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Fantasy Til Death Do Us Part

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The sea had the opposite effect on Irene. Neither the air nor the feeling of the damp sand beneath her toes made her feel anything but slight discomfort. It tasted of salt and it was so loud here; the crashing of waves seemed thunderous in the otherwise stillness. Seagulls flew overhead, circling round and round until descending to the ground or diving towards the waters, perhaps having had spotted a fish.

This sea was much different from the one of her childhood memories. Those waters were as still as a mirror’s surface, grey and impossibly dark, so dark that nothing could be seen beneath the surface. No crashing of waves coloured the silence there and the air carried with it a different scent, that of decay and death, of seaweed and rotting wood. The Vaelan sea was almost hypnotizing to watch in contrast and Irene stared at the deep waters at the horizon, past the large waves crashing against the shore and retreating into themselves, the seafoam dissipating on the sand.

Matthias’s voice pulled her back to reality and Irene blinked at him once and understanding descended on her the same way the waves fell upon the shore. Her heart stuttered, and her breath hitched for fraction of a moment. Matthias started pulling her into the water and Irene sucked in a breath at its contact with her bare feet. The water was icy, not yet warmed by the sun’s rays that have just started to peek over the horizon, and she had absolutely no wish to go for a swim.

“No,” Irene gasped, alarmed at the notion of being anywhere near the waters. The shore was just fine, with its sand and seashells and an occasional patch of tall grasses. Matthias grinned at her, his eyes beckoning her to follow him, and she took several more steps into the water until it reached her ankles and pulled her hand free from him.

Her mind worked overtime to come up with an excuse not to follow him. Matthias already knew of her fear of the sea and now it had no reason to exist – Vaelan waters had no sirens or other creatures lurking beneath the waves. Well, except for Matthias, who seemed set on going for a swim. Wretched siren. Afraid to ruin her clothes, then? Ridiculous to even consider such an excuse to work on the man on whose money her plain nightclothes were bought. The cold, while uncomfortable, did not bother Irene who was content with sleeping on the side of the road and considered it more comfortable than her current bed.

A particularly large wave rolled over them and soaked their pants to the knee, splashing them with stray icy droplets. Irene shivered, not quite sure if from the cold or from the thought of being in the water.

“You can go,” she urged Matthias, stepping back to the shore, “I’ll be fine.”

He studied her for a while, considering, then he started to step toward her, reaching for her again. Irene did not move her arm out of his reach when his hand wrapped around her wrist and his arm snaked around her waist, lifting her slightly as he threw himself backward into the sea. Irene only had the time to close her eyes and take a breath before the water engulfed them. They made a huge splash as they fell in, water flying up all around them. Irene’s heart panicked, and she clutched onto Matthias for dear life, struggling between wanting to hold him to wanting to pushing him underwater where he so wanted to be. As he rose from beneath the water surface, Matthias laughed brightly. He did not release his hold on her, pulling her closer as if to assure her he was there.

“We won’t go too far in,” he promised, lips still raised in a half-smile.

Irene gasped a breath the moment she could and watched a wave descend upon them, rolling over them on its way to the shore. When she could breathe again, Irene leveled Matthias a particularly nasty glare.

The two of them were half-kneeling in the water. It was impossibly cold when Irene rose up, the breeze chilling her to the bone, and lowered herself back into the water where it seemed much warmer in comparison.

“I cannot swim, you fool,” she said and pushed against his shoulders, away from her to push him beneath the surface.

His body was relaxed and her shove easily sent him doing a semi-barrel roll backward into the water. His hand shot out, grabbing a hold of her forearm as he sunk into the deep blue, pulling her so that she was almost horizontal. They remained like that for one, still moment, Irene’s eyes wide with shock as she looked at Matthias with all the anger and fear she felt. Beneath all that emotion, buried by thoughts that she was going to drown or something is going to pull her further under the waves like that poor fisherman, Irene felt a sting of awe. Matthias’s eyes were a shade lighter than the water. Again, it was him who rose from the water first, amusement coloring his eyes as he watched Irene seeth.

“You should learn to swim,” he remarked lightly as he casually reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, “the water becomes less scary when you can.”

Irene could only shake her head once, feeling her skin burn where he’d touched her forehead. He turned away from her, glancing at the expanse of water behind them. Though the waves near the shore were strong, the sea further in looked to be rather calm. He looked back at her, a glint in his eyes that signalled at oncoming mischief. She started to regret the decision to go to the sea.

“Shall I teach you?” The water around them begun to flow backward, pushing them into the deeper parts of the sea, slowly but surely.

Another wave came and took away more than just her vision as it rolled over them. It took away her footing. Irene looked down at the water with pure horror, her feet no longer touching the sand below, and clung to Matthias harder. One arm around his neck, the other clutching his shoulder, and both of her legs were wrapped tight around his waist.

“You can take me back to the shore,” Irene breathed and raised her gaze to look at the man who apparently took pleasure in torturing her so. She let go of his shoulder and pushed her hand against the water to splash him in the face with it. When he recovered, she did it twice more, frustration fueling her numbing limbs. “Leave me be.” A smile started to fight its way onto her face, the ridiculousness of the situation almost palpable.

He held on tight to her, one hand on the back of her thigh and the other on the small of her back. Matthias looked down at her with a quirked eyebrow, asking her with faux seriousness, “So, do you want me to take you back or leave you? You can only have one, Princess.”

All humour dissipated, carried away by the water. The rush of adrenaline from being at sea faded and now all she could feel was how close they were. The waves rocked them softly, their bodies carried further into the vast expanse of the sea, away from the rolling current. The absence of crashing waves allowed a calming silence to set in, one she’d expect herself to be afraid of for it promised nothing good, but noticed it as an afterthought. Her attention was focused on the man in her arms, one who held her still and asked her a question she wasn’t sure she could answer.

Irene wanted both. Neither. She despised this uncertainty and the understanding that now when she looked at him, there was no anger to anchor herself to. All she could think of was that his embrace was comforting, and her traitorous body responded to it. That desire had taken over the mess that was her mind and calmed it down to a single question: Why not?

Oh, there were many reasons not to and none for its favour. Irene was hesitant, unsure, when Matthias’s arms tightened ever so slightly. Her eyes flitted to his lips, the lips which she touched in her drunken stupor and wondered what it’d be like to kiss them, and instantly felt the urge to run away, somehow make it back to the shore and run until her legs collapsed beneath her. With sudden clarity Irene understood what she wished was not true – the location did not matter. A bedroom or middle of the sea, so long as Matthias was there and they were alone, she’d feel this pull of desire for him.

It felt terrifying to consider the outcomes of the question she still refused to answer. Why not? Matthias did not hesitate as she did and she felt his hand travel up her thigh, his touch warm even in the icy water. Irene’s body moved of its own subtle accord in response, easing into his hold, relaxing. His other hand traveled up her back to rest against her neck and Irene’s hands slid up his shoulders towards the sides of his neck until her fingers slipped into the damp mess of his hair.

She was closer to the point where their foreheads were nearly touching, his breath a whisper against her lips, and when she saw his eyes close, Irene understood that what was about to happen was unavoidable.

Until Matthias pulled away, leaving Irene completely stunned. A moment later, during which she was not quite sure how to feel about what seemed like a sudden change of mind, a flash of colour and movement at the shore caught her attention and she turned to look at the distant commotion. She could hear no sounds except for their own breathing and the waves, but whatever was happening at the shore did not promise anything good. A man dressed in orange and yellow was storming his way to the beach, a young girl in a dirty cotton dress following close behind along with a contingent of Matthias’s guards and servants.

“Take us back,” Irene finally answered the question that seemed to have been asked an eternity ago.
 
The press of her body against his was a pleasant sensation. Irene had little of the softness and the curves that women tended toward but she was warm, comforting and fit like a puzzle piece in his embrace. It made him want to hold her closer. So he did, until there was no space left between them and he could hear the thumping of her heart and the hitch in her breath.

The sun had risen and, as she stared up at him with quivering lashes, her gaze an intriguing concoction of hazy uncertainty and vivid wanting, he had the whimsical thought that perhaps the moon had fallen from the skies and into her eyes. They really were rather gorgeous. Not just for the odd coloring, the likes of which he had never seen on another, but for their striking depth and intensity that cut through even in the midst of her storm of emotions.

Indeed, they were beautiful but, as he studied her face, it was her full lips that stole his attention. He couldn’t help it. He had already admitted to himself that he was attracted to this woman. The last time she had been this open to his touch, she was also drunk out of her mind. She was perfectly aware, now, of what they were doing. She had offered no protest, even going so far as to twist her hands in the wet strands of his hair and tug him nearer.

Irene looked to be having some inner conflict about her desires. Luckily for the both of them, he was much more decisive. Matthias was never one to let opportunities go, especially not one that was so perfect, so ripe for the taking. He let his eyes flutter close as he leaned in, closing the whisper of a gap left between their lips. Her mouth brushed against his. They were not even a millimeter away from sharing a kiss. Just a split-second later was all they needed to finish what they started.

If only that yell had taken longer to reach his ears.

Matthias pulled away from the feather-light touch of their lips, scanning the sands for the source of the racket. A spot of yellow entered his sights, followed by what looked to be his guards and servants. The annoyingly bright blot sharpened as it neared, revealing the figure of a man, ranting and raving about something or another as he staggered down the stairs, toward the beach.

He would have taken them back to shore anyway but hearing Irene say it only served to increase his irritation.The Saints, if they were up there, had to be extremely bored for them to be playing this kind of practical joke on him. A damned split-second. Seriously. It had been a done deal. There should have been absolutely no situation where they wouldn’t have kissed, done more than kiss even. And yet, here they were. Saints take pity and give him patience. This man had better have an amazingly reasonable excuse for intruding on them so abruptly, thoughtlessly.

As they neared the beach where the trespasser stood, surrounded by his sheepish looking guards, Matthias was able to recognize who it was that had forced his presence upon them. If it wasn’t a move that would have doomed his poor men, he would have turned tail right then, found some bunch of big rocks to hide behind and continue with whatever he and Irene had been doing. That was guaranteed to be much more pleasant than interacting with that fool.

Mus’ad Kardal. Son of Lord Kardal, the current ambassador of Siad Kingdom. Drunkard. Famously abuses his slaves. Has no filter on his mouth. A man so atrocious even the worst of the Vaelan Court were wont to avoid him. Not someone you want to deal with.

Well, not that he had much of a choice now. He arrived at shore, letting go of Irene’s waist and allowing the servants to wrap a cloak around her. Her soaked figure was revealed for not more than a few seconds, during which all the men present turned their gaze. All men except him, naturally, and Mus’ad. Matthias clenched his jaw as he stepped in between the disgusting man’s leer and his bride, feeling more hostile toward his unexpected guest by the second.

“We told him to wait in the lounge, my Prince, but-” one of his guards started, looking as displeased with the greasy man as Matthias felt, but was interrupted by said man hitting him in the chest. Matthias’s lips thinned. Storming into his house for no reason, ogling at his fiancee, then even daring to strike his soldier in front of him. Did this man take him for a dog on the street he could kick around?

“Escort him back to my lounge,” he ordered, before turning to what could only be called his guest if he were to very loosely use that term. He scanned the haggard man, distaste clear in his gaze despite the impassiveness of his face. This drunkard was nobility born and bred, yet he lacked the grace and finesse which that suggested more, drastically so, than even Irene who had been a Lady for all of a month.

“I will be with you shortly,” he told Mus’ad, sharing a glance with the quickly approaching Jaime. The pest, fool as he was, seemed to notice neither the glacial tone of his voice nor the finality of his dismissal. He sprouted complaints almost immediately, swatting away and threatening the men who sought to follow their Prince’s order.

It was only with the firm grip and silent glares of Jaime that the madman was taken away. Matthias watched them disappear through the door of his chambers, finally allowing his expression to show some of the repulsion that he felt.The smell of alcohol that that rat exuded was enough to dizzy someone with one whiff and his dirt crusted skin looked as though it had not seem water in months. It was no exaggeration to call him filth. Matthias frowned at the thought of that thing tainting his room.

He changed into the shirt that had been prepared for him, wiping his hair with a towel. His pants were drenched but he would just have to deal with it until he had gotten rid of the pest. He refused his coat, telling them to give it to Irene instead. She clearly disliked the cold and the coat prepared for her was too thin. He walked with her back into the residence in silence, the couple sharing a feeling of dread at the thought of facing the disaster in human form waiting in his lounge.

*****

Mikas had just woken up. He usually rose at dawn but had slept later than usual last night taking care of the Princess. The poor woman. She had done no wrong but had to go through such a horrible experience. It were times like those when he wished he had more than his meager talent for magic so he could learn healing.

He had just gotten dressed when a fellow servant came rushing to his room, informing him of the sudden arrival of a guest. Matt had no scheduled meeting in the morning, he was sure of it. What was this now, then? He left his room, practically tripping over himself in a hurry to get to his Prince’s lounge where he was told the guest was waiting. His mind was in a whirlwind. He had no idea what this mystery visitor would like to drink or eat, how long they were staying, if there was nothing specific they needed. What was he going to do?

Shaking off his worry, he entered the room with a practiced smile. A smile that died the moment he saw the so-called guest. The visitor’s...rundown appearance was one thing, but the small girl who stood to his side, a metal collar wrapped around her neck like a noose, was what made him lose composure. She was so thin, bruises and cuts, some fresh, some old, littered her tiny body. She was dressed in something barely above an empty rice sack and looked sickly, worn out. Her eyes held an emptiness that he had seen before, too often.

Any thought of entertaining this man flew out of his head. He stood at the corner, leading the line of servants. As the visitor’s deep set eyes fell on him, cruel and mocking, he wished he could fade into the wall. This man knew him, even if the reverse was not true, and the older definitely did not like him. He didn’t know why, though he could take a guess. The whole Court knew he was a freed slave, after all. His gaze traveled again to the beaten girl and found himself flooded with sadness for her sake. Just being stared at by her master made him shrink, he did not want to imagine what being struck by him felt like.

He tore his gaze away from the duo, glancing at the open door at the side. He wanted Matt. Matt was protection and support. He was someone who had saved him from the worst of men. He did not need to suffer in silence when the older was around. More practically, Matt was also the only one who could get that poor girl away from her terrifying master.

He was just thinking this when, with his bride in tow, cocooned beneath two coats - he’d have to ask about that later- his Prince finally entered.
 
