Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The end is a beginning, just not a beginning I expected.

You can say a lot of death: of heaven, of reincarnation, of the return to the soil where the worms feast on every pleasure given. But of all of them, death is the one sure thing I believe in. Not in a pessimistic way, but in one that has proven itself time and time again.

The natural fades, and the natural takes over. The death of a star is the birth of another, just as the end of one life feeds into the next.

"Maximillian," the dowager duchess scolds, "posture." She gestures for me to straighten, a fluid uptake of her hands. I unravel my spine and push my shoulders back. Her eyes pass over me momentarily, gone when one of the maids presents a jewelry box.

"These are not the pearl earrings I bade you to bring." The girl cowers under the admonishment. "Go fetch the proper pair."

The dowager duchess mumbles something to herself as the maid scurries to fix the error. She returns her attention to me, running a hand over my veil and straightening a piece of my brown hair underneath.

She tsks. "Curse that father of yours. A lack of proper ceremony, given the times, I can forgive. But to deny you a fitting gown?" She tsks again, tugging at the side of my bodice. The maid dressing me receives a stern order to tighten the back more. Can she not see it is still loose? Was she born blind? "Could he not find one suited to your form?" Another tsk, another mumble.

"Gold is not becoming on you, Child," she says with resolution. "Gold jewels, fine. Gold embroidery, a match for any dress. But a golden dress? Ill-suited and far too yellow. Red I could envision, blue even. But gold ," she scoffs.

The corners of my lips draw into a smile despite my best attempts to suppress it. She is not wrong. It draws too much attention to the paleness of my skin, the hollowness of my complexion, without doing anything to fill me in.

The dowager duchess smiles, too, the lines by her eyes crinkling as the ones by her mouth deepen. There is warmth in her expression, but no happiness.

"My dearest grandchild," her hands find the sides of my face. She looks as if she could cry, "You are a fit bride as ever I've seen, but with no wedding fit for you."

I lay my hands over hers, matching the sorrow in her gaze. My greatest ally, weeping for me, how pitiful.

"Your Grace," the scorned maid returns with a new set of jewels.

"Well now, at last, you have done something right," the dowager duchess says with mock surprise. "Set the chest upon the table and be gone, the both of you."

The maids shut the door behind them as the dowager duchess gathers a necklace from the box; a cross pendant weighs on the chain. I bow my head for her to clasp it around my neck; the cross falls heavily against my chest as she adjusts it to cover my birthmark.

"You are fortunate it is so fine," she traces the scar, "easier to conceal that way. Yet, if only it were not so bright, I dread what your husband might say."

It is a question to ponder, what he will think at the sight of it. The mark is like a fresh scratch: a long, reddish line made with surgical precision down the center of my chest. To anyone unused to it, it is grotesque to see.

"Have you recited your wedding vows?"

I nod, "I have pr, practiced. All, all n-ight"

She pauses in thought while placing the earrings on me—it is a brief second until she resumes, "Stumbling over a few words will matter little. It may vex your father—though he is quick to anger—but so long as you manage to speak them..." Then I will be married, and Riftan will fight in Duke Croix's stead. A man cannot disobey his father-in-law, at least not without consequences.

The dowager duchess fiddles with a ring on her finger, twisting it past her knuckle. "I have something for you," she slips it from her finger and onto my left hand. It is a thick band with rubies and pearls interchanged around the circumference. "It is yours to keep. I wore it on my wedding day, as did your mother on hers. You shall carry the tradition and pass it to your own daughter to do the same."

"Th, thank you," I run my thumb over the jewels. "I’ll ch-cherish, cherish it."

"Oh, My Child," she pulls me into a hug, wrapping her arms around me as if I will disappear the moment she lets go, "you are far too grown for my liking."

***

The chapel in Croix Castle is one I have known my whole life—the only one I have known. I am familiar with the patterns of the vaulted ceilings and the stained glass windows that reach toward the sky, of the tiled floor, the scratches in the wooden bench I sit at every time, in the same spot, not an inch out of line—it is my space. I know the priest who resides over services, the clerics who heal me after every injury, who know my faults and sufferings, who do not speak out, if at all.

But today is different.

Those of my household are present: Duke Croix with his warning sneer, Rosetta with her crafted expression, the dowager duchess. But new faces line the pews, those of the Remdragon Knights. They track my steps down the aisle, shooting daggers with their eyes like they wish me to collapse dead. They have never liked me. I am Duke Croix's daughter, and I will be judged for his sins and his alone.

Yet, I am about to commit the greatest sin of all, though God might not consider it. To marry a married man is adultery, even if the wife is nowhere to be found, even if I'm the one filling her shoes.

Where have you gone, Maximillian? And why am I here?

Riftan Calypse is what I have imagined him to be: intimidating. Like Hades escaped from the gates of Hell. His eyes pin me to the floor from behind the strands of his dark hair, the corner of his jaw ticks. The closer I approach the dais, the more I must crane my neck to meet his gaze. Soon it is bent, staring straight up—I scarcely reach his shoulder, let alone his collar.

With the priest signaling for the service to begin, Riftan offers his hand as we kneel in front of the altar. His calloused fingers wrap carefully around mine, my hand more resting in his than held by it. The heat of his skin envelops my own, and I know I will remember this touch.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we gather to witness the union of this man and woman in holy matrimony," the words echo through the near-empty chapel. "Marriage is a bond ordained by God, a sacrament through which man and woman are joined, not merely in flesh but in spirit, for all their days." He turns to Riftan, "Have you prepared your vows?"

There is not much to prepare when the vows are given to you.

Riftan clears his throat, does not spare me a glance as he speaks. His voice is like the first rumbling of a storm, deep and gravely, reverberating however hushed, "I Riftan Calypse, take thee, Maximillian, to be my wedded wife. I vow before God to love thee, honor thee, and cherish thee. In sickness and in health, in wealth and want, I will stand by thee. I will guard thee, keep thee, and be faithful to thee alone," his breath hitches as he speaks the last words, "for all my days."

The priest inclines his head, "And the lady?"

"I… I, M-axim,millian Roem Cr, Croix," I speak slowly, thinking of my words before I say them to avoid stuttering, "take thee… Riftan, to…to be my w,wedded husband. I vow before God, to… love thee, honor thee, and… s,serve thee. In, in s-ickness and in health, in joy and… hardship, I will st-and by thee. I will…will be faithful to thee alone, for all my… all my days."

The leaded gaze of Duke Croix pierces my back. There is shifting in the pews, a cough and a sniffle.

An attendant steps forward, offering a cord to the priest. "As a sign of their union," the priest holds it for everyone to see, "this cord shall bind their hands, just as God has bound their souls." He winds the cord around our hands, so tight it bites into my skin.

As he does so, he recites the blessing, "By this binding of hands, I declare you united. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. May your love be as this knot, strong and unbroken. Let us pray."

I glance at Riftan. He is already looking at me. Despite the practiced coldness of his features, he still appears boyish, pained.

I bow my head.

***

There is no time for feasting, nor celebration, nor for Duke Croix to scold me for my manner of speech. We are forced into the marital chamber, led by the knights and the maids. They close the door behind us, leaving a few to linger outside as the rest file away.

Riftan unbuckles his sword from around his waist and sets it on the table, a small dagger joining it. "Take off your clothes."

I was expecting such words, the straightforwardness of his manner, but still I'm caught off guard. My heart has reached my throat, choking me with its incessant beating.

"Do I have to take it off?" An edge of danger glints in his tone.

I shake my head as I step back; he steps closer. There is muttering outside the door, not-so-discreet whispers of curiosity and muffled laughter.

"You don't like me much, do you." he bends over me, meeting each step I take with another of his. His eyes narrow, but mine are as wide as a deer met with headlights as my head bends back fully to meet his face once more. We're so close we breathe each other's air. "Of course, a duke's daughter would never place her heart in a low-ranking knight."

"S,s-ir, I–" I search for whatever words could possibly ease this situation. I'm drawing short.

"If you want an annulment, speak now, and I will leave."

"No!" I hiss, grabbing hold of his arms before he can even think of going. "“If, if you g,go…they, they will s-urley k,kill me." The duke will have my head, will meet my back with the fibers of his whip until I bleed out across the floor. With all I have to do, with everything weighing on my shoulders, it is better to consummate than die. But I'm not readily willing to bare myself.

"What do–" " Shh !" I cover his mouth with my hands. More mutters sound at the door, the wood shifting on its hinges as an ear rests against it.

Riftan folds his hands around my wrists but makes no other effort to remove them. His onyx eyes bore into mine; truly black, I think. The yellowish light of the room reflects in them, like a canvas rendering of a candle in the dark. 

Lying with him would not be such a difficult thing. He is an attractive man, and I have slept with attractive men before. The problem is his wife.

I read their story, rooted for their love. What kind of hypocrite would I be, judging those who break the sanctity of marriage only to force myself into a relationship I value outside of my own, however fictional? It doesn't matter the reason, my conscience is made sick at the idea.

His lips burn into the palm of my hand, our pulses thumping sporadically against his fingertips, against my wrists.

Eventually is not right now.

"We... we don't have to c,consummate if they think we did, we... we don't have to," I speak softly, as a secret. His body grows rigid as he searches my face for an answer to my insanity. Are you crazy? he seems to ask. Yes. But I can think quick on my feet, can make something believable. "Will you... will you f,follow my lead?" I carefully remove my hands, letting them slip from his grasp. He doesn't say a word but nods his head.

How to fake consummate a marriage? That is the question. I start with what's natural to me, reaching for the corners of his collar and drawing him down to lock our lips. He doesn't pull away but freezes, lets his mouth part as I kiss the corner of it, then his cheek. My hands move to his hair, messing it as I bite at his lips, press into them with my own. He matches the movements little by little, stiff at first and chaste but gradually falling into it.

He slips his tongue into my mouth. I grab hold of his chin, stealing the lead as I slide my tongue along his teasingly, tasting him. He grunts, his breath heaved in quick sighs against me as he reaches for the laces of my bodice. I push his arms away, move my mouth to press kisses onto his neck and my hands to lift his tunic.

Our knuckles brush as he lifts it for me, then his undershirt. I step back enough to give him space and to view my work: the red stains of my lip rouge spread across his mouth and skin, his hair sticking at wild angles. I add another mark to his collarbone for good measure before starting at his pants. I leave his braes on, don't bother with his shoes as his trousers pile around his feet.

Before he can do anything—a word of surprise, a movement to pull me back—I am running towards the bed. I grab the blankets, throwing them around wildly on the mattress, parts landing on the floor.

Riftan struggles with his shoes in the corner, bent awkwardly over himself as he lifts his pants enough to work at the laces of his boots. He pauses mid-position, brows furrowed as I ram my hip into the side of the bed. It creaks on its rickety legs, the headboard banging against the wall. I repeat this motion over and over until the creaking and banging are rhythmic, and signal for Riftan to join me.

He does, apprehensively. However insane I appear to him, he doesn't complain. "S-switch, switch p,places with me." He does, rocking the bed with his hand. I stand a foot or two away, untying the pieces of my dress.

Ah! I moan as I slip off my girdle and then my sleeves, giving some theatrics to the breathy sound. Ahhhh! Another as I pull off my over-dress, then the under-one. I struggle to bring it over my head, hunkering over to let gravity help. Why do I have to wear so much clothing? My face is red with heat by the time I'm free.

Riftan stares at me, having ceased shaking the bed. I wave my hands at him to continue; it takes him a moment to get the memo. Laughter sounds outside the door again as the bed resumes its sound.

"Moan," I whisper at him.

"What–" Ah! I cut him off before he can give us away. There's more giggling from the peeping toms.

Riftan mimics the sound he made earlier, the unrefined panting unfitting for his masculine aura. His face flushes the color of a beet. I give him a thumbs up.

My stockings and veil are the last to drop to the floor, my chemise left on. I remove my necklace and earrings, setting them on a nearby table, but guard the ring on my finger lest the maids collect it in the morning with the rest of my stuff.

I pry the pins from hair, run my fingers vigorously through it until it's a lion's mane. I turn back to Riftan, getting down on my knees next to the bed, pushing at it more.

I point to my neck, "B,bite it-t." Judging by the look on his face, I'm giving him an aneurism, but he obliges, and the moan I give as his teeth sink into my skin is real.

"R,right he, here," I tap the top of my breast peaking out from my chemise. The look he gives is hungry, traces every inch of my chest before he dips his head. I push him away after a minute when heat has pooled in my core. By now, I have stopped moving the bed.

"Go to... go to the, the maids and ask for... ask f,for towels," I instruct him. He clears his throat and pushes to his feet, starting toward the door, "W,wait."

I climb over the bed, lay down and pull the blankets over me enough to make myself seem spent. I give him another thumbs up when I feel convincing. He crosses the room and opens the door enough to speak to the maids, hiding himself mostly behind it. I'd imagine to cover the tent he is pitching.

"We need towels," he says. I can't hear the maids, but the laughter has certainly stopped. He promptly closes the door after the order is given, waiting by it in silence until the towels are brought. It takes a few minutes. When he holds them, I point to his dagger on the table and tell him to bring it over.

"Unsheath-sheath it," I say, sitting up in the bed. He does, tilting his head. He grips the hilt of the dagger tighter as I reach for his other arm. "I need... I n-eed blood. To prove... prove this."

Riftan's grip doesn't loosen, but his lips purse, brow furrowing a little more. I stare into his eyes, silently pleading for him to trust me. 

He turns the tip of the dagger towards the middle of his forearm, but I stop him, "No! N,not th, th, th-ere."

It's harder to see the vein than I am used to through the darker tone of his body and his muscular build, not to mention the poor source of light given by the candles. I press at the area just under his elbow on the radial side of his arm, feeling for the elastic resistance a vein near the surface of the skin would give.

"Right, right h,here," I say, guiding the dagger to it. "Make a s-small c,cut... not too, not t,too deep." It's no needle, but precision is still needed. To err in cutting could hit a nerve or an artery, causing more damage than desired.

He angles the tip of the dagger, pushes it down; his skin wells around the blade before it finally pierces and blood starts to pool, rich like wine. I take his arm, squeeze the substance from it until it drips onto the bed where the center of my legs might have lain spread out. The weave of the linen is revealed as the blood seeps into it.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, lift my skirt enough to smear what's on my fingers to the inside of my thigh. My mind screams at how unsanitary this all is, but it must be convincing.

"T,towel," I tell him. He hands me one. I wipe my hands, wipe his arm and hold the cloth to the wound.

"There can be no doubt. No doubt that we... we have con, consummated," I say. "If they q,question it, you... you must say we have." He nods. "I- f,fear... I fear..."

He lays his hand over mine, "I will not let them question it."

"We are... are h,husband and, and w-ife?" I gaze up at him, imploring that he says yes.

"Husband and wife," he repeats.

I remove the cloth from his arm where the blood has begun to dribble slower. It will only be a small scratch, easily hidden by the sleeve of his shirt. He takes the cloth from me and tells me to lie down.

Riftan takes the side of the bed with the blood, lying on his back as he stares up at the ceiling. Perhaps it is due to our rendezvous or his sudden gentle demeanor, but I am feeling braver in his presence.

"I remember... I r,remember you," I whisper. His eyes widen, but his gaze remains fixed on the ceiling. "You... you s-aved my life."

I sit up in bed and hold out my arm to him. He gives me his attention as I show him the scars—a pair of faded bite marks, one on the top of my arm, one on the bottom. We were only children then, I, not much older than six or seven. I was attacked by a lizard monster while playing in the woods surrounding the castle gardens, and he was the only one who noticed and rushed to my aid…just as he’d run to Maxi’s…

Before that, he was the tall, lanky boy who left pretty rocks and feathers in the grass for me to find. Who thought I couldn't see him when he hid in the bushes to make sure I found them.

And after that, he was gone.

"I never got the chance... got the chance to, to th-ank you. So... so thank you."

"It was nothing," he says. His fingers brush against the marks ever so tenderly; if I were not watching, I would think I'd have imagined the touch.

He sighs, removing his hand, "You should sleep." Without waiting for a reply, he rolls onto his other side, away from me.

It may be the events of the story that led him into those woods, led him to leave pebbles in the grass, or even love me in any of the ways that he does, the ways I can only guess at. But it doesn't matter. Whatever the motivations may be, it still means something to me.

I study the musculature of his back, of his curled position, before lying back down myself.

Duke Croix will surely punish me in the morning for any insolence he deems me to have shown; it is always the case, I can never do right. But for now, in this room with this man I have met but hardly spoken to, who I know the future of without him telling it, who has reddened his sword with the blood of men and will further his name with the slaying of a dragon, I am safe. Isn't that a terrifying thought…

***

He is gone in the morning when I wake.

The blood has dried to the bed, brown and patchy, and the priest only spares a single glance before declaring the marriage valid; before Duke Croix is congratulated on a daughter lost.
The maids clean me up, snicker to themselves. They see the blood smeared down my leg, the darkened patches left by teeth on my skin. Saw how the sword-bearer looked when he woke.

They call me a whore.

Chapter Text

January in these parts of California makes the conifers dull and strips the rest of the land to its skeleton, with only frost to cover it. I drive the winding back roads, watching for deer amongst the rocky, house-dotted hillsides as I make careful turns of the wheel out of caution for ice. You can never see it on the dark asphalt. 

The phone call crackles in my speakers as I pass under a power line, but Julia's voice comes in strong a second later, "I just started that book you recommended."

"Yeah? What do you think?"

"I'm enjoying it so far," she says. "The translation's a little weird, though—it's like they pasted it into Google Translate."

I laugh, turning down the heater. The winter sun sends patches of beams through the tree tops, warming the air to waves of steam that rise from the pavement. 

"So, what do you have planned for this afternoon?"

I sigh, "I have a lecture to listen to, and then I promised Mary I'd take her to her friend's house."

"Fun~" Julia draws the word out. "I have work later this evening. Not looking forward to that."

"At least you get to make money. I wish they'd pay me to memorize parts of the vascular system."

"That reminds me, when will you be down in Sac again? I was hoping we could get coffee at that one place we went to last time. There's something I'm dying to tell you in person."

I ask her if she wants to meet on Thursday before my lab session, and we agree on nine o'clock or so. We'll feel it out. 

"Is this about you-know-who?" I ask, taking my foot off the gas to slow for the upcoming curve. 

"It is..." I can hear her smile. "He's just so...so..."

"So amazing," I tease. 

"Yes! Remember how we went on that date over the weekend? By far the best I've ever been on." She starts gushing over it: the restaurant, the drinks after. 

The sun blinds my eyes as I round the corner, illuminating the vapor clinging to the bottom of the glass. I lean forward so my visor blocks some of it, accelerating enough to make it up the hill. 

"I got this purple drink—I can't remember the name, but it was kind of lemony—it was so pretty."

A brief glint of metal flashes ahead, gone as soon as it comes. I squint to see it better, gasping as the car comes into view. 

I slam on the brakes. 

***

Crash!

The vase shatters across the floor in a pile of splintered pieces, a casualty from bumping the harpsichord after standing so abruptly. Another is the wooden bench. I hasten to right it as Duke Croix's steps resound with punctuated furry. The cane is upon me in a moment, its intricately carved features biting into the side of my hip, hardly softened by the fabric of my dress. I grit my teeth, swallow the sob rising to my lips. 

"You insufferable girl! All I ask is for you to maintain some semblance of decorum, yet you can't even manage to avoid knocking over a vase?"

"I-m, um, I'm s,sorry." I cringe at the sound of my words. No matter how much effort I put into correcting my stutter, I still can't shake it. 

The duke wrinkles his nose, "You should be. To think this house might become a laughingstock because of some clodplate like you." He huffs, smoothing back his white hair, tousled from his outburst. "That bastard of a man is no longer a low-ranking knight. He's a Reincarnation of Uigru now—" he spits the words, a drop landing on the corner of my cheek; I have to hold myself back from wiping it “—if he wants it, the church will consent to a divorce—they're already talking of it. And look at you, who could blame them?"

I force myself to stand straighter, my head still bowed as I glower at him through my lashes, "He will... will n,not divorce me."

"I hope for your sake that's true."

So do I.

A dull knock taps against the door, the meek voice of a maid following after, "Your Grace, the Remdragon Knights have arrived."

His brow lowers, drawing tight as his leer sweeps over me. The Duke of Croyso turns away, "Guide him to the drawing room, and clean up this mess." As if deciding more needs to be said, he points his cane at me in one last threat, "Make it clear to Calypse your marriage cannot be forsaken. Any insult to this family, you'll pay for."

He throws the door open, sauntering out. I brush my hand under my chin, ending the motion with a one-fingered salute at his going, dropping the gesture before the maid sees. She rings the bell by the door for assistance, passing by me to collect the broken vase. 

I move to the window, each step sending jolts through my hip. I press my hand to the injury, met with the tender ache of bruising. The duke won't call the cleric. He's learned by now that bruises can't be done away with by whim. Healing magic only fixes damaged tissue, not the material left behind. I only hope it won't be that big of a mark, something easy to pass off as colliding with a table—or a harpsichord. 

Water clings to my eyes, the criticisms of Duke Croix burdening themselves on my chest. I long for the day I do not have to lie still and bear this punishment, to endure humiliation without complaint. I wipe the moisture away, resting my head against the stone frame of the window, gazing out. 

The infamous oak tree sits along the outskirts of the garden where the wild grasses hold reign rather than the manicured lawns. In the afternoons of my childhood, I would sit underneath it with my dog and weave daisy chains, hoping to catch glimpses of the dark-skinned boy who'd wander around there.

It'd be a lie to say the thought of divorce hasn't crossed my mind, though I'd never seek it out. But as much as he promised us to be married, three years and a dragon takes a toll on a person. And he has grounds to request a divorce, even the right to an annulment, considering we never consummated. However, he'd never be able to prove the last part; I was thorough in my work. There were witnesses, too, if only to the supposed sound of consummating. It is enough. 

I rub at the corner of my eye with the base of my hand. The tears won't go away. 

"What a sight worth seeing." A storm brews within the room, and I did not even hear it enter. 

Riftan Calypse, the legendary dragon slayer, stands in his well-trained stance, hand resting on the sword strapped to his side, and he is angry. Or annoyed, with him I can never tell. 

"My wife, trembling," he sneers, "waiting for her husband to come back from the dead."

The maid cowers off to the side, holding the larger pieces of the vase in the canopy of her apron. She inclines her body to show respect and avoid reproach, as is common in the duke's household. 

"There was…certaintly, certainly waiting,” I collect my composer in a matter of seconds, speaking slowly, as I have trained myself to do, "but, um, not for your resurrection. If…if anyone had faith you’d return, it w, was myself.”

"Then why do you shiver like you've seen the plague?"

"It's cold in here." Riftan scoffs, but I give no room for comment. 

"My dear Sir Calypse," I make my words sweet like pudding, "tell me…tell me, um, if it is not possible, but I don’t wish to, um,  linger here. Shall we go?”

"I find it interesting you are so eager. You seemed quite willing to linger these past few years."

I sigh, inhaling through my mouth to avoid sniffling, "Lingering was…not my intention, but th,that of my, um, father. If…if I’d had any, any say, I would have gone.” I offer a practiced smile, a docile one, "But let us put the…mistakes of the past behind us; we are re,reunited. If my…husband would allow it, his w,wife would appreciate the honor to…to know his lands.”

If he did not consider me a wife, he wouldn't have referred to me as such, right? But if he meant it to be scornful, to call myself his wife would surely cause him to correct me. However little or as much as I know him, I know he does not beat around the bush. 

Riftan shifts on the balls of his feet, running his hand across his face as he mulls on my words. He is not in his suit of armor as I expected him to be. Knights do not take to wearing full regalia as one might think unless it is for gallantry and battle, though he does wear some pieces like his chainmail and vambraces. His mail shirt is covered by a navy tunic with the white dragon of his knightly order curled in the center, and he sports the blue cape I've come to recognize him with. The title of Rossem Wigrew has not pushed him to finery as it might others; he is as practical as ever. 

"Have your maid pack what you wish to take," he says at last. 

"That w, won’t be necessary.” He looks at me as if my head is spinning—a look that has become natural between us—and I chide myself for speaking without thought. 

" Most of um…most of what I use belongs to…to the castle,” I add, hoping it is enough of an explanation. He doesn't press me for more. 

I wonder if he knows or at least suspects my treatment. It would be easier on me if he did. 

I pluck up the courage to approach him, wrapping my arm around his; it's firm beneath my grasp, an anchor. "Let us not tarry," I say. He doesn't say a word. 

There is no tarrying by either party—I cannot tell which of us leads the other into and down the hall. 

To think that I will be leaving this place! I have often imagined escaping through the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Castle Croix, making my way to the great beyond. But to leave through the front door? Much easier!

A blond knight, garbed in the same wear as Riftan, makes his way toward us; there is disdain in his narrow eyes, pride in the level of his head. "I have the carriage waiting," he says, moving to the side to let us pass.

 "Then let us be off," Riftan says. 

The knight and I exchange glances before he falls into step behind us; by the glare he gives me, he is no doubt Sir Rikaydo. I choose to ignore his contempt, there is not much else to do about it. 

My eyes do not move much after that, fixed on the path ahead of me through the halls filled with expensive tapestries and gilded trim: the path to freedom. At one point, as we pass under the grand stairway in the main gallery of the castle, I feel attention on me. I tear my gaze from the exit just long enough to see Rosetta, my sister, watching from the second floor. I smile at her, a silent goodbye. 

Outside, the knights' clamor drops to stillness as they watch me walk side by side with their commander. I straighten my posture, let my eyes pass over the few who dare to look directly at me. 

Riftan helps me into the carriage, one that cannot belong to Duke Croix due to how plain it is by his standards, and I rest myself on the uncushioned bench. As Riftan clambers in after me—before the driver shuts the door—I allow myself one final look at Castle Croix, a single moment at the green tiled spires of Roemian architecture and ornate decorative arches—such gaudy construction hiding the misery that lurks within. 

In my mind, I know I will not be able to avoid it forever. 

***

In the amount of time I've lived in a medieval world, I've never seen a medieval town. The streets are filled with shouting—of vendors selling wares at shop fronts, of children and their mothers calling after them. They watch after the steady stream of knights, craning their necks while still in conversation, never faltering from it though perhaps changing subjects. Do you see him? I imagine them asking. Rossem Wigrew? 

While the adults go seemingly about their business, their children take to chasing alongside the horses, peeking into the carriage. They shout in excitement, pointing when they find Riftan within, trailing after in clusters until their small legs tire and they give up. 

To be that well known, recognized by sight in an era lacking attainable pictures, is a feat in itself. 

The town dies back behind us, giving way to the gates of town and the surrounding woods after that, the stone streets abruptly tapering into rougher, uneven roadways. Dust wafts in the air, clinging to my nostrils as the rattling carriage wheels and horses kick the dirt up into one great cloud. The knights ride in front and behind, the carriage view left unblocked, though there is not much to see within the tree line. 

I look at Riftan when the road becomes boring, studying the features of his face: his strong, square jaw and angular cheeks, his straight nose and heavy brow. After so many grueling years of living life in constant danger, of never knowing if he'd see the next day or return to a life of routine and comfort, how has he changed? Who is he compared to the man on our wedding night, whose eyes would linger on me at the duke's parties, who I read about? What is it like for him to face death and survive?

He catches my gaze, "What is it?" 

"Tell me...about the, um campaign," I dare to ask. 

"What about it," his jaw tenses as he swallows, his throat bobbing. 

"What is it like t-to, to fight a dragon?"

Riftan's eyes break away from mine, returning to stare out the window, "It is nothing."

"Hmm," I hum, "how humble of you."

"It is true," he says. His lips draw into a tight line as he leans momentarily down to rub the back of his neck. "I did what I had to. Anyone else would do the same."

"And it is nothing," I say, the words ludicrous to me. Only a few hours into reuniting, and he has already placed a barrier between us. I want to press him on the subject, ask him all my questions, but I refrain. It would be disrespectful, his experiences are no longer fictional. 

I rack my brain for different conversation topics, something to distill the tension ripe within the carriage. "When we…when we get to, um, Anatol, what…what shall you show me first?”

His attention is steady as he regards me, and I meet his gaze every second he gives it. He is intimidating, whether it is intentional or not, but I will not let myself be intimidated. 

A minute passes, he turns back to the window, "The west lake is rather a sight to see."

"When is the best time to see it?" I ask. 

He shrugs his shoulders, "Anytime, really. It changes with the seasons."

"You do not have a preference?"

Again, he thinks for a moment. "It's nice in Pasias when it freezes over. But it's better for fishing in Aquarius. And there are more wildflowers," he adds as an afterthought. 

I smile, "I love flowers."

Riftan observes my face before his eyes move past it into a thousand-yard stare. His next words are said as if he is thinking out loud, "Then I shall–" "Ogres!"

His head whips towards the shout, and without hesitation, he lunges towards the door, wrenching it open. He slams it shut, yelling at me through the open space, "Don't leave the carriage!" As if he'd have to tell me that at all!

I watch after him as he rushes headlong into battle, ducking back into the carriage as I lay sight on one of the beasts. It's huge!—twice the size of any man, its shoulders hunched as if its frame is too mighty for itself. One gives a primal, bone-quaking roar, shaking the carriage with each hulking step. I push myself farther into the corner, farther out of sight. 

Boom … Boom … Boom …

The steps grow closer. I feel them travel through my body and into my teeth. 

There are harsh, rasping huffs to my left, a stench so putrid—like a stew of curdling milk and rotten garbage—weighing down the air around me. The monster lowers itself to the carriage, its sunken eyes pressed to the window, searching all around. 

I push away from the beast to the farthest corner as its flat, greenish nose fills the opening. It sucks in a giant, heaping breath before drawing away, heaving itself to its feet. 

In the split second I contemplate running, it's too late. The ogre grabs at the carriage, lifting it from the ground—the horses, still hitched, scream, but I find my own caught in my throat. 

The tops of the trees spread out below as the monster holds the carriage in one giant fist. It sticks its finger through the window, the limb filling the whole space as it reaches in to grab at me. I kick it with the base of my heel, receiving a fiendish growl in response. It draws its finger away, hooking the door and ripping it off.

Now I scream, but it is drowned out by the monster's own—my ears turn numb. It drops the carriage, my body flying off the seat in free fall until the vehicle jerks midair and stops. 

I crash against the side wall. The remaining door gives way, my nails digging into the frame as my legs dangle out of the carriage. I attempt to pull myself up, my body hanging in the air, but it is futile, my arms lacking the strength. My fingers turn white, slipping. 

The ogre roars again, but it is silenced mid-noise. Like a felled tree, a crash rings out across the forest floor. 

My fingers give out, my stomach lurching as I plummet, the ground rushing towards me. I brace for impact. 

A dark figure darts into my vision. I am caught by sturdy arms before I hit the ground.

"I've got you. You're safe," Riftan's words tremble, spoken on a breath as he gathers me to his chest. He squeezes tight, seeping in my presence. Then my feet are on the ground, and he is assessing the damage. 

"Are you okay?" He frantically feels my body—my arms, my sides—before waiting for my reply. I find I can't speak, the racing of my heart clearer now that I am on solid ground. It beats against my chest, my head faint and breathing erratic. 

A white-haired male—Ruth—runs towards us. Riftan yells at him, "I told you to put a shield around the carriage!"

"I know," the mage pants, "I was preoccupied–" I don't hear the rest of what he says as Riftan's fingers graze my hip. 

My muscles tense at the sharp pain that results. It's like the cane is against me again as if I've left the forest and teleported to Croix. My head spins, breath shallower as if my lungs have flattened. My hands shake, legs unsteady. I feel cold, I feel hot. I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe–

"Hey–" Riftan touches my cheek, his hand against my shoulder as his brows twist, eyes darting over my face. The knights have gathered, too, staring.  

I find my voice, "I’m okk– I’m okay."

The tension in Riftan's body softens, and he draws me back against his body, his arm snaking around my torso as he commands his knights to check the damage. The dips in his chainmail press into my skin through his tunic, the feeling oddly comforting. 

Chapter Text

There is no damage except to the carriage door, the knights and horses fine. The scene is cleared away, the ogres moved out of the road with magic and their stones harvested. I keep my eyes averted from the process, too nauseous to think of it. 

We rest for the night in the nearest village at a small inn, where I wash myself with buckets of water and cloth, scrubbing the dirt and sweat from my skin. Without any proper change of clothing, I wear my chemise, neglecting the rest of my gown to the corner of the room.

The room is modest: a bed hardly large enough to fit Riftan, let alone myself alongside him, with a straw mattress and coarse wool blankets; a rounded table and two chairs; a fireplace, scarcely needed this time of year though the nights grow colder. 

I sit at the table, removing the pins from my hair and piling them together on the flat surface. The tension in my scalp eases as the style binding my hair over the day unravels, the strands bent and poofed in the areas they were held by. I massage my scalp with large circles and separate my hair down the middle and over each shoulder. Without a brush, I comb through it with my fingers. 

There's a knock at the door. I pause, listening for them to speak. 

"It's me," Riftan's voice sounds a moment later, the words muffled except for their baritone pieces. I move to open the door for him. 

His body fills the whole frame, so much so that I cannot see into the hall. I open the door wider, allowing him to enter; he turns and speaks with someone else—a squire who waits off to the side, holding a bundle of wood—-instructing him to set it by the fireplace. Riftan then moves past me towards the table, the squire following after. 

"Take the buckets of water as well," he commands the young boy. 

The squire, who's dropped the wood in the corner with a thunk, reaches for both the buckets. I stop him.

"I, um, I only used the one…there," I say, pointing to it. I glance at Riftan, "I left the other…um,  for you—I didn't know…if you were going to, to wash or not."

Riftan—in the process of setting a bowl on the table—considers the buckets. "I already washed," he says after a moment. "Take them both." The squire does so, the room seemingly a little bigger with just us in it. 

I study his face. The blood that had splattered it earlier is gone, and his clothing is newer (or at least what he wore underneath his mail and tunic). There's a basin downstairs, near the entrance, I saw it when we came in. Is that where he cleaned himself?

And those buckets of water, how much did he pay for them? I wonder. They were heated, too—that's a pretty penny for the labor. At first, I worry he might think me as wasteful, but I shake the thought away. If he was worried about wasting, he would have kept the one. 

"You should eat," Riftan says, moving towards the fireplace. He gathers the wood, arranging it in the hearth. I almost ask why he is going to all the trouble in such weather but refrain. However odd a man I find him, I assume there is a method to his actions. Best not to interrupt it.

I return to the table, taking the spoon in the bowl and stirring the contents: a light broth with vegetables and meat. Heat wafts from it, rising around my hand in brief waves as I move the utensil around and around. I bring a spoonful to my lips, blowing on it before tasting; it's still hot, but I eat it anyway.  

Riftan strikes a rock against a piece of metal, messing with the wood—arranging it more, blowing on it—until a fire smokes to life. I glance away as he rises from the floor, pretending to be engrossed in my food as I listen to him approaching. His gait is calm, his steps muted. 

He takes the spot next to me, dropping a pouch and his dagger on the table and unbuckling his sword from around his waist. He unsheathes the blade, rotating it—points it up and turns it front and back, points it out, and holds his eye to the blade to inspect its length. The blade's tip, which appears nearly the width of my wrist, would brush the ceiling if he did not hold it at an angle. And, when holding it away from himself, he must use both hands to steady it, one on the hilt and the other on the blade itself. The thickness of his arms, I assume, is not from carefully training them to be that way as one would back home but rather from using the sword. It looks heavy. 

His mouth tightens, something or other on the metal catching his disapproval, and he rests the sword on his lap, reaching into his pouch. He retrieves a rectangular stone and pours oil on it, scraping it on the blade's edge with repetitive motions. 

I swallow what I've chewed, taking another mouthful of soup, my tongue met with the sweet, earthy flavors of vegetables and salty broth. So simple, yet so much better than anything at Croix.

"How is it?" Riftan asks. 

I cover my mouth as I speak mid-chew, "Good." I'm too drained to follow proper manners. 

"You'll have better food in Anatol," he says, then relents, "but the food here is not so bad."

I shake my head. No, it is not. 

With a drop of the stone back into his pouch, he pulls out some cloth and a small bundle of white powder, which he dips the cloth in. The powder is smoothed along the blade, the metal shining where the fabric has passed. He inspects the sword again, this time with a slight smile, before finishing it with a new cloth and sheathing the blade. 

"Can I borrow that?" He motions to the napkin I am wiping my mouth with, cleaning his fingers after I pass it on. 

We move to the bed, me first, Riftan following, and choose our respective sides—the same as our wedding night, I take the left, he takes the right. Are we to consummate now? I hope not, I am not ready. 

He sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh, removing his boots and shirt. I hear it rather than see it: a thud as shoes are tossed to the side, the rustling of fabric lifted over his head. I face away from him and return to combing my hair. 

The bed shifts. I try not to notice, unable to do so further when he reaches around me for my hands, the touch burning as he pulls them away from my hair. I brace myself for it, the inevitable, as his fingers brush against my neck and sweep my hair behind me. His face dips near my cheek, his breath hot against my skin as he kisses my cheekbone and draws his hands through my hair in a way that makes me shiver. But then he pulls back, continuing to brush through my dark tresses. 

I glance over my shoulder at him, perplexed. He seemed so eager a second ago. Was it really just for this?

He notices me staring, "You seem tired. I'll do it for you." His eyes don't waver from mine, expectant, like he's waiting for permission. 

I turn back to face the wall, "O-okay."

My scalp tingles as he works, my eyes drooping. He's so gentle with it; I can't remember when someone acted such. The maids at Croix are always rough. 

His fingers move closer to the crown of my head, running down in one long motion that lightly tugs on the roots. The tightness in my body eases some. I yawn. 

"Your hair is so soft," he says, "and long." It reaches down to my calves. 

"It's not, um, as healthy as it could be," I say. Back home, it was so thick I could stick a hairbrush in it, and it'd stay. Now, I'm sure it'd fall right through. 

"Still, I think it's very pretty."

Maybe it is. But really, it's just hair.

***

The next day is monsterless as we follow the road through the farm fields of Croyso. Like the villagers, the cultivators pause their work to watch us pass. 

I shield my face from the late summer—Insignias—sun as I ride on one of the supply carts, conversing with the driver next to me. Riftan rides out far ahead at the front of his knights. I can only catch glimpses of him when the road curves, and it is at these times that he will glance back at me. 

"The duke holds vast lands indeed," the driver remarks. He's a squire, proud to soon be knighted—The Red Dragon is to thank for that, he says. "Small wonder his coffers are overflowing."

"You wouldn't, um…you wouldn’t believe how much there is," I say, though I've never seen it, only able to parrot what I've heard. "The duke owns the greatest duchy in, in all of Wedon." Just a piece of it is enough to make a man rich. 

We take brief rests along the way to water the horses and have light meals. The knights ignore me—a fact I am thankful for—gathering in groups for idle chatter and seeing to menial tasks. I look for faces I recognize. 

Rikaydo, I know. He argues with Riftan over a map they've spread over a rock. They jab at the parchment with their fingers, swing their arms wide, their tones sharpened. One of them, mid-spiel, lets go of the map, and it rolls up on them.

Another knight joins, red-haired and burley: Hebaron. He eggs Rikaydo on, forcing a begrudging Riftan to mediate. 

A lankier knight with dark hair that sweeps to the side leans against a tree a ways away, whittling a piece of wood with a knife. Gabel, perhaps? A few other men seem as if they could be him, but they're bigger than what I imagined. 

As for Elliot Charon, there are a plethora of knights with light brown hair, so I give up looking. 

We're back on the move not long after. 

I am told we will be in Anatol tomorrow. It sounds impossible to me, the road seems endless. 

We stop for the night in a farming village with only a few spaces for travelers to rest. 

"Commander, what are your orders? They don't have rooms to accommodate us." Five buildings sit evenly spaced along the road, backlit by the moon. The curtains are drawn, the windows dark. 

"All of the cabins are full of serfs here for the harvest season. But there's an empty grain warehouse you can borrow," a guard accompanying the knight says. 

Riftan's forehead creases, "Is there a place where my wife can stay apart from the others?"

"If you tell me, I will have them leave," the guard's voice trails off, "but it won't be a seemly place for the lady." I bite my tongue, tempted to say I'd take it anyway in spite of his judgment.

"But it's better than the warehouse. If you could only clear a cabin–"

"That's…that’s alright," I interject, catching Riftan by surprise. "I'd, um…I’d feel terrible forcing them out when they've already claimed the, um, space. I'll sleep where you and, and the, um, knights do tonight."

"Nonsense," Riftan says, "there's no reason for you to be uncomfortable." 

I cross my arms, "Tell them to go if you wish. But, um,  I will only give it back to them. There is no…no point in making them clear, um,  only, only to have them go back."

He stares at me, his expression unreadable more so than it usually is—half bemused, half assessing, as if he's attempting to figure out who I am, what he's dealing with. Finally, he relents. 

The storage building smells like old wood left in the sun all day, not entirely unpleasant compared to some of the scents I've encountered on this trip. The men have hung lanterns on the support columns, the flickering light eating away some of the shadows. I make an effort not to look too closely at the silky spider webs and darkened corners—who knows what I'll see?

Riftan lays a blanket out across the pile of straw to be our mattress. I don't care so much about sleeping on the ground, it is my corset that gives me the most grief. If it were on the outside of my dress, I would loosen it. But with all these men around, I'd rather not touch my outer dress. 

Tomorrow, I will be in Anatol, I tell myself as I lie down, turning to find a comfortable position. I will have a luxurious dinner—whatever the chef prepares, but I'm sure it will be delicious—fresh clothing and a cozy bed—I will pile the blankets on top of me and wake up late.

Though meant to relax me, the thoughts do not ease my mind enough to rest. I'm in and out of sleep, my head filled with anxious notions of monsters. 

Maxi faced an entire army— I have to face that same army. I could hardly withstand an ogre! Not to mention the days I will have to spend on the road in the elements. Only twenty-four hours since my last wash, and my skin already feels dirty, covered in sweat and dust. A week without a shower back home, and I'd be cleaner than this!

Riftan shifts beside me, pulling me closer in his sleep. His arm rests like dense bronze over my side, lifting and falling with each breath I take. His own breathing is steady, so placid I can hardly hear it. I focus on it. 

I shouldn't worry so much. The future will come in time, but it's the road directly ahead of me that I must put my effort towards. The castle first, I think, the monsters second. 

***

Croyso passes and Anatollium appears, the farm fields giving way to the mountains and the maples to the conifers. The party works its way through the steep terrain, forced to walk single-file at times. There are parts where the path becomes so narrow and the bank so steep that I grip the edge of the cart, worried I might fall at any moment. 

It is at one of these parts, as we round the bend like a train, that the dense trees thin out, and over them, I see the valley floor unfold. 

Anatol.

Below is a land of reposeful rolling hills covered in golden, wheat-like grass. It ripples as the wind passes through, swaying with it the tree tops that burn like amber. Houses and storefronts nestle together in various clusters, and sheep, like little white dots, graze in the open land. Stretching around the sleepy village and pasture, an unyielding wall of stone rises, disappearing into the mountainside, dissuading whatever seeks to disturb such peace.

In history, we learned how artists, during westward expansion, painted the wilder landscapes and sent them back to the refined cities in the east to convince the folk there to pack up and head west. Romanticism—that's what it was—like rose-colored glasses but bolder, the idealized version of natural sights.

I lived in the foothills of the West. There was one hill near my home that, one day when storm clouds loomed above and the evening light hit it just so, my dad—ever the history buff—referenced such art. 

"I wonder," he said, his hands on his hips as he looked on, "if one of those artists had seen this if he'd had taken out his paint set and gotten to work."

I see such memories here, in the way the sun streams down on the tall mountain faces in thick beams, in how those same mountains block the light, casting long shadows that reach to where I sit, though they must be miles away.

On the closest mountain, where it tapers steadily into the valley floor, stands the castle, the same shadows that reach for my feet covering it, turning its weathered stone more sinister. But amid the shade, the sun touches its back, outlining its features with golden hues like a halo. 

Oh, if I were an artist, I would dedicate my life to painting this scene.

The trail winds down to the outskirts of the village, the impenetrable wall towering over us. 

"We are the Knights of the Remdragon," the knights shout, "open the gate!" The weathered iron creaks as it raises, the colossal wooden doors groaning on their hinges as they are heaved open. 

The town gathers in one thick mass on the other side, cheering with full might. "Rossem Wigrew de Calypse! Rossem Wigrew de Calypse!" The sound is deafening. I doubt anyone would ever cheer for Duke Croix like this. 

Riftan spurs his horse forward, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, extending their hands like laps of water to touch him. Some follow after like magnets. Face after face after adoring face; when it all grows too much, I look upward to the castle instead.

While Croix is a decorative piece, Calypse Castle is a military fortress. Though not grand, it is marvelous in its own right; not boastful, but sure in its ability and fortitude. It watches over us as we wind our way through the village and the surrounding land, up the gradual slope to where it stands guard. Soldiers walk across its ramparts overseeing the long stream of knights come home, and as we pass through the gate into the outer ward, I catch their gaze. Who is this woman? I hear them think. We know the other faces but we do not know her's.

The moment the cart stops rolling, Riftan's hand is there to help me down. He sets me on the ground himself, my eyes too busy wandering. 

The knights are already to work within the castle walls, dismounting horses and handing them off to squires and stable hands, unloading the carts, greeting old acquaintances not seen in years. Their boisterous sound fills the space, invades my senses. I take it all in, the sights, the smells—the smoke of the forge and the overpowering scent of hay, the neighing of horses, the laughter of friends tackling each other and ruffling hair. I make mental notes of them all. 

Riftan carefully nudges me forward, his hand on the small of my back as he guides me towards a second wall, another gate. Past it, soldiers stand in rows lined along the pathway. They raise their swords, create an arch for us to walk through. 

"Welcome back, my lord!" An older man steps forward, meets us halfway down the path, and walks the rest of the way with us. "We are all of us relieved at your return." 

A group of servants wait near the front steps, bowing to their liege. We stop before them, Riftan continuing to speak with the older man.

He introduces me, "This is my wife, Maximilian Roem Calypse, the Lady of Anatol."

The attention shifts to me, the dragon-slayer no longer of interest. What I must look like to these people, a noblewoman—a Roem no less—travel-worn and dirty, and to be their castle's mistress. 

"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Calypse," the older man says. "I am Rodrigo Seric. I oversee all servants in this castle."

"The pleasure is mine," I say. 

We go inside. The air is dank, heavy with mildew, and there is a chill about it. Braziers flicker along the walls, but the chandeliers on the vaulted ceiling above remain dark. Except for them, the room is barren, only stone and brick and wood.

"What happened here?" Riftan leaves my side, stepping to the center of the hall. The servants pale.

"Did I not send a messenger bearing instructions to decorate my castle before my return?"

When did he do that? I wonder. When he left for the dragon, or when he knew he was going to live?

"I did as you commanded me, my lord," Rodrigo answers. His words are less relaxed than before, spoken quicker, meeker, "I placed a new carpet in the parlor and purchased many new furnishings and expensive oils and candles–"

"That is not what I asked for," Riftan's voice raises an octave.

"Riftan," I step toward him, touching his arm. He bites down on his anger. Maxi gained the servant's favor through mediation, that is how I will do it too. "It…it is the lady's job to, um, decorate the castle, and while I have not, um, been here to do it, I will…will see to it now." My voice echoes through the hall. 

I look at Rodrigo, "I would like the, um, ledgers to…review before I call the merchants…and, and, um, a tour after…after my formal introduction to the staff, of course." I give no room for questioning my authority. I am the Lady of Anatol, as Riftan said.

"Of course, Madam," Rodrigo says, "I will see that the ledgers are brought to you right away."

"Bring them to, to me tomorrow," I say. "For now…I would like to rest. Have water sent to our chambers and a ch-ange, change of clothes." The butler nods, sending a maid to do such. 

I turn to Riftan, satisfied with the eased atmosphere, "You will…have to show me where our chambers are."

He draws me to his side with an arm around my shoulder, escorting me to the stairs. "My lord!"

A soldier or knight—I am unsure—moves towards us with long, purposeful strides. "My lord," he gives a curt bow upon reaching Riftan, "there are matters that require your oversight."

Riftan huffs, "Can they not wait?"

"My lord, please, they have needed your assistance for quite some time. If you would but look at them and give us instruction."

Riftan starts to object, "I've only just returned–" but stops as I touch his arm once more.

"You should go," I say. He hesitates, searching for some other protest, but I offer a reassuring smile, "I'll wait for you." Weariness etches itself into the lines on his face. Poor man, I think, taunted with rest like it's a carrot dangled in front of his nose. 

He addresses the servants, "See to it her ladyship is taken care of." And goes. 

A maid steps forward, a woman near my age with similar appearance. Her hair is drawn back under a linen coif, revealing her more angular features. 

"If you would follow me this way, Madam," she says, with a polite curtsy. 

The halls all look the same, hollow-like, the many years of the castle encasing it like a dense fog. The bones of it are still good, though, despite the loneliness that clings to them. It won't take much to liven it up; new glass for the windows to let in the sunshine, some tapestries for warmth. The floors are strong, and a good rug or two can do no worse than enhance them. 

The lord's chamber is on the second floor towards the back, marked by a set of imposing doors that almost touch the ceiling. They swing quietly as the maid opens them, revealing the more welcoming space within. It is like its own oasis, much brighter and homely than the rest of the castle. 

I cross the space toward the large windows on the other side. Their glass is leaded, blurring the outside view but reflecting well the vibrant colors of the evening sky. There is another door leading to somewhere outside, a balcony I assume. I have always wanted a balcony. I reach for its handle but stop myself. 

The maid lingers where we entered, waiting to be dismissed. "What is your name?" I ask. 

"Ludis Ain, Madam." She keeps her head bowed, a calm manner surrounding her. 

"May I call you Ludis?"

Her eyes widen at such a question, mouth parted. "Of...course, Madam."

"I would like you to…to s,serve me, Ludis," I say, "personally. I would like at least one, um, person to be…aware of my habits." She didn't appear much in the novel, but I know she cared for Maxi greatly. I want her to care for me too. 

"It would be my honor."

"Good," I mess with the cuff of my sleeve, "most things I, um…prefer to do…myself, but there are…there are, um, things I need help with…dressing mainly." The dresses here, though lovely, are awful to put on alone. "I trust you will be able to…settle what you need to with the, um, the butler. If not…have him speak with me." 

I glance at the four-poster bed in the center of the room, canopied in rich textiles and blanketed in soft fabrics. It takes all my willpower to not jump on it in my filthy state. 

"Do you…have, um, a functioning bathhouse?" I ask. I think of the buckets of water I will have to wash with tonight, not nearly enough. I need to wring the dirt out of me. 

"There is one within the castle for the lord's use. Shall I have it prepared?"

"Please."

"Then I will do so," she curtsies. "Welcome home, Madam."

Home. The word echoes in my mind as the door shuts behind her. 

I am not Maxi, but I will make this place my home.

Chapter Text

Riftan does not come to bed until much later. He takes me up in his arms and does not move again until early morning when the sun is just cresting the horizon. Then, he is gone. 

Ludis wakes me with the table set for breakfast and my clothing prepared. The wear leans toward austere as I requested: a velvet gown in the style of older, more traditional fashions—still far nicer than any clothing I've ever owned, though simple—and a plain snood for my hair. Modest jewels, light makeup to brighten the face; I appear out of place for someone of great lineage but more approachable and far more down-to-earth. 

"Lady Calypse," Rodrigo bows, the servants following example—a sizeable group has gathered, lined in neat rows at the base of the stairs, "it is our honor to welcome you to Anatol."

A young girl steps forward, offering a basket to me. I thank her quietly as I take it, resting it in the crook of my arm. Within sits a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, a tiny bundle of what seems to be salt, and sprigs of hawthorn and myrtle—gifts for a newlywed bride, wishes for one's blessings and protection and to never go without. 

"They are simple gifts, we know," the butler says, "but we hope you will accept them nonetheless."

I smile, "I will cherish them...as I do any gift." It is not often I am given them.

The servants' attention does not stray from me; they size me up, whisper to one another their thoughts where they think I cannot see. I take a deep breath, gather my courage.

"I know it, um…is a sudden change," I speak clearly, loud enough to give an air of dignity, "to go without a mistress all these years and then…to have one without notice. There are, there are many things I could say on the subject—to assure you all, to inspire you—but, um…but I will not be a bore." A few laugh; I gain a touch more confidence, "I am not one, um, for speeches or grand promises. But I will promise you this: I am honored to be your castle's mistress, and…and I will commit myself to your service if you will to mine . " The mood lifts some, their stances, first rigid and proper, now easing. A trickle of pride courses through me—I may not be one for speeches, but I practiced all night to give that one. 

Rodrigo notices too, glancing over his shoulder with contentment as he approaches me, "If you'd allow me, Madam, I will show you the castle."

I move down from the bottom step of the staircase (my stage for the occasion), allowing Rodrigo to lead me. Ludis follows behind, whispering, "Madam, would you like me to take your basket?"

"No, that is, um, alright, thank you. I will carry it."

Rodrigo takes us down a hallway, sparser and narrower than the others, meant for servants. I would expect most of them to disperse and go about other things, yet many of them who gathered follow us. 

"We will see the kitchens first," Rodrigo holds the door open for me. The air is warmer inside, tinged with woodsmoke and fresh-baked bread, amongst them the fainter scents of herbs and spices. Ludis and I step off to the side, away from the wave of people that bustle by to work. Rodrigo joins us, leaning towards me to remark, "They are beginning preparations for lunch. It will be busier than this in a moment if you can believe it." I'm not sure I can. 

The head chef—a middle-aged, sturdy man with cheeks flushed from the heat—approaches us, wiping his hands on his apron as he offers a respectful bow. "Lady Calypse, I apologize for not making your acquaintance earlier. We're pressed for work, as you can see."

"Please, there is, um, no need to apologize," I assure him. "Efficiency is paramount." He nods, his manner relaxing. I turn to Rodrigo, "The group…the group that, um, greeted me earlier is not all the servants? I noticed there, uh, were some already here when we, uh, came in." And it seems everyone else joined us. 

"About half or so were present to greet you, Madam," he says.

 "Half?" It seemed as if they were only a handful of persons. For a castle lacking in population, such a small number is fine—it is common to let go of servants when the lord and his party are away—but with that population returned, it is not nearly enough. "How many are, um, required here?" As I speak, more pour into the room, some with baskets of fresh produce, others balancing stacks of pots. 

"Most of our available staff, Madam," it is the chef who answers me. "We are spread fairly thin."

"I will, um, see to hiring more servants then," I say, asking Ludis to make a note in the journal I've had her bring. She is already writing. "If that is, um…all, I shall take my leave, uh, and return you the space to work."

The chef bows again, thanking me for my time. I don't know why, I have all the time to give. 

Rodrigo guides me to the Great Hall through a corridor connecting it to the kitchens. The room is a solemn expanse, holding an age-old beauty amid its degeneration. The ceiling seems to be miles high, with crisscrossing beams to support it like a rib cage, and around the vast perimeter of the room spans a great expanse of wood paneling, splitting the walls in half. Both forms need a good polish in the parts that are lighter than they should be. 

On the far wall, above the panels where it turns to plaster, lays a striking, circular window. It is of leaded glass, but I can't help but imagine it stained. It would look better that way, a pop of color in the otherwise sad beige. 

Through the main doors, teams of men carry large tables, the wooden pieces clunking as they are roughly let down; the sound reverberates off the walls. 

"We are to have a banquet tonight," Rodrigo says, raising his voice against the clamor, "to welcome our lord and lady home." He smiles at me. It's one of those made to be polite, mercifully including me in some secret club existing solely within the mind, like a glass wall let down. I smile back. 

I scuff my shoe against the stone floor—chunks are missing. "This room isn't used much, is it?"

The butler sighs, "No, Madam. We seldom receive guests, and the knights and guards often dine in their respective quarters." And there's no reason for the servants to use this room either. 

I look back to the window. The plaster around it makes a perfect canvas: if there was a mural the stained glass could be incorporated into, it would make something unique, a decorative piece other castles wouldn't have, I reason. After all, a great hall is supposed to be great.

It will likely have to wait. There seem to be a lot of projects that need my attention. 

We move outward from the castle into the gardens. 

"Is there a gardener?"

"No, Madam, we have not had the luxury of one. Mostly, the servants take turns pulling weeds and watering and such." I'm surprised they would do that much. There is nothing within the flower beds but some sickly shrubs. 

"Ludis, make note to hire a gardener, please."

This place could be like a secret garden if it had the right landscaping, with the way the inner wall encloses it and the path weaves around. 

"It embarrasses us greatly that we could not welcome the lady with finer conditions," Rodrigo says, "but, simply put, we’ve had no resources to improve things. It is only recently that we even came to manage the estate." 

"Who managed it before that?"

"No one. For many years, the castle sat empty. In fact, the land has only belonged to Wedon for...well, not even fifty years." 

"Truly?"

He nods gravely, “Antatollium, for so long, has been thought to be a wasteland with all the monsters in the region, to the point Wedon overlooked it when reclaiming its original borders after the fall of the empire." He explains how, even once it was claimed, the reigning king—predecessor to the current King Rueben III—did not know what to do with the land; the monsters posed a barrier to many of the farmers attempting to settle. "It wasn't until his majesty granted the land to Sir Calypse that we stood a chance against the monster issue."

"This was after he was knighted?"

"Shortly before."

It would make sense, I reason. To be knighted, one must be noble, and to be noble, one's family must own land. And in terms of the monsters, it would not take much to discover Riftan's skill in their eradication, whether by witnessing it or learning of his time as a mercenary—perhaps it was part of the king's plan for the domestication of Anatol. I've heard he's particularly adept at planning. 

