman and faoladh’s sudden absence had left them worried. “Nia, did you really think your vague note to Ari would suffice? We were about to set out in search of you both!”
Nia waved her hands in a dismissive gesture before Safir even finished his sentence. “We need to talk. Now--all of us.” Without waiting for a response, the Master Alchemist grabbed both men by their forearms and ushered them into the nearest sitting room: the same place where the Prince had taken Ari for his flight-sickness upon his initial arrival in Ilandria. As soon as all four of them were safely sequestered out of earshot, she shut the door. “Hadwin and I did a little reconnaissance. Jahnst is planning some real bullshit; dangerous bullshit. The wolf can probably explain it better than me.”
As Hadwin unwrapped the details of Lady Jahnst’s notorious scheme, the other men’s faces shifted from mirroring confusion to settling in shock and incredulity. At least, Ari, for one, reflected enough palpable (albeit carefully compartmentalized) panic for the entire room. Safir’s typically smooth features, on the other hand, presented only a subtle shift to mirror the thoughts beneath the surface. After all, he’d expected this; or something to this degree from Liesefa Jahnst. “To think, had I found out too late…” The Ilandrian prince murmured, too quiet to be content. The muscles in his jaw jumped from the tension of grinding his molars. “I’m not even sure how to proceed. Jahnst has certainly picked her tactics well.”
“We could try to get to them before the day of, but there’s no telling who, or how many have been enticed by that bitch’s offer.” Nia paced the room, arms folded firmly across her chest. “Not like you have much of a leg to stand on, either, Your Highness. Have you seen the state of their surroundings? Where they are living? If you can even call it living. If you’ve ever needed damage control… now will be the time. Good thing you’ve got a practiced orator on your side to smooth over public relations regarding the people left maimed at the hands of your kingdom.”
She glanced at Ari, pushing her unruly chestnut waves over her shoulder. “Think you’re up for the task? Is it even possible to counter what Jahnst has planned? I’m not gonna lie: the odds don’t look good. Even if the spurned and broken Master Alchemists don’t like Jahnst, they don’t exactly like you either, Saf. Unless you’ve got something up your sleeve better to offer them, this is going to be absolute fucking mayhem.”
“...I should have worried about that woman sooner.” Safir sighed. His verdant eyes were bright with frustration, but whether it was directed at Jahnst or at himself for retroactive inaction was unclear. “Either way, whether I refute her claims or go along with them, I lose what support I have garnered.”
The tension in the small sitting room could have been cut with a knife, taking up more space than oxygen and consequently making it difficult to breathe. And, curiously, the majority of that tension was not emanating from the Ilandrian Prince--arguably the most affected party--but the Master Alchemist. Safir surely wasn’t the only one to pick up on the way she suddenly carried so much tension in her shoulders, or the firm position of her mouth where she seemed to be biting the insides of her cheeks. “Nia,” he ventured, brow furrowed. “Is there something more…?”
“...yeah, actually. Not to do with Janhst, and I don’t mean to derail the very real crisis at hand, here, but Hads and I ran into Isidor: yeah, he’s here, and no, he doesn’t want to see anyone. But he said something I can’t quite make sense of.” Nia’s keen eyes searched the faces of the men in the room, searching for answers before she gave voice to her question. “Look, I’m willing to believe that Isidor is so aggrieved by the fate of his sister that he’s lost his fucking mind. And I know he and I have never exactly been on good footing. But he seemed pretty damned lucid when he told me, to my face, that I am the reason Teselin Kristeva is ‘gone’. So…” The Master Alchemist exhaled slowly through her nose. “Anyone care to weigh in on that one?”
“...Sylvie?” Caris stared, confused and wide-eyed, at his now empty hand. Almost in tandem with Sylvie, as she stared at hers. His gaze shifted quickly to her palm and fingers, searching for wounds or the inflammation she claimed, but to his untrained eye, it looked… well, distinctly unharmed. Not signs of chemical burn of any sort. What was this? What had he done to suddenly make her desire such distance, when just the other night, her hands were all over him just as much as his were all over her?
His suspicions were only heightened when the Canaveris girl suddenly saw fit to decline his offer to see her to the physician altogether. Much though he tried to reason that he should not take it personally, his mind couldn’t help but spiral, just as quickly as it seemed his chances with Sylvie were unraveling. Did I do something wrong? Is she too afraid of being caught? Has someone already said something to her…? Damnit all, if it was Tivia…!
Speaking--or, rather, thinking--of that very devil, and so should she appear. The young king was only slightly less startled than Sylvie when the star seer appeared out of the corner of their eyes. Had she been there all along, or just made herself known for her eavesdropping?
Yet, for once, Caris couldn’t dispute her offer for help. “She’s not wrong.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You’d never know the amount of times Prince Safir Vallaincourt did a number on me during some friendly sparring, thanks to Tivia’s help. If she can prevent the amount of scars I should have, at this point, I have no doubt she can be of use to you, Miss Canaveris.”
Either his vote of confidence was not enough, or Sylvie had already made up her mind that she wanted little to nothing to do with Tivia. On one hand, Caris couldn’t--and didn’t--blame her. Not after she was the reason for their interrupted moment of building passion the night before. But there was something decidedly urgent about the way she took her leave, with barely so much as a ‘good evening.’
It all left the Eyraillian King feeling verily frustrated: at himself, at Tivia, and if he was being honest with himself, Sylvie. Caris kept his lips pressed tightly together instead of responding to the star seer right away; either at a loss for words, or making a laudable effort to moderate his temper. “The nicest possible way, huh?” He huffed, and folded his arms across his chest, but there was otherwise nothing in his demeanor to suggest he did not believe her on either count. Far from it, in fact.
“What do you know?” He asked, finally turning away from the direction in which Sylvie had disappeared. “She’s suddenly acting strange. But I don’t get the impression she is lying… something just seems off. I thought… I’d hoped she would trust me enough to confide. If you want me to get close to her,” he arched an angled eyebrow, knowing full well what he intended to say needn’t be said at all. “Maybe consider a bit of distance. Or: privacy.”
When Caris retired that evening, he did not expect to awaken the next day to hushed anxiety carried on low voices throughout the corridors. No sooner had he washed, dressed, and broken his fast that he picked up something was indisputably wrong. It came as no surprise to find his guests from Stell D’Mare were directly connected to it, when he spotted Elespeth conferring with Tivia just outside her quarters. “I don’t suppose either of you care to explain why everyone is suddenly so quietly panicked?” He interrupted, as always throwing subtlety to the wind. “I assume this doesn’t have to do with Mollengard, or else there would be less whispering, and more proaction.”
Hadwin shivered, but not from the cool, dark room, which either lacked proper insulation or had every window propped open to shuttle forth streams of pre-winter chill.
Some folks experienced rage as inner immolation, ready to carve out its summoner from the inside to a scorching stump of charcoal. Others felt bursts of conflicting emotion. Tears, laughter, or turgid ice in one’s veins that rusted every joint and limb frozen. Hadwin had sampled each permutation so often, he recognized them by name. The one he felt now was by far his most despised. Shivers meant cracks in the skin, vibrational fissures that collided and separated in a million different directions and disharmonies, micro-spasms that took semi-autonomous control without his command. His fingers twitched too much to land a clean punch, teeth chattered enough to send his speech into a quaver. He teetered on the balls of his feet like a sapling in a windstorm. Despite the involuntary chemical responses of his rebellious body, he meant every word, every sentiment. His conviction was not any less compelling, or accurate. Hadwin Kavanagh exacted revenge for lesser offenses, and he wielded a rare and sadistic talent for torturing the victims of his displeasure in increasingly gruesome methods. But something else crept up in his throat, uninvited, and threatened to swallow his tongue–and his promise.
He was afraid.
Not of Isidor. Heavens no! The overdramatic lollipop harnessed no level of menace capable of destroying him, but for the one commonality they shared.
He was afraid for Teselin. What Isidor’s meddling might do. Worse, what if he succeeded? Saved her, before she saved herself? While he had faith in Teselin’s ability to resolve her own scrapes, and believed Tivia’s prognostication of no interference, he wanted to believe in a quicker solution, one that would spare Teselin the least amount of damage in whatever nether world she inhabited. And if that solution bore fruit because of Isidor, Hadwin would despise and curse the sludgy fungal slime every day he lived.
Because it meant he owed Isidor his unshakeable loyalty. It meant that Hadwin chose wrong in allying with the star seer. It meant that he failed Teselin in every conceivable way, like he failed Rowen. When recounting the day Teselin returned to corporality, the bards would sing, “T’was Isidor Kristeva who forged a deal with heinous Moll’gars, to revive the one he loved. Hadwin Kavanagh dissolved in madness, and broke apart his gourd.’
Hadwin twisted from the door frame and glared at the piss-stain who shifted into human form. One more parting shot before he left. “If you accomplish your lofty goal, what then? Mollengard owns you, and they’ll wise up to whatever promises you deny them. Your sour-puss look is cute and all, but watch it doesn’t stick. Hells, will you even be able to revert to the man people fancied? What am I saying?” He blew out his cheeks in short, mocking bursts of laughter. “You’re Isidor fucking Kristeva. You were meant to die alone.”
Not quite catching the last bits of conversation between Nia and Isidor, Hadwin stampeded down the hallway, daring his boots to snap the floorboards and send him careening through the ceiling. He ceased interest in a careful tread, dismissed the possibility of falling into oblivion. If the world swallowed him whole, who the hell cared? If temporal reality ceased to maintain his form and function, then let him dissolve and join Teselin in the hereafter. Holding on to the far-flung wish of reunion served him only platters of blight-stricken grub, guaranteed to rot his gut and bludgeon his mind bloody.
I’ll face every pitfall. Every hiccup in the road. One of them is bound to lead to where I can find you. Even if I can’t do shit, I’ll keep you company on that lonely road.
He didn’t recall how he ended up back outside, the steed’s tether in his hands, unmoored from the makeshift post, a rusty nail skewered in the drooping pine-wood siding. He also didn’t remember when Nia returned, but he loosened his fisted grip on the rope, flapped his lips in a sigh to rival the horse beside him, and tossed his head to acknowledge her question.
“I knew he was with Mollengard before I set foot here,” he said, his whisper unintentional. All the brassy posturing in Isidor’s abode drained him of his casual bravado. A curious layer of hoarseness coated his throat. “Tivia’s an open sore. The guards are afoot. Don’t know where, but I ain’t sticking around to find out. C’mon, we’ll talk and ride.”
He mounted the horse, captured the reins, and sent the steed into a light trot. Once they bridged a safe distance from the scummy neighborhood, he addressed her next set of questions. “That mask’s fused to his face now. Though I’d argue it’s less a mask and more his shadow. And just like a shadow, it belongs to him. It always has; just waiting for the opportunity to snake up his legs and crown itself monarch. He’s too myopic to fear his self-imposed shackles. Not when he’s so hellbent on his mission. Too damn focused to care about anything else, or anyone else.” The wind rushed through his hair, combing it like icicled fingers, a rush he welcomed to numb the feeling that needed a galloping of hooves to escape. With a flick of the reins, Hadwin urged the horse into a canter. “He ain’t gonna accept a damn lick of help, so I say we give him exactly what he wants. Fucking peace and quiet–which he’s not likely to get in Mollengard for long. Lucky for us, he doesn’t seem to pose a direct threat, but it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t find it immensely satisfying to stab out his heart next time we meet.”
They spent the rest of the ride in silence. Two companions notorious for incessant chatter, and the only exchange between them was shared exhaustion. After returning the horse to the stables, Hadwin disappeared to an unpeopled area outside to change into his wolf skin. They returned to the palace, an unassuming blonde-haired woman and the “dog” she took for a walk. Albeit a thorough, hours’ long walk that spanned them clear across town and back.
No sooner had they swept inside the residential wing of the palace than Safir and Ari were upon the duo in moments.
“Heavens,” Ari clutched his chest, a not-so-subtle reminder of his stress-induced fever from which he barely recovered. “The two of you had us worried! Nia, how many times must I insist you bring a resonance stone? If I cannot persuade you from ill-advised forays into the city, then I expect you to maintain an open avenue of communication. No excuses!”
Except, Nia came equipped with an excuse, and its urgency bade Ari to waive his proviso in favor of granting her a platform to plead her case. They relocated to an adjacent antechamber, the same one where the heinous portrait of the Vallaincourt family hung proud and oblivious over the mantelpiece. Once Hadwin reverted to his human skin and reclaimed enough vestments to pass for decency, he revealed the underpinnings of conspiracy laid out by the treacherous Liesefa Jahnst, a plot too outlandish to ring false, despite Ari’s passing acquaintance of her. Still, he needed to confirm the veracity of such a claim.
“You are certain you heard true?” He cocked his head at Hadwin. The faoladh, who, contrary to his nature, recounted the tale entirely without affect, bristled at the implied accusation.
“Flattered as I am that you’d credit me for spinning such a fanciful yarn, Ari, no, I didn’t make this shit up, and Nia here can corroborate my claim. My mind’s in question, not my ears.”
Ari raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “My sincerest apologies, Hadwin. I believe you. I suppose I elected for a dram of denial rather than entertain the latest spate of regrettable news. Nonetheless, we are grateful for the foreknowledge, and better grateful you arrived safe and unharmed. What the two of you pulled was too risky a venture, but,” he gave a resigned sigh, “the intelligence we’ve gained in return is invaluable. There are any number of methods we can employ, but I must first run a risk analysis and study Ilandrian policies to access an informed perspective on how best to approach these critical final days leading to your coronation, your Highness.” He nodded to Safir. “All of this is to say–yes, I am amenable to the task, daunting as it is. Out of curiosity–Nia, Hadwin,” he leaned towards the latter, who sat on the settee beside him, “how were you informed of Jahnst’s rendezvous? Your impeccable timing suggests you possessed the foreknowledge to intercept her clandestine location. However,” he laid a hand upon Nia’s arm, a minuscule press of warmth on her frigid and icy skin. “Something more disturbs you, does it not?”
It turned out, Ari underestimated Nia’s malaise by a landslide. At mention of Isidor, Ari unfurled from his rounded and tucked-in posture, a swan’s neck straightening to a rigid line. Realization flooded his senses. The bizarre behavior of Tivia Rigas, her tight-lipped secrecy. At the time, Ari downplayed her reaction as an unfortunate hazard of her unenviable vocation as messenger of the stars. But he should have known that the level of her distress far outranked her prior moods. “Isidor. Why is he—? Wait, I have questions to–”
Nia skimmed past the explanation, and Hadwin disturbed him with his quietude, offering no commentary to fill in the blanks. Scarcely recovered from news of Isidor’s presence in Ilandria, Ari was further blindsided by her inquiry. “He said that ‘you’ are the reason?” A curious spark of flame ignited in his chest. The swan-neck curled in a battle-ready curve. “How dare he?! Where is Isidor? I demand to–”
“Hells, Ari, I thought she already knew,” Hadwin interjected, his languid but robust voice clipping Ari’s rising diatribe before it took flight. “Shows how well I’ve been paying attention. Well fuck, this might sting a little. I’ll break it to you, Nia, but I’m gonna preface this by making one thing extremely clear. You are not the reason Tes is gone. Tes is the reason Tes is gone and she’d berate anyone who thought different. Isidor’s looking for someone to blame, but he does her a disservice. Cheapens her sacrifice, ignores her desire to use her magic to achieve favorable results and prove to herself her capacity to heal. He doesn’t know shit about what was going on in her head. But I do. The night she disappeared, she…Damn it, I tried to stop her! We could’ve drafted a plan, collaborated with Al, but Tivia stopped me. Bombarded me with illusions and tricked me into believing I was losing my mind. And you better believe it worked! Cuz I’m that much of a fucking pushover. Tes went off and…”
“You don’t have to continue, Hadwin if the recollection is too painful to bear,” Ari said, watching as Hadwin, who’d taken residence on the floor, writhed like the wolf within was about to explode from his skin in a spray of fur and bone shrapnel.
“Of course it’s painful!” Hadwin spat through gnashed teeth, digging his nails into the ornate rug beneath him. “I shattered into a million pieces to make it easier to cope, but I’m…” his head perked up, as if he arrived at a grand epiphany, “one span of the bridge, and she’s the other. Yes, I have to keep it together. If my end of the structure collapses, how will she be able to cross over, and come back to us when she’s ready? But what if there’s nothing but ashes when she returns? Gotta make sure there’s a world still left for her to come back to. Quell the rebellions. Kill the disease. The tyranny, the treason, Mollengardian superiority…”
“Take a break, Hadwin,” Ari said, kind but firm. The faoladh had devolved into incoherent ramblings, too lost in his thoughts to complete his version of events. “I will tell her the rest.”
“Nia.” He cupped her hands in his and met her warm, brown eyes, so lost and swimming in confusion. “After you performed the procedure to save my life, you fell into a deep, death-like coma. Gardeners, healers, Alster, Isidor—they all attempted to treat you, but to no avail. Your diagnosis was grim. Alive by the grace of the Night Garden, but…fallen, with no means of recovery. Whatever Teselin did for you, it nudged you back into a trajectory amenable for Alster’s magic to reel you to the surface. But the strain on Teselin…somehow, she vanished, the circumstances so mysterious that no one became aware of her benevolent meddling until Hadwin posed his concern for her sudden disappearance, and Isidor followed through with an investigation. Later, Tivia confirmed what had happened. Enraged at Tivia’s prognostication that we allow Teselin to reconstitute without any assistance, Isidor fled Galeyn, presumably to devise a solution for Teselin.”
“We collectively decided,” he glanced at Hadwin, who hasn’t ceased his mutterings and seemed unaware of anyone else, “minus Hadwin, who was too swept in his demons to understand, not to tell you what really happened, out of fear of this very outcome. That you might blame yourself, or go the way of Isidor Kristeva, or,” he paused, but the implication was clear with the raving wolf-man at their feet. “I would not have kept this secret from you, Nia, but I wanted to wait until you showed signs of convalescence. You have had much to worry about, as of late. I did not find now a prudent time to share with you a revelation that would shock or undermine your recovery. My deepest regret is that you discovered the truth through such insidious means and not from the mouth of a friend.”
Tivia hid her expression of bewilderment well. She adjusted the hearing apparatus, not sure the spiral-shaped device picked up on Caris’ words of praise. For her. So taken aback by yet another monarch’s offering of kindness, she stood agape as Sylvie exited their company and hurried down the hallway, refraining from following on her heels like she had originally intended. By the time Caris addressed her, she had recovered from her shock-induced lapse and peered askance at him with her good eye. “Hm? Did you ask me what I know?” She turned to face him, fetching a clear look at his face for better ease of communication. “Very little, I am afraid. I figured I should follow the advice I offered you, and endeavor to be a friend to Sylvie. Clearly, I am god-awful at the dreaded concept, but I had hoped she would grant me the time of day in exchange for reversing time to save her life. But,” she shrugged, “I was mistaken. I’ll admit I insinuated myself between you two because she would dare not meet me alone. Anyway,” she brushed an offending lock of blonde hair from her face, “I’ll leave you to your duties. I will say this much, though.” She gazed down the hallway where Sylvie had scurried, her frown turning the lip-seared half of her face into a sneer, “Sylvie Canaveris is keeping secrets so nebulous, even she cannot explain their shape. Darkness shades her eyes, and she stumbles, unable to adjust when life before had always walked alongside, holding a candle. Now, she must tread alone.”
The following day brought Tivia a surprise the stars had deigned not to reference in their nightly bombardment. Of course, why would they? She had steered the future into a path seldom trammeled, with nary an imprint on the trodden earth to track or follow. The route she’d chosen offered nothing but a rusty-edged sword to bushwhack the bramble and branches aside.
When Caris happened upon Tivia and Elespeth, he caught the end of their hushed conversation halfway between the hallway and the door to Tivia’s chambers. Just as Tivia had done to the young king and his love interest, Caris barged into their proceedings and awaited inclusion on the latest news.
“You’re correct. It has nothing to do with Mollengard, but it will impact a few of our allies,” she said, retreating to the cover and relative privacy of her bedchambers in hopes that Caris followed suit. “It’s already removed Alster from our roster. We,” she gestured to Elespeth, “were discussing how or when to tell Sylvie and Ari. In short—Nico has disappeared from the Canaveris villa. The stables at the D’Marian settlement noticed a Night steed missing from their number early this morning. It’s only been a day since he’s vanished and Alster hopes to locate him before he informs Ari since it hasn’t been long enough to generate immediate concern, but according to his grandmother, it’s unlike him to run off like this. Usually he keeps to his rooms when he’s upset. He didn’t leave a note, but some of his things are missing. Several days’ worth of clothes, winterwear, money, and art supplies. Night steeds travel boundless gulfs of land in a single evening, so he could be about anywhere by now. Too far to track his scent.”
Hadwin wasn’t alone in being preoccupied with intrusive thoughts and feelings. If Nia was paying attention at all to either Safir or Ari in their earnest reaction to the devastating news that his crown might well be threatened, then her awareness barely brushed the surface. Her brown eyes were locked on the expansive portrait of the Vallaincourt family as if she was taking in every detail, when in fact she wasn’t really seeing anything at all. “Call it a most fortuitous accident.” She replied several beats too late to Ari’s inquiry. “Hadwin had a solid hunch Isidor was in town; we just happened to wander in the right direction, and found more than we bargained for…”
It wasn’t until the Canaveris Lord acknowledged her deep preoccupation with heavier thoughts weighing on her mind that she drew her attention away from the royal portrait. The beat of silence that followed, however brief, felt loaded enough to suddenly send her pulse racing. “Thought I already knew what?” The Ardane woman demanded, looking between the three men with rising agitation. “What, is this some goddamned conspiracy? I thought Isidor was just fucking with me because the only thing that makes him feel better at this juncture is making someone else equally miserable!”
“For what it is worth, Nia,” Safir held up his hands in a defensive gesture of surrender. “I am just as perplexed as you…”
“Someone had better start talking before I set something on fire.” Nia’s voice was low and steady, and although the hearth was cold and without even a flicker of an ember, there should have been no doubt in anyone’s mind that she could very well come good on her threat.
Hadwin fortunately had the sense to clear the air--to the best of his ability, at least. Although his words did not harbour much in the way of comfort, it certainly explained Isidor’s accusation… and, arguably, reinforced his cutting words. At least, such was the case for the Ardane woman, who had secretly hoped the necromancer’s brother had simply been talking out of his ass, using insincere words with the intention to harm. Perhaps she should have remembered that Isidor Kristeva was, at his core, a terrible liar…
And Hadwin thought she already knew; but had Ari? Or had he purposefully chosen not to say anything to spare her highly sensitive (and sometimes, flammable) feelings? “Her sacrifice.” Nia parroted, and a muscle in her jaw twitched in tandem with the rest of her body going almost entirely rigid. “As if I am worth that much… and you all knew. You were all content that I did not know…”
“Not all of us.” Safir piped up, and pushed away from the wall, effectively inserting himself into a conversation that clearly did not apply to him. “But even if I had been in the know, Nia… I’d have done the same. Because I know you. I never stopped knowing you, and I know how you would take this information to heart far too quickly. I am not acquainted with this Teselin, but to think that she is the reason my dearest friend is here and speaking to me right now…”
“Oh--spare me. All of you.” The Ardane woman raked her fingers through her hair and opted to put distance between herself and her room full of men, lest she actually ignite something. While her aura might have been ablaze, however, her eyes were moist with tears. “Just… forget it. Forget I asked at all. We’ve got bigger issues afoot, and should be focusing our energy on how the hell we’re going to prepare for Jahnst’s sabotage. Because you’re gonna need more than just Ari’s masterful crowd work to save your ass--and your crown--now, Saf.”
Nia pressed her hand to the door, sparing a single glance over her shoulder just in time for a tear to trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away with an impatient hand before it could draw any attention. “You’re gonna need a goddamn miracle.”
The Prince of Blades, on his part, knew better than to pursue his best friend at the moment. She needed time to cool down, to process the enormous blow that had found its way to her attention by the most unkind means, but that didn’t negate how wretched the faoladh and Lord Canaveris felt for the way she clearly shouldered the burden of this new knowledge. “...I have never met this elusive and mysterious Isidor Kristeva,” he began after a thoughtful pause. His lips drew into a thin line. “And he should hope that I never do. Regardless… Nia is right. Jahnst has played a card I never imagined she’d be hiding up her sleeve. I don’t know how, or if it is even possible, to recover from what she has planned. If she has convinced the very people this kingdom has wronged to take part in this charade…”
Safir spread his hands in what seemed like a helpless gesture, only to curl his fingers toward his palm, clenching them into fists. “Then she is far more clever than I gave her credit for--and I don’t even know if there is enough time to intervene. But, if there is a chance that even some of them have not already accepted…” He turned to Hadwin, recalling that in the details of his recount, the faoladh hadn’t mentioned the Master Alchemists had agreed to anything as of yet. At least, the assumption remained that he hadn’t heard as much during his opportune eavesdropping. “Perhaps not all is lost. That is the mindset we must adapt, at least. Or else we--I--have already lost. Please…”
Releasing a sigh that his lungs had been holding from the start, the Ilandrian Prince relaxed one hand and ran it through his hair, before gesturing to the door. His attempts to not look as defeated as he felt were waning. “Get some rest. Dilemmas are never sufficiently solved with foggy minds. Let us return to the matter on the morrow.”
After everyone departed the quiet sitting room, and the Canaveris lord returned to his suite, he found Nia sitting before the mantle of an unlit fireplace with an open bottle of wine in her hand, and no wine glass in sight. The only light, emanating from a handful of thin candles, cast ominous, dancing shadows on the walls, either mimicking or influencing the Master Alchemist’s current mood, under the circumstances.
“You going to tell on me?” Nia didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know it was Ari who had joined her. The softness of his cautious footsteps (the way he tiptoed around her every time he was uncertain about her mood) gave him away. “If Sommath is more concerned about me drinking wine than this entire kingdom falling to shit--which is a very possible outcome, at this point… then the man’s gotta learn to prioritize.”
Whether to avoid conflict, or due to the fact he agreed there were bigger problems than micro-managing her diet, the Ardane woman was no less relieved when Ari didn’t protest to her less-than-advisable choice of beverage. When he moved to take a seat next to her on the settee, she offered him the bottle of deep red, trusting that he would pass it back when he’d had his fill. “Before you say anything--I don’t want to talk about it. Not when we have a very real crisis on the precipice of descending on us in a matter of days.”
There was no need to speculate on the topic she wished to avoid: namely that which had sent her reeling from the sitting room in the first place. For better or worse, it wasn’t a revelation she wanted to dwell on at this given time. “I don’t even know how Janhst did it. From what I can gather, the remaining Master Alchemists here have scattered themselves far and wide. They don’t want to be found… let alone by that heinous bitch.” Nia pulled her knees up to her chest, puffed out her cheeks, and sighed. “I hardly know where to start looking, but… I have to try. Someone’s gotta convince them our esteemed Minister of Justice doesn’t have their best interests in mind. She’ll raze them as soon as she’s razed Safir’s path to his father’s crown. Fuck…” With her hand now empty of the wine bottle, the Master Alchemist curled it into a fist and pressed it to her forehead.
“...I know I’m at least partially at fault here. No--don’t try to convince me otherwise.” Nia held up a hand before Ari could protest, all too familiar with his tendency to assuage her worries, even at times when she didn’t deserve it. “I’ve fucked up time and again since I’ve been here… If I hadn’t made it all about me, maybe we’d have paid closer attention to all the bullshit going on behind the scenes in Saf’s world… We might not have time to turn the tables, but I’ve gotta try. Tomorrow.”
Relaxing her limbs, which had been pulled tightly towards her body, she rolled back onto her feet and moved toward one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Although night had fallen, Nia had spent enough time in this room to know that it looked out far beyond the central city, and upon the less populated and far less traveled outskirts of the kingdom. More specifically, toward the very lands where the broken and scorned Master Alchemists that Ilandria had once cherished had retreated. “Before you say it--I’m going alone.” Nia turned her determined face to Ari. Of course this would give him cause to worry, considering the amount of times she had taken off without so much as a word or warning, since arriving in Ilandria. And to top it all off, submitting herself to Sommath’s supervision after a very real health scare did not make her seem particularly capable of pulling off this stunt and remaining unscathed.
Expecting the Canaveris lord’s protest all the same, the Ardane woman closed the distance between them with a shockingly quick pivot, and occupied his lips with her own. The kiss, although clear in its initial purpose, lingered too long to merely serve as manipulation. Then again, there was no questioning the authenticity of Nia’s love for Ari. “Just… trust me on this. You're an outsider, and clearly a wealthy and well-to-do one at that. Not to mention you've been seen in Saf's presence, and already he doesn't come across to them as a trustworthy figurehead. By association, neither will you.” She pulled away at last, but not far as to remove her palm from his cheek. “This is my home. And it’s fucked up--in so many ways. But it’s still my home, and Saf’s my friend. I might not be able to fix this. At least, I have to try. And…” With a coy tilt of her head, she flashed a smile. “This time, I promise to take a resonance stone.”
“Wait… what? Disappeared?”
Caris’ reaction was delayed, for the mere absurdity of the situation, and for the fact that Nico Canaveris was perhaps one of the last people he’d have expected to be the source of a brand new crisis. Sure, Sylvie’s brother was an… interesting sort. More specifically, the type who tended to lean on doom and gloom than to chase hope. For that, the Eyraillian King could not blame him; not when hope had been something he hadn’t entertained for a long time. But what could possibly have spurred Ari’s nephew to just… disappear?
“How do you mean, exactly? From here, in Eyraille, or from the other side of that mirror? I can’t imagine anyone vanishing from my palace without a trace. Not with the number of sentries I have stationed at every point that matters.” The young king frowned at the mention of Night Steeds. If that was the case, this had happened on Galeyn’s side, which--technically--did not really make it a problem that concerned him, as it was beyond his jurisdiction.
Except… that was not entirely true, since it affected not only his allies, but also, Sylvie. Someone who--for better or for worse--he couldn’t help but care about.