Mus’ad Kardal, a despicable man despite his birth. Warren stared at him from his post at the door. When the nobleman had been escorted into the Prince’s lounge, he kicked the door open and the sound nearly made Warren jump an inch. Unsheathing his sword was a matter of instinct; his hand shot towards the hilt and the blade slid out an inch when the door swung inwards. Had Warren been standing on the other side of the door, he would have been hit by it. As it was, the door slammed against the wall and the hinges creaked loudly in protest.

What he assumed was a kick, was actually the nobleman tripping into the door after his own two feet couldn’t carry him up the last few steps of the stairs.

“Sir, perhaps you should–“ Warren heard a soft feminine voice that made him pause, sword at the ready to strike at the intruder.

“Silence,” someone rasped.

That someone reeked. A figure stumbled into the lounge, nearly falling over as his foot caught on the threshold. Dressed in leathers tanned mustard yellow, marred with dirt and stains of different locales, the intruder was a man of an unidentifiable age and of about the same height as Jaime. At his side, a woman in a slave’s attire of the same colour as the man’s clothing, helped him upright by wrapping her frail arm around his waist and hoisted him up. He leaned against her heavily, wrapping his arm around her thin shoulders, and lifted a hand to his face. Sniffling, he wiped at his nose and grunted. The noise was a guttural sound that made Warren’s stomach churn. Though maybe it was the strong odour of alcohol that made bile rise in the guard’s throat.

The intruder looked at Warren and regarded the half-unsheathed sword with an expression of disgust. “Calm, boy,” the man commanded. “Before I use your stick on your prick.”

Warren did no such thing and did not relinquish the hold on the pommel of his sword. It appeared to have annoyed the newcomer as he glared at Warren, and the guard stared back with the same determination. The intruder’s eyes were black and foggy; his skin was sleek with sweat and oil and hidden behind bangs of long hair that fell over his face in greasy and wavy strands. An irregular stubble coated his pointy chin and his hooked nose was scarred over the bridge. Only when the man turned (or attempted to, as he could not stand on his own two feet) did the light illuminate an old scar of a horrible burn over the man’s jaw; that explained the patches of beard. It also illuminated a pin on his shoulder – a camel on a background of sandy desert dunes.

The sword slid back into its scabbard quickly with a hiss. Then Warren bowed down low, muttering apologies under his breath for having overreacted. It was not an overreaction, considering the nobleman’s appearance, but that mattered little.

“Hmph,” the man spat at the guard’s feet. Warren fought the urge to cringe at the sight and stench. “Be grateful I am of a fine mood today.” Grunting, the man tried to straighten and pushed against the woman at his side. “Lisa, take me to that chair,” he commanded his slave.

Warren stared at the back of the man’s head warily, chewing on the inside of his cheek and rubbed the pommel of his sword. Itching for a fight, he restrained himself the best he could; the sword suddenly felt heavy, so sharp at his side. Such a great tool to kick someone like this man out into the streets.

Patience. He told himself. This is nobleman business. Prince Matthias will take care of it. He has this under control, I’m sure.

Several more guards arrived at the Prince’s lounge, standing outside the doors and in the corners of the room, doubling security. They all knew of this man. Even Warren has heard of him before – the servants talked a lot, especially those with less privileges than others, and they all feared the Siad Kingdom’s ambassador’s son. There was talk that slaves were bought out of different nobleman households by a dirty man in yellow clothes and a camel pin. Immense sums were paid for those slaves, who were all young girls scarcely of age, and the man had amassed an entire collection of slaves of different ethnicities within the first month of his arrival at Thean Gerith. They were all pretty girls, young and strong and fit for work, all born into slavery or captured from warring kingdoms, but by the time they were brought with this yellow-clad man into Court for some event or another, they were but husks. Hollow, empty, pretty shells that he tried to force to open to steal their beauty and purity.

Mus’ad glanced about the room as he slumped in his chair. His legs were outstretched, and his fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the table in front of him. The slave girl, Lisa, did not dare look up from the floor. Her red hair was pulled tight into a bun but when she staggered past Warren, he could see empty patches on the back of her scalp. She was covered in bruises, her body so thin he could see bones jutting out where curves should be, and each time Mus’ad moved, Lisa twitched behind him, as if expecting a hit.

“Lisa,” Mus’ad spoke and Lisa’s shoulders trembled, “the jug.”

The slave girl glanced at her master in what Warren thought to be both fear and confusion. Noticing her hesitation, the man pushed her forward and nodded impatiently at Prince Matthias who had just entered the room. Lisa bowed her head and, clutching a basket that hung at her side moment ago, presented it to Matthias.

“Offering my congratulations from the Kardal family,” the man said, waving the girl to come closer to the Prince. She appeared to be no older than fifteen. “Times like these, you need a strong drink to celebrate.”

Lisa pushed open the lid off a jug inside the basket and a strong herb scent reached even Warren, who stood several feet away from the girl.

“A drink from some desert tribe,” the nobleman explained. “Strong, let me tell you that. Not like that weak wine this Court drinks. But where are my manners?” Mus’ad stood and bowed deeply, more skilfully than expected. “Mus’ad Kardal. Pleasure to meet Saint Matthias in person.” He spoke with thinly veiled contempt and when he raised his eyes, they shifted over Matthias’s shoulder.

Just then, Irene entered and halted at the sight. Two cloaks were bundled up around her and she was in the process of shrugging them off to pass to a nearby servant when she angled her head to peer over at the guest. Her nostrils flared and her lips thinned – she must’ve noticed the stink of whatever it was Mus’ad poisoned himself with.

“Ah, there she is. Come here, woman.” His voice changed from laced with easy laughter to a strict, cold one. It chilled Warren, made him feel uneasy, and he unconsciously stepped towards Irene even as she stared at Mus’ad. The nobleman started for the Princess, seemingly having forgotten that the Lord of the house was in the same room as him. “Step aside, boy. This is none of your business, go back to your post.” Mus’ad grimaced, walking over and unceremoniously pushed against Warren’s shoulder once within arm’s reach. Warren didn’t budge at first and would’ve remained standing where he was, an immovable statue, had Mus’ad not reached for Irene himself.

His dirty hands grabbed the cloak and pulled it from her body, leering down at her with a lopsided smile. “Not that beautiful, really,” he observed. “Nose is too straight, lips too flat. Nice eyes, though, silver. You should feed her more, Highness. I see you already started to teach her how to submit as a wife should,” he levelled a look at Irene’s neck, where the bruises bloomed.

Irene recovered from her stupor. “You’re drunk,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

A deep laughter filled the room. Raspy and wet, the sound was as disgusting as the man who was making it.

“I’m drunk,” he choked through laughter. “So what?” He let go of the cloak and Irene pushed it off her shoulders, handing it back to the nearby servant. Mus’ad watched Irene as she circled around him and went for her room. “Alright, then. Everyone’s on edge. It’s wedding time! Have a drink. Fuck some women. Or men.” He shifted his gaze to Matthias and retreated back to the chair at the table. “Or slaves.” Mus’ad pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Mikas.

Warren stiffened. The hold on his sword tightened, turning his knuckled white and they ached.

“Company of men is disgusting, if you ask me.” Mus’ad turned in his seat so he could look at Mikas. “He forgot to put on the collar ‘round his neck. Don’t lets its lack fool you, slave” His lip curled upwards slightly, revealing yellowed teeth and bleeding gums. “A slave’s a slave. Wearing gold won’t change that. What a disgrace. Stop gaping at me like a cretin and bring wine.”
 
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If insulting others was a sport, there was no doubt who would be the champion. It was amazing how this prodigal son of Lord Kardal had lasted months amongst the Vaelan Court, still in one piece rather than scattered along the riverside. In a span of less than a minute, he had managed to turn Matthias’s vague hostility toward him to downright antagonism. Any thought of putting up a pleasant facade faded away with the man’s implication that it was him who had left those marks of rape on Irene, that he would have been right to do it. The rumors about the depravity of Mus’ad Kardal were definitely not exaggerated. The drunkard was even less likeable than a sewer rat, for all that he resembled one.

Matthias watched in silence as his guest threw himself around the room, spewing vulgar and insolent words like a fountain does water. It was a dangerous sort of quiet, like even waters before the tempest. A tempest that was, in fact, going to break loose very soon, if the fool did not shut his foul mouth.

As Irene went back into her own room, denying Mus’ad the chance to mock her further, sleazy eyes turned to him instead. There was something about his crazed gaze that unsettled and provoked even without the added support of his crass remarks. Matthias took the seat across the table, his expression hardening by the second. He fought down a snarl at the disdain lacing the rat’s voice as he referred to Mikas.

The boy had not been a slave for years. To address him as such was blatant disregard for the person who had freed him, the person sitting right in front of him, the person who owned the house along with much of the city that he was in. No, even if those facts had not been so, even if Mikas had been a slave, even if Matthias had not been in the room, scum like him had no right to look down on someone so much more worthy of respect than him.

The hands at his sides twitched. He wanted to tear the grin off that beastly face. He remained wordless, impassive, but anyone could tell with a glance that Matthias was infuriated. If he did not hold ties to a foreign country, Mus’ad would already have been dragged out and whipped ten times over.

Mikas flinched at the man’s barked order but, taking the hint from his Prince’s demeanor, followed it, flitting out of the room. Taking a sip from the tea already prepared for him, Matthias watched the boy leave before he turned his eyes to the revolting man. The upper corner of his lips rose slightly, a show of disgust that would have looked mild on another but was somehow turned utterly condescending on his delicate features.

“Thank you for the gift, I will keep it well,” he spoke finally, completely ignoring everything that the man had said. There was no point in responding to the provocations now. He could have others do it for him later.

Mikas returned quickly with the requested wine, luckily, before that conversation could continue. As he placed down the goblet in front of Mus’ad, he was seized by the wrist, fingers hooking onto the silver bracelet that was Matthias’s latest gift to him. The older man’s hideous smile widened, eyes flashing, as he hissed, “Did you steal this?”

Mikas staggered back, wrenching his hand out of the rat’s bruising grip in alarm. That did not sit well with the drunk man, who stood and took a menacing step toward him. Though the wastrel was far from being toned, he was much bigger and loomed threateningly over the younger male, looking ready to strike him. Reflexively, Mikas raised a hand to shield himself.

As if a switch had been flipped, Matthias’s calm demeanor vanished. His hand shot out to grab the standing man’s forearm, nails piercing skin, clenching so tightly around the limb that its owner winced in pain. He yanked the man backward, sending him stumbling back toward his seat.

“Sit down, Kardal,” he growled. If looks could kill, Mus’ad would have been impaled right then. Mikas hastily retreated behind Matthias, eyes wide, nursing his right hand where his skin was starting to turn an ugly shade of purple. Seeing this from the corner of his vision made the storm already brewing inside him erupt.

Blind to this, the imbecile merely shrugged and lifted the goblet to his lips, drinking down a mouthful of the expensive wine like he hadn’t drunk in ages. He had yet to even put down the glass when he started to choke and dropped the cup in his hands as if he had been stung. When the cup hit the floor and shattered, it was not liquid that spilled out but a block of red ice.

Mus’ad bent over the table, coughing, trying desperately to remove the wine that had frozen and stuck to his tongue, teeth and gums. The frozen liquid in his mouth seemed to get colder with every passing second that he struggled. He clutched at his throat, making muffled noises that sounded like demands for release.

“Your mouth will get you killed, my man. Consider this mercy my return gift,” Matthias merely drawled in reply, leaning back in his chair as he watched the man flounder. A beat of silence, then he tugged Mikas to his side, arm around the boy’s waist in a protective hold. “Though if you dislike it, I might consider taking it back in exchange for your apology to Mikas, a free man and my friend, for your assault.”

He guessed that it would not happen. He did not care. He just wanted to see this man suffer. Even as Mikas, foolishly benevolent boy that he was, tugged at his sleeves in silent plea to stop his cruel punishment, Matthias looked on, holding mild hope that this man would accidentally choke to death.
 
Warren was frozen in mute horror as he watched Mus’ad fall to his knees. The drunk’s hands clutched the table, dirty and long fingernails digging into the wood with such intensity that his hands turned white and trembled. Warren’s own knuckles paled as he remained at his post, duty fighting against basic human instinct to help those in need. He told himself to stay calm, to let the Prince handle the situation, but this was not how he wished it to be handled.

Prince Matthias had the situation under control. He looked as repulsed as Warren was, all but grimacing at the nobleman, and Warren felt a pang of sympathy mixed with slight anger for the drunkard. Repulsive or not, torture was inexcusable and yet, somewhere deep inside, Warren revelled in being witness to this just punishment. It was no secret among the servants of the Prince’s household that his Highness and Mikas shared a past. Perhaps, he still felt some sort of affection yet for Mikas – the thought hurt Warren slightly, but he was used to this strange heartache – and felt a sense of duty to protect his bride, so Warren used this as an excuse to justify the treatment of their guest.

It was easier to focus on the conflicting emotions raging in Warren’s mind for control than to look at the arm snaked around Mikas’s waist. A touch that Warren would never permit himself to copy, nor even consider the possibility. It wasn’t him who protected Mikas. It was Prince Matthias. It will always be Prince Matthias.

Strength was leaving Mus’ad. He let go of the table and reached for the nearest person to him. Lisa followed her master to the floor, pulled down by her dress that nearly ripped where Mus’ad pulled. She was as pale as the choking man, her hands delicate as they wrapped about his arm and she looked at him with lost eyes. Mus’ad shook the skirts of her dress, a muffled moan escaping his lips that started to turn blue.

“Please, sir,” Lisa looked at Matthias and crawled on her hands and knees to him as much as she could as her master refused to relinquish his hold on her dress. “Release him, I beg you.” There was true terror in her eyes and she trembled, afraid, as if fearing she’d ne next to face the Prince’s wrath. And terrified of being beaten if the Prince changed his mind and she did nothing.

Tears were sliding down her cheeks and her lips trembled as she pleaded, hands clasped in front of her chest and bowed until her forehead grazed the polished floors. “Please please please.”