My eyes trail along the wall of the castle, at the grayish bricks weathered by the centuries now long passed. Moss creeps along its sides, browning as the temperature turns, and in other spots, branches of ivy twist out like skeletons without their leaves. 

"Are there, um, any structural issues I should…should give attention to?" I ask. 

"No, Madam." Relief washes over me at the words—maybe I will have my mural. "Sir Calypse repaired the castle extensively upon inheriting it, as he did with most of the more practical aspects, defense mainly. The great wall around the village was one of his first projects, a fairly extensive one." I'll bet. 

We round the corner. Off to the side stands a tree like that out of a storybook, one that might sit forlornly in the middle of an ancient forest for wanderers to find. Its limbs, completely barren, reach toward the sky like it begs for the sun and rain. This must be the infamous oak tree—though the one at Croix must be more so, I decide, but this is its close second. The hamadryad, as Anatol's people celebrate. 

I wait for Rodrigo to mention it, but he says nothing. We continue on to the outer-ward as if it isn't even there. 

He points buildings out to me: where the guards stay, the knights, the squires, and the male servants (the women reside on the ground floor of the castle). Then there is the stables and the smithy next to it. We do not go into any buildings to speak with anyone, but those tending to chores outside or in open doorways pause to watch us pass like I’m a stranger in town in a old western film.

As the castle is built upon the side of a mountain, portions of the ground have been leveled into terraces for the buildings to sit upon. On the lowest terrace is a garden for the kitchens, with raised beds of vegetables and some fruit trees. A brood of chickens wander around, clucking as they scratch for bugs, and a few goats—for milk, I assume—bleat from within their pin. Servants tend to the beds, weeding and watering—this is what Rodrigo must have meant. 

On the highest terrace near a large tower is the training grounds. Through the gateway, I can peer into the enclosed space where a large group of boys spar within, with what appears (and sounds) to be wooden swords. They make the same noise as the tables, only hollower and less reverberative. 

"I did not realize they would be training," Rodrigo says. We come to rest under a tree just outside the grounds; I work to catch my breath after walking up and down so many stairs. "I believe it is a good idea to go back, Madam. The lord does not like spectators to be present during training sessions."

" Might, um…might I have, uh, one moment to rest, please?" I ask, embarrassed. Neither Ludis nor Rodrigo seem much affected by our hike. "I suppose…suppose I will have to get used to such climbs . "

The butler chuckles, "It is understandable. And the altitude does not help much."

"But the mountain air is rather refreshing, is it not?" Ludis asks. 

"Certainly, makes it easy to cool down," I say. "So, um, tell me, what shall we see next?"

"There is the library," Rodrigo says. 

My interest is piqued. "Tell me about that."

"It is quite an impressive collection. About 8,000 books—" sheesh! “ —most dating from the Roem era."

"I would, um, very much like to see it. Once the air has…revived me." My lungs have calmed some, but my face feels feverish and sweaty. The occasional walks at Croix did not do much for me, though I was too busy hiding away to do anything more.

My attention is drawn to a shout within the grounds. The boys have stopped in their motion, clearing a path for Riftan, who makes his way towards one of them. 

"It is not often the lord oversees the squires' training," Rodrigo says. So these are the squires, I think. The boys I saw earlier seemed older and more mature—a testament to their journey, no doubt. 

"What about pages?" I ask. I doubt Riftan would be involved in their training, but still, "I have not seen any." 

"The Remdragons do not admit pages," Rodrigo says. "They prefer to recruit squires, ones that seem promising."

Then, I will not be in charge of anyone's training except my own magical one. Usually, a lord's wife instructs young boys in matters of decorum and traditional education, grooming them for societal life—the dowager duchess, being the only matron of Croix, does such. But it takes a load off my plate to not have to fuss over children, not that I would mind.

Riftan puts his hand on the boy's shoulder as he speaks, working him through whatever error he's made. He then exemplifies the correct stance from head to foot, moving in a way that reminds me of swinging a baseball bat. All the while, the squire stares at him like a believer met with the face of God. 

I cannot help the smile that forms on my lips. "He is a…gruff-seeming man…but he does have a softness to him," I muse to no one in particular. 

Finished in his demonstration, Riftan moves back for the squire to practice, glancing my way almost on accident. He notices me, his face lighting up. I wave, he waves back. 

Rodrigo agrees with me. I look over to find pride seeped into the lines of his face. "To the people of Anatol," he says, "his lordship is most cherished."

Feet crunch against gravel, and I look to see Riftan making his way to me. "I–um, I did not mean to, uh,  disturb you," I say. "If you are busy..."

"I am not busy," he says promptly, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. 

Within the training grounds, the squires have bunched together, stealing looks in our direction. Some are more obvious about it, brazenly staring, while others pretend to be reviewing their drills. Did he ditch in the middle of teaching???

I clear my throat, "I am taking the, um, time to tour the castle grounds. We were resting, um, under the…the tree for a moment."

"Have you rested plenty?"

"I-uh...Yes...?"

"Then allow me to show you the rest of the way." Before I can answer, he yells towards the training grounds, "Break for an hour!"

I turn to Rodrigo, dismissing him, and then to Ludis, "Would you, um, retrieve me after? I want to prepare early for the, um, banquet." With that, Riftan pulls me away. 

"Have you eaten," he asks. 

"Yes," I say, "I had a light breakfast." His hand lingers on the small of my back as he guides me down the stairs. My legs feel lighter traveling down them than up. 

"How about lunch?"

I reach around me, removing his hand to hold onto his arm instead, treating him like railing. "It is a little early," it's not even noon yet. "Besides…uh, with the banquet this evening, it would be, um, better to, to save room. I imagine the, uh, chef will prepare his finest, um, specialties for such an occasion . " The dowager duchess would be mortified if she heard my language—saving room: a very unladylike phrase! But I suppose that is the benefit of being around Riftan: he doesn't care about proper etiquette. It's much easier to be myself that way. 

"How did you sleep?"

"Very well, um, thank you for asking." I can't wait until we're more comfortable around one another after we've moved past the awkward stage of a budding relationship. 

"I would have waited for you," he says, "but I had duties to attend to."

"It is understandable. After…after such, um, a long absence, there must be many things, uh, requiring its lord's care."

"Far too many, in my opinion."

I laugh: a staunch supporter of functionality, it seems. "The issue yesterday...it, um, it has been resolved?"

He looks down at me, brows furrowed, "The issue yesterday?"

"You were called away..."

"Oh!" His memory sparks. "Yes, it is taken care of—as well as it can be at least. It was a matter of defense, monsters spotted near the wall. Not that I wish to worry you," He looks down at me wide-eyed, like only just realizing that his words might be concerning to anyone else.

"I am not worried." I'm a little worried. Monsters, monsters, monsters; that's all the conversations seem to be about. But it must not have been that serious for him not to remember without prompting. 

We climb another set of stairs, this one leading to the ramparts. Once more, the valley unfolds before me, but this time, I must look up at the mountains rather than straight ahead. 

He points to the horizon, "You see that?"

A line of blue reveals itself through the space between two peaks. "Is that the ocean?"

It's funny, the things you miss when you haven't seen them in so long. I haven't thought of it in all this time, and, even so, if asked my favorite place, I would have never said the sea. But I realize I miss the feeling of warm beaches, of collecting shells, the smell of salt as water laps against my feet. I can hardly remember what waves sound like, can't quite recall that particular crash against sand and rock. I try my hardest to imagine it. 

"There's a small port on the other side of those mountains. For fishing," Riftan says. "I'm going to expand it, but first, I have to build a road."

"That's a rather large project," I say, not that I haven't heard—or read—of it before.

A soldier nears us, busy making his rounds, and bows before going on his way. It's rather tedious, all this courtesy. 

Riftan gives a curt incline of his head to the man, but continues on, "A port would serve to connect us to other continents. Merchants will pour in," he says, leaning against the wall. His hand brushes my shoulder, "Just you wait, I'll buy you troves of jewels, wrap you in the finest silks. I will make sure you live more luxuriously here than you did in your father's castle."

I smile, as one would at a child bragging about visiting the moon one day, turning to rest on my elbows, "It will benefit Anatollium, for sure." 

I gaze down at the town, more alive than yesterday where people wander around, tiny like ants. On the far side of the pasture, they are hard at work, building what appears to be a house. 

"So," I say, "you are a knight, and you are lord. I wonder, um…which you prefer."

"It is a good question..." his voice trails away into silence as he watches the scenery over his shoulder. A breeze sweeps past the side of my face and tousles into his hair. He looks back at me, "What do you think so far? Of Anatol."

"It is, um, a very nice place," I say.

"But it is not Croyso."

"Most definitely, and that is its virtue."

He cocks his head, squinting, "What does that mean?"

"Now, now, Sir Calypse," I say, "you did not answer my question. Do, um,  you prefer being…being a knight or a lord?"

He sighs, thinks about it for a moment, "I cannot say for certain. They both have their benefits and drawbacks."

"I think, um...I think both suit you," I say, "leadership primarily." He removes his gloves as I speak, then tucks a stray hair, knocked loose by the wind, behind my ear. Butterflies swirl in my stomach at the feeling of his hand, ticklish against the shell of my ear. The touch burns there. 

"Have I answered your question?" He asks. 

"Yes, I am satisfied."

"Good. Then you must answer mine." I give him the room to speak. "You say it is a virtue Anatollium is not Croyso. I must know what you mean."

I could say so much about this subject, not that I want to. But if we are to be together, work together, he should know. The idea of saying it all, though, of spilling my guts...I grow weary at the thought.

"Croix...um, Croyso, in terms of looks, I think it is a beautiful place," I say, "but, um, there is not much else to do there besides, uh, look. It is an art piece, not a home. But…this place, though, um, pieces of it could be revived," I incline my head to the castle behind us, "it is, um, more welcoming, more...homely." I motion to the mountains, "And, I mean, look at this view. Flat terrain is simply, um…boring when you could have mountains instead . "

He laughs, his face growing wide and the corners of his eyes crinkling. "So what did you do in your father’s castle, then? I'm sure there was something more than just looking."

"I played the harpsichord," I say.

"I remember such," he says. "You would play for everyone at banquets."

He remembers that? What a trivial thing to recall. I tease him, "It seems...it seems I had an admirer." 

He neither confirms nor denies it. "What else did you do?"

"Aside from, um, occasional tea with the, um, dow—my grandmother," I correct myself, "and my sister; and…and going to bed, reading was about all, um, there was. "

"I am not big on reading."

"But Rodrigo tells me you have, um, have such an extensive library."

"The work of previous lords, I'm afraid—and Ruth," he adds. He pushes from the wall and offers his hand to me, "Shall I show it to you?"

"Why, Sir Calypse,” I say, “I thought you would never ask." 

The library is on the third floor and covers most of it. I gasp—a sharp inhale, indistinguishable from any other breath—as I step inside. The shelves tower above me, more hiding behind others, winding this way and that like a labyrinth nearly as large as the Great Hall itself. I look up to where the second floor lays, stretching across the side of the room from wall to wall and mirrored on the other side. Not a shelf is empty. 

I think Rodrigo miscounted when he said 8,000, though I'm known to be bad at estimations. 

"Do you like it?" Riftan asks. 

"Yes," I cover my mouth to hide the giant grin that refuses to settle down. "I think Sir Anatol liked high ceilings," I say, "and books."

I can't help myself. I move towards the closest bookcase, reaching for a worn, leather-bound cover. The sweet, pulpy scent of old paper surrounds me, growing stronger as I take the book into my hands, tracing the stamped title in the center of the cover.

"You have Gerard?" I marvel. I look to another, higher shelf, "Is that Kazaham ?" These are old-age Roem philosophers from when the empire was at its height. Their books are no longer published, made rare commodities now. And here they are, sitting in the open for anyone to read!

I put Gerard away extremely carefully and reach for Kazaham, pushing to my tip-toes. I can barely scrape the binding, grabbing hold of the shelf with my other hand to try and reach more. I step back as fingers cover mine, bumping into Riftan in the process.

His eyes pin me to where I stand as he pulls the book down. "You like these authors?"

"I like Kazaham," I say, taking the book as he extends it to me. "Gerard is rather, um…boring, but Kazaham...he has this, um, way with words. I think I’ve memorized most of them.”

“Have you?” Riftan asks. His body cornering mine against the shelf, he implores, “Tell me some.”

“You want a quotation?” I blush when he nods, “You are, um…you’re putting me on the spot.” But I think of one anyway, clearing my throat before rendering slowly, “Behold…behold the white lily, fr-fragile and unstained, um…doomed to, to return to the decay which birthed it. There it t,transforms…defies oblivion, reborn not…not through, um, not through avoidance but by…by overcoming.” 

Finished, I clear my throat, again, phlegm coating the walls and making them sticky. “It’s…it’s kind of meaningless when you think about it…just states the obvious.”. A flower blooming and dying is the natural cycle of life. “But it is beautiful.” 

"It is," he says. His thumb caresses my chin, scraping dangerously close to my lip, "But you surpass its beauty by far." I am speechless at first, but I soon gather myself. It is laughable, really, the effect his words have on me. 

"You are, um, paying me lip service, Sir?" I push away, distancing myself, "For…for someone so lacking in experience with women, you, um, you surely are a dog. Is it a man's instinct to act such?" I smirk at him. 

He pauses, regarding me, then stalks forward like a wolf upon its prey, "It is certainly instinctual."

I've taken a step back before I've consciously realized it. It does not go unnoticed. 

"So confident, yet so quick to shy away," he drawls, closing the rest of the distance. He wraps his arm around me, his tone taking on a dangerous glint, "My sweet lady, I must warn you, I do not take kindly to insults. A dog you call me, shall I show you one?"

My gaze drops to his mouth as he whispers these words, my tongue wetting my bottom lip. I clutch the book tighter to my chest. He leans closer, but I cover his mouth with my free hand. 

"It is, um…it is nearing the hour," I say, "you…pro-promised your squires you'd…that you’d be back. "

He takes my hand—only now do I see how much bigger his is compared to mine—and kisses each of my fingertips. "Did I now?" 

Did he? I find I can't recall. 

My stomach gains a flutteriness that fills up my ribcage, giving room for my heart to build speed. It pounds, pushing all the blood to my cheeks, where it pools thick and hot. "Does the…does the Lord of Anatollium not keep his appointments?" I dare to ask. 

He does not answer me, the shadow fallen over his eyes an answer enough. My breath becomes all shaky as he sucks a finger into his mouth and licks. 

I jump as the door opens, ripping my finger from Riftan's mouth. His teeth scrape against it. 

"My apologies," Ludis, the poor woman, hurries to say. She hunches over herself, hiding her face from our sinful display. "You told me to retrieve you, Madam."

"Yes, thank you," I say, freeing myself from Riftan's grasp. I curtsy to him, keeping my eyes everywhere— anywhere —but him. "I will, um, will see you for dinner."

"Yes," he says, "I will see you then."

***

Around this time of year, as Etherias creeps in, the days grow shorter, and life adjusts to fit it. Bedtime grows sooner, and, naturally, dinner, as well, after the servants have lit the candles. 

Tonight, it has begun without me, as I hoped it would. If they are focused on their meals, they will not focus on me. Better for opinions to be formed gradually than all in one grand entrance. 

"Are you ready, Madam?" Rodrigo asks. I say I am, stilling my frightened heart as he opens the door. 

In front lies a room full of men who constitute as weapons in their own right, trained from childhood to be eased killers, and I—excluding the maids who attend to their meal—am the only woman—and the daughter of their most hated fiend. The maids have bones to throw their way while I only have Riftan. 

They don't notice as I step into the room, their chatter far louder now that I'm inside than it was through the door. I look to the dais on the other side where the high table has been set for the lord and me and those who might join us, but, aside from its centerpieces, it is empty. Odd, I was told Riftan was here already. 

"Maxi!" He stands from within the crowd, arm raised, beckoning me. 

Immediately, the room is silent, every ounce of attention placed on me—so much for lying low. I keep my eyes fixed on Riftan, moving gracefully to where he sits amongst his knights. 

The pink overcoat of my dress trails behind me as I walk, the creme skirts of my gown swishing at my feet. I have opted, once more, for something modest and unboastful, less likely to draw scorn. At first, I thought of choosing their colors, white and blue, but ultimately decided against it: they do not want my association. And green, the color of House Croix, would be a death sentence. But creme and light pink are gentler colors, without affiliation; docile. Not glittering like a Croix might wear, nor naive and childlike, but innocent. 

Riftan presents me to the senior knights: Hebaron, Rikaydo, Gabel, and so forth. Only some faces are new. For the most part, they are unimpressed. They know who I am, they were witnesses to our marriage. 

"I hope you will all treat her well and with respect," Riftan's words snap them from their stupor. They raise their glasses to me and throw pleasantries my way. I smile in thanks. Soon they forget about me and return to their meals, each of us glad it is over. 

Riftan acts to support me as I step carefully over the bench and smooth my skirts, making sure to move my hair out of the way so I do not sit on it. I have left it down for the evening, sweeping it out of my face with pearl combs. The moment I sit, maids are quick to serve me bread and a chalice of water. 

"You do not want wine?" Riftan leans toward me to ask, keeping his voice low. 

"It does not agree with me," I give as an explanation. A lie, I can drink just fine, it is getting drunk that worries me. I'm a talkative one. I cannot imagine the things I might say without control over myself, the incriminating information I might freely give. They might lock me away for insanity, and how am I to get anything done then?

The maids return, setting a trencher—a plate of stale bread—before me. It is full of meat and gravy, the edges softening as they soak up the juices. I cut into the meat with my knife, spearing it on the blade's point to bring it to my mouth. Another thing I miss: forks. But alas! medieval folk have an aversion to such utensils. 

"Try the pheasant," Riftan says. He cuts me a slice. It's gamey, but the baste absorbed within its meat gives it a rich, indulgent flavor. 

" Mmm ." He laughs at my reaction, but the flavor is too good to speak. This place is going to make me fat. I wipe my fingers on the tablecloth before reaching for my drink to clear my palate for the next dish. 

The servants move around in shifts, switching old plates with new ones. A platter of fresh pies is set near us. Riftan cuts into one, offering me a bite of the crust with the filling stacked on top. I attempt to take it from him, but he gestures like he wants to feed it to me. In public ?

I glance at the knights around us, too busy jesting around with each other to notice us, so I open my mouth and allow him to set the food on my tongue. Part of the filling bumps against my lips. He wipes it away with his thumb and tastes it himself. 

At that moment, I turn away from him, sure my face is beet red, and catch Hebaron's eye in the process. The knight snickers. 

This man will be the death of me. 

"Sir Calypse!" A white-haired boy rushes to our table, wedging himself between Hebaraon and the man next to him. "Is it really true that you stopped Dragonbreath with your sword?" The noise in the room dampens. Other tables still converse, but they all crane their ears to listen. "I heard that dragon fire is the most powerful magic in the whole world, that it can blow up mountains! How did you stop such powerful flames?"

Riftan's jaw ticks, but he humors the boy, "My sword has unique qualities." 

"I'll say," Hebaron interjects. "The captain's sword has a rare attribute that absorbs external magic and turns it into its own." A strong wave of deja vu overcomes me as the conversation continues. 

"And is it true that Sir Calypse competed with Kauhel Leon of the Divine Knights?"

Rikaydo answers him this time, "They kept their confrontation a secret. Many fights happen among knights, but we were there to slay a dragon, not to point our swords at one another."

"What were you fighting about?" I ask Riftan. 

He shrugs his shoulders, "It was nothing." I sigh. That's all he ever says: it was nothing . 

"Still," the white-haired boy insists—Ulyseon, I assume, though I cannot tell if his eyes are violet through the glare of candles, "it's such a waste that no one knows about the duel between the two most famous knights on the continent. It must have been a sight to see."

"It was enough that the dragon was defeated," Riftan's tone is dry. "Besides, even that wasn't a formal battle. The win at the dragon's nest was only because of my sword's magic properties."

"It is not like you to be so humble," Gabel retorts. Isn't it, though? That is all he has ever been towards me. "And anyone who saw it would say it was a fair fight."

The squires call out to hear more about the fight between Sir Leon and Riftan. "You want to hear more about that than the dragon?" Gabel exclaims. 

"No, no! Tell us about the expedition!"

Gabel jumps right into the story, going so far as to climb onto the bench for everyone to hear. I lean closer as the squires do, enthralled by every word. His storytelling is magic of its own. 

A feather-light touch dances across my hands, messes with the jewels around my neck. I ignore it. I have to hear more of the story, like watching an episode of a show I will never see again. 

"Twin globes of amber, burning as embers in the dark, did watch us, and a growl—not so much as heard but felt—tore through that same dark. Only the bravest among us stepped forward and dared to draw their swords."

"Our commander, no doubt!"

"Be sure of it!"

The touches persist; someone laughs, almost scoffs. It is not until Riftan rises from the table that I bear witness to what my disregard has caused. 

"My wife is tipsy, so I shall take my leave first," he says to the knights directly around us, extending his arm to help me up. I clear my throat before taking it, cautiously removing myself from the bench—I suppose I sell the bit of being drunk just by how hard it is to maneuver in this dress. I'm practically tangled in the fabric, made a spectacle in the process, even as Gabel continues to speak. 

Should I say something, bid them goodnight? I am led away before I can decide, catcalls and whistles thrown our direction. 

"Let the castle be christened!" Someone toasts. Cheers erupt.

"Riftan, slow down," I plead, tripping over myself to keep up. He listens enough to lessen his pace, but his attention remains fixed on the path ahead. His hand leaves mine only when we reach the stairs, where I must use both of mine to lift my skirts; his touch meanders to my back, spurring me on. It does not stay there, of course. At the top of the stairs, his hand starts to wander, feeling my side: down towards the base of it, then up towards my breast.

"Riftan..." I almost moan, struggling to keep my voice quiet. The hallways are devoid but, thus, so silent that any noise travels. I squirm away from him, even as he leads me, my head dizzy. 

At such actions, something snaps within him. He shoves me into the nearest corner, cradling my head so as not to cause injury. Any yelp of surprise is muffled by his lips; they drink me in, attempt to swallow me. My lungs fall flat, begging to breathe. I push him away to chase my breath. 

His mouth finds my neck, biting it, his nose brushing the corner of my jaw. "Your perfume," he groans, the sound of it strained. My stomach grows heavy and warm, the space between my thighs wetter. He kisses a trail down my pulse point, thumping under the pressure of his lips. "I've been thinking about this all day...you and your books..."

I take his mouth in mine before he can say another word, finding myself lost in it all. My hands tangle into his hair, drawing him closer as I moan into his mouth. I crave the sweet release that only sex can bring, release I haven't felt in a long time. 

It is he who pulls away this time, drawing my lip with him until it snaps back, free from underneath his teeth. He whispers against my mouth, "And the way you looked at those other men—drove me near insane." He starts to lift me. 

"No–" My voice is louder than I intend it to be, but he immediately sets me down. We stand there staring at one another, our minds making poor attempts to catch up, until footsteps are heard rounding the corner. 

Instinct takes over, then, before reason can. I take his hand and pull him down the hall towards our room. I feel so giddy—when was the last time I felt this way?—intoxicated by the chemicals coursing through my blood.

The door is shoved open, clothing ripped off—my overcoat on the floor, his tunic following it, my shoes and socks. His tongue winds its way into my mouth, and I gladly let it as he undoes the laces of my dress and then my corset until they are piled around my feet. 

And then I am on the bed, lifted and carried there, my chemise tossed away into some careless direction. I lay bare on the mattress, his eyes roving over me like I am a feast more tempting than the last set in front of him. He does not touch me as he looks, first at my face, then my breasts, then lower, gaining a ravenous edge.

And then something shifts. 

Like a candle blown out, the hunger leaves his eyes. He reaches towards me, towards the faint, purple bruise on my hip, touching his hand to it like it is porcelain. Though gentle, the chill of his fingers burns like fire, setting me alight. I suck in a breath. 

His gaze flicks to mine, then to the birthmark down the center of my chest. He traces it. 

Riftan backs away from the bed and to where his shirt lays discarded. I sit up and take an unsteady step towards him. 

"Where–where are you going?" I ask—I know the answer. Anywhere but here. 

He looks at me as if I am a visage, a hallucination—perhaps something he knows far too well—and I cannot tell if it is with ease or pain that he tears his gaze away. 

He pulls his tunic over his head and adjusts it over his waist. "Don't wait up," he says and leaves.

Chapter Text

Over the next week, clouds gather, and it rains—then pours, then drizzles—until the wet is spent and the castle begins to dry. I don't see Riftan at all. Somehow, despite the downpour, he manages to avoid me. 

The clouds still hang thick in the sky like insulation in an old attic, the dreariness of the previous weather clinging to the atmosphere like lint. 

"Come to say your goodbyes?" 

"You, um...make it sound permanent."

Riftan meddles with the reins around his horse's face, the last preparation before he must depart. Around us, his knights do the same, the outer-ward filled with the same buzzing energy as when I first arrived.

I stand off to the side as the conversation—if it could be called that—falls silent. Talon—I think that is his name—Riftan's warhorse shifts his massive weight from hoof to massive hoof, a thick vein in his gargantuan neck twitching. I make sure to put space between us. 

Satisfied, Riftan pats the beast's shoulder, then turns to face me fully. Any words I might have said escape me. 

"I...wish you, um...safe travels," I say instead.

He peers down at me blankly before shifting his gaze away as he rubs the back of his neck, "I will return as soon as I can."

I swallow as he reaches for my chin and lifts it up to press a chaste kiss to my mouth—a quick peck desired to be more, but neither of us moves to do such. He pulls away and mounts his warhorse, clearing the distance from ground to saddle with practiced ease. Riftan inclines his head to me as he clicks Talon forward, moving to the front of the knights waiting to go. 

The order to leave is given. I watch them file out and remain even when the gate shuts after the last knight is gone. 

***

I meet with the merchant as soon as possible. 

"Marble tiles would suit this room far better."

"I would, um, prefer to replace the broken tile than the whole floor," I say. 

Aderon frowns, "Madam, this castle belongs to the greatest knight on the continent. Wouldn't you agree Calypse Castle should match its lord in notability?"

"Sir Calypse is a…practical man," I stand my ground, "and this castle has, um, has a history I would like to preserve. If you, um, could find me bricks to match the already laid stone…enough to repair all of the ground floor, not…not just the Great Hall."

The merchant relents. 

I direct his attention toward the circular window, "Now…this part of the room I would, um, like to improve." I explain my plans, "I will need a painter and a glazier," or whatever a window-maker is called. "I am…curious to know how much, um, that would cost."

"I will find a quote for you."

As we speak, the door to the Great Hall opens, and Rodrigo walks in, making his way to me. "The seamster has arrived," he says.

"Seamster?" I do not recall sending for one.

"The lord has brought one for you, Madam. He did so before he left."

Aderon starts to gather up his things, "I will place these orders right away if you will allow me my leave."

"That would be appreciated," I say, bidding him good-day. 

Rodrigo leads me to the Solar, a private sitting room connected to mine and Riftan's bedroom, where the seamster waits. It is also connected to the castle's wardrobe and, thus, an optimal choice for gown fittings. 

The seamster, Mr. Serus—a stout man beginning to gray and bald—has covered every available table with fabrics and threads and boxes of accessories. He greets me with a broad smile and open arms, his wife taking a milder stance behind him. 

"Your maid has gone over what you plan to buy already: nightgowns, undergarments, shoes," he lists them on his fingers. "For your dresses, did you have any particular styles in mind? I've brought several examples of current fashions in the capital if you desire to see them."

I sit on one of the benches, the wood pushing against my hips so that I must twist to find a comfortable position. Ludis enters with a pot of tea, pouring me a cup. She moves to stand next to Rodrigo until I pat the spot next to me in which she sits down. 

"For, um, my everyday wear," I say, "I will not need anything significant. But I…I would like more modern fashion to, um, wear for special occasions."

The seamster sits in the chair across from me, setting a substantial-sized book on the small table between us. He opens the page he wants as if he has memorized the contents, "For special occasions, might I suggest gowns like these?" The dresses look like what Rosetta would wear—it's almost overwhelming. "The current style is inclined to less visible undergarments and attached sleeves," the seamster says. "Skyan is also starting to favor hoop skirts, but the ladies in our court and the other kingdoms have yet to be impressed." He chuckles to himself. 

I turn to the next page, pointing to one of two dresses, "I like this one." It has a higher neckline, more curved than the usual square. 

"If I may," Mrs. Serus, silent until now, speaks up, "I think the one next to it would suit you far better."

I look at her suggestion. It is a beautiful design, to be sure, with elegant puffed sleeves that the ladies often wear to parties like those of the duke. But the neckline is significantly lower, fitting underneath the breast, the scandalous parts to be covered by a chemise. 

"I'm not sure..."

Ludis agrees with the seamster's wife. "You would be so radiant," she says.

"How about this grayish-blue silk alongside this patterned one?" Mrs. Serus holds the fabrics next to each other for me to see. "We could interchange them along the skirt."

I clutch my necklace, holding it just above my birthmark. I'd need larger jewelry to cover it and to pray it wouldn't slip. 

I look back at the dress, then at the fabric again. It would be pretty…

"Yes, I...I think that will, um, work."

The seamster writes it down as I find another dress to purchase. I choose a higher neckline—I refuse to compromise. "Do you have a red fabric, something dark?" A maroon velvet is retrieved. I run my hand along the smooth side of the fabric, silky against my skin.

"That is lovely," Ludis says, touching the fabric, too. "It suits your complexion."

"I will take this one," I say, "and, and a softer red for the trim. With some gold patterning, perhaps?" I look to Ludis in question. She nods. "I think that is all, um…all I will need for finery. What do you have for everyday wear?"

They show me a few options similar to what the castle already owns but would be made to fit my body. I order them. And since we are on the subject of practicality:

"What do men usually wear as riding clothes?" I ask. 

The seamster does not pause in his writing, "Is his lordship in need of riding wear?"

"No, I am," I say. Pants would be best for the expedition to Ethelene. They would certainly make my life easier. 

They stare at me. 

"We can make riding clothes for you, Madam," the seamster says with a glance at his wife. "There are several options the ladies in court enjoy wearing, perfect for side-saddle."

"I do not wish to ride side-saddle. I would, um, prefer the...regular way..."

Again, a look is shared. "Is side-saddle not the regular way for ladies?" The seamster asks. Within his question is another question: am I not a lady?

What of Agnes? I think. Does she not wear pants? With all this staring, I second guess myself. Maybe she didn't. Maybe that was a product of the manwha rather than the novel…

I take my teacup, holding it carefully over my lap, "I just think it would be, um, more...more functional–"

"All our options are functional, Madam," Mrs. Serus insists. She turns the book to another set of pages with women displayed on horses. The ladies wear feathered hats and long, decorative coats and skirts covering the ankle. The illustrious ankle—men swoon to think of it, don't they?

"These riding coats are just gorgeous. Are they not, Madam?" Ludis says. "That reminds me, you will need coats for Pasias. We must make sure to order some."

"We have many options for Pasias wear," Mrs. Serus says, flipping through the book to a new section. I take a sip of my tea, set it back down in my lap as I am shown several fur-lined coats. 

I'll at least have riding boots made, I figure. I can always deal with clothes later. 

***

The temperature has dropped rapidly since the first rain, despite that it is only early autumn. A coat of frost spreads over the grass, slowly melting in the late morning sun as I make my rounds for winter preparations. 

"Madam, are you warm enough?" Ludis asks for the third or fourth time—I've lost count—clutching her shawl tighter as we move through the shade of the inner-gate and into the outer-ward. 

"I am alright," I say. 

"I'm surprised how cold it is," she says. "The weather here is usually much warmer."

"Do you think it will snow?"

"At this rate, it very well could. Hasn't for over a decade, though."

She follows me into the stables, where the air is substantially warmer and pungently sweet-smelling—a mix of grass and the general smell of animals. I cannot decide if I like it or not. 

One of the stable hands notices us. In the middle of cleaning a stall, he sets his tools down and goes to fetch the stable master. The man is younger than I expected him to be and friendly. I tell him I am preparing for winter and ask if he needs anything. 

"Your attention is much appreciated," he says. He lists out the units of hay they are short of, as well as grain. Ludis writes what he says. 

"The smithy is all that's left," I say to Ludis upon our exit. I've seen the main castle—the servants, the kitchens—and the knights (who were terrifying but polite). I still need to speak with Ruth about the potion; while I'm at it, I may as well ask about the ledgers to see if I'm doing it right—and I suppose if he needs anything. 

The smithy is closest to the main gate, a few hundred feet from the stables. The way is all dirt, dampened with moisture though not entirely muddy. Our shoes leave shallow prints as we walk. 

"A good long rest by the fire will do us good after this," Ludis says. "And a nice, warm meal." I am about to agree with her when we are interrupted.

"Lady Calypse?" Ludis and I stop at the sound of my name—ahead, approaching from the training grounds, is a white-haired boy, the same one from the banquet, accompanied by another squire. The first boy, realizing he is correct in his assumption of my identity, calls out again, now running towards me as his friend races to catch up, "Madam!"

Ludis steps in front of me as they draw nearer, their boots slapping in the mud. 

"Ulyseon. Ulyseon," The second boy hisses, attempting to catch his friend. It is too late. The white-haired boy reaches me before he can be intercepted. 

"Lady Calypse," he bows, not even the slightest out-of-breath. "I could not help but notice your ladyship is without an escort–"

His friend pushes him back, stepping between us, "Forgive my friend's curtness, please, Madam. He gets excited, is all, and forgets himself ." The last part is directed at the other boy. 

"It is alright," I smile, stepping out from behind Ludis, who is hesitant to let me do such. "You are Ulyseon—" I point to the first boy, then his friend “—and Garrow?"

Their eyes widen, Ulyseon's face lighting up.  "How did the lady know that?"

I shrug, "Lucky guess." If they ask further, I'll say I overheard someone referring to them as such—it's not entirely a lie. "Was there anything you, um, needed?"

"Oh!" Ulyseon pushes from Garrow's arm and bows again, almost exaggeratedly. "Forgive me, Madam, for my curtness, but I could not help but notice that you—and the miss—" he addresses Ludis “—are unaccompanied. My friend and I were wondering if, perhaps, you would like an escort to protect you."

"Protect us?" I glance back at Ludis, who is busy mean-mugging the two of them. "That is quite the proposition."

"We may only be squires, but we would risk our lives to save you from danger," Ulyseon declares. 

Garrow rolls his eyes, "My friend greatly exaggerates the direness of the circumstance, but it's true that the castle is not the safest place for two ladies to go without escort. Especially your ladyship."

"Then I suppose my maid and I must accept your highly generous offer," I cannot help but humor them. "We were just on our way to the blacksmith."

"What a coincidence!" Ulyseon says. "We were heading there ourselves. Do you have special business with the smith, if I may ask?" He strolls along next to me, shortening his stride to match mine. 

"I am making preparations for this upcoming season of rest. What of you?"

He looks away sheepishly, "I broke my sword while sparring. It is the second time this month alone."

"I thought you practiced with wooden swords?"

"During designated training sessions, we do. I like to do extra sparring."

"Yeah, against rocks," Garrow adds, ignoring the glare from Ulyseon. 

Slightly frazzled, Ulyseon calms himself, "The black-smith is never pleased to see me. I am sure to get a scolding from him."

"One of these days, you'll have to listen to it," Garrow says. 

"Ulyseon? Ulyseon, is that you?" A gruff voice calls out. A tall, burly man on par with the knights clambers out of the smithy, shoving the door to the side, "I swear by all the saints if you've brought me another blasted, broken blade, I'm gonna–"

"Please, do not speak so harshly!" Ulyseon shouts. "You are in the presence of the lady of the castle."

The blacksmith stands ram-rod straight at the sight of me—that first glimpse of white hair having woken a beast in him with no time to notice anything else. His entire demeanor changes. 

"Set the blade on the table," he says to Ulyseon, who promptly does as he's told. The blacksmith turns to me with mild manners, "How might I help your ladyship?"

"Um, how might I help you?" I ask, glancing at Ludis, who has her journal open. "Are you in need of, um, anything for...for Pasias?"

He runs a hand through his beard, parts thinner than others and coated in soot. The scent of smoke hangs from his clothes. "We'll need coal and wood and some tallow to maintain the leather on the bellows—keeps it from cracking." Ludis scribbles it down. 

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Madam," he says. He lowers his head, "Forgive...forgive my earlier scene." I assure him it is alright. I'm sure Ulyseon drives people insane. 

"You saved my life back there, Madam," Ulyseon whispers to me as we make our exit. 

Garrow slaps him on the back, "Seems like Lady Calypse is your protector rather than you hers."

I laugh, but Ulyseon appears dejected. "I am sorry to put you in such a situation."

"Please, have no hard feelings," I say. It was rather amusing. 

My words seem to comfort him, his expression brightening. "May Garrow and I escort you to wherever you are going next?"

"You may," I smile, though I thought they already were. "We are returning to the, to the main building for the rest of the, um, the day." We make our way to the inner-ward. 

"You know, Madam," Ulyseon walks backward to maintain eye contact, "I am related to one of the twelve knights of Roem, pledged to Darian the Monarch himself. It is my ancestral duty to protect you."

"That is quite the legacy to live up to."

"Make no mistake of it," he says, "but Sir Calypse is far greater. My ancestor's legacy I could achieve, but I don't know when I could possibly reach the tip of Sir Calypse's feet with my labors. I could only hope to become a tenth of the knight he is."

"Considering we'll be Remdragons next year, don't you think your goal is too...low?" Garrow asks. 

"You don't understand, Garrow! Sir Calypse is the greatest knight to ever live. Forget one-tenth—even being one-hundredth of the knight he is would be a notable achievement."

"He has, um…has always been impressive," I admit, "even before he was knighted."

Their ears perk like dogs at a faint noise. "You knew Sir Calypse before he was a knight?" 

"I didn't know him personally," I say, though I did know his name without him telling me so. "He saved my life when we were kids." Now Ludis is intrigued. 

"I was playing in the woods one day with my dog," I begin, "when we…we were attacked by a, by a lizard monster that had found its way through the wall." I describe the scene in thick, gruesome details, acting out the parts as the boys watch enraptured.

"And he picked up the largest stick he could find, and he stabbed it—" I stab the air, throwing my whole body into it “—again and again, until it fell. And then he k,kicked it—" I kick the ground “—until he was sure it was dead. Then, he ran and, and he knelt before me to suck the, um, the venom from my wound."

"It bit you?"

"Sure did," I hold up my arm, though it is covered by my sleeve. "You can't see it, but I have a scar right here," I tap my elbow.

"Have you seen it?" Garrow asks Ludis. 

"I will have to check the next time I dress the Madam," she says. 

"Finish the story," Ulyseon says. He sticks to every word I speak. 

"I have no more to tell," I say. "Riftan carried me to safety, and I…I did not see him, um, after that."

"Not at all?"

"He left and became a mercenary." And the rest is history. "I have other stories," I say. "I will tell you them…some other time. But, um, for now, I must return to work. Thank you for your fine escorting. I hope you do so again."

"Of course! It was our honor, Madam," Ulyseon says, bowing low. The squires thank me for the story, discussing it as they run off down the path. 

"They are sweet boys, no?" I say to Ludis. 

She agrees with me. "A talkative bunch, for certainty."

I send Ludis to the kitchens to have lunch prepared and make my way to the library after updating the ledgers, peering around the shelves and over desks for the mage. The fireplace is out within the room, a draft setting in from outside.

He's tucked beneath a table on the upper floor, curled tightly within a ratty woolen blanket that wraps around him like a cocoon. The sight gives me pause. I know it's his thing or whatever to sleep in the library—call it a character quirk—but that cannot be comfortable. Would his tower and bed not be better? Does he even have a bed???

I frown at the ridiculous thought. Of course , he has a bed...I hope...I'm not entirely convinced. 

I should go, I think. The ledgers and potion can wait, after all. But I waver, pursing my lips together. It'd be really, really nice to get it all done today…

I dare to step closer, crouching down to peer under the table, still debating whether to wake him or not. He's unnervingly still, his face pale in the faint light, almost translucent. Is he even alive?

I lean in, listening for breath. 

"What are you doing?"

I jerk upright, hitting my head against the table. " Ow!"

The mage sits up, tossing the blanket aside and crawling out from his makeshift cave, "Do you make a habit of watching people while they sleep?"

"I was trying to make sure you were alive," I say, rubbing the sore spot on my head. Shit, that hurts!

"Do you need me to look at that?"

"No." I push myself up from the ground, straightening my skirts. "You, um, are Ruth, are you not?"

"The one and only," he scratches himself, moving to sit at the table. "Now, why did you wake me up—and so creepily, might I add?"

"I, um, had...I had a few things I needed," I say. "Um, first, I wanted to ask you about the oak tree in the gardens. I know that it has great...significance to the, the people here, um, but it's not growing any leaves."

"It's more than likely dormant."

"I figured as much. I wanted to ask if you, um, had a potion or spell, or something to revive it."

"Shouldn't be too hard. I'll see what I can do. What else did you need?" He opens a book on the table, leaning over it like he's hinting that he wants me to go. 

"I was told that you were, um, were in charge of the ledgers for a time."

"I was when Sir Calypse first inherited the castle."

"Could you review what I've done so far?" I hold up the big fat book they’re in. "I have been taught, um, how to...keep one, but I've never done so at this, um, scale...any scale, really."

"Why don't you ask the butler?" he dismisses me, rubbing his face as he gives attention to the material in front of him. 

"Could you not spare a second?"

"I am busy."

I grit my teeth and step forward, letting the book drop. It slams against the desk, causing Ruth to jump, a cloud of dust billowing around us as I stare him down. 

"The butler," I keep my voice soft, make him have to lean in to listen, “has a tendency to adulate. He'll…he'll tell me not to worry about the costs, just like my husband. But I think we both know the cost is more…important than that. I don't–" I cross my arms, "I need someone who'll tell me like, um, like it is, so...if you don't think that...think you're up to it, that's fine." I reach for the books, sliding them away, when he grabs hold of them. 

"I'll look at them," he says, taking the ledgers. "But only because you've never done it before. Don't expect me to be this nice next time."

I direct him to the correct page, "I won't."

He rests his hand on his fist as he scans through the paper, muttering the words as he reads them. He stops at one, taping it with his finger, "A stained glass window...a stained glass—do you know how expensive stained glass is? And here," he taps the next line down, "you have a painter!"

"It is not that expensive, believe me. Compared to half of the, um, things that merchant wanted to do, we go off scott-free," I argue. For good measure, I throw Aderon's line at him, "Sir, um, Sir Calypse is the greatest knight in all of Wedon. He deserves a castle fitting of his caliber. Besides, I've cut, um, costs in other areas."

"That's why you ordered new dish wear for the kitchens? What's wrong with the dishes?"

"They're made of lead."

"Pewter."

"Which has lead," I blink at him in disbelief. He motions as if saying, 'So what?' I tell him what , "Lead, when ingested, makes people go...crazy," among many other health problems. 

He cocks an eyebrow, "Where'd you hear that?"

"I read it in a book," I say because the alternative is a bit unorthodox—chemistry classes and med-school attendance are to be swept under the rug when my knowledge is contested. "Regardless, um, of whether it's true or not, it's better to be safe than sorry. Half the people in this castle are, um, crazy enough as is...in my opinion, at least."

"Can't disagree with you, there," he relents. 

I lean against the table as he returns to inspecting my work. "Overall, it is not bad, right?" 

He sighs, "Yes, yes, it is satisfactory—not that I would ever spend this much." He reviews the lines I’ve made for winter prep, looks them up and down and sideways before writing a few items himself. "Just books for me," he says. "Order a few under these authors."

I bite my tongue as I take the ledgers back. Bastard tells me I'm spending too much, then turns around and orders luxury items!

"Problem?" He reclines in his chair, eyeing me. 

"No."

"Good," he says. "Now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I have a potion to make." He waves me off.

Chapter Text

Ruth finishes the potion a few days later. 

The servants chatter softly, exchanging thoughts and questions, hushing when the mage raises his hand for silence. Ruth uncorks the potion bottle, and encircles the base of the tree, splashing the roots with a greenish liquid. When the bottle is empty, he returns to our group and spreads his arms toward the sky. 

"Oh, great spirit of nature, mighty and benevolent in all your doings," he cries, "take this poor one into your arms and grant your breath of life." I can only choke down my laugh at his theatrical plea, but the servants watch enraptured. 

Ruth holds his arms wider, soaking in the sun like its vigor, before drawing them back towards his body. At first, the light appears to warp around him, small and slow, then fast, until clearer tendrils of gold extend from his body to grasp the tree. The atmosphere shifts, hardly noticeable, but enough of a change to question if I truly felt it. 

The golden light billows around Ruth's hair and cape, the fabric expanding and waving as the branchlets move out in all directions, glinting like tiny, polished threads. They weave in and through each other, forming brighter beams. 

I reach for the closest one which curves near me, curious of its feel, when a piece of it zaps to my finger like lightning. My hand recoils as the magic moves like honey up my fingertips into my arm, both warm and cold like I've added each of my limbs one by one into a room-temperature bath. The feeling expands through my body until it wanes in my stomach and disappears. 

The light fades. The atmosphere stills as Ruth lowers his arms, and the servants clap for such a performance. 

"Wasn't that simply magnificent?" someone remarks. "I've never seen magic like that before."

Another agrees, "It'll be so nice when the tree grows again."

With the show over, they begin to clear from the gardens, leaving me behind with the mage. I step towards the oak tree, touching its bark, if only to feel the magic, once more. There is nothing. 

"You have mana affinity," Ruth says, leaning against the trunk. "Did you know that?"

“I did not,” I say. I suspected—Maxi had magic, and I am supposed to be her—but no matter how many times I’ve read the books, I never know anything for sure. Even with this confirmation of my abilities, my relief is indistinguishable from my excitement—a weight both taken off and put on. So many responsibilities will arise from this one simple realization. After all, a mage is always needed. 

“All that light…what, um, what kind of spell was that?”

“No spell,” he says, “just mana. I infused the tree with some to strengthen it, the potion will work better that way.”

“Mana…” I feel the shape of the word on my tongue. 

“It is the energy source of magic.”

“I know what it is,” I say, removing my hand from the tree. “It’s just, um…you released so much. Wouldn’t it have been, um, been better to cast it into the tree directly?”

“Probably,” he shrugs, “but that wouldn’t be interesting, now would it?”

I smile. No, no it would not.

***

The merchant delivers the windows and the flooring first. The windows are easy to place, requiring only a day, while repairing the floor is a chore that spills into the next. I direct the servants on what needs to be done. 

“These rugs go in the hallways,” I say, “and I want all the braziers replaced with the ones in this box.” I tap my fingers on a rounded table with chairs set near it, “Ludis, would you have them place these in my boudoir, please.” 

A dull ache spreads behind my brows and I rub my temples to relieve it some, even if momentarily. The herbal tea from this morning did absolutely nothing for my discomfort, though I think my bloating has gone down some—wishful thinking, more than likely.  

“Madam, are you sure you should not rest?” Ludis asks. 

“I will be fine,” I assure her. There is too much to do for me to lounge away in bed; I’ll be stuck there for god knows how long, anyway, once Lucifer’s waterfall arrives (not that that bitch she has been monthly as of late). It’s better to get everything done now so I don’t have to worry about it when I’m bleeding. 

I make my way down to the cellar where they are stockpiling food for winter. Servants move to and from the kitchens with dried meats, pickled fruits, and other preserves; they pass them to the few within the room to be hung and placed on shelves. 

Rodrigo stands outside the door. I join him, “All well?”

“Yes, Madam,” he says. “We are still waiting on the meats that are currently being smoked, and there are a few other items to preserve, but we will be ready for this Pasias season.”

I move out of the way as men roll barrels past us and into the cellar by way of wooden boards laid over the stairs—a makeshift ramp. Rodrigo follows, directing them, “Place those in the corner there.” The barrels are guided down gently one by one and rolled to the back of the room where they are stood upright. 

I peer into the darkened cellar, a lantern hanging from the wall spreading a yellowish hue over the shelves and their contents. Near where the men work, peeking out from the shadows is a wooden hatch built into the floor. On top of it, part of a cast-iron lock reflects the light. 

Curious, I take ginger steps down the ramp, careful not to slip in my silken shoes, and stand next to the butler. “Where does that door lead?” I point to it. 

“I believe it is an old escape route, Madam,” he says. “I’m not entirely sure, though.” 

“Why is it locked?” Shouldn’t an escape route, though hidden given its location, be easily accessible?

“Again, I am not entirely sure. But, I do have a key for it.”

I am about to inquire on this key, when a faint noise—like thumping—resounds from down the hall, growing louder. “What is going on?” I mutter, moving to the door to inspect, startled to find the mage running towards me—the last sight I thought I’d ever see. I didn’t know he could run! “Ruth? What is the matter?”

He slows before me, panting. “There is— There is a man at the, at the gate.” He hunches over his knees, chasing his breath. 

A man at the gate? I rack my brain, grasping for some memory. Man at the gate…man at the— Oh. Oh, no…

Ruth straightens, confirming my fears, “He claims to be noble, but he has no identification. He’s brought thirty armed men with him.”

This isn’t good at all. 

“They are fools if they, if they think we would let them in without, without identifying them first,” I say. 

“That is for certain,” he says. “And to appear while the Remdragons are known to be away is suspicious of itself.”

“Surely thirty men isn’t enough to invade.”

“With the knights gone, it might be.”

“But some have stayed behind, have they not?”

“The lord has left behind ten or so,” Rodrigo says, hovering by the door. Only ten??? “At least half that are out on duty.”

“There are two at the gate currently,” Ruth says. “They were the ones to send word.”

This situation could go wrong in so many different ways, and, without Riftan, it is up to me to protect not only the castle, but all of Anatol—they look to me for guidance. 

“How many sentries are with them?” I ask. 

“Not many,” Ruth says. “They will not withstand if an attack occurs.”

And we are running out of time. 

“Rodrigo,” I say, “the castle is on lockdown until I say otherwise. The servants should, um, should continue with their work, but not leave.” The butler goes to send word. I turn to the mage, “The squires should be training by now. Take me there, we will, will speak to the knights on this matter.”

Sir Oberon—one of the senior knights—and another are in charge of the squires. The rest of the knights within the castle are off duty. 

At the news, Sir Oberon takes charge, for which I am grateful, sending a boy to alert the others within the barracks. Half the guards present will be taken to the gate along with himself and the other knight with him, while the rest are to man their posts here. We must defend the gate first, he says, to defend the castle. 

“Our goal should be to…to avoid confrontation,” I say. “I will try to dissuade them.”

“Have the stables prepare four horses,” Sir Oberon commands another squire. 

“I cannot ride,” I say. 

“Three then. You will ride with me, Madam,” he says. 

We set off almost immediately. The wind tears at my clothes and face, strands of my hair loosening from its style and whipping at my eyes. I lean into Sir Oberon to protect myself, squeezing my thighs around the horse to find balance as the animal generates speed beneath us. All the while, I make poor attempts to recall everything I can of this scene. 

The man is not a lord—I know that much—and Riftan arrives to save the day, but not until the gate is blown to pieces. They would need magic to do such. If I could locate their mage or a magical device—something to generate magic—perhaps I could prevent them from using it. 

Villagers gather along the road before the gate, anxious of disturbance outside their village that has brought everyone to arms.

“Return to your homes,” I order, marching towards the sentries who have come down from the wall to meet me. 

They look to one another, questioning what authority I have to give orders, why I accompany these soldiers. They start to draw away, but linger. 

“The Lady of Anatol has commanded you,” Sir Oberon shouts. “Do as she says!”

“The Lady of Anatol?” They murmur, gazes trailing after me. But they listen, gathering children and ushering one another towards their houses. 

The sentries guide me up the stairwell and to the front of the ramparts. Below, the strangers wait clumped together on their horses, garbed in armor and fur to protect them from the cold season. Each has a sword strapped to their side, poking out from their person.

Ruth stands beside me, his voice carrying over the wall, “Which of you is the lord from Livadon?”

“It is I,” their leader waves. Light blond hair mats against the sides of his face, a scrappy beard coating his chin—he appears as any noble, only ragged and dirty.  He shields his eyes from the sun, “Are you the steward?”

I observe each of the men, sizing them up. One, in particular, catches my eye. He wears clothing different from the rest—plainer, lacking chainmail and surcoat. Specifically, he is stationed at the forepart of the men, to the far right of their leader. 

“I am merely a servant,” Ruth says. He motions to me, “The lady here is my lord’s deputy.”

My posture straightens, face hardening, as the man’s attention shifts to me. “It is an honor to meet you, Madam,” he says. “My name is Rob Midahas, Lord of Kaisa, in the west of Livadon.”  A smirk plays on his lips, and as he speaks, his head tips ever so slightly toward the man to his right. At that moment, that strange atmospheric-like shift occurs. It’s like the air switches currents as if it flows towards that one man. 

Midahas is about to say more when I hold my hand to stop him. “Allow me one second,” I call out. Not an ask, but a command. 

“Why of course,” he laughs, but his demeanor turns sour. 

“Ruth,” I turn so that my back is to the party, so they cannot know what I say. Ruth does the same. “Do you see that man in the brown cloak?” Ruth nods. “Keep an eye on him.” 

I turn back to Midahas, “You said you were from Livadon?”

“Yes, we have come to make the acquaintance of Lord Calypse.”

“It is a long way to…to travel just to make, um, an acquaintance. Anatol is not often…graced with such kindness,” I reply dryly. “Often…often visitors of your station and distance send word before their arrival.”

“Ah, of course,” Midahas says, “how remiss of me. It is admiral, truly, to uphold such high standards of protocol. No doubt, Lord Calypse’s advancement has inspired a similar elevation in expectations within his borders.” His men snicker. 

So he has stooped to insults. 

“I have been informed…you are, um, without identification. I cannot, cannot grant you entrance without it.”

“I lost my identification plate during my journey. If you allow me in, I will immediately bring myself to the church within your borders and prove my identity there.” 

“We have no church, Madam,” Ruth whispers to me. “None that are Catholic, at least.” The Catholic Church keeps detailed records of the nobility, something  the Protestants and other churches do not. 

But …I wonder…would Midahas know that?

“There is no need,” I direct my words toward the intruders. “I will bring my priest here and save you the trip.”

“Madam,” Ruth starts, but I shush him. My bluff is harder to prove than theirs. 

Midahas clears his throat, “That is unnecessary, Madam. If you would but let me in—“

“But you see, I cannot do that. I am, um, under strict order from Lord Calypse himself. So…either you provide identification or we bring the um, bring the priest here.”

“I’ve told you that I have no identification. I’ve lost it.”

“Then it is fortunate, I have not misplaced my priest. Or~” I draw attention to the word, “is it, um, that you are…not who you say you are?”

The man’s horse snorts, shaking its head. He looks back at his men, then to me, temper flaring, “We have traveled over and through the dens of demons. Are you insisting my poor men return to the dangerous road?”

“You have made it, um, made it this far in one, one piece, I am sure you can do it again. Perhaps you might even look for your missing identification.”

“Is the Lady of Anatol so unmerciful?” He is yelling now. 

“Do not mistake your…your incompetence for my lack of mercy.”

“The next time I return, you will face hundreds of men from Livadon. I cannot accept this insult.”

“You are crossing the line,” Ruth shouts. “How can we trust thirty armed, unidentified men into our walls?”

At this rate, we might not have to let them in ourselves. I glance towards the top of the valley to where the road is, praying for a glimpse of Remdragon blue. If I can hold out, stall long enough… 

Midahas laughs as if it is all some joke, “Is Anatol that weak it cannot handle thirty men? It seems you are a den of cowards when your lord is away.” 

Sir Oberon rushes forward, “What did you say?! Ruth, open the gates immediately. I’m gonna bloody slit these arrogant bastards’ throats myself!” 

“Stand down!” I scold the knight, pushing against his arm to make him do so. He peers at me with a sharp  mien glazing his eyes but does as I say. 

I move to return my attention to the men when Ruth shoves me behind him, throwing his hands to cast a shield. A deafening roar thunders into my ears, my shoulder hitting the ground first as the wall buckles under my feet. 

It is as if everything is happening in slow motion around me. 

Sir Oberon grabs my arm and wrenches me upwards. “Find cover!” His words are muffled, but his urgency is clear. 

My eyes lock on the stairwell not twenty feet from me, and as he turns away, drawing his sword, I bolt for it, weaving through the men around me who bark orders, unsheathe blades, raise their bows. 

Another explosion wrenches apart the wooden gate—I feel it blow away from its hinges, wracking the wall more violently than the first time. It throws me into free-fall through the opening of the stairwell until I hit the steps and tumble down. I land against the curve of the wall. 

“Lady Calypse!” One of the guards rushes to me, aiding me to stand. I briefly acknowledge him before gathering my skirts to continue my descent. “Madam!”

Speak man! I want to say, but my voice is stuck to the back of my throat. Above the gushing in my head comes the clashing of metal outside. It is not much safer to stay in here. If they find me, I have nowhere to run. 

The guard steps closer when a trumpet call blares out over the din. Our heads whip towards it, waiting on bated breath for what it could mean.

“The Remdragon Knights!” My heart flutters at the sound—I hasten into the open battlefield. 

The army surrounds Midahas and his men, blocking any escape. On the ground, held at the swords of our own, they take defensive stances, not daring to move. I find Riftan in an instant—he is the clearest vision, an omen of death radiating from his presence as he stares Midahas down. 

Everything falls eerily quiet. 

“I didn’t think I’d have guests while I was away,” Riftan’s voice carries on a gentle breeze that laps against my cheek. A flag high up on the gate billows in the wind—the only answer. “Remind me, again, what uninvited guests are called.”