Of all the times to cause trouble, Nico… did it have to be now?! Caris sighed heavily and raked a hand through his blonde locks. “As if we don’t already have a plethora of problems brewing… Is this prolific drama characteristic of Canaverises, or something? No--don’t answer that. It answers itself.”
In addition to more problems, this turn of events also raised more questions. Here he’d thought Sylvie’s abrupt change in behaviour could be explained by the disappearance of her younger brother; except, Tivia suggested the Canaveris girl, along with her uncle in Ilandria, had not yet been made aware of this problem… If something hadn’t been eating at her before, then that would certainly be the case when she found out about her brother.
“And just how long do you plan on extending this search without informing the other Canaverises?” He asked, turning his body toward the corridor that faced the direction of Sylvie’s room. “They’re going to find out sooner or later--sooner than later, I would wager. Best they hear it from us than down the grapevine, only to find out we knew all along… But, if you have some sort of plan, then I will not interfere.”
With nothing more to contribute, and expecting neither did the two women, Caris proceeded to take his leave, allowing them to conspire in peace. But not before he paused temporarily. “No--I’m not going to tell her, so relax. But she deserves to know. So if I do not break the news, then I hope one of you will.”
Although this didn’t explain anything, the young king was still concerned about Sylvie’s shift in behaviour. If she was, in fact, unwell, and Alster Rigas was not present to help, then he needed to convince her to see some medical professional about her symptoms. With that said, knowing full well that he’d be pushing all his scheduled tasks later than for which they were originally scheduled, he made his way to her room and knocked on the door.
“Sylvie… are you awake?” Caris knocked hesitantly, not wanting to come across as demanding, yet neither did he want this matter to rest until he told him what was going on. “I don’t mean to intrude. Though I hoped, if you are able, that we might have a word…?”
“I bear the blame, Nia; not them.” Ari rose from the settee, but refrained from anchoring Nia in place with his hands. Much as she warned to set the room ablaze, she also embodied wildfire, each move unpredictable. But containing her flame was not the answer. He kept his distance, granting her the space to burn unchallenged. “I am not looking to absolve my sin, but only to provide a perspective. Tell me, honestly. If our roles were reversed, and my petrification curse still plagued me, would you withhold the truth if it prevented a dangerous flare-up? Remember your otherworldly rendezvous with Tivia Rigas? Which I had learned about only days ago because you feared telling me sooner would trigger a response?” He paused, shaking his head. “No. Forgive me; my rhetoric reeks of manipulative intent. You are allowed to feel irate. Betrayed, even. But Safir has no part in these proceedings, and Hadwin–”
“--I enabled her.” The faoladh, who’d devolved into a squirming mass on the floor in an active battle to preserve the remains of his lucidity, blinked into the barest glimpse of awareness. “I told Tes, the night she disappeared, she had the power to create any outcome she wanted. She wasn’t bound to a path of destruction. Unlimited potential, I said. She had limitless potential. So she decided to put it to practice. Fuck… Nia, she would’ve done it for anyone. You saved her life, besides. So she returned the favor, manifold. That’s the kind of person she is. It’s on me for not setting boundaries for the kid, but c’mon.” He flopped on one side and clutched his head, his twisted features disappearing beneath equally twisted fingers. “You and I both know once she’s got her sights set on a project, she’s fucking unstoppable.”
But Nia, exhausted by the topic, refused to absorb their attempts to pacify her vacillating state of mind. With a nod of resignation, Ari stood aside to allow her unimpeded passage out of the parlor. Like Safir, he understood Nia’s need to process the wealth of information in a safe and quiet space.
Ari stared at the door until Nia’s footfalls faded from earshot. “Isidor Kristeva…” He turned from the door to address his company of two–or one and a half, depending on Hadwin’s current mood, which cycled through the seasons every few minutes. From cold, hot, blustery, to sodden from the weight of a torrential downpour. For that reason, Ari moved his attention primarily to the Ilandrian prince. “I cannot fathom why he now resides in Ilandria, nor what inspired his radical change in attitude aside from…the obvious.” His gaze flickered to Hadwin; he omitted the summoner's name out of respect for the faoladh.
“I assure you, the Isidor I knew a few months ago, while subject to a dour, ill-spirited demeanor, was my dear and fond friend. His dramatic disappearance rattled a good number of his allies, myself included. Lord Rigas, who knew him best, has appeared more taciturn and withdrawn since Isidor’s flight. Not to mention, Tivia Rigas…They shared a short-lived affair, not long ago, but I suspect they’ve not yet resolved their romantic tension, and it is entirely plausible she spoke with him in the market the day we found her collapsed from despair. Whatever they discussed, I assume Isidor did not spare his barbed tongue. First Tivia, now Nia… Isidor had better hope we do not cross paths, for I will not offer clemency. In his current iteration, I believe he can potentially be dangerous. We should not discount his presence here in Ilandria.”
“He will have to wait, however. Our current predicament takes prominence. I assure you, we shall navigate Jahnt’s nefarious machinations toge–” his breath hitched as the edge of his boot made contact with a protruding mahogany leg of a claw-footed side-table and sent sparks of pain through his foot. “Ah, forgive me. Blundering through objects as I am, I should heed your advice and retire for the evening. We are all of us in dire need of rest. I will see how Nia fares and, come morning, we shall draft a plan.”
“Count me in.” Ari looked over his shoulder at Hadwin, who had shifted to lying like a plank on the floor, half-hooded gaze trained on the ceiling moulding. He’d returned to some semblance of clarity, albeit with a languid, foggy quality. He spoke in a dead drone, contradicting his interest. “Jahnt’s meeting with the same Master Alchemists in two days. Same place, same time. I’ll head back there, give another listen; see if she slips more nuggets of her master plan.” Before either Ari or Safir could interject, he added, his face drawn–desperate, “Give me something to do, yeah? I caught their scent, by the way. All Master Alchemists seem to have a similar tang to their skin. Must be from the bodily rearranging to surpass human limitation. Makes ‘em smell…oily.”
Upon his return to the suite, Ari was relieved to see Nia seated before the hearth. He paid little heed to the open bottle of wine in her hand. Better to have her drunk and under his supervision than wandering the streets, distraught and untraceable. His steps susurrus-soft, he approached Nia, hesitant to speak and ruin her wine-induced calm, until she broke the silence first.
“Sommath is a physician. Loyalty to his kingdom falls secondary to his vocation.” Among other fatherly reasons. But Nia had heard enough secrets for one day. To learn that her paternal bloodline resided in Ilandria’s royal physician might push her past the brink. “But to answer your question–no. I will not tell.”
He sat beside her, the coattails of his crushed velvet frock coat brushing against her leg. He accepted her offering of wine, brought the rim to his lips, and took a few long, thankful gulps, leaving Nia a fraction when he returned the bottle. If she argued that he guzzled so much to prevent her from draining the contents herself, he would shrug and mention that he too was entitled to a drink. He didn’t mention that the source of his wine-seeking excess came primarily from news of Isidor. He cared for the dire state of Ilandria and invested in a hopeful outcome despite Jahnt’s nefarious schemes, but the shock of learning about Isidor proved too insidious a distraction. He couldn’t think of anything else, and wanted to speak of it to someone who understood. Still, Nia had barred all conversation on the subject and he had no choice but to respect her decision and to try and offer useful commentary.
…Not that he was given a chance to say anything at all before she yanked him close and drove him into a kiss that served to sap the remaining strength from his bones. He clung to her lips, absorbing her intoxicated desire, equal parts enthralled and guilty for enjoying the labors of love spurred by the distress he had perpetrated. Fear-driven secrets he kept to protect her well-being.
“Nia,” he pulled away, winded from the delicate way he held his breath so as not to disturb their fragile, fleeting moment of intimacy. He stroked her cheek as reassurance, a sign of appreciation. “Darling. Grant me a moment to speak. I admire your gusto, but please give me the space to consider your proposal. I am not opposed to your plan. But—I have a counter-proposal.” He slid his hand from her cheek and rested it on her shoulder. “I understand I am not the best fit for delicate, clandestine dealings of this nature. You are correct–I am far too ornate in dress and speech to slum it on the streets with you. I could not hide my pedigree if I slathered myself in dirt and wore a burlap sack,” he said, chuckling at his expense. “My limitation lies with my inability to compromise appearances.”
“I do not advocate for this lightly, but…take Hadwin with you. Even in the dregs of his madness, he proved a capable ally, tonight. He claims he can find the hidden Master Alchemists by scent and no one will recognize him if he remains a human. You said it, yourself. We’ve a crisis on our hands and are running out of time. Therefore, it is vital that we deploy all our resources, however scant and imperfect. If you need help locating the Master Alchemists, we should remove as much of the guesswork as possible. The faoladh operates best when his mind is occupied. Make this a joint effort, Nia. Save your kingdom, but first realize we are not made to act alone. I would feel much better if you were navigating a hostile environment with a friend. Please,” he slid closer so that their foreheads almost touched, “would you do that for me, at least? A compromise?”
Tivia raised an eyebrow, surprised that Caris didn’t know the latest in Nico’s whereabouts. “Nico returned to Galeyn some time ago, your Majesty. The morning after Sylvie’s birthday, so I understand. I can’t fault you for not noticing. The Canaveris eldest son isn’t known for his stand-out presence. Sylvie didn’t talk to him at her party and Alster believes the upset encouraged him to head home, but doesn’t know if it’s the main cause for why he ran away. In any case, I’ll speak with Nadira and convince her to wait at least a day before informing Ari. Knowing him, he’ll leave Ilandria indefinitely to search for his nephew and Safir can’t afford to lose a socially adept ally mere days before his coronation.” And Safir can’t afford to have me take Ari’s place. After her faux pas at the market, Tivia would only weaken Safir’s claim to the throne. Why she believed she was ever equipped to perform a front-facing position remained a mystery.
“If you think Canaverises are dramatic, I dare you to spend a day among Rigases,” she snorted, amused that the young king thought the earth-bound Canaveris lot were the paragon of instability. “You will change your mind in an instant.”
“At any rate…I’ll take the blame for withholding information. It’s what I do, so I might as well meet everyone’s expectations. Sylvie’s in a fragile constitution, so it’s better to wait until she’s better recovered, anyway. The guilt she’ll feel for learning her brother’s disappearance might be in part her fault…imagine the weight on her conscience.”
The Canaveris of questionable constitution was not resting in bed, but slouched over her desk in the corner, poring over the previous entries in her diary. Her headache had receded in intensity from the previous day, but it waxed and waned, its phases memory-dependent. The more she fed it, the fuller and more pronounced the pain. If she didn’t bother to review and recollect the pieces of her fractured chronology, she could carry on as normal–albeit in a confused fog. The diary served as her only guide through the haze that spread across the last few months, dampening all but the vaguest recollections. Without her detailed entries, she wouldn’t remember why she was in Eyraille, what she meant to do in Eyraille, or why King Caris Sorde looked at her with hungry eyes. But the more she read, the more the pain spiked in reply, as if resisting her crusade to recover her receding memories.
“Why—“ she gasped, clutching her head with one hand, grasping the pages of the date marked three days ago with the other. The last entry, and by far the most mysterious. Whereas previous entries listed her day’s demands in a regimented hourly log, the latest showed a scrawl of stream of consciousness, her flowing script replaced by reckless, borderline illegibility. From what her throbbing eyes could parse, the Sylvie from three days ago spouted nonsense. “Everything changes today. I am about to experiment with indigo die. Dye. What a silly mistake. I am not about to die. Why would I die from a dye? Die dye die dye die dye die dye.” Dried teardrops stained the page, smearing the final three letters. Though distorted from the water damage, Sylvie thought she read, ‘Dad.’
A brusque knock on the door startled her to her feet. With harried breaths, she slammed the diary shut and turned from the desk. Instantly, she regretted the quick spring to motion. The ache returned, twin vines wrapping and wrapping her head, digging trenches in her brain. She stumbled to the door, caring little for her simple state of dress; a formless gown she usually wore to the workshop, comfort and maneuverability over style.
“Your Majesty,” she said to the figure on the other side of the door, her curtsy a straight line bereft of curves or flourishes. Rigid, military–minimal head-wobbling. “Good morning. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I hoped, if you are able, that we might have a word? Her polite smile vanished and worry furrowed her brow. “Ah, yes. Of course. Is anything the matter?” She swung her door wide, allowing him to enter. “Or if you prefer your office, instead? I realize I have made an improper request. Forgive me.” She grazed her forehead; a quick swipe, like wiping away a bead of sweat. “I have not yet recovered from my bout of illness, though I am happy to report I am feeling better. Have you heard from Lord Rigas?”
“And--” Ari might have escaped the kiss, but Nia wasn't about to let him get far. She held his face in her hands, with a tension that suggested more desperation than affection. “Before you object on the grounds that I’m not mentally or emotionally sound enough to make this decision, or go and blame the wine, just know that…”
The Master Alchemist paused, and actually listened to Ari’s words amidst her passionate protest. The Canaveris Lord knew her all too well, and following her impassioned displeasure surrounding the alleged reason for Teselin Kristeva’s disappearance, had likely surmised there was nothing he could do to change her mind or dissuade her. But, he wasn’t beyond negotiating the terms.
Even if those suggested amendments weren’t, at face value, sound.
“Hadwin?” Nia pulled back and blinked her wide brown eyes, certain for a brief moment that she had misheard (or if the wine had otherwise gone straight to his head and good senses.) “You can’t… no. I understand. And… you’re right.”
Lowering her hands from his face, the Ardane woman rested them on his shoulders. She couldn’t (at the given moment, at least) devise any proper arguments against his request, save for perhaps the faoladh’s general mental instability of late. Even that in and of itself wasn’t much of an argument, given how she hadn’t exactly exhibited the soundest of minds either, nor had Tivia Rigas. Everyone, for one reason or another, was losing their grasp on good sense and reality. At least Hadwin, for all his unpredictable demeanor, still had valuable skills to offer as a friend and ally.
“Alright. Deal.” Nia sighed her agreement and pressed her forehead against Ari’s. “Our resident faoladh comes with me. If he can help me find the other Master Alchemists, then all the better. But beyond that… you’ve got to trust me, Ari. Which… I know, it’s asking a lot.”
Her hands slid down his arms to find his hands. Even with a heavy ring on almost every finger, her own slipped between with ease. “I’m taking accountability. I haven’t been the most reliable, to say the least. And, for the sake of time, I’m not gonna sit here and try to convince you this plan is by any means foolproof. But… it’s all we’ve got. It might be all Saf’s got--and that’s if I manage to act fast enough. If I don’t pull this off…” Nia’s mouth widened in a humourless grin. “Then feel free to call me on my bullshit for the rest of our lives. Or… as long as you feel you can continue to put up with my bullshit.”
That evening, the two of them retired shrouded in a blanket of uncertainty. There was no question between the two of them that Ari was any more convinced of Nia’s plan as she was; like many of the Master Alchemist’s endeavours, it was a matter of ‘fake it until you make it’. Far from infallible, but if the only alternative was inaction, then a half-assed plan gliding on hope and overconfidence was better than nothing at all. In any case, Nia would argue that this was simply the price of her own inaction, putting off talking to Safir for as long as she had upon her arrival in her home kingdom. Had she paid closer attention to what was going on around her instead of brooding, had she not put off reconnecting with Ilandria’s Prince for so long… could this pending catastrophe have been avoided?
Probably not; it seemed like a scheme Liesefa Jahnst had had in the works for quite some time. But they’d certainly have had more time to prepare…
Sleep largely evaded the Ardane woman that evening, to the point where she gave up and rose from bed several hours before sunrise. Quietly leaving Ari to his own restless slumber, she padded into the common area, with only silver moonlight from the windows to light her way. It was there she found Hadwin, keeping warm in his wolfskin, whose ears perked up upon her arrival. She was already dressed in a long, insulated winter coat, with a thick scarf, durable boots, and--of course--gloves. The beauty of winter in Ilandria meant no one would so much as spare her a second glance that her hands, with rune-inscribed palms, were covered. “Awake? Good. C’mon, get up. We’ve gotta go now.” She didn’t expect any resistance on Hadwin’s part; not when the Canaveris Lord had implied the shapeshifter had already volunteered himself his services to the cause.
“You think you’ve got a nose to track down the other Master Alchemists? Then let’s find them, and fast. You can do the tracking; I’ll do the talking. And let’s hope it’ll be enough.”
The door to Sylvie’s private chambers opened to once again reveal a dishevelled, sleepless-looking woman who was not at all prepared to face the day. It wouldn’t have been the first time Caris had walked in on his Canaveris guest when she was in far from an ideal state to receive visitors, but compared to last time, there was something distinctly different about her demeanor. Last night, Sylvie had appeared unwell, for sure. Yet there was something beyond signs of a mere headache or lack of adequate slumber in her dark eyes. A malady that ran deeper than she let on, deeper than he--with no skills of a physician or that of a healer--was perhaps capable of understanding.
Her state left him speechless for half a moment at least, before he quietly invited himself in and closed the door behind him. “Can we put honourifics aside for now?” The young king requested. Much though he wanted to reach out to Sylvie, he pressed his back to the door instead, maintaining a respectable distance between the two of them. Just when he’d thought the two of them had reached a point where they felt comfortable breaching formalities, etiquette, and overall professionalism in favour of their blooming feelings and desires… Well, last night had him now thinking otherwise. Although he could not for the life of him discern what had changed, or why.
Perhaps the greatest difference between Caris’ leadership and that of Aristide Canaveris’ lay in the fact that while the latter was a persuasive and accomplished orator, the same could not be said for Eyraille’s young king. And if there was an appropriate way to gently segue into what he wanted to say, well, the method certainly eluded him.
As a result, a deluge of words and feelings, all having incubated deep in his chest for the entirety of an all-but-sleepness night, therefore, spilled from his lips. “If you’ll allow me to be frank with you, Sylvie… I don’t understand exactly what’s going on. If I have done something wrong, or made you feel uncomfortable in any way that has made you wish to put distance between us, then please tell me. You may rest assured that nothing you say to me will compromise your current position here in Eyraille--and you needn’t worry about sparing my feelings. I just…” Realizing he hadn’t so much as taken a breath, Caris paused and raked a hand through his hair, too ashamed at his considerably lacking decorum to maintain eye contact.
“I am not good with people, Sylvie. I know that. I’m not well liked, and for good reason. And as much as I try to remain unbothered by that fact--or make people believe I am unbothered, at the very least, I… I don’t want to compromise your opinion of me. It matters, because you matter. If I’ve been so forward with you as to make you reconsider where you stand with me, then so be it. I only hope you have the grace to inform me as to exactly what made you change your mind about me, so that I may never make such an egregious mistake ever again.”
The young king had anticipated (or rather, hoped) that in light of relieving the burden of such words from his chest, he would feel lighter, more at ease, regardless as to whether or not the Canaveris girl provided him with an answer to his questions. That he was instead met with a blank, confused stare, however, had the exact opposite effect on his bearing. Why was she looking at him like she hardly knew him? As if they had never shared an intimate moment together? Was this some sort of ill-intended joke…?
The only thing waylaying the anger that accompanied feelings of intense shame was the fact that Sylvie Canaveris looked so inarguably unwell. Worse even than when he had last seen her. Whatever her reasons for resolving to put distance between the two of them… He was not so callous as to refuse to prioritize what was inarguably a more pressing issue. “You know… nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.” Caris felt the heat in his face, knew his cheeks had probably flared bright red. This was, perhaps, the most humiliated he had ever felt--but he reminded himself that how he felt in this moment did not matter.
“You’re clearly unwell, Sylvie. And I don’t believe for a moment that you are feeling better when you are standing before me now, looking noticeably worse.” The sigh that passed the Eyraillian King’s lips was not one of frustration, but rather, defeat. Caris had lost count of the times he had conceded defeat to Safir Vallaincourt; none of those losses felt anywhere near as substantial as he felt right now. “I understand Lord Rigas is currently preoccupied with other matters. But if you insist on seeing him alone, and will not be seen by any of the accomplished physicians I have on hand, then… I will send word for his return. You can’t remain unchecked when you look like you might faint at any moment. Just… go back to bed. Rest. I won’t have you return to your duties in my kingdom until you are well again.”
The shame and embarrassment felt hot and suffocating, like being trapped in an oven. Standing before a woman for whom he realized he cared rather deeply, yet who refused to acknowledge him as anything more than Eyraille’s reigning monarch… This was beyond merely a bruised ego on his part, and he wanted nothing more than to escape that feeling as quickly as possible.
Without another word, Caris pushed away from the door and took his leave, in a way that was too hasty to be natural. The young king didn’t even know where he was going until he found himself in the company of the divisive star seer once again. Why was it that all roads seemed to lead back to Tivia Rigas, whether she was directly involved or not?
“There’s something wrong with her.” As if as much even required words. Caris forsook the preamble, knowing that Tivia didn’t much care for it, anyway. She herself had mastered the art of wielding words the way Safir Vallaincourt wielded a sword: with cutting precision. “I do not know what you think she’s playing at, and maybe I’m too naive to see the truth for what it is, but it seems to me that she isn’t playing at all. Sylvie seems… ill. I don’t know how, or what precipitated her sudden decline in health, but I am sure it has nothing to do with dyeing textiles…”
Cheeks still burning with residual humiliation, even the dimmest of minds could discern how deeply the Eyraillian King had taken the young woman’s reaction personally--however much he was concerned for her health. The confrontation had left him shaken in more ways than one. “Or… perhaps I have misread her. Maybe she is an excellent liar.” He took long strides toward one of the windows. There was plenty to look at outside in lieu of looking Tivia in the eye. “One who has decided she’d already had enough of me, and as such, has immersed herself deeply in character to convince me she is unwell, because nobody who knows the reputation of Eyraille’s King would dare be so direct. Well.”
Caris turned away from the window and its magnificent view of the mountainous kingdom beyond, wearing a humourless smile on his face. “I guess this marks the end of your bright suggestion to keep my suspected enemies close. She acts like she doesn’t know who I am… beyond the crown that I wear. A far cry from how she behaved on the eve when you posed such a suggestion. Regardless… if she is truly sick, then she needs to consult a healer. She won’t consider any of the palace's residing physicians…” Almost as quickly as that semblance of a smile was there, it was gone as he turned to face the star seer. “Where is Lord Rigas? She seems insistent on consulting him alone.”
There was nothing restful about the evening when Hadwin and Nia brought news of Jahnst’s duplicity. Particularly not for Safir, who was, for the first time, finally beginning to doubt his chances of winning over his own people--and, subsequently, the throne that had been in his family since Ilandria’s birth, centuries ago. As if fear for the future of his position in his own home was not enough, in addition to that deep-seated concern was the accompanying shame that he hadn’t picked up on this sooner. Has he been so preoccupied with his father’s failing health all these years that he’d failed to sense the deceit that had been taking place behind the scenes? Or was he really just that naive--so invested in Ilandria’s pillars of truth and justice, and so convinced that all Ilandrians embodied this kingdom’s ideals, that he failed to consider this might ever be possible?
Either way, this turn of events was beginning to make him question whether he deserved the throne at all. How could he rightly claim to be capable of leading and protecting this kingdom from outside harm, if he couldn’t even suss out infection that was brewing within? No amount of Ari’s political guidance could stand up to Jahnst’s clever scheme. Would it be more realistic to spend the next two days leading up to the coronation of Ilandria’s new reigning monarch preparing a graceful exit, instead of one last reach for the crown that might never be his…?
The prince wore his state of mind clearly in the bags under his eyes, the way his blonde locks fell carelessly over his shoulders and back, and his wrinkled white tunic hung on his frame as he made his way to his office the following morning. Having decided to forego breakfast for lack of an appetite, it was earlier than he would usually start the day. Hence his surprise when he found someone already at the door, waiting seemingly impatiently for an audience with him.
“...Ari.” The Canaveris lord’s face mirrored hours of tossing and turning without sleep, not dissimilar to his own. Then again, given how upset Nia had been upon her hasty departure the previous evening, it wasn’t much of a surprise. “Is everything alright? How is Nia? I realize I had no knowledge and therefore no part in the revelation that upset her so, but if there is anything I can do to help…”
Little did he know that the present cause for Ari’s distress had little to do with Nia, at the given time. Sensing Stella D’Mare’s leader preferred to speak in private, the Ilandrian Prince hastily opened the door to his study and invited him inside, closing it firmly behind him. “Pray tell, what else is amiss?”
Nothing to do with Nia, and surprisingly, nothing to do with the darker affairs of some of Ilandria’s respected officials, it would seem. The star seer, Tivia, had evidently returned to deliver more bad news, regarding certain unforeseen circumstances related to Ari’s family. “Your nephew… Is foul play suspected? Has King Caris offered to send scouts to seek his whereabouts? Ari…”
Safir paused and lifted his hand, laying it to rest half a moment later on Ari’s shoulder, after he’d contemplated words. “Listen to me. What is befalling my kingdom is serious beyond measure; I cannot deny that, or the uncertainty of the future it faces. But it is my kingdom. And your nephew… that is your family. Allow me to make it clear that you needn’t stay here when your family needs you elsewhere. As someone without a family of their own…” The creases between Safir’s brows relaxed, and his verdant eyes softened. “I would never forgive myself, if something happened to those dear to you, while I kept you away from them. Whatever comes to pass in two days’ time is well out of our hands now. Ilandria and I will face the music, regardless of who is here to witness it. Please, do not consider yourself beholden to me or this kingdom in light of this crisis.”
Nia chose the right person to engage, and at the right time. After persuading (more like pleading) Safir to hand over a bottle of Ilandria’s most potent grog, Hadwin dragged himself into the room he temporarily shared with Nia and Ari and spent the remainder of the evening nursing his prize and numbing his mind. Considering the massive conspiracy he uncovered, Safir owed him much more than a trip to the liquor cabinet, and the fact that Hadwin hadn’t capitalized on the upper hand meant he was either going soft, or he stopped caring about collecting rewards. Why bother, when food and drink tasted like ash in his mouth, and sex was just another commodity to trade for a cheap thrill? The world had lost its luster since Teselin vanished. The only thing that mattered was to fight to keep the world from plunging into Mollengardian custody. He’d act as her avatar on earth and do a slice of good with his skills as a spy, tracker, and conditional mind-reader all so that one day, Teselin might return to a stable plot of land, not a quaking shit-pit full of morons.
At this stage, the summoner was the only real thing he had left to feel. When all else shifted in his rough-and-tumble brain, she balanced the weights and recalibrated the scale before the point of rock bottom. He still skimmed the surface, hovering over the pointed stalagmites that called for his messy execution, but he didn’t fall to his death. He couldn’t die. He was the bridge, the one who held the latter end of Teselin’s eventual path home. If he died, the bridge collapsed and she’d be lost. Then he’d be lost, trapped in a bottle without a ship, just drowning, drowning, drowning…
Footsteps approached. He slit one eye open. A pair of boots stood level with his face. Either he’d passed out on the floor in a drunken stupor or somehow shifted into his wolf skin. Whatever the case, he had no memory of the last several hours or the time of day aside from the darkness on display through the window. He rustled to his feet. All fours. Wolf. Light-headed and loose like a willow in the breeze, but ready for his recruitment mission.
Whatever it was he volunteered himself to do.
Once outside the palace and attired in clothes proper for his human skin, Hadwin sobered up enough to remember the purpose of his outing with Nia. Find the Master Alchemists.
“So I’ve got an idea where a few of ‘em might be hiding,” he said, tightening the tack for the steed they would share for the trek around greater Ilandria. To keep operations covert, they rented the horse from a different stabler on the fringes of town. “The lot from last night dropped some clues about where they’re living. When you fear losing your home, it’s hard not to conjure up flashes of that home. Looks like they’re nestled near some roadside inn. Small hamlet that caters to travelers and passersby. Rolling hills on one side, woods on the other. Quiet. Quaint. Here,” he handed the reins to Nia. “You know this place better than I do. If you got an inkling of the place I described, get us there and I’ll sniff ‘em out. Then go in there and do your thing. I’ll keep watch outside. Easy in, easy out. We’ll be eating pasties and chugging ales before supper.”
With Nia as a guide, they reached the region he described. About an hour outside the city, the land ceded to rippling curves and patches of forest. Sheep freckled the sprawl of countryside, little white migrating dots on the frosted grass. As they approached the hamlet, the multi-storied inn towering in the background, they slowed the steed to a walk, calming the streams of frigid air that swirled around their red-blasted faces and runny noses.
“There. That’s the place.” Hadwin pointed to a squat cottage crouched in the shadow of the inn, its walls covered in climbing ivy so thick, it nearly overcame the door and windows. Stabling the steed in the nearby inn, they walked to the place of interest, where Hadwin covertly sniffed around the entry points, including the fenced-in garden, and gave a pointed gesture of approval. “It’s all you now. You’ve got this,” his enthusiastic slap on the back seconded as a push, propelling her forward. “I’ll be in the area, keeping watch. Call for me if you need backup.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched as Nia knocked on the door and received a reply, but one of shock. A woman’s voice exclaimed she was expecting someone else, but whatever Nia said in exchange bought her a hesitant invitation inside, at least.
It only took a few minutes for Hadwin to encounter the person that was expected.
“The fuck?” Hadwin did a double-take at the familiar man who strolled down the dirt road, making a beeline for the cottage. “Now I know this can’t be a delusion. It’s too ridiculous not to be. Hey!” He called out to the man, who stopped and furrowed his brow in slow but confused recognition. “Nice hair,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Papa Sorde.”
Despite the span of weeks since they last saw each other, Haraldur underwent a dramatic and improbable change. Unless secretly a hirsute man who could grow hair out with the facility of garden weeds, Haraldur’s newfound shoulder-length hair and trimmed but full beard indicated some outside meddling. “Here to get another beauty treatment?” Hadwin thumbed over to the cottage. “You’ll have to wait a mite, I’m afraid. Unexpected company.”
“Hadwin,” Haraldur all but hissed. He took a few purposeful strides until they were almost face-to-face. “What in the hells are you doing here?!”