Mus’ad let out another moan, louder this time, lifting his bloodshot eyes to glare at the man who did this to him. He was clutching at his throat, scratching it raw. Warren lifted his gaze from the dying man and glanced at Matthias when a shape in the doorway drew his attention to Irene, who returned and watched the scene in silence. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest and legs crossed at the ankles. The soaked clothes had been exchanged for a long nightgown and a robe, as modest as the rest of her clothes, and her hair lay in drying tresses over her shoulders. Her gaze flitted to the broken wineglass to the kneeling man and then, finally, stopped on Matthias. Warren thought her impassive at first but he was wrong. Irene’s jaw was clenched hard, muscle twitching, and her fingers wrapped tightly around her forearms. It seemed she was struggling with herself as Warren was, between helping Mus’ad and condemning him to punishment.

But he could see more. Warren was incapable of reading people; his peers always laughed at his obliviousness in certain situations. The intricacy of human emotion wasn’t for him to decipher. That was the realm of highborn, not guards. But even a he, a simple guard with a simple life, could see the disappointment in Irene’s gaze. Disappointment with Matthias. Warren couldn’t for the life of him understand why, for his Prince was dealing with the guest the only way he could. It made his dislike for Irene flare up.

Release him,” Lisa repeated in wailing desperation, raising her head for a moment only and bowed down to the ground again, forehead pressed against the tiles. “He meant no disrespect, sir. He is drunk. He has been for a week straight now. Please forgive him.”
 
Matthias stared down at the girl prostrating herself at his feet, her skeletal figure trembling at his feet as she begged for a man who destroyed her youth. While he understood her dilemma and pitied her for it, he did not particularly care to comply to her pleas. Rather than saving her from the wrath of Mus’ad by letting him go, was it not a greater mercy to kill the man so he can never touch her again? Matthias thought so. Clearly, however, most of his company did not agree.

There were more tugs on his sleeve from Mikas. From the corner of his vision, he could see Irene frowning at the scene. In the whole room, there was only a select few guards and him whose expressions lacked a show of horror to any degree. Even if he could ignore Mikas, who would forgive him with a single apology, he could not let every other person in the room see him murder in cold blood without damaging his sparkling reputation.

Breath a soft sigh of defeat, he relented. Warm red wine, mixed with some blood, spilled out of the drunkard’s mouth, allowing him to finally breathe properly. Matthias fought not to grimace in disgust as he watched the rat cough his lungs out onto the otherwise pristine ebony floor. He let the man recover for a while, until he looked as if he wouldn’t vomit when moved and dirty his room even more, before signalling at his guards to take him out.

The soldiers came forward, no longer afraid to handle the man physically now that their Prince’s displeasure with him had been openly shown. They pulled the man, looking out of breath and dizzy, to his feet and dragged him out of his chambers. The slave girl scurried after the entourage, bowing too many times toward Matthias as she left with her master. If she was thankful now, she would surely by ecstatic later. Matthias was not so forgiving or meek a person. Mus'ad left his residence mostly unharmed because he did not want to taint it even further with a rat's blood. But the world outside was a cruel place. The drunkard would not remain so well for long.

With the departure of the disturbance, the servants and the guards streamed out of his room, leaving only a handful of people. He could hear Mus’ad yelling about something, probably already near his gates. He ignored it. The man could rave as much as he wanted but the next time he comes anywhere within ten feet radius of him would be the day he dies.

He turned his attention away from the distant screams to the boy beside him. He ran a thumb over the blooming bruise on the boy’s arm, frowning when the boy flinched. “Does it ache?” He asked, studying the injury with narrowed eyes, and received a shake of the head in response. If it didn’t ache...the bruise seemed to him like just a surface injury and nothing serious. The bastard had not looked like someone who could hurt bone with just a grip. Then again, neither did he. It was better to be safe than sorry.

His eyes scanned the remaining guards, settling on the tall, extremely worried looking man near the entrance. If it had to be one of them, he supposed, that guard would take care of his friend best. “Warren,” he called, making the man jerk, “take Mikas to the physician to look at his arm, will you?”

He rose to his feet as he said this, removing Mikas from his hold. The boy hesitated to leave him, a small frown pulling his brows, looking like he wanted to say something. He didn’t need to say it, however, because Matthias already knew what he wanted. Letting a faint smile paint his lips, he ruffled the younger’s hair and pushed him lightly toward the nervous guard. “I’ll take care of it,” he promised and Mikas’s face relaxed as he nodded before leaving with Warren in tow.

As the duo left, Matthias turned to Irene leaning against the door of his bedroom and shot her questioning look. As if reading his mind, a servant came forward, setting another cup on the table and pouring tea into it. He said nothing, waiting for her to join him at the table. After that show, she definitely had some comments to make. Judging by her unimpressed expression, he guessed that they wouldn’t be very positive.
 
Warren felt uneasy. Awkward. Tense.

They walked down an empty hallway, accompanied only by their faint breaths and quick footsteps. Warren’s armour clanked, metal plating rubbing against leather and cloth, sword-belt shifting with each step on his hip. He kept a hand on the pommel, focusing on gripping it rather than bringing his hand to his hair, an unconscious response to being in Mikas’s presence. It angled the sword so it hit uncomfortably against his shin. Each step was a ring of metal as the scabbard struck the iron plating attacked to his boots.

He did not look at Mikas and continued to stare straight ahead. Wanting to keep his hands and eyes busy, the guard was counting the narrow windows they passed. There were three.

Silence prompted Warren to speak but duty urged him to remain the ever vigilant guard who did not converse with servants and did his task with efficient obedience to his master. But Warren found no comfort in these thoughts. Mus’ad’s shaking form haunted his mind even after the man was long gone. The filthy odour of alcohol and grime clung to Warren and with a pang of anger, he realized it must be on Mikas too. His eyes skirted to the servant’s arm and Warren had to grind his jaw not to say something unpleasant about the nobleman.

Thankfully, he had the comforting privacy of his thoughts to utter oaths. Every Saint he knew and prayed to he begged to have hellfire rain on Mus’ad for what was done to Mikas.

But all Warren could do was pray to long dead Saints. He had neither the ability nor bravery to punish Mus’ad. He had no right to raise his sword against a nobleman, even if a foreign one. Prince Matthias did. He could protect Mikas in ways that Warren couldn’t. It hurt to think about it.

“Are you—” Warren began, his voice thin. Ah, what a time to sound like an adolescent teenager. He cleared his throat and looked down at Mikas, who was much shorter than him and he loved that about him. No, not the other’s short height but the way it made Warren feel like he was protecting the man by simply standing beside him, like a wall to a fortress. The thought made him blush. He hoped the light was dim enough to hide his reddened cheeks; those three windows were behind them, blessed be the Saints.

Though one of his hands was safely wrapped around the pommel of his sword, his other was free rise to his hair, running through it and turning the already unruly curls into a bird’s nest.

A silence more awkward than the first stretched on. He could feel Mikas’s attention on him. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“Are you alright?” There, he said it and this time he did not sound like his voice just started to crack.

Mikas blinked, as if surprised by his questions, though it wasn’t all that extraordinary. A beat passed in silence, then the younger laughed, a short but bright sound. Warren stared at the servant, heat rising to his cheeks with double the intensity.

“I thought you would ask a difficult question, with how much courage you were building up,” was Mikas’s explanation, a glint of laughter shining in his emerald eyes even when the physical version faded. “I’m alright. It’s nothing, really. Matt…” Matt. “The Prince just worries too much,” he finally answered, moving his hand further behind him as if trying to hide the injury, as he looked up to smile at the man who was, to him, like a giant, “but thank you.”

The difference in height was staggering and for once, Warren worried Mikas thought him a brute. While broad shouldered and tall, Warren hardly could be considered barbaric in appearance, but as if sent by the Saints to prove him otherwise, the two passed a mirror and Warren glanced at his reflection. Dishevelled hair, hunched shoulders, hand tight on a sword at his hip and clad from head to toe in armour to boot.

Warren raised his hand to his hair once more to smooth the curls but paused and rested it on the back of his neck instead. It felt hot under his palm. His heart fluttered in his chest as if he were a girl who’d just been given flowers. Mikas’s laughter was addressed to him, at him. To be the reason for that sound was what Warren didn’t even permit himself to pray for.

The guard had to look away from Mikas when the other looked at him with a smile. “It is…it’s nothing,” he parroted the servant’s words and winced at how it made him look. He truly was a brute. “It is good that’s it’s nothing.” He groaned, hating this choice of words as much as the previous attempt. “What I mean is…I am relieved he did not hurt you. Not that you aren’t hurt. You are. But—” Saints, why was this so difficult? Conversation with anyone else, even in company of only the Prince and the Captain, was less excruciating. “I only wish it never happened at all,” Warren finished in a quiet voice and looked at Mikas, his grip on the pommel easing a fraction. “You do not deserve to hear what he told you.”

The humorous light in Mikas’s gaze softened, something like fondness seeping in. “Don’t be so upset,” he offered, in that soft, lilting voice, falling into his habit of comforting others even when it was him that should be comforted. “There are more people around me like you than there are like him, that makes me happy enough,” he said, saying words that would sound exaggerated from others in a way that sounded truly genuine.

“Well, though I am glad that most don’t have one of your traits,” he begun again after a while, trailing off mid-sentence. There was silence again, for a few seconds. Finally, with a mischievous smile blooming on his face, he took pity on Warren and finished with a “You’re way too tall.”

Tall?” Warren stuttered, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He paled at first, then blushed again with double intensity. His mind had conjured up a dozen and more traits that Mikas might not like in him. His marching gait, his hair, his eyes, his too-uptight demeanour, but height? Some protective wall he is, if that is his worst quality. “I’m sorry.”

Laughter filled the hallway once more and Warren couldn’t resist running his hand through his hair in response. The door to the physician’s rooms was just ahead and Warren was almost glad to have finally reached their destination. Blessed be the Saints, he didn’t think he could spend another minute with Mikas without making himself look like even more of a fool. Though the other told him it was but a joke, Warren have never before felt as self-conscientious of his height. He stood there, like a complete imbecile, awkwardly watching Mikas step into the physician’s chambers and close the door behind him. The guards posted there gave Warren a mirthful look, one which brought back some self-control, and he scowled at them in response.

And as he returned to his post, Warren struggled to keep his expression impassive as was his duty. Memory of Mikas’s laughter refused to leave his mind.



***



Irene remained still for a fraction of a moment, eyes trained on the wine that Mus’ad nearly vomited in his desperation to breathe. A servant came rushing to the spill when Irene pushed herself from the doorway and walked to the table. She circled it to sit far enough from mess not to bother the girl with a rag. It stunk of wine, strong alcohol and piss, and Irene’s nostrils flared as she turned away from the chair where Mus’ad planted himself before. The odour would linger for a while until aired out. It made her empty stomach churn unpleasantly. The three men in the Garden stank the same.

Bringing the teacup to her lips, Irene paused and looked at the cool liquid. What before appeared to her as a harmless drink now made her cautious. She set down the cup.

It was of no surprise to her to see Matthias solidify wine. Magic had no limits from what little she knew of it – it could be moulded and controlled, given orders the same way one moved their arm without a second thought. But the mist earlier was harmless, as was the way Matthias gathered it and sent it out the window. This time, Matthias nearly killed a man, a despicable man but a life all the same. And he did not even blink as the wine froze in Mus’ad’s mouth.

Was this why the Prince enjoyed the sea? Was it a comfort of a weapon to him the same way a blade was to Irene?

A frown knit her brows. “Do you always use magic so casually?” Irene did not look at Matthias, her gaze fixated on the teacup. She wondered how quickly it could be frozen into an ice dagger. Any other attack she could stop. Against magic, she was powerless. It was unsettling.

Matthias hesitated to answer, perhaps sensing Irene’s thoughts. “I use magic,” he paused, considering, “I use it as you use your spear.”

“That is hardly the same,” Irene said and looked at Matthias, eyes narrowed and wild with building frustration.

Wasn’t it the same? It took years to learn magic, decades to master all the complicated intricacies and rules of it. It was a weapon the same as any blade and demanded constant practice. Rael explained it to her once. He tried to teach her, a different sort of magic that he believed her capable of. She refused immediately, appalled by the suggestion.

Any argument Irene had prepared died on her lips and she leaned back, bringing a hand to rub the bridge of her nose as her eyes closed and she breathed a sigh. “Magic has a price. Sooner or later, you will have to pay it. Today, tomorrow, in a decade. Regardless, it will demand what it is owed. At least when I lose a battle, payment is immediate.” She lowered her hand to the cup, turning it on its base to have the liquid come dangerously close to spilling. “I used my spear only when necessary. It is but an heirloom now. In its current state, it is a danger to no one. Your magic, however, is always present. Until this morning I had no idea you could use it. Until now I didn’t believe it capable of torture.”

Matthias levelled her a look, as if he did not see her point. He did, probably, he always had a way of it, so, perhaps, it was a look that told her he did not agree with her point. When he spoke, that suspicion was confirmed.

“Magic is air, Irene, not a demon to form contracts with,” he said, sounding like a teacher reproaching his student, “and it is capable of anything, as long as you have enough imagination.” His voice as he said that made it clear he did not think she did.

“It can be used for malevolence or good but it in itself has no properties, much less a threatening form to chase you for debts,” he paused to take a sip of his drink, then looked up at her with eyes that held fire where ice usually reigned. “As you said, once you learn to feel it, it is always there. In battle you can lose your weapon, but you will never lose your magic. You can choose to use it, you can choose to leave it be, but when you need it you know it will be there,” he stopped again, letting her process what he said before continuing in the same reaching, persuasive tone, “Not only that, it can become a sword, a shield, an armour. That’s what makes it so amazing, Irene. Dangerous, but amazing. Magic is whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

Each word spoken Irene wanted to ignore. It mirrored what Rael told her once before, though in a different, less tempting manner. What Matthias believed to be necessity, Rael thought of as a last resort. While Irene refused to even consider it as an option. Vaela was unlike many other kingdoms and empires, where sorcery was banned as it led to temptation and corruption, provoked and encouraged sin. Irene travelled the world enough to be influenced by such opinions, further nurturing the seed of fear that had been planted into her along with the Mark. Riverside, where Rael was born and lived his whole life, was one such place where magic was taboo. He lived in fear of prosecution, despite his best efforts to ease the life of others through his ability to manifest magic to heal the ailing. Irene, too, lived in fear of being discovered as an Exiled and sent to a Cleansing Pyre to burn, to be cleansed.

Magic brought nothing but sorrow to her life. To hear that it was amazing, wonderful, a tool to be shaped and used for an infinity of purposes, set her teeth on edge.