“Intruders,” Rikaydo spits.

“Thieves, more like it,” says Hebaron. By way of his stance, he is itching for a fight. 

“I’ll be sure to have each—“ Riftan draws his sword “—written on his tombstone.”

“Wait!” Midahas cries, raising his hands to shield against the man that towers above him. “I am Rob Midahas, Lord of Kaisa, Livadon.”

Riftan halts, “A lord?”

“That, that’s right,” he stutters. “Your people have offended me by questioning my identity and refusing me entry. This little scuffle just got out of hand, that’s all.”

Talon inches forward at his master's command. “This little scuffle , you say?” Riftan’s tone is darker, if it could even get such. He points the tip of his sword against the man’s neck, “This means war.”

Midahas gulps, “War?”

“You brought your men to my gates and attacked. What else would that mean if not war?”  Riftan bears his teeth. “In response, I’ll cut off your head and parade it around as I reduce your lands to ruin.”

The flag on the gate breaks free in the wind, its white fabric landing in the dirt by Midahas’ feet. 

“Do you mean to break the armistice?” He manages to choke out. “Our king won’t forgive you.”

Riftan pushes his blade closer, “You lost its protection the moment you destroyed my gate.”

“I have hundreds of men in Kaisa pledged to me. This will be a real war if you kill me.”

Riftan responds calmly, “I very much—“ he raises his sword above his head “—look forward to it.” 

“Stop!” Riftan’s gaze snaps to Ruth who runs out to meet him. The mage halts a few feet from Riftan’s horse, not daring to step closer. “If he really is a nobleman of Livadon, you can’t kill him here,” he attempts to reason. “Once we take him into custody, we can negotiate with Livadon and sell him.”

“Are you arguing with my decision?”

Ruth stands his ground, “War brings nothing but loss. We’re better off following procedures and receiving compensation.”

“I refuse,” Riftan raises his sword again. 

“If you do that then it will cause friction with Livadon, and…” Ruth’s voice trails off as he looks back to me—I swear my stomach plummets fifty miles and I contemplate running. 

Don’t you dare do it, Ruth, don’t you dare…

“Must you defile the eyes of the lady even more? Please show some chivalry.”

Ruth!

I stand taller, swallowing my fear under Riftan’s penetrative eyes. His gaze turns to something far more furious, directed solely at me. I hold it anyway, refusing to back down. 

“Why is my wife here?” His words are calm, but he’s not. 

“Naturally, the lady handles disputes in the lord's absence,” Ruth says. 

Riftan grits his teeth and shoves his blade against Midahas, “Drop you weapon and tell your men to do the same.”

“Just, just let me go,” he pleads. “I’ll leave this land right away—“

“You either die here or surrender. Now choose.” 

The man drops his sword; his men follow suit. I cannot relish in any feeling of relief: no doubt, I am next. 

“Madam, are you alright?” The guard who helped me in the stairwell asks. 

“Yes, I’m fine—“

“ What are you doing here?”  

The hairs on my neck stand on end, my back turning rigid on instinct—straight like a rod as I force myself to turn around with grace. His anger is clear.

“It is as Ruth said: I am to…I am to deal with, um, with disputes—“ “What the hell could you have done?”

I suck in a breath, clenching my fists to keep from yelling at him. “I am the lady of the, of the estate,” I say, adrenaline fueling my words. “I am y-your deputy, and…and I have done far more than you would think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord , the problem is…is solved, so I shall take my leave.”

 I start to walk away but am lifted into the air before I can make it far, set down across Riftan’s lap. His fingers dig into my side, restraining me there. 

“Clean up this mess,” he orders over his shoulder and is off before hearing a reply. 

The castle is relieved to see its lord upon his arrival, servants rushing out to meet him as he rides past the outward into the inner gate. But upon sight, they fall back, lingering in doorways or off to the side, putting distance between themselves and the tension that wafts from him like repellent. They clear the walkway as he dismounts from the horse and carries me up the front steps. 

“I can walk,” I say. He ignores me, so I say it louder. “Riftan, I can walk.”

“Shut up.”

Bile bubbles up in my blood, and I gather enough strength to shove myself out of his arms. He catches me before I fall, but I have already landed on my feet—a sharp pain splits through my ankle on impact. I bite back a wail: it comes out like a trembling breath. 

“Don’t ever speak to me like that,” I reprimand him loud enough for the servants to hear. Hiding my shaking hands and any reaction to the twinge in my foot, I move towards the stairs, leaving him to follow. 

I can bear weight on my ankle—so no break, I think. But every time I set it down, its dull ache turns to screaming pain. I focus on my breathing, placing my weight normally to keep from limping. I cannot show weakness. 

When we reach the bedroom, I step aside, forcing him to open the door for me. I brush past him to the center of the room, rooting myself at attention on the ornate rug. My ears prick to every sound he makes, tracking his movements through the room though I do not give visible attention to it. 

He is not Duke Croix, I remind myself. He won’t hit me. 

He won’t hit me. He won’t hit me. He won’t hit me. 

My muscles tense as he moves past to stare out the window in silence—we stay like that for a moment or two. I refuse to speak first, I will stand here all day if I must. 

“What would you have done had I not gotten there on time?” His manner is restrained. 

“I didn’t expect it to…escalate that quickly,” I answer. I thought Ruth could shield us in time if I warned him. 

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place!” I step away as he whips around, moving towards me. “No matter what happens, you never. ever. go out there.”

“So you would have me locked up in here?” I hiss. 

He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands, “Maxi, no.”

“Yes, you would,” I object. “You would…you would have me locked up in here.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would,” my voice is raising. For every step of his, I take another back, until I am cornered between him and the fireplace. “You wou—would wrap me, wrap me in blankets and, and down pillows if you could!” 

“Look at yourself!” He throws his finger towards the mirror on the other side of the room. I tear my eyes away from him enough to look—though not well, I can see enough, my hair tangled around my head and splotches of dirt coating the bright fabric of my dress. 

Riftan pulls his glove off, tossing it to the floor. I clench my eyes shut as he drags his thumb across my forehead; there is a stinging pain. 

“Look at this,” he says. Blood is smeared on his finger. I touch my brow, wet near my hairline. 

“How—“ I inspect my hands, startled to find them scraped and bloody. How did I not notice this? Was the adrenaline that strong? The guard's reaction starts to make sense. 

“One head for every scratch,” he seethes, reaching to grab me. 

“Stop!” I dodge his hands. “Stop.” I sniffle as tears well up in my eyes, blinking them back as I internally chide myself to get my shit together. 

Riftan stays back, doesn’t corner me. “Let me see,” he urges. 

“Not if you’re…if you’re going to kill anyone.”

“They attempted an invasion of my land and hurt you. They hurt my wife ,” he bares his teeth. “How can you expect me not to do anything?”

“I don’t…don’t expect you n,not to do anything,” I argue. “But don’t start a, start a war based solely on r, rash actions. I hardly have a scratch on me.” The last part comes out weaker than the rest. 

“You call a head injury and a limp hardly a scratch?” He motions towards my leg. I falter. “I’m not blind, Maxi. I can see you’re in pain.” His stance mimics the softness his voice now takes, “I won’t do anything, I just want to know where you’re hurt.”

My expression twists, lips pursing. I feel the stubbornness flee from me in one great rush, and I throw my arms up in defeat, “Fine.”

Riftan moves toward me cautiously, removing his other glove which joins its companion on the floor. He is so close I can feel the heat of his body and smell the wear of travel from him. I watch his hands as they gently touch my sides from the outside of my dress, gauging my reaction pain-wise for the areas he cannot see himself. I do not hide it this time, wincing as he touches parts of my arms and shoulders. There is definitely bruising. 

He guides me to sit in the armchair beside us, removing my shoe and moving my swollen ankle side-to-side. I cry—a small, pitiful sound—as the pain shoots up my leg and down my foot. 

Riftan sighs, holding any words he might have to himself as he stands and calls for the mage. 

Chapter Text

"You have the tiniest of concussions," Ruth holds his hands to my head, magic emanating around it with the same heat I felt earlier, the magic golden like the mana he used on the tree. The air is still, though. Did I truly imagine it before?

Gradually, my headache clears, and my eyes don't seem as heavy anymore. I untie my stocking so Ruth can heal my swollen and bruised ankle. He moves it around like Riftan did to gauge its severity. 

"It's only a sprain," he says. I could have told him that. My muscles relax as he applies magic to the injury, the pain easing. When he is done, I rotate my foot to test it: much better. 

The mage leaves, his work done, and Ludis helps me change for bed. 

"Madam, you are bleeding," She says. 

"Where?" I turn, inspecting myself all over, until I find the patch, thick and red, seeping through the back of my chemise. "Oh."

"Don’t fret over it," she says. "I have some blood moss you can use."

***

It's dark when Riftan returns. 

"You, um, interrogated them?" I ask. I close the book I'm reading—a boring, inconsequential piece—and set it to the side as I sit up in bed, careful not to disturb the linens and moss between my legs. 

He throws some logs on the fire, adjusting them over the coals with a poker. "Yes." 

I wait for him to say more, the anticipation weighing on me to the point I feel frozen in place. "And?" I can hardly hear my voice, not entirely convinced I've spoken. 

He hangs the poker on the stand by the fire, dusting his hands off as he looks down into the flames. Its orange glow dances across his front, deepening the lines in his face and the shadows above his eyes.

"I sent a Swiftcourier—" a magical message bearer “—to Kaisa, inquiring about our guest's identity," Riftan says. "His father answered."

A trickle of relief fills me. If the father is alive and well enough to answer a message, then Midahas cannot be a lord himself. Nothing has changed. "What did his father say?"

Riftan moves toward the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress to untie the laces of his boots, "That his son was upset his half-brother was chosen as successor instead of him. He attempted to murder the younger, was not successful, and escaped to Wedon before punishment could be given."

With his boots set to the side, he rests against his arms and peers at me over his shoulder. I cannot tell what he is thinking—I always knew with Duke Croix, he wore his hatred for me on his sleeves, embroidered them with it. But Riftan keeps his mind so closed, I can only guess. 

I pat the spot next to me, his side of the bed. Until he hurts me, there is no reason not to welcome him. 

With a sigh, he leans against the pillow propped against the headboard, and holds me as I lay my head on his shoulder. He lays his head on mine, the ends of his hair leaving droplets of water on my forehead. He smells like soap. 

"When I interrogated him," His voice rumbles through his skin, muffled in my one ear and clear in the other, "he said that he'd caught wind of my treasures and my convenient absence—saw Anatol like a sitting duck. His only mistake was that he thought the celebration would keep me longer." We both scoff at the idea. 

I can see why his, um, father didn’t choose him as heir,” I say. “He doesn’t seem, um…seem very smart.”

Riftan laughs—a mere huff of air through his nose, but a laugh, regardless. He strokes my cheek, "I should have cut off his head and hung it on the wall. Left it as an example to other invaders."

I move away from his shoulder, looking at him. His eyes bore into mine, and I feel my pulse quicken, swear he can feel it too as his fingers trail down the side of my neck and his thumb drags over my throat. 

I wet my bottom lip, his attention falling to my mouth as I speak, "Will you be, um, compensated for the damages?"

"I have yet to ask, but I am thinking ten Soldem."

"For the son or all of them?"

"All of them."

I shake my head, "You could get at least twenty."

Soldems, being gold coins, are worth a lot of money, thus, rarely used and reserved for the nobility. But to only ask ten for a nobleman is an insult alone, not to mention his group of bandits. Why ask ten when you could get twice that?

"Think about it," I say, "your…your gate was broken, guards injured, not to mention your, um…your wife." His jaw tightens. "Besides, um, if…if his father doesn’t, um, doesn’t pay, you know there will be few repercussions if you…hang his son."

"Are you giving me permission?" Riftan's gaze darkens, and his thumb finds its way to my lips, pushing against the bottom to the point his nail skims across it. "I didn't know my lady was so heartless."

"He's a waste of everyone's air. I wouldn’t…wouldn’t care if you killed him," my lip pushes free as I speak, and his fingers now hold only my chin. 

"Then I will forget money entirely," he says, "and kill him to satisfy my lady's thirst for vengeance."

"I never said that. Money is, um, is far more valuable than a dead man."

"I suppose," the words tickle as he kisses my jaw, then the corner of my mouth. I turn away before he can kiss me fully. 

"I'm, um…bleeding." At the alarm in his eyes, I add, "It's normal!"

He lets go of my chin, hesitant to touch me, "What?"

"All, all—well…most women, um, bleed," I hurry to explain. "How do I...how do I put this?" I forgot how ignorant he is about women…

"When a, um, when a girl comes of age and is uh…healthy?" I wouldn't consider myself healthy, but I must be to some degree. "If she is of age and healthy enough , her body starts trying to, um, you know...make a baby." I describe the process as simple as I can; how the uterus fills with blood and flushes it out when pregnancy doesn't happen. "And before you ask, I can't hold, um, it in. It's not like…not like my bladder."

"So it just falls out?" When I nod, he says, "That sounds inconvenient."

"It is."

"How often does it happen?"

"It's supposed to be monthly, but for me…it's, um, irregular. I'm sure it'll happen more, more often, though…soon." Gaining weight will help, but more importantly, my body needs to learn its environment isn't trying to kill it—at least, not here.

Riftan's brow furrows as he sits back against the pillow, slightly more than confused. "Do you have any other, um, questions?" I ask. 

"Does it hurt?"

"My stomach is sore, but other than that, it's not, um, it’s not that bad."

"Well, that's good," he says, kissing  my temple. "I hope for your sake it ends soon."

That makes two of us, I think. 

***

I'm in bed for all of a day before I can't take it anymore, boredom closing in on me and making the walls feel tight. The bleeding is lighter, seemingly gone—though I know better—and I wrap string around my waist with linen tied to it to catch any blood. It's in no way comfortable, but enough to keep me from the edge of insanity. 

Ludis insists I wear a coat for our late morning walk, and while I do not think it is cold enough to warrant more layers now that things have started to warm up some, I put it on to keep her from nagging. I will admit (not to Ludis) that it is somewhat brisk, a chill hanging around the rim of the castle and hovering near my ears as I step out onto the front steps. But it is not bad enough that I could not handle it in my regular wear. 

Shouting catches my attention. "Have you boys gone mad?!"

Off to the left, where the grass turns patchy and more to dirt than plants, Rodrigo, with his arms crossed, scolds Ulyseon and Garrow. Ulyseon glares at the older man, his indignation flaring like the fire his darker-haired friend attempts to hide with his body—Garrow's legs are too gangly to cover it from view, but his height does shroud the smoke. 

I share a look with Ludis and move down the stairs to inspect, the sweetly acrid scent of smoke stinging my nostrils. 

"I will hear no excuses. You will clean this up—"

"Madam!" Ulyseon sidesteps Rodrigo as he notices me, "It is so good to see you up and about." His eyes sparkle as he struggles to contain himself, "Garrow and I were so worried after we heard about the gate. What a relief it is to see you're okay!"

"I'm alright," I assure him, looking more at Garrow as I ask my next question. "What is, um…all this?" Garrow looks down as if realizing the fire's presence for the first time. 

"Madam," Rodrigo bows, "I was just instructing them to remove it. I mean, really," he looks pointedly at the squires, "starting a fire in the gardens—this is a noble house, not a campfire gathering."

"We were only trying to do something nice for the lady," Ulyseon protests, turning to me, "to thank you for that story you told us." He points to some fillets speared over the fire, "We caught Oakleys."

"An Anatolian delicacy," Garrow says, squatting to turn the spears over so the fillets cook evenly. Trails of juice drip from the meat, which the flames reach up to lick, turning the pink edges of the fish brown and crispy. It makes my mouth water. 

Rodrigo is having none of it. "It is entirely improper," he argues. "The chef would do a fine job cooking these."

"He most certainly would not," Ulyseon bites back. "Oakleys are made for smoking over a fire, not frying in a pan. He'd ruin the meat!"

"He's Anatolian by birth. I'm sure he knows how to cook Oakleys, let alone fish!"

"Rodrigo, it's fine," I say. At my behest, he calms himself, folding his arms in the dignified manner he usually keeps. "I will, um, will try your fish. But! But," I raise my finger, making sure they are listening, "you must promise, that when, um, when my garden is finished, you will not start fires in it."

The boys swear to it. "On a Remdragon's honor," they say. 

"No…no fires that are not, um, in the kitchens, fireplaces, and…and are otherwise unauthorized.” They nod. "Good." Don't want this place burning down now, do we? Not that there's much to burn. 

Ludis goes to procure a chair for me while Rodrigo remains with our small group.

"So why…why the gardens?" I ask. 

"We wanted the meat to be fresh," Ulyseon says, "and the outerward's too busy to cook it there." Must be too many passersby…

"We're not allowed in the kitchens, either," Garrow says and does not elaborate. 

Ludis returns with the chair a few minutes later, almost waddling as she holds it out in front of her. She pauses at the bottom of the steps for a moment, glancing out into the outerward, before joining us. 

"Is everything alright?" I ask. 

"Everything's fine," she assures me, encouraging me to sit with a pat on the chair. I give her a skeptical look as I take my seat, which goes unnoticed as she shares a look of her own with Rodrigo, who promptly takes his leave in the direction of whatever the sight is. 

It's odd, but I decide that it's none of my business, and when I hear muffled conversation, relaxed but loud enough to drift over the inner wall, I reason that the castle must have received one of the shipments I've placed for winter. Rodrigo can handle it, and if he needs me, he knows where I am.

The boys tell me about their morning, what they've done for training and leisure. They ask for more stories.

I narrow my eyes, "Was this all a, um, ploy to get more stories out of me?" 

"You said you had more to tell." Hmm. So I did. 

I tell them about my encounter with the ogre. 

Garrow passes me a piece of fish when it is finished. The meat is flakey, buttery and tender, melting on my tongue. I have to pace myself as I eat, afraid I'll grow sick with how much I crave. 

"It's no wonder the commander caught you," Ulyseon remarks, "his reflexes are unmatched."

"Inhuman, almost," Garrow says. He pokes at the ground with a twig he found, making shapes in the dirt. 

I agree with them both, wiping my fingers with a handkerchief. "I swear I was at least a thradion up when I fell."

"More like a kevette."

(*one thradion = 600ft; one kevette = 1ft*)

The squires jump to attention at the sight of Riftan, who waves them at ease. He raises a brow, hands on his hip, "It always seems higher up than it is."

I stick my tongue out at him, rising from my seat. He does not react but rather inclines his head toward Ludis, who, without further prompting, takes the chair and carries it back to the castle with the same waddle-like steps as before, now more hurried. Speechless, my eyes shift between her and Riftan, then back to her, then to the servants—first one, then another, then a few more—lumbering in from the outerward with stacks of boxes balanced precariously in their arms. 

Riftan looks at them as one would a troop of pigeons marching past on the sidewalk, amusement filling his features as he slinks an arm over my shoulder and turns me around. "What have you been up to over here?" He asks, surveying the fire. 

"They boys shared their catch with me," I say. "Surprised me with it, actually."

Ulyseon and Garrow remain quiet, their posture stiff though they have been granted permission to relax. They watch Riftan like guilty dogs who have torn apart the couch—or, in this instance, dug up and set fire to the lawn—full of a fear and remorse that Rodrigo could not have possibly put in them.

Riftan, to his credit, does not care. "Seems it is a day for surprises," he says, giving no further attention to the scene. 

"What—" I find my words escaped from my mouth as two servants heave down a large crate, catching their breath for a second before lugging it back up on the count of three. The rest of the workers stream around them as they inch down the path.  "You didn't..."

Riftan chuckles, guiding me towards the gate, "I did."

It is as if a new army has arrived to rival that of the Remdragons, but is composed entirely of packages rather than men. Nearly the entirety of the castle's workforce fills the outerward, working in teams to unload several carts worth of gifts. The whole thing has turned into a spectacle, a few knights gathering around the permitter to watch. 

"Did you…did you brush off the king to buy all of this?" I ask. When he does not answer, I tsk at him like the dowager duchess would, "My dear Sir Calypse, we have earned his ire now."

"I attended his banquets," Riftan says, weaving us through the maze of his creation with a destination in mind. "One of them..."

"Then, I suppose it is remedied," I say. "I, I only hope next time you—" I catch sight of a white mare tied near the stables, tail swishing back and forth as she observes the scene with mild boredom, and I gasp, the rest of my sentence be damned as I push away from Riftan, covering the remaining distance in a matter of seconds—almost skipping but not quite running; an ungraceful in-between. The mare's ears perk as she sees me. 

"Is this, um…is this a bad time to tell you I can't ride?” I call back to Riftan as he catches up. 

"We can always get you lessons," He says, stepping around me to untie the horse and bring her to me. Carefully, I smooth my hand over the bridge of her nose, smiling as she nudges into my touch. "Well?" 

"She's beautiful," I say, messing the tuft of mane that spills over her head like a toupee. Its color is creamier than the paleness of her hide, which, though dusty from the road, appears to shimmer, further offsetting the dark patches that coat her nose and legs. 

"All of my horses are more on the wild side, so I don't think they'll suit you," Riftan says, waving one of the stable hands over. "But this mare shouldn't be too hard to handle: she's young, but she's well trained."

Behind us, they have finished unloading most of the carts, only one left as men hitch the rest and prepare to drive them away. I think of Riftan perusing the stores in the capital, buying any gift at whim that gave him the tiniest inclination I might like it, and I can't help the humor of it all: the greatest knight on the continent window shopping for his crush. 

The mare flutters her lips as I kiss the top of her muzzle. I'd like to think he bought her with me in mind, saw visions of me riding such a creature, but reason tells me it is only the story.

The stable hand takes the reins from Riftan, and he guides me away once more, this time towards the castle. A commotion is raised within the inner ward, and as we draw close, I see the beginnings of what looks to be a group of people gathered under a third floor balcony and a rope being let down, but Riftan covers my eyes before I can make anymore sense of it. 

"What are yo— ah!" He catches me as I trip over my own feet, holding me until I can get them steady. His hands do not budge, even as I attempt to pry them from my eyes. "What in the, um, in the  world do you have for me now?"

"It's a surprise," he says. Of course, it is. 

I split my attention between where I step and listening to what is going on so that I might guess what this surprise is, but the servants keep their mouths shut as they wait for us to pass. My steps are as clumsy as a newborn’s, and Riftan helps by lifting me up the front steps and into the castle. He removes his hand once we are inside, where there is nothing to see, and I swear I hear the servants talking once more, their words muffled and faint through the door so that they are indistinguishable. 

He bought off every single one of them, I know it. I bet they’re all getting big, fat bonuses this year…

“Did I tell you how wonderful the castle looks?” Riftan asks as he corrals me upstairs, no doubt trying to distract me from whatever is going on. "You've done an excellent job." Very well, if this is how he’ll play it…

I thank him for his compliments but tell him I am not done. "There are a few rooms I've yet to, um, to do anything with, and I'm still waiting on the merchant for some things."

"Still, it is much better than before," he says, and I am apt to agree. It doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

The gifts have been stacked in the Solar, and maids pry open the wooden boxes to reveal their treasures—silks, furs, brocades, and other such quality fabrics are laid neatly over chairs; rare spices like placed in decorative jars; perfumes and jewelry, trims and beads, hats shoes...I feel faint at the sight of them all, realizing then—almost to my horror—that the horse was perhaps the lesser of these gifts. 

Most of these items—the silks, the furs, the spices, some of the perfumes even—can only be bought through trade. The rest are made by hand; unique. Dollar signs are thrown up around me, every item screaming expensive in a mass choir. 

Riftan removes my coat and covers me in a gold-threaded shawl. He takes my shoes, and places new ones on my feet. 

Here I was worrying over how much I spent on refurbishments, focusing on necessities, allowing myself few luxuries, and Riftan has returned with half his fortune on velvet pillows! If the knights did not hate me before, they must now. 

"I know none of this compares to what your father has," Riftan says. I shiver as he unclasps the pendant from around my neck, the heat of his skin caressing mine. He reaches past me, lifting a ruby necklace from its case. "But I hope it remedies what little you have here."

"I have plenty," I say as he places the gems around me and turns my head to gently pull away my earrings. He replaces them with another set of rubies. 

"Nonsense," he says, "you can always have more."

"But surely…surely this is all too much." When his brow creases, I add, "I don’t wish to, um, sound like I’m not grateful—I really, really am—but I, um, I cannot begin to imagine how much this all must have…must have cost."

"Do not worry about the cost." How could I not??? I am in charge of the finances!

I am about to say such when Ludis interrupts—I was wondering where she went off to—and Riftan looks at her in mild shock. "That was fast," he says. 

"We used as many hands as we could find," she says. "They have just finished putting it in the room." It : the surprise of my surprises, the grand finale, so to speak. If there is a horse in the stables, at least fifty-grand piled into this one room, what could possibly be waiting for me???

"I'm scared.”

The gift is in my boudoir, tucked away on the third floor by the library. Riftan has me close my eyes as he takes me into the room, leading me by the hands until I am placed before the windows, their delicate light streaming over my face. I look when he tells me to. 

"Oh God." I clamp a hand over my mouth, turning away to collect myself, "You shouldn’t have..."

"Do you like it?" He asks. 

Behind me is a harpsichord that could rival any of those at Castle Croix. "I have no words." Such an infliction seems to find me a lot today. 

"You must have some," Riftan says, gathering  me into his arms.

"I think you have, um, spent far too much on me."

"I have done nothing you do not deserve," he presses a kiss to my hand, holding his lips there. "Besides, should a husband not spoil his wife?" 

I look to the side, shrinking from his attention. I know there is no reason for him to not see us as married; we made our own vows, spilled blood for them. But it reminds me how we have yet to consummate; makes me think of him over my naked body, ready to take me, that icky sense of adultery creeping in. 

The deep, polished wood of the instrument reflects the light in the room, shadowing the patterns carved along its base like trim, and the gold embellishments protecting the corners. Both the fallboard and lid are propped open, revealing a pastoral scene painted across its underside in rich, bold colors. To Duke Croix, this would be a decorative piece, only brought out for parties to showcase his opulence and wealth to his many important guests, yet here it is in a room meant solely for me. 

"Would this…this not, um, be better in the Great Hall?"

"We can put it there if you'd like," Riftan says, "but your maid said you'd like it here better."

 I do. I do like it here better. God, how I like it here better…

"Will you play something for me?"

"I am afraid to touch it," I say. 

Riftan scoffs, urging me toward the bench, "I did not buy it for you to gawk at. Go on and play."

I do as I am told, sitting down at the ivory keys as I gather enough courage to run through a scale. The notes chase each other up and down as the mechanism plucks the strings, a crisp sound—slightly out of tune—echoing throughout the room. 

With the lid open, it seems too loud. Often, I keep it closed when I practice to dampen the noise, but I suspect Riftan would only put it back up if I tried to close it. 

"That's all?" His expression twists as I finish the scale. 

"I was warming up," I say. With a deep breath, I start a new piece, one I like because it reminds me of Bach.

I used to play the piano—took lessons, went to recitals—though in a very amateurish way, never coming to be a master as I thought I might when I was younger. No matter how much I practiced, practice never seemed to make perfect, and as time went on, time got less, to the point where there was never any time to practice at all. 

Both instruments have their difficulties and their own techniques for playing. But when you have learned the language of music and your hands can play together, it's like every door opens for you. I was not a master in my own world, but I seemed a prodigy in this one. To the dowager duchess, there was still hope for me, things I could still learn even if my speech was imperfect to the point I was thought dumb. I could be a decent wife as long as I never opened my mouth. 

After all, a woman is for children and for show. 

The final strains of the music fade away, and I look up to find Riftan watching intently. 

"You have this way of disappearing into music," he says. 

"What do you mean?"

"When I would visit Croix," he brushes his hand along the harpsichord, feeling the wood as he moves closer, "you would always be where the music was. I'd look over at you during a banquet, and you'd be focused on the minstrels. Just now, it was like you weren't hearing the music, but like it took you somewhere." He thumbs the edge of the instrument, "Where do you go?"

"I'm not sure," I say, but the answer is home. I sit at the piano at home while my mother makes dinner in the other room, and the smell of her cooking wafts to me as she calls out to say dinner is ready. 

"What was that one song you played?"

"The one right now?"

"No, no. It was at a banquet. Fast like," he wiggles his fingers like he's playing, "made your father mad."

"Oh!" I jump into the piece: the first few parts of Rush E . Took me forever to figure out by ear. 

"That's exactly it. What's it called?"

"It, uh, doesn't have a name," I lie.

The name is of no consequence to him. He sits next to me on the bench, our legs pressed together, "I remember the duke pulled you off the stage in the middle. I’ve never seen such a shade of red on a man’s face."

I laugh, recalling that evening, "There was a, um, particular piece he wanted me to play and I may have.. .diverged in the middle of it." I'm not sure which beating was worse, the one that night or when I set his hunting dogs loose in the kitchens right before a formal dinner. "He was…he wanted to, um, to betroth me to a vassal of his...tried a couple of times, actually. Didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"It's a long story…” One with a lot of reasons—mostly my own meddling, but one important one: “Basically, there was this man he, um, he blackmailed into fighting a dragon for him—don’t know if you know him or not." 

The tiniest of a smile creeps onto Riftan’s face, and he tries to hide it, fiddling with the harpsichord keys to seem natural. I kiss his cheek.

"Thank you…for the, for the gifts,” I say.

 I am thankful for more than the ones he’s given me today.

Chapter Text

Twice a day, Ludis takes breaks, once at noon and again towards dinner. It is during her earlier one that I make a routine trip to the library for books to use in my own downtime, searching primarily for those related to music. There's a section towards the back: a single shelf worth of various music books with a few related to harpsichord. I look at each one, turning through them until I find pieces that interest me, humming the notes as I read. I keep my voice hushed, more a whisper than a full hum. 

Feet shuffle in the corner of the room—a maid, I suspect, or Ruth. I soften my voice further, finding that as the steps grow louder, closer, I can go no lower. And when their shoes scuff the floor behind the shelf, I slam my book shut, reaching to put it back. 

Ruth pokes his head around the corner not a second later. "There you are."

I jump out of my skin—swear my soul hits the ceiling before dropping back into my body, my pulse now missing from my earthly flesh. My hand still grips the spine of the book, which dangles part way off the shelf with only my hold to keep it. 

"Did you, uh, did you need something?" I ask, glancing at him over my arm. Deep bags protrude from his face, like totes rather than clutches, and the area encompassing them has taken on the color of a raccoon. "Maybe…maybe some, um, sleep?" Some eye cream even…

"Oh, these?" Ruth motions to his eyes. "I haven't slept much lately. Someone's moved a harpsichord into the room down the hall—vile instrument..."

"I've only played it once." Yesterday.

He acts like he hasn't heard me, taking the book, "What do we have here?" He holds it away from him, squinting to read the cover, " Melodies of the Keys: Music for the Advanced Harpsichord Player . Would you look at that?" He turns it around so I can read it, "Less sleep for me."

I snatch the book, clutching it to my chest, "You have a tower."

"With wild, raucous men right by, shouting at the top of their lungs and knocking swords together—what peace."

"Could always sleep at night," I mutter.

"And when would I get my work done?"

My eyes roll on their own, "Did you come, um, come over here for anything other than complaining?"

"Complaining was my main priority," he says, leaning against the bookcase as he picks his nails, "but I did have one request." I allow him the floor—he doesn't get the memo until a few side glances later. "You know the incident recently where the gate was eh...blown up?"

"I do." How could I not?

"Well, it's made your husband neurotic. He's commissioned a cast iron gate, which he has paid extra to install as soon as possible, and he wants me to build wards to be placed around the wall."

"The gate seems a tad neurotic," I admit. A gate of that size would take a week to make at minimum , and, as Anatol is most likely without a large enough smithy, a week still to deliver and place. And the expenses...uh! "But the, um, wards don't seem that bad of an idea."

"What a shame it is that I must agree with you," Ruth says. "The amount of time it's going to take me is ridiculous: days worth of calculations, designing, carving, infusing—I can only take so much!"

"And let me guess...you want me to help?"

His face lights up—a shallow light—as if the thought never crossed his mind, though we both know him well enough to guess that it was probably the first. "Lady Calypse, how generous you are in your offerings," he tries to inflate me with hot air. "Only you could be so insightful as to know that I require the refined penmanship of a noblewoman like yourself for such a task. Not to mention that this whole mess is partially your fault—"

"Wow!" I stop him, "This is my fault???"

"Uh, yeah," Ruth says. He bends his legs, raising the pitch of his voice, "'Our goal should be to avoid confrontation. Take me there, I'll reason with them.'" The bastard even batts his lashes. 

"And I shouldn't have…shouldnt have bothered telling you about that mage. I should have…should have put a shield around him my-myself," I scoff, turning on my heels as I walk away. 

Ruth follows, "How was I supposed to know that was what you wanted?"

"I don't know, maybe read the situation. You, um, you live in a library. I know you know how."

"Are you really not going to help me?"

I should help him. I really, really should—sneak my way under his wing to learn magic, then save the world. But God, do I want to punch him right now…

"The work isn't that hard," he insists. "You only have to write a few things for me." I ignore him, the exit in sight. "I'll compensate you. Anything you want."

I stop in my tracks, so abruptly he smacks into the back of me. A light bulb blinks inside my head—a lovely, easy peasy, only slightly manipulative idea. "How many people were, um…injured yesterday?" There's a method to this.

Ruth thinks, "About eight or so, why?"

"You had to heal them all, didn't you?" I slowly face him. "I bet it would have, would have been nice to have, um, help."

"I could have healed them all," he shrugs. "But the town healer was called to aid the process."

"But another mage would have been faster."

"Well, yeah," he admits, "but where are you going to find another mage—" It dons on him, then, what I'm hinting at. Ruth narrows his eyes, backs away, "No..."

I keep with him, chasing as he guns it up the stairs, "Where are you going?"

"To do the work myself," he shouts. "Forget I ever asked."

"Don't be like that!" I feel like Ludis waddling with the chair as I juggle my skirts and the book in my hand while trudging up the stairs. Luckily, Ruth is slow-moving even when he runs—or jogs. Is he jogging??? "It would, would only be, um, healing magic—maybe some defensive, but…but mostly healing. I have the ability to learn. You said it yourself."

"No! No," he wags his finger, giving me time to catch my breath as he hovers by the top. "I said you had affinity —that's only the initial requirement. Learning is entirely different."

"How?"

"You have to know ancient languages."

"I can read and write in Ol, Old R–roemian and, um, Elvish," I say. 

His face contorts, "Mathematics." 

"I know arithmetic, algebra, um...um…” I go through the curriculum of every grade in school for stuff to throw at him, "geometry, cal-calculus—" I took more of that in college than I ever cared to. "And, and…anything else I’ll learn. I'll be a great student, the best you've ever taught, I swear."

The mage is out of arguments, but he still won't relent, arms crossed as he scowls. 

"Whatever you, um, teach me is less you have to do," I say. 

Ruth laughs. "Maybe far into the future, and that's if you're good," he says. "But the amount of work it'd take to get you to that level...I'd rather make the wards myself." His feet stomp as he covers the rest of the stairs.

"Then…then…let me do it for Anatol," I say. I hate the pleading that etches my words. "We need more mages. There's no way to, um, to deny it. And, and the world tower—" I stop before I say something I shouldn't. I'm not supposed to know about his history.

"What about the world tower?" Ruth glares. 

"It doesn't, um, doesn’t seem like any of them, um...want to…to come to Anatol," I say. "I’m  your only hope…aren't I?"

When he doesn't answer, I take the next step towards him, "Please, I want to be useful." So many are counting on me, and they don't even know it—I think of them every morning when I wake up and, at times, in my sleep, borrowing the guilt of their deaths from a future that doesn't exist yet. 

His mouth sets in a hard line, and I wait on bated breath for what he'll say next. "If..." He starts. "If you help me, I will teach you. But only on one other condition."

I feel instantly lighter, like I'm full of helium, "Yes, anything."

"You stop playing that blasted instrument."

My face drops, " Excuse me ??" That blasted — Who the hell does he think he is???

"Do you want to learn magic or not?" He asks. He’s got me in a corner. 

I bite back the choice words I have for him, grinding my jaw. I have to learn. I have to be Maximillian. "One hour a day."

"Once a week."

" Twice. "

"Deal," Ruth says,  turning his nose upwards in satisfaction with his new-found upper hand. 

Truly, it is me with the upper hand: the power I will gain from magic is incomparable to the power I'd gain on my own. But let him believe he is in control. With this weight off my shoulders, I return down the stairs. 

"Where are you going?"

I pause, looking back at Ruth, then to the door, "I have work to do."

"Work is that way," he points his thumb behind him all smug-like, almost chucks it. 

With one last glance at the door, I clench my teeth—so much for my free time!—and work my way back up the stairs. I pause at the step before the top, waiting for Ruth to unblock the path, but instead, he slides the book from my hands, holding it behind him as I grab at it. 

"Ah, ah, ah," he says, dangling it above my head, "you can have this back when we're done."

I huff, gathering up the hem of my dress to push past him. "You're lucky Ludis isn't here," I say. She’d kick his ass. 

***

Ruth has taken over his usual table, supplies scattered across it: journals worth of notes, magical texts with pages sticking out of them, feathered pens, ink wells, charcoals, parchments of varying sizes. He stacks his mess in piles to clear a spot for me. 

"You will be copying this," he holds up a scrap of paper. I take it, studying the flowing script that fills it from top to bottom, looping like elvish cursive. I can make out a few of the letters—or at least I think I can—but the rest is indecipherable. Like scribbles, almost. 

"What language is this?" I ask. 

"The language of mana," he doesn't look up, sifting through a stack of paper until he finds a large sheet of parchment, which he sets before me. Six circles the size of saucers are laid across it in ink, their centers holding geometric designs like those that appear in crop fields—simplistic but alien-looking. Surrounding them are hypnotic swirl-like lines of small dots indented into the page by way of a blunt object. Each circle has a pair, starting under the circumference and ending just above the design. 

Ruth traces his finger over the dots. "I made these as a guide for you," he says. "The words must fit between the lines. Be neat . If any of them overlap, you have to start over."

I nod, my palms clamming at the sight of the ink well he gives me. Charcoal I might erase—not entirely, but enough. Ink is a different story. 

I hold up the script, "I'm writing this into one circle?" When Ruth confirms, I ask, "In all the circles?"

"No," he says, "just the first two." He taps the ones  at the top of the page, which share the same geometric design. "I still have to draft the rest."

"Might I have paper to, um, practice?" I ask. I'm nauseous to think I might mess up and make more work for him. He’d never teach me magic then!

Ruth retrieves a blank page for me, digging through the stack of paper once more as if it vexes him, but he does not complain. With the paper in my hand and seeing as I have no more questions, the mage sits at the table and falls into his work, drafting new scripts. 

I turn to my own, studying this so called “language of mana”. I trace each word with a dry quill tip before attempting to write on the blank page. The more time I spend with it, observing each detail, the more the pattern unfolds. The letters are clearer, jumping out at me, though I don't understand them, all  remarkably similar to Elvish, though less refined. 

I run through the script twice on the practice page, curving it like Ruth wants me to until I feel confident enough to copy it for real. Dipping the quill into the ink, I scrape the nib on the edge of the jar to remove the excess more than I probably should, afraid the ink will blot if I don't, and lightly touch it to the paper. The nib runs dry in only a few short lines, and I repeat the process of dipping, scrapping, writing; dipping, scrapping, writing; dipping, scrapping writing. 

Dipping, scrapping, writing…

I work like this for some time. The magic-powered clock chimes One o'clock from the far wall; still, I write, finishing the first two circles and starting the next. I am almost done, Ruth sliding the third script to me when we are interrupted. 

"Madam?" Ludis hovers by the stairs. 

I sit up, rolling the crook in my neck as I glance towards the clock for the hour, only to find it's hidden behind the shelves. "What time is it? I ask the maid as she approaches. 

"A quarter 'til Two," she says. 

"Is it that time already?" I'm glad she came and got me. "Give me one second," I tell her, finishing the last few lines of the third circle. 

"Time for what?" Ruth asks. He peers at me as I stand, pushing in my chair and tidying up. 

"I have an appointment," I say. Riftan has set up a riding lesson for me with the stable master at Two o'clock. I shimmy over to where Ruth is, stealing my music book from the top of his pile as I silently dare him to say something. He doesn't. 

Instead, he swallows, mulling his next words. "You will be back tomorrow?" Expectation laces his tone, full of demands not to be made with Ludis present. She watches his every move. 

"I'll be here," I say, "at the, the  crack of dawn to wake you, um, up bright and early."

"Yeah, yeah," he waves me away. "I'll hold you to it."

***

The stable master, Kunel Osban, is a wiry man who acts with relaxed, cheerful manners, stroking his long, reddish beard per thought and remark. He is knowledgeable in all the ways of horses and riding and thorough in his teachings, making sure to watch my stance and demeanor, as well as that of the horse. 

"Point your heel, Madam," he says. Tightening my grip on the reins, I lift my toes like he taught me rather than pushing down on the stirrups. "You can ease your hands."

My head swims with all I must keep track of, even as we walk gently around the arena behind the stables. Hands should be relaxed, should not pull on the reins; keep straight, don't slouch; keep loose…

My legs astride, the skirt of my dress bunches around me, my calves to be left exposed if not for my stockings. I follow the motion of the horse from within the seat, my thighs rubbing against the leather saddle to the point I would chaff in unpleasant areas if not for the foresight to wear braies. 

"Turn left," Osban instructs. I squeeze my right leg, opening my left hand to guide the horse. "That was excellent!" He has me turn to the right next, praising me further when I perform the maneuver to his satisfaction. "You're becoming a natural."

"I wouldn't, um, I wouldn’t say that." I'm getting the hang of it, but natural is still a ways away. 

"You wouldn't?" Osban remarks. With the horse stopped, he moves back enough to stroke his beard, looking off towards the arena's entrance. I follow his line of sight, surprised to find Riftan leaning against the fence. This is the first I've seen him today. 

Osban pats the mare's neck, nodding towards Riftan, "Why don't you ride over, and we'll see how natural you are?"

"Um, alright," I say. I click my horse forward, squeezing my legs to urge her on, giving a slight kick when she doesn’t respond. Osban walks with us in case I need help, but the horse does most of the work, the path to Riftan straight.

"Look at you!" He says as I get closer, opening the gate to meet me. I attempt to stop the horse, sitting deeper in the saddle and squeezing my legs again. She slows but doesn't halt, backing up as I pull on the reins. 

Riftan comes to my aid, taking hold of the bridle as he soothes the mare with a whoa. "You've got to work on that," he teases me. I really do. 

Riftan moves to lift me from the saddle as Osban takes the reins. "Have you thought of a name yet?" He asks. The ground feels glorious against my feet as he sets me down, my joints able to stretch.

"I have," I say, patting the mare's rump as her tail swishes. "Rem." What better name than the one Maxi gave her?

"Rem?" His eyes widen. "Seems my wife lacks imagination, naming a horse after its color." 

"And I suppose you, that you named your dragon that for a different reason?" I ask. 

He pauses, "You named her after the knights?" 

I give him an exaggerated shrug, his expression softening. He kisses the top of my head as he wraps his arm over my shoulders. “You know I didn’t name the dragon, right?” He asks. I roll my eyes. 

I make sure to thank Osban for the lesson, and confirm time for a new one. The stable master inclines his head, leading Rem away as Riftan and I leave the stables. 

"How was your day?" I ask as we walk.

"Busy," he says. I cannot imagine it being anything but. 

"I've heard you ordered a new gate."

"I have. Should be installed a couple weeks from now; then we can return our prisoners." He hesitates as he says, "I'll have to leave after for a monster hunt, a horde of goblins were spotted in the mountains." 

"How long will you be gone?" Disappointment sits on my chest, and I'm not sure why—or, at least, I won't admit it. 

"Few days," he figures. "Why, are you gonna miss me?"

I feign indifference, making a show of it as I tap my chin, "Hmmm..."

He playfully nudges me before I can finish, and I earn a laugh from him. It sounds like music, even though it's rougher than any note I could play on my harpsichord. It makes me smile in a way I can't control. 

"What about you?" He asks. "How was your day?"

"It was good," I say. "I'm, um…I’m helping Ruth with the wards."

I could hide it from him, wait for him to find out on his own, but I'd rather avoid a future conflict. Besides, I want to watch Ruth lob a giant fireball. How do I explain that to Riftan? 

"Is he pressuring you into it?" His voice turns to steal. 

"No!" I wave my hands. "No one is forced," except maybe Ruth. "He's short on time, and I'm the only one who can, um, who can do the type of work required. And I…I don't mind helping, as long as it's for Anatol."

"You don't need to concern yourself with Anatol's safety."

I frown, "Why wouldn't I? The safer Anatol's citizens are, the safer I am." What better way to assure my safety than to be a part of creating it?

Riftan sighs, "Ruth is always causing explosions and fires. I don't want you to be in the middle of that."

"He has me working on parchment," I say, "and he's busy with, with um, bookwork. I don't see how there could be any, any explosions."

He opens his mouth to object, then presses his lips together. "If you really want to help him, help him,” he relents, “but don't overdo it."

"I won't," I say.

"And I will be talking with him to ensure he doesn't get you involved in any... dangerous experiments." I can agree with that. 

I can't believe it was this easy to convince him. It gives me more confidence. 

"He says I have mana affinity."

Riftan's voice drops a level, "Does he now?" I swallow. 

I tell him about reviving the oak tree in the gardens, how some of the magic flew into my hand. "I'm fine," I say, as he looks at me perturbed. He settles down, still wary as I continue my reminiscing, "It felt like…like lightning and honey."

Riftan shakes his head, "What is your fascination with magic?"

"I think it's interesting," I say, "and I would-wouldn’t mind being able to, um, to use it. What is your aversion to it?"

"I've had bad experiences with it in the past," he says but elaborates no further. I wonder if it has to do with the time he fought the drake, when he got horribly injured and Ruth had to use taboo magic to put him back together. 

Or perhaps Ruth did something else. Both are likely. 

The setting sun turns the sky into varying hues of orange, as we approach the main building, a line of red gathering over the top of the wall and a darker blue overtaking the highest point of the ether. It backlights the castle, makes it look like shadow. 

I expect that dinner will be set at the table soon, that we will share our usual discussions as we eat. Then we will go to bed. Aside from his casual touches and affections, from having me as a conversation partner, Riftan has shown no further interest in me. 

It’s the bleeding, I tell myself. He doesn’t want to hurt me. But even so, I thought he might show a little more desire. It’s all silly…

Even the richest noblewomen would envy me, with no marital obligation I’m demanded to fulfill. What a blessing, that our relationship might grow into one of companionship than simply duty. 

But I can’t help but feel neglected, and somehow so, so afraid. 

Why do I always feel afraid?

Chapter Text

Mana is physical in the sense that lightning is physical; makes shapes similar to how lightning does. Ruth says mana flows in set ways that we can't always see, but it's still there. It has patterns, poses it repeats like a dance: it's found in the flame of fire, in the drifting of wind, the waves of water, the strength of the earth. Mana is nature, and nature replicates. 

There's debate on whether God desired for mankind to use magic—no mage is born a mage; they must have a surplus of mana within their body—and consequently, it is debated if magical creatures, born with this affinity, were the makings of the devil. But the one thing agreed upon is that the elves were the first spell casters. 

So sensitive to mana, they could see it with the naked eye, they studied how it flowed through the world around them, learning to harness what was within their body and guide it in the patterns they witnessed. The language of mana, they called it, wrote these patterns down and created runes, then used those runes as artificial extensions of their gift. 

"It's like how we build canals for water to travel," Ruth says. He points to the new script he's spent the past few hours working on, "these letters are channels for mana, and if you understand the way it would flow naturally or when physically casting a spell, you can create a script to cause mana to flow that same way artificially..."

"...and cause magic to happen," I finish. 

"Exactly."

"What are these designs in the middle?" I ask, referring to the alien-looking geometrics. 

"Those are attributes," he says. He explains that attributes are different types of mana, those of the traditional elements and some that are forbidden to use except in common runes: attributes of the mind, soul, shadow, time, etc. Many patterns repeat, but the type of mana they use is different. "Spell-casting requires preciseness. Consider attributes a form of fine-tuning."

"Mages have an attribute, right?"

"When they graduate from Nornui, they do. Doesn't mean that they can only perform that type of magic. It's just that they're better at it." Ruth pulls back his sleeve, revealing the runes tattooed into his arm. "I'm a wind mage, "he says. He touches the largest rune, "This one draws wind-type mana, and this one—" he taps the smaller one beneath it “—is connected to my Ma Ryok, which is the body's mana source."

The runes of his tattoo look identical to the runes we've worked on, each with an attribute of its own and script circling around it. More script connects the two, curving the outside of each rune like a figure eight. 

"Do they use magic to place that?" They must, with how detailed it is, the writing so small. But it looks real, the color faded. 

"Nope, they use ink."

"And poke it in with needles and everything?" I suck in a breath as he shakes his head, "Yes." I always contemplated getting a tattoo—a mere what-if— but never thought I actually would. 

"They train people to do it," he says. "It's a highly respected job."

As long as I don't get an infection, I think. 

I look at the runes before me, much larger than the ones on Ruth's arm. Yesterday, there were only six. Now, there are ten in total, with two warding devices to be made, according to the mage: one for the main gate and another for the one to be built at the south end of the village during road construction.

"What are you, um, going to do with all this parchment anyway?" I ask. The material doesn't seem durable enough for a magical device. 

"They're guides for carving the runes into the actual material."

"But why not carve them directly?" He has all the notes he'd need.

"Because I only have so much basilisk bone," Ruth says. "One mistake, and it's all over."

"But why—" He throws the new script at me; it bounces off my forehead onto the table. 

"No more questions," he says, shushing me when I protest. "No more."

I grumble, unfolding the crumpled scrap of paper and neatening it enough to read. Shunned in my pursuit of knowledge: we'll see what he thinks when I play harpsichord an extra day this week...

***

Two weeks pass; we gather at the gate. 

A colossal ball of pure flame plummets over the wall; would meet the gathering of onlookers if not for the blue sheen that materializes out of thin air. The fire crashes into it, exploding into wispy bursts before it dissipates to nothing. The shield retracts. 

As the onlookers cheer, thrilled by such flaunting, my body trembles with the arcane presence that lingers like dust—what was once a faint twitch in the air is now a recognizable, unavoidable manifestation of pure energy. I cannot pass it off as my imagination—swear I could reach out and touch it. 

"Are you alright?" Riftan asks, his hand on the small of my back to steady me. 

"I'm fine," I say, "excited, is all."

Accepting my answer, he shouts to the men atop the wall, "Open the gate!"

He leads me in that direction as the two doors creak open like a herd of trumpeting elephants upon their hinges. I cover my ears until it's done. 

"Was that really necessary?" The mage groans, slipping through the narrow space between the doors. 

Hebaron follows, lagging somewhat behind. "To be fair," he says, "we asked for a test, not an inferno—" There's a bang as he runs nose-first into the shield, a wave of blue rippling out from the impact point. Ruth smirks, the magic in his hand leaving as quickly as it came. 

Hebaron rubs his wounds, warily stepping through the gate, "Not funny."

"That's what we say about you," the mage retorts. I bite my lip to contain my laughter. 

"Enough," Riftan scolds. "The demonstration was fine. Anatol must know it's safe even in my absence."

Anatol and the men from Kaisa, waiting outside to collect their lord's wily son from our prison. To them, that demonstration is a warning: the shield a deterrent and the fireball a threat. The amount of confidence Riftan has in Ruth's work must be overwhelming to showcase it before foes—more or less so, considering how wary he is of me being around it. 

Riftan and Hebaron discuss the prisoners while I turn to Ruth. "I have a question," I say. "A few times I've been around magic, I've… felt it, like in the atmosphere. But when you healed me, I didn't. There wasn't a, um, a..."

"Shift?" Ruth asks. 

"Yeah. Why is that?"

"You have to change the flow of mana to cast spells," Ruth says. He said something similar when we were working together on the wards. "Depending on how strong that change is or how sensitive you are, you can feel it." 

"So healing magic changes the flow, just not strongly?"

Ruth nods his head. "If I'd used more, it would have been noticeable; not like the fireball was noticeable, but you know what I mean." He motions to the magical device set into the stone above the gate, "The wards work similarly: I carved a rune sensitive to the change of mana and connected it to a shield rune. When the flow around it is normal, there's no shield. But the second that flow changes..." Ruth moves his hands as if he is gathering something from the air and pushes this substance upwards—a gust rushes past, whipping my skirts as it belts towards the sky. A moment later, the shield reveals itself: a glassy, blue half-dome spanning a thradion, at least, over the wall. More and more appears as the wind aggravates it, then gradually fades. 

"Wow..." I marvel under my breath. I look closer at the device itself—at the yellowish bone littered with markings. "You said you used basilisk bone?"

"More durable that way," Ruth says. "Also channels mana better since it's so dense—means it absorbs less."

I furrow my brows, "Wouldn't you, um, want the opposite?" As in less dense equals better absorption. 

"Why would it be the opposite?" He looks at me like I'm stupid. "You want as much mana as possible to make the spell stronger. If it gets absorbed, your spell weakens."

Oh. 

Riftan touches my shoulder, and I look to find him and Hebaron watching me—the orange-haired knight with such intent that it's like he is sizing me up. Before I might discern such attention, Riftan guides me away. 

"I have to escort the prisoners out," he says. "Ruth and Hebaron will return you to the castle."

He walks me to my horse and helps me mount, holding the mare steady. "You'll return to the, um, castle before you leave, right?" I ask, settling into the saddle. 

He says he will. "There's a few things to finish before we go."

Riftan's hand rests on my thigh, and I lean down to kiss him. Used to craning my neck to reach his lips, I like this new angle; would like it better if I didn't have to stay balanced in my seat. 

As I pull away, I catch Hebaron's eye again. The knight glances away and mounts his horse, riding over to Ruth. 

"I'll see you at the castle," Riftan says, stepping back to let me go. 

Ruth and Hebaron are in mid-conversation when I join them. 

"And here I was, thinking I could enjoy a bed for a while," Hebaron groans. 

"I thought you were the one complaining about not seeing any action," Ruth says. 

"I did, just didn't think it'd show up so soon."

People bustle by on the dirt road, many carrying their work with them—one woman holds buckets of water on either end of a wooden rod as kids dart underneath her. A few carts driven by mules pass along the way; we move to the side of the road for them. 

"I need to stop by the market," Ruth calls to Hebaron, who rides behind me. "I need to stock up on herbs and magic stones. I've had no time with the device and all."

"That's personal business," Hebaron says. "Go run errands on your own time."

"It's not personal if it benefits the castle," Ruth says. 

I clear my throat, looking back to the knight, "I would not mind seeing the market." He gives no response. The mage takes this as his cue.

We pay a minor fee to leave our horses at a nearby stable, strolling through the market square. Here, the ground is paved, the expanse filled with vendors, some with stalls, others on blankets, some standing. We follow the line of villagers who stream through as they shop. 

I inspect a well-made tapestry, nudging Ruth when its supplier turns to speak with another customer. "It looks just like you," I say, pointing to a dorky unicorn with a horn too big for its head. 

"Yeah?" He shifts the bags of herbs in his arms enough to point to a rather emaciated dog in the corner, "That one's you." 

Hand on my chest, I gasp, "I could have you beheaded for this."

"I thought you wanted to learn magic?" We snicker.

Hebaron, quiet until now, speaks up, "You two have gotten awful close." He looks between us two as he waits for his words to sink in. 

"I, um..." How do I reply to that? Everything I could say to defend myself seems wrong. 

"What do you mean?" Ruth glares. 

"I'm just saying the two of you are quite familiar," as he accentuates the last word, its tone upshifts like a question. Like he's not entirely convinced of his own suspicions. 

" Alright , enough is enough," Ruth says. A few passersby steal glances, craning their necks to hear the drama. "I've been ignoring you knights and your baseless notions, but God—Lady Calypse is not some contagious boil and certainly not someone for you to vilify. 

"I never—"

"Maybe you haven't outright, but your treatment of her right now influences how she'll be treated later. Show some chivalry." That's twice now he's thrown that in a knight's face. 

With his piece said, Ruth walks away, Hebaron and I left to stand speechless. Not once has someone come to my defense like that, and for it to be Ruth of all people! I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but still... 

Hebaron and I share a look, unsure of what to do as the silence stretches further. "I, um...the mage has offered his...his council and, um, amity to me," I say. “That is all.” I know what our interactions look like, and I've tried to keep them minimal. Perhaps I would care more if I were not so grateful to have a friend. 

I follow after Ruth. "Thank you, um, for…for what you said," I say when I've caught up to him. 

He brushes it off. "The knights are harsh in their judgments of you," he says. "Some of it's true, most of it isn't." For once, I don't ask him for clarification. I don't want it. 

Ruth hackles with the vendor we stop at, the tension growing thicker around our trio. My eyes wander to the stall next to us, its knick-knacks—belt buckles, leather purses, trinkets—catching my attention. Deja vu hits me as I move towards them, picking up a woven tassel of red, green, and yellow.

"Those are sword ornaments."

My heart leaps to my throat as Hebaron appears behind me; I slap his arm on instinct. We stare at each other, mouths parted, eyes wide. 

"S, sorry," I say, gathering my composure. I smooth the fly-away of hair fallen into my eyes, "You said these, um…the-these are sword ornaments?"

"Uh, yes," Hebaron shakes away his disbelief. "Many adventurers believe these to be protective talismans. You can tie one here like this." He turns to show me his sword, a black and white talisman tied to its hilt. 

"Was it a gift from someone?" 