“Oh, you know. Doing my part. Not as masterfully as you, I might add,” he gestured to Haraldur’s waves of chestnut brown hair, parted carefully down the middle. Hadwin let loose a low whistle of approval. “The hair really makes the man. Fakes the man? Commendable efforts on your disguise, but you didn’t pass my infallible scrutiny.”
Haraldur’s impatient green gaze shot behind Hadwin’s head, to the slit of a cottage door amid the overgrowth. “Who are you with? You can’t be here alone.”
“Ah, don’t you worry your maned head about this. We’re on the same side.” Hadwin lounged against the fence posts. “Just making sure the main performer’s not upstaged in his own play, if you catch my meaning.”
“I don’t have time for riddles.” Dodging Hadwin, Haraldur headed for the fenced-in walkway. “If we’re all on the same side, we’ve got nothing to hide from each other.”
“Dammit. Well, we’ve already made a squawk and a fuss out here.” Hadwin trailed after the stomping Forbanne commander. He ran a thumb along the resonance stone in his pocket, its vibration a warning to its companion–which Nia held in her possession.
Amid her teetering state of mental alacrity, Sylvie managed to stay on her feet and listen to the spate of bewildering concerns coming from the Eyraillian king. Her smooth brow furrowed as she failed to follow his impassioned speech, which suggested a familiarity she could not reciprocate. Her journal lay on her vanity a good five-stride away, but excusing herself to flip open the pages to the entry where her past self mentioned her relationship to the young king didn’t seem proper. To attend him was to listen, but the more she listened, the more the abrasive head-pains carved a deeper trench through her skull. She grimaced through the brunt of his explanation and tried to tunnel through the fog that blotted her periphery–to maintain the barest thread of their connection. What were they to each other? A sudden flutter of familiarity rang in her chest. Yes! We share a bond. We do! But her eureka moment dampened and the fog rolled in, obliterating her flicker of a discovery. Again, she found herself humoring a rambling king, her smile vague, but polite. He looked so troubled, his blue eyes like crushed stones refracting broken light. He could benefit from rest and a meal instead of wasting so much of his time fussing over her. Admittedly, she found it sweet–but unnecessary.
“Do not trouble yourself over me, your Majesty. Alster has treated me before and will do so again, once he is available to see me. I have the patience to wait for his specialized aid,” she said, not noticing her inflection had flattened like she was reading the lines from an insipid novel. “Take care, your Majesty. Thank you for taking the time to visit this humbled servant. I am unworthy of the attention, but appreciative nonetheless.” With a curtsy, she saw him to the door and bade him farewell, unaware of any divergent behavior on her part. But if the Sylvie from a few days ago saw her now, she would cringe from her devolution into an obsequious, well-bred and well-acted doll.
For once, Caris caught Tivia unawares. The star seer bounded down the hallway, fingers closed tight over a resonance stone. She muttered to herself, the good half of her mouth twisted into a facsimile of its marred counterpart. “I told her to wait and here she informs Ari…” She looked up in time to swerve out of the way from a collision into the troubled Eyraillian King. Tivia recovered her composure, willing her shoulders straight. Unruffled and unsurprised–as befitting her reputation as star seer.
“No, she most definitely did not get sick from breathing textile fumes,” she agreed, stuffing the resonance stone into her pocket. “But I’m also not convinced she’s a masterful manipulator. Adequate on her own, perhaps, but I’ve come to the conclusion she’s getting help from an outside source. And whoever this outside source, they’re responsible for her sudden bout of illness. She knew too much and they feared she’d give herself away to you. It would explain why she’s having problems with her memory. She’s expended her use. Whatever’s been done to her, the responsible party did not care about her recovery. I would argue this scrambled-brain result was entirely intentional. But I’ll get you a second opinion.” She pulled a different resonance stone from her pocket. “Alster is still in Galeyn, but Nadira Canaveris didn’t want to wait until after the coronation to tell Ari about Nico’s disappearance, so he’ll be returning to Galeyn today—and I’ll take his place in Ilandria as Safir’s advisor. So,” she shrugged, a calculated gesture to hide her true feelings on reappearing in court as Ilandria’s greatest walking disaster—among who else might still appear in the crowd at any moment, “we’ll reconnect after the coronation. I’ll have Alster back in Eyraille by today.”
True to her word, Tivia made the arrangements before leaving for Ilandria that afternoon. After Ari’s arrival in Galeyn (through which he used Tivia’s portal-opening prowess as a speedy conveyance), Alster stepped through the mirror at the Canaveris estate and appeared through its twin at Eyraille’s palace. He wasted no time as he tended to Sylvie’s condition and immediately reported to Caris on his findings.
“She needs an alchemist, and quick,” he finally said after several false starts. Considering Caris’s tendency towards directness, he led with the news without sugarcoating her condition. “She’s been poisoned. I’ve been able to delay its progression for now, but if left untended, her memory will degenerate past the point of recovery.”
When he awoke to an empty bed, Ari responded to Nia’s disappearance with great forbearance. He had no choice. However much he disapproved of her methods, she had at least honored his conditions and taken Hadwin with her. Trust was frail, and faith even frailer, but Ari spent the better half of the morning practicing optimistic expressions in the mirror. In preparation for a long day advising Safir, Ari donned a mulberry frockcoat, its dark, bloody color not one he frequently wore. Power crackled in his garnet-threaded sleeves. As an artist, he believed each color held a frequency intended for certain tasks. Blue betokened an easy flow-state, perfect for aesthetic pursuits–his go-to color. In contrast, red symbolized war. Whether the battle used swords or words, Ari would sharpen whatever necessary to get the job done.
With his intentions for the day set, he stepped away from the bedroom mirror and prepared to leave the bedchamber, until he felt an insistent buzz sound from his coat pocket.
Whatever will Ari had summoned from the coals of his inner furnace crumbled to charcoal by the time he arrived at Safir’s quarters to deliver the news.
“Were Nia my only concern,” Ari blew out a wistful sigh as he approached Safir’s desk, too preoccupied to care about the prince’s slovenly appearance. Forgoing a seat, Ari shifted from one foot to another, unable to stay still. His fingers curled and uncurled, checking for stiffness. Sudden petrifaction. Nothing; they remained limber and flexible, but old habits seldom died. “I heard word that my nephew is missing from the Canaveris villa. Two days gone, and if by night steed, presumably far away. Lord Rigas cannot locate him. Neither can Hadwin’s sister, an able tracker who I have employed in the past. I realized something was amiss at my niece’s birthday celebration, but I neglected to attend to his needs as his guardian and…I laxed in my duties. Why do…” he silenced the rhetorical with the clip of his tongue, but it spoke in his mind, and the words stiffened his frenetic movements until he froze statue-still like the petrification that almost drained his life. Why do they flee from me? Laz and Nico. Sylvie aimed her sights as far from my door as geographically possible. Nia remains estranged. And Casimiro…
How can I maintain unity in a foreign kingdom when I cannot do the same in my home?
Safir’s understanding cadence wracked Ari with guilt. Here he had promised to deliver on strengthening the crown prince’s faltering image and rescinded on his word not a day after its utterance. Defeated, he lowered his stiffened limbs into the chair next to Safir’s desk. “I thank you for understanding my predicament,” he said after a length pause. Meeting Safir’s gaze was like squinting through a foggy lens. Funny how he still experienced the precursors to a flare-up. The palpitations, the loss of peripheral vision. The flushes of heat down his neck and the wobble of his gait. Steadily, he breathed in through his nose, making sure to expand his chest, but when he blew out a stream of tremulous air from his mouth, his well-practiced form fell apart. “My niece and nephews…they are like my children. After my brother’s death, I became their legal guardian. If any were to encounter danger, or worse, I…” he struggled to swallow, his mouth suctioned of all its moisture.
“I shall leave you with instructions. Tivia has agreed to enact them in my absence, after she conveys me back to Galeyn. Tell Nia,” he hesitated, then shook his head. “Tell her I shall return. A family emergency–but she needn’t know the details. Her plate is already full. But I have faith she will come through for us. Neither of you will miss me and my paltry, superficial additions. I am an incidental component in these affairs; a guest with a foreigner's education in your homeland. You are better prepared than you believe. Capable in elocution, persuasion, and resilience far more than your detractors credit. Do me a favor, Prince Safir; in my absence–become a king.”
With difficulty, he rose from the chair, swept into a reverent bow, and took his leave of the office, of the kingdom, and headed down yet another path of uncertainty, and a much unpreferred one. He’d rather deal with the conspiring politics of an ally’s throne than the possibility that his nephew…was gone.
Who’d have thought that Ari’s suggestion to take Hadwin, of all people, along for a potentially perilous endeavor would prove not only useful, but invaluable? Here, the Master Alchemist had factored blind and wayward wandering to comprise the majority of her loosely-acclaimed ‘plan’. Yet it turned out that Hadwin was good for more than a keen nose and sense of smell.
With Nia at the reins, she brought them as far as the outskirts of the very same village they had spotted earlier the previous day: the decrepit collection of shops, with equally neglected houses not far onward, all reeking of despondency, hopelessness, and the occasional whiff of stale ale. Last time, the scenery had evoked a similarly dismal sentiment in Nia’s gut, all churned together in a noxious brew of anger, resentment, and… regret. Anger and resentment at the Ilandrian upper class that turned a blind eye to such a vast portion of the popular living in such conditions, and regret for the fact that she had been among the very people who chose not to pay attention or, in her unique case, had lived in ignorance.
Now was not the time, however, to process those sentiments, and they took a backseat in Nia’s mind as opposed to the forefront as Hadwin steered them toward a pinpointed location: a small, run-down cottage, just a handful of blocks from the very place they had found the elusive Isidor Kristeva the night before. It had been under their nose the entire time… An equally frustrating yet consoling thought, that the remaining Master Alchemists of Ilandria (Isidor notwithstanding) were perhaps more closely knit that the Ardane woman gave them credit for.
Dismounting the horse, Nia pulled her winter hood up over her head. It did little to conceal her identity for anyone who knew her face, but the flimsy facade of incognito made her feel better, all the same. “I can’t guarantee results,” she warned Hadwin, prior to her departure. “Just because I’m a Master Alchemist doesn’t mean I’ll be well-received by others of the same nature. Especially if they learn who I am… Truth be told, not a lot of people in general were particularly fond of my dear, late mother.”
As fear of rejection couldn’t be a deterrent in matters concerning the very fate of this kingdom, she pushed the more counter-productive negative thoughts aside and boldly approached the door. After only two knocks, it opened for her, and a bewildered young woman looked upon her with a mix of confusion and disappointment. “...what do you want?” She demanded in the common tongue, which only prompted Nia to respond in Ilandrian: the best possible way to reassure her startled host that she wasn’t an outsider.
Yet even that didn’t seem to be enough. Suspicion gleamed in the woman’s eyes, and Nia was almost convinced she was about to slam the door in her face. Ultimately, it was another influence entirely that granted her entry. “Wait--I know her.” A second, more familiar voice, came from somewhere else inside the cottage. When the woman at the door did not react, the voice continued: “Please, let her in.”
“...you’re shitting me.” Nia was barely inside, with the door closed behind her, when awareness struck her. “Vega Sorde! I mean this as nicely as possible, but--what the actual hell are you doing here?!”
It didn’t look like her, at first glance, but there was no mistaking the powerful presence of the Eyraillian princess. Her vibrant red locks had not only been cut short, but now caught the lantern light as more of a strawberry blonde, with eyebrows and eyelashes to match. The former was something easily achievable with the help of an ordinary alchemist, but the drastic change in colour of the latter could only really be trusted to a Master Alchemist. Nia had never met a fool who was willing to gamble their eyesight for differently-hued lashes and eyebrows. “Alright. I feel like I’m supposed to be connecting something, here…” The Ardane woman’s gaze shifted between Vega, the woman who answered the door, and an older woman whom she assumed to be the younger woman’s mother. “But I have no idea what the pieces of the puzzle are.”
It wasn’t long after that the group of four was joined by an additional two bodies: one being Hadwin, and the other, Forbanne Commander Haraldur Sorde. With all perplexed parties finally in one place, settled in the kitchen area of this sad abode, the Sorde couple proceeded to explain what they were (and had been) doing here in Ilandria for quite some time, in fact. Choosing to hide among the already hidden for multiple reasons--one primarily being fear of discovery by Vega’s brother, the unstable King of Eyraille--it appeared that Hadwin and Nia were not the only ones familiar with Liesefa Jahnst’s nefarious plan to poison the Ilandrian people. Nor were they the only ones determined to do something about it.
“So… you’ve all known about this for how long?” Nia sighed, sitting with a cup of tea that the older woman--a rare Master Alchemist who had managed to escape prosecution in hiding and had retained possession of her hands--had brewed for the unexpected company.
“Longer than you, evidently. Not long after we arrived in Ilandria, we made contact with a number of Master Alchemists, who were already aware and in discussion regarding the plot of this corrupt politician.” Maybe she was imagining it, but Nia wondered if she detected a trace of arrogance in Vega’s tone. A distinctly Sorde quality that the Ardane woman chose not to take too personally. “What they weren’t aware of, however, was just how dire the threat of Mollengard is. And political discord is just the sort of weakness Mollengard would take advantage of, under the circumstances.”
Choosing to bite her tongue instead of pointing out how obvious that additional fact should have been, Nia opted to simply nod in understanding. Let the Sordes have their bold moment of glory if they were ultimately all working toward the same goal. “Damn. Seems we’re late to the conversation.” She mentioned, nodding to Hadwin after taking a thoughtful sip of tea, comforted by the familiar taste of her home. “Then let me ask--since you’ve all been talking for quite some time, now… and working together, by the looks of the new hairstyles, what’s the current consensus? We’ve been in close contact with the Prince of Blades: and if he falls, so does this kingdom…”
“We do nothing.” It was the older woman and only other Master Alchemist in the room who spoke up at last. “And we make an appearance on the day of the Prince’s coronation. Let it all unfold just as the bitch seeking power originally planned.”
An incredulous silence descended on the room, while both Nia and Hadwin struggled to process what they had just heard--and wondered if they had been wrong to assume Haraldur and Vega were trusted allies, let alone that the lot of them were all on the same side, with the same endgame in sight. “...I’m sorry.” The Ardane alchemist almost dropped the half-full mug of tea in her hand, barely avoiding spoiling the rich, Ilandrian contents on her skirts. “What?”
“Shall I repeat? We do nothing. We make an appearance--”
“Right, yeah, I heard that part, but allow me to repeat--what?! Are you…” Nia stood from her seat at the table, her gaze frantically settlingon the Sorde couple, then the Master Alchemist and her daughter, and back to Hadwin. “So you’ve just decided to… to what? To give up? To give that power-hungry, heinous bitch what she wants? If you think for a minute that you’ll benefit in any way from Jahnst as a leader of this kingdom--”
“Enough.” The older woman slammed her teacup upon the battered wooden dining table so hard, it was a wonder it did not crack. Silence followed, before she spoke up again, first in Ilandrian, before switching back to the common tongue. “Being allies does not make us friends, Ardane girl. Do not think for a moment that your mother did not look down on the less affluent just as much as the Minister of Justice. That said… we are and continue to be allies, nonetheless, united against a cause more deplorable than your family, and perhaps more dangerous than your ignorant Prince. Now.” She leveled her eyes on Nia, averting them briefly to Hadwin, and then back again. “Sit down, shut up, and listen. And trust your allies.”
“None of what you are saying is making any sense!” Caris heaved a sharp sigh and pressed a hand to his forehead. “So she isn’t a ‘mastermind’, but still harbours nefarious intentions, has someone helping her from the shadows, and they’re doing so by… by what? Making her sick? Call me naive, but this is beyond nonsensical. Just…”
Realizing he had more feelings than he did words, the young king paused and simply shook his head. There was no point in furthering the conversation when nothing would be gained from arguing inconsequential details. The bottom line remained that the Canaveris girl was unwell, and needed help. And as a guest in his kingdom (nevermind that, to him, she was even more than that), propriety and hospitality alone determined it was his responsibility to see to her affliction before so much as venturing to have her resume any of her duties. “Go to Safir. His coronation is approaching, and I don’t trust the man to function without some form of moral support. I have no doubt you will be apprised regarding the details of Sylvie’s condition once her preferred ‘physician’ arrives.”
To her credit, the star seer did make good on her word to summon Alster Rigas, as opposed to continuing to speculate. Whatever was going on with Sylvie, be it nefarious or not, the fact remained that the young earth mage was indeed unwell, and no amount of guesswork into her intentions or who or what had caused this would restore her health and vitality. And, since Sylvie refused to have anyone aside from Lord Rigas assess her condition, any answers or insight they required would have to wait until he delivered them personally.
And deliver them he did--with the utmost frankness and, to Caris’ deep concern, urgency.
“Poisoned?!” The papers on the Eyraillian King’s desk almost went flying from their place, as he stood so quickly it resulted in a bout of light-headedness. “How? With what? Nevermind--I have an alchemist on staff who works alongside the physicians. I will summon him right away.”
A lot could be said about the impulsive, explosive, and arguably immature young King of Eyraille: but no one could claim he didn’t take appropriate action when needed, or that he didn’t get things done. After Caris sent an envoy to summon the alchemist who worked part-time alongside his physician, stressing the matter was urgent, the man arrived in less than half-past the hour. Following a short debriefing of the situation with Alster Rigas, the older man--who wore the obvious longtime mastery of his craft in his greying hair and wrinkled skin--stepped in to assess the patient and her curious affliction, although his visit was relatively brief.
Re-emerging a mere fifteen minutes later, with a fresh vial of blood tucked away in a rather burdensome-looking satchel, he seemed hesitant to meet the young king’s eyes. A mixture of hopelessness and fear glimmered in his own. “She is stable, for now. I’ve administered a serum that will slow the young lady’s metabolism, and delay the full effect of the poison in her veins… but until I have processed a sample of her blood, I am unable to compound a suitable antidote.”
“Then do it. Do whatever you require--I don’t need an explanation.” The young king, who hadn’t left the corridor beyond Sylvie Canaveris’s door since that morning, finally ceased his nervous pacing. “Whatever you need, components or ingredients or equipment, I’ll send for it all immediately.”
“...of course. But, Your Majesty… there could be any number of known poisons and toxins causing this young woman’s symptoms. The only way to successfully determine its properties is through meticulous trial and error. This could take as long as a couple of days…” He hesitated: there was more, but it was already clear he didn’t want to say it, perhaps for fear of how the Eyraillian King might react. Unfortunately, full transparency was not a choice: it was an obligation. “And that, I’m afraid, is the best case scenario. In the event that this supposed ‘poison’ is not one native to Ilandrian, or easily identifiable, crafting an antidote will take much longer.”
To Caris’ credit, however this news made him feel, he successfully maintained a professional countenance: no outbursts, although carefully contained agitation was still highly probable, under the circumstances. “How do you suggest we proceed, then, alchemist? How long can your tonics and serums keep Miss Canaveris in stable condition?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but we really have no way of knowing.” The alchemist adjusted the satchel on his arm, purposely avoiding eye-contact. “In the meantime, she should continue to be monitored; should her health take a turn, we will interfere as necessary. I will do what I can, but… there is another contact I suggest you consult. He resides in Ilandria, in the palace of the Prince of Blades. Given the uncertain political climate of our neighbour to the south, I cannot be sure he will be willing to make the trip at this point in time--”
“What is the name of this contact? I will send word to Prince Safir immediately.” The young king didn’t hesitate for a second--either for blatant disregard of how Safir might be feeling at the moment, or from a sense of reassurance that their relationship was already strong enough to allow for such a steep favour at a trying time in Ilandria’s history. “Whatever it takes to get him here, I will expedite it.”
The alchemist nodded; still visibly uncomfortable, though simultaneously relieved his inability to personally solve this problem had not earned him the King of Eyraille’s fiery wrath. “It’s Rewalt Sommath, Your Majesty. Personal physician to Prince Safir Vaillaincourt, himself.”
One Sorde was enough. But where one Sorde appeared, the other popped up next door, like a two ales for the price of one deal at the local pub. Hadwin didn’t realize how near, until he walked into the cottage after Haraldur to find Vega Sorde, who also had a dramatic hairstyle, chatting with Nia and the two women he had seen the night before.
“So it seems you’ve got the edge on us. Credit where it’s due–doesn’t happen often to you loud warrior types.” Hadwin nodded at Vega and her wine-stained bob of shorn hair. “All that, with time to change the curtains, too. Fine actors you’d make. At least in the quick-change wardrobe department.” To make room in the cramped cottage, Hadwin leaned against the doorframe farthest from the table, a strategic choice in case circumstances necessitated a quick escape. “So why keep mum, hm? Couldn’t’ve popped a message to the sweating prince to put him in the know?”
Haraldur stood behind Vega’s chair, his hand grazing the rough-hewn wood of the backrest.“Safir wanted us to stay put. Had us holed up in an inn at the border’s edge with promises to send word once he deemed it safe. And we obeyed his directive. For a few days, anyway.” He smiled without humor, lips firming. “He made a grave miscalculation. We are not the type one benches for later use. So we left the inn and made ourselves useful elsewhere. With our first priority to disguise our appearance, it brought us here.” He dipped his head in appreciation and apology to the mother and daughter alchemists, who were stuck hosting two more guests than they had the space to humor. “That’s when we learned about Jahnt’s plot to bribe the Master Alchemists to undermine Safir’s rulership. We didn’t tell him because there’s no need. They’ll explain why.”
Hadwin’s gaze shifted to the mother, a whip-thin but unbending woman whose trials turned her shades grayer than her age belied. He raised an eyebrow at her ‘do nothing’ comment. “Well, you’re hardly doing nothing if your aim is to cow that woman into a corner. But,” he abandoned his quick-escape post to stand in support beside Nia, “I think what my associate here asks for is clarification, so we don’t misstep and fuck up your plan by accident. Can’t help but ask, though–what of the other Master Alchemists considering Jahnt’s offer? All it takes is for one stooge to cooperate and it’ll kick up enough of a fuss to clap the coronation to a halt–especially with most of the Ilandrian council crowding around Jahnt’s banner. So what’s the scheme you’re cooking? And,” he broke into a canine-sharp grin, “how can I help? You’ll find I’m a connoisseur of stirring up shit.”
After transporting Ari to his estate in Galeyn, Tivia returned to Ilandria, but didn’t immediately report to Safir. She had other plans, and knew the prince of fidelity and fairness would balk at her dishonesty if he were made aware of her destination.
With no carriages, no horses, no other means of conventional transport, Tivia appeared before the iron-wrought gate that fielded the sprawling, nimbus-gray estate beyond and asked the guardsman on duty to speak with Lady Jahnst.
It took a few moments of convincing, but Tivia landed an audience with the scheming councilwoman, who allotted just ten minutes to convene–a concession so generous, Jahnst went through great detail to describe her gesture of olive branch-extending diplomacy, despite Tivia’s status as a foreigner who wielded no executive power over Ilandria’s decision-making processes.
“Yes, I realize I am as insignificant as a speck of dust on your shoulder, my engagement to his Highness notwithstanding. You’ve all but told me so,” Tivia said, not hiding her disdain. Diplomacy was never her strength and she wouldn’t humor a weakness when she could lead with ruthless and cutting wit. They’d gathered in the parlor, a utilitarian space so bereft of personality, color, or artistic decoration that the bare walls and gray-scale furnishings would be tantamount to a torture chamber for the likes of Ari. “Even so, you’ve accepted my request for an audience, and in honor of your ‘generosity,’ I will make this succinct.”
She accepted the offer of a drink, but did not imbibe the elderberry-colored liquid. Instead, she swished it around in its crystal goblet. “In case you are not aware, I am a star-seer, an emissary who attunes to the frequencies of our celestial neighbors, and translates their messages for a worldly palate. The stars have told me that you shall succeed in your conquests for power. I have seen this path, and accept its outcome. Whatsoever you need to make your victory a foregone conclusion, I am here to assist. It is not wise to challenge the provenance of the stars. Much as I find you distasteful, my decisions thus far were made, in secret, to further along your campaign. …Why else would I make such a shameful display at the market, after all?” Her thin smile accentuated the twisted scars on the marred half of her face. “A weak bride weakens Prince Safir’s claim, and questions his credibility, does it not?”
“If you still doubt my sincerity, let me prove my loyalty. Prince Safir has been harboring a criminal these last few weeks. You might have seen her around. Blonde hair, unassuming, keeps the company of Lord Canaveris of Stella D’Mare. It is all a disguise. The woman who accompanies the prince is none other than Anetania Ardane.”
With the encroaching threat of Mollengard nigh, Alster expected tumultuous times ahead, but what he didn’t expect was the uncertain fate of the Canaveris children. For days, he conducted search parties for the missing Nico alongside Nadira and cooperating parties in the Galeyn palace, including Bronwyn, who lent her nose and tracking skills, and Sigrid, whose defacto leadership of the Forbanne granted them the numbers to fan out in every cardinal direction. Unfortunately, locating someone who had commandeered a steed whose top running speed at night rivaled a falcon in a nosedive meant their reach only mattered if they adopted Nico’s methods, and they hadn’t the resources to outfit the entire search party with night steeds. For safety reasons, the Galeynian crown could only lend a small handful for the job; one for each direction.
“What is going on with these Canaveris runaways?” Chara, who’d been busy preparing for her and Lilica’s upcoming nuptials, carved time to visit Alster in the D’Marian village. They gathered in the villa built for the D’Marian head to conduct business, but as the current head enjoyed operating out of the Canaveris villa, it was left vacant, mainly used as guest quarters for visiting dignitaries from central Galeyn. “Three cases in the span of a season.”
“I wouldn’t consider Sylvie as part of that number,” Alster blew dust from one of the parlor’s underused chairs and invited Chara to sit. She declined. “Her move-out was calculated. Anyway, I have wondered if Nico traveled in the direction where Laz disappeared. The only question is; where did Laz go? And does it pay to invest in a hunch?”
“At this rate, we’re running around in circles scrambling to wrangle Ari’s lost family,” she huffed and leaned against the wall. “Oh, wouldn’t he love to hear how steadily his kingdom has frayed in his absence.”
Before Alster could ask if Chara had yet to curb her sadistic pleasure in watching the Canaveris line suffer, a familiar buzz sounding from his pocket silenced the two. The resonance stone, now vibrating in his hand, conveyed its message loud enough for the room to hear. “Sylvie is sick and needs your attention. Return to Eyraille immediately. I’m bringing Ari to Galeyn. This is not a conversation. If you respond, I will not hear you, so don’t bother.” The vibrations ceased, the stone reverting to a cold lump.
“Tivia has such a winning rhetoric,” Chara mused, unruffled by the news.
“Why are you surprised? You were her superior for a while. She takes after you.” Alster pocketed the stone and straightened his shoulders. “Well, I can’t defy an order like that. Looks like you’ll be working alongside Ari again.” When Chara made a face, he sighed. “Please be kind. Nico is akin to his son. I’m sure he is devastated.”
“I may be callous, Alster, and cruel at times, but I know the importance of family. You needn’t worry. Now go. See to Ari’s ‘daughter,’ before he learns of her condition and he is petrified with grief. Excuse me. Wrong choice of words.” She hand-waved Alster out of the room. “Don’t chide me. Go and tend to your patient. You’re more useful to her than Nico and you know it.”
When Alster arrived in Galeyn via the portal mirror, he informed Caris first and then made for Sylvie’s quarters, anticipating a crystallization incident. Perhaps she tripped over a rock and punctured her skin, and as per her arrangement with Alster, needed his specialized care–and discretion–to handle the problem. He did not understand the gravity of her condition until he stepped inside and spotted her on the bed, half-conscious, her breaths rattled and her eyes glazed in delirium.
“Alster,” awareness prompted Sylvie to shift in her bed. She flinched as she faced him, but the dominant expression on her pained and sweat-soaked face showed relief. “He cannot know, Alster. Please–the crystals are moving into my brain. I have cheated death once, but if I die this way, he cannot know. Let it not be too late, but if it is…I deserve it. For surviving when I should–when the chandelier fell and I burst into shards and ink claimed my pages. My unwritten pages. My diary…oh!” Her feeble hand reached out of the cocoon of sheets and anchored to the edge of the bed. When she cast her gaze on the desk across the room, and the open book sprawled atop it, she gained a verve and clarity that belied her half-fevered ramblings.
“Sylvie.” Alster caught her hand and eased her to bed. “Rest. Please. I will fetch your diary.” He placed the ink-scrawled book on her lap. She snatched it with trembling fingers and devoured the pages with a desperate greed, mouthing the words as she scanned, as if speaking them aloud would cast a protective incantation over her deteriorating condition.
Through quiet observation, targeted questions, and a magic-operated body scan, Alster determined her diagnosis–and he wasn’t looking forward to revealing the grim news to the hot-headed Caris Sorde.
“Unfortunately, I’m not well-versed on the subject of poisons." Alster stood by Caris’ desk, catching a stray piece of parchment the king had thrown in his flustered shock and returning it to the pile. “My magic can determine the condition but not the cause. As I do not work with matter, only particles of darkness and light, I’m unable to tell at a glance the mixture of ingredients knotted in her system, only that they compound her long-term and short-term memory and impact her ability to make new memories. She has taken to reading a journal as a supplement, but this is not a sufficient remedy when she has to reread her passages every ten minutes. Recruiting an alchemist is an absolute necessity. …More so if they are a Master Alchemist.” He said the last bit mostly under his breath. Nia was the most accessible candidate, and motivated to help Aristide’s kin, but business in Ilandria clouded her availability. And the other Master Alchemist…he was as good as dead. In Alster’s mind, anyway.
“I don’t know how this happened, but I would keep her quarters under surveillance. Whoever is responsible for this deed, they’ll soon learn they didn’t finish the job–that is, if they intended for a fatality.”
Having to settle on a court alchemist, Alster assisted with the blood extraction process. To protect his patient's interests, he instructed the alchemist on where to slide the needle and how small an incision to make, under the guise that she suffered a mild case of vitamin deficiency, and the blood took longer than usual to clot. He accompanied the alchemist to Caris’ study to present their latest research.