Matthias continued, regardless of Irene’s obvious discomfort with the topic. “Izmarian royalty are also capable of magic, you know? Rather than the spear that become useless in one wrong move, magic is much more effective in battle,” he had been leading up to this, even if that hadn’t been obvious in the midst of his speech, “It will be good for you to learn it.”

The teacup stilled. “I am well aware of my lineage,” Irene said, voice as cold as the ocean.

Legends spoke of the First Queen carving the palace into the Wirint’s Rise with fire. Tunnels built by magic, shaped into arched hallways where ceilings were so tall one had to crane their neck to see it. Stalagmites and stalactites licked by flames until their edges were as smooth as polished marble. Vast, open chambers refined by fire magic to shine with raw ore and gems of the Mountain. Each member of the royal bloodline added to the construction, used their power to wield fire to carve deeper into the Mountain, expanding the already grand and impossibly intricate structure.

Irene supposed she would be the first queen not to partake in this tradition.

“I have had enough of magic in my life,” she continued without raising her eyes from the teacup. “I wish not to understand it nor learn it. It is dangerous, no matter which hands it lies in. I have yet to lose a battle. When I do, and my spear is useless, I will accept defeat. For I lost to skill superior to my own. Drawing on magic will make me a cheat.”

By some strange twist of fate, the dangerous life she led had instilled her with more morals and principles than before. Honourable and stubborn was a foolishly dangerous combination. It was a miracle she was still breathing. Irene preferred to think of it as a sign that she truly was a master with a spear. Pinning this on luck was an insult to Leon’s memory.

A knock came from the main door. One of the guards opened it and a thin young man came in carrying in front of him a large gilded chest. He paused a respectable distance from the table, cast a quick glance at Irene who was silently brooding over her cup of tea, and bowed as low as the load he carried permitted him.

“A gift for your Highnesses,” the boy announced without raising his head, “from Vladimir Volinskiy of Belsz, Jarl of Vellanmar.” He continued to the table without looking up, placed the chest on it, and departed from the lounge.

Irene raised a brow at the gift. Last time Vladimir sent her a gift, it was a key to the cages of a slave caravan she’d opened and a note, where the Jarl expressed his amusement at the loss of his investment and promised to deal with all responsible for lack of security in a timely manner. For an entire month after Irene was positive someone was watching her. She hadn’t slept that poorly in months, kept awake by caution and the constant need to keep moving, expecting a dagger in the back. No attack came but Irene remained careful all the same. A gift from Vladimir was never simple – it was always a promise, a warning, a reminder.

Whatever was in the chest couldn’t be dangerous. Though a viper himself, Vladimir was not the type of a man to invest into an endeavour and then end it before it could bear fruit by sending a chest of cobras. So, Irene rose from her chair first and circled the table to stand before the chest and pushed the lid up. When it fell back, Irene sucked in a breath.

Inside was a collection of jewellery pieces arranged on a bed of brocaded velvet and pearl. In the middle, sitting atop a red cushion, was a headpiece too large to be considered a crown. Bellow it, pinned in a semi-circle was a necklace of chain links to span an entire width of a man’s chest. Against the backdrop of red, the jewels shone even in the dim light. Royal blue lapis lazuli the size of a child’s fist adorned the crown and the necklace, alternating with oval and square sapphires the shade of the ocean on a bed of yellow gold. The central piece of both the crown and the necklace were blue-green opals, as icy cold as Matthias’s eyes, with uniform pearl droplets below each stone. Half a dozen brooches fashioned from polished turquoise elegantly encircled by ivory and peach pearls sat along the corners of the chest.

Inside the crown was a square piece of parchment. Irene brought it to her eyes to see the seal. It was simple, only two letters, V.V, pressed into the wax. She broke the seal and read the message, “To the happy couple. May I offer my felicitations on your engagement. Your friend and servant, Jarl of Vellanmar.”

A gift from Vladimir was anything but.

He sent Matthias a crown. A crown worthy of an Emperor.
 
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Honour. Such a pesky word. It was a grand but impossible ideal, a weight thrown around by many but held up by few. It was naive to think that just because one party of a fight followed the rules and accepted a fair defeat meant the other would. Matthias had been a victim of that false faith more than once before he realized that it was a fool’s theory.

Irene clearly had not come to the same conclusion, yet. Perhaps because she had never found herself in a situation where that belief was challenged or maybe she simply was one of those who held too much trust in the humanity of others. Either way, the implication that using magic was “cheating”, to him, was ridiculous, childish. In spars or practice, where the focus was on training physically and against a friendly party, he could accept not using magic. In an actual fight, however, not utilizing every weapon in your arsenal was a witless move. Also, what if your opponent had magic too?

Even if she truly and completely believed that she would not use it, was there any negatives to learning it just in case? She claimed to understand that it was dangerous. She also saw, with her own eyes just minutes ago, that it was real and powerful. Yet, she still wished to ignore it? She wanted to walk around as Empress of a country, countries even, filled with people who owned this dangerous weapon with no idea of how it worked and expected that to work out?

Matthias could understand most of the sentiments Irene held, about the Court, about the revelation of her identity, even when he did not agree with it. Not this one.

He did not reply to her. There was finality in her voice that indicated to the full confidence she had in her views. There would be no point in arguing with her on this, not now. So he kept silent, feeling oddly disappointed in the woman across him, and so did Irene, whose eyes stuck to the teacup like she had seen some great prophecy in it.

Luckily, the delivery of the gift disturbed the increasingly tense quiet before it could grow too thick. He did not rise from his chair, choosing to watch from his seat as Irene opened the rather large, heavy looking box. What he saw inside did not disappoint him, to say the least.

The jewels glittered under the stream of soft sunlight, obviously all very pure breeds of gemstone. The entire set was worth a small fortune, even some Noble Houses would not be able to get their hands on it, and was one of the most gorgeous collections he’d seen. The crown, of course, stood out most even amongst the sparkling pieces. There was more precious stones on it than one might think possible to cram onto one item and shone so brightly that it irritated his enhanced eyes but, even then, it was exceptionally beautiful. It was a crown fitting for a ruler.

A gift for his impending marriage along with a crown. When you get your throne, don’t forget, I played a part. The corners of his lips twitched upward in mirth. Vladimir of Vellanmar was something else. It was a clever way of sending a reminder, though, really, the man did not need to worry,. Matthias was neither about to let go of a relationship with one of Riverside’s most powerful men nor one to forget his friends.

“Place this in the Princess’s wardrobe,” he told the servants, waving them away before Irene could provide any objections. Draining his tea, he rose to his feet. “Now then, I’ll be excusing myself,” he told Irene, gesturing vaguely at his still drenched pants, and left for his bedroom.

When he came back out, Irene had already returned to her own chambers. They did not meet for the rest of the day, Matthias being too drowned in his work to share any of the following meals with her. The day after, they did not talk much to each other, Irene apparently having already eaten her meals whenever he was having his. Matthias did not think much of it. It was only when the following day passed the same way that he understood that Irene was, for some reason, once again, avoiding him.

The only reason he could think of for it was that she thought he would insist on the topic of her learning magic, since that was what their last proper conversation had ended on. He had not been intending on that, however, having already seen her determination against it. Matthias considered mentioning this fact to her but it seemed that Irene had quite the talent for hiding from him, leaving him with no opportunity to do so. He could probably corner her, if he tried, but he saw no need to be so urgent about it and so left it at that.

The third day started the same way. He did not even need to ask for her. She sent Mikas to tell him that she had already eaten breakfast. He was not sure whether he should be insulted at the lengths she was going to not talk to him. He pushed that niggling irritation aside and continued with his planned schedule for the day. If she was so against being around him, there was no reason to force his presence upon her.

He left his chambers to the soldiers’ barracks, where the men were already starting to warm up, some even already training. Jaime sat at a far corner with pulled brows, studying two youths as they sparred. The fighters were doing well for their age, considering their lack of experience. Jaime, however, did not look impressed. Not that he ever really did, anyway.

The soldiers bowed and greeted him as he walked by them toward his friend, most wearing a look of surprise. Matthias came rarely to train or watch them train as of late. He was often too busy with deskwork for it and, when he wasn’t, too worn out. Today, though, he had no Court matter to attend to and he intended to take full advantage of that. He had not fought in so long, he missed the thrill of it, the ache in his muscle and burn in his lungs.

“Block to your right,” he remarked casually as he passed the two poor subjects of their captain’s inspection, enabling the smaller boy to avoid getting slammed in the side with his opponent’s wooden sword. Jaime glared up at him, his already disapproving expression growing even more disparaging. Matthias merely grinned back at him. The youths, whose fight came to an end with his appearance, gawped at the exchange as they stood awkwardly, unsure whether they were meant to keep sparring or were dismissed.

“Josh would have won, if there were no disturbances,” Jaime begun, looking at the boy Matthias had helped, “because you’re still too careless. You shouldn’t have left your side so open.”

“No, I think he had the right idea, actually,” Matthias interjected. The moment he opened his mouth, Jaime took in a deep breath, as if exasperated. “You just need to work on the quirks of that move a little more. Your swing needs to be quicker-” He was explaining when was interrupted by the other man.

“He can’t swing any quicker in that position,” Jaime argued, folding his arms in that pose he did that reminded Matthias of a mother scolding her child.

“Yes, he can," came the immediate reply, only to be ignored.

“As I was saying, you need to keep defense in mind even when you’re attacking. Learn to read your opponents’ moves more efficiently,” Jaime finished, rushing his words to get them all out before his friend could interfere again.

“Well, I say your move was good and that you just need to practice it more,” Matthias added, earning him yet another of the look from the older man. The topic of their debate glanced nervously between them, clearly conflicted on who to listen to. Matthias had complete faith in his own analysis and, though he wouldn’t admit it was part of the reason, hated losing. Hence, he decided to make sure the boy took the right advise without having to fear the wrath of his commander.

“How about we spar then? The one who wins is clearly more reliable about fighting and is correct, no?” He suggested, a faint smirk forming on his lips. Jaime’s eyes narrowed, shooting at him the worst glare of them all yet. He raised an eyebrow in reply, as if daring the man to disagree.

In ten fights between the two of them, Matthias would win at least eight. Not to say that Jaime was weak. He was just so boring, so stuck to techniques taught to him rather than coming up with his own. After years of sparring against him, it was easy to predict his moves.

“Fine,” the soldier eventually growled out in reply, heading to the large ring without another word. Matthias laughed as he followed after, stripping off his jacket on the way. As it became clear what was going on, cheers arose from the crowd of guards as they gathered to watch what was sure to be a spectacle.

Neither of them used weapons or armor, the former because they tended toward different weapons and the latter because they had learnt long ago to not harm each other beyond bruises. Neither of them wore shirts, either, Matthias because his was light colored and the ring was a field of mud, Jaime because he just woke up and had not thought to put on a shirt in the first place.

He could see some servant girls gathering at a discreet corner, staring. He wished they wouldn’t. His hatred of losing extended even to petty things, even though he didn’t show it, and he was confident of his body compared to anyone’s but Jaime. It’s like the man was born with double the normal amount of manliness. Matthias, in contrast, well... it was obvious just from looking at his face. While Jaime just seemed to have those rippling muscles, he was lean and remained lean, though toned, no matter what he did. It was something like a complex for him.

He was about to push that thought away when, from the corner of his vision, Irene entered the barracks. Matthias looked back at Jaime and his frustratingly broad shoulders. Damn the Saints. Damn you and your muscles. Screw them, who needs them, I’m going to win anyway.

As this thought entered his mind, Jaime broke away from their silent circling of each other and lunged, throwing a fist at his head without hesitation. He was being more aggressive than usual. Matthias grinned as he dodged, taking a step backward. He must have really gotten on his friend’s nerves this time. As he dodged another jab and felt the wind whistle in his ear, he pushed that and all other useless thoughts out of his mind.

Focus. His eyes caught every little detail Jaime made but only the important movements registered in his mind. The angle of his foot, the direction of his gaze, the tilt of his body. A kick from the right. He pivoted, catching the man’s foot as his back slammed into the man’s chest. His elbow slammed into Jaime’s stomach. When his opponent did not immediately fall, he did not persist, ducking under the man’s arm with raised fists.

The fight went on, neither party seemingly at an advantage, for a full minute. Matthias made little offensive moves, yet he did not seem to be overwhelmed. Rather, it looked as if he was building up to something.

A hook from the larger man. It was blocked. A low kick at his shin. He could have avoided it. He took it instead. A suspicious move. He sent his own punch to the man’s face. Jaime moved backward to avoid it. In that split second, his balance was off. Matthias’s shot up, seemingly aiming for the shoulder. If it were so it wouldn’t have landed. But right before it reached its target, the direction changed. His foot hooked on where the neck and shoulder were connected. A normal kick with no amazing weight behind it, but it’s position made Jaime’s legs crumble. With the taller man lowered, Matthias twisted on one foot, bring one up as the other came down. For a brief second, he was in the air. Time seemed to slow. Jaime was sent flying back by the combination of two kicks. Matthias landed, first on his feet, on both sides of Jaime’s torso, before he dropped down, pinning the man down with his whole body. It was a flashy ending. Jaime had been defeated.

A beat passed with the two man still tense and alert. Then, just as fast as they had switched to being merely opponents, they relaxed. Jaime sighed, letting his head hit the muddy floor in reluctant defeat. Matthias grinned down at him from where he practically straddled him.

“See, he can swing faster after all,” he joked, laughter in his eyes.

“Get off me,” came the sullen reply.
 
Irene leaned against one of the beams supporting the awnings extended from the rooftops of the barracks. Normally, they shielded the training guards from the sun, but the day’s been overcast with grey clouds and not a single ray of sunlight passed through. The air remained heavy and hot, humidity so high that even the guards who had not gone through their training rounds were already sweating beneath their thin garbs. Summer’s heat has been unrelenting so far, despite the dry season having had just started, and most men were shirtless in the barracks unless required to put on armour to train with a weapon.

Everyone but Warren, whom Irene had yet to see without his uniform. He stood at her side, one hand hooked into his belt and the other rubbing the polished pommel of his sword. Sweat started to bead across his brow and his skin was flushed crimson. Since the fight started in the ring he was unable to look away, everyone was watching, transfixed by a duel between two skilled warriors. But Warren watched the two with a different sort of look. It was not awe or admiration that she was used to seeing flicker in his eyes when he answered to Matthias. Neither was it respect, with which he normally followed Jaime. This look was a different sort, as if he was privy to some intimate information and it gave him no comfort.