"The first one," he says. "But they keep breaking, so I keep buying."

"Superstitious, I see," I laugh. Looking back at the talisman in my hand, I say, "I am the same way. I don't think Riftan is, um, though."

"The captain doesn't find these particularly useful to him. He's too proud."

"That sounds like his lordship, alright."

Hebaron rubs his chin, "Maybe if your ladyship were to gift him one…Would you like to?" He unties his leather pouch from his belt before I can answer and tosses a shekel towards the vendor.

"Many thanks, Sir," I hear the man say as I trail after the knight. 

"You– You didn't need to, um, to do that," I say. "I'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I'm not stingy like some other people." He looks pointedly at Ruth, calling out to him as the mage meanders down the path, "Wait up! You can't run off like that."

I clutch the tassel in my fist, close to my chest. 

***

Riftan takes the time to dress for the hunt upon his return to the castle. I watch as he dawns his gambeson—a thick, padded coat—and his chainmail over the top of it, then his surcoat with the emblem of the Remdragons. There are other pieces he wears—his vambraces and shin guards—but his suit of armor sits relatively untouched in the corner of the room; I've never seen him wear it. I don't think I've seen any of the knights do so. 

I help him fasten his fur cloak, adjusting it over his shoulders. "Before you go," I say, "I have something for you."

I retrieve the ornament from my vanity, hiding it in my hands, "I found this in the market. Sir Nirtha said it was a protective talisman. I thought you might, um, might like it..." My voice trails off. Is it an insult to say he needs protection?

Sensing my hesitation, Riftan holds his hand out, and I give him the talisman. He runs his fingers over it, feeling its texture through his gloves. Then, after a breath passes and  his face tightens as it does when he thinks, he pulls me into his embrace.

"I'll cherish it,” he says. “Thank you.”

I soak in the strength of his arms around me, resting my face in the crook of his neck as I breathe him in. Something in the warmth of his being makes my blood rush—I pull away before I stick to him. 

"How do I tie it?" Riftan asks. "It goes on my sword, right?" 

"Sir Nirtha has it this way," I take the talisman, attempting to wrap it around the hilt as I saw, "but that seems like it would get in the way." I move it further up, imagining how I might place it better. 

"Here," Riftan wraps it in a rope knot over the pommel, tight so that it doesn't slip. 

I offer a smile at the contentment that washes him, but I feel it fade from my mouth a moment after. "I feel bad," I say. "Sir Nirtha paid for it and, um, said not to pay him back, but...I can't just do that..."

"How much did he pay?"

"A shekel." It's a peasant coin. He can afford it—I've seen how much the knights make. But it's the principle that has me wound up. "What should I do?"

"Don't worry about it," Riftan says. He holds the sides of my face, kissing my forehead, "I'll pay him back." 

I hope he means with coin...

He strokes my cheek, "I'll come home as soon I can."

"Be safe," I tell him, though I know he will be. He is Rossem Wigrew, and they are only goblins. Still…

It's stupid, I know, to think that a piece of string could influence his fate or that I'd have to tell him to be safe, at all. But everything I have, everything I need, all of Anatollium and the whole world, relies on him and his ability to stay alive. 

What a terrible burden to bear.

Chapter Text

I uncork my flask and throw it back in a deep, bitter swig. The alcohol stings my throat on the way down, but I hardly feel it anymore—does pull a cough from my chest, though. 

With a sigh, I rest against a nearby rock, as camp is set up behind me, the night creeping in over the trees. No goblins spotted yet, but there's still time. 

The captain approaches my guard post, his steps crunching in the dirt without reason to disguise them. "Seen anything?" he asks, resting his grip on the hilt of his sword. The ends of a tassel poke out from beneath his hand.

"All's quiet," I say. Too quiet. 

Calypse peers into the woods with the same vigilance he often has—can never seem to shake. He turns that same scrutiny against me, squinting as I take another swig of my drink. I watch him from the corner of my eye, ready to ask what in the hell he's staring at, when he holds his hand out to me, a coin resting in his fingers. 

"You don't have to—"

"She insisted," he says. He motions for me to take the coin, dropping it into my palm as I reluctantly extend it. With our transaction ended, he leaves. 

I weigh the shekel, examine the bronze face of the king protruding from its metal surface before flicking it with my thumb. The coin flips in the air, and I catch it on the back of my hand, uncovering it to show tails. 

I can't wrap my head around it, the captain's fascination with that girl. Many women, far prettier than her, have fawned over him, all willing to spread their legs, yet no glances spared—but a Croix comes along, and suddenly he's head over heels. It makes no sense!

He could have had the princess and lived high off the hog; could've ignored her if he didn't like her that much and reap the benefits all the while. But he didn't give the king's offer a second thought—not even a first! 

I think of the rumor the squires have been chattering about: that they're childhood lovers, the lady and him. How could that be true? He refused the duke's first proposal, never interacted with her before their wedding, in which she pranced out scared as a doe. Although I heard it was a pretty raucous night, so maybe it is true…

Tucking the coin into my belt pouch, I set my flask between my feet and hunch over my thighs, letting my cloak fall around me. Pasias is fast approaching, faster than before. 

The knights say a Croix is a Croix, but after today—after a while actually—I'm not so sure. 

Truth be told, I've always been unsure of her ever since she married the captain. Her father's an asshat, her sister and grandmother a pair of prudes. Why would she be different?

In most ways, she isn’t. Lady Calypse's a noble: confident, commanding, more refined than your average folk. But, to her credit, she carries herself more kindly than most nobility, that mindset that she's superior to all other lifeforms strikingly absent. 

Any other noblewoman, if I had insulted them, would have lost their shit. Would have demanded their husband give me much more than a coin for my rude words and a scanty peace offering. But she acted with composure and civility. 

"She insisted."  

The mage's words have rattled around my head all afternoon, now with the captain’s to add to them. Maybe, it's true. Maybe we have vilified her far too much...

Chapter Text

Riftan has been gone for three days. 

The mage calls me to his tower sometime in the afternoon. I bring Ludis with me, as I do anytime I meet with him as of late. 

I knock on the door, aiming my voice upwards as I call out as loud as I can, "Ruth?"

No answer. 

I raise my hand to knock once more when a thud sounds from within, dampened but pronounced through the stone, then a hard click of a latch a moment later. Ludis and I crane our necks to listen, startled when Ruth throws open the door. 

"Wha— Oh, Lady Calypse," the mage sucks in his annoyance, holding it like smoke from a cigarette. With heavy-lidded eyes, he looks towards the stairs, then to me. "I'll be back," he says before I can add a word in, and promptly shuts the door. 

The maid and I share a glance: another when there is more thumping upstairs, assorted and conspicuous like Ruth is a golf ball puttering about. He plunges down the stairs after a long minute, lugging a pair of thick, dust-bound books. He gives them to Ludis, who, not expecting the weight, almost drops them. 

"Study those. We'll have your next lesson when you finish reading them." He shoves a hand in his pocket, digging around in the depths until he fishes out a crystal-like stone, "In the meantime, practice detecting mana with this." Dropping the stone into my hand, he briefly explains how, calling it a "touch and feel" situation. He waves a finger in my face, "Those are expensive, so don't break it."

Deeming the conversation over, his piece said, Ruth shoos me off, muttering something about sleep, as he shuts the door like I'm the newspaper boy. Jarred, I stand there a beat after, as if he'll clamber out to impart a few more wise words—instructions even. Touch and feel???

"Is he always like that?” Ludis asks. For Ruth's sake, I turn on my heel and start down the path.

"I can hold one of those if you need me to," I say as she hobbles after me. 

"They're not that heavy," the maid assures, back arched from the heft of the books. "Besides, your hands are full."

I scoff, smoothing my thumb over the rounded edges of the mana stone as I ready my protest, but fall silent as we round the corner of the training grounds. The din from inside draws my attention, and as we move closer to the gateway, I catch glimpses of targets set up, their bright circles growing clearer until the squires come fully into view. They draw their bows, losing arrows in near synchrony. 

"Madam?" Ludis slows as she passes me, and I realize that I've stopped in the path. She adjusts the books over her hip, keeping her words hushed this time as she stands next to me, "Madam, I think it best not to disturb them."

A squire cheers when he hits the bullseye, receiving a hardy pat on the shoulder from his friend while others groan at his crowing. 

"Madam, really," Ludis says, "the knights don't like to be watched." I listen to her then, ungluing my feet from the ground to continue along the path. 

As long as I can remember, I've always been intrigued by the allure of archery, savoring characters like Merida and Katniss, Legolas and his hair. There were a few books on the sport in Castle Croix—I read every text I could get my hands on, read those ones twice over. What I would give to learn, even as a hobby…

The mana stone sits lukewarm in my hold, coated in the sweat of my palm. I wipe it against my coat. 

Between magic and my role as the castle's mistress, my horse riding lessons, the expedition, I'd be impressed if I could find the time. And I'd need a teacher—who here would be willing?

***

The days pass. I fill the time with reading, and when I am not reading, I practice sensing from the mana stone, hiding away in my bedroom from the noise of the castle. I grip the stone tightly, hold it close like I am praying as a groove of concentration cements itself into my brow. God knows how long passes; I don’t feel a thing. 

Riftan has been gone for a week now.

At dawn of the eighth day, the western guard post is attacked by werewolves, word not received until late morning. The castle jumps to action, rallying servants for assistance and loading several carts of supplies. I run to the last of the transport, where the servants pile on. 

"Madam?" Though surprised, Ruth helps me onto the remaining space. "You're coming with us?"

Of course, I am coming! I think as I give Ludis a hand. But as the maid sets her foot up, I hesitate, "Will I…will I be a nuisance?" If I am only going to be in the way... 

"No, of course not. I need all the help I can get," Ruth says. He sits while servants make a spot for me to do the same."Do you have any medical knowledge?"

"None that, um…" I clear my throat. “None that would be of, um, use to you.” It's been years since I've used it, nor did I think I'd have to so soon and without magic to aid me. If I had remembered this event, perhaps I could have prepared better…

Calling over his shoulder, the mage signals the carts to move, and the vehicle lurches as the driver urges the horses forward. The sky is as gray as it was the last it rained, the clouds frail and thin but threatening to send showers with every gust that shivers over my spine. I pull my cloak tighter, tucking my legs to my chest as they spasm from the chill. 

Ludis looks at me with concern. I give her shoulder a light squeeze to ease her worry, though it does not ease mine. I feel like I am lying, though, about what, I am not sure. 

"Madam, if I may ask," Ruth turns to me, "what knowledge do you have?"

"I know how to, um, to clean and, and…stitch wounds, um…wrap bandages, " I say. Confounded that I would know such a thing he asks me how I learned. Medical school, I want to say, Class of ‘28—hard to believe the things that come around like this—but instead, I answer, "I read…read it in a book. Um, a few, actually." 

"Have you put it into practice?" When I hesitate to answer, Ruth shakes his head, "It's better than nothing. Many here have been in this situation before. They will know what to do the moment you command them." 

But what if I don't know what to command them?

Surely, they will figure it out themselves if the situation comes to it, I think. If all else fails, Ruth will know what to do. The words are empty: naive hopes to suppress my anxiety enough to think. 

"Your focus should be to stop bleeding," Ruth says, "and to give antidote to patients with bite or claw wounds. Werewolves are highly potent creatures; serious wounds can cause death in a matter of hours from toxins alone." Those hours have already passed for many of the victims. 

Turning away from the town, the carts take the road leading into the trees that line the grazing space. The path is less worn but jostles us, the surroundings growing dimmer the deeper we go. 

Several fires are lit along the guard post as we arrive, smoke pouring into the air. Amongst it, a fainter scent hovers. Like skunk that's rotting in the sun, the sweet odor of decay mixes with an essence of burnt rubber. I breathe shallow breaths until my nose adjusts. 

Guards rush towards us, then around, as they find the carts with supplies and swarm them. 

Ruth leaps down as our cart comes to a stop, pushing his way through the crowd to retrieve a couple of burlap sacks from the cart behind us. Within each sack are pouches that he takes and passes around. Every person gets two: one beige and one dark brown. 

"Styptic is in the this bag," he says, holding the beige for everyone to see. "Place it on a wound to stop bleeding. In the darker bag, you will find the antidote. If a patient has a fever or a swollen, purple wound, have them swallow some." I repeat his instructions in my head over and over so I don’t forget. 

"Before applying styptic, cut any fabric around the wound and clean it with water. Apply the styptic, then apply pressure with a cloth."

He directs the servants to gather the needed supplies—bandages and scissors, cloth, and other such materials—most of which is already being rushed into the guard house as we speak. I turn to ask a question, but Ruth is already being pulled away. 

"Have the servants gather water," he says and is gone, hastening towards the stone wall of the perimeter.

Does this mean I am in charge? A pit opens in my stomach at the thought. Where do I begin? Water, of course, but the patients?

My attention fixes to the guard house, crumbling upon its foundations: broken windows covered with wood and pelt, missing shingles on the roof, chinking absent in the crack of the exterior so that I can almost peer in. The door is propped open as the injured are carried like rag-dolls in the arms of the abled without stretchers to hold them. 

Awful truths always make themselves known at the worst moments. I am not the person for this, I think. I was never the person for this…

"Madam?"

My head whips to Ludis and the group who waits for my command. With a great, shaking inhale, I search through the clumps of my thoughts for something effective or anything at all. 

Water. 

"You two—" I point at two servants “—ga-gather water. Take more…more help if you need it. The rest of you follow me," I wave an arm towards the building.

Inside, the sickly, metallic tang of blood over powers my senses. It hovers over the rows of men stretched out across cots and blankets, some on the bare floor. Some mutter out weak cries of anguish while others lay still. I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dark room lit only by the fireplace and candles and whatever light slips through the wall.

"See to the, to the most critical first," I say, unsure how one could even begin to assess that. The servants move to action, peeling off into the room like a wave from bed to bed, Ludis following so that I am left alone. I shout Ruth's words after them, "Stop…stop bleeding  a-and give antidote!" 

"We need more styptic here!" Someone yells. 

I clutch my pouch, "I have some!"

Rushing towards the voice, my head dizzies, the room turning disproportional. With each footfall, it's as if my mind floats from my body, and I'm following it from above, watching, guiding, but not genuinely experiencing. This is all just a show, a dramatization that will turn out fine regardless of me. 

"Here." Crimson coats the hand that takes the styptic from me. The man gives me no further attention, wrenching the bag open and grabbing powder to cast upon the wound. It only covers the surface, sticks to the drying streaks of blood on the injured's shoulder, and the sopping, red cloth packed into the wound. 

"Get the mage," the man—a guard—says to one of the two others accompanying him and turns toward the next patient. 

"Wait—" I follow him towards the bed. He has my styptic still. But before I can say so, he turns to me. 

"Cloth."

"Wha—"

" Cloth! We need cloth ," he points to the table behind him. "Are you deaf?" I shake my head as I grab what he needs, ordered to then press down on the wound. 

The patient's trousers have been cut away, revealing broad claw marks that scrape across his thigh, angry and swollen, the edges bruised in violet hues. He squirms as I hold the cloth to them and bear down as blood seeps into the fabric. The guard ties a tourniquet near the man's groin while his accomplice restrains the patient from moving too much, coaxing him to ingest the antidote. 

Wet against my fingers, the blood slows before the whole cloth is filled. I remove it so that water can flush the wound; only then do I see how deep the gashes are before the styptic is applied—they nearly touch the bone. 

"Where is that blasted mage?" The guard demands. He searches the whole room with his frightening lour, vexed to withdraw short. 

"He's heal—" I falter when the guard's attention snaps to me. "He's healin– healing a knight."

"Then go get him." I nod, rising from my knees to scamper out. 

Ruth is at the supply cart when I exit the building. As I approach, he hands me suturing materials, moving back to find additional items. 

"Another one?" He asks. It takes me a moment to realize he means patient. 

"Severe, um, claw marks on the, on the upper thigh," I say. "He has a, um, tourniquet."

Ruth pulls a bottle of wine from a crate, "I'll see to him first."

I lead him to the patients, setting the materials to the side. Ruth flushes the wound with more water to clear the new blood that has seeped there—much less than before—then sets his magic to it. Rather than healing, he withdraws a liquid from the injury.

"Grab that bucket." I take a wooden pail set in the corner, holding it out to him. The liquid floats around his hands, splashing into the container as he releases it. He moves back to the patient.

"What was that?" I ask, stepping towards him. 

"Detoxification magic." He uncorks the bottle of wine, pouring some into the wound before applying more magic. This time, golden light circulates in his hand and around the injury. 

Ruth sees this as a teaching-moment. "Before you ever apply healing magic," he says, "clean the wound. You can kill someone otherwise." Beneath his hand, I watch as the flesh stitches itself together: a timelapse of the body's natural process before my very eyes. "Do so with water first, then follow with alcohol, if you can, wine preferably. Patients recover better that way." 

It's the antiseptic properties, I think. Like rubbing alcohol but less concentrated. 

The first patient healed, Ruth unwraps the tourniquet, then moves to the man with the injured shoulder, following the same process as before. Out of all of it, my eyes are transfixed upon his healing magic. 

The Duke of Croyso employed divine clerics as his healers, men of the cloth whose magic was colder, harsher, blue . Nothing like the gentle warmth that eases the man into his cot and unknots his brow. I noticed the difference when Ruth healed me, but it did not impress me like it does now.

"Mage!" 

"One moment!" Ruth heals the last of the injury, then turns to me, pointing to the bucket he brought over, "Dump that outside." I do so as he runs to help the new patient, moving quickly so that I might join him. 

I arrive just after Ruth does, shrinking back as I see the injury. The man is barely conscious, his forearm bent at an unnatural angle as his bone protrudes from his skin. 

Ruth looks at me, but I know it before he says it, moving to fetch a pitcher from a nearby table. I hand the water to the maid attending the patient and run off to bring the wine Ruth used last.

He thanks me upon my return, instructing the maid to hold the man down. The patient flinches as wine is poured onto his injury, but it does not compare to the cry he gives as Ruth wrenches his bone into place. I wince, swallowing the bile in my throat lest I hurl my guts on the floor. 

"Hold his arm," Ruth tells me. I do as I'm told, careful not to touch the exposed flesh—overly aware of how dirty my hands are. Healing magic circulates, but the man is unconscious before he can appreciate it. I feel his pulse as I set his arm down, relieved to find it is still strong. 

Raising my hands to my face, I peer for the blood I know coats them, swear I can feel it like sweat against my skin, even if it's indistinguishable in the poor lighting. I need to wash them. 

I reach for the pitcher set on the floor, not caring how much is in it as I turn to Ruth, "I'm, um…going to fill this." I don't wait for a reply, moving past the beds and towards the door. 

Outside is not much brighter than within the house, though my eyes still squint as they adjust. That earlier stench of rot is fouler, the smoke thicker as a bonfire rages to the side. I avert my eyes as teams work to heave dark masses onto the pyre—werewolves, I assume. 

Is this what I’ll always be dealing with? I wonder as I cross the way towards the well. The scent of burning corpses; broken men who I can ease no pain for? Who I could damn the moment I make one mistake?

One of the carts rolls past me, moving towards the building. 

In the woods, men wade around the undergrowth. "We've got another one!"A knight beckons a comrade over, who gags, "God, I think it stinks worse than the last!" Definitely, werewolves…

My mind races the more I walk. Clinicals were hard, and I never faced the brunt of them—I died mid-MS1 when the challenge was adjusting to fast-paced learning, not saving lives. But this isn’t clinicals; this isn’t cadaver lab or online simulations; this is the real thing with real people who could die with one mistake. 

And yet, this isn’t the worst of it. 

Reality is still to come—it’s lurking like I’m prey. There’s a war coming and I can’t even do what I studied my ass off for without being thrown around like a wet bag.

One corpse lies near the well, its ratty coat stuck at different angles like its hackles are raised. I cover my nose with my sleeve until I gain the courage to breathe through my mouth, my nostrils burning. Pouring what's left in the pitcher onto my hands, I scrub them clean and shake them dry, the metal of the pitcher clanging as I set it on the edge of the well and throw the bucket in. 

Two guards shuffle by to collect the monster, taking a front leg in each hand and dragging it on the count of three. I choke as the stench grows worse, burying my nose into my arm as I pull the bucket up. Even after the werewolf is gone, I still dry-heave, pausing to cough as I pour fresh water into the pitcher. 

"Are you alright?" A knight approaches the well.

"I'm fine," I say, replacing the bucket to where it was and reaching for the pitcher with both hands. As I stand, recognition flashes across the knight's face.

"Lady Calypse?" My subconscious has me back away before my consciousness can tell me to keep going. "What is your ladyship doing here?"

"I, um..." I search his features for any threat—tall with a strong build like most of the knights; he has a concerned expression. He doesn't seem like he'll hurt me, but I don't appreciate how he speaks, nor the way he closes in. 

I attempt to skirt around him, but he blocks my path, "Someone of your stature shouldn't be here." 

"Sir, there is…there is no need to, um, worry..." My voice is drowned out as he commands a subordinate to prepare his horse. I look for other escape routes. 

"Madam, allow me to escort you back to the castle."

"There is no need," I try to maneuver around his other side. 

Again, he steps in front of me, "Madam, please, if the commander were to find out—" I push away from him as he reaches for my arm, dropping the pitcher in the process. It dumps onto the ground and splashes my skirt. 

I lose it then, "What is your station?"

"Madam, I—" "What is your station?"

The knight steps back, "Pardon?"

"I am asking on, on what, on what authority you have to…to speak to me so dismissively. I am the lady of the c,castle," I say, "last I checked, I am your superior." I seize the pitcher from the ground, shoving past him. "See to your own work, and I will…will see to mine." Without a glance back, I hurry towards the building, worried he might change his mind about allowing me superiority. To my relief, he does not follow.

The cart from earlier is parked in front of the guard house, and patients that can walk, or at least be assisted in walking, file on. I slip past them into the room. Setting the empty pitcher to the side, I move towards Ruth who speaks with one of the servants. 

He looks relieved to see me, turning from his conversation long enough to point towards the door, "Would you help move patients?" 

I nod, running towards a maid who struggles to help one of the men out of his cot. I direct her to take one arm while I take the other, and we work to haul the man to his feet and aid him towards the door. 

The cart is fuller than it was when I walked past it. A few people stand ahead of us in line, and as we wait, I look towards the well. The knight is gone, and my heart eases its drumming enough that I don't feel so much like a timpani anymore. 

After the one patient is on the cart, I help a few more people, then look for Ruth inside. He sits on the floor, with his back against a wall. 

"Do I need to tend to you, as well?" I ask, crouching to his level. 

He shakes his head, "I've exhausted my mana. Give me half a day or so, and I'll be fine." He motions for me to help him up, and I offer my hand, pulling him to his feet. He is heavier than I expected, but I manage. "I've healed all the critical wounds here," he says, "everyone else needs to be healed by hand. I'll need your help."

I follow him from bed to bed, wetting cloths in alcohol and threading needles for the mage as he sutures wounds, applying ointments and bandages when he asks me to. There are only a handful of people who require attention. 

My anger shoved aside, I turn to the other questions that have been bothering me. "Your magic," I say as he passes sinewy thread through a patient's skin, "it's…it’s different than what I'm used to. My, um, my father's clerics, their magic is blue, and yours is..." Nothing like it.

Ruth finishes tying a knot and moves his hands away so I can cut the thread. "Divine magic is different from regular magic," he explains. "They learn to channel it differently, at least."

"How?"

He shrugs, "However God tells them to, I guess." Done stitching the patient's wound, he gives me space to rub salve over it. "Emotions can also affect the color and feel of certain types of magic, but, again, that's because it affects how mana is channeled in the body." 

"It had a cold feeling," I say.

"Clerics are more serious. Given what I've said, I wouldn't be surprised that their demeanor affects their magic." 

It would make sense, but I doubt seriousness has much to do with it. What men of God heal a child near daily from the abuses of their father and continue on like it never happened? Like their pockets aren't getting heavier? 

I say no more and let it be.

When the work is over, I fall by the fire, rolling the kinks in my neck. The time is obscure with what little light is left behind the trees and the clouds hiding the celestial bodies that could give clues. Ludis brings me a bowl of porridge-like food, and we eat to fill our famished stomachs, too drained to say a word. 

Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow, I am reading every word I can from the books Ruth assigned. I’ve made a sizeable dent already, but a dent is not enough. I will learn healing, I will learn magic, I will fill my obligation to this story if it takes my last breath.

I will never be the doctor my mother wanted me to be, but I will dedicate myself as if I could be. In a world like this, what other choices do I have?

None that are good…

“Lady Calypse?” I am called from my thoughts, lowering the spoon from my mouth as the knight from earlier approaches me once more. 

You’ve got to be kidding.

“What is it?” I try to keep my voice polite. Has he come to demand my return to the castle, perhaps?

To my astonishment, the knight bows—a real one, not like the ones of courtesy the knights often grant me. “I apologize for my actions prior,” he says, his words audible enough that anyone passing could hear. “As your ladyship said, I was rude.”

To say I am taken aback is an understatement. “What is your name?”

The knight straightens enough to seem anxious but lowers his head again, “Elliot Charon, Madam.”

Elliot: now I recall. I’d consider him the most approachable of the Remdragons, though maybe the squires have taken his crown. 

“Your apology is…is accepted, Sir Charon,” I say. Then, with a smile, “Thank you.” This is the first time someone has genuinely apologized to me since before my death—an unabashed, full admittance of mistake, not made as a private gesture. Understanding passes between us, more than a silent truce but not yet friendship—allies, I decide—and the knight stands taller. 

The door of the guard's house opens, and Ruth clambers out with a yawn. He spots the two of us, quirking a brow, “Is there a problem?” I can’t entirely comprehend his tone or stance, if he’s concerned about a genuine problem, or if he's trying to stick up for me again. 

Elliot answers, “I am apologizing for my bad manners towards the lady.”

The mage looks as if he is full of questions, Ludis too, but both stay quiet. Ruth stands by the fire, warming his hands as he sighs deeply, “The knights who went to scout for more monsters are back. Your ladyship ought to return to the castle now.”

I set my food to the side, standing, “Will you, um, need anything else sent down?”

“No, we will manage fine with what’s left.”

“That’s good to hear,” I say. I turn to the knight, “Sir Charon, would you escort me?”

“It would be my honor, Madam,” he says, following Ludis and I as we walk towards the available cart that several others are boarding.

Tomorrow, I think. 

For now, I have tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Red. 

On my wedding day, when I wore that ugly yellow dress, the dowager duchess said red would look better. And, when the seamster first visited, and I chose red velvet fabric, Ludis said it complimented my complexion. She says the same now, leaning over to straighten the ends of my gown. 

My eyes are transfixed to the mirror, to the girl whose face has rounded and whose hair isn't so dull nor skin so pallor. Red breathes life into my features, as this castle has done also. 

"What do you think, Madam?" Ludis steps back, "Will you wear it to the banquet?"

I turn, seeing myself at all angles. To wear such a beautiful dress that fits me so well feels out of character; I barely recognize myself. 

Whenever Riftan returns, we shall have a banquet to celebrate—a morale booster in this dull season. It's expected I wear something presentable, and I fit the appearance of the wife of the Lord of Anatollium, the Remdragon's great commander. But knowing that Riftan is not one for finery, I will stand out in something like this: like a stop sign on a snow-covered street.

"I'll wear the blue," I say, referring to the other dress the seamster made. It's simpler, a lighter color than the navy of the Remdragon's that will not make me stand out nor have my head bitten off. Even with the lower neckline, I'd still feel more comfortable in it. 

Ludis appears disappointed but helps me out of the gown. Redressing me in my earlier wear, she says, "The maids have been working hard to sew new clothing for Pasias. The weather's been colder, but it'll drop much quicker here soon." She ties sleeves to my bodice, "With all these people in the castle, there's more work than usual. The maids are worried they won't be able to finish in time."

"What can I do to help?" I ask. 

"Ordering more fabric would be an immense help," she says, swift to assure me that the maids have already made half of what is needed. “If we could buy the rest.”

"I will add it to the ledgers," I say, and she thanks me profusely. 

My gaze lingers on the red dress, now folded neatly to the side. All the new clothing I ordered has been delivered, including riding wear. The dresses are fine for casual riding, which have been my lessons as of late, but they seem too much for a larger trip. They take too long to put on, and the layers of fabric are cumbersome: I need better clothing for travel. If I could find something like what the squires wear...

"Ludis," I start, but a knock at the door interrupts me. My heart stops—it's never good when I'm called upon these days. 

"It's Rodrigo, Madam," the butler calls. 

"E-enter."

Rodrigo cannot contain his excitement as he steps into the room. He gives a sharp bow, looking up to see my reaction as he says, "The knights have returned." My mood brightens instantly. "As of now, they are within the council room."

"Do you, um, know how long they might be?"

"They have requested meals to be sent, so it could be any amount of time," he says. "It's hard to know with these situations."

These situations? A million questions swarm within my head, but I let them be. "Thank you, Rodrigo." 

With another bow, the butler remarks how wonderful it is. "The castle is always better with its lord home." Ludis and I agree, and with nothing else to say, Rodrigo takes his leave. 

With us alone, Ludis looks to me, "Madam, you were about to say something earlier, right before..."

“It is, um…it is nothing,” I say. I’ll deal with it later.

***

In my time spent practicing, I've only felt a flutter from that stupid magic stone—like a zap to my finger; gone as soon as it appeared. If its surface were not smooth, I would have thought I'd scraped my skin on a sharp edge. 

I set the stone to the side, resting with my elbows on the table as I count down the seconds, minutes—hours, even—until Riftan comes to the room. Night has fallen. It's been twelve days since he departed, and now the thirteenth ushers in, it seems, until I'll see him face to face. 

It's torture. I wish Rodrigo hadn't told me he was back. At least then, I could imagine him somewhere in the mountains, not within the very walls of this castle. 

A few more minutes pass and my resolve wears thin. I decide to go to bed, only making it a few steps that direction when the doorknob turns. Riftan is as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

"You didn't have to stay up," he says, closing the door. 

I wait for him to make the first move, running to him when he steps towards me with open arms. I bury my face in his chest.

His clothing is fresh—a new linen shirt, clean trousers—like he has taken the time to bathe upon his return. I would have forgiven him if he was dirty if he'd come to see me right away. 

Tightening my hug, I look up, resting my chin against his body, “What took you so long?” 

My question hangs between us as he regards me, skimming his thumb across my cheekbone as he thinks on something. At last, his finger reaching the end of my jaw, Riftan sighs, leaning over enough to sweep me into his arms and carries me to the bed. 

"Why are you up so late?" he asks. 

"I asked you first," I say as he sets me on the mattress. Sitting next to me, he moves to take off his shoes, and I position myself to be level with him, my legs dangling over the bed. "I, um…I thought goblins wouldn't take that long."

"They didn't," he says, reaching behind him for the neck of his shirt. Tugging it over his head with one arm, he tosses it to the side to be picked up later. "There were only a few left by the time we got there—a pack of werewolves came through a few days prior. We spent the rest of the time tracking the beasts down."

So we were both dealing with werewolves. I wouldn't expect Anatol to have so many of them, but then again, monsters are prevalent here. "Was…was that the, um, monster issue from earlier?"

"What?"

"When we first arrived," I say. "They called you away, and you…you said there was an issue with monsters." I guess it could have been goblins, he did say not to worry. But that's his go-to response for anything I'm anxious about. 

Riftan doesn't respond, gazing into space as he presses his hands together to crack his knuckles. There's a series of crisp pops—more as he rolls his neck. Much can be made of his silence. Often, it is when he decides of what or what not to tell me. 

"It's odd to see werewolves in these parts," he says at last. "They're around. It's just they're a more northern species." 

"Are there multiple packs?" The question is more to myself than him, kept towards the base of my breath as I mull over the few details I have. 

It’s possible that the party pushed the monsters from the mountains while hunting them, but Riftan hadn’t been gone long enough by then, not to mention that they hunted on the far side of the valley opposite the attack. It would make more sense for there to be multiple groups, even if they aren’t a common species.

Isn't there something in the books about this: that the monsters increase because of Sektor's revival? I thought that would happen more towards the end of the book, closer to Ethelene. Not now when—

"Hey." Riftan touches my chin, drawing my gaze to him. My mind blanks. 

Guiding me to lay on the bed, he moves so that he is on top of me. I curl in on myself as he pinches my sides, "You worry too much." Perhaps I do. 

"I won't let anything happen to you," he says, brushing the hair from my face. He kisses my cheek, "Alright?” The words are spoken patiently by my ear, butterflies prickling in my stomach, even more so when his lips move to my neck. I raise my head to offer more space where I want to feel him. 

"I dreamt of you," he whispers, "every night. You've always haunted my dreams."

"For how long?" I gasp as his teeth scrape near the crook of my jaw. "How long have you…have you dreamt of me?"

"Since I met you." I feel his words on my lips as his mouth finds my own and he kisses me like I am a familiar lover.  

We have shared more passionate kisses, ones where it seemed we were running out of oxygen, and it was the last we could have of another person before we suffocated entirely. But this kiss is more familiar, still with tongues and teeth, but unhurried, like we have all the worldly resources we need to make it last. We are a part of each other, that idea strengthened by his scent that surrounds me; comforts me. Strong like vetiver, it's euphoric—I'd bottle it up and save it for every time I needed to be reminded of him. 

A strong heat pools in my core as the kiss prolongs. Only knowing what he has given me, only knowing what I've read, I want to know his body; want to study what it is he does that makes me feel like this. 

Riftan's hand moves back to my side, my mind honed to his touch as it grounds me like a weight. But to my disappointment, it moves no lower. I mess my hands through his hair, graze my teeth over his lips, moaning into his mouth every time he draws me back to him, anything to give him the hint. But he doesn't take it. 

Finally, when he pulls away for air, I ask between breaths, "Are you…only going to kiss me?" It's unfair I’m filled with such desire without him seeming affected at all. 

Riftan has not heard or has yet to process my words. "What?" He whispers, eyes heavy lidded.

I touch his face, running my fingers over his freshly shaven skin. "I want you," I say, taking his hand to place it on my thigh, "please."

Our eyes lock briefly as his mind catches up, his hand squeezing where I have set it, as if by a subconscious reaction, like he’s yet to realize quite what he’s doing. But then, ever so slowly, he reaches for the hem of my skirt, fingers skimming along the base of my form before repeating the touch upwards. I shiver as I am freed from my nightgown, the air caressing around me the way he does, and goosebumps rise as his hand slips under my thigh, carefully parting my legs to arrive between.

***

I don’t remember much of the night, but the morning comes quickly. Riftan is pressed flush against me as I wake, his face buried in the pillow above my head. A draft flows through the room without the fire to keep it at bay, spreading over my bare shoulder and neck. I reach to pull the blanket further over me, but it is trapped beneath Riftan's arm. 

The small movement is enough to stir him, and his hold tightens around me as he sits up enough to touch a kiss on my cheek. "You're awake."

Far from it, I think. It takes me a moment to gather my voice and remember how to use it, "You, um… forgot to close the bed curtains last night."

"I was a little preoccupied."

I turn onto my back, every part of my body tense and sore—the areas near my legs especially so—and he props himself on his elbow to look at me. "Last night...it wasn't bad, was it?" He asks. 

A lazy smile plays on my mouth as I recollect our coupling, its lewd images brought forth to my mind. "No."

"It felt good, didn't it?" He mumbles the question, his sought reassurance granted as he takes the blanket to uncover me. Instinctively, I hide my nakedness beneath my hands, but he rubs my shoulder to coax me free, "Let me see you in the light."

At his urging, I unravel myself, raising my arms above my head. The air envelops me, my skin prickling as he runs his hand along the parts he familiarized himself with last night. 

"You're beautiful," he says, pressing his lips to the tops of my breasts. He gives one a gentle squeeze, the soft flesh warming beneath his touch. For once, I feel beautiful, knowing that my curves are slowly returning, and my body will look like it once did. 

The air becomes too much, and I roll into him, "I'm cold."

Leaning back against the pillow, Riftan gathers me on top of him, pulling the blanket back over us. The light from the window catches his eye, illuminating the iris. I cannot tell what color it is: at one angle, I think it is the darkest shade of blue, but at another, it appears to be the deepest shade of brown. They are not quite obsidian as I once thought. 

Absentmindedly, I run my finger along the groove beneath his deltoid, feeling the strength of his arms. His body is solid beneath me, not hard and rigid, but lightly sculpted, a healthy layer of fat protecting the muscle beneath. 

"So," Riftan's voice catches my attention, "you like music and reading. What else does my lady like?" He traces my back, up and down the length of my spine. 

"The arts mostly," I say. "What you said—music and literature—but also theatre and drawing."

"You can draw?"

"Not well." It was a gene I inherited from my dad, but not one I can match in its entirety. "But if there was a model in front of me, I could, um, do something."

"So if I posed for you," he asks, "you would draw a masterpiece?"

"I wouldn't say a masterpiece. But maybe a really, um, well-drawn stick figure." My arm grazes the hair that dusts along his chest as I adjust my position on him, "What do you like?"

"I'm not sure," he says. 

"There has to be something?"

"What do you think I like?"

"Horses," I say. I know that for sure. 

"I like horses," Riftan says. "Always wanted one when I was younger. What else?"

I try to think of what he told Maxi—there was one particular conversation they had. "Honor."

"Honor?"

"You are a knight," I say. "You must like it."

He tilts his head, deciding if he will be stubborn or not. "I suppose," he relents. "Is that all?"

"I think you like, um, gold."

"You know me so well," he teases. "What else?"

I roll my eyes, "You tell me what else."

Riftan plays with my hair, brushing his fingers through the tangled ends,. "I like you," he says. 

"How flattered I am to be at the, um, the bottom of your list."

I yelp as he pinches my sides, then flips us so that he is over the top of me, raining kisses on my face. "Must I prove it to you?"

"Is this not proof enough?" I ask, giggling as he blows raspberries on my cheek. I push him away, "You're so gross."

Riftan sits back on his knees, straddling my legs. He has that look across his face, the sentimental one he gets at seemingly random moments. "Too bad it couldn't have been like this before," he says, touching my birthmark, then trailing his hand down towards my stomach. "If I'd stayed, we'd have one or two kids by now, wouldn't we?"

He speaks as if he had a choice in any of it—in our wedding, in his going. But realistically, in any situation, in any given amount of time, the choice would have never been ours; the duke would have never allowed it. It is a nice thought, though: us courting each other, getting married for the sake of being married. 

"You've always haunted my dreams...since I met you..." 

"It would be nice to be a mother," I say—I've always wanted to be one. I open my arms, wrapping them around Riftan as he leans back over me, "But I am selfish. I…I want you to myself for as long as, um…as long I can have you."

Truth be told, if I could, I would be open to having kids right now. I like the idea of settling down, living life how my parents did, going to work then coming home to spend time with the family. 

But I have yet to be allotted that luxury. I am a tool of the narrative, and the narrative must be completed. 

"We're married," I say. Riftan hums at the idea. There are no more shaky promises to glue us together; the declaration of our marriage was made years ago, and now its consummation is complete. 

He nips at my earlobe, reaching towards my legs. "I think we should try again to be sure."

***

I have Ludis curl my hair in preparation for the banquet this evening. She wets each strand, wrapping them loosely around pieces of rags so that when it dries, my hair will be wavier than its usual bland pin-straightness. Rag-curls are a common hairstyling trick—or at least, I think the Victorians did it—meant to be left overnight. But leaving it to sit for the day will work the same. If it doesn’t, I can always put my hair up, as I will likely do anyway.

Riftan has obligations to attend to today, and there is not much for me to do around the castle. I give a few orders for the banquet, what plates to use, and so on, but otherwise, Rodrigo does most of it. The rest of the time, I study the books Ruth assigned, the mana stone neglected to the side, lurking. I don’t want to look at it.

I don't move from the bedroom table until the maids come to prepare me. They unwrap each curl, piece by piece, marveling at how well they have set. A few are left to dangle down my back while the rest of my hair is styled more traditionally around my head with a snood to keep it in place and pearls to decorate it. 

I cover myself in a cloak to make my way downstairs. People gather in the entryway, speaking in groups and filing into the Great Hall where many are gathered already. 

"Lady Calypse!" Ulyseon's cheerful voice calls. He and Garrow meet me at the base of the stairs, "It is so wonderful to see you!"

"How are you both?" I smile. 

"Your ladyship is so kind to ask. Garrow and I are incredible!" Ulyseon chatters as we walk towards the Great Hall, describing the experience of his first monster hunt, "They were the most meaningful two weeks of my entire life, you know. Not a single monster could land a blow on me."

"You still managed to get bruised, though," Garrow says. 

Ulyseon turns sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "I tripped over a tree root," he explains, though I wouldn't have forced him to for his pride's sake.

"In the, um…in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter," I try to comfort him. "Even I can't help from tripping sometimes."

"But you are so graceful," he objects. 

"I can be," I say. 

Ulyseon and Garrow escort Ludis and me into the room, Ulyseon offering to take my cloak before Ludis can. I unclasp the collar, turning so that he can pull it from my shoulders, after which, he passes it to the maid. 

As I turn to face him, he gasps, "You look absolutely beautiful!" 

"R-really?" I laugh, keeping my back straight as every eye in the room shifts towards our commotion. Those in the doorway linger while those already filed into the room hover by the sides.

"You are the spitting image of the elves of old," Ulyseon says. 

“You flatter me,” I brush his words away, heat burning furiously at my cheeks. I wish that they would all stop looking; that I knew what they were thinking.

“No really, Madam. You’ve always been lovely, but tonight you are especially so.” Perhaps, I’d believe him if he hadn’t said the same to Maxi.

Noticing my embarrassment, Garrow places a hand on Ulyseon’s shoulder, speaking close to his friend’s ear, “Uly, why don’t we escort her ladyship to her seat?” 

"Of course, how silly of me,” Ulyseon bows. He offers his arm, "May I?"

 I rest my arm over the top of his, “You may.”

Ulyseon leads me to a more open table where the senior knights have reserved a space for themselves, though a few have yet to show up. Hebaron welcomes us as we approach, "As our Rovar here said, your ladyship looks lovely tonight." 

I incline my head at his compliment, my voice stuck to the back of my throat. The blue dress is beautiful to be sure, but if I’d known it’d bring this much attention I would have hidden it in the back of the closet. 

“How, um…how are you this evening, Sir Nirtha?” I ask as Ulyseon helps me onto the bench. The squire sits next to me as Garrow moves around the table to sit beside Hebaron. 

“I am well, Madam. And you?”

“As fine as I can be,” I reply. “I am, um…pleased to celebrate a successful hunt. S,speaking of which,” I glance towards the door, “where, um,  is our man of honor?”

“His lordship is discussing the recent migration of monster,” the knight says. “Those in the west have recently begun to move south." There is the answer to my earlier question it seems. 

“They’re also discussing the upcoming knighting ceremony, right Sir Nirtha?” Ulyseon asks, leaning away as maids place trencher plates in front of us. Ludis follows them with my water.

Hebaron confirms, and the squire turns to me, fists clenched in determination, "Just you wait. I'm going to catch the biggest lindwyrm out there."

"After you rolled in the mountains like that?” Hebaron swirls the wine in his goblet. “You’re so careless I doubt you’ll pass the initiation ceremony properly. You look like you’d have a hard time catching a bull-lizard, let alone a wyrm.” His words are teasing, but the boy takes him seriously.

“I will never make that mistake again,” Ulyseon says. “You’ll see. I’ll bring back not one lindwyrm, but two, three even!”

“Is that part of the initiation,” I ask Hebaron, "catching monsters?”

“Initiates have to hunt down a lindwyrm and present its mana stone to be fully recognized Remdragons,” he says. 

"Doesn't have to be wyrms," a man next to Hebaron joins the conversation. "It can be any dragon subspecies, but lindwyrms are perfect for beginners." He nudges Hebaron's shoulder, "Catching a jaculus would make 'em a laughing stock, and it's hard for newbie knights to hunt down a wyvern. They'd get crushed flat as a cryspez !" Hebaron and him have a good laugh at the idea.

(*a cryzpez is a type of medieval pancake*)

"I've never seen a lindwyrm," I say. 

"It's a giant serpent," says Ulyseon. 

"They're agile bastards," says Hebaron's friend. "Can't run away from 'em, not even on a horse at full speed. They roll into balls and chase after you like a wheel."

"Can't even hide from them, they've got such a good nose. And they're resistant to most magic," another person butts in. 

And then it's as if all the knights gang together to scare the squire. They offer frightening facts about the beasts, cracking jokes at Ulyseon's expense. 

“Ah! I can see the future. It’s a terrible ending for Rover, the clumsy fellow, to rush headlong into a nest of wyrms and wind up their lunch.”

“Lunch?! There’s nothing on the little guy to use as a toothpick!” The gathering crowd erupts into laughter. I have to cover my mouth to hide my amusement at Ulyseon’s scandalized expression. 

I put my hand on his shoulder, “If it helps, I think you’ll do great.” I know so. 

“Thank you, Madam.” Resolution crosses his expression, “I swear, when I’m knighted, I’ll give my geas to you. In fact, the very day I am knighted.”

“You don’t have to—“

“If Rover gets knighted, we’ll all swear our geas’ to her ladyship,” One of the knights scoffs. The men around him—his friends, I’d imagine—attempt to quiet him. One reaches to take away his mug of ale, but the knight wrenches it back before it can be grabbed. 

"What, um…What is your name, Sir?" My question is enough to startle him to reality, his face blanching as if I'm going to turn him into his commander. 

"Uh—Baldwin, Madam."

“Well, Sir Baldwin,” I say, “I look forward to, um, to collecting your geas’ like pocket change.” A chorus of ooooooo’s fills the banquet hall, even from those who have no part in the conversation. 

My words are both a challenge and an insult. A geas is one of the most important oath a knight could ever give—second only to that given to the king. They may give only one, to be kept until death. It is a knight’s sworn protection to a lady and her family, a promise to lay one’s life down for them; a permanent vow of allegiance. 

It is no laughing matter. 

The knight shifts uncomfortably, “You really have that much blind faith in him?”

“I wouldn’t say blind . He’s been trained by the Remdragons, has he not? The best knights in all of, um, of Wedon.”

“In the whole continent!” Someone shouts. There’s a chorus of "Hear, hear!" in answer. 

“I mean why wouldn’t he succeed?” My tone is dismissive as if the very question is beneath me. 

“You really think I can, Madam?” Ulyseon has the biggest puppy-dog-eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Of course, I do,” I say. He is one of the higher-ranked knights in the second book if I remember correctly. I’m sure the other knights know his strength too, that they are only taking the opportunity to poke fun since the boy is so easy to tease. Surely, Baldwin’s reaction is purely from inebriation, his jealous thoughts slipping through as drunk words. I mean, considering I have never heard of him until this point, he must not be important. 

“How much?” Sir Baldwin sneers. 

“Excuse me?”

“You bet our little Rovar here will succeed. How much?”

What’s this guy worth? I turn to Ulyseon, “How much do I want to bet?” I can’t believe I am betting at all!

“Madam, you don’t—“

“Two gold,” I shout. Another chorus of ooooooo’s rings out. Hebaron chuckles. 

“Two gold?!” The drunken knight cries. I cannot tell if he thinks it is too low or too high. In truth, I don’t know myself. 

I remain steadfast, “Two gold for, um, for anyone who dares take the bet if Rovar fails or…or all of your geas’ if he is knighted. What say you?” The people around him offer their opinions, most against, but Baldwin draws his conclusion regardless. 

“I accept.”

I elbow Ulyseon, “You better win.”

Hebaron raises his goblet. “Well, well, what an interesting turn of events,” he says. "How about a drink to the lady?"

I wave my hands as he motions for my goblet to be filled, “I don’t drink.”

The room pauses. Drinking is so ingrained in the culture of medieval people, that it is ludicrous to believe someone wouldn't.

“You gamble but you don’t drink?” Hebaron asks. 

“I’m not, um, against it,” I defend myself, “I just don’t…don’t personally…enjoy it. The taste does not agree with me.” 

Again, talkative drunk.

To my relief, the door to the dining hall opens, drawing the attention of the knights away from me. “There he is,” Hebaron says. “What did you call him? The man of the hour?” 

Riftan enters the room followed by Gabel and Rikaydo. Several knights greet him as he walks past. 

“Seems your wife is a gambling woman, Commander,” Sir Baldwin calls, raising his cup like Hebaron did while his companions try to pull him down. Many laugh in agreement, though it’s more hushed than before. 

“A gambling woman?” Riftan quirks a brow at me. 

“Lady Calypse has bet two gold that Rovar will be knighted this year,” Hebaron answers. 

Riftan looks astonished, “ Two gold? What do you get if you win?”

I point to Ulyseon, “His geas—“ then to Sir Baldwin “—and his. Maybe a few more.”

Riftan takes his seat to the right of me, shaking his head, “So you refuse to drink, but gambling’s fine?” I slap his shoulder. 

Gabel sits between Hebaron and Garrow, and the ginger knight turns to him, “Is it just Rovar and Little Livakion in the ceremony this year?” The other knight confirms. 

Little Livakion? I wonder. How is Garrow little?? Lanky sure…

“Have you begun training them to hunt the beasts?” 

“Charon is in charge of it,” Gabel says. “From what he’s told me, it’d be good for them to gain more hands-on experience before the knighting ceremony, or else they’ll have a difficult time.”

I listen absentmindedly to their conversation, none of it interesting or about me. My attention is drawn more when Riftan speaks with the squires. The boys look at him with such awe and respect, and Riftan seems to have amity with them too. It’s sweet, really. 

It’s weird to think that by the time Ulyseon and Garrow will be knighted, I won’t be here—Ulyseon will have to wait three years minimum to give his geas to me.

 I gaze around at the tables full of men, the servants running back and forth to attend to them. My time here in this castle will be so short: by Summer, I will be gone, first to Ethelene, then to the World Tower. Although, I will be here around Winter for the trial against the duke.

I pause, mid-sip of my drink. Am I ready to face that man again? It’s inevitable—I knew when I left Croix that I’d be back—but I’ve grown so comfortable here. To think, that after remembering what it’s like to be outside abuse, I have to put myself back in it; back under the whip. 

As my mind turns, pouring over every detail of the story I can remember, a queasiness builds layer by layer. 

Riftan pats Ulyseon on the shoulder, congratulating him over something I didn’t quite hear. Something about training, I think, but my thoughts are mostly other places.

We’ll have kids of our own one day, Riftan and I. They’ll be a mix of both of us, perfect in every way because they’ll be ours. I’ve seen the way he interacts with the boys, he’ll be an amazing father. He’ll let our children ride up on his shoulders like my dad let me. He’ll wrestle with them, smile with them, teach them how to be strong. He’ll be there for them in the way his father never was. 

We’ll have kids of our own one day, and I’ll have that nuclear family like I had back home. A peaceful life, as close to that white picket fence as I can get in a world like this. That picket fence that I always worked towards.

Ethelene flashes in my mind; the rock that Maxi pushed over. I think of the duke taking her away from Drachium. I think of the mirror room. I think of Agnes’s proposition to save both Riftan and Maxi from the duke’s retribution. 

I am Maxi now. I am at the whim of this story. 

We’ll have a child of our own one day, Riftan and I. And I’ll have to miscarry. 

Chapter Text

I fill a sheet of parchment with grids—one for every month of the year, enough lines for every day and week. I haven't tracked my cycle in so long. 

The past few days have been insomniatic. I've never slept well, but lately, it’s like I never sleep at all. All I can think about is how I might escape my fate. 

I could, theoretically. As long as I have the capability to use magic, I can apply to the World Tower whenever I want. Save Ethelene, apply to the World Tower, prepare for the second book: sounds easy enough.

But then there's the duke. 

I could ignore him and wash my hands of his memory as much as I can, but where is the justice in that? What of everything he did to Maxi; to Aryan, his first wife; of how he manipulates Rosetta to his use? The dowager duchess can stand him—she made him—and his second wife was a woman after his own heart. But what of the people under him who have no choice but to follow his law? What of myself?

The miscarriage led to the mirror room, which led to the trial. Little by little, every event after breaks his sanity and makes him hide away until he lies on his deathbed and his power is a figment. To urge him to his end would benefit all. 

But then again, it doesn't matter what I choose to do: if I get pregnant now, I'm out of options. How did I not think of that before?

***

No more flutters make their way out of the stone. Ruth finds a remedy. 

"Give me your hands." His fingers are like ice without gloves to protect them—though I think he has poor circulation to begin with—and I shiver as the heat in my body saps to my hands, more so as a breeze whips past and through us. 

"Can't she put her coat back on?" Ludis protests. 

Ruth gives her a sharp look, "Do you want her ladyship to overheat?" The maid is quiet. 

Rolling his shoulders, Ruth turns his attention back to me, closing his eyes as he takes a breath to center himself. His hands begin to glow, warming my palms and then my arms as tiny threads of magic work their way into my body. The warmth grows as it pools like a weight in my chest, spreading thick like honey down my legs and into my head, thinning out like vapors the farther it moves. The tension in my muscles eases, as if I’ve cozied by the fire with a hot drink.

And then it starts to burn.

The honey turns to molten lava, coursing through my blood until it covers every inch of me, forcing a strangled cry to break from my throat as my vision turns white. Static surges in my ears, drowning out any other noise. 

It's like my fingers are charring, but my veins are ready to burst, the fibers holding me together soon to blow apart in atomic degrees. I grit my teeth as the pain turns unbearable. 

Arms wrap around me, guiding me to the ground before I collapse. The feeling dissipates. 

"Madam?" In a state of panic, Ludis feels my body for injury, touching the sides of my face, "You're burning up." She shouts at Ruth, "She's burning up!"

"She's fine," Ruth says. I relax my head as wind brushes my face, drying the sweat on my brow and the water that clings to my eyes. I see why he didn't want me wearing a coat now. 

Moving my jaw around, I massage the corners of my face to relax them as I fight through cloudy vision with great, hulking blinks. My eyes burn. 

Ruth offers his hand to me, "Can you stand?"

I nod, letting him haul me to my feet as I wobble to gain balance. Ludis retrieves my coat, but I wave her away before she covers me with it, feverish heat pouring from my body without any sign of going away soon. 

"Come inside," Ruth says, leading us into the tower. 

With an arm under my back, Ludis helps me up the stairs, my legs threatening to give out. I count the steps, losing count somewhere around thirty-four as I trip, catching myself with both arms before my nose is split in two. 

"Everything alright?" Ruth peers down from a few feet up. I say nothing, pushing myself back to my feet; the door isn't that far anyway, like a pot of gold at the end of a very long, somewhat steep rainbow. 

By the time we make it to the top, Ludis is dragging me through the door as Ruth props it open with his foot. Inside is a single room, more a study than a living space. Books are piled in precarious stacks under tables and in and around the shelves I assume they came from, while crumpled scraps of parchment and empty jars litter the floor. Ludis's foot knocks against an old inkwell, which rolls a few inches before teetering to a stop. She only spares it a glance before returning her disgust to the cobwebs and dust. 

Ruth grabs a chair from a nearby table and crosses the room to set it by a window, which he shoves open. He points to the chair, "Sit."

Without waiting for a reply, he shuffles towards a counter, taking an old cup and dunking it into a basin of water before scrubbing it with a rag. Ludis pulls me to the chair, and I heave myself down, the cold air from the window mixing with the stuffiness around me. 

My eyelids droop. I fight to keep them open while my limbs hang like jello at my sides. 

"What did…what did you do to me?" I ask. 

With the cup cleaned, Ruth pours fresh water into it. "I told you," he says. "I opened your mana pathways."

"You didn't tell me that."

He pauses, "I didn't?" It seems there is a moment of remorse within him, but then the mage shrugs his shoulders, and it is gone. He stirs the water with his finger as he walks toward us, "In my defense, it was only logical. You complained you couldn't sense mana from the stone; I opened your pathways to fix that problem."

He hands the cup to me, ice cubes floating in the water. "It'll help you cool off," he says, noticing my surprise. It's been so long since I've had ice in a drink. Ludis is intrigued by it, too. 

The fire in my stomach quenches as I gulp back the water like a shot, ice cubes tapping against my nose and leaving it wet. I wipe my face with my sleeve as Ruth rummages through a shelf, clinking jars around until he finds the one he wants. He pulls out a fat, carrot-like root and exchanges it for my cup. 

"Chew on that," he says. 

Without thinking, I take a hefty bite, a bitter taste coating my tongue like battery acid. I gag, "What is that?"

"Mandrago root," Ruth drops the cup back into the basin—it falls with a clunk . "It'll help your energy." He motions for me to finish eating. I reluctantly do so. 

The mage leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he watches me eat. "I thought your Ma Ryok would be bigger," he says, "considering you have a high absorption rate. That's how you absorbed my mana in the first place.” He pauses, then adds, “To be fair, it is a common issue among beginner mages. Does make me wonder, though, how your ladyship came to have mana in the first place."

I take a large bite of root—as much as I can stomach—hoping he'll have moved on by the time I finish chewing. He doesn't. 

“I…um, had to be healed…often as a child. Physical injuries and, um…ailments and such.”

"So often that you have a large enough surplus to be mana-sensitive, though? It's not impossible, but I mean..." 

"Well, how do most mages come by mana?" I ask. 

"You must be exposed to it at a young age, either in significant quantities or repeated exposures," he says. "For most, that means being infused by a teacher, like I did to you a moment ago, only in much smaller increments."

"The latter sounds like my case," I say. Only no teacher. 

He tilts his head, "How often did you receive healing?"

I clear my throat, "Uh...about once a week or so." Holding up my half-eaten root before he can say anything else, I ask, "Do, um…do I have to finish this?"