“Please understand, your Majesty, that while producing an antidote may neutralize the poison, it cannot reverse the damage already done,” Alster said delicately. “There are parts of her memory she may never recover. Fortunately, we,” he gestured to the alchemist, “with magic and medicine combined, slowed the progression to a crawl. Her condition will not worsen, but,” he sighed, “neither will she recover until we administer a proper antidote.” Alster turned to Caris. “If Ilandria’s royal physician is Sylvie’s best chance under the circumstances, then I will go to Ilandria this moment and appeal for aid. You’ve seen my ability to traverse the realms. I can arrive at the Vallaincourt palace instantaneously. You need only draft your message and I will hand deliver it—and the physician. To your door.” He placed a steel hand on his chest, a gesture of sincerity. “Sylvie has been my patient for well over a year. If I cannot be the one to provide it, then it is my responsibility to see that she receives the treatment she requires.”
Was it unfair to feel so jilted at how unwelcoming this Master Alchemist was toward someone of her ilk? Now was not the time to feel sorry for herself, Nia knew well enough. But as someone who had spent the better part of her life yearning for little more than a sense of belonging, this older woman’s mistrust of her as a result of her family tree stung more than she cared to admit. “Look, I’m not gonna stand here and pretend my mother wasn’t an eternal bitch. Imagine having to live with that.” She huffed a sigh as she eyed the doorway. Maybe Hadwin had the right idea, considering the possibility that they may need to make a quick departure at any moment, depending on how this conversation unfolded. “And I’m not gonna waste your time or mine trying to convince you to like me. Hell, I’ve known these two for a while, and they still roll their eyes when I walk into the room.” A vague gesture was offered in the Sordes’ direction. “But we’re not your enemies, here. We just want to help. And to do that, we need to understand what’s about to unfold, if everything goes according to your plan.”
“If you are asking for our blind trust, girl, then surely you can understand we must do the same.” The older woman stood her ground, blue eyes locked on the young and privileged Master Alchemist whose questionable company they had not been expecting. “Understand this: the Master Alchemists of Ilandria, those of us who remained and refused to be killed or chased out, have only survived for this long as a result of our unity. I trust my kin implicitly.”
“And if they break your trust?” Nia blurted before she could think better of it. Perhaps it was foolish and naive to think someone like her wouldn’t question the merit of trust. It was fragile, tenuous, and had let her down more times than she cared to admit. And desperation only made it that much weaker.
But for someone who didn’t feel she owed anyone in the room an explanation or justification, the household’s matriarch didn’t blink. “They won’t.”
Liesefa Jahnst’s estate, located among the large majority of Ilandria’s mutually affluent, was an arguably comical representation of the woman it housed. Of course, she would maintain the tarnished silver among other shades of stone-grey, symmetrical synergy of the homestead was simply a reflection of an homage to the kingdom she served, it was no less like holding a mirror to the cold, cutting, no-nonsense Minister of Justice herself (and about as inviting, if you could even use that word to describe her.) It stood out from the surrounding venues not only for the sharp angles of its geometry--severe even for Ilandria’s standards--but for the pair of steadfast guards standing alert at the doors, ready to turn away anyone who didn’t already have an appointment approved with Lady Jahnst.
Such was the treatment Tivia received, upon her request for an audience for the latter councilmember. Despite the presence she had made for herself in Ilandria, neither of them recognized her, and not even her impeccable attire and insisting her own importance was enough to secure her a moment with Liesefa Jahnst. It was only for the fact the lady of the house heard the commotion herself, from the other side of the door, and recognized the star seer’s demanding timbre, that she personally interfered.
“Lady Tivia Rigas. To what do I owe the pleasure of your… unprecedented visit?” The Minister herself stepped out and spoke from behind the gate, dressed in elegantly-cut furs to ward off the winter chill. She motioned vaguely to the two guards with her hand, at which point they stepped aside and pushed open the menacing iron gate at either side, silently permitting the star seer entry. “Kindly understand that I seldom have time in my day to entertain unexpected guests. But since you just so happen to have caught me between tasks, I can offer you ten minutes of my time, before I must get on with my duties.”
Jahnst was a curious sort of individual, insofar as she didn’t hesitate to speak her mind, and yet every conversation was layered pretense, and every word armed with duplicity. Of course, as a Rigas, it likely wasn’t anything that Tivia hadn’t encountered before. And she knew exactly where she stood before the eyes of some of Ilandria’s most powerful (barring the Prince of Blades himself, that is.)
And it was likely no surprise to the Rigas woman when, upon entering what was surely Jahnst’s parlor--a room intended not only to entertain guests, but to showcase the extent of her power and wealth--that the interior of her abode was far from humble. Both Nia and Safir had commented at the longevity of this Minister’s term, and the fact she had managed to maintain her position for so long was reflected in the elaborately upholstered furniture, with gilded or crystal accents, among paintings and light fixtures that could serve as centerpieces in and of themselves. Not exceeding, but most certainly on par with the extent of luxury found at Ilandria’s own royal palace; enough that the occupant’s lifestyle spoke volumes of her self-opinion, and sense of entitlement.
“Admittedly, Lady Rigas, the rather… sudden news of your engagement to Ilandria’s Prince has indeed taken most of the Council off guard.” Jahnst responded to Tivia’s outspoken assumptions in kind as she partially filled two crystal goblets with deep, russet wine from a crystal decanter, and handed one to her guest. “Surely, you can understand how this situation stirs concern within us for the wellbeing of our beloved Prince, whom we weren’t even aware was engaged--let alone to a foreigner, from a nation with scarce ties to our kingdom. However, I am indeed open to dialogue; if you can, in fact, ensure that it is brief.”
As soon as the councilwoman took a seat on a lush red settee, positioned across from a fireplace, her nonchalant ‘interest’ (if you could call it that) in Prince Safir’s foreign fiancee visibly intensified when the Rigas woman debriefed her abilities as a star seer--and precisely what those abilities foretold. Jahnst’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and she leaned forward in her seat ever so slightly.
“I have heard stirrings of your unique ‘title’, per se. I was not, however, aware of the details… so consider me intrigued.” As if realizing she was coming across as more eager than she preferred to let on, Jahnst sat back in her seat and took a casual sip of her wine. “But first off, what you are referring to as a ‘conquest for power’, Lady Rigas, is merely my and the rest of the Council’s efforts to look out for this Kingdom and what’s best for it, at the most trying of times. Our Prince nurtured the naive belief that his father would one day recover and reclaim his place upon the throne, when he should have been preparing to ascend, himself. As Minister of Justice and Defense, I take the looming threat of Mollengard very seriously, and frankly, do not believe allyship with Eyraille and its immature King will suffice, if we want to continue to stand strong. But, I am curious…”
Jahnst paused, tilting her head to the side as her cool blue eyes locked on Tivia, as if assessing the merit of her truth. A common tendency when Ilandrians met with foreigners, who may or may not tote truth and honesty with the same sanctity as Ilandrians. “It strikes me as rather odd that you would act in direct opposition to your fiance--and a very powerful man, at that. Should our Prince find out that this discussion took place between us at all, well, I shudder to think how that might weigh on your marriage for years to come. I fail to understand how you think to benefit from this, or why a foreigner would care so much about the future of Ilandria.”
Even if Tivia had an explanation prepared, no monologue in existence would likely have assured Liesefa Jahnst of her loyalty. But perhaps the star seer was already well aware of that, enough that she had not come prepared with a story to plead her case. On the contrary, she didn’t seem to care about convincing Jahnst at all, and had brought something altogether better to the table: an accused.
And what better way to win over Ilandria’s Minister of Justice and Defense?
“A criminal?” There was no feigning disinterest now. Janst set her unfinished glass of wine down on a gilded-edged end table, with more force than she’d probably intended. Her cold eyes widened and her posture stiffened. “Our own Prince? You realize, Lady Rigas, that in implicating this criminal, you are confirming that Prince Safir is complicit in this crime by not turning them in.” She almost failed to hide the tiny, triumphant smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. After all, it tied in so well with her current scheme to turn the public’s faith in the Prince of Blades upside-down.
All the better--Tivia Rigas even had the name of this supposed criminal. One that Jahnst not only recognized well, but one whose own name spoke for itself. Not one that had circulated throughout Ilandria for more than a decade, now…
“What did you say?” It might have been years, but the name ‘Ardane’, although scarcely uttered anymore, was not one yet erased from Ilandria’s history books. Not to mention Nia herself had claimed a sort of familiarity with Jahnst, back when her mother had been alive and in deep with both the Council and the royal family. It would have been difficult for the controversial Minister to forget a name that had once represented an entirely different pinnacle of power in her lifetime.
Any further response from Jahnst was delayed, as she assumedly turned this new and damning information over in her critical mind, probably wondering at the how and when, though not so much the why. After all, Safir’s interests, intentions, and motivations mattered little when her only concern was in discrediting Ilandria’s favourite Prince. “Miss Rigas, do you even understand the grandiosity of this infraction?” When at last she spoke again, the silver-haired official narrowed her grey eyes ever so slightly, wondering if she was somehow being played by the star seer. “I imagine you do, or else you wouldn’t see reason to bring this information to my attention. If what you’re saying is, in fact, true… And if the identity of this criminal is precisely who you claim her to be… then your fiance has put his own kingdom at risk. And as such, he may lose more than his father’s throne in days to come.”
Without further inquiry, Jahnst stood from the settee and motioned toward the door. Details did not concern her, because they were irrelevant; and there was nothing that Safir Vallaincourt could do or say that would absolve him of harbouring a dangerous fugitive. If he was unaware of the Adrane woman’s identity, then that spoke to ignorance and naivete that was far too pronounced to cast him as fit for his father’s throne and crown. And, if he was otherwise knowingly complicit in hiding and harbouring a public enemy, then he’d already spelled his own culpability.
“Lady Rigas, I speak on behalf of Ilandria when I say that I do appreciate you bringing this to light. And at such a crucial time.” She didn’t need to verbalize that the star seer’s fifteen minutes of grace had run their course; and Tivia did not have to ask. “Rest assured that you have done the right thing--and leave the matter in my hands. I will see to it that the issue and all those involved are dealt with in accordance with the justice and fair procedures Ilandria is known for.”
“Somath, surely you of all people understand that Nia takes action of her own accord. I did not ask this of her--and there was nothing I could have done to stop her, short of imprisonment.” With both Nia and Hadwin somewhere at large, Ari away to tend to a family emergency, and Tivia’s presence about as reliable at her tact, Safir had no choice but to shoulder the burden of explaining the Master Alchemist’s absence to Somath. The man clearly cared for the young woman--for their history or her legacy, he was not certain, but it didn’t matter. “Sending a party in search of her will do more harm than good. It’s better not to draw any undue attention to her presence here in Ilandria. All we can do is trust in her resilience and her plan--”
“What plan? Prince Safir, when--in all of this woman’s history--has she ever been known for having a solid plan?” The moment the Prince of Blades had informed his royal physician of Nia Ardane’s absence, Sommath had all but leapt from his seat and begun pacing the expanse of his cramped office. Safir had never seen the man so anxious; he’d always known him to be a pinnacle of calm rationality… until just recently, that is. Even in her absence, the Master Alchemist in question seemed to be one of the only people capable of getting a rise out of the man.
What was worse, it went without saying that the physician was holding back the full extent of his frustration. Despite his familiarity with the Prince of Blades that extended beyond professional boundaries, Safir was still royalty. The heir to the Ilandrian throne could see the muscles in Sommath’s jaw shift and tense as the man bit back words and breathed through his frustration. “You say that she did not take off alone.” At last he sighed, when he finally found acceptance in the fact that what was done, was done, and his wayward daughter would return of her own accord. If she returned at all, that is… “Can her ‘traveling companion’ be trusted?”
Safir wasn’t sure how to answer--and ultimately, mercifully, he didn’t have to, as a sudden knock at the door turned both of their heads simultaneously. “What is it?” Sommath asked, with a little more acid than he’d intended.
“Mister Sommath, I beg your pardon… A foreign guest--Alster Rigas of Stella D’Mare--requires your attention. He says it’s urgent.” The hesitant voice of an envoy on the other side of the door explained. Sure enough, the voice that spoke up next was, in fact, one that both Safir and his physician recognized, even if their past interactions had been brief.
With a reluctant sigh, Sommath permitted the Rigas man entry. After all, it would go against his moral compass as a physician not to lend his aid if it is needed. Even in light of his own daughter going ‘missing’ (or perhaps ‘running away’ was more accurate.) “Alster Rigas…” Only after he said the name did it dawn on him he wasn’t the only healer in the room. His brow furrowed, mirroring the new state of confusion. “Correct me if I am wrong, but do you not boast a talent for healing, yourself? I daresay, I’m not sure there is anything an ordinary physician such as myself can offer that you are not capable of…”
Sylvie Canaveris’ name might not have meant much to the royal physician, when Alster ventured to explain his unprecedented arrival, but it had Safir’s full attention. Ari had spoken of his niece a handful of times, although never with such urgency… And to learn that not only was the Canaveris Lord’s nephew declared missing, but that his niece was in critical condition, was no small issue. Ari must have been positively beside himself with panic. “Poisoned?!” The Prince’s green eyes widened in a mixture of shock, concern, and anger toward whomever had the motive to harm his good friend’s family. “Is this somehow connected to the disappearance of his nephew? And why send for Sommath? Does King Caris not have alchemists in his employ?”
“I know the alchemist you speak of. And if he saw fit to send for me… then there is very well reason for concern.” For perhaps the first time in his life, the royal physician spoke over the Prince. The lines etched in his forehead and around his mouth no longer illustrated confusion, but conviction borne of worry that cut deep. Offering a nod of confirmation to envoy who continued to stand in the doorway, awaiting further instruction, Sommath ordered: “Have a bag packed for me posthaste. I will leave immediately--as soon as Eyraille can send a roc for transport, as there is no faster means of travel. Your Highness…”
As if suddenly remembering that not only was he not alone in the room, but that almost every trusted friend and ally of Safir’s was also at large at a time when the Prince needed people the most, Sommath’s expression softened to one of inevitable remorse. Of course, he knew there weren’t any possible circumstances under which Safir would try and convince him to stay--which, of course, he didn’t.
“Sommath, did you not hear the man? A young girl’s life is in jeopardy. I, however, am perfectly healthy, and capable of standing on my own two feet. The coronation is still two days away.” As if that was any consolation at all, the Prince of Blades opted to take an optimistic stance, and smiled. “We have time. But Sylvie Canaveris may not.”
Elespeth would surely scold him for overextending himself again, but Alster stayed true to his promise and set off for Ilandria moments after he left Caris’ study. With practiced ease, he swept the air aside and stepped into the ether-realms–a journey as brief as a sneeze. Shadows whirled around him as he materialized outside Ilandria’s faceted palace, sealing the rift behind him. Although the transition from incorporeal cosmic traveler to low-vibrational being often jarred him, today hit him especially hard, which he attributed to the frantic back-and-forth of the last several days. From Eyraille to Galeyn, Galeyn to Eyraille, Eyraille to Ilandria… When had he last slept?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucked in a draft of crisp winter air and approached the palace guards to request an audience with the royal physician.
To his relief, he hadn’t waited long. Either the name ‘Rigas’ held clout or they remembered him from the king’s funeral. Whatever the case, he was swiftly escorted to Sommath’s workshop. Having not met the physician in person, Alster introduced himself, and acknowledged the Prince of Blades with a bow. Apologetic for interrupting what appeared to be a heated discussion between the two, Alster skipped pleasantries and kept his urgent message brief.
“If there is a link between Sylvie’s present condition and Nico’s disappearance, I haven’t found it, yet,” he admitted, rubbing his tired eyes. He hadn’t consulted a mirror in days, but he could feel the exhaustion–bruised under-eyes, dehydration, the dull ache of overused muscles. To stave off Sommath’s scrutiny, he sent a hidden thread of lightning through his veins, jolting himself awake–an old trick from childhood, when marathon study sessions and late-night magic instruction required him to shirk sleep in favor of progress.
“Ari doesn’t know about Sylvie yet,” he continued. “Tivia brought him to Galeyn a few hours ago to search for his nephew. We agreed not to tell him unless her condition worsens. She’s stable for now, but we need an antidote—and the only two who can pinpoint the poison in her system are Master Alchemists who are unreachable.” Why mention ‘two’ at all? He thought bitterly. Isidor is gone. Why do I still hope for his return? “We could wait for Nia, but judging by your expressions…that’s not an option.”
Prince Safir’s gentle encouragement seemed to steel Sommath’s resolve. The physician stepped forward, offering his aid. Alster smiled in weary relief.
“Thank you, both.” He turned to Safir, whose calm demeanor belied the storm beneath. “I know the timing is terrible, with your coronation so close. But this is urgent. If we act fast, I can return Sommath to you before the ceremony.” He stopped the physician before he could leave to pack. “No need for a roc. It’s a trip of several hours and we don’t have the luxury to delay. I’ll take you to Eyraille instantly, if you don’t mind unconventional travel.”
With Jahnst’s reluctant alliance secured, Tivia left the estate without lingering. The stars had spoken; coronation day was the optimal time to strike. Even if Jahnst treated her as a guest and welcomed an extended stay, Tivia had no interest in false pleasantries or political haggling. Jahnst, thankfully, discarded their liaisons as soon as Tivia finished her speech, with both of them under an unspoken agreement. Their alliance was transactional–no trust required, only shared goals.
Tivia strode out of the opulent doors and walked until she lost sight of the austere structure on the hill. Once clear of the estate, she reached her hidden rendezvous point–a cluster of trees where she could open a portal back to Ilandria’s palace without notice.
But something was wrong.
A sharp pain lanced through her feet, then her fingers, ears, toes–spasms worsening by the second. Lightning-like patterns exploded behind her eyes, whiting out her vision. She doubled over, stomach cramping. She hugged herself. To allay her panic, she furiously speculated on her sudden-onset malaise. Poison? She touched nothing in Jahnst’s estate, except the goblet of wine. She discounted Jahnst’s involvement. As Minister of Justice, her methods of murder were refined–and under the auspices of the law. Faulty law, but law all the same. Was it her moon cycle? No, that had passed. A panic attack? …No. Not so soon.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself toward a tree for support. With a shaky hand, she tore open a portal. Whatever this was, she refused to collapse so close to the road. She focused all her concentration on a destination. Her room at the palace. Clouds of distortion swarmed her mind, fluffing the edges of her consciousness. Like the jelly floating across her eyes, perceptions blurred, smearing reality. She waded in a destroyed painting, streaks of color bleeding into prismatic pools.
Somehow, she escaped through the portal. The welcoming dark blotted out the confusion of the melting forest. But the ether-realms had betrayed her.
Through the pinhole of vision that remained, she watched as an incinerating light descended upon her. She opened her mouth to speak, to object, but words dissolved like dandelion spores. In the ether-realms, she was formless-voiceless, but her plasmatic visitor could speak–and did.
“Liar…” The voice wheezed. “Liar!” The heavens cracked. She huddled into the dark, making herself small. Unseen. To no avail. The light pulled her into its orbit. She hadn’t the ability to scream, but the pain branded upon her spiritual flesh had no equal, the agony, immeasurable.
The light retreated as quickly as it came–a satellite in orbit, bound to its trajectory and heedless of whoever crossed its path. In the aftermath, Tivia lay scattered, trembling, a bruised nucleus inside a heartless void.
The long-awaited day had arrived at last, and the palace buzzed with preparations for Prince Safir’s coronation. Silk draperies dyed in Ilandrian blue and gray adorned the throne room and accompanying hallways, while servants rushed like worker bees under a queen’s demand to ensure every element of the day went without incident.
In the servant’s quarters, bedlam ensued. Envoys flitted from door to door, passing messages to the vendors in charge of the decorations, the feast, the entertainment. Attendants sailed down the well-worn warped stone paths, carrying solid gold candelabras earringed with crystal studs, tasseled tablecloths, mirrored silver platters, and barrels of the finest brandywine. There were winter blossoms arranged in mosaic-crafted vases and an exhibition of legendary swords from Ilandria’s most celebrated bladesmiths. In short, a parade of opulence, every detail screaming luxury.
The kitchens, no less extravagant, churned out artisan crafts of the culinary milieu. In the belching furnaces of the dragon’s underbelly, intense aromas wafted through the ventilation shafts, a preview of the evening’s fare. Roast suckling pig, smoked venison basted with rosemary-spiced potatoes, the earthy and pungent hints of hard-rind cheeses, the baked sugary crust of plum cake.
Amid the anticipated spectacle, Prince Safir received an unanticipated spectacle at an ungodly hour. The state of the sky, speckled by stars, suggested that Safir, and most social creatures, would be swaddled in their beds, asleep. His pre-dawn visitor did not announce their arrival, unless one counted the whispers of shadows. Tivia materialized inside Safir’s darkened bedchamber.
“You can’t possibly be asleep. Wake up, Safir.”
Tivia fluttered around his bedside like a drunk firefly, a symbol made apt by the ball of green-yellow etherea pulsing in her palm. The illumination, a soft nightlight banishing the harsh angles of shadow to the underworld, did the bearer no favors. It cast a sickly glow on her face, revealing sunken eyes and a corpse-like pallor. Her limbs twitched erratically, as if still burning from celestial fire. The wrongness of her movements equalled that of a wild fae driven mad by moonlight. She flitted closer, but not too close. Already she looked like a wraith about to drag Safir to the afterlife, but if she was not careful, he would be the one to send her there. She had enough self-preservation to know better than to sneak up on a slumbering warrior.
She expanded the radius of her etherea, a gentle wake-up call. “It’s Tivia,” she ventured. The light shivered as she shivered. She cursed under her breath, clamping one hand over the light-bearing arm to control the tremors. “I’ve been absent, but not by choice. What I ask of you may not be yours to give, but no matter what happens today, I ask that you trust me. Please…trust me,” her voice wavered. “That is all I came here to say. I…need to prepare for today.” She turned away. Her footfalls wobbled, but she managed to walk in a straight line. “I’ll see you once more, before the coronation. Wait for me.” Then she vanished as abruptly as she’d appeared, as if she fell through a hole in the floor.
Hours later, she returned–knocking this time, like a respectable person. Gone was the spectral wreck, scrambling for sanity; now, she was polished, poised. Pigments and powders concealed the discolorations under the eyes and her bleached complexion. She donned a three-piece turquoise gown with flared sleeves, cinched at the waist with a belt of gold chains. They dangled and stretched across like constellations, clinking as she moved. Her hair was pulled into a coronet, held in place with a hairpin in the shape of a sword. The choice of dress was a marriage between Ilandrian fashion and the billowing, casual finery of Stella d’Mare. Only the faintest tremors betrayed her earlier state.
From now on, every interaction between them would be closely watched–by attendants, palace staff, guards, and officials loyal to Jahnst. Their brief pre-dawn encounter forgotten, Tivia offered Safir a tight-lipped smile and a nod. She wasn’t the only one present. Surrounded by an escort and a lady attendant, she was given the utmost attention, which everyone understood was a polite method of keeping her on a leash. They didn’t want her wandering too far or disrupting Safir’s important preparations. It was a small miracle they’d even allowed this audience, but one pointed reminder of her rank as his betrothed, and they’d yielded to her demands.
“Your Highness—I’m sure I am not the first to wish you a happy coronation day.” She presented a rolled parchment pressed with a wax seal of a honeybee and a curlicued letter “C.” “Lord Canaveris sends his best. He wished to deliver this himself, but I’ve accepted the role of his courier.” She passed the parchment into his accepting palm. “I know you’re preoccupied, but open it whenever you have a moment. If all goes well, he might attend. At any rate, he advises you to look at the speech he wrote for you.”
“Look upon my additions, as well,” she whispered into his mind. Her one eye met his gaze, a brief squint. “Expect a disturbance from your opposition. Today, prove why you must be king.”
“Look for me in the audience,” she said aloud. “I will be close.” Despite her professional and detached demeanor, her fingers brushed his arm–a fleeting touch, weighted with meaning. “In bocca al lupo. We say this in Stella D’Mare. Into the mouth of the wolf. It’s a petition for luck, though it doesn’t sound like one. You would respond by saying, ‘Crepi il lupo.’ …May the wolf die.”
Not long after Tivia’s departure, Safir found a moment to unfurl Lord Canaveris’s parchment. Inside was a portrait of Safir, etched in charcoal. The absence of color did nothing to diminish the portrait’s vibrancy. From the flaxen gloss of hair, to the seaglass glaze of green irises beset under careworn creases. His face was a study of dignity and charity, with a mouth that sagged at the edges, an unspoken truth no Vallaincourt would voice aloud.
A letter accompanied the portrait.
I must thank you for ending the drought of my creativity. Though it may be some time before I sculpt again, I find solace in drawing–and for now, it shall suffice as my medium.
This is how I see you:
Beyond stately and stoic–those hollow measures of a man forced to bear the weight of rule without complaint, as if the exalted could never buckle beneath the burden.
I see no clouds in your eyes. No longing for a southern breeze to soften winter’s bite. I hope you will visit the sunlit corners of the world one day, if only in dreams. Perhaps then I might glimpse another facet of you, awash in hues beyond storm-gray and steel.
Until that hour, Prince of Blades, carve your name as King of Blades. Wield your birthright with pride. I have not a shred of doubt in your reign.
Your Obedient Servant,
Ari
Alster was not wrong; the timing of these stacked events, one crisis after another, was positively abysmal. And Safir would be lying to claim that he needed the presence of allies and friends now more than ever, but regardless of whether or not he would be occupying the Ilandrian throne in a few days, he would (arguably) still be alive. The same could not be said for Ari’s niece, whose condition must have been severe for the D’Marians and Eyrailliains to send for extra help internationally.
Now more than ever, the Prince of Blades had to be strong, hold his own, and hold his head high. For there was no guarantee anyone would be there to catch him if he happened to fall.
“If Ari does not yet know, then let us work toward not giving him a reason to need to know.” The Ilandrian Prince nodded astutely. Whatever disappointment or anxiety he felt for the potential to face his coronation alone in just a couple days’ time, he did not make it known. Then again, he’d been prince for long enough to know how to mask most of his emotions exceptionally well. “And we cannot rely on Nia to be back from wherever the hell she has gone in time to be of assistance. Go, Sommath; leave my own issues to me.”
The royal physician appeared uncertain, torn between his duty to Safir and his family, and his duty as a man of medicine. One glance at the resolve on the Prince’s face, and he knew any argument he could possibly maintain was futile. “I am… vaguely familiar with your ‘unconventional’, as you say, method of travel. However…” The creases in his forehead and at either side of his mouth deepened, and he addressed Alster with a knowing look of concern; precisely one that a practiced and well-weathered physician would have when faced with someone who was clearly unwell. “Forgive my judgment call, Alster, but it seems as though getting here to begin with has taken a lot out of you. In any case, since I do not know precisely what we are dealing with, I’ll first need to gather whatever supplies might be necessary. So, if you would--please take this opportunity to catch your breath.”
Whether his request stemmed from deep concern for the Rigas mage’s health, or fear of how Alster’s exhaustion would affect the safety of his ‘unconventional’ method of travel, the royal physician offered the seat behind his desk before leaving his office to retrieve supplies. Safir took it upon himself to play the hospitable role of host and offer the D’Marian friend and ally something to drink and eat in the interim. He might not have known Alster as well as Ari, but any friend of the Canaverises was worth the fuss, and now more than ever, he could use all the friends and allies he could get.
Though as the minutes ticked on, and the aged physician did not return, the silence began to grow moderately awkward as the prince and the mage gradually ran out of smalltalk. Sommath hadn’t indicated just how long he planned to take, gathering medical necessities, but Safir couldn’t help but worry something had maybe happened to him. Not that the man was in poor health, himself (on the contrary, he was in impeccable shape for his age), but no one could blame the Prince of Blades for being on high alert at present. For all he knew, there could be traitors loyal to Jahnst’s cause within these very palace walls; not only would that pose a danger to Safir himself, but to anyone who openly supported his right to the throne.
When at last his patience yielded to concern, he politely excused himself to check on the status of the physician, as well as his whereabouts, and what was taking him so damn long. But no sooner did he reach the doorway that Sommath’s face miraculously came into view once again. Safir couldn’t quite read the expression on the man of medicine’s face; some mixture of bewilderment, uncertainty, and calculated resolve. Nothing uncharacteristic of the whirlwind situation he found himself in, perhaps. This was far different from responding to a local emergency.
“Apologies for the delay. It is… difficult to decide what to pack when I’m not quite sure what we are dealing with.” With a heavy-looking black satchel thrown over one shoulder, the physician flashed a quick, decidedly uneasy smile, and nodded to the Rigas Mage. “How are you feeling, Alster? I am ready and prepared to depart, whenever you see fit.”
Ari was gone--for the foreseeable future, at least. And then both Nia and Hawdin, followed by Sommath. That, the Ilandrian prince tried to convince himself, he could manage. But when the star seer hadn’t been in touch in a few days, and he had no means of contacting her, Safir couldn’t shake the stirrings of nauseating panic deep in the pit of his stomach. And before he knew it… the day was upon him. The day that would decide his future, and for which he had no real plan for navigating.
Even without the threat of Jahnst’s ploy, even if the crown and his father’s throne had been relatively secure, this day was never destined to be gentle on him. Beyond looming threats and the recent uncertainty of Ilandria’s future, this was a day that very much marked the end of an era--his father’s era. It was a day that Ilandria left Ullir Vallaincourt’s legacy behind; the last day the old, departed king might ever be spared a thought, by some. And it was therefore a day where the old king’s son, Safir, would realize he was very much facing the world alone.
If only he’d known just how alone he would be…
Try though he might, sleep was not in the cards that evening. Concerns for Nia’s safety, for Ari and his family, for Tivia’s whereabouts, and for potentially fully falling victim to a vile woman’s scheme for total control over Ilandria unsurprisingly dominated the Ilandrian prince’s mind. He could scarcely close his eyes for a second without envisioning some terrible outcome on his part, or affecting those close to him. In the dead of night, he rose from bed to seek a glass of wine to assist him in slumber, but with his stomach already in knots, and empty from feeling too high-strung for any sufficient meals, it only led to a bout of retching.