It was not Irene’s business to ask, though she was tempted to. She turned back to the fight, watching Matthias with curiosity that hasn’t given her rest since the near-kiss in the sea. She wished she could claim she was doing something worthwhile over the course of the past three days, but she’d be lying and it was obvious to everyone just how bad she was at deception. Matthias remained in her thoughts with the comfort of a pebble in a boot, the intimate moment they shared and the conversation that followed not giving her rest.

Not for the first time Irene wished she had more to do than just wait. The days passed by with an excruciating slowness that only a restless mind suffered from. A month spent in brooding silence felt like a dream for how impossible the notion seemed. After coming to her senses, Irene had explored the grounds the same way she explored towns and villages upon visiting them for a lengthy period of time. But while a town offered the company of people and different sorts of entertainment, Matthias’s residence only had the gardens and the guard barracks to see. The servants were akin to ghosts, haunting Irene’s senses as they dutifully followed her around. The guards, thank the Mountain, were a more amiable sort, but even they rarely spoke while on duty. Areas to explore had long ago been visited and with her every needed taken care of, Irene’s options to fill the empty hours were limited.

The requirement to keep working for coin was gone and with it the pleasure of travel. Meals were ready before she could even realize she was hungry and worn clothes were replaced with fresh sets each morning. While this life was comfortable, it was empty. And emptiness allowed thoughts to flood in to occupy the vacant space.

Avoiding the Prince was unintentional at first. Irene simply could not stay still, wanting and needing herself to do more than just sit on her bed and watch the door connecting their rooms like a hawk. Every part of his residence reminded her of the moment in the sea, when she clung to him like a helpless damsel, and the memory resurfaced each time she looked out the windows only to see the waves which brought them so close together.

It was obvious that they were attracted to each other physically. Or, at least, Irene believed it was such. Matthias was a different matter altogether. So far, each time he showed interest in another it was a man. The Vaelan Empire embraced all kinds of sexuality, accepting any pairing without judgement, and while it was comforting, it gave Irene pause. The time at the brothel may have been a hilarious scene the witness, but the attention the Prince had given the male prostitute, Rafael, was not in jest. He’d been attracted to that man.

Then, Mus’ad in his drunken stupor claimed that Matthias and Mikas shared something more than a bond between a servant and their lord. Irene long ago had noticed the jewellery the younger man wore, but it was not until she saw the bracelet bought from the store in the Thean Gerith market that she understood why Mikas ranked above other attendants. She assumed in her ignorance that he was simply a smart man versed in the intricacies of the Court structure, earning him the rank of chamberlain and her tutor. It seemed there was another reason behind his authority.

What followed this realization was not jealousy but dread. Irene used to pride herself in never meddling in another’s personal affairs. But if Matthias was not attracted to women, then she must have looked quite the madwoman, clinging to him in fear of drowning, and then almost kissed him due to a desire her mind refused to quench. While their marriage was not to be based on love, intimacy was still a requirement to solidify their union. And no promises of armies were enough to have her force their wedding night because of tradition.

Irene should have known the barracks were not safe to go to clear her head. The guards posted outside as was their duty bowed when she neared. They never did, not after the several days she’d spent in their company, so she’d looked at them in question that was answered by the sight of the two men in the training ring. Matthias had not visited the guard barracks since she’d defeated Jaime. It was the only place in the entire residence that did not remind her of him and the troubling thoughts that followed. Now, he claimed this place too.

Warren shifted uncomfortably at her side as the two of them watched the duel. “Are you unwell?”

The guard flinched and looked at Irene in surprise, probably just noticing her presence. He raised a hand, intending to run it through his hair but settled it on the back of his neck instead. “No,” he answered reluctantly. “It’s just hot.”

They were silent for a breath. Warren stared off into the distance while Irene’s gaze was fixed on Matthias. This was the first time she’d seen him fight. The ambush at Thean Gerith market did not count, for Irene had been too busy with her opponent to watch Matthias deal with his own. Whether it was with magic that he took down his enemy at the time or with skill, Irene did not inquire and the events that followed the attack took away the opportunity to ask. But she had never seen Matthias enter the training ring while she was at the barracks and the guards never mentioned the Prince. She assumed he was a trained warrior – his toned body being evidence enough – but could never imagine his style to be so similar to hers.

Matthias was elegant even in the ring and moved without a hint of hesitation. Each jab or kick was planned and effective, not an ounce of energy gone to waste. Always in control, even in a duel with a man broader in shoulders and heavier than him. Where Matthias chose defence, Irene would have taken the opportunity to attack, but these small divergences in their style were fascinating to note. Who she assumed relied more on magic than fists to win, turned out to be quite the warrior.

Irene’s eyes flickered from the Prince to the servant girls watching him, albeit with a different sort of awe. Where Irene saw a warriors worthy of respect, they saw attractive men in the training ring, exchanging blows, dancing around each other without a shirt on.

“Does his Highness have a lover?” Irene asked Warren without taking her eyes off the girls.

Warren stuttered for a moment, shocked by the sudden question. “Uh. You?”

In that moment the fight concluded. By the time Irene looked back at the ring, Matthias was on top of Jaime who’d been knocked to the ground. Warren lifted a hand to cover his eyes as if he’d seen something indecent.

“Saints forgive me,” the guard whispered and continued, his voice low. “I hoped this was left in the past.”

Irene looked at the guard as if he’d lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“There were…rumours that His Highness and the Captain are – were – involved.” Warren looked at Irene, a pained look in his eyes and added, “I saw them stumble out of the Captain’s tent once. They were undressed.”

“What about Mikas?”

“That was long ago.” His voice was almost a whisper.

“Any female lovers?” When Warren gave Irene a pointed look, she added, “other women.”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Irene made a noncommittal sound at the back of her throat. The noise was drowned out by the excitement that suddenly erupted from the crowd. Several times Irene heard her name be mentioned in conversation and many looked at her, all mischievous smiles and curious glances. She was able to discern the bits and pieces from the cacophony – the guards were curious who was a better warrior, she or Matthias. It was a good question, in all honesty. Irene did not think Matthias to be a skilled warrior at first glance but after their last argument about magic, she was itching to prove him that fists and weapons could do the job just as well as sorcery.

She made her way through the crowd towards the ring and jumped over the fence. The sand was damp beneath the soles of her shoes. It rained earlier and the clouds were bound to weep down from the skies at any moment. The air was heated, both with the impending rain and the excitement of the guards who cheered as their princess went to the centre of the ring.

“Spar with me,” Irene said to Matthias. “Since there is no water to give you an edge,” she gestured around them at the sand, “I will go easy on you.”

It was an empty promise. Irene was not in the habit of underestimating her foes and neither did she care about giving their audience a show. She was no entertainer to spin and kick like a dancer, pretending to be an exotic warrior woman from a distant land. In the event that she won, Matthias would have no reason to keep her spear or refuse to give her a new blade. And the topic of magic will never be breached again.
 
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Matthias turned to the source of the challenge and promptly froze upon seeing Irene slip into the ring. Cheers erupted from the sides that were even louder than when he fought with Jaime. A short burst of laughter left him, a mix between mirth and disbelief. If he had been told before now that he would one day spar his own fiancee, he would have thought it ridiculous.

“Take it easy on me?” He repeated mindlessly as he watched Irene seriously prep herself for a fight. Yells of encouragement for Irene from his men overpowered any there might have been for him. Even Jaime had some weird glint of hope in his gaze as he looked toward Irene. Some loyal men he had. Matthias ran a hand through his hair, brushing back wild strand.

“Come at me, then, Princess,” he mocked, eyes narrowing.

Most fights begun with a slow circle, a build-up of momentum, testing, measuring, waiting. Theirs did not. The two stood across from each other, gazes searching and muscles tensed. They appeared, to the untrained eye, to be completely still. Most would assume this to be a war of nerves. It was not. This was more complex, a mind game of a different sort. In their eyes, the fight had already started. The lift of a shoulder, the adjustment of feet, everything one did, the other caught and countered.

It was a move that seemed to come out of nowhere but was in actuality a long time coming. When Irene pounced, an abrupt, bursting motion, Matthias evaded it with an efficiency that made obvious he was not surprised. Ducking under her arm, he used her hand on his shoulder against her, his feet hooking on her ankle and pulling. Without missing a beat, Irene twisted, saving her balance.

Taking advantage of her awkward position mid-turn, Matthias looped his arm through it and forced his body weight on her. Irene stumbled backward but did not fall, instead bringing up her knees to meet the back of his. It did not hit him heavily. But that was not its purpose. It forced him to dodge and let her escape his pressuring hold. They sprung from each other and only then did they begin the circling. They were like two panthers on the prowl, all lean muscles and slow, almost lazy, but smooth movements. A dangerous sort of beautiful.

The fight continued in this manner for minutes that felt like hours. One would grasp the upper hand, only to lose it in a matter of seconds, as they tried and failed to overwhelm the other. They were too similar in their styles and too different in their mindsets.

Matthias aimed to lunge again, slowly growing more desperate to finish this fight as his stamina drained. Two fights in a row with two great warriors was, in hindsight, not his smartest decision. He was about to move when his sight suddenly blurred. He stuttered in motion. Was he so tired already? No, he realized, there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

Rain fell from the sky as his gaze connected with Irene’s in dramatically slow fashion. His lips lifted. No water? How ironic that she had mentioned that before. You thought, sweetheart.

He wasn’t one to cheat in mere spars. He didn’t do it on purpose. Still, energy rose in him again as the cool droplets seeped into his skin.

Irene came at him, ignoring the change in weather, and sent a fist flying. It landed haphazardly but was followed by a series of rapid movements that came out of left field. Matthias could barely block them. He supposed Irene was scared of water in more than one way, now. Whoops and hurrahs came from their newly excited audience back in full force as Matthias was forced into a corner.

It seemed like Irene had this round. One last kick in the right place and she would have. It was just too bad that he caught it. He tugged on her leg, hand pushing against her shoulder. It was almost comical, her expression as she slipped and fell backward. In their condition, once one falls, there was no getting up.

Matthias followed her to the floor, his knees digging into the muddy ground for the second time that day. He held himself up above Irene, trying to catch his breath. Saints, he was so damn tired. He stared down at the woman beneath him, both their expressions blank for a beat before he broke into a smile. It had been awhile since the thrill of victory hit him this hard.

One of his arms gave into exhaustion and bent at his elbow. They were close enough to each other for her chest to brush against his with every shaky breath they took. It brought back to mind the scene of them at sea, her body pressed close to his, her eyes hazy with anticipation. The weather did nothing to stop him from heating up. His body must be going crazy for reacting so strongly to her proximity. It had better been the same for her or he might truly go mad. Their gazes locked as a tense second passed.

“I win,” he whispered, not wanting to break the spell woven about them, laughing silently.
 
One wrong move, a miscalculation, a mistake committed either out of desperation or overconfidence. Whatever the reason, whether it was skill or by chance alone, the scales tipped into the Prince’s favour and Irene found herself falling to the ground.

The struggle dispersed into a blur of movement. The impact was enough to knock the air out of her lungs and Irene gasped, mind and body recovering from momentary shock. The cheers were growing distant. Silenced by the rustle of droplets on shallow puddles, the voices were lost on her. Her head throbbed as though it longed to stay in rhythm with the sound of her rapid heartbeat.
A droplet fell onto her brow and slid down the curve, momentary robbing Irene of sight when she blinked the rainwater away. For one long, terrifying moment, Irene was back in the swamp, a lifetime ago, the memory superimposed onto the present. Trapped, she hadn’t been able to move her legs and knew with cold, calculating certainty that they were broken. The downpour made it impossible to breathe and the rain wouldn’t stop, threatening to drown her in a shallow puddle—

“I win,” came a whisper and Irene had to blink the moisture away several times to see.

Her mind played catch-up with reality, shaking off remnants of a nightmarish memory. As it dissipated, Irene’s surroundings came into focus and she could once again see, albeit with difficulty. The thunderclouds had gathered above the barracks and a curtain of rain and Irene could just make out the blurred shapes of the audience around the training ring.

But it was Matthias that had completely grounded her to present, did not let her mind wander to a memory of another lifetime. Their eyes locked, his, an impossible shade of blue, made so much more vibrant by the backdrop of dark skies and thin translucent rivulets of shimmering rainwater running along the curve of his brow and jaw. Propped up on an elbow, he was smiling at her in a way that chased away the phantom tendrils of growing panic. Laughter flickered in the corners of his eyes, played on his lips. Irene found herself smiling back, despite the defeat, despite the momentary surge of panic she’d experienced.

Thunder boomed above them in warning. Irene felt the mud tug uncomfortably on her limbs and rain had started to form puddles in the divots made into the sand. Though Matthias took the brunt of the rain, shielding Irene with his back, they were both soaked.

Irene took his still-upright arm and threw her weight in the opposite direction, her leg wrapped around his waist as they rolled and switched positions. She did not linger above him as he did and rose to her feet the moment she was no longer trapped under his weight. Ever dutiful servants came rushing to the fence when Irene climbed over it, but she waved them off, unwilling to deal with their attention. Her movements had slowed down, her breathing steady, though energy still coursed through her and warmed on her way back to the estate.

Water sloshed in her shoes and a trail of muddy footsteps was left along the hallways leading to her bedroom. The servants had prepared a set of fresh dry clothes even before Irene stepped foot into her chambers, though she had all but ran back to the palace in her haste to bathe before the Prince returned. Mud clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin, though most of it had been washed away by the rain. It took only but a few moments of rough scrubbing with a washcloth to rub away the remaining dirt.

Outside the rain whispered softly against the rough stone of the bathroom’s border. Screened of oiled straw had been rolled down to ward off most of the cold. Light slanted through the gaps as the screens softly shifted in the wind. The room was instead alight with a soft orange glow, the fire in the braziers sending shadows dancing.

Irene paused, listening, her gaze locked on the entrance to Matthias’s chambers. Her hand held the ends of a sash of a thin bathrobe she’d shrugged on top of a nightshift, its collar just high enough to hide the black ink of her chest. She’d dressed in a hurry, ready to escape into the relative safety of her room at the first sign that the Prince had returned. But he had not. Her eyes dropped to the water and Irene stepped towards the bath’s edge.

A sigh escaped her lips when she slipped her legs into the warm water. The spar had left her leg throbbing in pulsing pain. It must have been the fall. That one simple, stupid mistake. Irene looked back on it and now that the moment had passed, she wondered if it was worth it. If losing was worth it.