He's silent for a moment, mulling something over, but then pushes off the counter to move towards the door. Opening it, he says, "Your ladyship would do well to have some rest. I’d advise taking a nice, long nap—always works for me."

Ludis hovers around me as I stand on shaking legs, holding her arms out in case I fall as I stagger towards the door. It's like I've come in first at a marathon, more so like I'm the Greek who ran the first. 

Again, I hold up the Mandrago root. "Take it with you," Ruth says, "and make sure you eat it." I gag at him as I follow Ludis into the stairwell, walking sideways as I cling to the wall for stability. 

"Come back when you feel something from the stone," Ruth says before he shuts the door. 

The walk back to the castle is tedious and filled with periodic rest stops like a prolonged road-trip to the next town over. I find twenty new sitting places with the castle grounds alone, and Ludis morphs into a cattle driver, urging me forward like I’m a weary heifer refusing to move. I toss the mandrago root next to the mana stone the moment I enter the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed face-first.

"Shoes!" Ludis shouts. I raise my feet before they touch the mattress. With a sigh, the maid removes them, letting them fall to the floor. "Madam, I know it is your informal wear," she starts to take the pins out of my hair, "but you should take care to remove your dress."

"Mhm," I mumble, turning my head enough to breathe. 

"Madam, really. It'd be a shame to ruin it."

"I know..." My words slur, eyes drifting closed before I can finish my reply. 

I'm out cold. 

***

A trickle of light peaks through a crack in the bed curtains when I finally gain the energy to open my eyes. Reaching for the closest drape, I push it aside, only to be blinded by the light streaming from the window. It's day—I can tell that much. But morning or afternoon, is the question. Same day or new?

I sit up when the door opens, and Ludis's quick feet tap against the floor. She sets something on the table, then pokes around at the fire before making her way to the bed. 

"Oh, good, you're up," she says as she throws the curtains open. Looking at my clothes, she asks, "Did you take your dress off?"

"I thought you did," I say, the thin fabric of my chemise falling around my legs as I climb out of bed. 

"His lordship must have then. It's all bunched up in the armchair." A titch of annoyance coats her words. 

Dipping a cloth into the bowl of water on the table, she says, "The maids should be arriving with breakfast soon." Ludis wipes my face and neck, then my hands, "Did you sleep well?"

"I did." I can't remember the last time I slept through the whole night. 

"You seem like you're feeling better. Your temperature's gone down," she feels the sides of my face. Satisfied I am not ill or dying, she fetches my robe from off the dressing partition.

"Do you know where my mana stone is?" I ask, slipping my arms into the clothing.

She adjusts it over my shoulders, "I put it in your vanity for safe keeping. Top drawer on the left."

As the maid goes about her work, straightening the bed sheets, I move to retrieve the stone, finding it bundled neatly in a handkerchief. A resonating energy reveals itself as I take it into my hands, growing clearer as I pull away the cloth. Through it's crystal shell, a glowing light seeps through, as if the mana itself has awakened. 

Tightening my grip, I concentrate. Another flutter zaps into my hand, stronger than the last, and this time, I feel it in my chest. 

***

"Remember what we talked about," Ruth says. "Relax your mind. Focus on the mana within your Ma Ryok until you feel it stir."

I take a breath to center myself, focusing on the middle of my chest. Everything is still at first. Then, a faint energy gradually rouses, vibrating like it did within the stone. 

"I feel something," I say. 

"Take that feeling and pull strands of it into your arm.” I imagine myself stretching the bounds of my mana like spinning cotton into thread. "Guide those strands to your hand and try to grow them."

Swirling the strands together like a whirlwind, I add more threads to the mass till it swells to a storm within my palm. The heat from the mana turns my skin clammy, and I squint to see the tiniest ball of light burning in my hand, only for it to unravel and fizzle out as soon as I look at it. 

"That was a great first try," Ruth says. 

"You think so?"

Ruth puts a hand on his hip, "Have I ever given a compliment undeserved?"

"It really was impressive, Madam," Ludis says. Maybe it was, I think, but maybe they are only being nice. 

Ruth's tower looms over us, casting a plump shadow over the outer wall as the morning sun shines above us, warming the stone pavement so that I feel like a lizard on a rock. Floating through the late-autumn air, the chatter of the squires reaches our way, their words indiscernible but their enthusiasm known as they go about training. 

Ruth stretches his arms, holding back a yawn. "Let's try again," he says. "If you do it a few more times, I think you'll get the hang of it."

Relaxing my mind, I run back through the process, pulling apart my Ma Ryok and swirling it in my hands. The magic stays slightly longer this time as I add more and more mana to it, circulating it faster and faster until the heat grows warmer and the light becomes brighter. When it unravels—the individual strands coming apart and slowing in their revolutions until they dissipate—I try again. 

I manage to keep the ball going for twenty seconds when Ruth decides to end our lesson for the day. He clambers into his tower, returning with more mandrago roots. I still haven't finished the first he gave me. 

"The more you use magic, the more tired you'll feel," he says. "That's a good thing. It means your pathways are expanding." He hands me the mandrago roots, "These will help you absorb mana faster, so eat them. Make them into tea if you have to."

I give the roots to Ludis. 

"Once you can circulate you mana for one minute," Ruth says, "I'll teach you healing magic." With that, he sends us off. 

Taking his words as a challenge, I practice my magic as I walk along the path, my steps slower and mismatched as I concentrate. 

"Madam, be careful you don't exhaust yourself," Ludis says. 

"I won't," I say, letting the ball of light unravel. 

The squires have left the training grounds, moved on to other things for the morning. The surroundings are quiet, except for the dull thud of an arrow hitting canvas. Gabel stands alone, practicing his archery.

With his back is to me, I watch as he draws the string, his shoulder blades pinching together as he releases the arrow. As I step closer to see where it landed on the target, my shoe scuffs against the pathway. The knight's head whips to me. 

"Lady Calypse?" Gabel lowers his bow. He glances around as if to discern what I might be here for before approaching me, "Is there something you need?"

He is only asking out of propriety, I am sure—there is no other reason for him to be friendly with me—but I see this as an opportunity, my mind churning ideas as I step towards him. "I…had a question about…about your stance." 

"My stance?"

"Your stance," I say. "You see, I thought you were, um, supposed to stand like this–" I move into the stance he took a moment ago, pushing my foot farther back than I know it should be “–but you stand like this." I return my foot to where his was. 

"I stand the way I've been taught," he says. "It's easier than how you were standing." 

"I see." A breath of silence follows. 

Ludis stands behind me. She doesn't say a word as I glance at her, but her eyes are locked to Gabel.

The knight speaks first, "Is your ladyship interested in archery?"

"I am," I say. "I've done, um, extensive reading on the subject, though I've never attempted. If you are not, um…not busy, would you mind if I…if I gave it a try?"

Gabel blows air from his mouth, scratching his head as he surveys the empty training grounds. "You can say no," I blurt. "Please, um…please  don't feel pressured."

"I don't feel pressured," he assures me. "I'm just trying to think if we have a bow you could use." Hope flashes through me. "Wait here one moment," he says, sauntering off to look in one of the buildings. 

Is today my day or what??? Successful magic practice, now archery…

I look back to Ludis to see if she has any objections, but she simply inclines her head. By now, she knows I don't listen once my mind is set. 

Mustering my courage, I move further into the training grounds. Until now, I have only seen it from the outside. The interior falls short of my expectations: nothing grand, merely a courtyard with dirt instead of grass. Still, it feels forbidden. 

Gabel returns with another bow, offering it to me, "Try this one, Madam."

The bow is lighter than I expected, about half my height length-wise, the ends curving away from me. I move into an open stance, holding the bow with my left hand and drawing with my right. It takes some effort to pull the string. 

"How does it feel?" Gabel asks. 

"The draw weight is a little heavy," I say, lowering my arms. 

"It was the lightest one I could find," he says. "It looks like you can draw it back enough, though." He signals me to raise the bow again, "May I correct your ladyship's posture?"

“Oh, um, yes," I say, watching his movements. He is careful not to touch me, pointing with his foot to show where my feet need to be. 

"Stand straighter," he says, exemplifying with his own body, "and tuck your hips forward. Shoulders should come somewhat forward, too." My posture sufficient, he moves to how I hold the weapon. 

"You're gripping too tight here," he taps my hand that is on the frame of the bow. I loosen my grip. "And make sure this arm is straighter," he carefully moves my dominant arm into position, removing his hands as soon as he is done. 

Standing to the side, Gabel gives me the go-ahead to nock an arrow. I tilt the bow enough to keep it in place, letting the shaft rest on my hand while I hold the notch at the other end with three fingers. Aiming for the bullseye, I release. The arrow propels through the air, landing two rings above where I aimed.

"Impressive!" the knight says. "Now, watch what I do." His words are kept polite, but that masculine need to show off slips its way through. 

Nocking an arrow, he says, "Your initial placement is good, but I noticed a couple things that might help you to fix. First off, you hold the arrow with split fingers–" he moves his pointer over the top of the arrow while his middle and ring fingers rest below “–which is fine, but it causes the arrow to be higher. You'd have to fix that while aiming, which is extra work." He moves his pointer finger below the arrow, "I find this position easiest, as it keeps the arrow level."

Relaxing the string, the arrow still nocked, he holds the bow towards the target, "The second thing is that you use the tip of the arrow to aim, which is causing your arrow to land much higher than you want it. At this distance, it's better to point the arrow straight and look over it to where you're aiming, focusing on that point with your eyes." He draws the string, releasing it almost immediately. The arrow lands dead center of the target. 

"You did that so fast," I say. 

"The more you practice, the more it'll become instinctive." He tells me to try again. 

I do everything he says, focusing on my posture, then my hold on the bow, then the arrow, lining it straight with the target while locking my eyes next to Gabel's shot. As I release, the arrow whizzes through the air, landing right above the bullseye.

"So close," Gabel says. "Lower your next shot a tad."

I do so, holding my arm straight in front of me, but lowering it slightly. Again, I look to the bullseye and this time I make it. 

The knight praises me, "Amazing job! Your shooting skills could rival my own."

"Sir, there is no need to patronize me," I say, though I cannot help my grin. "Perhaps, um, if I had made it first try, but for now…sim- simple praise will suffice." Gabel laughs. 

I return the bow to him, "Thank you for your tutelage, Sir, um...Sir..." 

Shit. 

Clearing my throat, I look to the side, "I apologize, I believe I have forgotten your name."

"Gabel Livakion, Madam," he replies with a slight bow. 

"I…I know your name is Gabel," I say, in case it will make a difference, "I merely, um, had trouble remembering your surname."

Livakion…

"Are you and Garrow related?"

"We are brothers."

Gabel, Garrow, I think. The latter is a hair taller, though of the same build, and his eyes are darker than Gabel's amber. The knight’s face is also more angular than his younger brother's.

"I would have…have never known," I say. "You look like your own persons."

"We are of different mothers," Gabel says, "and I take after my father, anyhow."

"Well, then, I suppose it makes sense." Folding my arms in front of me, I say, "Your…your brother is a fine young man and, um, a promising knight, I am sure. You must be proud."

The knight agrees, "As any brother could be.” 

Feeling the conversation winding to its end, I clap my hands together.“Well then,” I take a step towards the entrance, "I will, um,  give you back your time, Sir Livakion. Thank you for your help."

I incline my head to him—a bow of my own.

Chapter Text

The problem with dragons is not their thirst for gold nor their destructive habits—each more trifling than catastrophic—but that to sustain such a mighty creature requires every drop of mana from the surrounding environment. It drains the ground of vitality to keep itself, changing the weather patterns as it sucks from the air. A dragon can be killed, but ages will pass before its land might grow usable again. And a dragon's territory is vast. It grows as the dragon grows.

Snow falls in Anatol—an event I am told is rare outside the frosts and occasional slushes that have grown more common; it's like that in Croyso, too. But this is no slush nor heavy frost, but thick powder, ready to stick. 

It's painful, the things that remind me of home. It never snowed where I'm from, though it did yearly in the town one over from mine. I was young the last we had a white Christmas; my sister was even younger. The snowman in the front yard had my red scarf and her tiny, knitted hat to keep it warm. 

That single winter was not enough for my fill. This one will not be either, dragon or not. 

Talon's legs contrast the pale landscape like a shadow etched across a blank canvas while Rem blends into it like a glob of white paint. No creatures stir, but the birds that knock snow from the trees as they flit from branch to branch and the rabbit that rattles the closest bush as it darts from our path. Riftan rides somewhat ahead of me, looking back to see that I am keeping up. 

The west lake, beautiful as he said it'd be, reveals itself like a pool of glass, too dark to reflect anything but the silhouettes of the woods that loom around it. My face is murky as I bend over the water, breaking free a clump of snow beneath my foot, which tumbles from the bank like a shelf of ice. It floats for a second, then melts, distorting the stillness of the water as its presence ripples away. 

Looking behind, I set my sights on Riftan, whose back is turned as he ties the horses to a tree. My prime victim found, I kneel and gather together the snow. 

He glances over his shoulder, then. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I say, balling the snow in my leather gloves as I stand. 

Thinking nothing of it, he finishes with the horses, testing the strength of his knot with a good tug before he is satisfied. My arm is raised over my head by the time he turns around, throwing out a hand to stop me as he drops to the ground. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warns, reaching for the snow around him. I adjust my position, readying myself. " Don't. "

The snowball crashes against his shoulder as he blocks it, and I run away before he can stand, hunched over as I grab for more snow in my hurry. My cackling laughter follows me, sounding much like a dying goose greeting the gates of Hell. 

A blow lands square against my back; I stumble, keeping my ground as I toss another at him. "That was pathetic!" He calls, dodging my weak throw. 

The next snowball grazes my leg as I duck behind a tree. The supply is sparse beneath its branches, but I pack together what little is there, launching it as Riftan pokes his head around the trunk. It slugs him in the face. 

With a gasp, I scramble for more ammo, aiming right as he does. "Put it down," he commands. I'm so dead. 

"You first," I nod towards his hand. 

Riftan tsks, "You're just going to hit me." He moves for my snowball, but I step back, holding it up to appear threatening. I must seem like a cat with its hackles raised to him, but he moves away, still ready to throw. 

"On the count of three, we both drop them," he says. 

My eyes dart between him and the snowball—twice the size of mine—in his hand. "Only if you promise."

"I promise–"

" Pinky promise."

Narrowing his brow, he looks at me as if I've called the planet square, "Pinky what?"

"We wrap our pinkies together, we pinky promise," I say, unwilling to lower my snowball enough to show him. "If you…if you break your promise, I- I break your finger."

With a sigh, Riftan offers his free hand, curling his little finger around mine, "I'm so scared."

"Say it," I grip his finger tighter. "That you pinky promise. Say it."

"I pinky promise," he says. 

"Good." 

Pinkies gripped in a death lock, we both hesitate, staring the other down until we drop our weapons, Riftan first. The next moment, he pulls me flush against him, the haze of our breath mingling in the air as he hovers over me. The hood of my coat bunches around my neck, the water droplets clung to its fur lining caressing my cheek as I crane to look upon his face. 

As he moves to kiss me, his glove brushes my skin, and I wince at the touch of the icy leather against me, "That's cold." 

"Sorry," he whispers, withdrawing his hand as he warms my cheek with kisses to appease his earlier sin. He lands another on the tip of my nose for good measure. With a wide smile, I push away from his affectional onslaught, tucking myself against his chest so there can be no more. 

Through the foliage, the lake peers at me. "I thought it, um, it might be frozen," I say. 

"It's not cold enough for that."

"Not even for a- a thin layer of ice?" I argue. "I mean, if it's cold enough to, to snow–" But I halt at the sight of the glint in his eye and the slight upturn to his mouth. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, though that upturn turns broader. With a hmph , I maneuver from his grasp, his hand finding mine as he follows after, pulling the hood of my coat over my head. We leave tracks in the snow, the fine powder yielding to our footfalls as we skirt around the water.

"You know," Riftan says, "in the north, lakes much larger than this freeze over. The ice is usually thick enough that you can walk across it."

"Have you?" I ask. 

He shakes his head, "No, but something like it. During my mercenary days, when I was in Balto, I spent three days walking across a glacier to pass through the Tranoia Plains."

The things he must have experienced in his life...things I can only imagine. Like a glacier of his own, he holds only pieces of himself above the water while the rest hides beneath the depths. A book is limited in what insight it could give about a man like him. 

"You…you need to tell me more about your, um, your travels," I say. "I hardly know anything about you." He's five years older than me—technically younger if you count both my lifetimes—and he's done more than I could ever think of for myself. 

"I feel the same about you," Riftan says. 

I scuff my shoe against the ground, running a line through the snow. "There's not much to know. I've, um…I’ve  lived in a castle my entire life."

"Still. I think there's more to you than what meets the eye."

Giving a scoff, then another scuff of my shoe, I say, "You'd be surprised."

Flakes of snow drift past my vision, more following in flurries from the sky. As children do, my friends often wished for days like these, heavy enough to cancel school in the middle of the week. But I'd want it for my birthday instead: to blow out candles and make snow angels on the same day. It was around this time of year, my birthday, right on the cusp of winter. Come this one—if it hasn't passed—I'll be twenty. I have been twenty before. 

"We should go," Riftan says, corralling me towards the horses with an arm around my back. Letting him guide me, I stick my tongue out to catch the snow, reeling it back in when he adds, "The weather's been so finicky lately. I wonder why."

I keep my mouth quiet, the question a musing to himself so that I wouldn't have to answer it anyway. If only he knew what was waiting for him in the future, I think. If only anyone but myself knew what this weather meant. 

If only I could tell him everything... 

But with a relationship I could jeopardize and a future that could change with one misstep, nothing is stable enough for me to risk it. I used to enjoy knowing what others didn't, but now I think it might be a curse. 

So I change the subject…

"I…I tried archery a few days ago." Riftan halts as he helps me mount Rem, but I pull myself the rest of the way. "Sir Livakion, um, showed me how. He was in the training grounds when I was, um, was walking with Ludis," I explain. I would have told him sooner, but this is the first I've seen him lately, with how busy he's been. 

I tell him where my arrows landed. 

"It only took you three tries?"

"I was disappointed I di-didn’t make it…make it dead center," I say. "Those bows are hard to, to, um, work."

He unties my horse from around the tree that holds her, and I reach for the reins but pause when he rests his hand against my thigh. "Do you enjoy archery?" Riftan asks. 

"I do," I say, including that I've always been interested. 

"Would you like me to set up lessons for you?"

Mouth parted, I gape at him, "You would do that?" The snow itself seems to slow its descent to hear what he says next. 

Riftan shrugs, "You said you enjoyed it. All you have to do is say the word, and I'll find you a teacher."

What a perfect opportunity thrown right into my lap. Taking the reigns fully, I nod, "I would like that."

***

"Try hitting the target this time!"

"Drawing back on the string, I center my breath as I focus on the bullseye, blocking out any other snark Hebaron might have for me. Every arrow but one has landed somewhere within the canvas, the outlier startled loose by the knight's racket before I could aim. 

"Keep your arm up," Gabel says. I raise my right elbow, using the strength of my back to pull on the bow rather than my bicep. My chest is stretched wide as I enter the correct position, the tips of my fingers landing against my shoulder as I release the string. The arrow lands higher than I want it—a problem the past couple of lessons have been weak to fix. 

Gabel passes another arrow my way, offering encouragement along with it. "You're getting closer," he says. 

Garrow, squatting in the dirt of the training grounds as he makes shapes in the remaining patches of snow, squints at his brother, "You're being surprisingly nice." Ulyseon, standing behind his friend, agrees 

"That's because her ladyship is a better student than you squires," Gabel retorts. "Or at least, she would be if she'd keep her arm up. And you've switched your fingers again..." I sneak my pointer finger beneath the arrow shaft as if it never moved at all, but it does not escape the knight. "The next position you choose is the one I'm going to drill you on."

"Well, I think Lady Calypse is doing marvelously," Ulyseon says. 

"Thank you," I say to the squire, and then with a glare between Garrow and Gabel, "at least one of you is nice to me."

"Quit the blabbering and shoot!" Hebaron shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth as if his normal speaking voice wasn't loud enough. "I came here for a show, not a bore!" 

My eyes roll themselves. So much for private lessons, I think.

A few other knights sit amongst the stands behind us, word somehow spread that my lessons are the perfect place to spend leisure. They laugh along with Hebaron, reclining on the benches or leaning over the rail like cowboys on a slow day—all they need is some chewing tobacco to spit into a jar. Amongst them, Ludis tends to her sewing, hunched over the fabric as she tunes out the knight's antics with more skill than I have in archery. 

I thought it might take much longer for them to grow used to me enough for such informality. Makes one wonder what I could have done to warrant such friendliness if it could be called that. However annoying it might be, though, they may watch if they like. Even if I am merely entertainment, my audience is still my allies. 

***

Life in the castle moves as it always does: slow and without worry, but always preparing as if there will be one. The servants go about their chores, rationing supplies in this season of little, though it is unlikely we will run out. The knights, who I have never seen train, have moved their sessions so that when I arrive for my archery lessons, they are finishing theirs. Consequently, my audience grows. 

Almost daily, and more than days prior, birds flutter near the windows of Riftan's office, using the sills as their perches till they are gathered inside and sent away again. I pay them no mind as I tour the gardens, speaking with the merchant as I draft plans for the landscaping. Come the end of winter, when the ground softens, we might plant something.

The guest rooms of the castle have changed, too, now more homely and welcoming in preparation for anyone who might stay—Princess Agnes is kept in mind, though her name has yet to be mentioned. 

With all this work, it seems I always have the ledgers for something or that I need to write a thing or two down. 

"The merchant sent the list you wanted," Rodrigo says, setting a slip of paper on the new desk I've ordered. Already, it is piled full of parchments and books. "His lordship also requested the ledgers for his use. May I bring them to him?"

"I will do so," I say, setting the leftovers of my breakfast to the side to be collected. "I, um, have to write the new items first."

As most of the living space is, Riftan's office is on the second floor at the end of an empty gallery hall. One day, it will be full of paintings and sculptures to show the wealth of our house, but for now, there is only a rug to decorate it, cushioning the sound of my footsteps as I walk. Ludis waits by the door while I go in. 

"What brings you here?" Pleasant confusion makes up his expression. Riftan is content to see me, though not expecting it. 

Several others are within the room. Gabel and Rikaydo stand on opposing walls while Elliot stands behind Riftan. They greet me as they should the lady of the castle, Gabel and Elliot more welcoming than Rikaydo. The blond knight keeps his eyes on the ground; is half-hearted in how he bows. 

"I brought the ledgers," I say, crossing the room to set them on the desk. 

"I will take those," Elliot says, sliding them over to himself. Riftan sets his pen to the side, handing the parchment to the knight, who switches it for another. Pointing to a spot on the bottom, he says, "If you’d sign here."

Etching his name across the paper with a feathered pen, Riftan dusts it with sand to dry, glancing up at me, "I thought I told Rodrigo to bring the ledgers."

"You do not, um, wish to see me?" I pout, exaggerating the expression. 

"I did not say that." His signature dry, he brushes away the sand, taking a spoonful of melted wax to pour onto the paper. It globs as it drips, expanding lazily as Riftan slips a ring from his finger and presses it face down into the wax. 

Watching the process with mild intrigue, I say, "I had to, um, add to the ledgers this morning. It made more sense for me to…to bring them."

"I see." 

Riftan turns his attention back to Charon for a moment, in which Gabel finds the room to speak. "I was just telling the commander how well you've been doing with your lessons," he says.

"Have you now?" I raise my brows. Teasing, I say, "Then my form must not…must not be that bad if you can, um, brag about me."

"He's not the only one talking of it," Elliot says. As he speaks, he rolls the tiniest scrap of paper into a scroll, tying it with a string. "Many of the knights have, as well."

Someone coughs. When I look at Rikaydo, he is looking elsewhere, arms crossed. Only a minuscule glance is spared my direction, taken away soon after as if it were made by mistake. As if I weren't meant to see. Not all the knights have warmed up to me, though I tell myself it is of no consequence. 

But now the conversation is lost. Riftan and Elliot pay it no mind, busy with their work, while Gabel's eyes shift around the room before landing on the ceiling. 

Grasping for something else, I ask, "Only, um, paperwork today?"

Riftan grumbles, "My least favorite."

With a chuckle, Elliot agrees. He carries the message towards a bird cage tucked in the corner of the room, reaching in to tie it to the leg of the nearest bird. It and its companions coo at the disruption. 

"Really?" I ask. "I thought it might, um…might be a nice break from your usual work. A change of…of, um, scenery so to speak."

"There are other things I'd rather be doing," he looks at me as he says such. When I avert my gaze, blushing, he adds, "But I have to go out today, anyway. The knights have a mock battle for training."

"We–" Rikaydo clears his throat as the attention shifts to him, pushing away from the wall. "We should head that way now." 

He speaks mainly to Gabel, keeping his voice low as if he is unsure the knight will follow him but is attempting to convince him nonetheless. Gabel puts up no fight, inclining his head to me as he moves towards his comrade. Rikaydo, for propriety's sake, and in the presence of Riftan, bows to me also, before the two make their way towards the door. 

Thumbing the edge of the desk, I say, "I should, um…I should be going, too. I have a lesson with Ruth."

"Is he finally teaching you healing?" Riftan asks. He pulls his ring from the wax, the imprint of a dragon left behind on the hard surface—his signet. I wonder if he designed it himself. 

"He already is," I say. "I've yet to use it, though." In these past meetings, we've studied the spell and practiced generating it, but nothing more. With a sigh, I move away from the desk, "I'll let you know if we do."

On to his next document, Riftan does not protest as I leave, though his eyes follow me out the door. I pull it softly closed behind me so it does not make noise in the latch. 

Ruth has asked me to meet him in the library for our lesson. A migratory creature of his own volition, he switches between his tower and the castle at the drop of a hat. 

"Why don't we go to the training grounds today?"

At first, I check to see if he is serious, checking again when I discern that he is. "But the knights are using it."

"That's the point," Ruth says. "Training is always bound to cause injuries. It'll be a great opportunity for you to practice your healing."

"But–" My words die in my throat. This is what I wanted, I think. To use my magic rather than merely generate it. But the knights…

"Wouldn't the, um, squires be better?" I ask. They're bound to get hurt, more so than their experienced counterparts. 

"If you want to wait another day or two, sure." But I don't want to wait—there's no time to wait. Every moment, however minute, counts; is precious and vital. To not take the opportunity now could hurt me later. But I can't shake this awful feeling, like a gut instinct. There's an explanation floating around my mind as it avoids the net of my thoughts. 

The mage senses my apprehension. "If it's the knights you're worried about," he says. "I know they can be intimidating, but it seems like they've warmed up to you."

I can't disagree with him. Biting my lip as if to bite my tongue, I concede, "Let's try it."

Magic practice can be repetitive and boring, and there's not much to do within the training grounds, so I dismiss Ludis for the time being. A chaperone isn't something I'd consider necessary for public, anyway, more so when our intentions are clear. 

"Make sure you pay attention to how you're circulating your mana," Ruth says. "You always struggle with that. I mean, how many more times do I have to say it before you start listening?"

"Mm...a hundred," I say to get on his nerves. But I make a mental note of what he is saying. 

The basket of supplies Ruth has brought—wine and cloth, primarily—weighs on my hand, and I change how I carry it to ease some of the awkwardness as it sways with my gait. "Is there, um, anything else I should keep in mind?" I ask. If I know it all now, I'll do well. Or at least better than I might have. 

"I don't think so," he says. "Nothing else has stuck out to me, at least."

I suppose that's a positive, but I still feel underprepared. I work through the spell step by step within my body to compensate, shy of generating it in my hand lest Ruth scold me. 

As we approach, a great ruckus grows clearer, breaking through the walls of the training grounds as if to bring it down like Jericho, though the trumpets have turned to shouts and the Israelite's stomps to the crashing of swords. I keep my hands at my sides to keep from covering my ears as—catching sight of Sir Oberon—Ruth leads us to the side where the knight observes training. 

Around us, men fight one-on-one, with chainmail and helmets to defend against the metal of sword blades I can only hope are dull. Though orchestrated and disciplined, it is a scene of chaos, like a real battlefield. 

Amongst them, one notices me, our eyes trailing each other, though his face is obscured. I catch him mid-block of his opponent's sword, and, distracted, he is late to prevent the next blow delivered with brutal efficiency to his side. He is knocked to the ground, skidding through the mud. I turn away before I see more. 

"What brings you here?" The older knight raises his question over the din. Ruth gets closer to the man, who lends his ear to the mage to explain the situation. 

Setting the basket down, my gaze wanders back to the knight from earlier. A flash of blond hair that might be his disappears through the crowd of men, but the sight is blocked by his burly opponent before I can discern. 

"Oi!" Removing his helmet, Hebaron calls out to Ruth, "I thought we weren't to call you for anything short of a crippling wound?" The knight stalks his way over. 

"That still stands," says Ruth, "but her ladyship needs to practice her healing magic."

By now, the grounds have quieted, and everyone appears to have heard our business. They speak of it in whispers to one another—Magic? They wonder. 

There are too many people here, I think. It's either a blessing or a curse. Either there are plenty to speak of my virtues or of my failings. Regardless, word will travel fast. 

"Your ladyship can use magic? Hebaron asks. 

Ignoring the crowd, I muster my courage. Imagine them in their underwear, some might say, but lest that make it worse, I imagine they're discussing their lunch plans instead—anything but me—a difficult approach when so many eyes are pointed in my direction. 

"I've, um, only begun learning," I say, "but…but I would greatly appreciate it if you'd, um,  allow me to practice on…on any wounds there might be."

"Lady Calypse has shown incredible progress in her magical ability," Ruth says. "I've no doubt she is ready to heal a living person."

"As opposed to a dead one?" The orange-haired knight bursts into a fit of laughter at his own joke, pulling a groan from Sir Oberon, who otherwise ignores him. 

"Your intention is a fine one," he says, "I'll grant you that. But if there were lasting effects..."

"I can assure you there would be no lasting consequences other than a blow to the lady's pride if she were to fail," Ruth says. How sweet of him. "Healing magic is perfectly safe, and—" he enunciates his next words for the entire grounds to hear “—I'm sure I do not have to remind you of the importance of healers."

"Yes, yes," Sir Oberon waves him off. "But I don't know anyone with a wound on them." He looks to Hebaron in question. 

The knight peers over his comrades in search of someone, shouting when he finds them, "Hey, Rikydo!"

Rikaydo?

My head whips around, finding the blond knight through the mass of bodies. With a glare at Hebaron, Ursuline Rikaydo makes a poor effort to brush the splotches of dirt from his surcoat. 

"I'm sure I left you a sizable bruise. Why don't you volunteer?"

"Why don't you?" Rikaydo scowls. "I knocked you hard in the chin. There's bound to be a dent in your lip."

"Ha! Nothing more than a flea bite," Hebaron retorts. "I'm completely unscathed."

I can heal flea bites, I think. But the words are stuck like a lump at the base of my throat. 

"Liar!"

"I must have hit you harder than I thought. Madam, make sure you treat him thoroughly." I smile to be polite as the knight bends down to say his bit, but I want nothing to do with this. I knew there was something bad from the start. 

"He's…he’s clearly unwilling," I say to Ruth. "Perhaps, um, perhaps we should find someone else..."

"Nonsense," he says, moving towards Rikaydo. "We'd appreciate your cooperation. A bruise is an easy thing to heal. It won't take long."

"It will heal on its own," the knight replies, turning his back on the mage. 

But Ruth persists. "Wouldn't you rather it be healed right away? Magic can't take away the discolor, but it can certainly ease the pain.

"The pain is of no consequence."

"Still–"

Rikaydo snaps, "I would rather the pain than be touched by..." He pauses, looking first at his knights, then at me. His mouth twists. "By a woman of little talent," he finishes. 

My face drops before I can school my expression into submission. The training grounds have fallen so silent that a pin landing in the mud—so wet from the snow it is liquid—would be loud. If every eye was not on me before, they are now, gauging my reaction to this knight's insolent words. 

I take a breath. "I've, I–" I grit my teeth. Why does my tongue fail me when I need it most? “I’ve had m, much practice, and, and…I know the spell.”

"Practice does nothing for incompetence," Rikaydo spits. 

Bitch. 

"I, I am perfectly– " I start, but a force pushes me behind it, cutting my words short. 

Like a raging wind, Riftan—appearing from nowhere—blows past me and knocks Rikaydo to the ground. Fists have connected with flesh before I know what happened, rising in sharp, echoing slaps. 

The place descends to anarchy. 

Escape . I have to escape. But in the panic, the men swarm, blocking the only gateway like a mass wave. Like sitting ducks, they watch the few who struggle in vain to pull Riftan off the knight. 

This is my fault. If I had just told Ruth no…

"How dare you speak to my wife with such impertinence!" Riftan snarls, gripping the knight by the collar. 

I run to the fray. "Riftan, stop!" I have to make this stop. I grab him by the shoulder, "Riftan!"

Pulling harder, the other men seem to work against me, but I cling to the mess to not be useless. But, as Riftan wrenches his arm free from his bonds and pushes against the men, I am knocked from my feet. Like the duke's cane, the ground rams against my hip, the mud splattered against me like my own blood. 

Then, I am pulled up. There are hands around my wrists like cuffs. 

"Let go." My words are lost against the noise, so I say again, " Let go."

Still, they hold me. 

"Have you no pride?" Ursuline shouts, struggling to shove Riftan away. "Does it not anger you after everything Duke Croix put us through?!"

Make it stop! Just make it all stop! If I had only stayed in the castle, we wouldn't be in this mess.

"Let go of me!" I yank at my hands. 

"How could you stand by his daughter? She's nothing but a–"

" Enough!"

The men recede from Riftan, and I can wrest my hands free. My words—the rawness with which they were birthed—roll through the crowd like a tidal wave. Even Riftan watches as I move towards him. 

"What the hell are you doing?" I shout. Fist still clenched, he looks down at Rikaydo, the collar of his gambeson clumped amongst the links in his mail shirt in Riftan's grasp. "Let go of him."

Every sense of my body is heightened—the tremors in my legs, my pulse in my fingertips, my breath in my ears—as I stare into his black eyes that burn with a fury I have seen no match to. He blinks, and it is gone. 

With great reluctance, Riftan releases the knight and moves to his feet. 

"Have you no pride?" Rikaydo seethes. "Have you no pride? You would stand with that wh–”

" Watch. Your. Tongue. " My speech shakes as it is forced through clenched teeth. I stand over his pathetic writing form, coated in mud like a worm. "I have had m, much–" I stop before I stutter. 

"I have been patient," I say. “I will t-tolerate you, if I must. But to…to insult me…Look around—“ I motion to the knights; to Riftan, my hand on his chest to keep him from stepping in“—who here held him back?”

I point to myself, " I did . You would do well to…to remember that."

With one last look at the swollen face of Rikaydo, bloodied and torn and hateful, I turn away, grabbing fist-fulls of my skirt to hide the shake in my hands. In the process, I catch sight of Gabel. Near the place where I fell into the mud, he watches me. It is I who looks away first.

"Ruth, let us…let us end the lesson for today," I say, laser-focused on the shape of each word to keep them calm. Moving past the mage, I stop before Hebaron, "Sir Nirtha, if there are any...any injured, would you s, send them my way?"

"Yes, Madam," the knight bows. 

"Good." I leave it at that.

Moving for the exit, I meet the gaze of every knight as I walk. Let them see my anger. Let them see what happens to anyone who dares mess with the Lady of Anatol.

Chapter Text

The lady leaves a trail of sparks wherever she goes: of curiosity, of admiration, of distaste. Those same sparks follow in her wake as she splits through the sea of men like a sharpened knife through paper. 

Confidence is her armor—she wears it well, as if it is her natural skin. In some way, I am sure that is true. She is in every way capable. But there are chinks in the metal of her defenses, hidden from the untrained eye. 

One may remark on how tightly her fist is clenched, tucked safely away in the billowing of her skirt. Child's play. 

Look at how high her chin is, how rigid she holds her back, each scraped past the natural point. She bears her neck to every sharp word, leaving her spine to be shattered by every hostility. She is volatile; vulnerable. 

I've seen enough cornered men to know the reeking of anxiety. It covers her in everything she does. 

I keep my body loose, ready to jump in and save Rikaydo should Calypse decide to pounce again. They're always at each other's throats these days. The glare the commander throws his way is no less than paralyzing. I've seen Riftan look at a basilisk with more fondness. 

"If you ever speak about my wife that way again, I'll cut you from mouth to groin," his words are like grated steel. 

With eased precision, the commander turns on his heel and chases after Lady Calypse's path. We all hold our breath until he is out of sight, releasing it in one gathered sign the second he is gone. 

"Was that really necessary?" Hebaron Nirtha is the first to break the silence. He stalks towards Rikaydo, towering over him. 

Rikaydo says nothing, picking himself up from the ground with Charon's help. The kinder knight retracts his service the moment it is no longer required. 

Nirtha is not finished with his scolding, "You couldn't put aside your dislike long enough to let her heal a piddly bruise?”

"And you would?"

"Yes," the vice commander replies without hesitation. "She has no obligation to us, yet she still goes through the trouble."

"You would kiss the very ground she walks on," Rikaydo sneers. 

"I have no need to kiss up to her to respect her."

"I must agree with the vice commander," I say to help Rikaydo see reason. It is a useless endeavor. Madmen never care for rational thought. "I have interacted with the lady enough to know the care she has for the people of this castle and the diligence she carries with her. She holds the values of the Remdragons, and you have disgraced her."

A sour look crosses Rikaydo's face as if a frog waits in his mouth, ready to spring forth. His eyes shift between the three of us: me, Hebaron, and the mage, even Charon. "You would stand with a Croix?"

"She is a Calypse now," the mage says, arms crossed. "A slight to her is a slight to the commander."

Wise words on the mage's part. Rikaydo, out of all of us, is the most loyal to Riftan; has always been. It is in no way enough to make him like her, but maybe it's enough to make him think. 

The men surrounding us watch on with hushed conversation. There is mixed opinion amongst them on the stance to take. They look to the commander, but they also look to us senior knights. They will base their opinions on Lady Calypse off of us. 

"Her actions thus far have been in favor of the Remdragon's," I say, speaking to the men. "What more could we ask for?"

The majority seem to agree. It needs to end here. 

I approach Hebaron, keeping my words low, "Resume training. Keep their minds from this distraction."

To his credit, Hebaron listens. He orders the men to get back to work. 

Chapter Text

Rikaydo. 

How could I have forgotten about Rikaydo? Mud on my face and dress, a spectacle for an army—what a fool I have made of myself!

The water hits like ice as I hold it to my face with cupped hands, first to my eyes to cool them, then to the rest of my skin. I hover over the bowl to let it drip back down. 

What else have I forgotten? My blood boils, fizzling in my veins as I rack my mind for answers, rummaging through every scrap of knowledge I have. 

Riftan bursts through the door. With tousled clothing and his mouth parted for air, his posture falls as he sees me. "Where did you go?" He asks. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

“I took a walk,” I say, reaching for a towel. Burying my face in the fabric, I dry away the remaining water, hiding my eyes from him as long as I can. I look away as he steps towards me. 

"Are you alright?" He asks, extending his hand to touch me. I shy from it, turning my head to the side. He retreats. 

"I'm–" Bile sticks to my mouth and throat, turning my speech hoarse and shallow. "I'm fine," I manage, skirting around the table to avoid him, but he stops me, taking hold of my arm. 

"About what happened–"

"Did you have to hit him?" I blurt.

Whatever he meant to say, the thought peters out, my question so off-kilter that his brow knits at the idiocracy, "He insulted you."

"So? Lots of people have," I say. This isn't…this isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last. "But did you…did you have to hit him?"

"I–" Riftan fumbles for the right answer. "How am I supposed to defend you?"

My expression falls blank as I find myself at a loss. How should he defend me? With words? Can a seasoned warrior with a lifetime of battles beneath his belt, beaten on like a fighting dog, string together a gentleman's sentence?

Rubbing the sides of my face, words muffled in my hands, I say, "I don't know. I don't know what I– what I want." I push from him towards the door, "I just know I don't want–" I pause...This?"

What is this?   What am I saying?

"Look." It hurts to speak as I turn around, grabbing hold of my chemise so my hands have something to do. "The—my father wasn't...wasn't kind to me. I'm not the…glorified daughter of Croix you think I am." Pressure wells behind my eyes and shakes my speech. I swallow it down. "I am used to insults," I say. "I am used to fists."

Riftan steps towards me, but hesitates at the flare in my gaze. It stops him in his tracks, adds pain to his face. I hate that look—I despise it. 

"I don't want your pity," I say—it pours out harsher than I intend. I soften my voice, "What…what I'm, um…what I’m trying to say is that those words—what was said today—it’s useless. It means...it means nothing to me."

But my protest falls flat. Nothing else is said, but everything else says it all—the fire flickers and the logs crackle, a draft hits the window and rattles a pane, the air makes itself heavier. Riftan and I look at each other, stuck in the loud quiet, until he steps forward. I let him this time. 

He brushes my cheek with tentative fingers, and I force my face still, fighting all desire to not lean into the caress. All these touches...where did a man who leads with his fists learn to be gentle? With a sigh, he pulls me against him, and I bury my face into his chest. 

"What...what did your father do to you?" Riftan asks, the formation of his speech uncertain, spoken hardly above a whisper. Nervous.

"I don't, um…l,like talking about it," I say, only having said enough so that he might understand—maybe not my past, but my argument. Defeated, Riftan covers my head with his own, running his hand up and down my back to soothe me. I sniffle. 

"Have you been crying?" He asks, touches persisting as if he already knows.

"Rikaydo is…pointless to cry over," I say. 

The conversation is left at that.

***

The harpsichord keys are stiff beneath my fingers, refusing to play even the simplest notes. I work through the piece over and over, revisiting the sections I cannot seem to get right and running through scales to loosen my joints so that playing might become easier. It's all futile. 

Someone knocks. I halt, hands resting in position as I wait for Ludis to answer the door. Ruth waits on the other side. 

"Have I, um...have I disturbed you?" I ask, rising from the bench. I have been at it all morning, but it is my day for playing, in my defense. 

The mage waves away my concern. "I have not come to complain," he says. With a hand on his chest, he bows, "I wish to apologize for yesterday."

Oh. A part of me eases, and another tenses up. "There is no need," I say. "You didn't know." But I should have. 

"Still, it was careless of me. I should have informed the knights first."

I nod to say I understand, reaching to touch the corner of the harpsichord as I peer out the window at the bright, sunny day. How I wish I could enjoy it... 

"Several knights came to your defense," Ruth says, clarifying at my perplexion, "Sir Nirtha and Sir Livakion. I, as well," He motions to himself. "Sir Livakion, in particular, spoke quite highly of you—not that the rest of us didn’t."

"Seems, um, my archery lessons have paid off," I say. But I can't help but question if Gabel and I have become too close, though I've yet to consider us friends. I push the thought aside—I have better things to be anxious about.

"I have also heard," Ruth says, "though it's merely a rumor, that the servants have started to snub Sir Rikaydo."

I smile, glancing towards Ludis, "Is that so?" The maid pretends not to hear, engrossed with her needlework by the fire, but I know she has. 

Again, that silence, loud and obnoxious, hangs in the air, now between Ruth and I. The castle has grown so awkward since yesterday. 

"Madam, what if..." Ruth mulls on how he'll put his words next. "You will need to practice your healing magic on someone, and while the knights didn't work yesterday, there are always the castle's servants. What if we were to try the kitchens today?" 

The kitchens...There's someone there to heal, I know it—call it a vague inkling from my memory, though I remember it better than Rikaydo. And there is no apprehension within me, no warning instinct in my gut. 

I agree with Ruth, "I think it's worth a try."

I suppose, at this point,  anything could be…

This time of day, the kitchens are busy—there is a certain level of care to be taken so as not to impede their flow as they rush to prepare lunch on time, plating food and whisking it out the door on large platters. Ruth and I stick to the walls, keeping out of the way while the servants indulge us with brief acknowledgment before scurrying off to serve the knights and guards. Inside, dishes clank together as those remaining scrub them clean and dry them, readying the space for the next commotion when dinner rolls around. 

"Do we have any injured people?" The head chef repeats, peering around as he rubs his hands against his apron. 

One of the maids overhears. "What about Conrad?" she asks, drawing together a pile of dirt with broad sweeps. Finished, she smacks the bristles of her broom against the ground to lean on the handle, "He burnt his hand on a skillet earlier."

The chef thinks it over, searching through the servants busy like worker bees. "Hey, Conrad!" he yells. A boy, balancing a plate in his hand as he dries it, straightens, tightening his grip on the dish as he turns to the chef with alarm. "Come here."

Setting the plate on the counter, Conrad weaves through the mass of people, hastening to us. A boy not much older than ten, his mat of hair is wild, and his shoes worn; the cuffs of his pants struggle to reach the tops of his shoes, like his sleeves towards his wrists. Stopping before us, he hides his hands behind his back, but I have already seen the old cloth wrapped and tied with a thick knot around his one. 

"Let the lady have a look," the chef says, tone milder than previously. 

Grimacing, the boy pulls away the bandage, letting it droop in his grasp as he offers his wounded hand to me. From the meat of his palm to the base of his fingers, a red, angry mark stretches. It's first-degree—nothing serious—but fresh enough to hurt with the slightest touch. 

"We've already cleaned it," the maid says. "I told him to put salve on it." Glancing at the boy, she asks, "Did you?" He bobs his head. 

"That's good," Ruth says. Inspecting the wound himself, he decides it is fine enough to heal, discarding his makeshift first-aid kit to the side. 

With Ruth’s go-ahead, I move forward, careful of the burn as I take the boy's hand and speak softly to him. "Bear with me, please," I say, closing my eyes before I might see how he reacts. It's just like a magic light ball, I tell myself, summoning my mana to the wound. Just like a magic light ball... 

As my magic radiates in my hand, extending for the boy’s, I work myself through the steps. Heat is the first I should feel—it envelops my body like a halo, warmer near my hand—the next should be a change. I wait for it… and wait…waiting still...

Through a lidded eye, I peer at the scene, opening both when I realize the wound remains as swollen and angry as it began. What did I do wrong? I swear I did everything I was supposed to…

By now, the kitchens are as silent as the training grounds were, a few dishes rattling as their keepers split their attention between their task and the show that is my debacle. 

I look at Ruth. 

"It's alright," he says, his tone mellower than I am used to. Motioning for me to try again, he stands to my side, feeding me instruction, "Summon your mana." I do, the feeling hotter than before as it accumulates. "Now, push it into the wound. Circulate it fast."

My magic flowing into his body, I feel the strands of the boy's mana interact with my own, the tendrils mixing and wrapping together like knitting. Is this the change? I wonder, but hold out for a greater affair. 

Someone gasps. The maid from earlier grabs hold of another, calling their attention my way as if they were not already watching. Startled by her reaction, I am snapped from my focus, looking to the wound only to  find nothing left to heal. 

Conrad takes his hand from mine. Squeezing his fist open and closed, he marvels at the new skin of his palm, not even a scar in the wound's place. Face beaming, his spirit brightens as he runs to show the others, waving his hand higher than he can reach. 

"Well, I'll be damned," the chef says, but his surprise is drowned by the long whistle that rings across the room. 

Hebaron leans in the doorway, Gabel and Elliot peaking their heads around him to have their fill of the scene. How long have they been there? I wonder, looking away as the chef ruffles the boy's hair. At the sight, the sunken pit in my chest eases, like I've filled it with the sunshine outside. 

Taking his basket in arm, Ruth guides me towards the door, a smirk playing on his face to keep the composure his admiration threatens to disrupt. Pride is the better word—rarely do I find such an emotion meant for me these days, the richness of it savory like a feast. 

"Is it too late to volunteer?" Hebaron asks as we approach, holding out the tip of his finger to reveal a scabbed cut, hardly large enough to qualify as a nick. 

Ruth scoffs. "Not much of a reconciliation," he mutters. I shush him. 

Turning to Hebaron, I say, "Of course, I'll heal it," adding under my breath, "wouldn't, um, want you to bleed out."

The knights burst into a fit of laughter, Gabel throwing a few jabs of his own at Hebaron. "You're his only hope," he says. "We don't know if he'll ever hold a sword again."

"Please, Madam, you must save me," Hebaron cries as I usher them out. I've disturbed the kitchens enough for one day, I don’t need them adding to it.

Out in the hall, I inspect the scratch closer, finding it easy to heal—go figure. There is hardly any heat nor noticeable change from my mana as I spend it. The knights sing my praises when the wound is gone. 

"I suppose you can still be vice-commander," Gabel says with a slap to Hebaron's shoulder. 

"I owe it to her ladyship. You have no way to oust me now," Hebaron retorts, holding his mended finger as if it is made of glass. 

"And we are all pleased," Ruth groans. "Now that you're better, shall we let the lady rest?" 

“Alright, alright,” Hebron says, pacifying the mage. As he does so, he looks to Gabel, who then looks to Elliot. A silent conversation passes—a signaling of sorts for a previous agreement. Elliot nods and it is over. 

Gabel turns to me. "Enjoy your peace while you can," he says. "You'll be swarmed once word gets out."

"I look forward to it," I say. Though, Ruth disagrees. 

"You do now.” I can’t help but chuckle.

Another look to Elliot, Gabel and Hebaron say their goodbyes, wandering ahead while the third knight lingers behind. Glancing at the floor, he rubs his hands in thought, even the muted hall listening for what he might say.

"Don't mind Ursuline the other day," Elliot speaks at last. "He's blunt, but he's a good man and loyal to the Remdragons—the commander especially." Their plan to comfort me was obvious before, but more so now. Still the thought is appreciated. 

"It's all I, um…all I could ask for," I say. "I am grateful my, um…husband has…has those who care for him." Though I’ve used it in the past, the word feels foreign on my tongue: husband .

But my statement holds truth to it. Reading his own story, watching their camaraderie, it makes me wonder how so many men could care for one to the point they would lay their lives down without question. If there is anyone who deserves such fealty, it is the man who's willing to go through Hell alone to spare others of it. A man like Riftan. 

And it makes me wonder more if it is selfish that I desire the same. What have I done to earn it?

***

The paper is rough as I swipe the charcoal across its surface, the grain catching in places as I use short swoops to make the outline of his face, the strands of his hair, the way his shirt curves over his shoulders. Riftan takes shape within my journal as he does in front of me, sitting across the table. 

Scraping his sharpening stone against the edge of his sword blade, he remains unaware—or at least pretends to be—of my scrutiny. I'm sure my glances are noticeable, peppered through intense periods of scribbling and smudging and the occasional muttered curse as the dust on my hand dirties the page. But he remains aloof—a perfect muse. 

The journal was a gift, an apology, I think, for the conflict of prior days. It must be a love language of his, gift-giving. I think of all the gifts he's showered over me, but he's yet to receive one. Might this be it?

One side of the blade done, he turns his attention to the other, working with a meticulous eye. What has he killed today? I wonder. Winter has put everything to sleep—the plants and animals, the people. Do monsters hibernate, too? Maybe it's like bears, where they wander out of their caves to find food. 

I add a line to his forehead, in the middle of his brow, and a few more to make the wrinkles in his clothes, setting my charcoal aside as I debate if I am finished or not. Mid-scrape, Riftan stops, his eyes tracking as I rise from my seat and carry the journal around the table. I clear my throat as I turn it around to show him. 

"Is that me?" He asks. For a moment, I wonder if he truly did not notice me drawing him, scrutinizing every piece of his face before putting it to paper, but then I reason that he simply must not recognize himself. Wiping his hands, he reaches for the journal but pauses, "Can I?"

I allow him to take it, looking away. "The anatomy is…wrong," I say. The width of his shoulders is too wide, and the angles of his arms could be improved. "And my hand, well..." I point to where part of his face smears into the page. 

"It's perfect," he says. He turns the journal to where he can view himself better, "This is how you see me?"

I nod, averting my gaze to my shoes when he smiles at me. Picking at my nails, I say, "I thought you, um…I thought you might like it."

"You made it for me?"

"I can make something better."

"I'm sure you can," Riftan says. "But can I have this one?"

With a slight shrug of my shoulders, I say, "If you want it." But I almost regret showing it to him. I should have waited until I had something better.

Tapping the bottom corner of the page, he holds the journal out to me, "You should sign it."

I smile politely, at first, as I take it from him, suppressing with tight lips the more indulgent grin that appears. Setting the journal back against the table, I take the charcoal and press it to the paper. My hand hovers for a second, as my mind tells me my own name on instinct, and I have to remind myself not to use it. I write Maxi's instead and tear the page out for Riftan. 

"We should fill all the halls with your art," he says as I give it to him.

I laugh, "That's, um,  more drawing than I'd like to do." 

"But you're so talented."

"In your eyes, maybe." But his remark encourages me of another matter. Pushing the charcoal piece back and forth within its container, I ask, "How…how would you feel about, um, having our portrait painted? All the lords have them," I say, "or at least my, my father does. We could hang it for everyone to see."

"Whatever my lady desires, it will be done."

"You will sit through all of it? They will not, um, not call you away in the middle?" He is always on the go; always has a place he is needed.

"I will fight them away with–” He pauses, then says, “By however you wish.”

"Good," I say. "Then let it be done."

Chapter Text

Winter moves as Winter does—slow and steady and cold. I adhere to my magic, practicing every day; almost every hour if possible. Anytime I think of magic, I am then persuaded to use it. 

Gabel is right. Gossip spreads through the kitchens and the knights of my ability, and once it is known my services are freely offered to all—and the fear of asking personal favors from the castle’s mistress (whether fear of myself or punishment from the lord) is relieved—I am flooded with patients. I did not know people could be injured so often. 

And, as Winter does, it passes, ushering gradually in the Spring. The gardens take shape, the beds full of shrubs and flower stalks and sapling trees; wisteria creeping up trellises, yet to bloom but full of leaves. The oak tree still hibernates, but it will join the others in time. 

I brush away my sleep, dust my hands clean and ready, and prepare myself for the long road ahead. The first paint drips have been laid at the start line and I step into position to sprint. 

Word arrived three weeks ago from Drachina Palace that the Princess Royal is to inspect Anatol, by order of the king. Riftan assures me it is only routine, but I know better. If there is any ally I am to have, Agnes is at the top of the list—royalty is the best of anyone’s friends, but the door to the world tower waits behind her. 

“Madam, we have prepared the rooms in the annex for the Royal Knights,” Rodrigo informs me, trailing behind as I make inspections of the dining ware. 

“And the guest rooms? Several orders, um, arrived from the merchant. I need them pl, placed for the princess and her attendants to, to use.”

“I have already instructed the servants to do so, Madam.”

"Excellent," I say, examining my reflection in the shine of a silver platter. “The dining ware looks good.”

Around us, servants wash the large windows of the great hall, and the chandeliers are lowered for their iron to be dusted and polished. In the corner, working outwards, maids on their hands and knees scrub the floor with lye, separating dirt from stone.  

I turn to the butler, “Rodrigo, I, um, need you to choose the wines for the…for the feast.” My only knowledge in that department is how to drink them. 

My request is heard with a bow. Turning away to see to my other tasks, I pause, recalling another need.

“Rodrigo.” Expectant, the butler inclines his ear as I approach, keeping my voice low, “That door that is the cellar…might I…might I, um, have the key for it?” I have meant to ask since I set sights on it last summer, but time has run away from me as things have gotten in the way—thugs at the gate being one.

“Why of course, Madam,” He says, taking the ring of keys from his belt, flipping through the mass of them to get to the largest. Wresting it from its hold, he offers it to me, “I believe this is it. Forgive me, I am unsure.”  

“It appears correct,” I say. For a lock as considerable as the one in the cellar, I could not imagine any other of his keys substantial enough to affect the mechanism.

“May I ask why you need it?” 

“It is an escape route, you said. I thought it might be, um, better kept in, in my hands, seeing as I am this castle’s mistress,” I say. “I will lead the, um, servants out in the event of a siege, no?”

Rodrigo nods, understanding. “I would have never thought of such a thing. How good that you have, Madam.”

With a bow, he sees me off as I return to my initial task. The key, worn by layers of rust collected throughout its many years, bears like a weight in my hand.

***

How to impress a princess? I assume it is a lot like impressing Rosetta, whose proud manner and spoiled appearance fit every ounce of my royal schema. But then again, how alike are the two? No matter how much I think it over, the answer moves farther and farther away. 

So I choose modesty instead, as I am apt to choose these days. Let Agnes be impressed by my actions, and the rest of me remain ambiguous—in true Calypse fashion. 

“The servants are gathered outside as you requested,” Rodrigo says. “The lord has gone out to greet the guests. They should be arriving shortly.”

“I am almost ready,” I say, waving my hand as a maid offers a box of earrings for me. My hair already covers my ears as it plaits down my back, and the jeweled trimmings Ludis wraps around it are adornment enough. 

Tying the end of the pearl string, Ludis dusts her skirts as she stands. “It is finished,” she says. “Is there anything else you wanted, Madam?”

“Would you fetch me my ring?” I ask, stepping away from the mirror. While the maid moves into the bedroom through the connecting door of the Solar, I turn to Rodrigo, waiting off to the side, “How long, um, do you think they’ll be?”

He tilts his head, thinking, “It could be anytime. The swift courier they sent this morning estimated sometime in the early afternoon.” And it is afternoon now. 

I sigh. All of this preparation, and yet it does not seem enough. I have read every etiquette book in this castle—not to mention the knowledge beaten into me since I was young—but then there is still the issue of personalities and conflicts of interest. What in the world will she think of me?

She liked Maxi, I think. Maybe it is a plot point, and she will have to like me, too. One can only hope…

“Here you are, Madam,” Ludis holds the ruby and pearl studded ring in a cupped palm as she shuffles back into the room. Mumbling a thank you as she slips it onto my finger, I return my attention to the mirror to study the red jewels against the dark blue of my dress. 