Resigning to lie down with his eyes closed and simply focus on his breathing for the remainder of twilight, when Safir opened his eyes to the morn, he was not greeted with sunrise aesthetically spilling through cracks in the curtains like liquid gold. In fact, it was not morning at all; then again, Tivia Rigas was not known for making appearances when it was convenient.
He might have been perturbed, were he not so relieved to see her alive and… not ‘well’, perhaps, but alive. “Where have you been?” Safir demanded, sitting upright and throwing his legs over the side of the bed, then added. “And why do you look like hell?” Perhaps not the most well thought-out of comments, considering his own lack of sleep, but he hadn’t dared glance in a mirror.
Although he was no stranger to her cryptic declarations, there was something different about Tivia’s mannerisms that gave the prince pause for concern. “Of course I trust you, Tivia. And I hope I will never come to regret such a decision. What is this about?” His brows knit together as he rose to his full height. “Is there something I should know? Wait--where are you going? Tivia…!”
In true Tivia fashion, just as soon as she had appeared, she was gone. And Safir felt a fool for expecting otherwise.
At that point, there was simply no hope for slumber. Without knowing how much time remained until sunrise, the Ilandrian prince figured it was best to get an early start on putting himself together for whatever lay ahead. Fortunately for him, prior to Ari’s departure, the Canaveris Lord had taken the time to make selections from Safir’s wardrobe in anticipation of this very event. None of which sported Ilandria’s traditional silver and grey, which had initially caused concern, but Ari assured him that standing out in this moment was more important (and effective) than blending into the architecture. All the same, the prince couldn’t help but feel grossly ill-equipped to put himself together without the eye and opinion of his far more fashion-conscious friend. Though perhaps it wasn’t advice he wanted, but rather, assurance.
After what felt like hours of deliberation, he selected a deep emerald-green coat with gold sequins, well-tailor matching trousers, and dangling gold earrings to tie it all together. His hair felt like a bit of a lost cause, as he was only capable of what he hoped passed as a simple yet acceptable braid, but it would have to do. Once the ensemble was complete, he stood before his floor-length mirror for an inordinate amount of time, far more than what was required to check the quality of one’s appearance. Safir wasn’t sure he’d have been able to uproot from the spot, had there not been a knock at the door.
Fortunately, the prince hadn’t yet forgotten how to use his feet, and gathered as much composure as humanly possible before answering the door. He didn’t know who to expect: the palace was vast, its occupants numerous; it could well be anyone, friend or foe alike...
And yet, for some reason, she was one of the few he hadn’t expected to see so soon. “Tivia.” The Prince of Blades blinked, registering what could only be described as a complete transformation from the haggard woman who had appeared in his room much earlier that morning. His eyes strayed to the rolled and sealed parchment in her hands, which he hesitated to take for no other reason than receiving a guest so early had taken him off guard. “Thank you, kindly, for playing messenger. I owe Lord Canaveris--and you--a great deal.”
Are you going to explain what the hell happened earlier? He silently tagged on, on the off chance that she could hear his thoughts as easily as she could infiltrate them. Whether or not that was the case, he got her silent message loud and clear, even if the message was as foggy as fallen clouds in the Eyraillian mountains. The last thing he’d expected was for this venture to go smoothly, given exactly who threatened his claim to the throne, but the details were lost on him, and he hadn’t heard from Nia or Hadwin since their departure. Once again, as had occurred many a time since Tivia Rigas as the D’Marians had wedged into his life, the Prince of Blades was helpless but to trust the star seer. He only hoped her means, whatever they were, did not prove too extreme to serve the end his kingdom deserved.
Before she could depart, Safir caught her hand the moment it slid from his arm; hastily, but not with any amount of force. “Ilandria does not hinge itself on luck, Tivia. It isn’t logical to depend on a wish.” He caught her single-eyed gaze with muted intensity. “We prefer a different mantra: May truth, trust, and mercy align.” The latter was spoken in lyrical Ilandrian, but he didn’t venture to translate. Instead, he released her hand with a faint smile, and a faint glimmer of what could have been a plea in his emerald eyes. “You’ve picked up enough Ilandrian during your stay, I daresay. The message should be clear.”
Whatever you are plotting, I don’t care if you let me down. The prince added as a quiet afterthought, before taking a step back and offering a shallow bow. But do not put orchestrate a position where I will let my people down…
Alone once again in his chambers, with nothing but the crackle and smoulder of a dying fire at the hearth as sound and company, Safir lowered his body into an armchair and unfurled the rolled parchment. What caught his attention first wasn’t the letter itself, but a sketched likeness of his own face, accurate down to the very errant strands of hair framing his brow that always seemed to evade styling. Work none other than Ari’s, himself, for nothing could compare to the earth mage’s uncanny attention to detail, and the way he seemed to be able to replicate realism with ease.
Why he’d included this sketch portrait in his letter to the Prince of Blades was initially rather confusing, until the words in the letter demystified the ‘why’. Whether for thick skin, or as a result of careful royal upbringing in a nation that valued mind over heart, Safir Vallaincourt was not a man easily brought to tears--and Ari’s letter very nearly achieved that. It wasn’t the same as having his friend there with him today, and in a way, Ari’s words of encouragement only made him wish all the more that he were here.
But, as he had told Tivia, Ilandria was not built upon wishes, nor did it rely on them. It was a comforting notion that all of his friends and allies were here in spirit, but realistically, the Ilandrian Prince would be facing what was potentially the most important day of his life alone. Perhaps it was necessary: a chance to prove to all of those who depended on them that he could, and would, continue to stand strong as a solitary force. As Ilandria’s voice, going forth.
It was irresponsible to skip a morning meal under any condition: had Sommath been there, Safir knew without a doubt his personal physician would chastise him on this decision, but the prince simply couldn’t bear to stomach anything. Sleep had eluded him, and yet he still vibrated with nervous energy, from the privacy of his quarters, all the way down to the amphitheatre located at the very heart of the city, where the decision about his (and Ilandria’s) future would take place. The last time he’d set foot on the cool, polished stone, he’d been armed with his weapon of choice to face off against a haughty young king who was well over his head in so many ways. As much as Caris Sorde could get on his nerves, he would’ve given anything to see an even vaguely friendly face in the crowd at that moment…
Well, there was one moderately friendly face. He spotted Tivia Rigas in the front row, the bright turquoise of her gown standing out against Ilandria’s traditionally muted colour pallet. True to the star seer’s obtuse nature, she hadn’t detailed much of what she knew… but whatever had caused her to haul him out of bed in the young hours of the morning couldn’t be good, and the pit in his stomach had only grown heavier since then. Her addition to Lord Canaveris’s parchment was as vague as any communication she shared, alluding only to the suggestion to ‘stand firm’ on the subject of Nia… whatever that meant.
With regards to the earth mage, if Ari had managed to make it amidst his family crises, Safir hadn’t spotted him. Nor had he spotted Nia or Hadwin, who should have returned by now. Not only did the prince carry the burden of the fool, walking into his own sabotage, but the heavy concern for his friend and her lupine companion made it difficult to stand tall with his shoulders straight. Particularly when it seemed his longtime friend might execute a plan of her very own today, to which he, of course, was not privy, since no one seemed to want to tell him a damned thing. He had never been much of an actor, and didn’t even remotely compare to Lord Canaveris as an orator… and, for the first time, he wondered if truth and justice would be enough to prevail.
With his friend’s carefully written speech in hand, the Prince of Blades breathed through the feeling of walking right into his own downfall as he took center stage in the very middle of the amphitheatre. The faces of hundreds upon hundreds of Ilandrians all melded together in some nauseating mosaic under the early morning sun. It was better that they were too far away for him to read their expressions, not knowing whether he would find support or contempt, unsure as to whether Jahnst had successfully managed to poison his own people against him just yet. Despite the winter chill, finding himself at the center of the entire kingdom’s attention in that moment was suffocating enough to make him sweat.
Curiously, there was no sign of the notorious Minister of Justice and Defense just yet--but there was no benefit in delaying, and waiting for her knife to drop. All of Ilandria had shown up to hear him speak, and he wouldn’t keep them waiting, especially if it ended up being his last act as governing royalty.
“Ilandria.” Safir’s voice rang true and clear, carrying throughout the amphitheatre without a trace of betraying his nerves. Why, then, did it sound so small to his ears? Unfurling Ari’s parchment (thank the gods his friend had had the foresight to write him something, as he was almost completely lost for words) the Prince of Blades took a steadying breath, and prepared to do this speech justice. “For years, you have faithfully entrusted our beautiful kingdom’s governance to my family. And even in the wake of my father’s passing, I am here to reaffirm to you all that the House of Vallaincourt continues to value and cherish each and every one of you…”
The prince trailed off at the sight of a slight disturbance in the crowd. Ilandrian guards and military pushed past citizens, making their way toward the heart of the amphitheatre--toward Safir. And who was leading them, but none other than Ilandria’s very Minister of Justice and Defense. What timing…
“Prince Safir Vallaincourt of Ilandria. You owe this kingdom and these people more than empty words.” Liesefa Jahnst’s voice rose above the din of a bewildered and concerned crowd, and she continued to advance until she shared center-stage with the prince himself, with guards in tow. “We require an explanation, and even then, I cannot guarantee that it will suffice.”
“Minister Jahnst. If you have objections, then I’d ask you to finally follow procedure.” To Safir’s credit, he didn’t flinch in the face of the Minister’s vague accusations--which, perhaps, came from the sincerity of his reaction, in that he had no idea what ‘explanation’ he owed. Was this, perhaps, all part of Tivia’s plan? Keeping him relatively in the dark for fear he couldn’t lie through his teeth to save his own life?
Be that as it may, nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
Jahnst’s eyes were as cold as the daggers of her words, wielding them just as threateningly as Safir wielded a sword. “Then praytell, Your Highness, what procedure addresses national treason by one’s own monarch? Ilandria.” On her last word, the Minister turned to address the murmuring crowd. “It has recently come to my attention, and I have reason to believe, that our very own lauded and trusted Prince of Blades has been harbouring a fugitive for some time, now. A very dangerous fugitive, at that, from a disgraced family you should all recognize: Ardane.”
Impossible… Safir’s heart leapt into his throat. Was this all part of Tivia’s plan? Had she kept the details close to her chest, knowing how strongly he would oppose Nia’s involvement of any sort? How had word of Nia’s presence even reached Jahnst’s attention? What is this, Tivia? He didn’t dare look for the star seer in the crowd, but hoped with all of his willpower that his thoughts reached her. What have you done?!
“It seems our own Prince, under our very noses, has been cavorting with dangerous exiled and excommunicated Master Alchemists for some time, now. Enough that he would harbour one within the hallowed walls of Ilandria’s very own palace.” Jahnst’s diatribe continued, her voice rising with the voices of the audience as the murmurs blossomed into frenzied din. “This event should not be a coronation, dear people. It should be a trial.”
Like Safir, Alster fretted over Sommath’s prolonged absence. During their pleasant yet surface-level conversation, Alster stole occasional glances out the window, tracking the sun’s descent as it crowned a swollen cumulus cloud, sliced through its belly, and plunged free. When the light reemerged, it slanted into the room, a dying ember heralding dusk.
For someone of Alster’s restless nature, the extended rest chafed more than it soothed. He fidgeted in the settee, knees knocking, feet tapping, his attention snapping to the door every few seconds. Sensing his unease, or perhaps sharing it, Safir stood and went off to investigate. Alster lingered near the door to the hallway, a spell simmering in his steel-plated palm, braced for trouble. A coup, perhaps–soldiers loyal to Jahnst storming into the rooms of Vallaincourt supporters, dragging the opposition away in chains. But when he peered around the corner, Safir had returned with Sommath. The physician looked unharmed, though bewilderment creased his weathered brow. Whatever happened in the interim had left Sommath’s mood altered. Had he stumbled upon a breakthrough in his workshop? Tinkered with tonics and unearthed a miracle?
“Understandable.” Alster returned the physician’s uneasy smile with one of gentle encouragement–and a flicker of curiosity. Surely, Sommath hadn’t delayed as a ploy to give Alster time to catch his breath. Then again, he hardly knew the man or his behaviors. Perhaps Sommath believed trickery was the only way to induce Alster to relax. But that explanation sounded too reckless–and convoluted–and Alster banished the thought. “I’m ready to go if you are. And before you wonder; yes, I stayed hydrated and rested while you were gone. His Highness made sure of it.” He nodded at Safir, appreciative. “Now, if you’ve gathered what you need,” he extended his flesh and blood hand, knowing most preferred its warmth to his steel prosthesis, no matter how lifelike the latter felt. “We’ll take our leave. We’ll return as soon as Sylvie Canaveris is stable. With the two of us working on her case, I daresay we’ll make swift progress,” he aimed the last words for Safir, wanting to offer a hopeful timeline.
“I suggest you hold your breath,” Alster instructed Sommath as their hands linked together. “Stay close.” In a blink, they disappeared into the etherrealms–and materialized at the front gates of Eyraille’s palace. “Take a moment to recover, if you need it. We just crossed the void, after all. Not a journey for the faint of heart, but you held your own.” With a steady hand on the physician’s back, they traveled through the grand doors and made directly for Sylvie’s chambers. As if expecting them, (and in a way, he was), Caris stood outside, looking annoyed for having to wait longer than Alster’s “instantaneous” figure had made it seem.
“We’re here now, and we’re ready to go. Please stay outside while we work,” he told the young king as an update and apology, not bothering to linger in the hallway as he and Sommath slipped into Sylvie’s chambers. Inside, their patient was asleep, courtesy of a sleep tonic administered by one of Eyraille’s physicians. Lying on her back, hands latticed across her chest, her face waxen and her breaths too shallow to track, Alster checked her pulse for fear that she had died and was relieved to find they were not too late.
“Is there anything else you need, or do you have it all in your bag?” He nodded to Sommath’s bag, the question casual, but also a mask to hide his travel-induced breathlessness. It turned out, Sommath had prepared meticulously, and quietly laid out various vials, cases, scales, alembics, and herb pouches on Sylvie’s vanity–their makeshift work-station. “You’ve prepared for this exceedingly well. Hm,” he squinted at a particular lump of translucent apple-green stone placed in the corner. “Chalcedony. Are you grinding this stone into a mineral powder, or distilling its essence into an antidote? I’ve heard it’s excellent for easing emotional distress and for regulating one’s memory centers. Funnily enough, it’s not the first time I’ve seen this stone used in alchemy. While I’m not an alchemist, I’ve assisted my…” He trailed off, exhaling sharply. He would get nowhere if every alchemist’s kit reminded him of Isidor. “I’ve assisted,” he concluded, a dismissive clip. “I am glad to lend a hand, steel or otherwise, if you’d have me. If not, I’ll stay with Sylvie. Make sure she’s comfortable.” Yet part of him–unspoken, undeniable–itched to observe Sommath’s methods, unable to shake the feeling of familiarity with the set-up–which departed from a normal alchemist’s practice…
“If my well-wishes aren’t sufficient, then I’ll adapt from your Ilandrian maxim.” Unwavering, Tivia stared into Safir’s haggard, ashy face and said, “I trust you. Now, trust yourself. It’s only logical to do so.” Falter once, and we will have no king, she wanted to add, but figured enough stressors were aiming to eat his senses alive. She left Safir to prepare, and wove her way to the section of the amphitheatre reserved for Ilandria’s court and esteemed guests. To those present who passed her a cold stare, she didn’t deign to acknowledge them with a look, but simply flashed her hand–and the diamond-ringed promise on her finger–to silence their non-verbal jeers. Whether they found her unworthy of taking the space meant for the inner sanctum of elites, she resolved to plant her feet wider and jut out her elbows–all to spite them and their attempt to push her from her vantage point out in the front. She needed a clear line of sight and an easy route to the stage in case the would-be king lost his nerve and needed a few swift kicks to remind him not to bray like a petulant donkey who buckled under the weight of a single crown. Nevermind what the crown represented, its heft measured not by pounds but by the people, it didn’t lessen her willingness to send Safir sprawling on his ass if it meant it would trigger an urge in him to fight. Fight for his kingdom. Fight for his dignity.
She gripped her twitching hand, forcing it steady near her abdomen. Damn, she cursed her disappearance, her forced retreat into the etherrealms to recover from the psychic burns that scorched and rattled her into near delirium. Those precious few days lost when she could have prepared him better for this critical speech, this critical moment. But would she have made a difference? All the training in the world fell short of the best teacher: experience. As much as Safir touted logic, logic could not teach a strong moral character, and on this day, his coronation, it would not be grounded, reasoned practicality that secured his throne, but the hot furnace of conviction. For Safir to succeed, he needed to strip down to his barest component parts, fling aside the superficial layers of rhetoric, and prove one of his most exalted Ilandrian ideals. The truth. He needed to show his people the truth.
Waiting for the arrival of the crown prince brought other annoyances. To stave off the cold, she walked in place and pulled the edges of her fur-lined cloak closer to her body. Breath came out of the marred side of her always-parted lips in smoky streams. Whoever thought to stage a major event in an open-air amphitheatre, in the auspices of winter, should suffer a few ice cubes to be tossed down their trousers. Safir would regale her on the reasons for the spacious venue, she knew. A coronation meant nothing without the support of the people, and support meant their attendance. No gathering-place afforded better accommodations for everyone than the amphitheatre, and everyone certainly obliged to fill every seat and standing-space. For all that Ilandria touted equality and a democratic voting system, she found it strange how they maintained their monarchy for generations. She might have agreed with Jahnt on the justice-end of her ministry–a system overhaul could better serve Ilandria’s growing population and increase in commerce–but Jahnst was just another flavor of monarch. Or worse, a dictator intent on power over stewardship. The country’s survival depended on core values, fostering strong foreign allies, and patching up the snags of a dark history–not as a business model, particularly from a woman who saw her home as a product to sell for profit.
A riotous applause signalled the long-anticipated moment. Finally. Safir entered the stage from the left, wearing clothes and colors fit for his form, for once. Not drab grays and shapeless suits. She clicked her tongue in approval, happy that Ari’s ostentatious sensibilities rubbed off on Ilandria’s prince of ashes. The royal guard escorted Safir to a podium. The crown in question sat on a silken pillow, held aloft by two men she recognized as the Ministers of Coin and Combat, fitting representatives to present the crown, a headpiece arrayed with melted daggers from previous kings and fused with silver sovereigns. No jewels or other fineries. Nothing to distract the message and the meaning as displayed on Ilandria’s grand standard; a sword whose hilt doubled as scales. Blood on one plate, steel ingots on the other. In the end, it translated the same. Justice weighed in blood and iron.
Tivia never thought she would miss Stella D’Mare and its colorful parades and frivolities, but now she wished for the warmth of home, the land of magic, of wishes and dreams–the antithesis to practical Ilandria.
As far as hot-headed D’Marians went, Ari exemplified a temperate take of its culture. Pleasure-seeking without giving to excess, a head for aesthetics and mechanics. An artist and an advocate. A perfect contributor to pen Safir’s speech. Safir unrolled the parchment and read those deliberately crafted words aloud–but Tivia knew they’d find no audience. A shame, because he read the words without faltering. A dash of panache and gravitas– giving legitimacy to his claim as the next king of Ilandria. Nervous as he must have been, Safir far from lacked a presence. He acted the part, at least.
Alas, reading a speech would not confer upon him the powers of a king. Not without one more challenge. As if on cue, Lady Jahnst and her small armament of soldiers interrupted the procession, stormed on the stage, and spouted her defamations for the crowd to hear. Ardane. Safir had the grace not to direct a glare at Tivia, but if he did, she wouldn’t flinch under scrutiny. If only you knew our other options. This is the most humane choice. The least bloody path.
Amid the mutterings of the crowd, a few voices pierced the dull roar.
“Prove it!”
“Yeah, prove it. Where is she!?”
And here, Safir thought he had few allies. Unless they, like many Ilandrians, were fond of proper procedure and simply had wanted to give the would-be monarch on the podium a chance to defend himself from slanderous remarks.
Stand firm, but be diplomatic, she wanted to telegraph, but her psychic reach could not penetrate his mind from so far away, and he would likely ignore her advice, no matter how sound. Why listen to a traitor?
The dignitaries in her section jostled around and shifted closer to the stage, no doubt for a closer inspection of the drama. No one was immune. Tivia scuttled through the crowd, swimming through the mass of humanity for a chance at an opening, needing to see in order to hear, in order to know and to act if events turned sour, but a hand seized her arm and stilled her movements.
She whirled around, wrenching from the grapple, but to no avail, her aggressor’s grip a clamp. She raised her head and caught a pair of green eyes under a tangle of long brown hair. She stopped squirming. “Haraldur.”
“Come with me,” he said. “I know a better place where we can wait.” His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, prepared, as always, for violent insurgence. “There’s a plan. Let’s watch it unfold first–deal with the consequences later.”
The world around him was falling apart, the ground beneath his feet felt like it was crumbling, and Safir was deafened to all sound save for the incessant thudding of his own racing heartbeat in his ears. And it was at that point he realized that despite the warnings, insider information, and everything his friends and allies had done to prepare for this moment… he wasn’t actually prepared at all.
Ari was nowhere to be seen, and Sommath was off in Eyraille tending the Canaveris lord’s niece for the mysterious sudden onset of her critical condition. Nia and Hadwin were nowhere to be found, and he hadn’t heard a word from either of them in days. And Tivia… well, he wasn’t sure what she was up to, nor the full extent of her involvement in all of this, or whether he was right to trust her at this point. Just as he had feared, the Prince of Blades stood alone, facing an accusation he could not deny.
The demand for proof on Jahnst’s part was no comfort to him, either. Not when his people’s support was surely hinged on the belief that he had nothing to do with any Master Alchemists whatsoever, let alone the daughter of one who had once held a great deal of power in Ilandria. Just as the treacherous councilwoman had planned, the Prince of Blades found himself between a rock and a hard place. After all, to deny any affiliation with Nia Ardane or any other Master Alchemist would not only be a lie, but it would only further perpetuate the toxic status quo his father had been known for. Even if he got away with such a dire untruth, he would not only alienate the sparse population of Master Alchemist survivors who clung to whatever they had left of their pride and faith in their governance, but also all of the friends and allies that had his back this past handful of weeks: Nia, Sommath, Ari, Alster, Caris… perhaps even Tivia, if she could still be considered a friend or ally. With his father gone, and no family to speak of, he would in essence lose everyone he held dear; everyone he had left.
Conversely, to adhere to his morals and personal code of ethics, to be true to himself and his people and confirm Jahnst’s accusations would result in a fall from glory and faith from which he would never recover. He would be a traitor in his own right, a traitor to his people, his nation, and his family. No doubt he would lose not only his crown, but his kingdom, and most likely, his freedom. After all, Ilandria only supported him on the assumption that he intended to pick up from where his father had left off. To maintain the ideals the House of Vallaincourt had perpetuated for longer than his father had lived. For while Ullir Vallaincourt was responsible for persecuting and massacring Ilandria’s Master Alchemists when he’d been a child, Master Alchemists had always been suspected or despised for one reason or another: either for their cruel and unethical practices necessary for perpetuating their own existence, or for the fact that, once upon a time, they had been among the most privileged in Ilandria. Some, including the Ardanes, walked in the circles of nobility, despite having no claim to noble status themselves. The remainder of Ilandria had once abhorred them for their high status; now, they abhorred them for being dirt beneath their fingernails. A stain on what they perceived to otherwise be a perfect society.
Safir never would have guessed he’d find himself in the middle of it all, toeing both lines… whilst leaning heavily in the opposite direction of his father.
As experienced and charismatic an orator as Ari was, he had not included this sudden turn of events into his script. He was not present to offer advice, and even the most carefully crafted speeches wouldn’t suffice to have the Ilandrian Prince come out of this unscathed. Safir had no words--but he had to say something. Whatever the stance, silence sometimes came across as more incriminating than rebuttal.
And that was the moment that Safir decided that if he was to go down, then he would go down in dignity, drowning in the consequences of his own truth.
But when he opened his mouth to speak, it wasn’t his words, nor his own voice that cut through the crowd, from the other side of the amphitheatre. It was a voice that struck him with a sudden surge of panic and disbelief.
“She’s right here.” Every head in the crowd turned to face a brunette woman with fierce brown eyes, who appeared to be leading a group of what appeared to be vagabonds, all in plain clothes that hardly looked as though they adequately held up against the cold--some of whom were missing their hands entirely. Safir was understandably not alone in his disbelief when a small mob of Master Alchemists, led by none other than Nia Ardane herself, made their way through the crowd that parted like a sea repelled by such intruders. There were gasps, murmurs of disbelief, and some shouts on the part of the crowd at the audacity of Ilandria’s darkest secret making themselves known at an event where they might legally be permitted by law, but most certainly were not welcome.
“What are you doing…!” The Ilandrian Prince mouthed, wide-eyed as his longtime friend so boldly proceeded to risk both of their lives and freedom. He wanted to trust her; he wanted to believe that this was part of some plan to which he simply wasn’t privy. Just as much as he wanted to believe that Tivia Rigas was still on his side and playing this wild scheme to his favour… but there was so much about which he was far from certain at this point. All he felt he could do was stand back helpless and watch how this all unfolded.
So entangled in his own web of confusion, he almost didn’t notice the micro-expressions that betrayed Jahnst’s surprise as well. It was only there for a split second: the widening of her eyes, and deepening of her forehead wrinkles, the way she very quickly pursed her lips--and then it was gone. But it was enough to reassure the Prince of Blades that, whatever the hell was unfolding before them, it wasn’t part of the treacherous councilwoman’s plan. At least, not entirely.
But he’d be a fool not to assume the Minister of Justice and Defense would not try to spin the situation in her favour. “It seems my words speak for themselves!” She shouted above the din, a faint albeit sly smile forming on her thin lips. Whatever victory she thought to secure was cut short, however, as the Ardane woman, accompanied by some of her supposed followers, fearlessly took to the platform and cut the councilwoman off before she could take her own narrative any further.
“Listen up!” Hands cupped on either side of her mouth, Nia Ardane was determined to get her word in, not knowing how much time she would have before Ilandrian authorities arrested the lot of them. “I’ll make this quick! I know you hate me--you hate all of us, and I’m not here to make friends with any of your sorry hypocrites. But since you all claim to value the truth so damn much, I thought you might be interested in learning what is really going on here, and how your ‘esteemed’ Minister of Justice and Defense is the biggest fucking hypocrite of all, and set up your own beloved Prince to fall hard on his ass from his family’s glory.”
There was a flicker of panic in Liesefa Jahnst’s eyes: brief, but it was there. Enough to confirm she perceived Nia, and the Master Alchemists that flanked her, as a threat to whatever she had planned. “Who do you think--”
“Shut up, Jahnst. Haven’t you run your mouth enough for more than one lifetime?” Nia wasn’t about to relinquish her platform to the councilwoman, and in mere seconds, she and the other Master Alchemists all but entirely displaced her on the platform as the Ardane woman turned to address the audience again.
Of course, there was no question as to what the Minister’s automatic response to displacement would be. So before Jahnst could call on the attending authorities to demand the arrest of these unwelcome few, one of the elder Alchemists--an old woman with two wooden prosthetics in the place of missing hands--spoke up with a voice that should have belonged to someone far grander than her faintly hunched, diminished stature. “We are citizens of Ilandria. By the Kingdom’s law, on this such occasion, all Ilandria voices shall be heard!” The words--uttered once in Ilandrian, and repeated in the common tongue--miraculously dampened the din of the crowd. Most importantly, it stopped Ilandrian guards in their tracks, before they could act on the impulse to unjustly remove the Master Alchemists from the vicinity.
“Let us be clear: we Master Alchemists are no friend to the crown, or to House Vallaincourt. Regardless of our sentiments, this woman who challenges the Prince is even less of a friend to the lot of you, let alone to us.” All faces upon the platform turned to Jahnst, whose own visage betrayed frustration that masked what looked like a layer of fear--because she knew, just as well as every Ilandrian in the amphitheater, that today was such an occasion when all public voices, favoured or not, would be heard.
When it was clear there would be no interference on the part of the incensed Minister, the aged woman at Nia’s side continued. “We have had time to consider the extent of our involvement today. But not as much time as your Minister of Justice and Defense has had to contemplate the nature of how she wanted us to be involved.” She didn’t need to turn her gaze on Jahnst; all eyes were already on her. “Liesefa Jahnst approached us--each and every one of us--and in fact asked that we be here today. Specifically, she asked for us all to stand here and sing the praises of your Prince, for secretly supporting us in the shadows, unbeknownst to the vast majority of Ilandria… all in exchange for attractive, albeit empty promises that anyone with a head on their shoulders would know she would not keep.”
“What nonsense! That you would have the nerve to exploit your right to a voice today to present such a barrage of blatant lies!” Jahnst shouted, seeing fit to fight her way to the center once again.
But it was too late to maintain whatever tenuous hold she’d had on the narrative she spun. Whether or not the gathered Ilandrians were inclined to buy into this sudden and unexpected turn of events, the Master Alchemists had the audience’s ear, all the same. “We are all here--as per your Justice Minister’s request. Not in support of your Prince, but in defiance of that wretched woman.” The Master Alchemist next to Nia continued. “Her plan is to paint Prince Vallaincourt as a traitor; because she knows that is the only way he will not inherit his father’s crown. She wants you to hate him as much as you hate us… just as she managed to turn his father against us years ago. So, Ilandria, I will reiterate once again: we are not here in favour of Safir Vallaincourt. Instead, we have chosen to risk our safety to reveal to you the true face of Liesefa Jahnst… a woman whose route to power is rooted in fear and hatred. And, most importantly, in lies.
“We do not expect you to take our word for it. So instead, we invite Ilandrian officials to see it for themselves.” All those upon the platform who still possessed functioning hands and digits produced pieces of parchment, all cut to equal size. “We may not all have our hands, but we still have our minds. Many of us had the good sense to ask for your Justice Minister’s terms in writing; and she thought so little of us that she was convinced we would maintain our silence, somehow believing only our eyes would see it. Take these and validate them for their authenticity. That is all; we will not speak for your Prince. He may speak for himself.”