Matthias had been growing tired, most likely drained from his earlier fight. She should have given him a break, to even the odds, but Irene was selfish. The thought of winning, of showing him that she was more than just the mercenary she claimed to be, more than an aging woman who should’ve come to terms that honour had no importance in battle. Blinded by the chance to prove her worth, Irene had taunted Matthias into sparring with her.

And then, when they were so close that she felt a different sort of energy set her body alight with fire, Irene had realized that it had been a mistake of the most dangerous sort.

Irene leaned forward and started to massage the sore muscles along the scar on her leg. Her brows were knit together in a frown, her lips pressed into a line. Losing to Matthias did not trouble her, though she supposed her pride was wounded. A more pressing issue demanded her attention. The issue of them, if there even was a them. The earlier conversation with Warren had told her nothing she already knew. What happened at the sea could have been anything, from an awkward assumption to a genuine attraction. And what happened in the training ring…well, Mathias was exhausted. The several seconds of tense silence could mean everything and nothing.

A part of her wished that it was all in her head. It was easier this way. Still, her eyes lifted to the entrance across from her own. The Prince was bound to come to the bath chamber sooner or later. All she had to do was wait and then…then, she would have a source of information much more reliable than a guard with a vivid imagination.
 
Dirt and water made for a bad combination with his eyes. A ring of mud made for an unpleasant bed. Jaime that silently laughed at him from the side without offering any assistance to him whatsoever made for a horrible friend.

He found himself engaged in yet another verbal spar with Jaime as he strolled back toward his chambers. They debated more passionately than they probably should on whether losing with dignity or winning with none was more important. Not that Matthias thought he had won indignantly. Even if he were left covered in mud as the aftermath.

It occurred to him as he stepped into the emptiness of his room that Irene would likely be bathing right now as well. When he walked through the slight mist of the open pool, towel around his waist as some kind of precaution, true to his expectations, there she was. Sitting at the edge, leading against the cool marble, Irene had a languish ease about her that he suspected would disappear once she sighted him.

There was just the slightest bit of awkwardness in the air as he slipped into the bath, earning himself a wary stare from his companion. The healing warmth of the water and the task of getting all the grime off him made him nearly forget Irene’s presence for a while. Either in an attempt to give him privacy or to spare them both, she did not look at him once since he entered the bathing chamber.Their silence grew into something almost comfortable as the seconds passed by. It unsettled him.

“It was a good fight,” he opened, moving closer toward her from the middle of the pool, brushing back dripping strands of hair from his face by habit.

His gaze trailed the grey sunlight as it slanted across the bathroom floor, crawling over her lap and kissing her cheek. It set the silver of her eyes in a shimmering glow whenever the straw blinds moved just so. When Irene turned to look at him, her eyes were bright despite the dim illumination.

“It was,” she replied. Once again, they were quiet. Irene simpered, an unfamiliar sound, a slight shake of her head setting the coiled braid loose over her shoulder. A soft smile broke his serene front. He truly had enjoyed their spar. There were few people that matched him so seamlessly in style or so evenly in strength.

“I would have won had I not slipped on the mud. A weakness of mine, it seems,” Irene continued as she absently gestured to her leg. Her smile faded and she did not meet his eyes as she added, “you are very skilled.”

Matthias could feel her reluctance in admitting that. He supposed she had not expected much out of him as a warrior considering their previous interactions. He would think the same way, really, if faced with someone like himself. Still, if he were to be honest, he didn’t think he would lose even if it had not begun to rain. He felt he could have defeated her faster if he hadn’t fought Jaime first. Seeing as to how discussion of differences in opinion seemed to go for them, however, he decided to avoid mentioning that.

“The same goes to you,” he returned instead. As expected, once he stopped speaking, words abandoned them. Thunder boomed outside and, moments later, lightning flashed and set the skies ablaze with white.

Matthias watched as a million thoughts flew across Irene’s face as she glanced around, brows pulled together, thinking. Finally, as if she had made up her mind, she breathed in and exhaled in a long sigh. He found himself tensing in preparation for what looked like a grim topic she was about to approach.

“Tell me, Matthias,” she began reluctantly. She treated the words on her tongue like unknown wine, tasting, testing, trying to figure it out. It filled him with a sense of both anticipation and apprehension.

“Has my unexpected proposal affected anyone?” Her question made Matthias blink. She was asking him if he had someone else in his heart. Or something to that effect. Did she think him so amazingly loyal that he would go chasing after her skirt if he had a lover?

“A lover. A promise you’ve made to someone else,” she elaborated, thinking he did not understand, assumably because of his blank expression.

“It would not matter if I did,” he spoke, unconcerned, meaning to dismiss it. Something about the look in her eyes made him add, on afterthought, “but I don’t have any lover waiting on me. There’s no need for you to worry, Princess, nothing will stop me from marrying you.”

There was a flicker of emotion in Irene’s gaze when she glanced at him, he couldn’t quite catch it, pity or sadness. Whatever it was, it was momentary, gone with a blink.

“Marrying the throne I promised you, you mean,” she corrected, raising a hand to stop any possible argument before it began. He did not interject, finding no sense in denying an obvious truth. Her right to Izmar was the very foundation of their relationship, after all. Irene was not one of those fragile dolls that needed his reassurance of faith at every turn.

“Regardless. I do not expect loyalty from you, Matthias. Our marriage is of a different sort,” she said it like a permission of sorts. Only there was nobody around for him to have an affair with even if he wanted to. Why was she even breaching this topic? The face of Ammon Darnell came to his mind and he fought not to roll his eyes.

Irene continued, “You are Prince. Your private affairs-“

“Look, wait until we’re married, you can do whatever you wish after,” he dismissed with a scoff, “or whoever, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“ -are not my business.”

They both paused, taken aback. “You misunderstand,” she claimed and a soft chuckle escaped her lips like he had offered a preposterous idea. Her amusement was brief, however, her smile fading as she continued.

“Despite my best efforts to ignore it, I hear gossip,” she insisted, a crease forming between her brows as though she regretted bring up the topic. There is always gossip, he wanted to say but held his tongue.

“It is all everyone talks about when I am within earshot. The many broken hearts, the disappointment, the regret. All the fake congratulations and condolences. I do not know how you can stand it all,” she ranted and Matthias listened with pursed lips. He knew things like this would happen but he figured someone like Irene would not care about his or any other hearts. When they made the deal, she had been soulless and uncaring, all business and not much else.

“You sound so certain that I have a mistress,” he said, incredulous. It frustrated him how he had no idea why she looked at him like he was a bad play.

Irene looked at Matthias askance. “You are young and until recently, a bachelor.”

If she wasn’t setting up to excuse whatever affair she might have in mind, then- “What’s bringing this on? Not just random drivel, surely.”

“Mikas,” she answered after a moment of hesitation. Matthias froze.

“The bracelet he wears. You bought it at the market that night,” she explained, sharp gaze zeroing in on him, and he felt a tug of guilt and anxiety combined. He hadn’t done anything wrong but, well, Irene had the natural feel of a professor judging a student when she looked like that.

“Mikas is a close friend, Irene. It’s not odd for me to buy him gifts, don’t take it the wrong way,” he declared. He knew the boy liked Irene and would be hurt if there were any misunderstanding. Mikas had taken it upon himself to be an advocate of loving relationships around him and it would be ironically tragic if the boy himself became a reason for the lack of such in their marriage. Not that Matthias foresaw much love incoming anyway.

Irene shifted her shoulders in an equivocal shrug. Her gaze had lost its scrutinizing intensity. “Matthias,” his name was whispered in an exhausted sigh, “I may have been holed up in my chambers the entire time I’ve been here but I am neither deaf nor blind. Mikas is the only servant wearing such gifts. Yet, others follow him without question. It may be respect. Or something else. Something that has the servants here and the courtiers at the palace parrot your name paired with his whenever I am nearby. Even that disgusting man the other day had mentioned it.”

There must have been more she’d noticed during her stay at his residence. The little details hidden in plain sight. Or not hidden at all. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

He pursed his lips, realization coming to him that he much preferred dealing with an ignorant Irene. Matthias was never one to speak of his private life, or lack thereof, whether it be about his past or present. Reluctance warred with the desire to get off their current path of discussion in him.

“He is a friend,” he repeated, softly, leaning against the cool marble wall with a tangled expression. Memories replayed in the theatre called his mind against his will.

“He was a lover, once, when I was fool enough for it.” The confession left his lips in a sigh. A complicated smile carved itself on his lips as he let his head fall back, studying the suddenly too-interesting evening sky, carefully evading Irene’s gaze.

“That was in the past, anyway, so you really don’t have anyone to worry about,” he tagged on to disrupt any thoughts of pity that she might nurture for him.

Irene was silent for a moment before asking with some hesitation, "....and Jaime?"

At those words, his mind blanked out. He jerked up and stared at Irene as if she were an unknown species. “Jaime,” he spluttered with more disgust than the poor man probably deserved, “surely, you jest. Who told you that?”

Irene’s brows shot up a fraction at Matthias’s defensiveness. “Do you think I am jealous?” The idea seemed absurd to her and she raised a placating hand. “You are Prince. Had you a harem, I’d encourage you to visit it. Consider my question…simple curiosity.”

“A harem with Jaime,” he laughed, no longer able to hold back his mirth, pushing down her raised hand and patting it, “you have more humor than you let on, Princess.” Jaime was strict for the head of a military. Imagine him the head of a harem, his heart would ache for the poor hypothetical members in it. The sudden change of imagery in his head was so jarring that he found himself unable to bring back any semblance of his poker face.

“He is quite handsome,” Irene reasoned, “and well built. Have you truly never been interested?”

Sounds more like you are, Matthias thought but scoffed rather than say it out.

“I’ve heard a very…odd story of you stumbling naked out of a tent with him,” she paused and dropped her head into her hands, shoulders drooping as though from exhaustion. He paused, too, eyes narrowing because he knew exactly who would have told her that very odd story.

“First off, I was not naked,” he clarified with a short laugh, “and I wouldn’t lie with Jaime if he was the last man left alive nor he with me.”

“Look, I am horrible at subtlety. Have there been other lovers? Women?” Irene questioned, sounding defeated. It felt to him that there was another meaning hidden behind her question that carried further than just how many lovers he had before.

“I’ve had lovers, sure, in the past. Obviously, that would-” he paused, understanding running over him like a war horse. This whole topic she was determined to drag out couldn’t possibly be because she worried he was... Had he not openly shown lust for her before this? Was she not a woman?

“Yes, women as well, Princess. Surely, you weren’t thinking…” he trailed off with raised brows, shooting her a look of disbelief.

Irene straightened and ran a hand over the water to splash it at Matthias. “Don’t mock me, boy.” The situation had turned comical in moments. She had her fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose, either to hide her mortification or stifle minute irritation. But judging by the way she avoided looking at Matthias after hearing his answer, it was the former.

“How was I to know? You’ve hardly shown interest to anyone but that man at the market. Then all the gossip I’ve heard…” She raked her fingers through her hair in exasperation. “Look at me, listening to the tattling courtiers. Forget I’ve asked, spare me the embarrassment.”

“Forgive and forget is hardly my motto, Irene, unfortunately,” he teased, edging nearer to where Irene sat, almost sneakily, and placing his arms at her sides. Their gazes met as he drew close to her, his face angled so he was looking up at her, their breaths breezing across the other’s skin. A slight grin played on his lips as his eyes trailed to her full ones.

“I could be persuaded, though,” he mused in mock seriousness. Since his desire clearly hadn’t gotten through to her from previous interactions, he might as well abandon all subtlety. As he pressed closer, he was met with no resistance. Perhaps it was permission or simply just surprise. He didn’t really care.

He kissed her.

She tasted like chocolate.
 
Morning bled painfully slow into late afternoon. Cooped up in a tiny room furniture with pillows and plush sofas, the ladies gossiped and drank the hours away. They congregated around low silver multi-layered tables laden with cakes and biscuits, tea poured into their fine china by servants that otherwise stood dutifully silent at the entrance. Heavy perfume heated the air with scents of overripe fruit and out-of-season flowers, trapped inside the hexagonal space bordered with latticework screens that should have been ventilating air but did not.

Lounging on a mountain of cushions piled against a column, Lucia watched the faces of those around her with a smile that failed to reach her eyes. Similar smiles were offered in turn, all just as genuine as hers. Dozen or so of them, tight-lipped and perfect, red lips on pale skin, perfect in every way as though painted on porcelain. Funny how quick they appeared and disappeared, as though strings pulled the corners of those perfect lips. Lucia’s were the same. They were all the same, in the end.

All, except for one.

A sheer billowing curtain obscured her vision of a woman she’d never met. Lucia’s first impression of her was that she was akin to a wild cat. Most courtiers and nobles hypnotized those around the by lethal elegance of a venomous snake, slithering about without a sound. The grace this woman possessed was instead the kind she often observed in the veteran commanders that visited her family’s estate. This woman was more a jaguar than a serpent.

The woman rested a hand on top of the crystal glass of cool tea she’d been offered earlier. Lucia’s gaze flickered across the glass – it was full. How peculiar. Beads of sweat had formed along the stranger’s brow, glimmering in the distorted sunlight. The other ladies faced no such difficulties, and neither were they displaying any signs of discomfort at the lack of fresh air. They did not sweat and barely shifted from their spots, barely ate and sipped on their herbal teas, seemingly lost in the chatter of never-ending gossip.

“Have you heard…”

“No! Do tell…”

“I have gone to the islands…”

“My son has developed a rather troubling obsession with…”

And on it went.

She missed the quiet company of her brother. As though sensing her thoughts, the lady across from Lucia leaned forward and took a pillow on which Lucia’s elbow rested. She was quick to regain her balance, having had shifted her weight against the pillar just in time.

“How is dear Maximus doing?” The lady cooed, the pillow now on her lap, her hands smoothing the non-existent wrinkles. “Had he finally outgrown the scholar in him and embraced the responsibilities of a man? We see him so rarely. Always hiding in the shadows, that one.”

Lucia’s lips curved in an effortless smile. “He is well. Father is busy negotiating a marriage. Maximus has yet to meet any of the candidates, so great their number.” The briefest sense of loss rolled over the lady’s features, seen in the faintest wrinkle between her brows.

“Whoever is chosen will be most lucky indeed.”