“I don’t know. What do you think?” I ask.

“Pearls go with everything,” she says. 

“But the rubies. You don’t…you don’t think the color is too, um…much?” I turn my hand back and forth, studying the ring at different angles. Ever since the dowager duchess gifted it to me, I have bided my time, waiting for a chance to wear it, but to no avail. It seems this opportunity is a dead end.

Rubbing her chin, Ludis studies the ring, too.  “If you don’t like it, you could always wear the sapphire one the lord gifted you instead.” 

“The gem is rather big, is it not?”

“Then the gold band.”

I sigh, pursing my lips as I twist the ring around my finger, “Alright, have the maids–“ 

A horn blast sounds, cutting my sentence short. My head whips to the window, then to Ludis and Rodrigo, "They're here already?"

Rodrigo stands there as shocked as I am, mouth bobbing like a fish flopping on a boat deck. “I–“ But the fierce cry of the outer gate pierces through the window, whatever Rodrigo meant to say, insignificant now as I see in my mind, clear as day, the many visitors pouring through.

Balling my skirts in my fists, I hike them up, throwing a hand towards the maid in the corner, "Door!"

Taken aback, she does not move at first until I am dodging furniture, dashing towards her. Falling against the door, she heaves it open right as my hip catches the edge of a table—Rodrigo lunges for it, but it crashes over. I trip into the hall. 

“Madam, your shoes!” Ludis calls, but I am halfway across the corridor, silk slippers sliding on and off my feet. Hobbling, I kick them off, slowed only momentarily as I propel myself forward like a short-distance sprinter running the race of their life. The carpet dulls the pounding, relentless force of my feet, but the floorboards still moan in complaint of the disturbance. Ludis bounds after me—stopping enough to grab my shoes—Rodrigo soon behind. But soon, my breath choking in my ears drowns any other noise, magnifying as I high-toe it down the stairs, praying to the lord almighty I don’t trip. 

What a sight I must be! Not one person—servant, guard, or knight—does not find me as I burst into the courtyard, planting myself at the forefront of house staff as I suck down air like I am starving. Throwing my shoes at my feet, Ludis straightens my dress and hair, ducking behind me as the Princess Royal steps into the inner ward.

She is a vision of radiance, sauntering through the aisle of knights with deliberate, controlled movements. Garbed like a general in light blue, she commands the attention of the entire gathering, her presence eclipsing that of even Riftan, whose foreboding aura would engulf any other. I am starstruck, but the luster soon fades as my vision locks on another sight. 

“Ludis are those pants?” I ask, forcing the words through clenched teeth and mismatched breaths.

“I believe so, Madam,” the maid whispers back.

This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke…

The moment I even think of wearing pants, I get gaslit like it is the most unspeakable idea a woman has ever come up with. But she gets to prance around like the main event at a parade???

Kill me. 

Strike. Me. Down. 

Surely, the world has lost its mind!

Subduing the rage inside me with tight lips and a graceful smile, I curtsy as the princess nears, coming to rest not more than an arm's reach away, “Your Royal Highness.” 

With his usual gruff expression covering his features, Riftan lets go of her hand as I rise. To the princess, he says, “Agnes—” then, with a motion to me “—my wife, Maximillian Roem Calypse, the Lady of Anatol.” 

My poise turns rigid as her gaze sweeps across my person. Don’t stutter. Don’t stutter. Don’t stutter. “It is an…honor to…to make your acquaintance, Ma’am* ,” I say, relaxing once the words are out. Oh, thank God!

(*ma'am = pronounced with a long 'a' *)

“ Please,” she says, “the honor is all mine.” The Princess Royal extends her hand, which I take gently, careful to hold it still and not shake. She gives mine a squeeze, “I am Agnes Drachina Rueben.” 

Her brow knits, her concern more evident as she lets go. The sweat coating my brow seems a lot like lead under her notice.

“You look rather flushed. Are you alright?” She asks. 

I laugh, “I’m alright, it is merely the, um, the weather—it’s so warm right now.”

As if purposeful, the air surrounding us turns cold from a slight breeze. Without a word, the princess nods, letting the subject be out of propriety. Her attendants and royal guards look elsewhere, uninterested, but some of the Remdragons—lined in rows by the gate—steal glances at me, painfully aware of my prior scene. 

“If we are done here,” Riftan says, “ my wife will escort you and your attendants to your chambers.” 

“If you will f,follow me this way, Ma’am,” I say, forcing my demeanor bright and cheery to cover the rudeness of Riftan’stone. “I have, um, prepared your rooms on the s,second floor. You must tell me if they are not to, uh…to your satisfaction.”

“I’m sure they will be,” she assures. 

Though I hang back to give her the space to walk in front of me, the princess moves with my stride, walking as if we are equals. Her attention follows every detail of the entryway: to the few statues, to the floor, to the ceiling, “Your castle is so grand. It’s like I’ve landed in a fortress from the Roem Empire. You must give me a tour later.”

“I would be glad to whenever you wish.”

“First, I would like to bathe.” Tossing the cape that drapes lazily over her shoulder to the side, the princess moves towards the stairs with zeal while I lag, worn from my brief, panic-induced sprint. 

“I’ll have water sent to your, um…to your room right away, Ma’am,” I say. 

Turning on her heel, the princess holds up her hand to stop me. “Please, no formalities,” she says. “Call me Agnes. And I would like to call you Maximilian if that is alright?”

“Of course,” I say, inclining my head, “it would be my honor, Agnes.”

***

Often, when one receives guests, it is expected—anticipated when they have spent so long on the road—that they will need some time to rest and that, in this time, their hosts will find reprieve also. I am granted no such luck.

The princess, ever bounding with energy, moves between personalities like the tide sweeping in and away from the shore. At one moment, she is poised like tranquil waters, and the next, churning with vivacious energy like a typhoon. Even when calm, it is as if she is a storm brewing. 

She remains polite as we tour the castle—Rodrigo and her attendant joining us—complimenting whatever she lays eyes on. The palace in the capital must be much nicer, but one would not know by the thoughts she airs. Taking care to thank her for each, I am painfully aware—like a rake to the face in an old cartoon—of the sparseness of it all and the specks of dust and stains the maids missed while cleaning. It is as if the world has challenged itself to embarrass me at every opportunity.

“I am told the view in Anatol is unlike any other,” Agnes says, walking backward as we pass through the gardens. I don't  know how she does not trip. “I would like to see it.” 

“The outer wall will…will provide the best, um, outlook,” I say, leading her there. I quicken my pace to keep up with how she seems to skip. 

“I am curious. How long have you lived in Anatol?” the princess asks. 

“Not long,” I say. “Only a few seasons.”

She raises her brow, “But you are so knowledgeable of the land.”

“Her ladyship has studied the subject thoroughly,” Rodrigo says, seeing an opportunity to sing my praises. “Anatol could not ask for a better mistress.”

Under the weight of all the attention, I brush it away. “I can’t…can’t take all the, um, credit,” I say, “with such great teachers, after all."

The sun dips behind the outer wall the closer we get, covering the ward with shade. With our dismissal, Rodrigo and the royal attendant stand by the gate as the princess and I enter the tower leading up to the rampart. My feet fall naturally into the dips of the steps as we climb, Agnes at the forefront. Her hair spills around her shoulders and falls by her hips, swaying with the bounces in her movement as it lays free and unadorned. The tightness of my braid is more evident the longer I stare, the weight of it, more so.

Emerging from the tower, Agnes gasps, wandering towards the view in astonishment. “They were right," She says, looking back at me as I linger by the door. Resting against the wall, she gazes at the valley, “I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t know how you could look anywhere else.” I give her the space to have her fill. 

The wind sweeps across the rampart, stirring the flags that flaunt the symbol of the white dragon and that of Wedon. It tangles in the princess's hair, making the strands billow. 

Her hair. I cannot help but fixate on her hair. It has been so long since I could wear mine like she does, to do what I wanted with it: cut it, dye it, let it hang messy. The most I ever did was cut it short to the tops of my shoulders, an easy style that did not get much in the way. 

Leaning on the tips of her toes, the princess cranes to look at the town of Anatol. “I expected a wasteland,” she says, “this place has so many monsters. But the town is quite robust, isn’t it?”

“Sir Calypse has…has dedicated himself to the building of the, um, land,” I say. 

Agnes turns to me, her piercing blue eyes sharp and feline, like those of a sphinx—I feel my fate judged along with my words. “What makes him so attached to this place?” She asks. Is it a scientific question or a political one? What insight does she hope to gain?

Hers is a question I have asked before: why is Riftan so attached? There is an answer, one I have poured over many times, but it is not my place to share. 

“You would, um…have to ask my husband,” I say. 

Frowning, Agnes looks back to the landscape, perhaps dissatisfied since Riftan is a closed book, but the subject is not dropped. “Most would see this place as a stepping stone, yet he actively chooses to stay here.” 

I furrow my brow. In the length of our tour, the history and appearance of Anatol was all she cared about—not once did she mention its people or its lord. But now, away from the ears of others but the guards who patrol…

“He honors his position,” I offer, “and those within his charge. He works from…from dawn till dusk without break for them.” 

It is unfair of me to be suspicious; the Agnes in the novel gave no reason I can recall. But this Agnes…clever and domineering, her power exudes from the inches of her being. Caution is warranted.

She agrees with my description of Riftan. “He was like that on the expedition—working at all hours. He showed no weakness or hesitation,” she says. "We nicknamed him Mago like the creature said to never sleep nor grow tired, with a hundred lives.” 

I repeat the name, “Mago.” It sounds like the way he looks. 

Out on the horizon, the sun, golden like the yolk of an egg, graces the tops of the mountains with its light and, behind, glistens on the sea. I did not realize how little of the day was left, nor how quickly it passed me by. Pages of my laundry list still remain despite the attention I have given it. It makes me question if this is what my mom felt like when friends and family visited, though even on holidays, she never played hostess to this extent.

When did I become the adult? I wonder. Twenty-four never made me feel this old, yet twenty hits me like the weight of a hundred years. 

“I, um…” At the sound of my voice, Agnes flicks her gaze to me. I straighten, adjusting my posture from foot to foot, “Dinner will be prepared soon. I must check on it.”

“Oh…” She seems almost disappointed. Pulling from the wall to join me, she says, “I need to prepare, myself.” We return to the stairwell. 

“Will you, um, need anything sent to your room?” I ask, letting her start the descent first. “Clothing, powder…?” I don’t know what else to send.

“No, I have plenty,” she says to my relief. “But thank you for the thought.”

The conversation dies away, only our footsteps echoing through the stairwells filling the silence. Do I say something, or do I let it be? What would a good hostess do? No topic comes to mind, nor a comfortable opening for a word to slip in. Reuniting with Rodrigo and her attendant does nothing more than offer a few thoughts of what was seen and what to do next as we walk towards the castle. We say goodbye within the entryway as the butler and I set our sights on the Great Hall and kitchens. 

Dinner is progressing smoothly. Word of advice is all that is needed from me, and, soon, I withdraw to the Solar to dress for the evening. Riftan joins me shortly after. 

“That gown is familiar,” He says, watching as the creme fabric is tightened around my frame. The servants tend to him as well, choosing belts and other minor adornments for his wear—the least he will let them do. 

“I wore it for my first banquet here,” I say as I slip my arms into the navy overcoat Ludis holds for me. She pulls it around, adjusting how it sits before tying the front. 

“You did not want something new?” 

I tilt my head, glancing at him, “The overcoat is…is new. I had it, um, had it made for this occasion.” 

“But you have other dresses that are unworn,” he says. “Why not wear those?”

“They’re too fancy,” I say. “I don’t want to, um, to outshine the princess.”

Ludis retrieves my jewelry—the sapphire ring she suggested earlier and a pair of earrings with matching stones—my accessories will at least be sumptuous if the rest of me refuses to be. I wear the ruby and pearl ring too. 

Finished dressing, Riftan moves to stand beside me, our reflections together in the mirror, “You outshine everyone."

“Then I should let them have a chance, no?” I say. Taking the side of my coat, I hold it out to the blue sash around his shoulder, “Besides, this way we match.” 

He blinks, struck dumb. Biting my lip to reign in my amusement, I lean in to kiss him, which he reciprocates after a second or two delay. It is merely a peck on the mouth.

“One more before I put my, um, my lip color on?” I ask. He does not hesitate this time, the kiss lasting a breath longer than the last.

Moving to the bedroom to apply cosmetics, I tease him, “You’re not allowed to, um, to kiss me during the banquet. And no feeding me,” I add, recalling previous events, “it’s improper.”

“I make no promises,” Riftan protests. “They are foolish rules.” 

Foolish they may be, but embarrassment I do not want.

The feast moves as I am used to in Anatol, the Great Hall boisterous and the knights pleased with any reason to drink and gorge themselves sick. Like drunken men—because they are drunk—they wander to the high table like stumbling through the street, raising their cups to give garbled toasts in the princess’s honor. Agnes gladly accepts each, enjoying the festivity as she drinks and humors them. 

With my own cup of wine, I, too, drink for each toast, earning a peculiar look from Riftan. But he does not say anything, and I only take the tiniest sips, the liquid sweet yet bitter on my tongue. 

Finding a moment of peace, Agnes turns to Riftan, “Could I trouble you for a tour of Anatol tomorrow?” She asks. “I would like to explore.”

Taking his cup, Riftan remains curt, “I will have Sir Rikaydo guide you around.”

The princess’s face twists until her refined, practiced demeanor steps into place, again, a moment later. “Do not think you can cast me aside so easily. The king himself has sent me a great distance to visit you.”

“I do not recall asking his majesty to do such.” 

Drumming her fingers on the table, Agnes pinches her eyes closed to hold back the response she desires to give. I frown at Riftan before leaning around him to speak.

“Seeing as his, um, lordship will not do so, I will gladly escort you around Anatol,” I say, “if…if Your Highness will grant me the, um, honor.”

Agnes’s mood instantly enlivens. “You are so kind, Maximillian. It would be delightful to have your company.”

Riftan puts his arm on the table between me and him to keep me in my seat. “There is no reason for my wife to do such,” he says, looking at me.

I nudge his arm from the table, “The Princess Royal is my guest. Let me attend to her.”

“But you hardly know anything about Anatol. You only arrived last Etherias.”

“I know plenty,” I retort, “and a tour is an e,excellent time to…to, um, learn.” Looking at the princess, I say, “I have much to see; we will s,see it together.” We share a smile.

“Enough,” Riftan says, “sending you outside the castle is completely out of the—”

  “Oh! And it’s alright for me to leave the castle unguarded?” Agnes interjects. 

With a huff, Riftan placates the tone of his words, having some care for how he speaks to royalty, “You are not unguarded and are perfectly capable of protecting yourself, regardless. But that is not the case for my wife. She has only known the safety of Croix Castle.” Hmph, I think. Safety .

“If you are…areworried for me,” I say, “then I have a simple, um…simple solution for you.” Both Riftan and Agnes—even those at our table who pretend they are not listening—lean in to hear what I have to offer. Smugness radiates from me in a way I cannot cool down, “Send a guard.”

I earn a cluster of misfit laughs, most stifled by those who deem it wise not to make them known. But Agnes laughs free and open—it is robust, lacking in traditional feminity, but still girlish in its own right. I think of Julia. How she would snort every time I would say something stupid, then giggle at her own sounds.

“My dear Sir Calypse, you have an…an entire army at your disposal, and you c,cannot spare one for your, um, wife?” I wipe at my eyes as if drying a tear, and sniffle, “Chivalry is dead.”

His resolve broken, Riftan sighs, “Save your fake tears. I will provide a guard.” 

“It seems you have worn him down,” the princess snickers.

“She has had much practice,” Riftan retorts. Taking his knife, he spears a bite of food to eat. 

I glare at him, reaching for a morsel, myself—a spoil of battle. “You are a rude man,” I say, almost grumbling. Now Riftan laughs. 

***

The feast prevails till late when the night is abounding and our eyes droop shut. Riftan carries me to bed, helping me undress into the clothes Ludis has laid out for the night, the soft fabric intoxicating compared to the stiff wear I have endured all day. Exhaustion afflicts me, but so does its antithesis, my desire for the night to continue keeping my head from the pillow. 

It is a new moon, the sky black and spotted with the light of a million stars. They glint through the windows, their presence distorted by the leaded glass. With hushed steps, I move towards them.

“What are you doing?” Riftan’s voice stops me. He stands on the other side of the bed, the outline of his silhouette orange from the fireplace. 

With a glance over my shoulder, I point at the balcony door. “The stars,” I say, reaching for the handle, “I want to see them.” The soft air drifts in as I pass into the open, the specks of dirt on the wooden planks pressing against the soles of my feet. Compared to the heavenly scene above me, they are insignificant.

A sunset is bewitching, but these celestial bodies, clutching to the vastness of space so that it could not possibly be empty nor plain—some of these stars dead, yet their light persisting, others fresh and new—there is nothing like it. I stare into a galaxy, as I do when I look into the sky, but this time, it stares back. How could there be anything like it?

Perhaps it is the wine that fills me with such awe. 

Riftan's arms wrap around my stomach, embracing me to his chest. He presses his lips to my temple, “I’m aloud to kiss you now, aren’t I?” 

"Yes," I say, resting my head against the crook of his neck. The oak tree sleeps in the garden below, almost like a shadow. I point a finger just above it, at the stars covered partially by its branches, “There’s Uigru.” Closing an eye, I trace the pattern—up the long curving tail to the box-shaped head of the dragon. Known across the entirety of the Rovidon Continent through book and sight, this is the first I have seen the constellation with his Hamadryad lover. 

My mind wanders to the oak tree at Croix, to the boy with the sunken cheeks I used to know, who would hide in the bushes and lure me to his heart with gifts of feathers and rocks. Look how far he has come.

My gaze finds where the town should be, covered by the night and the castle wall. Agnes wonders why he is so attached, but I raise another question: why would he not be? Coming from the dirt of nothing, building his life brick by hand-shaped brick, promised no reward, but still finding it within the community he built and the work he has done, why would he not be attached? If I were him, I would not let go. I would sink in my claws and teeth, imprinting myself so deeply into the land that it could not live without me. 

But with that in mind, I ask myself why he is so attached to me? Is it merely the story or something deeper? 

Could I be more than Maximillian to him? 

As he nuzzles his face against my cheek, I pull away, taking hold of the railing if not to be closer to the universe and its endlessness. “Do you…” I look at him, holding his gaze where I think it is in the dark and praying its details might grow clearer. “Do you think there are, um…other worlds out there?” 

After a momentary pause, Riftan moves beside me, reclining against the railing, himself, “What do you mean?” 

If I told him who I was, that I am not the first woman he has loved, that this life is not what he thought it was, would he feel lied to?

“Well, it’s just, look at the…at the stars,” I raise my hand towards the sky. “There’s so many, to the point that there w,would have to be, um, be something—someone—else out there. I mean, there’s no way all that exists, but we’re the only life.”

He concedes to my argument, “I guess so.” But it is not a full belief, so I add more. 

“Science and magic are so complicated,” I say. “Our understanding is, um, limited in what can or can’t happen…or exist. Really, anything is, um, is possible…by that logic at least.” 

I can imagine the groove in his brow deepening as he wonders what in the world I am talking about. Get to the point, I can hear him think. 

Picking at my nails, I say, “I read this book that talked about pathways connecting us to, um…to other worlds.” It’s been so long that I could not recall the title no matter how hard I might sit and think. “I’d like to think it’s true. That someone might…might come up to me and tell me they’re from one of those worlds.” Granted, I would be that person. I nudge closer to him, if only an inch, “What I’m trying to ask is…if someone like that came up to you—taking everything I’ve said into mind—would you believe them?”

For a brief moment, he does not answer, and I hold my breath the entire time. “No,” he says at last. “I don’t think I would.” Shoving the disappointment down, I hold out for a better answer. 

“I’d, um…I think I’d be skeptical,” I say. “But if they, I don’t know…told me something about myself that I’d…that I’d never, um, told anyone—maybe…maybe something I did in the past—I think I’d believe them.” 

“That’s very specific.” 

“I’ve thought a lot about it,” I say. I think about it every night I fall asleep next to him. Hoping he will freely give his opinion, I wait for his reply, but he stares into the sky instead, so I ask him, “What about you? If…if someone told you something about your past that no one, um, else knew, would you believe they were from another world then?”

“I guess I’d have to,” he answers. “It’d be a little less refutable. But I think a better question is why someone from another world would know anything about me?”

“Well you are famous,” I say. He laughs. 

It’s not the answer I wanted, but a reminder. I can hope and dream all I want, but I am no longer who I once was nor in a position to be. She will never be mine again. She died, and she will stay dead. 

I was only testing the waters anyway…

Riftan moves the hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear, “Why does my lady look so sad?”

“Because my husband lacks imagination,” I pout. 

Sweeping me into his arms, he says, “Then I will gain all the imagination in the world to please you.” What brazenness!  It makes me grin, though it is not as joyful as I wish it could be. 

“You better,” I say. But how much good does imagination do when the truth is unimaginable?

Chapter Text

My mother was in love with Tudor-style homes: of the quaint, simplisticness of their being—like a fairytale, she used to say. She always wanted to live in one, though I never saw the appeal. They looked nice from a distance, but the added trim seemed pointless up close: a waste of materials that did not add much to the design. 

But I see it now. Maybe it's the way the sun touches my skin, or that I'm not cooped up within the castle, or how Ludis speaks—with love and sentiment—as she answers the attendant's questions about Anatol, but the buildings of town—unnecessary trim and all—look charming. I'm not in love with it, but I understand why someone might be. 

"Anatol was much smaller than this when I was a child if you can believe it," Ludis says. The attendant marvels at the idea, if only to humor her. "Just a handful of families lived here, then."

As she says so, I look to the hills where new homes and shops are being constructed. The valley has seen so much change in the few years Riftan has had charge of the land. I try to imagine what it will look like in the years to come. 

Listening absentmindedly to what the maid says, I watch the princess from the corner of my eye. Her head is on a swivel, taking in every sight and sound; she peers into the open doors of buildings and down alleyways, her gaze following passerby as she hears their conversations. At her tail is Rikaydo, corralling her along and keeping her focused. 

Hebaron is my guard. In the moments we pause, Ludis and the attendant focused on some trivial aspect, he taps his foot, bored to be here but glad to escape training or whatever tasks Riftan would assign instead.

As the conversation lulls, the royal attendant turns to me, “I heard Sir Calypse plans to visit the quarry this afternoon. Are you planning to expand the castle?”

“We are c,constructing a, um, a  road to the ports,” I answer. 

“That is a large endeavor,” he says, a hint of impression lacing his tone. “For trade?” When I confirm, he says, “You are in an optimal place for it, with the oceanic trade route so close by.”

“It would take much more than a road to entice merchants here,” Agnes says. I glance at her, unsure of how to respond. Ignorant or uncaring of my thoughts, she continues, “A port large enough to fit a merchant fleet is required, not to mention the monster issue...”

I figure that she is right. Anatol is not an easy place to reach through its mountains, and monsters pose the highest risk to investment that cannot be remedied by the tiny markets within the town. There would need to be a guarantee of proper financial returns or no loss whatsoever.

“I suppose it all depends on Sir Calypse’s influence,” the attendant says. What a shame, I think, that I could not add more influence to it…

At this time of day, the markets are bustling, more so than when I first visited with Ruth. We brush shoulders with bystanders in the narrow spaces between tables and weave through the aisles as we peruse the wares that merchants display. 

It’s as if everyone bunches to one side of the square, leaving a clear space on the opposing side. The merchants avoid it, their tables made elsewhere, while villagers curve around it as if there is an unspoken barrier. Those who break past it hasten their speed, almost running to rejoin the crowd. 

Leaning towards Ludis to ask what it might be about, I hesitate at the scowl that marks her face, following her gaze to the few clusters of people that linger on the outskirts of the vacant expanse—girls, some my age, some younger. Looking away, she shakes her head. I forget my question. 

I join Agnes instead. Taking a mana stone from a nearby table, she holds it to the light to inspect, turning it so it glints. “I don’t think there’s a word for how jealous I am right now,” she says. “Do you know how hard it is to find stones in the capital? The church is apt to forbid anything monster-related but the word.” 

Looking at the vendor, she inquires about his price, choosing a few more items before instructing her attendant to pay. The attendant, apprehensive to do so, keeps vigilance over the intimidating figure that pockets the money and bags the princess’s goods. Content to make extra coin from his last job, the mercenary spares no glance at the wiry man paying him. 

“Can you find any monster, um…monster parts within your markets?” I ask as we move along. 

“Not in our usual ones, no.” Agnes leans towards me, hushing her words, “But I’ve heard the undergrounds are rather fruitful if you catch my meaning.” The princess then wavers. Realizing the error of her words, she asks, “How do you feel about magic?”

“Considering I, um, have magical abilities, I…I kind of have to like it, no?” I give her a knowing look, or as close to one as I can get. 

Her posture eases some, “I know the House of Croix is devout, that’s why I ask.” 

“I do not let, um… religion spoil my opinion of magic,” I say. 

“That is good,” Agnes says. Passing her gaze over the wares of other tables and drawing short in interest, she turns to me,“You are a healer?”

“I am, yes.”

“I thought so,” she says. “Most mages are. It’s a beginner-friendly subtype.”

Commotion arises from where the girls were lurking—nothing serious, but a flare of energy. A vendor has begun to set up shop in the empty space, and they are closing in.

“It’s not often you hear of nobles becoming mages,” Agnes says, unaware or uninterested in the scene nearby. “Most families don’t wish to give up their children, even to expose them to mana, so I am surprised one as prominent as Croix would do such.”

Give up might be a stretch, I think. You have to want something before you can give it up. But I smile and say, “I suppose one might consider it a blessing.” Maybe that will mean something to her.

At the sound of shouting, my attention flicks to the table—only to find it is gone. The girls are on it now, a mass of flailing limbs and desperate hands. They swarm the sashes like a pack of hornets over fresh meat. 

Confused as I am, Agnes's voice cuts through the chaos, "What's all that?"

"They are sashes for the upcoming festival, Ma'am," Ludis says with mild annoyance. "The ladies wear them to go dance in the fields." 

I remember now, "It's to…to celebrate the, um, nymph and Uigru." Ludis nods. 

Agnes and Maxi went to the festival together—how fun it would be to go! I have never been to a festival like this before. 

The noise escalates into a wild cacophony as the girls fight over their sashes. The berth around them grows wider as onlookers attempt to move as far away as possible. But not Agnes. 

"It can get...competitive," Ludis says. "They all want to be crowned the nymph. I lost count of how many fights broke out last year."

I wince at the mention of fighting, but Agnes is intrigued all the more. Her mind set, she grabs my hand. 

"Let's choose one too," she says, dragging me towards the melee before I can protest. 

I barely have time to gather myself before the crowd swarms me. The air is thick with heat and sweat as we're shoved from every direction. Elbows jab into my ribs, and I stumble at the fist that flies dangerously close to my face as a brutish girl rips a sash from another's hands, almost toppling herself in the process. My feet are trampled as the chaos presses in, and for a moment, I can't breathe. 

Boundaries be damned, and good riddance to order; I am no longer a person but an obstacle, same as the vendor. He fights to stay by his post, grasping for the coins tossed his way as girls reach around and over him. We are taken by the waves, lost at sea. Swallowed.

An arm grabs me. I cling to Hebaron as he rescues me from the stampede, gasping in the fresh air that pours around me the moment I am out. 

“Where’s Agnes?” I ask, searching through the stampede for her blonde hair—at least half of these women are blonde! Then, one emerges victorious, holding her spoils high above her head. She orders a disgruntled Rikaydo to “pay the man” as she saunters over to us. 

“I would scold you, but Ursuline will do it soon enough,” Hebaron says. The princess sticks her tongue at him, tucking it away at the disapproving mien of her attendant. 

“Maximillian,” Composing herself, Agnes holds out a red, almost burgundy, colored sash to me as Hebaron corals us away to safety. “A thank you gift for being such an excellent guide.”

“You did not have to,” I say—truthfully, Ludis did most of the work. 

“I insist,” she says. “You have been most welcoming to me. I cannot let your kindness go unpaid.”

Inclining my head, I run my fingers over the fabric to feel its fine-spun wool. I smile, “Thank you.”

***

Riftan hovers near the gate as we roll into the castle grounds. He holds his arms out in greeting, “You must have found it tiresome, being dragged around all day.”

“Not at all,” I say, letting him press a kiss to my forehead as he always does. “I enjoyed myself.”

He looks at the sash in my hands, “What is this you have here?”

I hold the fabric out for him to see better, “Agnes, um, gifted it to me to wear to the festival this, this week. We plan to go together; you should…you should come with us.” I touch his arm to convince him. 

“Whatever my lady wishes,” he says.

Resting his hand on his sword out of comfort, Hebaron stalks toward us. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he says to Riftan. “I hope there’s no problem.”

The line between Riftan’s brows deepens as he presses his lips tight, “Not yet.” 

Startled, I peer up at him, attempting to discern what his words and expression might mean. Finding no answer, I look to Hebaron, who remains aloof. Even the princess, catching the tail end of the exchange, appears as if nothing is wrong. 

“There will be a meeting in the council room,” Riftan says, still speaking to Hebaron. “See yourself there.”

“Might I join,” the princess asks. 

Again, that sour look crosses Riftan’s face, and I find some relief in it, though I question for what. “You may,” he lowers his head in deference. “It will not be for some time. We are waiting on some scouts to return.”

“That is fine,” she says. “I’d like to freshen up, anyway.”

Riftan nods, before turning to me, “Go and get some rest. I will try to be back this evening.” He unwraps his arms from around me to follow after Hebaron. 

It’s nothing, I tell myself. There is nothing wrong, it’s only a meeting. But even so, guilt sits in my chest. Embarrassment, perhaps. There I went, acting so happy, making silly requests when Riftan was focused on other things. 

Agnes glances at me as we wander into the castle. “What are you thinking so intently about?”

“Oh, um,” I snap from my thoughts, scrambling for some excuse. Pointing to the top of the stairs, I say, “I was, um…was  thinking about the portrait I would like to…to put there.”

“A portrait?”

“I wanted to, um, to have one of my husband and me,” I explain, “but I’ve yet to find a painter.

Scrutinizing the wall, Agnes says, “Might I recommend one?”

“Would you?” I stop myself in my elation, toning it down to be polite, “You do not…do not  have to do such. You have been far too generous already.”

“Nonsense,” she laughs. “Of the two of us, you are far kinder, I suspect. When I return to the capital, I will recommend you to our portrait artist.” 

Our portrait artist. Our as in the royal family. The artist who will paint Rosetta’s portrait when she is married to the crown prince. The one who, considering the prominence of the duke, has most likely made portraits of the Croix family already and those of families like it. 

“I will not let you refuse,” Agnes says. 

“Then…then I suppose I must accept.” A royal portrait artist, I think…

With not much else to say, the silence is filled by our footsteps as we pass over the stairs into the open corridors of the second floor. Our chambers are down different hallways. We pause at the first. 

“I will see you tomorrow for the festival?” The princess asks. 

“There are several days of it,” I say, looking to Ludis for confirmation, “we can do another if…if you’d, um, prefer.”

“I would like tomorrow,” she says. 

“Then tomorrow,” I say, with a  curtsy to bid her goodbye.

We part ways as I return to my room for a light lunch.

***

Something isn’t right.

No word gives away what I suspect, but I sense it upon visiting the infirmary to help Ruth. It is routine, but today is different. 

Supplies are stacked in boxes in the corner of the shallow room. The mage moves back and forth with agitation, grinding together styptic with pestle and mortar. 

“No patients today?” I ask, holding the door for Ludis. 

“Are you trying to jinx it?” He scowls but immediately eases his tone. “I’ve been at it all day, I haven’t had one.”

Tapping his pestle against the rim of the mortar, he pours the styptic powder into the leather pouches he’s set out across the counter. Joining him, I tie the filled pouches closed. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Ruth says. 

I swallow, “It’s just, um…everyone seems so tense. Riftan…you…”

“Whatever Sir Calypse is tense about, that’s his business. I’m only on edge cause of that—“ He grumbles, changing his words, “I’m not looking forward to accompanying her Royal Highness to the quarry.” 

“She does not seem so bad,” I say. 

“Overall no,” Ruth admits, if reluctant to. “But she and the rest of those Nornui imps—“ he mutters the last part like a curse under his breath “—are all too content to stick their noses into my business. You would think an institution valuing the freedom of its mages would be inclined to support those seeking their freedom away from it.”

I don’t argue with him, tying the rest of the pouches closed without a word. 

The knights spare no attention as Ruth and I carry the supplies to a wagon outside. They are busy on other things, preparing to leave and discussing the logistics of whatever business they have at the quarry. I cannot discern their conversations. 

Ulyseon and Garrow provide us with a hand. They do not appear much different than their usual cheery, somewhat naive—stoic on Garrow’s part—selves. 

“I heard you accompanied the princess around Anatol today,” Ulyseon says to me. “What an honor!”

"It was," I humor him, though the experience did not feel different from anything else.

"I can't imagine being able to speak with royalty so personally. Even I am honored to be able to merely be a part of the group accompanying Her Royal Highness to the quarry. To think I'll be able to see her magic up close!" 

As Ulyseon rambles, Ruth spares a glance my way, anticipating whatever reaction I might have to the information. I ignore him; I am not jealous of the princess. I have no energy to be. My mind keeps circling around the squire’s surety in seeing her magic firsthand. What warrants the need for a fire mage in a quarry? Granted, she has other spells, but still…

Why need magic at all? 

I brush it away as wishful thinking on the squire’s part, but I’m not convinced.

By now, Riftan has already left. The knights and Ruth soon follow. I bid them farewell, returning to the infirmary with Ludis in the event a patient does show. With everyone gone, the castle is quiet, deadened in a way noise cannot fill. 

Something isn’t right…

***

“Lady Calypse!” 

The afternoon passes without disturbance until Rodrigo bursts into the room. My leg kicks over a chair as I jump to my feet—it hits the floor like gunfire. 

“Wyverns,” he pants. “The quarry was attacked by wyverns.”

My heart stops. 

I strain to find my voice, “Ludis, you, um…you know the supplies we need.” I look to the butler, “Prepare the wagons.”

Wyverns are dangerous. I don’t know shit else about them, but I do know that.

And I know this scene—it floods my mind as the castle descends to turmoil, drives my steps forward. If I do not come out of this unscathed, there may be no more magic for me. Riftan would never allow it. 

I jostle in the saddle, forgetting to follow the movement of the horse as my thoughts swarm like vultures. In the moments they fade out, I listen for wingbeats, for cries, for screams. 

The wagons dig grooves into the mud—long, deep ruts as the horses struggle vainly to drag them along through the remaining drifts of snowmelt. Behind, the servants trail on foot, carrying what they can to lighten the weight. Their eyes dart from the sky to the shadows within the tree line, keeping vigilance like the knights that shield either side of me. 

The first to meet our procession is Ulyseon. He runs straight to me as we approach the camp, “Madam, why are you here?”

“I’m a medic,” I say, sliding free of the saddle. But Ulyseon stands in my way. 

“Madam, please turn back,” he pleads. “It’s too dangerous for you.” 

Of course, it is, I think, but that doesn’t mean I have a choice. 

I try to push past him, “H,how many are injured—“ Before I might finish, the squire blocks me with a raised arm, lowering it when the knights at my guard reach for their swords. 

“Lady Calypse…”

“Ulyseon Rover,” I make my voice stern, “do not…do not make me pull rank.”

Can I even do that? I question. The squire seems to think I can. 

Shrinking away, he says, “I apologize. I worry for your safety, is all.”

My chest pangs at how he leans away from me, his gaze lowered to the ground. I soften my words, “Then…then  you may escort me.” Some appeasement is made. 

Bodies—crippled and bleeding—all are laid beneath the trees to safeguard them—too many for me to heal with magic. My mana is too small, and I have never healed wounds like these. 

But I have come all this way…

“Br,bring  me the most…the most critically injured first,” I say. 

“The mage was able to heal most of them,” Ulyseon says. “The princess, too. Still, there are many they had no time to see to.” 

He leads me to a man, spread out across the dry patches of dirt, blanketed with pine needles, some of which have fallen onto him. I recoil. 

Ripped to shreds, his shirt has been torn away and discarded beside him in a heap to clear the wound on his shoulder—bashed in. Crushed. From his collar down the side of his ribs, dark bruises spread, thick like syrupy wine. The skin is hardly broken but deflated. 

“One of the wyverns dropped a rock on him. No one could do anything.”

Neither can I… 

Seeing or unseeing, I cannot tell, but the man’s eyes are pointed at me. His breathing is labored, his chest convulsing as he gulps for air through wet gasps. 

“I can’t– I can’t do anything,” I say. I look at him as I speak. 

The truth tastes like metal in my mouth, bitter and foreign, though parts of it are familiar. It sinks into my gut, weighing on it and making it churn like waves. 

As I step back, Ulyseon catches me before I run into a stretcher. It is whisked past me, its occupant left to the side, not for me to heal but to keep out of the way. 

The man is dead. 

No blanket covers his body. They haven’t bothered to close his eyes. 

“He was trying to save the man crushed by the boulder,” Ulyseon says, noticing my gaze. “Another wyvern got him.”

There are puncture marks on his side. It held him by the stomach. 

“Take me to another,” I say—I entreat.

Ulyseon does. 

The next patient is a sentry guard caught in the line of fire of a Wyvern’s breath. His back was singed as he turned to avoid the flames. 

“Hold him down,” I tell the knights with me as I clean the wound. The man fights against them until my magic eases the pain. It does not ease the scar. 

Ulyseon helps me to my feet. “Madam, are you alright?” He asks as I clutch my arms to me, trembling. I have never healed a wound so big—the sudden loss of mana creates a chill. 

I shrug away his touch as he reaches for my shoulder. “I’m fine,” I say, clutching my coat tighter. 

I move on, tending from patient to patient to patient. Only a few I can heal with magic lest I deplete my mana. Maxi did; I remember all too well what happened to her…

For those I have no magic for, I provide manual first aid, helping to set broken bones, stop bleeding, and stitch and bandage wounds. Most have been seen already; there is not much for me to do. 

It seems the damage was not as bad as it could have been. 

By now, the sun is setting. 

“S,send, um, send those who have been healed back to…back to the castle,” I order. The rest should be close by for when Ruth returns. I look to Ulyseon, “I will be leaving, as well.”

As I turn to leave, I am stopped. 

“Lady Calypse!” A woman calls out to me. With her are two guards carrying another on a stretcher. “Madam, please, are you able to heal him?”

The man on the stretcher has been impaled, a chunk of wood perforating through his stomach. 

I hesitate. Do I have enough mana?

If I heal this man and deplete my reserves, Riftan might never let me use magic again. 

I focus on my body, making note of it. I don’t feel tired, and I am warmer than I was previously. 

“Set him down,” I say. Then, addressing the woman, “Fetch me wine and water.” As she runs to do so, I take the dagger of the guard next to me and tear away the clothing around the wound. 

“T,turn him on his side,” I repeat the same cutting process till the area is clear. The woman returns, and I clean away any dirt. “I ne- I need you to pull out the wood. Carefully, now.”

One guard restrains the patient as the other pulls the wood back out of the entry sight. Blood dribbles from the gaping hole, and with it, a sour, acrid smell that sticks to everything like vinegar. 

“Turn him back,” I say. 

The man struggles as I pour water to flush out the wound, then wine to help sterilize it. I circulate mana in my hand; it bursts from my fingertips as I hold it to his body. My head grows faint, like I’ve stood up too fast. I force myself to remain conscious, watching as the bloodied flesh stitches itself together, the wound shrinking like some force presses it closed. 

Bit by bit, my energy saps from me. 

If I run out of mana? Anxiety whispers at the back of my mind. 

I’ll risk it, I answer. If Riftan places sanctions, I’ll find another way. This man has to live. 

The last ounces of my mana reserve pool within my arm, trickling into my palm, then stop. Changing course, it floods into my chest. The wound is healed. 

“What happened?” I ask, inspecting the fresh skin. 

“He was standing on scaffolding when one of the beasts crashed into it,” one guard says. “He was pretty low down when it happened, but he impaled himself on the fall.”

I suck in air, the dizziness subsiding. My fingertips ache as if burning. 

The man labors to sit up, grappling with the exertion of rapid healing. He is supported with an arm around his back to lean on. 

I check him for a concussion. He appears to be alright. 

I return my attention to the guards that brought him here, “Have…have  the wyverns been taken care of?” 

“Most of them, yes,” one says. “The last of them escaped. They’re looking for it now.”

“Madam,” Ulyseon says. His voice is stern in a way I have never heard from him before. “You need to leave.”

I look at him, only for a moment, wondering who this boy is who has matured in a matter of seconds. But I do as he says, rising to my feet. The guards thank me as I go. 

I follow the squire and the knights who accompany me as they return me to wherever Rem is. Behind us, orders are shouted to move out, the ones I gave repeated, my name thrown about to spark people to action. Though it carries through the air, filling the night as the sun dips behind the horizon, my footsteps are loud. The shape of my feet pat against the drying mud, rolling so that I hear the size of each. 

The knights beside me are soundless, trained to be, Ulyseon more so with his light frame. I try to match their movements, but the walk is too difficult. 

A wagon clunks past. Its passengers huddle together in the back. I, too, wrap my arms around myself, burying further into my coat. 

“Madam, you could ride with the patients if it’d be easier,” one knight suggests. 

I watch as the second wagon prattles after the first—full. There is hardly room for those within it to sit. 

And a gut instinct on top of it. Don’t , it says. 

“I will, um…I will take my horse,” I answer, moving to keep up with Ulyseon. I nearly run into him, stopped in the path. His gaze is turned to the sky, sword drawn. 

The knights also look in that direction, their eyes shifting between him and where he is looking, though the one still contests my decision. “It will be a difficult ride in the dark.” 

“I will manage,” I say, squinting to see past the torch Ulyseon carries. The dusk is almost worse than the night. 

“But, Madam—“ The knight stops, pushing me behind him as he reaches for his weapon. 

There is a thump within the woods, then another—wingbeats. 

Then, silence. 

I crane my ears, waiting for the rest. 

The knights and Ulyseon circle around me, covering all sides as they inch further under the trees. 

The one knight—the one who hasn’t spoken till now—turns to the other. “Are you sure—“

He does not finish. 

A scream—a hawk’s cry, metal on metal—pierces the air. I throw my hands over my ears, clenching my teeth at the pain that seers through them. 

Crash!

Bodies scatter like broken dolls as the wyvern slams into a wagon. Flaring its wings, it lifts its head. A low, clicking hum starts to build, so faint I think I’m imagining it. But the wyvern’s belly glows—first a dull ember, then a furnace—orange and pulsing like molten coal. 

Fire. 

The monster rears, its long neck striking downward; it screeches, then growls. But its stomach has turned dark—cold—the magic put out. Arrows whistle through the air, not to kill but to distract. They glance off its thick hide, redirecting its fury. 

Ripping its claws free from the ruined wagon, the beast lunges, taking hold of a person instead. I stifle a cry as, with thunderous gusts of its wings, it lifts its victim higher and higher before it drops them like a stone. They hit the wagon with a sickening crack. 

The wyvern flies off. 

From the cold or from fear, my body shakes, breath catching in my lungs. I wait. 

Thump……Thump………Thump…………

Ulyseon rushes forward as the monster crashes through the trees, bending them to its will. I reach to pull him back, but the knights throw me down, jumping in front of me. With a snap of its jaws, the wyvern raises its neck, the orange glow returning, setting everything alight before the fire has even left its throat. 

The arcane intensifies. I feel it first around me, then in my chest as my power is thrust out. 

The earth convulses. 

Then all is still. 

The next thing I am aware of is the ringing in my ears, not merely deafening but overwhelming, and the throbbing ache that pounds against my head from the inside. I lay against the dirt, expecting death to take me, for my body and everything around me to burn. 

It never comes. 

With trembling arms, I push myself up, coughing from the exertion till I nearly collapse. I manage to glance over my shoulder, my arms buckling as my strength flees. 

Dead. 

The Wyvern is dead. 

It slumps over the ground, held above it by a rock—a boulder, jagged and mishapen—pierced through its skull. Around us, trees have torn from their roots, leaning on others to keep from toppling over completely. 

My eyes remain fixed on the dead creature even as I gain my footing. I have so many questions but no answers. 

Groaning, the knights pick themselves from the ground, freezing when they catch sight of what I see. We look at each other, unsure, unknowing. 

Ulyseon , I think. Where is Ulyseon?

Searching through the mess, I find him. Beneath the claws of the wyvern is a body. 

“Ulyseon,” my voice is gutted, worn. My legs threaten to give out as I stumble toward him. “Ulyseon!”

The claws do not hold him, nor have they pierced his skin. But they are tremendous, bearing upon his form and holding it there. I work in vain to move them, pleading with the knights to, “Help me.”

Gathering their swords, they point them toward the beast until they are sure it is dead, helping to lift its claws after as I heave the boy out from under. It’s like my muscles are hollow, purely decoration. My head turns faint at the exertion, and I scrunch my brow, sucking in a shaking breath through chattering teeth. My hands and face are like ice. 

Ulyseon’s pulse is strong, and so is his breathing. He’s okay, I think. He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay. 

I’m okay, I think. 

“Maxi!” 

Riftan pauses at the edge of the trees, others behind him with torches. They illuminate the scene, a low, collective inhalation sweeping through the group—like a stunned realization. 

Everything’s fine, I want to say. The wyvern’s dead, but we’re alive. Everything is fine. 

But I find my voice is gone. 

Instead, I move towards Riftan, blood gushing in my veins as my heart pumps faster. For a moment, it’s as if I’m floating. 

I did it, I want to tell him. Bad things happened, but I made it through. Aren’t you happy? Are you as relieved as I am right now?

The world shifts like it’s spinning as the edges of my vision turn fuzzy like static. The last thing I see is Riftan running to catch me.

Chapter Text

Such a heedless, foolhardy woman—what in this God-forsaken world was she thinking?! What lack of restraint governs her??

If I could give all the gold in the world to know the thoughts inside her head—if she aired them freely—I don't think I'd understand a single one. 

His hands upon her shoulders, Ruth pushes magic into her body—to infuse her Ma Ryok, he says, whatever that means. With my feet rooted to the floor, I am forced to watch at a distance, tugging at my shirt collar just to swallow. Since when was it so tight? I'm close to wrenching the damn thing off. 

Maxi stirs—a fractured breath, shallow. In that split second, I aim to shove past Ruth and go to her. But it is only for that split second. The next moment, she falls back unconscious, and the fight within me flickers out. 

Ruth moves away, finished. I take his place, staring down at the bed. The serenity of the castle, the tranquil night—it's laughable; oppressive. What right do they have to peace?

"You said she'd wake up," the words spill out choppy, clipped in my throat. "When?"

"It's hard to say. The lady is in a comatose state to conserve strength as she replenishes the mana she lost," the mage says. "What little I've given her will help, but it'll take time." 

"How much?"

"A few hours...few days. I don't think it'll be that long, but well..." His voice trails away; I can see why. 

She looks the same as my mother did the day she hung herself from the rafters—hollow. The shadows deepen the recesses of her face. 

Even in childhood, Maxi always seemed hollow—empty—rarely showed joy when we were younger. Only smiled when I could make her. 

It’s not much better these days...

This recklessness, the disregard, please tell me it was only naivety and nothing more…

"In a way, there's some good to all this—granted, it's not ideal," Ruth adds when I glare at him. "Her Ma Ryok will grow. It'll help prevent her from depleting it again." 

"Ruth," my voice drags like grit—slow, measured, "I don't want her learning magic." 

"But–"

"No. More. There won't be any lessons, or magic, or– or–" Any of this. 

My arms still sag from the dead-weight as I picked her body from the ground. No more holding her limp within my arms. 

After all these years of waiting, I have her. I finally have her, and–

"No more," I make it law. 

Ruth nods, “Understood.” Rubbing his neck, he says, "I'll… I'll come back with a mana stone. To help her heal faster." 

He starts to step away, but lingers, his gaze wandering to the bed, to the figure motionless within it. But he looks away sharply, and moves towards the door. 

“I’ll be back,” he repeats.

I wait for the latch to click before taking the bowl of water from the table to wet her forehead with cloth and clean the blood dried to the edges of her nose. When the act is done, I drop the cloth into the bowl—the water sloshes, threatening to spill. 

I pull a chair by the bed, leaning over the mattress. My gaze is moored to her—to her breathing, to the slightest twitches—like a madman. I must be a madman…

Does she know any of what she does to me? How much she sits within my mind; how glued she’ll be to it now? Not a moments peace…

"Goddammit, Maxi," I wipe my eyes, smearing the moisture that clings there, refusing to dry. It replaces, fast, even as I push against it till colored swirls fill my vision. It's futile. 

I take her hand instead, pressing it to my mouth. Her perfume invades my senses—lilies. She loves the smell of lilies; only wears it for special occasions. 

I watched as she put it on this morning, dabbing it to each wrist and rubbing it in. She held it to my nose after and laughed as I kissed her palm. That sweet, mirthy lilt… I hear it now.

I'd buy her more than perfume; the whole world could be hers if only she'd ask. I'd give it to her right now if it meant she'd open her eyes. 

"Please don't leave me," I whisper, kissing her palm like I did, then. Her skin imprints itself upon my lips—the feeling is already memorized. 

Please don't leave.

What reason to live would I have if she did?

Chapter Text

At first, it doesn’t register that I am awake as if the light is cast through a dreamlike filter. It makes my eyes burn as it graces across them; makes them flutter though they are burdensome and droopy. How long have I slept? Perhaps eons, though sleep still calls me back. I fight until it gives up, the fabric canopy growing clearer above me—I am on Riftan’s side of the bed. 

He’s holding my hand. Though I cannot see him, there is no other touch it could be, his calloused fingers cupping mine like a tether he is afraid to let go of. We must have been like this for a while, judging by the sweat that clings to our skin.

Gaining the strength, I turn my head, the pillow fluff billowing around until I am left with one eye to see. He is easy to spot, slumped within a chair beside the bed, asleep, chin to chest so that his neck must ache. 

I cannot begin to imagine the fright I have put him through or the trouble I am about to be in… 

Peeling my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I run it over my lips to remedy the dryness. Like I am stuck in a desert, my body screams for water—I contemplate waking Riftan but decide against it. Let him sleep; maybe he will be less angry then. 

I could probably get the water myself, anyhow…

He stirs the moment my hand wanders from his grasp, his fingers tightening around mine and the chair creaking as he moves. When I look at him, he is already looking at me. 

“C- Can I get, um, get water, p,please?” I must have been asleep for eons—my voice sounds like dust. 

Without a word, Riftan rises from the chair, crossing the room to the table to pour me a cup from the pitcher. Carrying it over, he props the pillows to help me sit up and watches as I drink. He could bring me the whole pitcher, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Dehydrated is an understatement. 

“How are you feeling?” Riftan asks, resting on the mattress near my legs. His touch finds my thigh, holding it. 

“I-“ I cough—one, then another from the depths of my lungs. My ribs ache after. “I’m fine.” To get that water myself would have been wishful thinking: even speaking drains my energy. 

Riftan’s gaze pierces through me like a hawk to prey, “I’m not pleased with you.”

The razored edges of his words force my walls up brick by brick. “It w,wasn’t…it wasn’t my intention to…to please you.”

“Look at me.” 

I make my eyes like stone, but I have underestimated the intensity of his. 

“Do you understand the dangers you exposed yourself to?” He asks calmly—oh so menacingly calmly.

I give my only defense, “I tried to, um, to avoid them. What hap- What happened wasn’t my, wasn’t my fault.” 

“You think it matters whose fault it is?” His mouth twists. I glance to the side, but he grabs my chin, “Did I say you could look away?”

Who the hell does he think he is?? I shove at his hand but stop in my tracks. 

Nothing could hide the desperation lacing his voice, nor the pain as he says, “You fainted in my arms. I had no idea when you’d wake up.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. 

“Are you?” His jaw clenches as I cower, and he forces himself to settle down, “I’ve spoken with Ruth. There won’t be any more magic lessons.”

My expression drops. Despite how much I’ve feared this—anticipated it—I am left to stare blankly as I search for how to respond. 

What of everything I’ve done for Anatol? I want to shout. What about all the men I’ve healed for you and all the lives I’ve saved? Does none of it count? You refuse to put any of it in my favor?

My head shakes, my eyes narrow. 

“Maxi—“

“What gives you, gives you the right?”

“Excuse me?” Not a question—a warning. I never take those. 

“What g,gives you the right?” I repeat.

“I am your lord-husband—“ “So?”

“So?” He stands, using his height to his advantage. “So I have the right to prohibit you from recklessly endangering your life. If you won’t preserve it, I will!” The statement echoes through the room, reverberating off the walls until it booms in both my ears.

So many questions bubble to my throat, but the worst of them scares the rest away.  Why do you care? It asks. What of me is worth preserving to this length? It’s such an evil, little thought that I force my mouth shut to keep it at bay. 

Sensing I have nothing else, Riftan throws his hands to his side and turns for the door. 

“W,where are you– you going?” I call after him, attempting to follow when he doesn’t stop. “Get back– Get back here—“ My feet make it out of the bed, but I collapse the moment I stand, coughing from the exertion. 

There is a sigh, and then the floor shakes under aggravated steps. I am lifted from the ground like a paper sack. 

“Stop,” I whine, butting at Riftan’s arms as he sets me in bed. “L- let go of me.”

He pushes me against the pillow with ease even as I struggle against him. “You need to rest.” 

“No. You– you c,can’t do this. You c,can’t f,forc– force me.” 

“Would you quit being stubborn?!”

“No!” I writhe as he takes hold of the sides of my face, “Stop!” His grip remains steadfast, though I try to pull it away. 

“Maxi,” Riftan focuses my attention on him, “ rest . Please, just rest .”

At that, my fight dissipates, gone completely as his thumb strokes my cheek. I have nothing left to argue and no energy to argue it with. He’s won. 

Knowing this, he lets go of me. “We will discuss this later,” he says, turning to leave. 

“But–”

“Later.” The door slams closed behind him, the final punctuation. 

***

I have only been out one night. I learn so when Ruth checks on my health, informing me in the process of everything that has happened. 

And what a night I’ve had!

“I–” I point to myself “— me. I killed the wyvern?” 

Ruth confirms, “That’s what depleted your magic.” 

He explains it the best he can: how even the least instructed mages can force their mana to flow in spells they’ve never learned. “The tower doesn’t fully understand it—it’s too rare to study—but they theorize it to be a mix of things. In general, mages are inclined to certain attributes, and, as I’ve told you before, the emotions of a mage affect the flow of their mana…” Considering the direness of the situation, it is likely that my fear affected the mana flow enough to create a defense mechanism: a spear of rock. 

All I hear is that I killed a wyvern. 

“How, um…how is Ulyseon?” I ask. Not dead nor unconscious, I hope.

“He's fine,” Ruth says. “Beating himself up about all of this, but otherwise alive and well.”

He’s okay. My mind can finally rest on the subject. 

But there are others to contend with…

“You’re going to…you’re going to say something to, to Riftan, right? About, um, forbidding me from magic.” When he hesitates, I implore him, “You have to. You know this is l,ludicrous.”

“I can’t,” he says. 

“You won’t.”

“Madam, please, you didn’t see him last night. He was a mess. If it’s to protect you, I can’t refute him.”

Since when did everyone in this castle turn self-righteous? I bite my tongue to keep from asking Ruth that very question.

Noticing my frustration, he tries to reason with me. “I know you’re upset—so am I—but I’m sure Sir Calypse will reconsider once this all calms down.”

“And h-how long will that be?” Ruth doesn’t answer. “Am I… am I expected to, to sit here inactive until he’s feeling m,mag-magnanimous? Is that not a, not waste of my talents?”

And another thing… 

“How– How does this sanction apply, um, anyway?” I ask. “Am I forbidden to use any magic or learn m, more of it?” 

“Madam…”

“If you’re– if you’re going to tell me this is all for my, um, my benefit, don’t. Save your air.” 

Why must I sit here, a prisoner in my own bed, as I am reminded by every pitied look and ignored plea of my failures? 

“If…if you have nothing else to add, you, um, you may leave,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “I would like to, like to be alone.”

***

The night passes restlessly, and the morning comes. The walls are closing in. Or maybe they’re not. No matter how hard I stare at them, I can’t find where they’ve shrunk. 

Shrinking walls, I think. How ridiculous.

The maids bring light broth for my breakfast and water to wash with, fiddling with pieces of the room though the bed is already made and the curtains open. I sit at my vanity, angling my back so they cannot see my face as I brush my hair.

“Leave me,” I say. 

Ludis protests, “But, Madam…”

“I will, um, call you when I need you. I want to ready myself.” 

Though apprehensive, she bows, corralling the other women away. All that’s left in the room is myself and the sound of the comb working through knots at the ends of my hair. 

The red girdle hangs neglected on my partition, beside a white dress—traditional for the festival nymphs. White is such a boring color, easily tarnished. But it makes the girdle stand out, as well as the flowers embroidered into the dress trim. 

Ludis made it. She told me all about it yesterday as she kept company with me in bed. “I remember sitting for hours sewing when I was a girl,” she said, running her hand along the threaded design. “I didn’t win nymph, but I’d say it was worth it anyway.” Without a doubt in my mind, I told her that it was. She blushed. “You know they crown the nymph tomorrow. If your health improves, maybe his lordship will let you go and watch.” 

I set the comb down, my fist locked around it as it rests on my vanity. 