At that point, audience attention was torn between Jahnst, who appeared to be loudly arguing in vain with other Ilandrian officials who collected the Master Alchemists’ contracts, and their Prince, who looked as though he was trapped in his own body. The venue had become a hurricane of raised voices and barely-controlled chaos all around, and ironically, the Master Alchemists remained the calmest and most composed. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t much of a surprise at all; it wasn’t as though they had much left to lose. Their exit from the platform was the direct antithesis of their arrival, with so many eyes on Jahnst and Safir that hardly anyone paid them any heed as they relinquished the platform to the Ilandrian Prince. Even Nia, who was undeniably not known for her silence, spared only a wordless glance at her childhood friend. It was a look that echoed the other Master Alchemist’s final words: that he would speak for himself, now or never, and the outcome of all this mayhem was solely up to him.
And it all confirmed what Safir had felt from the moment he’d set foot on the raised platform in the center of the amphitheater: that he was in this alone. No one would speak for him, and until he spoke for himself, no one in attendance today--not even Nia--was truly with him. Not until he made his stance, and his intentions, clear.
Through all of the din of the Ilandrian officials, of the audience, and of Jahnst (who seemed very concerned about the parchment being collected by officials), Safir drew the ceremonial sword from the scabbard at his hip, and raised it to the sky, along with his voice. The glint of morning sunlight on steel quieted the din undulating through the crowd. “Minister Jahnst has made it clear she’s looking for a confession. And I’m sure she had successfully planted seeds of doubt in some of your minds; so allow me to clear the air.”
Lowering the sword and replacing it in its sheath in a swift, practiced motion, the Prince of Blades stepped closer to the edge of the dais. “Not once in my life, as Prince or proxy ruler of Ilandria, have I stepped up to offer any aid whatsoever to the excommunicated Master Alchemists who continued to inhabit this kingdom. These people have hardly crossed my mind in a decade, and I claim no affiliation with them. But, take heed--this is not a proclamation of my innocence. What I lay before all of you now is my guilt… for I’ve realized, far too late, that I, of all people--a man who claims to represent truth and justice and what is right--have failed as a leader and role model to my citizens.”
No one--not the general public, the Master Alchemists, or even Jahnst appeared any less than baffled at the Prince’s words. Perhaps not knowing what to make of them was all that stood between Safir and an angry mob of the majority of Ilandria, at that point. But it was enough of a pause to invite elaboration. “I am prepared to shoulder the blame of this nation, but not without addressing that we--all of us--have been living in hypocrisy for a decade and a half. For not only making the hasty decision to persecute the Master Alchemists in unspeakable ways, but for believing that fear and anger was ever a suitable excuse! No trial or due process… entire families and lives destroyed--and children among them. And yet, we somehow managed to sleep at night, for more than a decade, pretending the people we wronged were a stain on Ilandria, and not an open, bleeding wound for which we are directly or indirectly responsible. Our own neighbour to the north, Eyraille, has long since sworn off such acts of passionate tyranny; so, then, what does that make us? If Eyraille condemns it, yet we continue to stand by it? And to move on with our lives, as if there isn’t blood on our hands?!”
Whether it was the escalating tone of his voice or the audacity of his words, Safir had his nation’s full attention. As to how it would all end for the Prince of Blades was anyone’s guess, but whatever the end, he refused to step down without being heard. “When I was young, I had only one friend. The daughter of a highly influential Master Alchemist. She was my only friend and confidante--and, most importantly, she was innocent. Had no say in who her family was, or how she was raised. And then, one day… her family was slaughtered--murdered in their own house.” He turned to Nia, then, whose visage expressed only slightly less shock than the general crowd. Her eyes were dry, but his were not. “Naturally, I’d assumed she had been killed, along with the rest of her kin… and I couldn’t even grieve. And I am not talking about Ilandria’s discouragement of dwelling too long on emotions. I couldn’t bring up her name, couldn’t ask questions, most certainly couldn’t go look for her. I didn’t realize just how damaged I was as a result, until she returned to me, shortly following my father’s death. Because Nia Ardane is better than all of us, in that she somehow--despite everything we as a people have put her through--still maintains such profound love for this kingdom.”
“So you admit it, Prince Safir?” Jahnst’s grating voice shouted from somewhere off to the side. He couldn’t see her past the guards who had gathered in preparation for whatever would take place next, but she had a presence beyond her physical form. And an aggravating one, at that. “My single accusation is that you have been harbouring a wanted woman unbeknownst to authorities. The rest is simply hearsay; she’s clearly conspired with the Master Alchemists on all of this!”
“Has Nia Ardane been a guest in my home? I am a man of truth, Jahnst, and I will not deny that I have hosted her. But I will challenge the arrest warrant of an innocent woman, whom this kingdom has, for all intents and purposes, assumed dead for well over a decade. A woman from whom we have taken everything but her life… and who still managed to survive in spite of it all. Ilandria.” The Prince of Blades returned his attention to the public at large, no longer looking for familiar faces or for sympathy, but meeting the gazes of all whose eyes he could perceive. In hopes that through them, they would see his truth. “Your Minister wants a trial. Wants to hold me accountable for what she considers to be a crime. But know this: should the tenuous power that I still yet hold falls into her hands, you will not have a trial. I will not have a trial, nor will Nia, or anyone in the foreseeable future. Let the past speak for itself: the Master Alchemists of Ilandria were not afforded a trial. They were offered the choice of giving up their hands, or their lives. All else aside, this is what Liesefa Jahnst considers to be ‘justice’, at a time when it is crucial that we stand strong as a nation. So, ask yourselves this…”
Safir turned his body to face the Master Alchemists; many who stood strong, but some who couldn’t help but look defeated, because it was the only thing they had known since the day they’d lost their hands and families. “Is this the justice that you want? Is this abject hypocrisy what Ilandria truly stands for? Whatever your personal opinion of me, or my family, I am asking you not to cast a vote for an individual figurehead. Use your voices to speak for Ilandria’s future--but not today. Not until you have the truth you deserve. And until then… this ceremony and decision shall be postponed.”
Murmurs and gasps of confusion rippled through the crowd as the exalted Prince of Blades turned to the guards, withdrew the ceremonial sword from its sheath again, and knelt set it gently upon the ground in front of him. Then, unarmed, he nodded to the gathering of enforcers, as if in consent. “Regardless of my lineage, I am a citizen of Ilandria like any other, and I hold myself to the same standards as everyone else. So detain me for questioning, then, and Minister Jahnst as well. If you wish to question any of the Master Alchemists, you will only do so under oath that they will not come to any harm, in body or mind.”
Among Jahnst’s loud protests, Safir did not miss the panic in Nia’s wide eyes as she was approached by a pair of officials. She couldn’t fault the prince, not entirely; it wasn’t as though he knew that this wasn’t the first time she had been detained. “Safir…!”
“Have faith in me, Nia. Have faith in Ilandria. The truth will carry us; I’ve never been more certain of it.” There was no debating the conviction in Safir’s sharp, green eyes, even as he was led away as more of a suspect and less of a prince by the Ilandrian guards. But conviction would not be enough to save her, or him, or this kingdom. In true Ilandrian fashion, it was up to Ilandria itself to decide how to proceed.
As Haraldur promised, the new vantage point offered a clearer view—none too soon. They crouched in a storage balcony above the stage, cordoned off by curtains and boxed in by crates and dust. From the slats in the curtains, Tivia watched a procession of Master Alchemists take the stage, led by none other than Nia, whose barbed tongue had finally silenced Jahnst. The look on Jahnst’s face, from smug satisfaction to bewilderment, was worthy of an encore performance.
If she weren’t petrified—sweating, gaping, barely breathing like Safir on stage—Tivia might’ve laughed. The scene was absurd. Nia, fearless and cutting, surrounded by Ilandrians who once called for her execution. Instead, Tivia dug her fingernails into the splintered wood of a nearby crate, welcoming the sting as a tether to reality.
Haraldur crouched motionless beside her, one hand on his sword hilt, eyes sharp. Calm, at least outwardly. They both knew whatever happened next was beyond their control. Tivia’s weapon had always been foresight. His, the blade. But neither could be drawn in time to affect what was already in motion.
Come on, Safir. She urged him in silence, as if her thoughts might travel to the stage. Say something. Anything.
The Master Alchemists had done their part—offered damning evidence, cut through the courtly theater. Now it was up to the would-be king to speak. To rise. To prove he was more than a placeholder name carved into a throne.
If he choked, if he let the moment pass, then Tivia had jeopardized their fragile alliance for nothing.
Then came a flash of white-hot light.
A sword.
Safir stepped forward, blade in hand, and finally—finally—spoke.
“Well, it’s about time,” Tivia muttered, her grip on the crate tightening, the anticipation curdling her stomach. Too much emotional investment clouded her foresight. She couldn’t see what came next, not through the thick veil of hope and fear.
I can’t peek behind the curtain, she thought bitterly. Not this time.
The stars had gone quiet. Her vision, not infinite, but far-reaching, was now constrained to the present, no clearer than anyone else’s in the amphitheatre. A consequence of caring too much. Of daring to hope.
She shivered at the thought—and at the memory of what the stars last showed her. The price of prophecy. The loneliness of knowledge. The burns she still carried.
Still, she could read the signs. And this? This could be the moment they’d been building toward. Safir stood tall, his voice clear. He hadn’t buckled.
“Yes.” Her lips parted in a whisper, reverent. “You beautiful, stupid man. You did it.”
But the moment wasn’t secured. Not yet. As guards moved to detain Nia and the Master Alchemists, the crowd buzzed with stunned confusion and slow-blooming outrage. The coronation—delayed. The dances, the banquets—scrapped. A nightmare scenario for someone like Ari, surely, but that was the least of his worries….
With Nia, again, in chains.
Tivia forced herself to release the crate. Her hands were white-knuckled, trembling. The exhaustion hit her all at once, as if the days lost to the etherrealms—the burning sun, the endless void—had caught up in a single breath.
Even Haraldur noticed. He turned, concerned. “Are you well?”
“...Yes,” she lied, her voice small. “Just… relieved. Everything is going according to…” Her eyelids drooped. “…plan.”
The last thing she saw was Haraldur’s hand reaching for her as her vision went black and the world gave way.
When Tivia awoke, nothing was familiar.
Gone was the cold stone floor of the amphitheatre’s private balcony. No echo of a thousand murmuring Ilandrians. No metallic ring of Safir’s ceremonial blade.
She reached around, her fingers sinking into soft white linen and the plush give of eiderdown cushions. A rustic, wood-beamed ceiling loomed above—no gold-leaf moldings, no opulence of the palace.
“You’re awake.”
A figure stood in the doorway. The voice, the silhouette—unmistakable. But unlike the last time she saw him, he wore no armor. Just a plain tunic. No sword hung from his belt.
“Haraldur.” Her mouth was packed with gravel. Her tongue scraped like a trowel against dry earth. She swallowed, but nothing eased the sting in her throat. “How long…have I been out?” Her voice rasped like torn parchment. Slowly, she adjusted herself upright, careful not to invite a rush of dizziness. “And where are we? This isn’t the palace.”
He crossed the room and handed her a tin of water from the decanter on the vanity. She drank greedily, the coolness soothing her raw throat.
“Two days,” he said. “After you collapsed, I couldn’t take you to the palace. Too risky. Too many guards. So I brought you to the closest inn I could find.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “You dragged an unconscious woman out of a packed amphitheatre. That had to turn a few heads.”
His gaze slid to a dusty corner, the shift in mood unmistakable. Their sordid history written in his eyes. She almost felt bad for the off-color comment. “Wasn’t as hard as it sounds,” he muttered, deciding not to engage in light-hearted banter around her. Nothing misconstrued as familiar or friendly. He stuck to the facts, and she couldn’t blame him. “I covered you with a sheet and carried you over my shoulder. Looked like I was hauling flour. No one paid much attention. The city’s too distracted to care.”
“Touche.” She idly spun the empty tin in her hands. “So. Two days. What have I missed?”
He snorted. “Not much, surprisingly. Nia, the Master Alchemists, Jahnst, and Safir were detained. They’ve been in the palace since, awaiting questioning. No visitors allowed. The inquisitors are deliberating. When they reach consensus, they’ll present their findings to the people. Then the citizens will vote—either to accept Safir’s rule or reject it.”
He gestured at the plain plaster walls. “This room’s been our base while we wait. Vega’s out gathering intelligence. I stayed behind to keep watch”—he nodded at her—“on you. Hadwin’s been in and out, doing whatever it is he does. He says he’s been working on turning the people to Safir’s favor. Whispering suggestions, joining conversations and playing to their fears or some such… I don’t claim to follow his methods. But if it helps Nia and Safir, he's all in.”
“It’s not a bad plan,” she said, straightening with more confidence. “Safir’s reputation has cracks, but it’s not beyond repair. People in crisis are vulnerable. A few well-placed words, the right tone—suggestion is powerful. I’m terrible at it. You, no offense, are worse. As long as the wolf’s keeping his head out of a whiskey barrel, let him sow some seeds. That’s all we can do right now.” She tapped her temple. “The stars are quiet. We wait.”
Haraldur frowned. “Then what did you mean, right before you fainted? You said everything’s going according to plan.”
Tivia’s smile faded, replaced by something solemn. “The stars are quiet because we’ve diverged from ruin. But the path ahead isn’t cleared of disaster. Not yet. It’s promising...but unclear.” Her gaze drifted to the window, the muted city beyond. “I only hope Ari doesn’t find out where they’re keeping Nia.”
What even Tivia did not know was that Ari had arrived in Ilandria that morning.
It began with a brief stop in Eyraille. To find Nico, Ari enlisted a D’Marian mage who specialized in reading an artist’s soul signature through their work. The mage proposed a location spell, but required a component tied to high emotional and energetic cost. Ari knew exactly what to offer: samples of the mural Nico had painted for Sylvie’s birthday.
As a courtesy, he contacted Alster via resonance stone, informing him of his arrival through the portal mirror. Alster met him in the home of the companion mirror, a dusty spare room, its furniture shrouded in cloth. Ari stifled a sneeze from the abrupt shift in air: from the cool, humid cave system of the Canaveris undercity to drifting motes in the dawn-sun stillness.
“Lord Rigas.” Ari nodded sharply. “I didn’t expect an escort. I’m perfectly capable of navigating the palace alone—unless this is a new protocol.”
Alster smiled, thin and a little too sharp. “No new protocol. How goes your search for Nico?”
“As I have stated earlier, not well,” Ari said, sharper than intended. In the mirror’s edge, he glimpsed his reflection: disheveled in black riding gear, dressed for warmth rather than decorum. Dark circles hollowed his eyes. His once-slick hair, now greasy and piled in a sagging bun, resembled tar more than a raven's wing. He looked away. The portal mirror, despite its special alchemical properties, still behaved as a mirror.
“Details are inconsequential,” Ari muttered. “They only confirm my ineptitude—or Nico’s impressive evasiveness.” With a sigh, he gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
They left for Sylvie’s studio. He knocked, but the room was empty upon entering–and judging by the thin film of dust on the counter, untouched for a while. Ari frowned, but kept to task and approached the mural, the seaside grandeur of Stella D’Mare in her heyday. Despite his exhaustion, the craftsmanship moved him. Everywhere, the mural evoked motion. A slight bend in the cypress trees, the subtle spray of ocean foam, the playful swirl of waves as they funneled into the sea caves at the base of the Canaveris estate. The warmth of the sun on the bougainvillea trellises, on the clay-brick rooftops, the reflection of a gull’s wing in mid-flight. He shut his eyes. Moisture clung to the edges. Will I see you again, Nico? Or have you, like Laz, returned to the sea, as all D’Marians inevitably go?
It hurt to desecrate Nico’s labor of love, but he took a small scraper from his coat, crouched, and removed paint chips from the mural’s most obscure corner. He transferred them into a pouch, delicate as if handling gems. When he rose, he saw Alster waiting by the door, back turned.
“Before I leave, I’d like to see my niece. How is she?” Ari tucked the pouch away and shut the door with reverence.
Alster’s expression shifted, from wary to resigned. “She’s in her chambers. …Indisposed.”
“Indisposed? How?” His shoulders twitched—an involuntary response from sleepless, anxious days. When Alster hesitated, Ari gripped his shoulder. “Take me to her.”
Alster obeyed without protest. He led Ari to the west wing, but when they reached the threshold, blocked him. “Before you go in, I must warn you. Sylvie…she might have ingested a toxicant. We don’t know the source. But we treated her in time. With rest, she should recover—”
Ari brushed past him and opened the door.
Inside, dim lantern light bathed the room. Glass decanters and assorted vials glinted in the shadows, their bilious liquids on display. He crossed the floor, drawn to the gentle rise and fall beneath the bedsheets. Sylvie.
He didn’t notice Sommath, asleep in a chair beside her.
Ari leaned over his niece. Her face was serene, but pale as wax. He touched her hand. A pulse. The faint whistle of breath. Alive, but fragile like a baby bird.
Footsteps approached.
“I’m sorry,” Alster said. “We didn’t want you to choose between your niece or your nephew. We were going to tell you, when she stabilized. And luckily, that day is today, so…your timing is apt.”
“How long have you known?” Ari brushed a tendril of hair from her face. Gratitude battled with dread. What surfaced wasn’t calm, but a bitterness that clawed from within. Resentment. Self-loathing. A lethal mix.
“A few days. She called for me specifically, so I returned from Galeyn and…” he trailed off, avoiding Ari’s dark storm-cloud eyes. “She insists it’s from dye fumes, but this is much more insidious. It targeted her memories, both long term and short term. She needed an alchemist for an antidote, and I managed to recruit Sommath from Ilandria.” He gestured to the man slumped in the chair, who showed signs of stirring. “And he succeeded in creating a tonic. He was up all night; the procedure taxed him.” And Alster, too, but Ari didn’t point out the omission. “She needs to rest, but we expect her to awaken soon, and once she does we’ll observe the long-term effects on her memory. Otherwise, she will recover, Ari. We’ve made sure of it. And I will do my level best to help her through this convalescence period. You have my word.”
Ari nodded, but needled at the prognosis. Rage boiled to the surface, too swift to suppress. “You say she’ll recover, but how can you guarantee it when her memories are already compromised? What’s been lost?!” His voice cracked. “How can I protect her, Alster? My family is breaking. I swore an oath to my brother—on his grave–to raise his children, to keep them safe. And I am failing. One by one, they’re slipping away. What else? Surely you will tell me that Nia and Safir have met trouble, too, and that the coronation did not happen.”
Silence. Ari pressed. “What happened, Alster?”
Alster stared at his prosthesis. Fiddled with the mechanized digits. “Don’t panic, but…Haraldur informed me that she and Safir have been detained for questioning. They are safe,” he hurried, “but the coronation’s delayed, in light of some pretty damning information brought forth by the Master Alchemists against Jahnst.”
“Nia… detained again?” Ari heard nothing beyond that. He sought heartbreak, for reasons to shatter. It made more sense than to hope.
“As was everyone who walked on that stage,” Alster reasoned. “Safir believes in Ilandria’s justice system. You of all people understand the law. It’s a process and a procedure. It will take time, but we have faith in the process.”
“And praytell, Alster, does she have representation? Nia, a fugitive under custody by those who condemned her to death once already? That justice? Forgive me if I am skeptical, but this I will not abide. My leniency ends here.” Turning to Sylvie, Ari planted a goodbye kiss on her forehead and headed for the door. “I shall return. I will deposit this paint sample to my mage finder in Galeyn, and when I return, we are going to Ilandria.”
Alster narrowed his eyes. “And if I refuse to take you?”
Ari scoffed, undeterred. “Then I will travel by roc. Learn the dark arts. Whatever I must do to reach the palace by today. Alster,” Ari tried to relax his hands, which had curled into fists, “While I am eternally grateful for you and Sommath’s invaluable service to my niece’s health, you must understand I cannot and I will not allow this to go unsupervised, procedure be damned. So I ask that you take me to Ilandria. To right a wrong. Even if I do nothing more than stand in her proximity, she will have support, and my favor. Sommath,” he turned to the man who was now very much awake and aware, “as Royal Physician, you have authority. They will allow you inside the palace without question. Accompany me. We shall fare better at a team. For Safir. And for Nia.”
And so, with Alster’s fast-travel magic, Ari and Sommath appeared before the gates of the Ilandrian palace, requesting entry.
“Please don’t cause a huge scene,” Alster advised before disappearing back to Eyraille to handle Sylvie’s after-care.
Ari approached the gates and the two soldiers standing guard with halberds. “Gentlemen.” He appealed with an open-handed gesture of good faith. “I implore to be privy to the proceedings. Not as an adjudicator, but a juror. A spectator, even. Surely I have earned that right as advisor to the Prince. Please,” he adopted a conciliatory tone. “My fiancee is inside. Our bloodlines are to be wed. It is my duty to oversee a Canaveris in the making. Let my counsel vouch for my sincerity.” He nodded to Sommath, hoping he didn’t question his actual lie. He and Nia were not affianced, but it wasn’t technically a lie if he intended to make it a truth in the near future.
Sommath couldn’t stop thinking about the strange man who, beyond anything he could reason, had managed to gain access to Ilandria’s royal palace and find him in his study, completely undetected. Everything about it felt like some impossible vivid dream; the kind no one would believe, because outright lying would be more credible than the raw truth.
The man never identified himself, and in fact, refused to when Sommath had returned to his study, just prior to his departure for Eyraille. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes and a pale face, he had resembled someone you were told to avoid in the dark hours of night. The royal physician had been seconds away from calling in the guards, until the cloaked stranger uttered words that stopped him in his tracks:
I know how to save Sylvie Canaveris. But you need to be the one to do it.
“...What did you say? How do you know the girl?” Sommath’s body was still angled toward the door, ready to flee and send for authorities at any minute. Ultimately, he was glad he didn’t. “Are you responsible for what has happened to her?!”
“Do you want her to recover or not?” There was little to no inflection in the stranger’s voice. Almost as if he didn’t care either way. But if that were true… what was he doing here? And there was something in his eyes that contradicted the stoicism of his pale face… “You need a Master Alchemist. But the only one you know is currently beyond contact--is she not?”
“Wait. Do you know… Nia?” Was that how he also knew Ari’ niece? Through Nia’s association with the Canaveris Lord?
Perhaps the answer was too obvious to warrant an answer. “You don’t have much time.” The cloaked stranger all but shoved a small leather satchel into the physician’s hands. The crystalline clinking of several glass vials sounded from within. “You’ll find everything you need in there, instructions included. Mind you work quickly; some of the compounds’ shelf life is limited to less than a couple of days.”
“Why are you doing this…? More importantly, how do I know you do not secretly mean to do Sylvie Canaveris harm? Why should I trust the likes of you?” Although, by the way Sommath held that satchel so securely to his chest, perhaps the more appropriate question was: why did he trust this anonymous benefactor?
The tall, dark-clad man had clearly anticipated the question, and knew the sort of odds the physician had to work with under the circumstances, and it all reflected in his matter-of-fact answer. “You don’t have the time to ponder that too deeply. More specifically--Sylvie Canaveris doesn’t have time for second-guesses. Go to Eyraille, follow the instructions I’ve written, use what I’ve provided. And one more thing.” The muscles around his mouth briefly tightened. “You never saw me; we never spoke, and we never met. No one but you was involved in the Canaveris girl’s recovery. Now, go. We will not meet again.”
It went against so many of the royal physician’s moral and ethical checkpoints. He didn’t know this man, or his relation to Sylvie Canaveris. The fact he made it so clear that despite his bold claim in having put together just the right ingredients to save the girl, yet he refused to be acknowledged in any part of it, raised several red flags… nevermind that he’d managed to get inside the palace beyond the awareness of authorities. Sommath had no reason to trust the stranger; one who also claimed to be a Master Alchemist, although he didn’t have the appearance of one who hailed from Ilandria.
Ultimately, Rewalt Sommath decided to throw caution to the wind for two reasons: one being time, and the other being Sylvie’s condition. And that if this stranger actually meant her harm, and had designs to ensure she would not recover… then he would not have deigned it necessary to become involved at all. Untreated, and without the expertise of a Master Alchemist who could pinpoint precisely what was ailing her, and how to treat it in record time… Sylvie Canaveris would likely succumb to this strange and sudden onset of illness. That was what he deduced, at least, given Alster Rigas’s urgency, and the fact he had returned to Ilandria to seek him out as a final desperate effort to save Ari’s niece.
With his frantic mind coming to that conclusion in a matter of seconds under pressure, he returned with Alster to Eyraille, followed the dark-clad stranger’s instructions… and waited. Sommath hardly left Sylvie’s chamber for days, opening the door only to the impatient knocking of Eyraille’s young king, who demanded word on her progress no less than four times a day.
But sure enough, although Sylvie Canaveris did not awaken during his whirlwind trip to Eyraille… her condition steadily improved. Her vitals, which he checked no less than twice a day, became less and less concerning, her temperature stabilized, and colour returned to her cheeks. He would never know how the stranger who’d accosted him in his office back in Ilandria had understood precisely what had happened to the girl, or moreover, how he knew Sylvie at all. Indisputably, the attentive physician had been right to trust his gut feeling in taking this gamble… but that did nothing to allay that prominent feeling of unease that lingered.
Not to mention, should anyone have the medical and alchemical insight to ask for specifics on his life-saving intervention, his lack of answers would surely incriminate him.
Sommath only found sleep when the girl’s stability was assured, despite the way exhaustion had been an infallible companion since his arrival. He wasn’t sure at what point he’d drifted off in the armchair next to the window, but when voices penetrated his deep, dreamless slumber, he awoke with a start. “Miss Canaveris…”
Naturally, his knee-jerk assumption led to believing Sylvie must have finally awoken. But his tired eyes instead fixed on two familiar figures: Alster Rigas, and Aristide Canaveris. The girl’s uncle… what on earth am I to say?!
“Lord Canaveris… pardon my previous state. It has been an exceptionally long couple of days…” Sommath trailed off. Ari was far less concerned about his presence in comparison to the fact his niece was clearly indisposed and unwell--a dire fact of which he had been unaware, until just now.
The least he could do was reassure the man. That, and desperately hope Ari did not demand too many details. “Alster is right. And while I cannot provide any insight into the long-term effects this… affliction will have on Sylvie’s memory, she had been recovering steadily for almost a day now, and is stable without any further medical intervention at this time.”
He wasn’t sure his reassurance reached Ari at all. In fact, the physician wasn’t certain it meant anything even to him, when the earth mage made mention of Nia, and Alster’s expression changed. It was at this point that Sommath rose from his seat, and joined Ari in suspicion-driven alertness. No amount of insider knowledge could have prepared him for what the Rigas man revealed.
“What did you say?” Any lingering trace of fatigue vanished from Sommath’s face, painted over with panic and determination. All former intent to stand behind Alster was thrown to the wind, in favour of sharing in Ari’s urgency. “Enough of this nonsense. I’ve stood back and wilfully watched mayhem unfold around me for far too long. Forgive me, Alster, but I’m afraid I must second Lord Canaveris’s insistence. Take us back to Ilandria posthaste. I will not leave my daughter to Ilandria’s flawed senses of justice again.”
Whatever physical unease resulting from Alster’s expedited method of fast travel was mercifully muted--at least, on Sommath’s part. A frantic mix of determination and trepidation was not only his tonic for nausea, but seemingly an antidote for Ilandrian niceties and general etiquette. The agreeable and unassuming physician must have been left behind in Eyraille, because the man who approached the towering gates of Ilandria’s royal palace wore an expression that no one had ever seen carved into the lines of his aged visage.
However, it was an exact replica of one that had been noted on Nia’s keen features on more than one occasion.
Whether the royal physician’s slip-up regarding his relationship to the Master Alchemist in question wasn’t of any concern to him. All that mattered was securing Nia’s safety, at whatever cost to his long-standing reputation. He remained silent as Ari took the opportunity to plead his case first, not so much as batting an eyelash at the white lie. Honesty was not the best policy, here, and yet another Ilandrian value that the physician was more than happy to throw to the wind today, if need be.
He knew the attending guards would refuse the Canaveris Lord’s request before they even opened their mouths to reject him. The look of uncertainty they exchanged was enough to suggest they were already in over their heads, as this was not a situation they had weathered before. There was no official policy to govern a situation where Ilandria currently stood without a reigning and representing monarch, as two competing parties were simultaneously detained for questioning and awaiting a verdict. And, by virtue of Nia’s confessed association to Safir, in addition to being a fugitive the kingdom had almost forgotten, it appeared no one quite knew what to do with her, as well.
“Sir, I am afraid we don’t have leave to permit you entry at this time.” The older of the two guards finally recited to Ari what sounded like a practiced response delivered to anyone who came to them with similar inquiries. “However, if you request a message to relayed, we may--”
“What you may not do, good sirs, and prevent a doctor from accessing his supplies to treat those in need.” Sommath was never prepared to remain silent, and hardly gave the guards a chance to deny the request before pushing back with a rebuttal. “The person in question, the Master Alchemist Nia Ardane, suffers a dire condition that only one such as myself--one who spent many years treating Master Alchemists--is capable of treating her. And as her fiance, Lord Canaveris has integral information regarding her symptoms, which I require in order to properly assess her current condition.”
“Doctor Sommath, you are of course free to enter your home and access your quarters.” The other guard piped up, offering an apologetic nod. “But there is still a warrant for the Ardane woman’s arrest. None may--”
Sommath took another bold step forward; enough to exacerbate the guards’ unease. “And she has been arrested, has she not? Good sir, I am bound by my oath as a physician of Ilandria not to walk away if I am able to assist a person in need. Are you saying that you will prevent me from adhering to my oath? For that too is a crime; and if committed, you will both be named.”