It was a lie.

Another lady hurried to draw the attention from the liar with the stolen pillow. Lucia inclined her head ever so slightly in her direction, elbow propped and temple resting on her knuckles.

“But not as lucky as this Uhr personage the Court cannot stop talking about. Have you met him? Is he a foreigner?”

“He is…” Lucia paused, a smile of pity curving her lips involuntarily, “charming. That mane of hair is certainly eye-catching. Ah, how excited Father will be if our children inherit those red locks. The family line undoubtedly needs more colour.

Lucia was often compared to a pearl. The courtiers called her as such, the Imperial Pearl, and while many found the nickname a charming compliment, Lucia thought it was ridiculous. Maximus and Lucia shared fair skin and pale blue eyes, though hers were a shade of the lightest blue. Except for an occasional flush that reddened her cheeks, her skin remained a pristine creamy ivory, unblemished and smooth as befitting any Imperial child. To emphasize her pale complexion further, the palace servants dressed Lucia in sheer silks of the palest hues of pink and blue. And pearls. So many pearls. Peach pearls woven through her long, wavy golden locks that fell loose about her shoulders to her waist. Blue pearls in her ears. Gold pearls sewn into complicated patterns on her clothes. Her fond nickname soon became a curse that stripped all colour but that of sheer translucent beauty from her life.
The tea tasted bitter on her tongue when she brought the glass to her lips and watched the ladies over the rim of the shimmering crystal. She did not let her gaze linger on anyone for too long, fully aware that long stares sent a message as clear as one spoken aloud.

The conversation hushed in favour of another topic. Small, harmless gossip peppered with compliments on this and that. Clothes, children, money. Empty noise, all of it, though Lucia paid attention just enough to glide into any topic effortlessly with an offering of a smile and a quip, and a mandatory blind eye to the obvious efforts of her company to speak of pearls.
One did not speak, even when she was the current topic of the conversation. The ladies spoke of her as though she was not there, behind them, staring out the latticework with an expression of outmost boredom. No gift of insight was needed to see that despite keeping herself distant from the others, the stranger was aware of each word said, every movement made. Lucia looked at the woman and saw in her a kindred spirit. They hadn’t met, never spoke, but the similarities were there if only one looked close enough. Both overwhelmed by the sea of faces and introductions, swarmed by men and women of the Court. Both trapped by colours dictated by tradition and unspoken rules of royalty.

Lucia was following the elegant line of gold trailing down the deep burgundy of the stranger’s robes when she felt someone’s touch brush over her hand.

“Does she interest you so?” A lady in deep blue, the fabric of her dress matching the azure of her eyes, had leaned forward to whisper to Lucia. It was a poor attempt at being inconspicuous, as it shushed the conversation and had others lean in forward as well, throwing glances over their shoulders at the stranger in the back.

“Naturally.” Another coy whisper, a pointed glance at the stranger. “She interests us all.”

Lucia smiled, she always smiled. Everyone smiled. “I have been away from Court far too long, it seems. Who is she?”

“You do not know?” Several ladies echoed, pretending surprise. Lucia only shook her head, pretending too, playing the game of subtle lies and half-truths. “That is Prince Matthias’s bride. A supposed Queen of Izmar, if she is to be believed. They are in love.” One of the women gave the stranger a pointed look. “Aren’t you, my dear?”
The stranger was slow to look at the lady, as though it was a chore for her to even partake in the conversation. She remained silent at first, only shifted the way her hand lay on her lap – one hand on top of the other, the sapphire glimmering in the sunlight.

“Yes,” she finally answered, and the group turned to Lucia for confirmation.

Lucia’s gift allowed her to delve into the minds of others and sense truth from deception. The sensation she received had to be interpreted and it was heavily influenced by the mind of the one she
was assessing. A window into one’s mind, useless in her hands.

The gift reached the stranger in a subtle tug against the supposed queen’s mind. Their eyes met, startling silver staring intently at Lucia. But they her gaze wavered, and Lucia recovered quickly with a smile and a lie of her own. “How fortuitous. May the Saints bless your union.”

Some nodded in quiet prayer, others’ lip curled in unconcealed disgust. The lack of caution around the stranger spoke volumes of her influence at Court. An attractive woman, except that her appearance and age did not matter to the nobility who sought powerful alliances with royalty. Technically, this uncrowned queen outranked them all through birth alone. As a partner to the third prince of the Vaelan Empire, considered a Saint by the common folk and the crown prince by most nobility, this woman should have had the power to have the noble ladies prostrate themselves before her in show of deference.

When a servant came to refill the glasses with tea, Lucia reached out with her magic once more. She is lying, she concluded hesitantly, her delicate brows furrowing in concentration masked by sipping her tea, rolling the liquid over her tongue as did many others in the room. How unsurprising.
Lucia relaxed against the pillows, felt the round pearls press uncomfortably against the spot between her shoulder blades. She made no indication that she was in pain. Neither did she, or others, award the stranger attention befitting her station.

In a wordless, unanimous vote, the supposed Queen of Izmar had been made an unworthy pair to Matthias. Envy played a part in their quick dismissal, but it was of a different, less romantic, nature. The Third Prince was handsome, yes, but the Vaelan Empire was in no shortage of attractive men. Love, although rare in a marriage of their status, was always too uncertain a thing to desire. What each courtier wanted was power, the ability to influence the grand game.
How odd, Lucia thought, that none of the courtiers saw through Matthias’s act. He, like the others, chased power. What better way to acquire it than to manipulate a witless old woman into a marriage?


***


The sea carried laughter on its waves. A welcome change to the suffocating company of earlier, when the air was as thick as the tension that permeated the small space of the pavilion. Its airy, light design was no match for the small crowd that had gathered inside and filled the space with grandeur and extravagance.

They smothered their laughter behind delicate hands, hid their simpering expressions that failed to reach their eyes. Voices rang akin to chiming bells in the wind, pleasant to the ear. They wove words into spells that meant to captivate the listener, hid lies and jabs and compliments and insults in simple phrases made beautiful by sing-song voices. A fascinating scene to an outsider, who knew little to no unspoken rules of a courtier’s life. A field of lethal traps to someone who had stepped into this world and knew not how to navigate it.

Thankfully, the courtiers have grown bored with her silence and drove her to the side-lines, like a servant, to be ignored. Irene welcomed it, having had grown bored herself of the constant exposure to the subtle plays of power these people orchestrated through someone – lovers, relatives, mercenaries, servants.

It couldn’t be compared to her earlier visits to Court, where groups mingled, built alliances or declared betrayals. Without Mattias nearby to take on the brunt of conversation, Irene expected to be bombarded with questions and less than subtle attempts to gain her favour. Instead, what she found was silence, as though it was meant to be insulting. Maybe it was. She did not care.
The location they had been escorted to, was a private estate of some noble or another – a name was mentioned but she’d dismissed it as useless information – built on a white cliff overlooking the beach. Stone steps of descending terraces led the way to the water, where dark shapes were splashing about, laughing in the mid-day sun. The servants had brought the children out into the gardens when the ladies exited the pavilion for a walk. Cooped up inside all day, the little heirs to immense fortunes ran across the manicured gardens, past temples dedicated to Saints and war heroes, down the stone steps towards the water. The servants hurried behind them, offering apologies for the rude behaviour of the little ones.

Irene had taken the first opportunity to slip away from it all. It came from a man whose company she did not expect and was yet to enjoy. A man dressed in hunting leathers dyed turquoise and brown, far too hot for the afternoon sun. Coincidentally, he appeared just as the children dove into the crashing waves to the dismay of their mothers.

“My Prince Andrew wishes to convey a message to Lady Irene,” he had announced, watching the last child run by him. His smouldering eyes were alight with mischief Irene could not place. “Good day, ladies.” Ammon inclined his head in a bow and gestured for Irene to follow him.

When she did, he had slipped an arm around her waist, hand close but not yet touching her. The ladies giggled behind her, whispering of jealous princes and affair scandals. Rumours of Ammon and her was the last thing she needed when Matthias remained a mystery she couldn’t solve.

Irene flattened her lips, the memory of a kiss lingering on her mouth in phantom warmth. It was such a chaste kiss. She hadn’t let it become anything more. An innocent press of lips against lips, and
then she quickly pulled away and ignored the flash of desire that had ignited within her. She feigned fatigue, excused herself before he could protest, and bid him a good night. A night she’d spent half-awake, staring at the door connecting their rooms as she had done the first week since her arrival to the prince’s estate.

Except, unlike then, she wasn’t sure she’d turn him away.

“Everything is well then, I take it?”

“Hmm?”

Irene’s half-grunt response almost seemed like an afterthought – carelessly tacked down the tail of a pause overdrawn, more a belated confession that she’d heard the syllables but had yet to assemble the words. Most if not all quips thrown carelessly at her by the noble ladies had gone unanswered, pushed aside in favour of worries and speculations that did not seem that important in the grand scheme of things. A question remained on her mind, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer it yet, regardless of the invisible force that drew them together and ignored all caution.
“Between the Prince and you, of course.” Ammon was smiling as he spoke, his voice carefree. “That is fortunate.”

“For me,” Irene turned to look at him, eyes half-lidded in suspicion, “or for you?”

Their accidental meeting came to mind and the odd, tense conversation that followed. Did Ammon see an opportunity to gain a powerful ally in Matthias through Irene? That much was certain. Even someone as inept as her at power plays understood that simple fact.

Us, Irina.” Again, with that idiotic, mocking nickname. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

Us. Oh, how exhausting were the word games. He could have meant the two of them or the entire world or the Vaelan court. She dismissed Ammon with a wave of her hand, looking away from him in barely concealed irritation.

"You are looking out for me then, is it?”

“In a way. We may know each other from when the times were simpler, but you do not know where my loyalties lie.”

With himself, Irene supposed. She expected nothing less from a man so quick to change allegiances. “And where that might be?”

They were quiet for a moment, the silence coloured by crashing waves and faint notes of laughter. Enthusiastic splashing had all but turned faint in the distance. Ammon had his hands in the pockets of the vest, carefree to all outer appearances. A stark difference to Irene’s guarded tension.

“I am aware of your condition.” All laughter seized in that moment. “Question is,” his gaze was slow to meet hers, his voice unnervingly calm, “is he?”

She knew he’d seen the Mark. He’d even asked about it then, years ago, when they lay on a pathetic excuse for a bed, shivering from the cold that started to settle for the night. She lied, of course, told him an excuse that seemed to satisfy anyone who’d asked about the ink sprawled across her chest. She was careful, oh so very careful—
When she did not answer, her mind unable to settle on what answer to give, Ammon let out an exasperated sigh and averted his eyes from hers to watch the road. “Be calm, Irina.”
Irene glanced over her shoulder, scanning the empty expanse of the beach behind them for eavesdropping nobility. Enhanced by magic senses of all nobles set her teeth on edge, made her paranoid with uncertainty. Ammon must have sensed it, for he let out a prolonged sigh and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“We are alone, for now.” He let his hand drop and turned to look ahead. “A rarity, considering who you are. And who you have promised yourself and your land to.”
She was hesitant to reply, mind racing with panicked thoughts. She could feign ignorance or see what the nobleman was planning to do with the information. Either path was dangerous. “It is an act, Ammon. Our relationship, our agreement. All of it.”

A mirthless laugh escaped Ammon’s lips at Irene’s candour. “Everything is an act here. Matthias plays the part of a love-struck boy well, but not well enough.” He looked at her askance, his blue eyes mischievous with secrets they shared. “Unless you’ve made progress to rectify that?”

The kiss came to mind. Irene tried to convince herself that it was the bright sunlight that made her pupils dilate, and the humid air that provoked the burning sensation underneath her skin.
Ammon had the means to break the marriage alliance she so hastily orchestrated. The Mark burnt with imaginary fire across her chest, an untold secret that hadn’t given her a peace of mind since that night in Thean Gerith when Matthias had shown her that he was more than just a Prince. That he was a human, just as she was, a person stuck in circumstances not of his making. The kiss they shared, the tense moments in the sea and the training ring, all those added up into a question that needed to be answered soon – should she tell him?
Or will Ammon be the one to do it?

“Was there ever a message?” Ammon looked to her, brows raised a fraction in confusion. “From Prince Andrew,” she elaborated.

He inclined his head towards her, the corner of his lips pulled up in a lopsided smirk. “An act, as you put it.” Unsurprising. Did everyone lie and pretend in this world? Could it never be simple? “I imagine the Prince does wish you congratulations on your upcoming marriage, and secretly loathes you for giving Matthias yet another advantage in the race for the throne. They were always competitive growing up. Or he I should say. Matthias has never struck me as the one struggling to impress others.”

With some effort Irene had managed to school her features into a mask of neutrality. She had dropped her guard, far too quick to trust Ammon and his claim that they were alone. Her eyes scanned the shadows along the cliff, searching for caves and crevices where one could hide. What once used to be a habit had been forgotten, chased away by comfortable life at Matthias’s palace.
They rounded a large, lime stone boulder framed by a copse of birch trees. Ammon stopped then, choosing for himself a comfortable spot in the cool shadow beneath the thin canopy of yellowed leaves. She joined him, standing instead with her back to the sun.

“Tell me,” he began, his gaze skimming the dunes, “have you met the Lady Lucia?”

“What does that have to do with—” she managed to choke out, but Ammon continued as though she hadn’t spoken.

“Beautiful is she not? The fond nickname she’s been given doesn’t do her justice. Though I admire a much less obvious trait. Our darling Imperial Pearl is a woman of supreme intellect. Much to the chagrin of her family, she had found herself a foreigner husband. A wealthy merchant, I believe, and a striving Politian. Without an ounce of magic in his bloodline, as to be expected, but most importantly he is completely and utterly in love with her.”

Irene had seen that woman at the pavilion. Surrounded by a posse of ladies, lounging across the pillows and filling the space with a graceful, effortless beauty. She felt that woman’s eyes on her for most of the morning, finding it increasingly harder to shrug off the sensation of being watched, observed.

“Love and passion are powerful weapons,” Ammon said, “use them wisely if you wish to stay alive. Especially you.”

Irritation flared within Irene at the absurdity of his advice. “Do you expect me to master the arts of seduction, then? Is that the moral of your story?”

Ammon seized Irene by the elbow so fast she had barely the time to register his movement. “Do not be a fool,” he retorted. “Unless you make him love you, he will get rid of you like this.” His fingers snapped in front of her face. “You understand that, don’t you? He will kill you.”