I’m going to—whether Riftan agrees or not, I’m getting out of this room today. 

Finishing my breakfast in large gulps, I ignore the ache in my stomach as I set to work. The dark circles under my eyes are much improved but noticeable enough to be unwanted. Powder easily hides them, I build it layer by layer, carefully, so that it doesn’t crease. Rouge is next, adding color to my face. 

Fixing how my makeup jars are set, I wipe my fingers to hide the evidence before I ring the bell for the maid. A moment or two passes; there is a knock outside. 

“Enter.” As the door opens, I take a book from the table to read, “I have f,finished with my breakfast, you, um, you may take it away.”

“Shall I call a maid to do that?”

I almost drop my book, catching it with the tips of my fingers as I curtsy, “Your R, royal, Your Royal Highness, I am, um, I’m so sorry, I—“ I stop as she laughs. 

“And here I thought I told you to drop formalities,” Agnes says. I suppose, in a way, I did. 

Setting my book on the table, I stand straight—healthily—as the princess crosses the room towards the partition. Her gaze pulled to my dress, she reaches for the pattern, admiring it. Her own wear is similar, a light blue girdle wrapped around her waist. 

“I hope you are still planning to go,” she says, then looks at me. “Your complexion has improved.”

I fix my hands at my side to keep from touching my face as I thank her, “I feel, um… s,significantly better.” 

Moving towards me, Agnes takes my hands, “You have been informed of everything that’s happened?” 

“For…for the most part,” I say. 

“Then I must apologize. This whole ordeal is my fault.”

She explains how the knights traveled to the quarry to eradicate a nest of wyverns settled there. How she was meant to create a shield to keep them contained as the knights attacked, but a hole in her shield set one of them free before she could close it. I already knew most of that… 

“Don’t, um, don’t worry about it,” I say because what else could I. “I only…I only wish I could have done more.” If only I were a better mage…

“More?!” She looks at me as if I am ridiculous, “Maximillian, you did the most! Many of the people you healed would not have survived otherwise—and to do most of it without magic, I mean it’s… incredible .”

My conscience feels lighter at her assurance, but I question why no one else could have said the same. To hear pride from someone who scarcely knows me versus the people who know me more—it’s hardly fair. 

They’re only worried for me, I tell myself. But that doesn’t change what little recognition I’ve received. 

Agnes frowns, surveying me and then the room. “Have you been in here this whole time?”

“I am, um, I’m on strict bed rest,” I say. 

Pursing her lips, she asks, “But you feel better?” 

I nod. A gleam fills her eyes, like a light bulb turning on. Grabbing my dress from the partition, she shoves me behind it.

“Wh, what are you—“

“Get dressed,” she says. “We have a festival to go to.”

***

It is absurd that I would have to ask for permission to go outside—to go anywhere and do something that has trifling effect on anyone but myself. In no way did I agree to abandon my autonomy, yet it is expected; assumed. I have not had it for some time, though I should have never lost it. 

Yet here I stand in Riftan’s office, seeking that permission I abhor as someone else speaks on my behalf. The irony is not lost on me.

“You stubborn, obstinate—“ With a sharp inhale, Agnes reigns in her temper, throwing a finger to where I stand, “She is perfectly fine, as you can see.” 

Riftan’s eyes flick to me, like most of the eyes in this room—Hebaron and Gabel, Elliot and Rikaydo, not to mention many other senior knights. I remain relaxed, standing tall as if I am the picture of health and confidence. But with the weight of so much scrutiny and the tension—so immense it spans to the rafters—it is a difficult mask to keep. 

“Come now, Commander,” Hebaron says, “why not let them attend? It’s only a village festival, after all.”

Gabel adds to my defense, “You will only earn her ladyship’s scorn if you keep her locked up.” 

Locked up, indeed, I think. Like every servant has turned into my warden, with Riftan as the judge. 

Nothing, however, appears to convince him. He remains stone-hearted, “No.”

“Did you not listen to anything they said? You must want your wife to scorn you,” Agnes retorts. The words are to herself but are far from unheard. 

The tension hardens. I shift on the balls of my feet. 

I have angered Riftan in the past. I have argued with him, shouted at him. I have seen his sword pointed at a man’s throat and his fists collide with another’s skin. And maybe it is because of all those things that my gut churns as his knuckles turn white and his jaw ticks. He is a loaded gun, and we are playing roulette. 

“My wife, Your Royal Highness,” he speaks with the same alarming calmness from earlier—God, I hate that tone of voice, “is still recovering from depleting her magic. She needs rest.”

The princess starts to speak, but I clear my throat, mustering the same courage I had earlier as I come to her aid. “I’m fine.” 

It's like staring down the duke, except then I knew what was waiting for me. Now, I have no clue. Riftan’s lips tighten, nostrils flaring as he releases a slow breath, pushing to his feet. 

“Return to our chambers.”

“Riftan…”

“Don’t. ” He is like a tempest refusing to blow, but teetering on the brink. “Maximillian, I will not tell you again.”

Resolution turns to reluctance and confidence to fear. Self-preservation tells me to run, but my body is immobile like a stone frozen to winter ground. If I don’t—if I cannot move—what will he do if he will not use his words?

“Do you always order her around this way? Is she your subordinate or something?” Agnes retorts. 

Met with new resolve, I take her shoulder, attempting to maneuver her away, “Agnes. Let’s go.” She gapes at me as if I’ve lost mind, betrayed that I would give in so easily. I too am vexed by it, but still encourage her along. “Please.”

Looking to Riftan, then to me, then to all the knights who wait to see how far this will go, Agnes relents, trailing along as I lead her out. It is good for me, I tell myself, that I’m stopping her now. To embarrass my husband in front of his men opens another can of worms. The sneer Rikaydo gives me as he opens the door—more for the princess than myself—confirms that fact. 

The latch clicks behind us, the sound nauseating. All I have done is embarrass myself.

Bowing to the princess, the royal attendant falls into step behind us down the hall. An escort here and an escort back, it seems I will never find a moment alone. 

The fear I felt now grows to anger, though I smile at the princess when she glances at me, pretending everything is fine. But everything is far from it. 

To request my safety, to offer it, is one thing. To demand my compliance is completely different. 

Is this place to be my new Croix? Am I to be cast aside like putty, expected to take it, and punished when I react and when I don’t? 

No—I refuse. I fought there, and I will fight here. And maybe that won’t make a difference, but at least I will have fought. 

My mind is set. 

“Why didn’t you say more?” Agnes asks the moment we enter the bedroom. “I thought you were going to. I thought—“ She pauses as I drop to the ground, scooting closer to the door to peer under it. “What are you—“ 

With a raised hand, I shush her, straining to focus on the shapes within the hall. The attendant's shoes come into view. I slam my fist against the ground before pushing to my feet. New plan.

“What is going on?” The princess follows me as I move past her towards the balcony. “Maximillian, I’m talking to you. Answer me.” 

“One second,” I say, stepping outside. 

The festival has begun. Its music wafts over the castle walls into the garden. It draws my attention momentarily but draws Agnes’s the longest. As she forgets about me, I can work.

Beside the balcony is a trellis, nailed into the castle's stone like a ladder for wisteria to grow along. Through the gaps of the young plant, the brand-new wood shows through. I grab hold, giving it a good tug—one, then another. It doesn’t budge. 

Returning inside, I move towards my vanity, calling to the princess, “Your Royal Highness, would you…would you like to, um, play a game? I have this one with, with cards you might enjoy.” I pull a key from one of the drawers—the key that Rodrigo gave me.

Agnes stares as if my head is dancing on my shoulders, fumbling to answer as I encourage her with a wave of my hands,“Y-yes?”

I hand her the key, motioning to the purse at her hips as I mouth for her to tuck it inside. When she does, I escort her back out, “Why don’t we, um, play on the balcony?” I enunciate loud enough for the attendant to hear. “It’s s,such a nice, um, day outside.”

Closing the balcony door behind us, I stick my head over the railing, searching for any prying ears. No guards patrol the inner wall, but there may be servants or knights or royal guests about. Finding none, I look to Agnes. 

“I c,can– I can get us out of here.”

She squints, “What? What are you talking—“

“Shhh!” I quiet her before Riftan hears down the hall. “Do you want t,to, to go to the festival or not?”

She shakes her head in disbelief, “What?” 

“Do you want to go?” I ask again. 

“What about Riftan?”

“I’ll d,deal with him,” I say. However mad he is, I’ll take the blame. “Do you want to go?” 

When she still doesn’t understand, I reach for the trellis. “One…one word from you, and, and I won’t do anything. I’ll go, um…I’ll go rest. But if not, I can, I can get us out of here.”

“This is crazy,” Agnes says; I nod. Her eyes wandering towards the music, she begins to smirk, “Let’s do it.” 

I go first. The second my foot touches the trellis, I begin to have doubts. There is no way to know how this single action will change the future, for better or worse. There is no way to know—though I have an idea—of how Riftan might react. With anger for certain, but on top of that…?  I could damn myself more than I could save me. 

And the second I have those thoughts, I choose to do it anyway. I have gone this far, why not finish it? Perhaps Riftan would never know if I changed my decision, but I would, and Agnes too. 

And the exhilaration of escape—of adventure—is far more powerful than any other argument.

I move my whole weight onto the trellis, anticipating it might break. When it holds, I continue the descent. 

Agnes circulates her magic, enveloping me with it. “Levitation spell,” she says when I glance at her. “In case you fall.”

I don’t. The grass is soft beneath my shoe as I rest it against the ground. 

Moving out of the way, I wait for Agnes, watching—if a bit confused—as she climbs onto the railing at the forefront of the balcony. She jumps before I can stop her. I turn away, bracing for impact, but a whirlwind of mana expands before she hits the dirt, placing her safely on her feet. 

And Riftan thinks I’m reckless…

No one suspects us as we move through the gardens, keeping a natural pace and pleasant demeanor. Only a few servants tend to the flower beds, creating no hindrance as we navigate towards the kitchens, sticking closer to the wall to evade the windows of Riftan’s office as we duck inside. 

The atmosphere is busier than usual. The servants watch perplexed as we maneuver past them, offering expected courtesies, but otherwise, let us be. There is not much else they can do. 

The hallway is empty except for one maid exiting the cellar. We slip past her, closing the door before she might ask what we need. A lantern illuminates the dim room, but I create a ball of magic for further light. 

“Those people saw us,” Agnes says. 

“Doesn’t matter.” It’s not about being caught. It’s about making it to the festival before then. I move towards the corner of the room, pointing to the barrels stacked on top of the escape hatch, “Can you, um, can you move these?” 

Using her levitation spell, once more, Agnes lifts them out of the way. Taking the key from her purse, I twist it into the lock. It clicks, but I have to pry it open. 

“You do this often?” Agnes asks.

I give the key back to her, opening the trap door, “First time.” It’s always good to have an escape route—you never know when you’ll need it. The princess doesn’t ask any more questions. 

A musty smell wafts from the tunnel, water collecting to the stone and dripping onto the rat carcasses that litter the floor. The light of my magic turns them ominous, brightening the yellow hue of their bones. The space is large enough for me to stand if hunkered over, and I drop inside, careful of the dead. 

“Don’t– Don’t close the, um, the latch,” I tell the princess as she follows after—in case we have to leave how we came. 

And , although I’m angry at him, it is better that Riftan knows where we went in the event something goes wrong, God forbid. 

We start our descent, following the slanted tunnel as it moves further and further underground. Even so, a breeze drifts through the vents carved along the roof. Whoever built this escape route did so with care. 

How long that must have taken, I marvel. It seems to go on forever. 

“So~” I look at Agnes as she begins to speak, “Riftan, he doesn’t… mistreat you, does he?”

“Are you asking if he…if he hits me?” 

She walks slower, tucking her hair from her face as she looks away.

“He doesn’t,” I say. “He wouldn’t.” Though, I don’t know that for sure. But I will defend his honor, regardless—at least until he does…

“I’m sorry to ask.”

“Don’t be,” I say. This is the first time someone has made the effort, I should at least appreciate that. And, when it comes time for the duke to stand trial, her concern in this regard will serve me all the more. What is an ill favored duke to this king’s favorite daughter?

After some time, the tunnel ends abruptly: nothing but a wall with a rune carved into it. The magic light darkens the shadows surrounding its lines.

“It’s a magic door,” Agnes says. “If I infuse it with mana, it should open, hopefully to outside.”

Or perhaps to a dwarven mine, I think. Speak friend, and enter. 

Taking a moment to understand it, Agnes places her hand in the center and circulates her mana. It trickles into the markings of the rune, tracing them with golden light until the whole circle is filled. It glows brighter. Then there is a click, followed by a rumble, until all is quiet. 

“Help me push.” The princess leans against the door; I do the same. With all our strength, we force the stone door to swing open. I let my magic light unravel as daylight pours into the room. 

Poking my head around the corner to inspect our vicinity, I emerge into the woods surrounding the castle. The fortress looms overhead, though we are protected by the trees. 

Agnes laughs as she joins me in the open. “What do you think the fearsome Mago is gonna say about this?” 

As her foot leaves the threshold, the stone door swings closed, locking into place. It is completely indistinguishable from the hillside. A perfect hideaway. 

“I have n,no, no clue,” I say. Seeing how our only options to go back is to wait for him to find us or to knock at the castle gate, nothing good. “Probably k,kick our asses—“ I clamp my hand over my mouth, “Pardon my French.” 

“French?” Agnes tilts her chin to the side, “What do you mean?”

I shrug my shoulders. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to think anything of it, studying what lies around us instead. 

Directing my attention to the edge of the trees, she asks, “Is that what I think it is?” 

“Well, look at that.” About twenty or so yards away is a road, and on the other side is town. I nudge her arm, “I’ll r,race ya.”

Chapter Text

Town is empty, but the fields are full—of flowers yet to be trampled and those strung on garlands, of music and festivities, and people partaking in the energy of it all. The princess beats me in our race, though I give her a run for her money, ready to collapse by the time we reach the crowd. 

“Come this way,” Agnes says, dragging me into a line for a woman weaving chains from daisies. “Everyone else has flower crowns, so should we.” Her sentiments are shared, the line already long in front of us, and growing steadily behind. I do not mind so much, simply happy to be included. 

The woman is old, her hair graying, though her fingers are nimble for her age. Finished tying the ends of a crown, she places it on a young girl’s head, who then bounds off to join her friends. 

“Two please,” the princess says when it is our turn, providing two coins, which the woman drops into a tin can. 

Gathering a handful of daisies from a basket, she sets them in her lap, taking from the pile to weave the flowers together. I study her practiced hands as they wrap the stems together effortlessly, reminding myself of the process I’d long forgotten until now. It’s been years since I’ve made anything with flowers. 

When the crown is done, the woman offers it to whichever of us will take it. Agnes gives a soft jab to my side. 

“Oh, th-thank you,” I say. The woman says nothing, handing me the flowers and moving on to the next crown. 

Out of worry that any harsher movements might break it, I place mine gently on my head, stepping to the side to keep out of the way as I wait for Agnes. From my spot, I watch the passerby as they take delight in the fair, and enjoy the scenery. That’s when I see her.

Hunched beneath the shade of a tree, the young girl from earlier fiddles with her crown. Her shoulders shake—with laughter, I think, until she sets the flower chain on her head and it breaks, the ends coming apart in her grasp. That’s when I hear her sniffle. 

Moving towards her instinctively, I call out, “Ar- are you, um, alright?”

My voice startles her. Stumbling to her feet, the girl darts behind the tree. 

“I’m, sorry,” I say, kneeling in the grass to seem less foreboding. “I, didn’t mean to, um, mean to frighten you.” At that, she peaks her head out, watching me from around the bark though she prefers to stay hidden. I motion to the flowers in her hand, taking my own crown to offer her, “I could probably fix that. I’ll trade you, if you want.”

Eyeing it for a moment, she glances between the crown and me before emerging fully, letting me place the flowers on her head. I laugh as they brush over her eye, and she smiles as her tiny hands move to fix it. 

Her crown is easy to repair, or at least appears that way, the stems unraveled but not broken. Patting the ground next to me for the girl to sit, I meddle with flowers to string them back together; it takes a couple of tries, the daisies not twisting right at first. 

“P, pardon me,” I say. “It’s, um…been a long time since I’ve…since I’ve done this.” 

“Why?” Her voice is the sweetest sound. 

“You know, I’m not…I’m not really sure. I used to make chains, um, all the time when I was l,little.” 

In my childhood at Croix, the ability to weave flowers was instinctual; only years later would I remember sitting in the grass at school and doing the same thing. Most knowledge seemed to be innate until I recalled why I knew it in the first place. 

My muscle memory kicks in, and I succeed at tying the stems together, balancing the mended crown on top of her new one after. She giggles.

“Do you, um, know how to make a, make a flower chain?” I ask, picking at the dandelions around us that have yet to turn to puff. When she shakes her head, I demonstrate how, going slowly so she can keep up. 

Agnes joins us after a minute or two. “What are you doing?”

“Making chains,” I say. The girl and I hold ours up proudly. 

“How do you do it?” As she rests in the grass beside us, I show her how. We sit together, weaving flowers for a while, until the girl is called away. 

“Emmeline!” A boy shouts. At the outskirts of the festival tents, he waves to her, beckoning. The girl stands, running to catch up, but pauses. Looking to me, she offers a wave before she is gone. 

I assume the boy is her brother. She shows him both crowns and her dandelions, pointing to me. But before I might see how he reacts, the other kids appear, ushering their mismatched group to new places like a hurricane rushing through. 

Done with a flower bracelet, I tie it onto Agnes’s wrist as payment for regifting the crown she bought. She admires it, angling her arm from side to side. 

“What do you, um, w, want to do now?” I ask. 

“I’m not sure,” she says. We decide to wander around. 

The first game we find is javelin throwing which the princess attempts a couple of times, then a riddle contest, after, that I do well in, and a shell game that both of us lose. We then watch a play of the nymph and Uigru until Agnes deems it boring, pulling me towards a balancing game, where we watch several face plant in mud. I have to talk her away from it, lest she ruin her dress. 

Drawn to a wrestling match, we shove our way into the crowd to catch a glimpse. A blended cacophony of cheers and taunts rings out as a slender, agile man dodges the swipes of his much larger opponent. It is hard for some to not be swept up in the pandemonium. 

“Kick his ass!” Agnes yells as the burly opponent rings the neck of his scraggly fiend. She grins at me, “Pardon my French.”

My mouth hangs wide in astonishment, struck mum—more so as people gawk at us. I cannot help but laugh. 

Perhaps encouraged by Agnes’s jeers, the larger man knocks the lights from the smaller, crouching over his limp form as the crowd counts to three. One. Two. Three! When the smaller remains down, they erupt into cheers, some disgruntled as they relinquish their money to more than a happy few. The fight ends. 

“Do you think they have, um, archery?” I ask as the princess and I search for something new. 

“I think so,” she says. Taking my arm, Agnes steers me another direction. 

At the edge of the festival, at the base of a hill, are several targets and a man calling out to anyone wandering near. 

“Do you pretty, young ladies want to try your luck?” He asks when he spots us, “Grand prize is a bow.” The man waves it for me to admire: a recurve made of darkly polished wood and gold details, slightly shorter than what I am used to. “Crafted it myself.”

“H-how much to, um play?” I ask.

“The first round is free.” 

His assistant—maybe his son or his apprentice—offers me a bow and quiver as I step to the marker and position myself. Satisfied with the weapon's draw-weight, I nock an arrow as I inspect the targets in front of me. 

Referring to the farthest target on the far left side, I ask, “What points, um, what points are the colors on that one?” 

“Those are the highest point values, Miss. Green is bullseye, thirty points, yellow is–” 

I shoot before he can finish. My arrow misses the middle by a whole ring. 

“Nice work!” The man says. “That’s twenty points. Only a hundred-thirty more to go for the grand prize.”

Ignoring him, I nock another arrow, taking account of the wind as I adjust from where I aimed my last shot. It completely misses, glinting off the side of the target. That can’t be right, I think.

At a closer look, the furthest target is tilted, the perspective of its rings warped compared to the target straight on. But is it enough to affect my aim so unfavorably? 

Focusing on the closest target, I release another arrow. It hits the ring shy of a bullseye. 

“Five points.”

Turning my attention to the arrow itself, I study its shape and the areas at which it is heaviest. Loosing it, it barely hits the middle—enough to count. The last arrow follows suit. 

“You’re an incredible archer, Miss,” the man says. “A whole forty-five points!” 

He reaches for a prize, but I stop him. “I want to…I want to try again.”

With a chuckle, he hands me the prize anyway, “Giving it another go? That’ll be a shekel.”

I bite my cheek—in my grand escape, I neglected to bring a wallet. I look at Agnes, “Might, um…c,could I borrow a coin? I’ll pay you, pay you back.”

“Nonsense,” she says, retrieving a bronze piece from her purse. “You must think I’m poor.”

Taking his dues, the man says to me, “Since you’re so talented, I’ll add your current point value to your new one. How does that sound?” He offers me a new quiver, but I don’t take it.

Pointing to the arrows his assistant is collecting, I say, “I want those, um, ones, p, please.” 

“But, Miss–” 

“I insist,” I say, to which he yields. 

Arrows in hand, I adjust my aim to each for the farthest target. The first I shoot lower and to the right. Bullseye. Higher and straight. Bullseye. More to the left. Bullseye.  

The fourth arrow, another bullseye. 

I draw the last, but pause, unnocking the arrow to twirl in my fingers, instead. “Are you s, satisfied?”

“P-pardon?” The man is frozen.  

“It wouldn’t be a…be a festival without some, um, t, tampering with the games,” I say. It’s what all carnies do, afterall. “That’s why you tilted the, the targets, is it not? But messing with the arrows…” I tsk at him, shaking my head. 

“How–”

“Some have m, more weight in the front, others at, at the end, and this one–” I hold the arrow to my eye “–is bent. Q, quite, um, obviously, might I add.” 

Arms crossed, Agnes gives me an impressed nod of the head. The assistant, on the other hand, appears as if he wants to crawl into his skin. 

I point to the bow behind the man, “I believe that’s mine. I’ve…I’ve more than earned it, um, don’t you think?”

He glares, “I–”

“I wouldn’t argue with a woman who's armed,” Agnes warns. The man’s throat bobs, his mouth tightening like he tastes something bitter.

Defeated, he gives me the bow. 

 I trace the carvings in the wood, as we move along, victory semi-sweet on my tongue. “You really, um, really don’t want me to pay you back?” I ask the princess. 

She sighs, emphasizing the sound. “If it makes you stop asking, I’ll take this,” reaching for my hand, the princess takes the first prize I won: a wooden charm. She adds it to her other prizes decorating her belt, “Consider us even.”

“You only w, wanted my, um, winnings,” I say, with a knowing look. 

She grins, far from guilty, “I was going to ask for it later.”

As we chatter, a song plays out over the revelry, stopping the two  of us in our tracks. 

“...the knight gathers the pieces of his body, broken, and rises to the heavens…”

The melodic voice of a bard finds us, mixing with the instruments of the entertainers that follow. We are not the only ones captured by their song; as the band meanders through the festival, young women proceed behind, garbed in white and flowers, colorful girdles at their waists—the nymphs. 

“...his beloved oak tree alone on a hill waves slender branches in the wind…”

“It’s the dancing,” I say. “It’s st, starting.” 

Agnes claps her hands in excitement, “Let’s go!” 

She vaults off before I can reply, leaving me to follow. Shoving my bow in a nearby bush, I run to join her and the procession. 

“...I shall rend my body and with new leaves sing a song for thee. Oh, how I wish the wind would carry my voice to thee…”

The singing ends, but the music continues as we reach the top of an open hill, gathering around a wooden stage. 

“Ladies, ladies!” A woman rings a cowbell with loud clanks to grab attention, “Gather ‘round.” Agnes and I squeeze as close to the front as we can get. 

The woman smiles, “May I start by saying how lovely you all look!”

Two kids cling to her side, the girl and her brother from earlier. They squint at the assembly, surveying faces, until the boy spots what they’re looking for—he points directly at me. 

“As you know, this festival is in celebration of the love between the nymph and Uigru. And, as is tradition, after all this celebration, it is time to choose the nymph to guide us in the last dance.”

Her kids dart off stage, splitting through the crowd. 

“Who will our lucky nymph be?”

Grabbing my hands, the children tug me forward, laughing as I stand paralyzed. My mind swirling a million miles a minute, I don’t move until Agnes pushes me, cheering me forward with words I can’t fully hear above the blood gushing in my ears. My stomach turns queasy.

With a wreath of oak leaves and yarrow, the woman leans from the stage and crowns me with it. I sweep the leaves from my face, tilting my head so I can see. 

“What is your name?”

“M,m–” Oh God, don’t stutter now! “-Max,ximillian.”

“Well, Maximillian. We are honored to have you as our nymph and to guide these bright young women in dance. Let us begin!” 

Merely background before, the music returns in full volume as the girls around me join hands to make a circle. To my relief, Agnes stands beside me. 

“Go, oh dearest, far, far away from this turbulent land,” The bard sings. 

With the rhythm of a tambourine to guide us, the circle begins to sway, then rotates—slow at first, merely a walking pace, until it picks up speed into a caper. In the midst of its energy, I am pushed into the middle. The girls continue around me as the music dips and surges—waiting. 

I am to dance, I realize. 

Thank the lord for the ones I learned at Croix: my skirt catches air as I use their lilting steps, adding vivacity to them, removing their elegance.  

A little while more of it, and the circle collapses, the girls moving in. The dance diversifies, twirling at various speeds and directions. I grow dizzy, my chest full of mirth that bubbles out in infectious giggles, spreading to everyone else as we break into offshoots, then towards each other again. 

Except I am being pulled away. So are the others, the circle continuing to spin as their lovers lure them off one by one. 

But who is taking me?

Riftan.  

He drags me towards the woods, his stride long and determined. I trip over my feet as I hasten to keep up, holding my crown in place. 

“The, the dancing,” I wrench at my arm, “it’s n, not…it’s not done.”

When he does not budge, I roll my hand towards his fingers with one great yank to pull myself free. It actually works. 

I make it a few feet before he grabs me, slinging me over his shoulder. I kick—squirm—but my legs are pinned by his arm. 

Limbs like jello, I slam my fist against his back, the other held fast to my wreath. Riftan does not react. Instead, he presses me against a tree, clutching my arms so I cannot escape. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

My breathing is ragged. I’m hyperventilating. It’s as if I’m still spinning. 

“Woah,” Riftan’s voice softens, “deep breaths. Breathe.” Giving me space, his touch turns milder. My head is faint, the feeling reaching my lungs even as I suck in large gulps of air. I push his hands away, collapsing against the ground when the exertion of standing is too much. 

He kneels in front of me, “Are you alright?” 

I bob my head. As my body calms, my heart returns to where it should be—from pounding against my ribs to beating neatly in place. I fan myself to remedy the feverish heat. 

Bang!

We jump at the same time, Riftan to his feet. He reaches for his sword, then groans, “That damned woman.”

Bang! Bang! 

Explosions of many colors—red, green, blue—dazzle the sky in great big sparks fizzling to the ground. 

“Fireworks,” I whisper, craning my neck to see them through the trees. It’s been so long…

They are only magic, figments of Agnes’s creation, but I swear I can smell the burning metallic scent of explosives. It’s faint, merely a recollection of past nights in July, but it tangs against my nose. 

“We should go,” Riftan says, extending a hand to help me up. Glancing over my shoulder as he leads me away, I pray Agnes might make another.

If I could only see one more…

***

The castle is on edge, the very bricks themselves straining under the pressure. Not a servant is to be seen. 

“Your Royal Highness,” The attendant marches down the front steps, like a mother ready to scold their rampant child, “abusing the hospitality of Sir Calypse! Where in the world did you get such an idea to–” 

“It was my idea.” The attendant halts as I speak—I think everyone does. “There was…was no abuse of any h, hospitality. Do not…do not scold her highness for my actions, please.” 

Speechless, the attendant steps aside as Riftan approaches. “Return to our chambers,” he commands, with a touch to my back. There is no tenderness in the action, only the expectation of obedience.

I give in. 

Rikaydo and Gabel follow me—both needed to control the princess, and now apparently myself. The latter carries my bow. How long were they watching, if they knew where to look? I don’t know if I want that answer. 

The staircase has become a mountain. A few steps in and I am already winded, clinging to the railing as push forward with each aching muscle. The day is wearing on me. 

“Madam, if you need a break–” 

“I’m fine.” I resend Gabel’s offer, trekking on. Below, Riftan and Agnes enter, their strides accentuated. I pick up the pace. 

The corridor stretches on, the minutes it adds to the journey welcomed. But the closer the bedroom gets, now in sight, a strange buzz courses through me—a creeping sense of unease. I move for the Solar instead.  

Rikaydo protests, “The commander said to return to your chambers.”

“C, considering they are next…next door and, um, connected, I don’t…don’t think it matters much,” I say, stepping inside. Gabel follows while his companion stands guard in the hall. 

I crumple into one of the chairs, bones like putty.

"How are you feeling?" Gabel asks. Setting my bow in the corner, he pours a cup of water. 

“Tired,” I say. I thank him as he hands the cup to me, but gratitude soon turns to confusion when he doesn't move.

He holds his hand out, “I’m to take the key from you.”

Peering at him, my fingers wander to my girdle, feeling for a key that is not there. “I, um,” I fumble around some more as if it will suddenly appear, “I don’t have it.” 

“Where is it?” 

In Agnes's purse, I think. But rather, I say, “I d,don’t…I don’t know.” For once, I am grateful to have a stutter to cover my lie. Whether he believes me or not, Gabel does not press further. He has done his job, and I have Riftan to contend with, all the same.

The knight sits on a bench across from me. 

“Am I…am I  still allowed to learn archery?” 

He glances up, somewhat amused, “I don’t think the commander will take it away from you because of this.” That wasn’t what I was asking, but I let it be. 

“You know that’s a horse bow?” He points to my prize in the corner, if somewhat excited though trying poorly to contain himself. “When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll teach you how to shoot on horseback. We can set up targets in the arena.”

“I’d like that,” I say.

“You’d have to learn a new drawing technique—keeps the arrow more stable—but it’s not difficult. Takes some getting used to, is all.”

The knight is about to say something more, when goaded steps approach in the hall—more shuffling outside as Rikaydo stands at attention. I remove the wreath from my head, rising as Gabel does as Riftan enters the room. He looks first at the knight, then at me. 

“She says she doesn’t have it.” 

The tension in my body eases as the focus returns to Gabel, but it is only momentarily as Riftan catches sight of the flower wreath. I hold my breath as he takes a leaf between his forefinger and thumb, smoothing his touch across it to feel the texture—alarm bells rings off inside my head. Is he going to break it? Light a fire to cast it into? 

He lets go of the leaf, speaking to Gabel, “You are dismissed.” The knight inclines his head first to his commander, then to me, moving for the door. 

I make note of my exits—one into the bedroom and one into the hall. The former is the clearest, the last behind Riftan. 

I wait for him to speak, but he remains silent.

“I-” I swallow. “I, um, suppose Agnes t,told you everything.” My speech is foreign to my ears, weaker than I would expect. 

Riftan steps closer, “We spoke briefly, but I am curious as to what you have to say.” 

My mouth is dry. “It was my idea.” 

“That’s not what Agnes said.” 

“What–” Is he tricking me? I search his face, unable to read any of it. “Look, I, I don’t…”

Did she actually do that?

“I don’t know, um, know what the princess told you. But it was, was my idea.” I don’t want her to be in trouble because of me. “She, um, wanted to ask your, ask your permission, and then when you said no, I got, got angry, so–” 

“So you forced her to go along with your plan?” 

“N,no,” I furrow my brow. “Nobody was- was forced. I asked…I asked her. I gave her the option to go, um, to go back. I-”

Riftan only nods, clenching his jaw to the point I’m afraid he might break his teeth. He releases a slow, measured breath, “Do you know how worried sick I was?” When I don’t answer, he says, “I was terrified, Maxi, that you were going to be gone. That I wouldn’t be able to find you. I mean, what in the world were you thinking?”

Unable to meet his eyes, my gaze tacks itself to the floor. 

“Well?” He throws his hands up—they slap against his sides. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“You tr- trapped me in our, in our bedroom,” I mutter.

He scoffs, “Trapped you.”

“Trapped.” I say it louder. “W,when you force me to- to remain in bed, against my will, I would…would consider that trapped, would you, um, would you not?” Riftan crosses his arms, ready to protest, but I continue, “I mean do you have a- any idea what it’s like to, to s,spend eternity in the same damn room? Look, you were…you were right, okay—“

“So you admit it.”

“ Yes! I n,needed to rest!” I shout until the words echo all around us. “But con- confinement? Confinement?”  

From the Duke, I would expect it—have experienced it. But from Riftan?

The room is silent.

He stares at me. I stare at him. Neither of us moves, neither of us speaks, but we are thinking the same. I can see it written all across his face, that question he asked before: what did that man do to you? 

Would you stop asking me that? I want to scream. Would you just let it die? Pretend that I never said a damn word about it?

I hold my pinky out.

“Promise—“ my voice breaks, moisture gathering behind my eyes. I pause, collecting myself. “P,promise me that…that you will not trap me h,here.” 

It’s childish. I’m being so childish. 

“Maxi,” Riftan covers my hand with his. When did his tone change? Who has the upper hand? “There are things I must do for your safety.”

“Even if…if I don’t want them?”

“Please,” he begs, “you are my only family. I only want to keep you safe.”

I rip my hand away, stalking for the bedroom door, “So you would- w,would trap me then.”

“Maxi.”

“If you will not- not promise, I have nothing more to- to say to you.”

“Hey,” he touches my shoulder right as I grab hold of the doorknob. Pulling my hand away, he wraps his pinky around mine. “I promise I won’t trap you. Alright?”

Afraid my voice will tremble, I nod my head. 

“Come here,” he gathers me into his embrace, squeezing tight as he often does. “You are not a prisoner here. This is your home.”

With each word, I bury myself further into his hold, hiding the tears that slip down my cheeks. 

Chapter Text

The days pass, and time moves quickly in its tightfisted way of never granting me a moment's peace, forcing me to grasp at every minute and remember it is fleeting.

"I'm going to miss you, you know." Under the gate of the inner ward, the princess slows, sparing a glance to the wagons and horses preparing for the journey ahead, before turning her gaze to the stones below our feet. Her pants—billowing like parachutes—spill from the top of each boot, her general's garb returned to its place to hide the indearing girl beneath. I see her peeking through as she smiles at me, "Promise you'll visit the capital?"

Tucking my hands in front of me, I mimic her expression, "I will, I'm certain."

"Good. You'll be welcome anytime."

Guiding her horse to us, the princess's attendants wait to aid her. Acknowledging them, Agnes turns to me, something hung to the tip of her tongue, ready to be spoken, but it is pushed away as she grabs my hand. 

"You wore your ring," she speaks as if the idea surprises her. "I've been meaning to ask about it since the banquet. It's quite lovely."

"Oh, um…thank you." Thinking of how to politely refuse if she requests to have it, I start to pull my hand away when her grasp turns tighter. Agnes taps the center gem. 

"Rubies and pearls are lucky. You should wear this more often."

Oh. 

My shoulders relax as the princess eases her grip, clinging loosely to my fingers before she lets go entirely. I tease her, "Are you implying I'm p-prone to getting into, um…into trouble?"

"We both know you are, Maximillian. I hardly knew you a week, and you found yourself in trouble twice. And from what the knights have told me, those were not the first times."

"At least you sss-s-sound as if you care."

"Well, we are friends."

Friends. She seems so convinced that I am hit with disbelief. I cannot say that she is entirely wrong; I enjoy her company, and she, mine. But when did we go from acquaintances to companions? I wonder. When did friendliness turn to friendship?

Not that I am upset…

Riftan approaches. At the sight of him, wending through the ordered chaos, the princess's expression morphs from mild to misshapen. 

"You can ask anything of me, you know," she says. "All you have to do is send word."

"I know," I say, more than a little confused.

Riftan reaches us. To the princess, he says, "All the wagons are loaded. Your knights are ready for your command,"

"Excellent," Agnes waves for the attendant to bring her horse closer. "Thank you for your generosity as a host. I will send pleasing word to the king on your behalf." Mounting, she winds the reins around her fist as she looks to me, "Goodbye, Maximillian. Remember you promised me a visit."

With that, Agnes kicks the animal into motion, riding to the forefront of her party to give the order to march. I expect Riftan to say something, to ask why I have promised anything, but he drapes his arm across me instead, wordless as we watch them go. 

Come in like a hurricane, and now she departs like lightning, isn't that what Hebaron said? The storm I am unsure of, but the flash I can get behind. 

"Shall we return to our chambers?" Riftan asks when the last of them pass from view.

"I was hoping to…to, um, take a walk in the gardens," I say, maneuvering so that my arm is linked with his. 

There is peace within the castle now that the guests are gone: in the mellow air with its taste of summer and the sound of bird song, in the butterflies that flutter past, and servants embedded in routine, scrubbing clothes in basins and laying them to bleach dry under the sun. We meander through and past them, conversing as we wander. 

Amongst the pruned bushes and flowering vines, the oak tree fans out, bright, green leaves unfurling from its branches. 

"It's blooming!" I say. In my excitement, I let go of Riftan's arm to run to its shade, touching my hands to its bark to meet that same honey feeling. 

"I don't see what's so special about a tree sprouting leaves," Riftan peers into the foliage, studying it. 

I explain how Ruth infused it with mana last Winter—the significance of it. "Alleged-dly, this is the tree of legend."

"Legend?"

"Like, um, Uigru and the nymph."

Frowning, Riftan walks to the other side of the trunk. "Hmm."

"Hmm," I mimic him. "What's hmm?"

"Nothing," he says, trailing his fingers against the base of the tree as he encircles it. "I simply didn't know my wife believed in fairytales."

"I d-don't know if, um, legends and fairytales constitute the sssame thing," Maybe they do. Jutting out my hip as he smirks, I say, "I take it you do, um, d-do not b-believe in either?"

"Not really. I prefer to be grounded in reality."

I glare at him, matching his playful derision with my own as I lean against the tree, "I used to as well, b-but more and more, I find myself amazed at the line be-between, um, fiction and reality." He looks at me, puzzled. "I guess we will have to agree on our d-differences."

"I guess so."

The humor falls flat—unsustainable in this phase where we have made ourselves far too serious for reasons good and bad. The space between us has not felt the same since our argument—too much left unspoken, and neither of us sure how to say it. Another fight is inevitable, this truce not long-lasting, but how do you broach a subject like that before it broaches itself?

I always thought Maxi and him fought too much, rarely seeing eye to eye, but more and more, I wonder if she would be better here than me. I am her poor imitation, after all. 

I brush the thoughts away, none of them for my benefit. I am here, and Maxi is gone. This is my life now, or it will be when the dragon is dead once and for all. 

Riftan and I take a seat on a bench nearby, the loamy scent of damp earth mixing with that of sweet flowers around us like perfume. If only I could bottle it up and keep this moment forever—a juncture of tranquility amongst the chaos of this world. God knows He has not given me much serenity. 

A bird lands on the avian bath a few feet away, drinking from it while a bee buzzes past us. It crawls into a flower, covering itself in pollen before moving to the next bud, then to the wisteria on the castle wall. Riftan's eyes are trained on the trellis beside our bedroom balcony, unmoving. 

I touch his leg to get his attention, "What's wrong?"

"Hm? Oh." Resting his hand over mine, he says, "It's nothing. It's merely...I never thought that I would get to spend time in a flower garden with my wife."

"Well, you are," I say. 

Two more birds land in the bath, making three. Splashing around, they peck at each other. 

"Can you imagine our kids playing here one day?" Riftan asks. 

I grin, "A ssstr- s-strong boy like his father?"

"I was thinking more an intelligent, witty girl like her mother."

Biting my lip to keep from laughing, I rest my head against his shoulder—I'm not sure we could handle more of me. But it does raise the question of what our children will be like. 

What was Riftan like as a child? I wonder. When he was younger than the book showed him to be. Was his brow always pinched like it is now? That's what makes me laugh: the idea of a toddler scowling like a grumpy old man. 

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I say. Riftan doesn't believe me, but we are interrupted before he can press me further. 

"Sir Calypse," A guard approaches. The birds flit off at his coming. 

"Back to work, it seems." Rising from the bench, Riftan sighs, dusting off his trousers as he leans down to kiss me. "I will see you for dinner."

"Yes, I will, um, sssee you then."

As he disappears around the corner, I am left to my thoughts. If only time could speed up. Then I could be done with this story and enjoy what happens after. But then again, time is never kind when it goes fast. 

***

So many fleeting moments...it's my fault I can't enjoy them.

Archery lessons, horseback riding, magic practice kept in secret—I fill my time to the brim until my to-do list is spilling over. With Summer approaching, Ethelene hangs on the horizon, creeping closer and closer every time I look to it. There is so much left to do, so much I should have prepared sooner. 

Life is moving fast, and I fear it is leaving me behind. 

"Madam, I have the clothes you asked for. The maids just finished them."

Scrambling for anything to appear natural, I grab a missive from my desk, holding it close to my face like I am straining to read it. My free hand falls behind the table, the ball of mana unraveling before Ludis might see it. 

Unaware, she lays the clothing across the bed, smoothing them flat of any wrinkles. "What would you like to try first?"

"The pants," I say, still feigning interest in the small slip of paper—like I am decoding every word. Not that there is much to decode; Riftan never writes much. 

"What did his lordship say?" Ludis asks, noticing the letter. Refolding my pants, she carries them and a pair of braes to me, trading them for the note. Her brow raises as she scans the contents, "More guests?"

"From the Earl of Rovernne," I say, though she has already read it, “about an alliance they're p-pr-proposing, not that his lordship will tell me what." I can guess at it—monsters—but it is inconvenient to not know for sure.

"I'm sure it's nothing important." Unlacing the pieces of my dress until I am in my undergarments, Ludis assures me, "If it were, his lordship would tell you. Besides, it doesn't seem that they'll be staying long. Best not to worry about it."

I let her win this non-argument, finding no use in disagreeing with her. Maybe it is true that Riftan would tell me if something were wrong, but I am not convinced. 

Stepping behind the partition, I change into the new garments, sliding them beneath my chemise. The trousers are coarse and itchy, the hemp yet to soften from wear. My undergarments serve as protection, the linen braes and my stockings like a shield for my skin. 

"Those don't look half bad on you," Ludis says when I am done. 

I almost look like the princess; all I need is the regality. Chemise bunched in my arms, I twist and turn in front of the mirror to study how the clothes fit, "It's loose around the, um…th-the waist."

"I'll fix it. I brought my sewing kit." Setting the basket on the floor next to us, Ludis digs through for a set of pins to synch the fabric with. Holding them between her teeth, she gathers the trousers at the sides, folding the fabric over itself. 

"How are the maids d-doing, doing on, um, sssup-supplies?" It seems like yesterday they were hurrying to make clothes for Winter, and now they are busy for the upcoming season. The weather has graced them, determined to remain cool until the work is done. 

"With all these new workers, I think they'll be done in another week or so." Ludis places the last pin, "There. How does it feel?"

"Good," I say. 

Reaching for the sewing kit, she takes out a needle and thread. "I'll sew it in position and then fix it later," she says, fumbling around in the basket some more. Grumbling, she all but turns it upside down in her search. "How like me to do this! I left my scissors behind."

"I have some," I say. Moving towards my vanity, I open the top drawer partway but halt as my hand scrapes against the cold, uneven texture of something metal. It could almost be the scissors, the end piece circular and hollow like a hold for a thumb, but it lacks the neat, decorated surface that my scissors have. 

The key. 

The dark iron shank and keyhole peek at me as I open the drawer further. Buried under the clutter, the key blends with the shadows so that the orange and reddish specks of rust are the clearest. 

"Madam, did you find them?"

"I did." Grabbing the scissors from the top of the pile, I hold them up, restraining myself from slamming the drawer closed in the process. Though pleased, a hint of concern lines the maid's features. I change the subject before she might question me, "D-did I tell you I, um, received word from the p-portrait p-painter yesterday?" Agnes stayed true to her word to recommend me. 

"That is wonderful news! What did he say?"

"He used sssome highly flowering language." I describe it in detail: the self-indulgent flattery and the secondary praise to the dragon slayer sprinkled here and there as afterthoughts. The more I talk, the more the maid forgets her concern. 

I do not forget mine. 

That key. I have to hide it before someone thinks to check. 

***

I don't think I can focus anymore. I don't think I'm doing enough. 

I am a bug stuck to the spider web of my own thoughts, wiggling to escape. 

"I told you this would be easy. Why are you making it difficult?"

Releasing another shot with a thumb-draw and missing, I glare at the knight, "Quit b-back talking me, or I'll, I’ll shoot you."

"With three fingers, I hope," Gabel says, inclining his head towards the target. A wide shot cluster peppers it like I threw the arrows in one great heap rather than fired them individually. My aim has improved since the last lesson, but it is still not good enough—he makes that much clear. 

Not that it should matter how good my archery is. I should be practicing magic right now, taking advantage of the time Ludis has for lunch. If only Gabel hadn't moved the lesson up early...

Nocking another arrow, I move into full-draw, the string biting into my thumb. Lining up with the middle of the target, I go slack as commotion rises outside the training grounds. 

A guard rushes through, sparing no attention to Gabel or me as he sprints for the infirmary. 

"What's going on?" The question escapes without my intention, not meant for anyone but myself. It's not like Gabel has an answer. 

He steps toward the infirmary but hesitates as a knight comes into view, heaving up the stairs with a body slung across his shoulders. Gabel runs to him. 

"What happened?"

"Werewolves," the knight puffs out. "Attacked us in the wee hours. We've been riding all morning to get here." Shifting the weight of the boy so Gabel can slip an arm under, the knight supports him from the other side. 

Tied around his head, a torn cloth shields the boy's vision from the light. In the haste, it has slipped, his eyelids twitching under the constraint of the sun. Pallor and sweat-drenched, he groans from the slightest movements. 

My bow forgotten to the side, I open the infirmary door for them, tripping on the uneven floorboards in the dark room. The shades are drawn, the guard lighting candles. I skirt around him, catching the edge of the table as I clear it for the boy to be placed on. 

"D-did you give him the, um, th-the antidote?" I ask. 

"I did," the knight says. "It's not working."

Stealing Gabel's knife, I rip the bandages from the boy's forearm, taking a candle from the guard to see the wound. It's shallow—enough to have broken skin, but not bone—thick purple veins bulging outward as they spread to the rest of his body. 

"I cleaned it as best I could." As the boy squirms, the knight pushes on his shoulders to steady him, Gabel holding his legs. 

"You d-did, um, did well," I say. There is no dirt or blood to flush nor sleeve to cut away. 

Grabbing wine from a shelf, I dump it onto a cloth, dabbing the wound to disinfect it. The boy writhes, struggling to tear his arm free, though everyone works to keep him down. 

Ruth bursts through the door, another guard following.

"Wound's clean," I tell him. "It's his left, um, l-left forearm."

Taking over from me, Ruth ignites his magic, holding it to the injury. As he guides venom from the wound, pulling it free in floating drops that orbit his hand, a violet hue fills the room, illuminating everything like a neon sign. Even the boy's veins glow, traceable as they interlace beneath his skin. The candles are drowned, hissing as their flames spasm, the change in mana so intense that they almost extinguish. 

A wail breaks from the boy's throat as his muscles tense, forced to endure the torment without any strength to fight it. He sags as the magic is released, his chest undulating as his body settles. 

Treating them as contaminated, Ruth holds his hands—gloved in clear liquid—away from him. I offer a bucket for him to dump it into. 

"Open the curtains," he commands. We all hold our breath, squinting as sunlight pours into the room. Even when the cloth binding his eyes is removed, the boy remains still—calm. The spell has worked. 

Relieved, the knight turns to the nearest guard, "Where is the commander?"

"He's overseeing the quarry."

"When will he return?"

"Not until dark."

I listen half-heartedly as they converse, tuning it out to background noise as I watch Ruth finish his present task, ridding the last remains of the wound with a healing spell. It should be me using magic, I think. I should be healing. I should have detoxified. What will I do at Ethelene if I am as ignorant in mediating toxins as I am now?

"How far is the quarry from here? I need to speak with him as soon as possible."

"What is your hurry?" Gabel protests. 

Barring his teeth, the knight's temper flares as he is blocked from the door, "I have news to deliver. It's dire."

As if a switch is flipped, the boy bursts with energy, attempting to sit up, though exertion bridles his effort, "Monsters."

The room turns silent as he spits out the next word, his voice raw—choked, "Alliance."

"Hush now," the knight scolds, moving to quiet him. 

"Monster alliance."

"I said hush!"

Unable to hold himself up any longer, the boy slumps back against the table, drifting to unconsciousness. It is as if he clung to life to deliver that single message. 

No one moves or speaks. We wait for who will do so first. 

"Are you injured at all?" Ruth asks, looking at the knight. When he shakes his head, the mage turns for the door, "Then I will take my leave."

A minute passes as my mind churns before I realize the need to follow. He is already at the gate when I catch up. 

I corner him, "I want you to keep teaching me."

"Madam, I can't–"

"Pplease. Just the dde-detoxification s-spell and maybe, um, maybe a shield." Slamming my arm against the wall, I block his escape, neglecting all other arguments as I use what I know will work, "We b-both know my sskills are needed. Can you at least, at least ad-dmit that?"

Crossing his arms, Ruth casts his gaze downward, "I can."

I look to the infirmary, ensuring we're alone. "You were the only one who c-could heal that, that boy–" high-level monsters or a weak constitution, whatever it was, a simple antidote would not have saved him. "What happens when I'm in your p-position? It's only a matter of time. I'm the only one here be-besides you that can use, use magic."

The infirmary door rattles open as Gabel and the knight wander out. Ruth takes advantage of it, ducking under my arm, but I am hot on his trail. 

"Ruth, you are a healer. Your job is to sssave- save lives," I say. "When you refuse to teach me, how many d-do, how many do you think you're s-saving?"

He turns on his heels, jabbing a finger at me, "I did not start out to become a healer."

"B-but you've bec-become one. And s-s-so have I." I motion to where we have come, "Help me help these people. P-please."

“ Fine . Fine…” Defeated, Ruth sighs, muttering something to himself in thought before he asks, "Did you finish your study in elemental theory?" 

I confirm. 

"Then meet me behind my tower in a few days. I have to prepare the necessary tools.”

Chapter Text

"I'm going to show you something that you can apply to any spell." Kneeling in the grass, Ruth opens a book, flicking through the pages until he finds a detoxification rune. Pinning the paper down as a breeze rattles the edges, he traces the writing within the circle, "I've told you the language of mana replicates mana's natural flow in nature. It's meant for tools, but did you know you can also use it to learn magic?"

I shake my head, the dirt biting into my hands as I lean closer. 

"I want you to take the mana in your body and guide it the same way as this spell," Ruth says, sliding the book to me. 

Touching the page as if the knowledge will instantly transfer, I study the writing—each scrawl and loop—memorizing them as I imagine how they would flow through me. Reaching the end, I take a breath, centering myself as I pull strands from my Ma Ryok—only a few at first, adding on bit by bit to strengthen the magic as it weaves through my arm. The mana is the ink, and my bones the page, violet magic engulfing my hand as I finish writing the spell. The light is dim but strong enough to sustain. 

"An adequate first try," Ruth says. But can you utilize it? We shall see."

Propped against his tower are two buckets, one with water and the other covered with canvas cloth. Taking up this second bucket, the mage lugs it in front of him with both hands, holding it as far from him as possible. I cover my nose as he plops it beside me, gagging as he uncovers the lid to reveal a mound of dead frogs. A swampy odor radiates from them, striking anyone nigh with the pungent, near-sweet smell of rotting flesh. 

"Would you relax? It's not that bad!" But Ruth almost runs to grab the other bucket, hovering away as he drops it in the grass. Some of the water tips over the edge, soaking into the wood and ground. 

Grabbing from the top of the pile, the mage balances a frog within his hand, swallowing as he unsheathes the knife at his belt to slice a line down its back. "This is a Black-Spotted Swamp Toad," he holds it over the water bucket, squeezing dribbles of ooze from its body. The water turns mirky; cloud-like, with a pinkish tinge from the creature's blood. "It contains an extremely potent poison. I had the squires catch these—told them it was for a magical concoction."

"If it's ppotent, should you be, um, t…touching it like that?"

"It's only harmful if you ingest it. Don't lick your fingers, and you'll be fine."

"Noted," I say. Raising my hand to the water, I cast the detoxification spell once more, the magic permeating the water. 

Ruth instructs me on what I am to do, "Feel how the mana acts. Sense what doesn't belong.”

Pinching my eyes shut, I whet my perception to the sensations of the mana plain around me. The water is languid—smooth—its mana rippling in pacified waves, like calm personified but with an edge of instability. A churlish entity clings to it. It bites like acid; grates like metal. 

"Surround the outlier with the spell and pull it towards you."

Guiding pieces of the spell to bind to the poison, I close my fist, withdrawing it from the bucket. The poison follows, evolving from stiff to placid as it surrounds my hand. My hold on the mana dwindles. The fluid splashes to the ground, coating my skin. 

"For future reference, drop it into the bucket when you're done," Ruth says, granting me no praise for mediating the toxins. But there are no other corrections. I must be doing something right, I figure. 

"Dd, um, don't we want it out of the b-bucket?"

"Who cares about the bucket? It's not like it's a human. I merely don't want any leftover poison on my lawn."

Taking another frog—toad—from the pile, Ruth offers it to me, presenting his knife along with it for me to cut. 

"D-do I have to?"

"Do you want to learn magic?" Touche...

Biting down a retort, I extend my hand for him to set the toad into, grimacing as its damp, craggy skin gives beneath my fingers—like holding a mushy tomato. I look away as I press the knife to it, repulsed by the pressure required to pierce its leathery hide. I squeeze out every drop of poison, the last bits landing in the bucket with a wet, resounding plop. 

I toss the toad as far from me as I can after, frantically wiping my hand against the ground to purge the leftover film. It's all in vain, as it sticks like glue. The grass invigorates the smell, clogging my nose until I am on the verge of retching. 

Amused by my struggle, Ruth clutches his stomach as he heaves over and chortles in great, wheezing laughs. With each croak, his robe sways, billowing around him like low-hanging fruit, ripe for the picking. 

I grab for it. He screams. 

***

Detoxification practice goes well, and soon, I move on to shields, casting barriers from the ground itself and hardening them to stone. At some point, the guests from the Earl of Rovernne arrive, gone the next day with their tails tucked between their legs. I am too busy much to care. My lessons with Ruth are first priority, concealing them second, though the last proves difficult. 

Dust crumbles away, coating my hands as each hit ricochets, vibrations rippling through my arms into my teeth as the magic amplifies each onslaught. With every kick of Ulyseon’s foot, the shield trembles. Powerful, precise—he shows no sign of slowing down, but the magic stands firm. 

"Stop!" Wiping his sweat with a sleeve, the squire steps back as the mage passes him a wooden sword. "Final test."

Feeling the weapon in his grip, Ulyseon shifts its weight to find the best hold. I brace myself, fortifying the shield with more mana as he lifts the sword above his head. Crashing down, it fractures the rock in its path. I release the shield, but a shard has already found my head. 

"Ow!" Pressing my hands to my forehead, I am met with the familiar sting of torn flesh. Blood trickles onto my fingers, pooling along the ridges. 

"Madam! Are you alright?" Pushing Ulyseon aside, Ruth kneels in front of me to check the damage. I hiss as he touches the injury. 

"God help me," he curses. "I didn't bring any of my supplies. Ulyseon, go get water."

As the squire bounds off, the mage drags me to my feet, ushering me to the well in front of the tower. Ulyseon hauls the pail up as I tip my face forward for Ruth to scoop a handful of water to my brow. There is a rush of mana as he applies healing magic, and then nothing at all—no headache, no sting. 

"That's not good," he mutters. My eyes jut out as they whip to him. Ruth winces, "It left a scar."

"What?"

Throwing his hands up to defend himself, he says, "Face wounds are hard to heal, you know that!"

It's true. Skin and other tissues are so thin on parts of the body that, with rapid healing, scars are almost inevitable.

"Flat or indent?" I ask. He doesn't answer. " Flat or ind- indent?"

".....Indent."

"Ruth!"

"But it's in your hairline! And super tiny." Ulyseon squeezes his fingers really tight to prove the mage's point. 

"What am I going to- going to ddo?! Riftan's going to sssee it!" It's like he was a hawk in a past life—not even the tiniest of details escape him. And, God, am I making it easy for him! I knew he would discover I was going behind his back eventually, but I didn't think the proof would be plastered to my forehead…

"You could hide it with your hair," Ruth suggests. I scowl. Having my hair in my face wouldn't be suspicious at all—I only wear the same style every day! "Well, I don't see you having any better ideas."

Glancing between us, Ulyseon's eyebrows knit together, "Why don't you tell Sir Calypse the truth?" Ruth and I nearly choke. Riftan would kill us—squish us into wine like grapes!

"We have to tell him something," Ruth says. Since when was he so honest?

"I could- could  tell him I had it my, um, my entire life," I suggest. Ruth looks at me as if I am the most incredulous thing to walk this planet, and he's right. Resting against the well, I cry, "We're ssso d-dead..."

Racking my brain for any more ideas, some last means to survival, I draw completely short. 

"The hair thing it is."

"Now you say that!" "Shut up!"

What else am I supposed to do? I have a whole book to get through. I can't die now!

"He's been sso dis-distracted lately with the, um…road construction," I say, "maybe he won't notice." I could play it safe, avoid him when he is in the castle, go to bed early, wake up late. I only have to last until the campaign. 