The guards exchanged yet another troubled look, but no more words. At last, they parted, silently conceding to permit the Canaveris Lord and royal physician entry. Understandably, Alster did not follow, reluctant to shake whatever tentative hold Sommath had on the authority that let him and Ari pass the gates. And if he had questions following the doctor’s claim that Nia was, in fact, his daughter, they would wait for a more appropriate moment.
Once inside, Sommath--accompanied by Ari--answered to no one. Any questions that came his way were dismissed by the assertion he was attending to his duties as a doctor. And when the two of them finally reached Nia’s chambers, where they’d correctly assumed she was being kept, the attending sentry guarding her door received (and cowed to) the very same speech those guarding the gate had received.
On the other side of the door, the two of them found Nia mercifully safe and relatively well, considering the chaos stirring beyond the room. She sat in an armchair with her legs pulled to her chest, hair unbrushed, and wearing the same clothes in which she had been arrested. The bruise-coloured crescents beneath her bloodshot brown eyes suggested she hadn’t slept in a while, and both men knew her well enough to know she hadn’t touched any of the food that had been laid out for her. The sound of the door opening tore her from the cycle of her abysmal thoughts, and the moment she laid eyes on Ari, her eyes widened and she jumped from the chair with an impossible burst of energy, and threw her arms around the Canaveris Lord, hugging him as if she was afraid he’d slip away should she let go.
“I don’t know what’s happening. No one will tell me anything.” She managed to speak with a faltering voice that shook with the rest of her body. To say she was ‘well’ would be a bald-faced lie; but at least she appeared unharmed. “What’s going on? Where’s Safir? What’s going to happen?”
Drained from the level of assertiveness he’d carried from the gates to this room, the royal physician sought the nearest chair upon which to collapse. The sigh that left his lungs almost appeared to viscerally shrink his form, making him appear even older than he actually was. “I’m afraid we know as little as you. I am not sure how far or for how long I can stretch my authority, here… but for as long as it holds, I’ll do what I can.”
At first, there was a deluge of questions for what must have been days, from a series of different Ilandrian investigators who all posed the same interrogative inquiries. But eventually, when his answers must have been deemed consistent enough for them to gather what they needed, the questions stopped altogether… and then there was nothing.
Although he witnessed sunrise and sunset through the cracks in the curtains, Safir had almost entirely lost track of time since being escorted and confined to his room, completely alone. Much like Nia, although meals were delivered three times a day, and he occasionally assured he was not being ‘kept prisoner’, no news of dealings or decisions from beyond his chamber door reached his ears. Like Nia, he’d entirely lost interest in eating, bathing, sleeping, and any other form of self-care, having gone all but completely numb in the wake of everything that had followed the disaster at the amphitheater.
And, just as he had begun this process alone, now, appropriately, he suffered it alone.
No one came for him; there was no foreseeable end to this nightmare. It only seemed fair to let the loneliness consume him, and succumb to its cold, empty embrace. Warmth no longer reached him, not from the sunlight or a fire in the hearth, so there was no point in trying to escape this new, permanent chill in his bones. A void frost that had first set in the day Nia disappeared, so many years ago. One that deepened over the years of watching his father’s health decline, until he finally succumbed to death’s embrace. Safir decided to stop fighting it the moment he realized Tivia was not going to help him, and he wondered if he had been too naive in believing in the strength of allies at all.
It was easier to weather this numbing stasis in sleep-deprived delirium. Time didn’t mean anything to him, anymore, as he gradually lost his grasp on what was even real. Occasionally, his eyes drifted to those cracks of daylight through the window, as if daylight would bring with it clarity and answers… but it never did. Day and night continued to come and go. His door continued to open and close, meals continued to come and be taken away, untouched.
Until that door opened again, and this time, there was no tray of food placed upon the end table. A voice he hadn’t heard in quite some time reached through the fog in his brain, and his stiff neck muscles pivoted for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
It wasn’t a guard or an attendant. Instead, none other than Tivia Rigas approached him, still dressed in the Ilandrian finery that buffed her ruse of being his fiancee. She spoke to him, and his insomnia-addled mind struggled to properly digest the words, but a few managed to register:
Nia was safe. The remaining Master Alchemists were safe. Liesfea Jahnst had been thoroughly investigated, and found guilty of treason and conspiracy on more accounts than anyone had even imagined. And it seemed to have been her verdict alone that had spared the Ilandrian Prince of being found justifiably guilty on any of the former Justice and Defense Minister’s accusations. The Ilandrian council was in shambles, with every other member subject to investigation, following Jahnst’s crimes. Ilandria itself was utter chaos, still without a ruler… but he had not been disqualified. Not yet.
A poll had been delivered to the general public, and the majority ruled in favour of hearing the Prince of Blades speak for himself one last time. One more chance to plead his case to his people, and convince them he not only had the kingdom’s best interests at heart, but was also fit to rule them.
One more chance… which was scheduled to take place tomorrow, with no Ari to properly dress or coach him in what to say. Only Tivia, by whatever means of her infuriatingly persuasive nature, had been permitted to see him, and deliver this news.
One more chance. And once more… he would have to stand alone.
Once he realized a foreign entity would not recognize his paltry authority, Ari yielded to Sommath on all diplomatic matters. If he weren’t so riddled with worry for Nia, Ari would have taken the time to appreciate Sommath’s impressive web of deceit. For a country so dedicated to honesty–an impossible tenet to uphold, regardless of what Safir believed–he took an amused sort of pleasure in the spate of white lies that spouted from the royal physician’s mouth. While Ari didn’t revel in dishonesty, his vocation relied on it–not only as the Head of Stella D’Mare, but as an artist, whose brush strokes and chisel taps depicted a deliberate farce masquerading as real. Ironically, Sommath, through his fibs, revealed more virtuosity than what Ilandrians purported to value. To save his daughter, whom he’d proudly declared as his before a bewildered Alster, gave Ari cause to wonder; would he unveil that truth to Nia sooner rather than later? Or was it still a truth better yet shielded by a noble lie?
Through Sommath’s persuasive measures, they managed to clear not just one layer of security, but the next layer as well. While hesitant, the guards posted in front of Nia’s chambers dispersed and allowed them entry. Before entering, Ari anticipated the condition in which he would find Nia. Did her jailers slap her with shackles like in Galeyn? Deprive her of food, torture her for information? His mind, overworked from catastrophizing scenarios for Nico’s disappearance and Sylvie’s coma had projected to Nia, carried thrice over.
By the time he opened the door, he was already feeling calcified, like the petrifaction resettled over his skin and reduced him to a plastered husk. He pushed forward–stumbled, rather–into the room, and spotted her on the chair. His muscles thawed; the circulation returned to his fingers. She was awake, aware, physically unharmed, and free to wander without the burden of chains.
She lifted her weary head. Their eyes met.
“Nia.” He barely finished calling her name when she leapt from her chair and threw him into an embrace. His arms encircled her waist, gripping her tightly, loath to release her in case she floated away, an apparition rising with the dust motes into the afternoon gleam. He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. He burrowed into her neck, validated by her warmth, the scent of her that kissed his nose. When they finally pulled away, they were like opposing magnets; unable to separate with ease.
“Forgive me.” He raised a hand as if to sweep the hair from his brow, but instead made a discreet wipe at the moisture in his eyes. “I was away in Galeyn…and Eyraille. I will explain later. We know less than you.” He reached for Nia again, rubbing her arms to soothe her trembling. “What happened? At the coronation, I heard they detained you. How did they learn your identity? Never mind,” he glanced over at Sommath, who looked unable to move from his sprawled position on the chair, “we do not have much time. The guards believe we are administering to your health. They will not indulge us for long. Take this,” he pressed a hard, slick object into her palm, about the size of an almond. “It is a topaz, from my personal collection. It has been imbued with magic, but it is only good for one use. It will crack and crumble between your fingers when it has expended its charge. Use this as a last resort if your current path does not lead to a full pardon. Simply rub it between your fingers and you will vanish from sight if your intention to disappear is clear. This is a temporary boon; it might grant you an hour, if that, and again, I cannot stress this enough: use it if there is no other way.” He cupped her cheek, stroking his thumb along the high, arching bone. “I will not lose you again, are we understood?”
Despite her fatigue, Tivia didn’t have time to spend as a layabout in bed. The bed didn’t belong to her, for one, but even if she could afford the extra rest, she would never press Haraldur’s hospitality when he’d already tolerated her more than his wife would approve. Aside from her reputation as a harlot and a harridan, the Sordes at least recognized her usefulness in their allied efforts to install Safir as the rightful king of Ilandria.
Originally, Tivia planned to do nothing but wait for the consensus from the Ilandrian council. But something she said to Haraldur in passing made her ruminate on her choice to keep her distance from the palace–and from Safir, who would fare better confined to his rooms than withstand her traitorous presence. I only hope Ari doesn’t find out where they’re keeping Nia. No sooner had she uttered those words than she felt a sharp, twisting pang in her ears, like a worm that bit along her canal, begging for her attention. The stars abhorred subtlety. Even if their incessant keens bore no relevance to the present issue, they demanded observation. This time, they implied a prescient concern–connected to Ari. Ari would go to the palace. She wanted a different outcome, sure, but the impact didn’t shatter her half-hearted hope–until that cosmic worm suggested that she should care about what happened at the palace.
Her mind cleared the moment Hadwin arrived at their tiny, overcrowded room. With Haraldur and Vega in attendance, he reported how he had spent the day feeding the crowds the best morsels to bolster Safir’s claim to the throne.
“They’re a pretty temperate folk, these Ilandrians. Word on the street’s consensual, all around.” He puffed out streams of smoke from his pipe and fed them through the opening of the only window in the room. “Jahnt’s been tried and found guilty. Everyone’s not surprised. The officials working on behalf of the in-shambles council delivered a poll, and the results are out; they want him back on the stage tomorrow. So that news is a blessing on high. Only,” he raked his knuckles on the glass, smoke-stained to almost full opacity by the former occupants of the room, “I can tell they don’t have a lot of confidence in him. His inspiring speech may have won him a few points, but it put a bad taste in the mouths of folks who suspect he only grew a pair against Jahnst to defend his fugitive friend and save his fucking hide. People aren’t dumbasses. They can sense his fear even if they can’t see it smoking out of his head in dramatic ribbons like yours truly.” He blew out another puff of his pipe for emphasis. “See, he wavered and quailed too much on the stage. If he’s going back out there, he’s for shit gonna need more support. Not whatever half-assed guidance he’s had before.”
Tivia rose from the bed, not caring that the silver underdress she’d worn as a nightgown was the same one from her coronation ensemble. Impropriety was a meaningless concept in a room with two men she’d already slept with. “Are you calling my guidance half-assed? What, do you want me to direct him like a puppet on the stage and feed words into his mouth like a mama bird? The man has to stand on his own. If he’s not ready to fledge now, one visit won’t shock him into full competency. He did fine out there. It was enough to sway the crowd.” But not enough to win over their confidence, came the unspoken thought between them. “...He doesn’t trust me,” she finally admitted, almost slumping back into the bed. Despite the two days of bed-rest, the color hadn’t returned to her bloodless cheeks, and her breaths sounded shallow, oddly rattled. “I let him down. He won’t want to see me.”
Hadwin guffawed. “And you think he trusts me more? Nia’s out of the picture, and Ari, and his loyal physician. And these two chucklefucks,” he gestured to Haraldur and Vega, “are supposed to be incognito. As his ‘betrothed,’” his mouth skewed into a sly smile, “surely that ring on your finger’s able to open some doors. Slap his hopeless ass into shape. Don’t abandon your passion project to fan your guilty conscience.”
“Remember the reason you’re bothering to do this at all,” Haraldur offered, though the face he showed Tivia remained skeptical. “For Eyraille. You have the ear of one king–never mind how the hell you managed to win over Caris.” The subtle flick of his gaze toward her skimpy attire hinted at her involvement in a few unsavory acts in Eyraille. She let his implication slide. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Would she have fucked Caris? …Maybe. Safir, too, if he fancied women at all.
Haraldur continued. “Make another king and double your influence. Meanwhile,” he nodded to Vega, and Hadwin, “we’ll do what we can out there.”
Tivia reached the palace by midday, dressed in her coronation outfit but glamoured to appear a light shade of burgundy in case she encountered any high society ladies who scoffed at her lack of shame. They hadn’t forgotten the scene from a week ago, her weeping form crumbled on the ground like a dead leaf shivering in a winter wind. If she presented as a fraction of that broken, emotional wreck at the market, the guards at the front gate would dismiss her entry on the grounds of hysteria.
She approached the gate with the dignified walk of one trained from birth, first as a Rigas and later as a Canaveris. Recognizing the ring on her finger, the guards allowed her entry, but warned that she was not to disturb the Prince of Blades. This instruction gave her pause.
“I don’t see you as treasonous men. Tell me, has anyone made contact with Prince Safir since coronation day?” No response, but guilty looks passed between the two men. “So no one has informed him about tomorrow, yet? The speech he must prepare, his appeal to the Ilandrian people?”
One guard offered an explanation. “We just guard the door, my lady. We do not dispense news to His Highness unless instructed by our commander.”
“Who is, I imagine, lost in the shuffle, out issuing commands on the streets to maintain order while the hierarchy of the council struggles not to collapse into its self-made pit. So no one has delivered any news to my betrothed, I hear?” She sighed, long and low. What a perfect opportunity for Mollengard to pounce upon Ilandria while it wrestled with structural collapse from within. “Leave the courier work to me, my good men, and I won’t reveal these glaring incompetencies to your superior commander.”
Her show of bravado had succeeded. Not only did they allow her passage inside, but they also provided her with a guard to accompany her to Safir’s door. Together, they traversed the eerie, abandoned hallways and arrived at the royal wing. The guard fell back as she knocked on Safir’s door. She half-expected no response–not that a closed door would prevent her from punching a hole through the ether and creating her own throughway, but to respect his privacy, she would honor the unspoken contract that a shut door imposed. To her good fortune, he opened it, his haggard features looking ready to slide off his face and puddle to the floor.
Before she heard a protest, she strode into the foyer and closed the door. With one scrutinizing eye, she surveyed his apartments. The hearth had burned to cinders, reducing the temperature of the room to a bone-chilling number. A stale smell lingered, a combination of dirt, sweat, and the pungent tang of unmanageable sadness. Goddammit, she thought. Hadwin was right. He’s worse off than I imagined. “You’ve been wallowing in here, haven’t you? You look and smell like shit.” She threw a fresh log into the hearth and shot a stream of etherea to ignite it. The fire flashed a brief lightning-yellow before settling into its standard vermillion. She recovered an untouched basket of bread from the foyer and placed it on the table closest to the hearth, beckoning him to join. Popping a decanter of wine that had been delivered with the bread, she poured each of them a glass. “If you don’t sit here and eat with me, I won’t say another word, not even if it’s good news.”
As she instructed him to chew the slice of bread she had buttered for him, she also fed him updates learned from Hadwin and Vega, who had kept busy on the streets since the failed coronation. She told him about Jahnst’s guilty verdict, Safir’s innocence by proxy, Nia’s safety despite her arrest (a detail she was able to glean from the guards who walked her to Safir’s chambers), and the speech scheduled for tomorrow–an essential fact about which Safir knew nothing.
“Your council wants you to fail, inevitably, if they did not deign to inform you of this one tiny detail.” She took a sip of wine, the famed Ilandrian concoction made from grapes harvested at first frost. “That does not surprise me. Many were loyal to Jahnst–and they’re all under questioning. The hierarchy of rulership is in disarray. Those who hold the highest position of authority after you are complicit. But the people have spoken, and if their influence is as vital as you claim, this is your chance to sway them to your side. I don’t have to emphasize that it’s your last chance.”
She rolled a half-nibbled crust of bread in her fingers, finding comfort in its simplicity. It asked nothing of her than to be consumed or discarded. “I know I asked you to trust me,” she began, uncertain, “and I haven’t inspired much confidence in you. I can’t explain everything I’ve done, but please understand, the moves I make are to nudge us toward the best possible outcome. I would not nearly kill myself facing cosmic incineration if I meant to betray you and the others,” she snorted to shield her reflexive shiver. “On the contrary, all I would have to do…is nothing. That is how easy it is to fail. To give up–and do nothing.” She met his gaze, staunch and unwavering. “This applies to you, too. Are you willing to surrender, Safir? Screw over your allies who are out there, fighting for your cause? Your people have voted to hear you speak. Haraldur and Vega Sorde conspired with Master Alchemists to help incriminate Jahnst. Nia sacrificed her freedom for you, and now the people she spent years fleeing are the ones holding her chains. Hell, even Hadwin’s been planting seeds into the ears of the people, whispering your virtues. And Ari may not be available, but he pre-selected your wardrobe and wrote you several templates for a rousing speech.” She stood from her chair and grasped his hand with both of hers, “Now, it’s my turn. I’ll lead you into tomorrow, but once we’re there, it’s up to you to grasp it, and make it yours. The time to mope is fucking over, Safir. You were never alone.”
She felt a stronger truth transmit through her last statement like the familiar zap of the divine. Indeed, Ari had made it inside the palace–along with Sommath, she sensed that much. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Ari’s return signaled bad news…for Safir, and for Nia.
Nia’s frantic mind had taken her to nowhere but hopeless places since he had been detained, and she lived in the shadow of second-guessing everyone she had said and done at the coronation. Her reverent belief that Ilandria would, finally, come through for her battled fiercely with her equally Ilandrian logic. Just because her home nation could be trusted to make what it believed was the best decision did not extend integrity to its justice system, which had already failed her (and so many others) time and time again. And as she remained at war with herself, her hope--for Safir’s triumph, for her official pardon, for ever seeing Ari again--slowly, slowly, began to slip…
Seeing the regal earth mage who was in possession of her whole heart step through the door was the only thing that could have possibly steered her away from the ultimate allure of apathy and defeat. It wasn’t the first time he had saved her from herself; and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“I told them. It’s my fault; I outed myself, and the other Master Alchemists did the same.” The Ardane woman held Ari’s arms so tightly, her fingers might have left bruises. She’d been so close to sure that she would never see him again… “In the truest of Ilandrian ways, we planned to destroy Jahnst not with deception, but with the truth. It’s the only thing Safir knows: honesty, and unwavering belief in the truth. We all knew that should he resort to lies, he would fumble--you know he would fumble. It was our only chance… and it might have worked.”
Nia pulled away just enough to meet the Canaveris Lord’s tear-filled eyes. In stark contrast to the ashen undertones of her skin, and the shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes, that familiar, self-assured smile lit up her face. “Jahnst was taken for questioning. Fuck knows how well she might bullshit her way out of this mess, but it wassn’t looking good for her, on coronation day. There’s just as much suspicion on her as there is on Saf; the difference is Saf doesn’t have any lies to get tangled and disoriented in… And if you’re both here and as bewildered as I am,” The Master Alchemist spared a glance toward the window, with the world outside unfolding around her as time seemed to stand still in this room. “Then they haven’t come to any conclusions yet.”
A knock at the door captured all of their attention, as one of the sentries outside reminded them that time wasn’t on their side. “Mister Sommath? I am to inquire how much longer you anticipate this will take.”
“Patience is a virtue, sir. You would do well not to rush a physician tending to a patient’s care.” Sommath’s voice cut through the tension in the room, and must have reached the messenger all too well, who mumbled his apologies for interrupting. The royal physician rose to his feet and rubbed his forehead. “Ari speaks the truth, Nia. We haven’t much longer here without raising further suspicion.”
“No--no, please, please don’t leave me here alone.” Panic welled in Nia’s eyes, and her grip on Ari tightened all the more. “I’ve been losing my damn mind with all this waiting…!” Something cold and smooth drew her eyes to her palm: a topaz. And, coming from Ari, she knew well enough that it was more than just another pretty trinket. “...huh. You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?” Her fingers curled around the stone, forming a trembling fist. “Just… please come back. And if you can’t, then know that whatever happens, I will find my way back to you. Alright?”
Nia covered his hand with her palm, and bit back any further tears. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m too fucking stubborn. If you can’t… if you’re able, try to reach Saf. My chances are his chances. And if there’s still a chance he can get that crown…” A heavy, shaky sigh found its way out of her lungs, betraying the flaw in her confidence regarding the Prince of Blades’ capability of getting himself--and her--out of this mess. “He’d better not fuck it up.”
Taking a back seat in this grand scheme had not been easy for Vega, who herself was a leader of sorts. But even with a shorter, lighter hair, there would be no fooling anyone who was even remotely familiar with the neighbouring kingdom’s princess. Least of all did Ilandria need to know of her involvement; even if her presence here wasn’t by Safir’s design, it would only cast more suspicion on him, and further compromise his chances to secure his father’s throne.
Least of all did she want to trust Tivia and her unconventional methods to make this right. Some grudges died hard, and while the past was in the past, she’d yet to find herself able to look at Tivia differently, after the star seer’s ‘tryst’ with her husband (even if they hadn’t technically been married at the time). And while everyone weighed in that she was the best option Safir had right now, she was also--in part--the reason he was in this predicament. Would things have turned out differently without her interference…?
Maybe; maybe not. Nonetheless, there was no point in voicing her opinion when she was already outvoted.
“I, too, wonder how you managed to win over my insufferable younger brother. But if I’m being honest: I don’t really want to know.” The Eyraillian princess kept her arms firmly folded across her chest. “Regardless… you seem to have done right by him. So do right by Safir, as well. He won’t get himself out of this mess alone.”
Perhaps Safir was not only well aware of that, but had also come to embrace it as reality: that he was alone, and alone, he was doomed. Those he held close to his chest as friends were either absent, or simply could not reach him. And then, there was Tivia Rigas, whose intentions were no longer clear to him, forcing him to face the fact (for the first time in his life) that he might well be naive. People’s goodness could not be measured by the merit of their honesty, for it wasn’t guaranteed; not even in Ilandria, a nation that had been built upon the stepping stones of truth.
There was no argument that the Prince of Blades was nothing but hopelessly Ilandrian. He had spoken nothing but the truth--his truth--before his entire kingdom. Never had he considered the fact that it might not be enough; never had it crossed his purely Ilandrian mind that the truth might not save him.
And he literally couldn’t lie to save his life.
When the star seer he wondered if he’d foolishly trusted crossed the threshold of his chambers, Safir didn’t know what to think--or, for that matter, feel. Tivia was still dressed in splendor, still sporting the fake engagement ring on her finger. For that matter, so was he, having forgotten to discard it when everything seemed to come crumbling down. What did that mean for their facade? In all the time he had spent in this very room, gradually decaying within himself as his hope faded by the hour, he had yet to spare a thought for the one and only deceit he’d ever willingly played into… and where he stood with it, now.
Before his sluggish mind could properly form a question, Tivia voiced criticisms of the state of the room (and of himself) that was all too characteristic. Regardless of being foggy in terms of where the two of them now stood, the prince hated to admit that this brief return to what had once been ‘normalcy’ was… comforting. “Why are you here?” He demanded, several beats too late, and his sleep-deprived mind only managed to process her words well after he had spoken. His bloodshot eyes followed her to the table, and the tray of untouched food. Foregoing general self-preservation, however unintentional, had done a number on his appetite; never in his life had he been more averse to the idea of food, not even when his father had died. But, if it was the only way Tivia would talk…
It almost felt like an out-of-body experience, crossing the room and sitting opposite the star seer for a meal he didn’t even want. On any other occasion, appearing entirely disheveled and unbathed before anyone would have mortified him beyond belief. Either he had just become accustomed to his own smell over the long days, or apathy was closer than he’d thought. “Are you satisfied? I know you’ve always thought me naive; perhaps some of the others, too, but they had the grace to not be quite so ouvert about it.” Safir’s voice, tired and unpracticed, sounded strange in his ears. Days upon days of nothing but silence had nearly caused him to forget what he’d sounded like. “I trusted in the values of this kingdom. And all I could do is proceed as a model and example for those values… to think, now, that I was so convinced truth and equitable justice would carry me.”
And yet… in a way, it had, although events were not unfolding the way he’d anticipated. Hearing Jahnst’s decidedly guilty verdict immediately captured his attention, and for a moment he doubted his own senses that he’d heard it at all. What didn’t come as a surprise was to hear almost the entirety of his council was prepared to throw him to the wolves, seduced by Jahnst’s manipulating charisma. If only he’d had Ari to coach him in his public image before now…
But--somehow--it wasn’t too late. There was still a path, however uncertain, to victory…One last chance, and a win was not guaranteed. Should he fail, the judicial system and Ilandria’s general governance would be plunged into absolute chaos. Prime for Mollengard, who would no doubt strike when the nation south of Eyraille was at its weakest. “At this point, what could I even say?” Safir stared past Tivia, at an irrelevant spot on the wall. Not really seeing, but lost in a sea of emotions. “What do they want to hear? I used to believe I had a right to my father’s throne. That I, alone, could lead Ilandria in the direction it deserves… but I myself am no longer sure if this. I don’t know for certain that there might not be someone more capable and deserving.”
Then again, neither did anyone in Ilandria have any insight into other potential suitors for the throne. To uproot the Vallaincourt name, which had been established royalty in the nation of truth and justice for so long, would lead Ilandria into discord for an indeterminate amount of time. He wasn’t convinced it would survive the power struggle; and perhaps the people of Ilandria weren’t, either. Hence why they opted to hear out their now morally-ambiguous Prince one more time. Remaining with the established powers that be would certainly require significantly less transition and transformation…
He was no longer convinced he was entitled to the crown; even less did he feel he deserved it. But to spare Ilandria from impending chaos and possible collapse, he would have to become deserving of the role of leadership.
Safir stared at the cold food on his plate as the gears in his mind began to turn for the first time since he’d delivered his truth to Ilandria. What could he possibly say at this point to sway the public in his favour? What could he promise them of their beloved nation’s future? What did they even want to hear? “...I’ll do what I can.” His response came just as Tivia looked like she was about to give up: on him, on herself, and on Ilandria as a whole. And while his words lacked conviction, there was no denying the Prince of Blades meant exactly what he said.
He didn’t have much left; but all that he did, he would carry into tomorrow, with no pride, yet with what little remained of his strength and belief in himself.
In no time, it seemed, morning arrived with all the mercy of a tyrant. During the night, a thick blanket of snow had descended upon Ilandria, accompanied by a biting wind chill that stung the eyes and skin like hundreds of tiny, venomous insects. To add insult to injury, the sun did not hold back a fraction of its glory. Beams reflected off of the snow’s pristine, crusted surface, near blinding any direct onlookers with its brilliance.
But none of that stopped the better part of Ilandria from gathering, once again, at the very amphitheatre where chaos had broken out several days before. City officials had woken up before dawn to ensure the seats and stage were clear of winter’s wrath, neatly displacing the snow far off to the side and clearing paths for feet to comfortably tread. And as soon as it became accessible, citizens began to pile in, carrying with them an air of urgency that was arguably as heavy as the winter coats warding off the cold. For the first time in their lives, steadfast Ilandria was experiencing a period of instability… and never had they felt, or looked, so lost and so afraid.
Their prince wasn’t faring much differently.
Although Safir had taken care to tend to his hygiene for the first time in days, there was only so much a thorough bath and a proper wardrobe could do when one’s confidence had all but entirely shattered with their idealistic view of their nation. Late that night, and even earlier that morning, the Prince of Blades had taken the opportunity to glance over Ari’s templates, but despite his efforts, nothing really stuck. Not that they weren’t excellent guidelines, but the problem was, they were Ari’s templates. His structure, his composition, his emphasis, and his words. They didn’t stick because they didn’t resonate, because none of this was his own. He wasn’t Ari, and his specialty was not charisma; it was truth, and integrity of his word.
It was all he had to offer Ilandria, and while he was fully cognizant that it might well not be enough, he would leave it up to the people to decide.
There was no ceremonial sword at his hip this time. When Safir took center stage upon the platform, however much he stood tall and carried what little dignity he had left in the straight line of his shoulders, he felt less a candidate, and more an accused prepared to argue the value of this life. Of course, that really wasn’t so far from the truth…
If there were any familiar faces in the audience--Tivia, Ari, or anyone who’d had a hand in helping him--he didn’t see them, but neither did he look for them. The star seer had spoken with conviction when she’d claimed he had never been alone in this madness. She wasn’t one to speak flippantly, or to coddle with empty reassurances; he believed that she believed in her words. As to how much he believed in them, however, remained to be seen.
Should Lord Canaveris be somewhere out there, watching and supporting from afar, Safir knew he was about to gravely disappoint the eloquent earth mage. He had not committed any words to memory, despite turning them over and over in his mind for the duration of a sleepless night. He didn’t know where to start, how to finish, or even what this desperate crowd before him wanted to hear.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do, and spoke his truth directly from the heart.
The Prince of Blades drew a breath that clouded in front of his lips upon exhaling. “When I last stood before you, I stood with full confidence that I was the leader that Ilandria needs and deserves. Today… that is not exactly the case.” Whether or not Ari was in the audience, he was glad he did not spot him now. He’d be turning inside-out from the faux-pas Saf was about to voice.
“Many of us--myself included--stand disillusioned by how trusted members of Ilandria’s longstanding and honourable council have broken our confidence. But I also stand disillusioned with myself, my own reflection. Not because of failing to oversee what was happening right under my nose… but for failing to notice sooner that the pillar of our nation isn’t, and has not been, truth and justice for quite a long time. And I do not deny that I am complicit in all of this when I say that the only thing holding us up has been little more than an entitled sense of pride.”
Whatever the crowd had been expecting him to say, it certainly was not that. Included among the variety of reactions were those shocked, downright appalled, disappointed, or otherwise entirely impassive, uncertain how to feel. The murmurs that rose did not persist for long; all were too eager to hear the prince’s rationale for such an egregious claim.
Maintaining a steady posture in spite of the biting wind, Safir went on. “For as long as we can all remember, we have lived by rules dictated by principles we believed to be virtuous. What we have failed to notice is how they have shifted and evolved over time, shaped by the stances of those toting them. I’ve lived for fewer than five decades, so I cannot say exactly when this subtle shift away from virtue began. But I can say with certainty that this kingdom lost its claim to virtue entirely the day that it chose maiming and massacre in the name of what it decided was ‘justice’.” He’d promised himself he would not get emotional; truthfully, he hadn’t thought it was even possible, for all the numbness that had set in over the past few days. But despite his best efforts, tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes. Tears that, for years, he had not dared let spill before the public eye.