Ruth groans into his hands, "We're goners."

***

Afraid he might injure me further, Ulyseon refuses to help after the incident with the shield. I am in quite the pickle now—a shield is not effective unless it is proven to be.

“Can’t you test it,” I ask Ruth, “with magic or s-something?”

Ruth disagrees. “Considering we’ve already scarred your face with a rock. I don’t know if lobbing fireballs at you is the best idea.”

Probably not…

So, I am forced to seek other help.

“A surprise for the commander?” Gabel asks. As diligent as ever, he refuses to break form as I impart my proposition, lowering his bow slowly before providing full attention. 

“I have this magical shield I ca-can conjure, but, um, it needs refinement be-before I can show it to him.” It’s not entirely a lie, but guilt sticks to every crevice of my stomach, bloating till I’m nauseated. 

“I understand that, but why a shield?”

“He likes d-defenses,” I say. He’s anal about them. 

Gabel agrees, nor questions when we meet behind the tower—a surprise should be hidden after all. His attacks are tenacious, fierce. They find every weakness in my shield and exploit it so that one blow turns it into a heap in front of me. 

This is what Ulyseon could be, I realize. Once he has the experience under his belt, once his skills are honed. 

And in the back of my mind, it creeps on me: that if this is the ability of someone ranked fourth in the knighthood, Riftan must be a truly formidable foe. I knew it from the book, but a book is nothing to experience… 

I stumble into him one afternoon on my way back to the castle after another shield practice slightly more successful than the last. 

“There you are.” Goose flesh prickles my skin as Riftan stalks his way over. 

Forcing myself to be calm, I ask, “Have you bb-been, um, looking for me?”

“It’s not like I have seen you much as of late.” Surveying me the closer he gets, Riftan’s eyes gum to the dirt on my dress. I prepare myself as he frowns—tripped over my shoe into the mud, I’ll say—but instead, he asks, “Where is your maid?”

“Pp-pardon?”

“I do not see her anywhere. Is she accompanying you? Do not tell me you’ve been wandering the castle alone.”

As his expression twists, I stammer out an apology, “I’m sssorry. I wasn’t, um, I di-ddidn’t think…about it, um…s-ssorry.” 

Sighing, Riftan lets his frustration dissipate, curling an arm around my back to lead me inside. I relax, if only to ease the tension in my body so he doesn’t feel it. 

“I thought we could have dinner together tonight. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that.” 

A momentary glance at my face turns into a minute of observation as he studies the hair swept across my forehead. The scar is just barely covered, tucked inside enough that it is hard to see. 

“You changed your hair.” 

“Is it bbad?” Reaching to touch it, I stop myself before I ruin the style. “I thought I would try sssomething new, b-but if you ddon’t like it—”

“I like it,” he says. “You look lovely in anything.” 

"Good." Clearing my throat, I change the focus of the conversation, "I've heard the, um, alliance di-did not go well." That's the gossip of the castle these days. Thank the Lord it's there to distract. 

Riftan sneers, "Bastards got mad when I wouldn't let them give me the short end of the stick. Wait and see, they'll be back with a better deal soon enough." Self-assured, his chin lifts, chest puffed ever so faintly. But what this alliance is, what this better deal will be, he does not elaborate. 

I do not ask. 

***

Ever since the boy injured by werewolves arrived, the knights have been uneasy. Riftan is the worst. He throws himself into meetings, oversees training more often, and training hours tick up to every day. I can hardly find time for magic lessons. 

Although he hides his anxieties behind a cold mask of indifference, they appear in everything else. His posture is rigid, like any motion could meet his sword. 

"Come bback to bed," I tell him one night as I catch him on the balcony. The moon, bright enough to be the sun, deepens the shadows of his face so that he appears unseeing as he hunches over the railing. 

Riftan straightens, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's fine." Wrapping my arms around him, I kiss his shoulder, "Com-come ssleep."

A second or two of stubborn debate passes in his head until he relents, sweeping me into his arms like I am the restless child as he carries me to our bed. The blankets are warm from when I left them, warmer as Riftan lays beside me. 

"It'll b-be, um, be alright," I say, rolling into him: the last little coo to pacify. He must think I am talking to myself—how could a knight as fearsome as he be worried?—but I am talking to us both. I'll make sure everything is alright, just as he will, too. 

The call to arms is delivered without heraldry—without noise, without panic—but simple paper and stoic duty. If not for the heightened tensions—the mere request for supplies— I would never know it had arrived. 

"Here are some texts for you to study while I'm away." A cloud of dust billows as Ruth drops a stack of books onto the table, sorting through the pile starting from the top. The cloud hangs in the air without ventilation to clear it, the tower muggy from the early Summer heat. I wave the dust from my face, coughing as he covers each title, "This one will help you with magic. This is about herbal medicines. This is an anatomy book from the South—it's not translated, but the illustrations are helpful for learning the structure of the human body. It'll help you cast healing magic better."

He grabs a book from the opposite side of the table, set with a group of jars, "This is for plant identification. It'll tell you what all of these are." Ruth motions to the containers, each filled with its own herb. "Most of them are labeled anyway, so I wouldn't worry too much."

I'm glad it's written down. There's so much to keep track of. 

Scanning the room for anything else, Ruth points to the bookshelf on the far wall, "I've already told you that you can read the books in here. Just don't–"

“–take them out of the room, I know."

"Then I think that covers everything." Removing the key to the tower from his pocket, Ruth bestows it to me, "Take good care of this now."

"I will."

"And avoid touching anything other than the herbs and books." I nod. 

It seemed like forever to come to this point, and now it is all happening so fast. Soon, it will be my turn to leave, and I will have no one to give this key to. No one to preserve Anatol save the few left behind.

"I can't be-believe you're going," I say. In my head, he is a permanent fixture, as most of the people here are. "What are you going to d-do with, um, bboring Sir Rikaydo to keep you company?"

"Sir Charon will be there too," he says. "It won't be so bad."

The two of us laugh, but it is hollow—a parting sound. What do you say in moments like these? I have never been good at goodbyes. 

"Are you coming to the, the, um, bbanquet tonight?"

"Most likely."

"You should. Hebaron's always in need of someone to ppick-on when he's dr-drunk." Ruth scoffs at my poor attempt to lighten the mood.

I want to thank him for this magical gift, want him to know the help he has given me, but any expression of gratitude feels too final. Like I am sending him away for good. 

"I should go, um, go before Riftan is d-done with his meeting." They are finalizing the travel plans, rechecking the necessities to ensure everything is there. It won't take long. 

His lips curve gently, warmth filling his eyes. I have never seen Ruth smile when I have not done something he is proud of—or anything embarrassing. It appears so out of place. 

"I'll see you later," he says. 

"Sssee you…s-see you later.”

Chapter Text

I wake up to light touches; first, a finger grazing my cheek, then a kiss to the corner of my mouth. I turn away from them, nuzzling into the pillow, though Riftan persists. 

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he murmurs, drawing me against him so that our bodies are flush. He is like a heater—almost too warm—though with the blanket twisted around our legs and the rest of me exposed, it is tolerable and, dare I say, pleasant. 

Tilting my chin towards him, he joins our lips together. I melt further into his touch, in bliss as those kisses spread along my jaw, to my temple, to my nose, scraping the peak of my brow–

I jolt, heart leaping as I nudge him away. Rising from the bed, I dodge his attempts to pull me back as I cover myself in my robe, holding the garment tight as it pools around my body. 

"Where are you going?" The bed creaks as Riftan shifts within it, tracking my movements through the room. 

"Were the ssservants here earlier?" I ask, ringing the bell for them anyway. Fresh clothes are folded neatly by my partition, and bowls have been placed on the table for washing. 

"You have not answered my question."

"I have a lot to d-do today," I say. Gabel is expecting me for shield practice. "I have to get ready."

"So much to do that I cannot have you one more time?"

Laying out a towel to dry with, I pour water into one of the bowls. "If I, um… recall last night, you have had me plenty."

"Lies." 

My skin prickles at the comment, the hairs on my neck standing on end. It is only a joke, his tone soft—lively—but does he know how close to home he is hitting? Part of me wonders…

Without the mind to tie my hair back, I let it slump around the bowl, splashing my face clean, if only to wake myself. Drying, I rinse my mouth, chewing on mint leaves to freshen my breath as I rub fragrant oil under my arms like deodorant. 

Out of bed, Riftan slips on his pants. My gaze wanders to the lines of his torso, tracing the ridges of his obliques to the crest of his hips. I glance away as he catches me, hurrying to the stack of my clothes to unbury my chemise as he steps towards me. 

A knock sounds at the door. Thank the Lord for Ludis!—she saves me from my lust as Riftan's attention is diverted. 

The maid bows as she enters, averting her eyes from the half-nude man, not a hand's reach away from her. "You called for me, Madam?"

"Yes, lend me– lend me one moment." Chemise in tow, I duck around the partition to put it on. 

"The kitchens are preparing breakfast," the maid informs me when I am done. Lacing my bodice, she glances between Riftan and me, "They are making two meals."

"Yes, that is fine," Riftan says. Finished washing, he dons his shirt over his head, tucking the ends into his pants, before wearing his tunic. 

I settle at my vanity for Ludis to do my hair. "Will you be at the, um, quar–quarry today?" I ask. 

"I might go later if the weather is good," he shrugs. Resting in one of the chairs at the table, he watches me in the mirror, following the comb in Ludis's hand as she struggles to unknot all the matts he created through the course of the night. 

More servants arrive. Clearing the table, they fill it again with fruits, cheeses and bread, eggs and meat. Taking an apple, Riftan carves it with a knife. 

"You know what would be nice?" He asks. "If we rode out to the west lake again today."

"It would bbe," I admit, "b-but I told you–"

"Yes, yes. You are busy." Cutting a slice, he bites it straight from the blade. Our eyes meet in the mirror as he chews, "What do you have to do today, if I might ask?"

"You– you may. I, um..." Fumbling for an excuse, I say, "I have mostly my, um, routine duties, but…I also wanted to, wanted to practice archery later today. There's one particular shot I have trouble with." It's a partial truth. Now that Gabel and I have moved to horseback, I find I can't easily switch angles in time to make shots—one particular target set on the curve of the arena is the bane of my existence. However, I have not utilized archery outside of lessons for some time now. 

"Maybe I will join you–" 

"Oh, um, no. I would focus bbetter on my own." I wince as the words spill out too fast. 

Riftan's eyes narrow as if he tastes something bad, his bites slowing before carefully resuming pace. Fingers drumming against the table—once, then twice—he swallows, "Some other time, then."

***

Riftan is quiet throughout breakfast, eating less than he usually does. It's not as if I am perfect either, counting the minutes until he leaves. 

"I think I'll head to the quarry now," he says, rising to buckle his sword belt around his waist. "I will return in time to see you this evening if I do." Kissing my head, he wishes me luck with my archery before going.

The sky is hazy, thundercells bunching against the horizon till the air curls with electricity. The plants quiver under the wind, the trees rattling above me as I hasten to the mage's tower, where Gabel is already waiting. 

"You're late," he says, smirking as his eyes find the faint bruises at the corner of my neck. "Did the commander keep you busy?"

I blush, "I asked you here to help, not make– make witless remarks, thank you. But yes…we, we ate together this, um, morning." As his expression morphs to something more moronic, I shush him, "No more."

"Fine. No more," he relents. He takes up the wooden practice sword—battered at the edges from how much we have used it—as I kneel in the grass. The breeze picks up, numbing my cheeks as it sweeps past to wrap around the tower. 

"Ddo you think it'll, um, it’ll rain?" I ask. 

Gabel peers at the horizon, scrutinizing it, "Those clouds have a ways to go 'til they get here. It'll most likely be tonight."

I am only asking because of Riftan. Poor weather means he'll be back sooner or even that he'll change his mind about going. But if the storm is a ways out, as Gabel says, then there is nothing to worry about. Riftan is skilled at sensing the forecast—if it were to change quickly, he'd have never left the castle. 

With that in mind, I turn to practice, imbuing the ground with my mana until it ruptures into a shield. When I am sure it is fortified, I signal Gabel to strike. 

The impact, and the ones to follow, meet every part of my body, sailing through my limbs, though they never pierce the barrier. The knight ramps his effort with each hit. Attack after attack, shield after shield, the onslaughts are harder to repel as I grow weaker—more weary. My arms burn from the heat of the magic coursing through them, sweat gathering on my skin. 

"Stop!" 

Gabel retreats as the shield crumbles, too frail to resist another blow. Dusting my hands of the rocks jabbed into them, I collect myself, waiting for him to move further back so that I can cast another. 

He doesn't.

Instead, Gabel stands straighter—at attention. Following his gaze behind me, I find Riftan reclined against the tower wall. Every curse in existence—some newly created—pass through my mind as he looks at me. 

Pushing to his feet, he stalks towards us, “I don’t know whether to be relieved or upset, right now.”

I stand, "Riftan..."

Gabel steps between us, dropping the wooden sword. “There is no reason to be upset. Her ladyship is doing this for you."

"For me?" Riftan snorts. "You can't tell me you honestly think that. What part of this could possibly be for me?"

"It is a shield for Anatol's use. She has been refining it so she could show it to you."

"Is that so?" Riftan’s displeasure rolls thick of his tongue as he drones each word, stinging like the needles of a hundred wasps. I am forced to endure, unable to run.

 "He...he d-doesn't know."

"Doesn’t know what?" Gabel stills, his voice no longer sure. The ground looks bitter as I stare at it, incapable of meeting his eyes. 

Riftan crosses his arms, "What doesn’t he know, Maxi? What didn't you tell him—that I forbade you from using magic?"

"You ssaid learning."

"You expect me to believe you learned—what is this?" He flicks a hand to where the soil has been disturbed, "Shields—before I forbade you? Don't. lie," he warns as I hesitate. I grit my teeth. "That's what I thought. Honestly, I should have seen this coming."

"What's that sssupposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. This is not the first time you've gone behind my back."

Moving away, Gabel lingers, unsure if he should leave or remain.

" Go, " I say, turning in the other direction if only to save him. 

Trailing like a shadow, Riftan is close enough to nip at my heels. "When will you stop disregarding me?"

"Riftan, enough." Knights are gathering for training—his men; comrades. They watch as we pass—can hear everything. 

"No, answer me. I make rules for your safety, and you blatantly ignore them. How long until you listen?"

"Riftan."

"I will not stand for this. You cannot keep disobeying me." I maintain my speed, pushing forward to clear the onlookers, when he grabs my arm, "Maximillian, face me when I speak to you."

Slamming my fist against his chest, I shout for him to let go. "You have n-no right–"

"By law, I have every right."

A knight comes to my rescue—Hebaron. He shoves Riftan away; I nearly topple over as my arm is freed. 

"You think– you think I give a shit about the law?" I yell. "What of my autonomy? Why d-do you get to take that?"

"Max–"

"No! You will hear me." Every argument, he drowns me out. Every argument, I never say what I want or what I should, but not this time. Damn the people around us. "I have d-done so much for Anatol, and I could do a hell of a lot more if…if you would just let me. I am bbegging you to let me."

Despite his effort, Riftan cannot break free from the other knight’s grasp. Pointing a finger, I bridge the gap, meeting his blackened leer so that I know he hears me, "You have ppromised me luxury. You have p-pr-promised me safety. But why ddo…why do you never promise me happiness? Why ddo you pr-prevent me from it?"

Riftan falters, stops struggling. He remains where he is even as Hebaron releases him. 

"Forbb-forbidding me one of the few things I have bbeen useful at. Confronting me so p-publicly. That ddoes not make me happy."

Usually so rigid, so secure, his posture sags as his expression turns contrite. Like realization has hit. I almost feel guilty…

Why do I feel guilty?

Met with a route for escape, I turn away, raising a hand when he pursues. " Ddon't. Follow me." 

I have no energy for this—for any of it. 

***

I hide within my boudoir, ordering the servants that no one is to disturb me, not even the lord. I have no reason to see him, no reason to trust this argument will end in resolution.

The clouds arrive by noon, releasing mild rains that turn to great deluges beating against the castle. Thunder rumbles, the lightning too far to be known. But rain is not the only visitor.

"You are, um…earlier than I expected."

"My assistant and I ask your ladyship to forgive us," drawing his cap against his breast, the portrait painter bows. “News of the storm pushed our horses faster. We wished not to be caught in it.”

“It d-does not matter,” I say. “Calypse Castle welcomes you. The sservants are p-preparing your rooms and warm meals.” I invite him to the sitting room to discuss plans over tea. 

The painter—Barone is his name—is an older man, balding and plump—jolly seeming. He understands the nobility, knows the words that will stroke their egos and garner relations. 

"It is an honor to be in the home of the Dragon Slayer," he says. "Not once did I think I might step foot in Anatol, let alone be invited."

"As I s-said, we welcome you." Thanking the maid as she pours my cup full, I raise it to my lips where the tea steams my face. I take the tiniest, burning sip. 

“If your ladyship would allow it. I would like to start as soon as possible.”

“How ssoon did you have in mind?” I ask. 

“Tomorrow.”

How lucky I am to have swallowed, or else I would choke! I was planning to avoid Riftan tomorrow, an unfortunate impossibility if we are sitting together for a portrait. Logistically, it does not work. 

Setting the cup down, I plaster a smile on my face as I agree, though not willingly, “Tomorrow, then.”

Pleased, Barone takes the opportunity to explain the process to me—how the painting will go, how long it will take. Heb asks if I might show him various locations to be used. I show him the other sitting rooms, the Great Hall, the Solar—he does not like any of them. 

“I thought the, um, tapestries in here would work, work nicely for a bbackground,” I say. 

“The tapestries are fine. It is the lighting that suffers—too harsh, it’s no good for delicate features like your own.” I nod, if only because I have no clue what to say. Are the candles not soft enough? How will the lighting be any different in any other room when the rain will stay tomorrow?

In a last-ditch attempt, I show him the boudoir. My private space—the last room I’d want him anywhere near. 

“This is marvelous,” he says. “With the windows and the art, it’s an artist’s paradise! Madam, your portrait must be done in here, I insist.”

Of course, I think. How disappointing…

By evening, I wash in the bath, scrubbing and oiling my skin while Ludis cleans my hair. I sit in front of the fire to dry after, the storm drafting a chill as the wind batters against the balcony doors. 

Riftan is out somewhere in the dark, not returned since our fight. What will he say? What fights will we commit ourselves to? Dread settles in my stomach like lead, poisoning me with remorse. If only I could take back what I said—just to make it easier on myself. Not that it would be easy at all…

A bolt of lightning brightens the room, a sharp rumble echoing as the rain stiffens till I am afraid it will burst through the windows. I am on my feet by the next flash, crossing to the other side of the room. 

Taking parchment from my desk, I reach for the feathered pen, dipping it in ink as I stare at the page, like the words will spark in front of me. Thunder cracks; I write. 

Riftan. 

The letters bind themselves to the page, unable to be undone. A breath or two passes, my hand unsure of what's to follow though every word I've ever known—English and Roemian—spring within my head. 

I tell him I expect him in the morning, that the maids will set out his clothes. Your Maxi , I sign it without thought; do not let myself think as I fold the note and place it on his side of the bed. 

I slip into the hallway, my slippers pattering against the tiled floor. The sconces chase away the dark, flames dancing on the walls—I can almost hear them flickering. Softening each footfall, I duck behind a pillar as I near the stairs. 

“I will have it sent to your chambers right away, My Lord, along with dry clothes,” Rodrigo says. His voice grows closer. “In fact, might I take your cloak?” Fabric rustles as the clothing is removed. 

The pillar is large and square enough to hide me. I press my back to it to keep within the shadows, locking my eyes to the wall as I crane my ear to listen. There is nothing—no footsteps, no conversation, then:

“Has her ladyship retired to bed already?” 

I fight down a gasp, my breath gone with it. Riftan stands on the other side of the pillar. 

“To my knowledge, yes,” Rodrigo says. 

My muscles ache with the pressure of standing still, acute to each twitch of my legs or shift of my fingers, enough to set my heart racing. My lungs burn to exhale, so expanded they might explode. 

“That is all,” Riftan says, at last. 

Rodrigo moves back towards the stairs, though I cannot hear Riftan. Refusing to look, I keep my eyes straight ahead lest he notice my gaze and find me. I don’t breathe, either; he might hear that too. 

The bedroom door clicks shut down the hall. I exhale all at once, my lungs straining to return to normal. Though my mind tells me to escape, I linger. Has he seen the note? Will he come looking?

Disgust tastes acrid on my tongue. Here I am, coveting his reaction when I have hardly forgotten the words he said this morning. Feminism has certainly left me–

"Madam?"

I jump out of my skin, readying my magic to attack—well, block. Ludis blinks, confused. 

“Is everything alright?” She asks. 

Gathering my remaining dignity off the floor, I say, “You fr-frightened me.”

“I apologize. Though, might I ask why you are hiding?”

“I am, I am not hiding…merely…” My attention wanders to the platter in her arms, on it a piece of rye bread and a bowl of mushy soup. Not appetizing in the slightest, least of all dignified for a lord. 

As if sensing my thoughts, Ludis leans closer, “Us servants cannot make our displeasure known outright, but we can still make it known.” Catching on, I smirk. I always wondered what they did to poor Rikaydo after our confrontation. What an interesting glimpse into that answer. 

“I am avoiding his…his lordship,” I say. “I figured I’d get ssome…rest bbefore tomorrow.” There is more to it, that dread in my gut growing heavier and frothing, but I refuse to dig deeper. 

“If you will wait here, Madam. I will light a fire in one of the guest rooms.”

“I would ap-ppreciate that.”

Ludis makes good on her promise. When the food is delivered, she finds me a room on the third floor, away from everyone else.

“Sir Calypse asked where you were,” she says, lighting a candle with the flame of another. “I told him you chose to sleep elsewhere tonight. He did not seem pleased but did not protest.” My shoulders ease as a burden is removed. "He did request, however, that I stay with you."

"I can agree with that."

With the candles lit, the dark is not so threatening. I push the covers aside as Ludis fluffs the pillows, climbing into bed. 

“Ddid he s-say, um, anything about the food?” I ask. 

“He did not.”

“He must know he d-ddeserves it, then.” 

A muted laugh escapes her, merely a whisper as she pulls the blankets over me. "I will be right back," she says. "I must gather wood and more blankets."

“D-don’t rush,” I say, though it is cold in the room. The thunderstorm has died some, but the rain carries on. Burrowing into the bed, I huddle to keep warm as though I were a cat.

The maid returns in her nightgown, hair braided across her shoulder. Without her coif she is much more youthful, her features subdued with her hair allowed to frame them. The fire lit, she spreads blankets across the floor at the foot of the bed.

“What are you ddoing?” 

She glances at me, "Preparing to sleep."

Shaking my head, I pat the spot beside me. "You will use the bbed."

"But, Madam–"

“No bbuts, there is more than enough room.” When she hesitates, I add, “If you ssleep on the floor, I- I will not s-sleep at all.” The maid concedes, folding the blankets to set aside. I scoot over to give her space as she lays next to me.

“You will wake me up early?” I ask, turning over to be face-to-face. 

“Yes, Madam.”

“Good. I am afraid if the s-servants know I am ssl-sslleeping elsewhere but my, um, chambers tonight.” 

“It will be our secret,” she assures me.

“And Riftan’s,” I add. 

“And the lord’s.” 

It is like a sleepover, the ones I would have with my sister when we were old enough to tolerate each other’s company. We’d watch movies on her tablet and spill popcorn across my bed as we stayed up for hours. I wish I had that relationship with Rosetta, though I suppose in some way, I have it with Ludis. 

“Goodnight,” I tell her, blowing out the candle by the bedside. 

“Goodnight, Madam.”

***

I wear my red dress for the portrait, beset in gems from hair to hand like an heir of Roem, every blemish powdered from my face until I am beautiful—or at least, feel so. 

By the time I arrive at my boudoir, the portrait painter has commandeered it, the furniture rearranged to make way for his art. I withhold my annoyance at the absence of courtesy, providing space for Barone to work if it means I will be rid of him sooner. 

“More to the right,” he instructs his assistant on where to place a single chair in the frame of his background. I cringe as the wooden legs land roughly against the carpet, enough to jolt the floor. “No, no, more to the left. No, you have gone too far, back to the right.”

The assistant scoots the chair hardly an inch, nudging it slightly.

“Perfect! Madam, what do you think?”

It looks the same as it did before, but I succumb to his ego anyway, “Your, um, vision is a…fine one.” Barone inclines his head as if there was no other opinion I could have provided. 

The door opens. Though a lump rises in my throat, Barone is elated at the sight of Riftan. 

I swallow, "My lord!" The perplection across Riftan's face at the sugariness in my tone soon fades as his eyes trail across my form, drinking me in. I move back some, motioning to the painter, "I would like to introduce Bbarone Egremont, the famous p-portraiture. The Pprincess Royal recommended him."

Barone steps forward, offering his hand to Riftan, “It is my honor to be in the presence of such a distinguished knight as Sir Calypse. You will no doubt be impressed by my work.”

Riftan shifts on his feet, adjusting his stance as the man speaks. Boredom or discomfort? I wonder. They take the same appearance on him. 

He tugs at his collar—discomfort. 

Surveying his clothing, I cannot find anything wrong. It is tailored to him, though mistakes can be made. In fact, the doublet is quite becoming on him; stygian and masculine, it fits his character. But something is off with the crimson sash hung to his shoulder. It doesn't sit quite right. 

“Ansoin!” Barone yells. The apprentice falters as he lays out his master’s tools, “I told you I did not want the brushes, I wanted the charcoals. And the canvas is all wrong!” He mutters something under his breath, looking at Riftan and me. “Excuse me, please,” he says, before running to correct the boy. 

Riftan does not move, nor do I, neither of us speaking as we watch them scramble about. Stealing a glance at his sash from the corner of my eye, I chide myself to ignore it. No one else will notice. 

But I will. 

I bite my lip. If I leave it, it will be painted like that forever.

Turning to Riftan, I clear my throat, “Your, um…ssash, it is messed up.” Without waiting for his answer, I pull on it, adjusting it to billow more in the back and less in the front. I also fix it to fill more of his chest. 

Riftan’s hand covers mine before I can move away, “About what I said—“

“What an excellent pose!” Our eyes flick to the painter. He shoos his assistant along, “Move that chair. I want it out of the picture. Come, come, stand this way,” he calls to us. “Just like you were now.” 

“I thought we, we agreed I would b-be ssitting?” I protest. “Would it not bbe more, um, more d-dignified?”

“Nonsense! To show the inner desire of a couple is a far more interesting subject.”

At a loss, I blink. The hell is this guy on about???

As Barone redirects his attention to the apprentice, shouting for his charcoals—“Did I not ask for them already?”—I lean into Riftan, who curls his arm around my waist and holds my hand to his chest. Refusing to look at him, I cannot ignore how his touch burns. It is all I am aware of. 

I suck in a breath as his nose presses to my ear. “Do not think we will not discuss this, Maximillian,” he drawls, then is gone, the caress of his voice leaving my gut mismatched and my heart sputtering. His hold on me tightens. 

“Now, then,” Barone settles at his easel, “let us begin.” Collecting myself, I keep a sultry gaze forward as he sets charcoal to canvas. 

My knees ache by the time we finish for the day, my hand clammy in Riftan’s grasp. I rip it free the moment Barone releases us, moving for the door. 

“Would you not like to see the sketch I have so far?”

“I am afraid I must bbe, um, be on my way. However, you must show it to his lordship—I’m sure he, sure he would love to sssee it.” I am gone before any more can be said, my feet propelling me down the hall. I listen for the door to swing shut so that I might run without them hearing, but instead, there is the resounding thud of heavy shoes. Glancing over my shoulder, I pick up the pace as I see Riftan gaining on me. 

“Maximillian,” he hisses. I start to run, but he grabs me by the waist, “Would you stop avoiding me?”

I am about to retort when Barone and his assistant appear in the hall. Setting me down, Riftan’s arm moves to my shoulder as he starts to corral me away, “Let us discuss this in my office.”

I am trapped now. 

I expect him to speak on our long walk down the stairs, around the corner to the end of the corridor, to say quipped remarks of dissatisfaction, opinions, anything to make his displeasure known further. But to his credit, Riftan stays quiet, only providing a few mumbled words to guide me into the room. I move a few feet away, planting myself on the ornate rug as he closes the door softly. He pauses, still holding the knob, before facing me. 

“You were right,” he says. My mouth parts—I thought I would hear a million other things before I would hear that. Moving closer, he stops shy of me, “As right as I was to confront your dishonesty, it was wrong of me to do so publicly. And I am bullheaded when it comes to your happiness. I realize that now.” 

Taking both my hands, he holds them to his mouth, “I apologize for what I said and how I have acted. You do not deserve it. But I do not deserve you lying to me.”

“You ddo not,” I admit, though I know I will only be lying more in the days to come—it is inevitable, “and I am s-sorry. You said we would- would ddiscuss me learning magic, and then we di-didn’t, and I was afraid that if I br-brou-brought it up, you would refuse—“ taking my chin as my head dips down, he tilts it to make me look at him. “Bbut I shouldn’t have to ask to do what I am p-passionate about. I am an ad-adult capable of making my own choices, even if they are…reckless at times.” 

“I am fine with you making your own decisions,” Riftan says. “I am not fine with you endangering yourself.” I cannot argue with that, I know. 

I wrap my pinky around his as he extends it to me. 

“I will be hiring a mage—I am forming an alliance with the Earl of Rovernne for that purpose. But I will not forbid you from magic if you promise not to be reckless.” 

I should not have joined our pinkies so soon. Once more my mind wanders to Ethelene, to the rock, to the miscarriage, to the duke…

But I am in it, now—to back out would raise suspicion. “I ppromise to, to not take…unnecessary risks,” I say

Riftan appears content. 

“Thank you,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. I freeze as he brushes my bangs to the side, his finger tracing the scar. He speaks next as if having waited to ask, “What happened here?” 

“Will you bbe mad if I, if I tell you?”

A breath passes. “I will remain calm.” 

I cover the scar with my hand, so it is out of sight. “B-before Ruth left, he taught me to cast a shield, and well…” Riftan waits patiently for me to finish, eyes like steel. “Um…well, when we were testing it, a roc-rock br-broke off and…” I act out it hitting me. He scowls. 

“Pplease don’t kill Ruth.”

Chapter Text

Spider lilies. For now, they are red blobs against the canvas, their spidery limbs scarcely defined as they stretch haphazardly like mere ideas. 

"An artist can hardly say all he does when he does it," Barone answers when I ask why they are there. I have sat for him several times for this portrait, have viewed the painting the same amount, but this is the first I have seen the flowers. "It is our job to feel what the art itself wants to express."

As he speaks, he traces the sword at Riftan's belt, the design near complete down to the details carved into its hilt. "Sir Calypse is a presence of his own. But your ladyship is reticent in expression—" Unassuming is what he means “—your mere image does not capture you. It's very frustrating for an artist, even one as good as myself. One can draw a person exactly, add every line and pore of their face, but if they don't feel the same, the soul is not there."

From the day he sketched me in charcoal, the canvas glared at him—would not allow his art breath no matter what he tried. Then, one night, as he slept, visions of red flowers encapsulated his dreams.

"Do they compliment you? Perhaps," he shrugs. "I will not know until the painting is complete."

With that said, I let it be, ignoring the single white flower at the center of the vase. 

***

Melric Aron arrives soon after, faster than the portrait painter leaves. It is a wonder—he is so frail, I fear he will topple with the next breeze. 

"It is an honor to be welcomed by and serve Wedon's most renowned kni–" The rest of the sentence is cut off as the elderly mage collapses over his cane, hacking loose the air in his lungs with wet, resounding coughs. Rushing to his aid, his attendants support him by the elbows as he wobbles to stay upright. 

I do not have to look to know the dissatisfaction on Riftan's face. With a wave of his hand, he signals for Rodrigo to attend to the mess. 

"W-welcome to Anatol," I say as they all but carry him to his quarters. What else am I to? I have read the novel, and even I am surprised he survived the journey!

"Bring me a messenger," Riftan orders one of the male servants. Rubbing his temples, he says, "I should have never agreed to a military alliance with that blasted Earl. He said he was sixty-eight."

"He's haggard from the journey," I say. "Give him time to recuperate, and I'm ssure he will, will p-prove himself. A mage like him is…is a wealth of knowledge. Gifts like that are found where you least expect them."

Though his jaw unclenches some, Riftan is unconvinced. "I hope you are right. I would hate to add to your burden."

My burden—the infirmary is what he means. Now that I am allowed magic again, it is where I spend most of my time. Already, my abilities flourish, and with Melric at my service, I shall gain what little else I will need for my journey—whatever scraps of information are useful to me. 

It will be any day now. I hear it calling to me—Ethelene—her voice is growing louder. 

Beckoning. 

I allow Melric a few days rest, sending servants to check on his condition before I check myself. Assured he is in high spirits, I acquaint him with the infirmary. 

"I have brought with me a variety of herb seeds I'd like to plant," he opens a sack full of envelopes. Taking one labeled Calendula in thick scrawl, he presses the parchment together to reveal the seeds outlined within. "I can plant them, but I will need a plot of land if it is not too much trouble."

"There is an area near the well you might use. If you give me the, um, sspeci-specifications, I'll have the s-servants till the ground for you."

I ask him about the types of seeds and what medicinal uses the herbs have. His face brightens at the thought that someone might ask him anything in those regards, and he gladly explains in long-winded detail. It is as I told Riftan: he is a wealth of knowledge. 

I tell him again at dinner.

"He's incredible! Not only can he tell you the use of any p-plant off the top of his head, but he can also accelerate their growth. He pplanted a full garden this morning—just the ss– the seeds—they're already sp-prouting."

Riftan's eyes widen. Whether he's feigning to be impressed or not, I don't care, tripping through my words to say all there is. 

"And! And, get- get this, he can treat mental conditions with psy…psychological magic he created. He created it!"

Cutting a piece of meat from his plate, Riftan feeds it to me. I talk around my chewing, "So I thought, naturally, he went to the World Tower. No! He just took what pssychological magic there was and improved it. I mean, he had the, um, magical ability, he just d-didn't have the...the um..."

"Education?"

"Exactly." I swallow what I'm chewing, wiping my mouth to take a sip of water 

"I'm glad you're able to learn from him," Riftan says. "I was worried this whole ordeal would be for nothing."

"Not at all," I say. "Melric pulls his weight sso well. I've had s-so much time to sstudy with him here."

"But studying is not the only thing you do..." That stern bearing takes hold of Riftan's features like he's ready to scold me. 

I scratch my cheek, "I attend to my other, um…my other responsibilities, as well."

"But what about leisure? I don't want you overworking yourself."

"I s-spend the occasional time in my bboudoir." There were also my lessons with Gabel, but I haven't spoken with him since what happened. Should I give him time, or should I seek him out now? I have no clue…

Riftan tears a piece of bread to feed me as he continues his lecture. "I don't want you so focused that you forget to take care of yourself."

"I won't," I say, though I'm not sure it's true. 

***

I spend almost every waking minute preparing—finishing my clothes, stealing supplies from the infirmary to hoard, picking and choosing amongst my needs what I am in need of most. In the hours I spend with Melric, I take notes of every medicinal remedy he makes, every plant that might save me or someone else. Every other hour, I scour the magical texts in Ruth's tower, making note of the same types of tools. 

"You mustn't use magic for everything," Melric says. "Whenever possible, it is best to let the body heal itself naturally. Not that you cannot aid it." As he speaks, he spreads poultice on a patient's knee. "When one receives healing for every piddly scratch, they become dependent—that as long as there is magic, they are capable of anything. Soon, they rely on magic to function."

I pull out a chair for him to sit at the table as he finishes, collecting the dishes from his hand to wash in the basin. He carries on with his instruction as I work, "Train your eyes to capture the severity of injuries to judge what treatment is needed. The moment you fall into the well of healing everyone in sight, your life as a healer will be filled with frustration and suffering."

These days, there is plenty of frustration to go about and more suffering as news of the monster army reaches the castle. 

Propriety demands they mind their speech in the presence of women, but even so, the knights lack prudence and more the subtlety to reserve their thoughts. "I heard several villages have been ransacked by mass groups of trolls." They huddle together in the corner, sparing glances to me as I tend to the wound on a squire's arm.

"Aren't the reinforcements doing anything?"

"They're too preoccupied with Louvelle. It's requiring all their men."

One of them glances up at the same time as me, tilting his head to avoid my eyes as he lowers his speech. I wrap the bandages quieter to hear them—slower to spare some time. 

"I'm telling you," the one man steps closer, turning his back from me as he says, "there's something else at play. A greater evil pulling the strings."

If only they knew the half of it, I think. What would they do then?

***

The news only gets worse. 

"Defeat falls upon the battle in Livadon! The alliance has been shattered!"

I will never understand how the royal court deems it best to deliver its call to arms. First, it came as the knights whisper—hardly there, easy to ignore—and now it arrives with stampede and trumpets, crying out till all know it is here. I shove my way through the crowd to hear it, past every servant and squire and knight pressed body to body beneath the humid sun. 

"Tell me," at the forefront, Sir Oberon speaks to the royal messenger, "the knights sent from Anatol, what happened to them?"

"The Remdragon Knights were placed on the front lines. They are most likely trapped inside Louvelle Castle."

"They're as good as dead," a knight beside me mutters. No propriety at all, it seems, nor hope. 

Passing along a sealed missive, the messenger mounts his horse. "Per the peace treaty of the seven kingdoms, additional reinforcements are to be sent from each kingdom. Sir Calypse shall obey the king's command and lead his knight to Livadon."

Then they are gone. Turning back for the gate, the messenger and the men who accompany him retreat, the banner of Wedon stirring in their wake. 

I do not see Riftan that evening, as I would expect. From the moment he returns to the castle to the time I retire to bed, he is kept in the council room, reviewing every plan there is. But the next day, life returns to as it was—like the trouble is merely rumors and we are winning the war. He joins me in our chambers that night. 

"How fit do you think Melric is for travel?" What a way to greet a wife…

I raise my pen before ink blots the rune I am transcribing—a basic fire spell, simple enough to learn. I recognize this question; know exactly what it means. 

"You s-saw him when he arrived," I say. "He cannot endure long trips." Riftan nods. 

Here is where the conversation should end, where we go on as if it never happened, but we don't. His steeled gaze follows as I rise from my desk—I meet it with the same intensity, our faces tightening for each silent word exchanged. 

"Absolutely not."

"I wouldn't give up on the idea s-so- so quickly," I say. "You and I bboth know you will not find another mage." No money in the world could entice one at this hour—I pray to God every chance I have these days that it is true. 

Unwrapping his sword belt, Riftan wanders to the table. "I will not lead you into danger."

"B-but you will lead your knights into it without, without adequate pr- provisions? You are not invincible."

"We will manage."

"Mages can heal themselves," I argue, "can you? D-do you have the medicinal knowledge required? You ccert-certainly do not have the magic."

"Maxi–" He slams his stuff down. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucks in a breath to calm his temper, "I have let you have magic, can that not be enough?"

"No. Not when the people I gained it for are leaving," I say. 

"I am putting my foot down. You will not accompany us, and I will hear no more about it."

"But–"

"Enough, Maxi. I have spent all of yesterday and today—and I suspect tomorrow—preparing my knights for war. Would you allow a man his rest?"

I withhold my protest but stand my ground if only to remain in the fight. "This is not done."

"No," Riftan sighs. "No, I suppose it isn't."

Respect demanded I ask him first, but now that he has refused me, I will turn to his knights as I planned to all along. 

***

I seek out Hebaron. 

Sword in his lap, his sharpening tools around him, the knight strokes his beard as he mulls over what I have said. "That is quite the proposition."

"You cannot tell me you have not thought of it."

"I cannot."

The knights' annex is unfamiliar to me, having only stepped foot within it once before. My voice strains to be heard as it strains to be quiet, lest anyone chancing upon the main room hear our conversation—discover me. Not that it would matter much. They will know what will pass here today soon enough.

"I can assure you that I am not naive enough to think it will not b-be ddangerous. But I can also assure you that I have the skill- sskill-set to at least defend myself. You have sseen my ability in archery—I can d-do it on horseback now—and I can conjure magical shields. Ask Gabel."

"Gabel?"

"Ask him. He has trained me in each."

"I believe you," Hebaron says. A moment ticks by as he reclines against the table, thumbing the dull edge of his sword as he reaches his conclusion. "You are very persuasive, I will admit. If we cannot find a mage in the next two days, I will speak to the others."

He instructs me to find the council room if I do not hear otherwise. There will be a meeting before they leave. 

In that time, I practice, unable to sit idle—incapable of it. Whatever I will say, whatever they might ask—anything for my security—I rehearse with Ludis until we are sure of my ability for when the day is nigh. 

And the day comes, mageless as I hoped it would be.

The men rise as one as I enter the room, bowing though their eyes raise to trail across my form—along the cut of my trousers to the tunic cinched at my waist. I scan them too, each varied expression—tight-lipped wariness, veiled skepticism—each a different version of the same thought. Whatever it is, I ignore it, even as I find Gabel, his mouth pressed in a line as his expression hardens to something unreadable. Nothing will dissuade me; I cannot let it. 

"Lady Calypse," Hebaron salutes with his same insouciant air, though it lacks its usual carefreeness. "We were discussing your request."

"Then I am right on time, it would appear."

The knight chuckles, the sound not entirely comforting—more sarcastic—as he offers the last seat to me—Riftan's. "The commander has gone to send a carrier pigeon. Until he returns, you are ours to interrogate."

God help me, I think as I sit down. The knights follow. 

Pretending as if I belong, if only to convince myself, I cast my gaze across the table stretching before me, to each unwelcoming face, daring any one of them to speak. 

One clears his throat, sparing a wayward glance for someone else to take the lead. He is left hanging. 

"Madam, some of us have our concerns about your proposition. The way to Livadon is full of peril; we will pass through several known monster layers. Not to mention that villages are few and far between. We would have to make camp most nights."

"You ddo not have to lecture me on the riskss," I say, "I am aware of them. This is not a de-decision I make lightly, I can assure you." Realizing the need for higher ground, I stand, "There are many reasons you may find not to take me, b-but let me ssay that those are the very reasons you should. You may…may think little of me at this moment—that a healer is unnecessary, that any one who st-stands to get hurt is not a Remdragon—but I wonder, um, when there is no one to heal your bbrother as you carry him to s-safety…I wonder if you will think of me then." The eyes once on me avert themselves—to the table, to their hands in their laps. "My friends too are trapped in Louvelle, and- and more leave with you to rescue them. Is it not my right to give what I can, to d-defend my kingdom how I can? I may not be a fighter, but I am a healer. Let me aid you." 

The demur fades, their faces softening until the atmosphere shifts closer to assent. Closer to my favor. The census waits for who will contest, but no one speaks up.

"Well, then," Hebaron says, "it seems we have finally agreed. Let us settle this matter and bring it to the commander."

"Bring what to me?"

Heads turn as the door swings wide with a slow, solemn groan. I move away from Riftan's chair, but his gaze pins me where I am. I straighten as he prowls for me.

"I thought I told you no more of this?"

"I told you it would not bbe the end."

Hebaron blocks Riftan's path before he can reach me, "Her ladyship is here out of concern for all of us. And based on what she has said, we have no reason to deny her. The road is perilous. It is unwise to endanger ourselves."

The words fall on deaf ears. "We have done it before," Riftan says. "We will do it again."

"Commander–"

" Silence. I will not risk this folly."

"But you would risk the lives of your men bec-because of, because your infatuation for me?" At that, his eyes turn to stone, thunder glazing them as they fall on me. 

"It is more than infatuation." His voice grates like metal, each word half-spoken, half-swallowed. 

I hold my ground, icing the nerves he strikes within me. "It ddoesn't matter what it is," I say. "What matters is that it's clouding your judgment."

Shoving past Hebaron, he grabs my wrist without warning, dragging me towards the door. "Test my shield!" I shout at him—plead—tearing at his grasp. "I'll pr-prove…prove my ability. Just test it!"

My feet pass over the threshold, and I stumble as he lets go. 

"You made a vow!" I cry. But the door slams shut before it can mean anything, rattling in the frame. 

"The message is sent." Though muffled, I hear Riftan through the wall—commanding, immovable. "We will depart at noon."

No. No, it cannot be so soon. What am I to do now that he has refused me with all his men as witnesses? 

I pull away as I reach for the door handle. I cannot go inside—I will only be thrown out again. I will only be a fool. 

The key, I think. I still have the key. It is my last shot, my final hope. 

Turning for the exit, I run. 

If I make it outside the gate in time, I can stop them on their way and force Riftan to adhere to my demands. Coercion is all I have left since calm reasoning has been ignored. 

Behind my vanity, pressed against the wood with tar is where I hid the key. Barging into my chambers, I run straight for it, shimmying the furniture away from the wall enough to squeeze my hand through. I feel around for the object. Nothing. 

Pulling the vanity out further, I shove my head down to look. When there is no yield, I turn to each drawer, ripping them out and riffling through them until my things are strewn about the floor—but I know. I know it is pointless. 

The key is gone. He took it. 

Have I failed already? Have I failed this story before it even began? Tears well against my eyes, but only a few slip out to be hurriedly wiped away. 

“Madam? Is everything alright? I saw you run in here…” Pausing at the sight of the mess I have made, Ludis falters as I look at her—like a cornered animal caught licking its wounds. Wild. Desperate. 

“Madam…”

Though I make myself brave, my voice shakes, as fragile as spider’s silk. “I need your help,” I say, reaching for her before she might abandon me. 

This is not the end. I said it wouldn’t be, and it won’t.

I will not let it.

Chapter Text

Magic is like a woman scorned—at times she will bite you, and at others be forgiving. She picks and chooses, weighs how badly you need it. 

The first lesson a mage truly learns is that one can do anything with magic as long as it likes you. 

And I, too, am a woman scorned. 

Slamming against its hinges, the door threatens to give way as the guards throw themselves against it. But they are trapped, unable to interfere. How Ludis snared them all in the stairwell, I'll never know—will never ask. 

"Hide yourself," I tell her. When she hesitates, acting as though she might stay here with me, I command it. " Hide yourself."

"But Madam–"

Above, the magic trembles, pieces of rocks tumbling free until they are blown to dust by the air. "Go."

With a final nod—a last surrender—she does, scurrying for the castle before anyone might see. The ends of her skirts dip past the innerward as Riftan and his knights appear. 

"Maximillian! What the hell are you doing?" His voice cuts like a blade, his words raw with fury. Shouting—he is truly shouting—I have never heard him like this before. 

As though my legs are suctioned to the ground, I fight to lift my feet and take another step. The magic cord flowing through me, hot like molten wax than warm honey, wanes. More chunks pile loose from the giant barrier, showering me in dirt. 

"Do you think this is a game?" He growls. 

"No." Clutching the wooden sword like an anchor, I feign calm—speak flatly. 

"You're being childish."

"Maybe."

His anger surges, but he crushes it, slamming it down like a fist on stone. Riftan jabs a finger towards the shield towering above the gate—blocking it. "Remove it at once."

"Let me p-prove myself, and I will." His scoff is sharp, but I persist, "One sstrike. If the shield holds, I go with you. If it…if it bbreaks, I sstay."

"You can't expect me to hit that."

"No," I say. The barrier is purely that: a barrier—so he cannot leave. Cannot ignore me. "I will make a new one. Ssmaller if it makes you, makes you feel confident."

Riftan's fists curl, muscles bulging in his neck. He's barely holding it together, straining every last ounce of composure, but I almost have him. He's almost there. 

The knights circle like vultures, forming a loose ring around us. Watching. Waiting. 

I lower my tone just loud enough for Riftan to hear. "Sst-stealing my key will not keep me here." I move back as he moves for me, the cord of mana weakening until the top of the barrier has completely fallen away. "Bbreaking my shield is the only way. What are you afraid of—that I might win?"

His eyes narrow. 

It's never smart to poke a bear—or a wyvern's nest, as they say. But I've already killed a wyvern: what more is a man? He'll never give in without a little provocation. 

"You are afraid," I say, dodging as he grabs for me, again. "You're afraid I'll pprove you wrong."

"Commander!"

Our attention breaks for a heartbeat as we look to Gabel. The knight takes his time with so many eyes now his, crossing his arms as he contemplates me, if for a moment. 

Turning to Riftan, he says, "There's a weak spot in the mid-flank of her shield. If you start from the side and move in, it shatters."

I freeze before my mind catches up. It does not go unnoticed. 

Ripping the sword from my hands, Riftan casts it aside. "Bring me a weapon!" The knights scramble to do as they are told. 

What's wrong with mine? I wonder, straightening my features to make a show of indifference. Perhaps he noticed the long crack within its side…

A halberd is retrieved. Planting it like a spear, Riftan tests the weight, turning it side to side to inspect the axe-like blade with grim satisfaction. 

I release the magic in the shield—it crashes like a mountain, sending waves of debris billowing across the ward. The knight falter, but not Riftan. Never Riftan. 

With perfect assurance, he positions himself, waiting as I kneel. Calming myself, I splay my hands in the dirt. One deep breath centers me, one sharp exhale spurs forth a shield. Any ounce of mana I can spare, I use until the dirt is more than rock but radiates with pure energy like it is energy itself. 

The impact is instantaneous. 

A cry escapes me, lost amongst the static ringing in my head as flames rip through my body and my vision flashes in white sparks. Clinging to the magic lest I lose it, I force it through my veins—pushing, pushing, pushing. It turns to acid in my blood. 

Hatred. What a peculiar thing…

I don't hate Riftan, but all I can think of is how much I hate him in this moment as his face morphs to the duke's. It is not a halberd tearing through me, but a cane, a whip. It stings my flesh with phantom wounds. 

I think I am screaming. The static is too loud to know for sure. 

The shield crumbles as the blade keeps moving, and I am pushing, pushing, pushing still. I ramp the effort, increase the mana, meeting the attack for every blow it lends me. 

Then something snaps. I wail at the serrated blast that pierces me, roiling through until it drops to nothing…

And the world is quiet, again. 

Have I lost? Is it all done for? The questions repeat in an endless void. 

Sinking back to reality, I keep steady, expecting the blade to be inches from my face. If he is cheeky about it, merely a hairs width away so that if I move—even to breathe—I will feel it. 

See how you've failed? It will say. See how pointless this all was? You should have listened to me. 

It takes a second of coaxing for my vision to return, dazed as the sun blinds it in gross bursts of light. Throwing out a hand to secure myself, I squint through the haze. 

And I see it.

The halberd is shattered—burned. From where it cut, a scorched gash mars the shield, but it remains. Still holds. 

And Riftan–

He is already walking away. 

***

I never believed what they said, that you don't know a good thing when you have it. But maybe it is true. Or better yet, maybe you can appreciate it, but not comprehend how much until it is time to move on. For as long as I have been here, I have wanted to leave Anatol, steeled myself to, but now that I am going, I wish I had one more day. Another chance to memorize the sights and smells, and the faces of the people I am leaving behind, so that I might remember them completely. 

To think, if I am lucky, I will have to do this again...

"Madam, do you really have to go? Are you sure about this? It won't be easy–"

Pulling Ludis against me before she weakens my resolve, I comfort her, "I'll return be-before you know it."

"I hope so," she says, wrapping her arms tight around me till I can hardly breathe. "You know how these things go, though. Always longer than they're planned to be..."

Always stealing lives, she'd add if her speech didn't waver. 

"I know," I say. I've thought about it too much not to. 

After a second or two, she pulls away, wiping the corner of her eye. Fixing her apron, the maid collects herself, "I brought your bag down. Let me bring it to you." Before I might reply, she hurries for the Solar, leaving me alone in the great expanse of my chambers. 

When I first arrived, this room was so vast, turning vastly smaller the longer I stayed. Now it is big again, and I am the small one—out of place to comical proportions. 

When I return, how will this room look then? I wonder. Will I belong to it any more than I do now?

"Here you are." Lugging the pack in her arms, Ludis trots through the door, "It's a bit heavy. Do you think you'll be able to carry it all?"

"I think it will bbe on a, um, on a wagon most of the time." As I move to assist her, my foot knocks against something on the floor. Glinting with metallic peels, it clatters to a stop against the leg of the bed. 

The dowager duchess's ring. 

"And here I thought I cleaned everything," Ludis says as I pick it up. Dropping the bag to give her arms rest, she offers her hand to take the ring, "I'll put it away, now, if you'd like."

It would be the smart thing, but my hand can't seem to let go. "Could I…could I have a chain for it?"

"A chain?"

"Rubies and p-pearls are, um, lucky," I say—that's what the princess said. Her voice sounds in my head, distant, though the conversation wasn't so long ago. "Might as well take it with me."

I know it's silly. I've made it this far without luck—could make it farther still, I'm sure—but who couldn't use an extra boost? An additional assurance, however fake it might be. 

Outside, Rem waits for me amongst the other horses, my bow already at her saddle and a quiver of arrows for my use. Taking my bag, Garrow carries it to the other supplies as Ulyseon accompanies Ludis and me the rest of the way.  

"Is it true? Did you actually block Sir Calypse's blow?" The squire bounces as he walks. 

"I wouldn't be here otherwise," I say. But it is a miracle, in truth, more so than anyone here could imagine. 

"Her ladyship will be safe, yes?" Ludis asks. "There will be people watching over her at all times; she will not be unattended?" What a worrywart she is, though I suppose it is fair...

"Fear not," Ulyseon says, taking his friend by the shoulder as he returns, "Garrow and I have been assigned as the Madam's personal guard. We will not let a thing happen to her."

"Then I shall p-put my faith in you," I smile. 

Basking in my words, the squires jump to attention as Gabel approaches. His hand rests on his sword belt, fingers drumming the hilt as he scrutinizes them. 

"They are the best amongst their group, but perhaps a tad overconfident," he says to me. Garrow nudges Ulyseon away as if punishment for roping him into this mess as Gabel continues, "Regardless, make sure they are at your side wherever you go, and never leave the ranks at will. And if there is any problem, inform me. You have been assigned to my group." I nod. 

Rubbing his jaw as if remedying an itch, the knight glances to where Riftan speaks with Rodrigo. I want to ask him about the stunt he pulled earlier, if Riftan knows he lied, but I refrain, letting the silence smother the air. In a last-ditch effort to remedy it, Gabel turns to the squires. 

"Mount up," he instructs. "See her ladyship is in place before we depart." With an inclination of his head, he walks away. 

Holding the reins of my horse, the squires wait to the side as I turn back to Ludis. "Take, um…take care of Anatol for me," I say. "And ss-say goodbye to the others."

"I will," she says. 

It is only her to see me off, Rodrigo and Melric, to my fortune, busy with more important tasks. What I would say to them, I'm not sure. It is better, I think, that I don't have to say anything at all. 

Squeezing the maid's hand, I give my attention to the squires who help me mount and guide me into formation. They join their horses with the other knights who box me in, forcing my word through the sheer number of those who have witnessed its parade. I am stuck, left with no choice but integrity. 

Settling my leaping heart, I strengthen my resolution. 

Riftan rides past, Hebaron behind him, inspecting the ranks. Over the horses and through the men, his eyes find me, lasting no more than a second as he gathers pace under the low blare of a trumpet. 

"Knights, Forward, March!"

As the gates open wide, the order to leave is given. Matching my speed to the knights surrounding me, I urge Rem into a trot, forcing my head straight. It does me no good to keep looking back—the way is forward where the knights go. Even so, my eyes wander above to where the gate drifts past until the cerulean sky fills my view. 

How can everything look so different when you are leaving? How can you not realize what you'll miss until the fields and houses are passing you by? If the horses were riding faster, it wouldn't hurt so bad, but at this pace, I am compelled to look, obligated to know. It was like that when I died. 

We maintain our speed through the village, with only a few people cluttering the road. They gather to the sides to watch us leave, covering their mouths from the dust as they turn into it, their eyes all that follow. 

A young girl clings to her mother's side, summer flowers in her hair. She is gone when I turn to look, disappeared behind the mass of knights. With only a glimpse, I return my sight to the road, pushing into the stirrups to keep steady as I lurch within the saddle. 

An odd sense of unreality creeps into my mind, as if I am a third presence wandering above my body like a phantom. She floats aimlessly with me, straying higher towards the mountain crests. Once I looked down to this valley floor from those same peaks, and now I journey through them again. 

Most of the path I have forgotten, remembering or discovering new corners as I recall how it looked when I first traversed it. But soon we are on a new path entirely, and I have nothing for entertainment but the scenery. All rocks and scrappy trees, there isn't much to look at but the birds that flit past now and again, and the bugs I swat away. 

The muted beating of hooves turns rhythmic, after a while, like the rain pattering on a tin roof. I relish in the wind that sweeps across us, drying the sweat on my brow and stirring the scent of summer warmth. 

I would enjoy it more if not for the swelling twinge in my thighs, stretching up my spine, or the soreness in my shoulders, as they strain to keep posture as I follow the movements of the horse. The knights seem hardly affected, and I swallow any complaints I might dare enough to give, picking nicer things to dwell on, like shapes in the clouds, or that Riftan looks my direction when the road bends, as if to ensure I am here. 

We stop after an hour or two, long enough to give the horses a reprieve. Shielding my eyes, I measure the sun from where it stood at noon to where it is now halfway towards the last of the mountains. There are miles left to go. 

"Here you are, Madam." I thank Ulyseon as he hands me my waterskin, careful of the wet patch across the side as I sip from the top. The water is instantly refreshing; makes me want to jump into the ice-cold stream to clear the heat from riding. 

Taking a fuller drink, I point to where my thoughts last were. "Ddo you think we'll, um, clear- clear the ridge by tonight?"