“You all know what I am referring to… I am not excusing the practice of Master Alchemy, or whatever harm or evil it has brought into the world. But neither will I excuse how Ilandria chose to address this issue. I was still only a boy when I thought I had lost my best friend to the brutality of people I trusted… to my own family. I couldn’t say anything; I could only stand by and weep in privacy as countless Ilandrians--some who had even served my father--were killed or maimed… but I should have said something, then. I didn’t, and in some respect, it is far too late, but I’m still going to speak now.”
His voice had started off steady. But as he spoke, it gradually increased in volume, and began to quaver. Although he didn’t yet realize it, this was no longer about winning the right to his father’s crown; it was about declaring what was right. And to do that, Ilandria had to understand how it--and he--had been in the wrong for far too long. Even if it cost him his father’s crown.
“Don’t you see, Ilandria? How broken we have become? How we’ve allowed our minds and hearts to be manipulated through fear, twisting our sense of reason and leading us to justify slaughter of our own people…? We once prided ourselves in how we shunned the brutality of Eyraille’s past leaders, who were guilty for identical reasons. We lost the right to that pride a long time ago.”
A single rogue tear managed to escape, trailing a warm path down Safir’s overly chilled face. He didn’t bother to wipe it away, didn’t break contact with his audience. “In all of my naivete and inaction these years, I’ve simultaneously lost the inherent right to my father’s crown. Right now, standing before you, I am not the man you all deserve. But I can tell you--no, I swear to you, upon whatever my life is worth, that should you permit me the opportunity, I will become the leader that this nation has needed for too long. The threat of Mollengard looms; we cannot endure standing idle and confused…” Safir took a single step forward, moving his body for the first time since stepping upon the amphitheater’s central platform. “Our greatest threat is not Master Alchemists. It is our loss of integral focus on what actually matters, and how that has stunted our ability to step up as a true force to be reckoned with. And, if you permit it… If you believe in me as much as I believe in this nation’s strength and resilience, then you have my word that from this moment forth, I will become the wind that blows in our favour, repels deceit, and disrupts our enemies’ center of balance. Not a pillar--that isn’t what you need me to be. You, all of you, already are the pillar, standing tall, strong, indomitable.” Lifting one hand, he gestured widely to the crowd, which spanned out and beyond the amphitheater. He wondered if his voice could even carry that far. “We need only to remember what, as a pillar, we all stand for.”
Silence.
Safir dropped his hand to his side. None of this had been planned; not one word rehearsed. The prince had said all that was in his heart, and all that was left was to see if any of those words resonated with the audience. Perhaps it was already too late: Ilandria had been too invested for too long in its skewed belief of justice, opting to make the Master Alchemists its boogeyman, responsible for every ill and misfortune. Accountability was not something that could be instilled; change could not be forced. That all had to come from within, and no singular speech, however convincing, would be enough to reset years of manipulation…
The sound of a pin drop could have resonated like thunder. Even in the bitter wind had stilled, as if it, like Safir, was holding its breath in anticipation of what would happen next. Then somewhere, amidst the hundreds upon hundreds of people, somebody knelt, lowering their body to one knee upon the frozen ground.
Seconds later, another person followed suit--and another, and another, bodies lowering one at a time, giving the crowd an appearance of choppy waves upon a storm-addled sea. One by one, Ilandria made their stances clear with their bodies. Not all of them were entirely willing; surely, some only knelt out of sheer peer pressure, but those who refused--a notable few--stood out like sore thumbs, lost or otherwise stubbornly oppositional. No vote was ever unanimous, but there was no denying that the better part of Ilandria had officially passed their verdict on the Prince--and soon to be King--of Blades.
For how much she had bruised Safir’s trust through her schemes, she was grateful not to receive a slammed door in her face. Either he still regarded her with some favorability, or he was too depressed to care. Whatever his disposition, she would not squander the opportunity to steer Safir in the direction she had so carefully orchestrated. If she confessed that her involvement with Jahnst was in part to pressure Safir into hardening into a capable ruler, he would abandon her out of disgust. Never mind how he touted truth and honesty, and expected others to reflect his idealistic views; Tivia’s truth was too ugly to voice aloud. If people ever discovered the secrets she buried, or cracked the facade she could never lower, they would brand her a villain, an enemy of humanity—if they hadn’t whispered such aspersions about her already. Truth was an invasion of privacy. It didn’t make one entitled to her darkest mysteries. She hoped Safir would realize loyalties and alliances could survive beyond the stringent barriers of justice. That lies and deceit, when wielded with sincerity, were signs of love.
“I hate to be the one to say this, but no one can draft you a guide that guarantees an unopposed ascendency as king, no matter how well you dress and croon on the stage.” She slid her empty wine glass across the table. “I’m from Stella D’Mare. So is Ari. It’s a city of spectacle, where putting on a show wins hearts, even if it’s all a farce. We don’t know how to reach that Ilandrian spirit, but you do. It comes from your commitment to the truth, the following you’ve accrued as the Prince of Blades. What do the people see in you, and how can you remind them of your integrity?”
Her call to action had succeeded, insofar as he made a vocal note of agreement. She nodded, feeling the slump in her shoulders straighten. “I’ll see it to believe it, Safir. My, isn’t that a page from the Ilandrian book of cold pragmatism?” The chair scraped as she stood from the table. “Since wishing you luck flirts with the fanciful, how about I just tell you this? Do it. Do your part, and I’ll do mine. You have what you need, if you look for it.”
Nia’s pleas to stay had nearly unraveled Ari’s resolve. He faltered, letting her grip dig into his arm. There was once a time he would find this kind of contact uncomfortable or invasive, but now, he wished it would last. The verve with which she clung to him spoke of her intensity to fight. He’d allow her to rub his arm raw to see that renewed passion cure her spirit.
“I do not wish to leave you, Nia, but we mustn’t arouse suspicion.” His gaze drifted to his pocket, annoyed he didn’t bring a mine’s worth of enchanted topaz. If feasible, he would crouch in the corner of her room and will himself invisible for hours on end just to ensure that no one would take someone from him again. If he dug his fingers in, then nothing would vanish under his punishing grip. He’d sooner embed it in the walls than let go.
“Though walls separate us, we are never far.” He gently dislodged his arm from her iron hold and took her hand. “We will find Safir. If I have to dangle him by his ankles over the tallest tower to make him free you, then so be it.” It was a ridiculous premise, and if the situation were less dire, it would have elicited a playful smile on his part. “However this chapter may conclude, we are exiting it, together.” Ari leaned forward, and sealed his promise with a kiss.
It pained Ari to leave amid Nia’s pleas, but the guard’s persistent cries to hurry prompted him to turn to the doors. Ari managed one last wrenching glance towards the room that held his ametrine, the only jewel that mattered–before he and Sommath were swept into the hall by the guards.
Outside, they stood stunned. The plan, what remained of it, was thin as mist: Find Safir. But would the palace guards even let them near his chambers? Who in this godforsaken place was giving the orders?
They hadn’t taken ten steps before an answer appeared.
But the answer was Tivia Rigas, and she spoke only in riddles. She glided towards them, a fever dream in a burgundy silk gown. Ari’s artist’s eye caught the glamour clinging to the fabric, a spell to mask its true color, just like the muddy black roots bleeding through her gilded hair.
“Tivia,” Ari said. “I see you have gained entry into the palace.” Through legal means, judging by the lack of alarmed guards. “Could you please inform us of what is transpiring here?”
She inclined her head, her face as serene as a pond stone. “His Highness addresses the people tomorrow at the amphitheatre–on the second bell. It’s his last chance to reach his subjects and claim the throne.”
“That is fortunate news!” Ari exclaimed, and meant it. If luck were water, he’d gather every drop until he had enough to scry their way clear. “All the more reason I should see him. He must prepare for the task at hand.”
“No.” The mask of cooperation fell. She frowned at him. “This is a path he must walk himself. We can support him, but quietly. During his speech, we’ll stand where he can see us, but that is all we can do. Too much guidance and his words will no longer be his own. They will be yours, Ari, and the Ilandrian people will notice, and call him unprincipled, lacking conviction or an identity. At this late stage, we can’t do anything more but trust him. This is the best way forward.”
“Is it?” Ari wrinkled his brow, unmoved by Tivia’s counsel. “Why must we always resort to listening to your suggestions? You may have the attention of the stars, but how confident are your interpretive skills? If you are here, then you have visited His Highness. Why are you allowed his ear, but not us? By your logic, do you not also muddy his convictions?” His voice rumbled down the vaulted hall, attracting the attention of the guards, who peeked over in dismay. He lowered his volume, but not his bite. He sickened of baying like an obedient donkey to arbitrary rules imposed by charlatans and fools. “He requires our support tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight. We all must ensure he will–”
“--exonerate Nia?” Tivia flicked out, tongue like a snake’s. He halted. She saw his hesitation, and her eye flashed. “See, that is what you care about the most, Ari. That single-minded viewpoint, while admirable, will not guide his Highness to the correct outcome.” She lolled her head, almost looking bored. “Your heart is split four ways, and only one small piece belongs to this kingdom. You cannot build a throne on a single, scattered wish. Trust that his Highness wants the same as you, Ari. Sommath,” she nodded at the weary physician. “I don’t wish to fight,” her slate features softened, “but if you plan to make a ruckus tonight, please understand where that will invariably lead.” She glanced at the guards, who tightened the grip of their polearms, readying a ‘cordial’ ejection from the palace. “Hate me later, but it’s best you two stay in your rooms until the morning. I’ll carry a message to his Highness, but nothing more.”
Ari’s fingers twitched. The familiar tingle of warmth usually presaged a flare-up, but even with the petrifaction gone, the heat remained, and it made his eyes water with fever. “Tivia, you–” he gripped the wall, suddenly unbalanced. The hallway spun. He took a sharp breath.
“I believe you need some medical attention, Ari,” Tivia said. In Ari’s ears, her voice sounded garbled and faraway. “You can’t advise in this state.” He felt Sommath’s bolstering arm around his shoulder, and, though he tried to sputter a protest, accepted the loss with quiet dignity. Defeated, he accompanied the physician to his chambers.
Some augurs might call the weather an omen. Tivia agreed, but not in the way they meant.
In symbology, snow could mean purity, or obliteration. The blending together of sky and earth. Austerity and scarcity. Buried truths. But the snow did not act as the sole arbiter. The sun fought to break through the hardpack, fierce and blinding. The wind screamed, scouring both light and ice away. Together, they stung the eyes and confused the senses. A fitting symbol, Tivia thought. Justice is blind.
But being blind here put her at a disadvantage.
Equipped with Nia’s hearing apparatus, she could hear without a visual aid, but the intermittent wail of wind tunneling through the amphitheater’s narrow alleys, and the low hums of the dense crowd, hobbled her ears.
And she was alone. Instead of presenting a united front, she’d alienated Ari and Sommath. Even before the former’s bout of ague, their stiff shoulders and bitter silence had unnerved her. What if Ari was correct, and she was interpreting the stars all wrong?
A gust lashed at her skirts, biting her legs. She pulled the ends of her fur cloak tight, but her sudden shivers did not come from the cold. She had essentially created unity through discord, and now she was a lone star, adrift from the light of a friendly constellation.
No matter how Hadwin painted it, she would never forgive herself for her role as harbinger. Not if it left her so utterly alone.
Perhaps it was divine punishment that she could not hear Safir’s speech–only the hollow, empty notes of the mournful wind.
Elsewhere in the crowd, Ari, who recovered enough of his health to stand beside Sommath,
did hear Safir’s speech. With every stumbling confession Safir offered, he flinched. Nia’s concerns of “fucking it up” flashed in Ari’s mind. With every beat of brutal honesty and undeserved vulnerability, Safir hammered his inadequacies with a rawness that the frigid wind branded on Ari’s exposed cheeks. The second-hand embarrassment left him feeling targeted, like he was on stage in Safir’s place. With each passing minute, Ari fervently wished he’d rallied the strength to challenge Tivia in the hallway last night. What could he do against a star seer with the support of the palace guards while he ran on four hours of sleep scattered across three days and a debilitating fever that blossomed whenever he let rage overtake him? Depressingly little, but if he contested Tivia’s authority, pushed a little harder, and demanded to see Safir, he could have led him in a direction that didn’t hinge on capitalizing on his doubts and offering little bravado to carry his words.
A platform powered by honesty could only travel so far before it sank into the snow. Safir offered no hope for the future; just a staid reality where his kingship might improve upon past mistakes—and that was about it. Until…he mentioned the Master Alchemists and his relationship with Nia, and his opinion shifted. Maybe I am solely possessed by my love of Nia to care about the rest of this kingdom. Shamed by the revelation, Ari compensated by opening his ears and listening, really listening, to the impassioned final appeal of a leader to his people. Didn’t he once cut himself open in front of D’Marians and Galeynians alike, to save what he held dear? Openly admitted to his petrifaction curse and accepted their cries over his fragility and fitness to rule, knowing dignity was the price to save a life? How did Safir’s approach differ? In his gut-spilling oration, he cared more about them, his people, than his pride–the marker of a great ruler.
The silence that lingered was as merciless as the whip of the wind. In the agonizing span of a coin flip where one awaited the call–heads or tails, victory or failure, Ari looked around the audience for context clues. Were they supposed to clap for approval? If he took the initiative, how would that appear to the Ilandrians? A D’Marian plant, drumming up support to manipulate the crowd to follow suit? Oh, he realized, is this what Tivia meant?
Then Ari saw it: a ripple through the crowd. One by one, people bowed their heads and knelt in the wet snow.
They were not in Stella D’Mare. Contrary to the subtropical peninsular paradise, Illandrians wanted it bare and cold and chilly and merciless. Safir undressed himself in the crowd, and they accepted him because, in seeing the veins pulse under his bare skin, they knew where to find his heart.
Slowly, Ari knelt.
The coronation passed in a blur. Two justice officials scrambled on stage, one bearing the crown and the other the deep-blue and silver vestments of House Vallaincourt. They extracted Safir’s oath, the Ilandrians in the crowd echoed their approval, and then it ended.
Safir was ushered from the platform as the officials announced the evening’s celebration. It would be, they explained, a modest affair. The lavish feast originally prepared had spoiled; only pickled vegetables, salted meats and other preserved victuals survived. The ballroom, festooned with decorations, remained largely untouched from a few days ago, and a little ingenuity repurposed the few winter garlands that didn’t wither and drop to the floor. The traditional King’s Feast had dwindled to hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, circulating among guests in the grand but half-empty ballroom.
The entire kingdom was invited, of course. The event could have been postponed for a more fitting display, but Safir had insisted. The austerity suited him—a king who refused the frippery of his predecessors. Yet royal flair persisted: a string quartet played from the dais, and the finest wines flowed freely, even if the food came in bites.
“King Safir. About time, huh?” Hadwin found him in a rare pocket of solitude, away from the well-wishers and scheming councilors who’d forgotten about Jahnt’s bid for power and kowtowed to the new order. For the occasion, Hadwin wore a black velvet doublet, the top button rakishly popped off to reveal a slash of bare chest. Kohl rimmed his eyes and his hair was tousled back, save for one artful tuft on his brow.
“The Sorde couple send their regards. They couldn’t make it—couldn’t risk a chance run-in with the boy-king of Eyraille in case he popped by, but they listened in the wings and heard your speech. We all did, if you had any doubts. Good show, by the way. Some folks didn’t think you’d pull through, but I knew you’d find your stride.” He winked. “Hey, let’s walk and talk for a bit, yeah?” He slung an arm around Safir’s shoulders and steered him to a quieter corner of the room, away from a shadow that doggedly followed them. “Lady Jenny what’s-her-name is giving you the puppy eyes. Don’t look now; you’ll embolden her. She’s waiting to pounce. As long as we’re talking, she’ll keep back.”
Hadwin’s tone shifted, turning brisk, transactional. “Now, I’ve got a few options for you. I heard–and feel free to confirm–that this type of party is…consequence-free.” He raised an eyebrow to gauge Safir’s understanding. “So, if you’re looking to let off some steam in a safe…ish environment, I’ve got you covered. Or,” he offered, “I could find you a match. Someone who fits your aesthetic.” His lip curled slightly at the next option. “Or I endure your stalker and keep her off your back for the rest of the night. But if we make a big enough spectacle, maybe she’ll quit hounding you. Though I suppose that’s not your style–not steadfast enough, right?” He pulled away, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, aware of the watching eyes. “Tell me. Do you fancy anyone here? Say the word and I could arrange it. My match-making skills are top-notch.” The slightest waver touched his smirking lips. “Honestly? I wouldn’t mind matching with you. But I’m a fucking long shot, and I wouldn’t put us together if I were scraping the crowd for a winner. Believe me, I used to be better at this game. Before I, well,” he shrugged, the grin not quite reaching his eyes, “Before I lost my mind, I guess.”
In a matter of minutes, and without any preparation or guidance, Ilandria’s Prince of Blades became the King of Blades. It was, without a doubt, the quickest and most unconventional coronation in Ilandrian history, with objectively the least amount of fanfare. And, when asked many years from now, Safir would only be able to recount it insofar as understood the procedures: the Ilandrian silver and deep indigo draped over his shoulders. His oath--recited first in Ilandrian and then in then in the common tongue--which felt as meaningless as reciting the alphabet. The weight of his father’s crown upon his head, heavy, burdensome, and as cold as the frost surrounding him.
Had this gone as planned, had the fiasco Jahnst had created never come to fruition, and Ilandria chosen him days before, this ceremony (if you could even call it that, at this point) would have taken place that evening. Dressed in full royal regalia, the palace’s throne room would have been filled to the brim with witnesses, and those who couldn’t fit inside would have awaited their king’s presence when he stepped into the fresh air to acknowledge them after the fact. He’d have knelt upon a waiting cushion, recited his vows, accepted the crown, and then sat upon his father’s throne in completion of the ritual. Instead, he endured numb lips, near-frostbitten fingertips, and the bite of white-hot ice against his knees.
Additionally, the celebration that followed would have spanned the entirety of the following day, touching various locations throughout the kingdom. But those plans had long since gone out the window, and a kingdom that only understood function through protocol was suddenly beside itself with the task of postponing and rescheduling a highly-anticipated event that had never been postponed in its long history. Primarily, this meant significantly less food, as that which had been prepared was no longer fit to be consumed, but what remained of food and festivities all ended up taking place in the palace’s ballroom.
Despite the whiplash preparations and execution of the event (not to mention the notably smaller number of attendees than what had been initially anticipated), those in attendance appeared to be in passably good spirits. A fair number of them even honoured the tradition of completely letting loose in the absence of consequences, with excessively imbibing on Ilandrian wine, performing public displays of affection, and otherwise making the most of a celebration that most Ilandrians would only experience once in their lifetime. Certainly, this was not the only event where the well-disciplined nation was permitted to let its hair down, so to speak, but none had ever compared to the crowning of a new monarch.
To anyone who had never witnessed nor partaken in this particular Ilandrian celebration, nothing would seem out of sorts. But Safir knew all too well how meaningful the attendance (or lack thereof) truly was: not just a result of a simplified party, but understanding the sheer number of Ilandrians who had outright chosen not to partake. Not that he blamed them; the new King himself could hardly fathom how, just that morning, he’d been a prisoner in his own chambers, and not twelve hours later, he now stood as the legal reigning figurehead of father’s kingdom.
Everything that had taken place in-between was choppy and undefined in his working memory, save for one task upon which he had insisted. No sooner had the coronation concluded that Safir made good on a promise as his very first act as Ilandria’s King. Before official witnesses, he saw to it that the arrest warrant for one Anetania Ardane was permanently destroyed, thusly freeing her from any threat or constraints of Ilandrian law. Moments later, she was freed from the room to which she had been confined, both to the palpable relief of Ari and Sommath. It was by this act that she learned of the kingdom’s final decision regarding the Prince of Blades, against all odds, and it was not one she would forget anytime soon.
Safir had already shouldered numerous regrets in his lifetime--but this was not one of them. It did not atone for his complicity in standing by while Ilandria committed its most unforgivable crime against its Master Alchemists, nor for going along with the status quo of his father’s lead for as long as he had. But the King of Blades knew that freeing Nia from the threat of persecution was something he would never regret. Small an act as it was, it was his--and his kingdom’s--first step in the right direction.
He wouldn’t see Nia (or any of his friends and allies, for that matter) until much later that evening, amidst the ballroom festivities. Safir had never been so grateful to find the majority of attendees too engrossed in their own affairs to pay much heed to the pale, whiplashed new king standing off to the side, looking as positively bewildered as he felt. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since that morning; he could scarcely remember donning the forest green doublet and matching emerald earrings that Ari had once suggested as a suitable ensemble for public events. He couldn’t recall leaving his room or even making his way down to the ballroom, nor when the festivities had officially begun or how long he’d been standing among them. Too many sleepless nights, neglect of adequate nutrition, and the speed at which the series of events had unfolded these past two days had left the Ilandrian King in a state that was worryingly akin to shock.
Everything sounded like white noise, indistinguishable and pushed to the background: the conversations, the string quartet, and for a moment, even Hadwin’s voice, until the faoladh came into eyeshot. “Hadwin.” Safir’s own voice sounded foreign in his ears; he hadn’t spoken even once since festivities had commenced. It was perhaps the first time he’d returned to being truly rooted in reality since that morning. “Glad you saw fit to attend. Do send my regards to the Sordes; whatever the nature of their support, I hope they know how much it is appreciated.”
Truly, Safir was all too aware that he hadn’t the slightest grasp of all the help he’d received behind the scenes---and not only from known and trusted allies. Even if their reasons had never been directly in support of him, the scorned Master Alchemists had been key in standing against Jahnst, ultimately making him the best choice for the throne by default. Tivia was right: he had never truly been alone in this, and it had been foolish and juvenile for him to assume as much.
“I haven’t heard word from King Caris, although given his impulsivity… it’s probably best that Vega keep her distance, just in case. And, ah… thank you for the belated vote of confidence.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about those he held closest and most dear bearing witness to the way he’d laid himself so painfully bare before Ilandria. Standing completely naked at the center of the amphitheater would have frankly left him feeling less vulnerable; but what mattered was that, somehow, it had all worked out in his favour.
Before he could politely decline Hadwin’s suggestion to leave his quiet corner of shadow, the faoladh’s arm was around his shoulder, and he was leading him away from the comfort of the forgotten corner. “What do you…” That was when he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision: Jenikah. The young woman who positively refused rejection and, even on the heels of his less-than-inspiring speech, still seemed foolishly hopeful. “I suppose there are some dreams people refuse to let go of, no matter how impossible…” He sighed quietly, and pointedly avoided making eye-contact with the councilman’s daughter. “I almost admire her for it.”
Passing by a table serving a variety of premium-aged Ilandrian wines, the new King very nearly felt the urge to reach for a goblet (or several). Of all the unhinged suggestions he might have expected Hadwin to propose… that most certainly was not one of them. “You know--in the spirit of utmost honesty, since that seems to be the only thing I’m capable of… I’d need to be under the influence of several tall glasses of wine to so much as entertain the prospect.” It wasn’t a dig at Hadwin, and as someone who was privy to everyone’s fears and insecurities, that much should have been fairly evident--if Safir’s palpable aura of unease wasn’t already enough.
“Never in all my life have I wanted to be out of the public eye, as I do right now, at this moment. I hardly remember getting here; and I don’t know how I’m managing to hold it together. So as much as I appreciate your well-timed offer…” His verdant eyes scanned the crowd, as if looking for an escape route. With his luck, he wouldn’t make it halfway across the floor before getting flagged down by someone’s ‘congratulations’, sincere or otherwise. “...it isn’t what I need, right now. I don’t even know what it is I need, but if I did, I doubt it would be within anyone’s power to help me.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Beneath his well-dressed attire in emerald and forest green, and the crown upon his brow that commanded authority, Safir seemed to be holding it together by willpower alone. Stuck in fight-or-flight for so long, and fueled by adrenaline alone, he was lucky to remember who he was and what he was supposed to be doing--but that was where it began and ended. One more “surprise” might well do him in and cause him to come apart completely. Just as easily as Ilandria’s faith in their prospects of what constituted “truth” and “justice”...
“Here I was hoping my abysmal fall from grace as a result of my actions would put Lady Elisaron off of fancying me for good. You’ve got a reputation as a… charmer, don’t you?” Perhaps that wasn’t the exact word to use to describe the faoladh’s tendencies, but it was the most polite. “If you don’t mind leading her off in another direction… That won’t be the answer to my problems. But it most certainly would help.”
“Safir!”
The now-King of Blades almost didn’t turn around--and in fact, prepared to flee--primed as he was in his hyper-awareness of Jenikah Elisaron’s proximity. But the woman who ultimately forced her way into his line of sight wasn’t the strawberry-blonde council’s daughter. Accompanied by the familiar earth mage, Nia--far more well-dressed and brighter than the last time he’d seen her--fixed Safir with a blatant look of concern. “You look like shit; the fancy clothes aren’t fooling anyone.”
Safir’s reaction wasn’t immediate. Her words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, they resulted in a sharp laugh. Not exactly jovial, but it was the closest the King had come to smiling in days. “I’m Ilandrian; ‘fooling’ isn’t my strong suit.” He looked about to say more, but decided against it at the last minute. Out of small talk, and any other words he’d typically lean on to fill the silence. Fortunately, he was in the company of several people who talked quite a bit, so it didn’t matter.
“We received word this morning about the warrant for my arrest… you dissolved it. So fast.” On any other occasion, the once-Ilandrian-fugitive wouldn’t have dared to be seen in the presence of her best friend, let alone put her hands on him. On this occasion, however, anything went; including pulling the newly-crowned King into a hug that not even he could escape. Perhaps he’d grown curiously weak in the days spent languishing alone in his room; or else he’d never taken the time to appreciate the strength in those notably smaller arms. “I’m being petty: this hardly compares to more serious, looming threats… but to be able to openly walk around my home again means more to me than I can begin to describe. I don’t have to hide anymore. Not from my own people, anyway. And… after all of this, I don’t even know how to thank you.”
Through the thick fog clouding his mind, the King of Blades was slow to process her words, and even slower to react. Not because he felt nothing, or that he didn’t know how to feel; on the contrary, he felt too much, and feared that feeling even more would be the catalyst to crumbling into pieces, right in front of everyone, without the means of putting himself back together. He wouldn’t be so lucky as Tivia, whose brief meltdown collapsing as she had in the market square was largely inconsequential to the crowd. Nia must have understood, or otherwise detected the stark imbalance of homeostasis through touch. Instead of puzzling over her friend’s lack of response, she exchanged a glance with Ari, and took Safir by the arm. “How do you even breathe with so many people packed into a room? C’mon, we could all use some fresh air.”
Led by the arm, Safir put up no resistance as his childhood friend, accompanied by her soon-to-be fiance, guided him toward the ornate glass doors leading to a vast balcony. The brisk winter air whipped his braid against his neck and stung his eyes, but the sudden shock of cold chased some of the fog from his mind, enough to ground him within his surroundings. “This is stupid. Everything going on inside… pointless. Ridiculous.” Varied emotions--anger, despair, hopelessness--fought for dominance in his features as he gestured vaguely to the room he’d just left.
“This isn’t a celebration. No one in there is celebrating; they’re chasing fear and uncertainty with wine and rich food. They aren’t even sure what they stand for anymore, because the man they have sat upon that throne isn’t their chosen leader. He is there only by default…” The new king looked away from the revelry and toward the dark expanse of the kingdom, as the indigo blanket of evening rapidly unfolded on the horizon. “Because there was no other option… and Ilandria does not know how to function without some semblance of a figurehead. Without trust in policy, and the people to represent it, this kingdom is… broken.”
“You’d better cut that crap, lest you start believing it, Safir.” Gone was Nia’s infectious smile, replaced with what looked like cold fury. “More than just Ilandria is riding on your ability to keep your shit together. You made some bold promises to your people, and probably spoke more truth than they’ve actually heard in their entire lives. Because you’re an absolute shit liar--and you wouldn’t have said any of that, if you didn’t actually believe it.” Her grip on his arm tightened, and the Master Alchemist leaned in. “And those people wouldn’t have you here if they didn’t believe in you. You know it; so just because a few people with too much power turned out to be self-serving, conniving bastards, don’t shit on the people who put that crown on your head, and cut the fucking pity party, alright? Give up on yourself now, and we are all fucked.”
To someone softer, her words might have rung harsh. But there was nothing truly “soft” about Ilandria, and in the silence that followed, Nia’s honesty struck him--perhaps in the same way that his honesty had struck all of Ilandria. Not enough to offset feeling his victory had been rather bitterly secured, but it did clear the thick fog from some of his thoughts. However much Nia Ardane’s mannerisms differed from that of a typical Ilandrian, she was still very much capable of sound reason when the moment called for it.
A ghost of a smile played on Safir’s lips. The cold had caught up to him, bringing out colour in his cheeks for the first time all evening. At least he was starting to look more put-together than he felt. “Never thought you would end up being a voice of reason. More than ten years away from home hasn’t taken the Ilandrian out of you… thank you.” A sigh manifested in a cloud in front of his lips. “I believe it is what you believe. And I truly hope you are right. I can’t thank you both enough for… everything, really. Had I faced this alone, it would have led to a far bigger and more irreparable disaster than being an undeserving king…”
His words trailed off and eyes shifted to Ari as something else seemed to come to mind. “Ah--Ari. Before I forget: the two items you recently inquired about? Evidently they have been finished for a few days now, but alas, I only received word today of their completion. I sent Sommath to fetch them for you, so you may collect them from him at your earliest convenience.” While Nia would clearly have no idea as to what he was referring to, Safir hoped he was clear enough that his reference to the engagement rings Ari had commissioned did not fall short of the earth mage’s understanding. “And… has either of you seen Tivia this evening? I believe… no, I know I owe her an apology.”