“He won’t,” Irene recoiled, pulled back from him, “he needs me alive if he wants Izmar.”

Ammon smothered a groan that built at the back his throat. He released her and had his hands to her shoulders, clasped roughly around the thick fabric of her heavy dress. “Remember what you said. Everything is an act here. An enormous play where we lie and manipulate to survive. Matthias is no exception. There is no limit to his ambition.”

She stepped away from him, prepared to shove herself free of his hold if only to distance herself from him, when he released her and turned on his heel. “This is not Riverside and you are no longer a mercenary with no allegiance. Your spear is worthless here. Accept your role in this grand, fucked up play and use what power your position’s given you. I will guide you however I can but…well, your stubbornness might be the death of both of us.” He raised his hand, waving to follow him. “Come, we must join the others for the celebration. Do make an effort to mingle. Being your sole ally at Court is awfully lonely.”


***


The venue was stained red. Symbolism may have played a part in the decoration, some idea of leaving childhood behind to continue into adulthood, a step into the future captured in the first real hunt. Though, as with everything at Court, Irene suspected it was not that obvious nor complicated. The courtiers preferred to keep their lives a tangle of secrets, not their surroundings.
A trail of petals acted as a guide towards the celebration. Basketfuls of red and purple flowers have been strewn around the area, most turned over to spill the contents over the empty white expanse of the beach and form paths along the boarded, lit by fading torchlight, paths. The sand had all but hidden the wooden planks but provided a better alternative walking across the beach. Irene did not care and walked across the sand, with Ammon at her side, who, unsurprisingly, took the boarded path.

His demeanour had changed quickly the moment they were in sight of the venue. Gone were the warnings and cautionary advice. The smouldering eyes returned, pulled his lips into an effortless smile that made the words he was telling Irene playful. He was recounting the beginning of the hunt before he departed, seemingly harmlessly mentioning each and every duke that was attending the prince’s first hunt.

“Duke Peroxis is quite the traditionalist,” Ammon said as they passed beneath a garland of flowers strung between two poles with torches attached to the top. “Did you know he’s attended every royal hunt in the past four decades? Such dedication and loyalty can only be applauded to. It is no wonder he opposes war. He’s practically seen the imperial family grow up!”
Irene hummed in response, Ammon’s words an empty noise to her ears. Having had taken it upon himself to educate her on the matters of power alliances, he refused her decision to be left out of politics. Hidden behind half-baked compliments of patriotism and a summary of family backgrounds were messages.

Lady Anneita intends to expand on mining efforts.

Lord Per believes it is blasphemy to declare Prince Matthias a living Saint.

Duke Peroxis opposes war.

Duke and Duchess and Lord and Lady has been eyeing or hating Izmar – you – so go be an obedient and smart Princess and build a power base.

Ammon had pounced on the opportunity with a ferocity of someone who had held onto information for far too long and it was driving him crazy. Irene listened, unable to escape trapping her in the company of endless names and barely concealed messages. She knew he was doing it for her benefit, but a thought gnawed on her mind since their accidental meeting.
On whose side was Ammon?

Whoever’s side it was, she supposed his loyalty was ever changing. To trust him was to take a leap of faith she wasn’t prepared nor willing to do. Let Matthias handle politics. She was only a bridge to a land everyone hated and wanted.

A bridge that had no choice but to attend celebrations of future family members she’s met only once and spoken to…once? She couldn’t remember the boy’s name, let alone his appearance nor age, as she was too occupied with her own thoughts, with impatience and rising panic, to notice anything that did not pose a threat.

Though as the tables laden with food and drink came into view, a bone-chilling certainty dawned on Irene. She wouldn’t be able to focus on much during the event, for panic had already started to creep along her spine. Ammon sensed it instantly and pulled Irene onto the floating dock. A dock made entirely of glass.

Constructed just above the waves, the clear glass gave the illusion of hovering mid-air. Water lapped at it from below and sprayed the glass with gem-like shimmering droplets. Curtains of translucent golden silk billowed in the breeze, torchlight dancing on the fabric in stuttered shadows. Most of the area has been divided by such curtains, held up by gilded poles and garlands of red petals.

Irene could not tear her gaze from the floor, the too thin and too fragile floor, and wanted nothing but to turn back to step onto the solid ground. Ammon kept on walking, their arms linked, smiling at each nobleman and woman they passed. Her panic was seemingly lost on him. Ammon led Irene towards the farthest point of the dock, where a long table had already been set out. Lady Hale was at the head of it, locked in a conversation with another woman perched on the tip of an armchair.

Irene sat down into her chair in mute horror, feeling like someone who had been sentenced to death. Her posture was tense and straight, her hands clutching the carved lion heads of the armrests. A large wave passed under her feet and the dock rocked slightly. Ammon did not seem to notice; he hadn’t so much as looked down. He had joined the conversation with Lady Hale and her companion and had a goblet raised in his hand as if in toast. Maybe he’d announced a toast. Irene didn’t hear. She couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of waves.

A clank of metal on wood snapped Irene’s attention to the table. Ammon had placed the goblet in front of her and held it there along the rim by the tips of his fingers.

“You must try this wine,” he insisted and pushed the goblet closer. “Its taste is so splendid you will think of nothing else.”

For once, Irene took Ammon’s advice. She took several long drafts of the drink, suddenly acutely aware of how dry her mouth had become. There were no hedge labyrinths in sight and even Ammon wasn’t bold enough to poison her before a crowd. Not yet, at least. He had nothing to gain from it. Regardless, pushing her into the sea was a much effective and inconspicuous way of accidentally ending her life.

Wine has given her bravery, albeit temporarily and not nearly enough. She raised the goblet in a silent toast to Lady Hale and then dipped the goblet into Ammon’s direction before draining the rest of the wine. A servant rushed from the shadows to bring more drink to the table. For the first time since coming to Vaela, Irene allowed her goblet to be filled with something other than water.
 
Tree after tree formed a wall that seemed to stretch on for miles, a wooden fortress, tall and forbidding. The Gaio Forest was the largest one in their Empire, a vast expanse of green lying just at the edge of Thean Gerith. It was a serene and wondrous place, a paradise to the ignorant wanderer, yet in its belly lay more beasts than imaginable. Andrew understood that fact well. This was his favorite retreat in the city and he had visited here too many times to count. Even so, after all this time, the forest never failed to surprise him.

“And so he...you aren’t listening to me, are you, Andrew?” Marc’s rumbling voice pulled his attention back from the woods to the small open field where they had set up a place for gathering.

“Sorry, what?” Andrew questioned, not sounding the least bit apologetic. There was a flash of concern in his older brother’s gaze that was wiped away with a roll of hazel eyes as the man scoffed and waved a hand in dismissal. He did not seek to reassure Marc of his well-being for he knew his lie would be seen through anyway. He had been sleeping too late and waking too early in the past few days. His mind was indeed not as focused as it needed to be.

The tiny figure of a child distracted both brothers as Theus ran toward them. Faean followed closely after with a dismayed expression, blonde curls just a little messy and jacket slightly misplaced. It seemed that Cain, who had also been tasked to babysit, had decided to abandon their pitiful youngest to the job. Theus launched himself into his father’s arm with a bright laugh. The scene brought a small smile to Andrew’s face. In this assembly of men, all great in their own right, all cutthroat and unfailingly perfect, he found this show of childish freedom rather refreshing.

It occurred to him that it was this giggling boy that would be having his first hunt today. Though most children had their first hunts when they turned twelve or thirteen, it was a tradition in the Imperial family for it to instead be on their eighth name days. There was no real significance behind the number in truth. It was just a running theme in their family that they must excel at everything more than everyone else. Andrew couldn’t imagine his sweet little nephew killing anything, however, especially not on a horse with arrows. In fact, the image of him trying was almost amusing to envision.

Well, he supposed, most children don’t actually succeed in hunting prey on their first try anyway. Take Faean, for example, who nearly cried that day despite his best attempts at nonchalance. Not that Andrew blamed the kid. Success brought people like them much more praise than they truly deserved. Failure brought much greater shame.

No, his mind amended, victory brings praise and defeat brings shame. There was indeed a difference. He knew that better than anyone else. A bitter taste invaded his senses, suddenly, as his mind took a turn down a darker alley. Success did not necessarily equal victory. Especially not if your opponent was apparent perfection personified, a paragon of all things, a creature upon whom adoration and support was showered for doing nothing but exist.

Enough, he told himself, pulling himself back to the present. He had thought those thoughts before and they had always led him to do things that he regretted in the long run. They brought out a twisted version of him and he had, therefore, long since locked them away. It was only recent events that had brought them charging back.

Speaking of, Andrew realized, Matthias had yet to even greet them. It felt to him as though that boy got more arrogant and less willing to play the dutiful brother with every meeting. His gaze moved to across the elaborate garth, in the middle of a crowd, where his dearest brother stood. Dressed in a brand of understated luxury, Matthias was a contrasting image to the bejeweled lords around him, a sharp figure amidst a blurring mass.

There was no merit in speaking with that group now. Interacting with Matthias of late always ended with their fangs bared at each other and his energy drained for no reason. Yet, he found himself walking toward them anyway.

“Andrew,” Matthias greeted upon spotting him coming close with a small flourish of his hand.

“Matthias,” he returned, eyes catching onto the jewelry decorating the younger’s ring finger immediately. Gone was the signet that was otherwise always on him, replaced by a more casual silver band. Andrew recognized that particular piece as the lucky charm Princess Irene had assumably blessed his brother with for their jousting round, the one which ended in his two bottom ribs nearly caving into themselves. And right after that, there was the fiasco in the Labyrinth, where Matthias had found great excuse to take over his standing duty of arranging internal security with his fiancee’s almost-rape.

Ah, Princess Irene. If only he had gotten to that woman first. She would have certainly been a blessing then. Now, under Matthias’s thumb, she had made herself instead the harbinger of all his headaches in this past month.

“You aren’t wearing your signet ring,” he remarked casually, despite the probing nature of his question, like he had only just noticed. Matthias paused mid-sentence and glanced down at his hand as if surprised by the observation.

“It’s difficult to handle a bow with too many rings,” the younger prince replied as means of explanation. Andrew arched a brow at that.

“Your signet is meant to keep you safe, you know?” He asked, letting a hint of disapproval tinge his voice.

“It’s only for today,” Matthias retorted, playing perfectly the admonished but insistent youth, his fingers running over the moonstone ring as if to protect it. The ring that identified him as the Princess Irene’s lover was more important to him that the one that displayed his status as royalty, was that it? Matthias was really putting quite a fair bit of effort into protecting that woman. Of course, why wouldn’t he, when what stood behind her was a fortress-kingdom and multiple mining expansions ready to fall into his grasp?

Then was not the first time it occured to Andrew that he should simply just steal rather than destroy it or, rather, her. He just couldn’t be sure how likely it was for that Princess to follow where he lured. Matthias had an unfortunately great ability to brainwash his people.

“Besides, Andrew,” Matthias continued, to his surprise, with a brighter smile that he had seen the younger direct toward him in a decade, “there is nobody here who would hurt me.”

He felt his own smile tighten at the blatant mockery. You’re harmless, the conceited prick meant to say, I don’t even have to try. He forced himself to hum out an agreement.

“Gentlemen,” Marc called, cutting through their chat, bringing the attention to the front of the field. A sense of dissatisfaction tugged at his heart with a tint of anger. That was slowly becoming his staple emotion after any interaction with Matthias. Andrew pushed it down.

“The hunt awaits us,” Marc announced, “let us bring back a grand feast for my son’s name day.” Matthias turned on his heels, declaring their conversation over as he left without another word. Andrew apologized to the forest in advance for all the animals he was going to harm while releasing his pent up negativity.

+++

The arrow ripped from his bow, cutting through air with a shrill noise, its tip slicing through the boar with ease. Servants scrambled to retrieve the corpse, the third of his prey for today. One more, he told himself, then he would have sufficiently lived up to expectations and could escape from this hunt. How he envied people who could get away with getting less or even no kills.

Like Ammon Darnell, his mind provided, so readily that he questioned when he had started taking such careful notice of that man. Darnell had left, just as the main party begun to break off into smaller groups, with some excuse or another. Matthias wondered with some amusement if he really was jealous. Having long removed his head from his heart, it was difficult for him to catch his own feelings sometimes. But no. It wasn’t jealousy. Not really. Just an odd sense of… not defeat, more like a lack of victory, perhaps, mixed with the desire to make sure his secret remained exactly that.

The snap of a broken branch drew his attention to beyond a thick wall of thorny bushes. It was close enough that he could have believed it was from his own steed. He stilled, tensing by instinct, gaze sharpening. Slow, silent, languid steps forward taken by padded feet revealed to him a beautiful animal. Creeping toward the open field, all sleek dark fur and lean body that rippled with muscle, it was a cat-like creature that was much bigger than any cat he knew of.

It was focused on another animal in the meadow, a doe feeding leisurely, pressing itself down as if preparing to pounce. Matthias slipped an arrow from his quiver but made no move to aim or shoot. He would wait for it to anchor itself with its own victim and get an easy kill. His skill in archery in practice was really nothing special. He relied on good weapons, enchantments and sly, one might even say underhanded, methods like this to hunt.

A beat passed that felt like a minute before the still beast sprung abruptly into action. He drew his bow slowly, pulling the taut wire back so that the back of his hand just brushed his cheekbone and held his breath. An arrow flew across the field at the exact moment the beast landed. But it was not his.

That arrow had clearly been let loose in a moment of carelessness by a frightened someone. It was totally off course, grazing the leg of the deer and completely missing the beast behind it. The doe ran, panicked, followed closely by the cat. It was practically straight in the direction of the hunter, two pieces of game come right at them, yet Matthias saw no second arrow.

The corner of his lips turned down as Matthias urged his horse forward slightly to catch sight of the man who had ruined his chance for a smooth shot. His displeasure was lessened by surprise when he spotted Faean on the other side, watching the beast growl and snarl at him, pale and paralyzed. That boy really was useless when it came to combat. Ever since he was a little child, Faean used to take up all of their shared tutor’s time, habitually flinching away from his opponents and crying after being hit just a few times.

He poised himself to shoot again. Pouring magic into his arrow, he let it fly, watching it cut through the length of the predator. If the deer weren’t so close to his cat-like target, it might have escaped alive. But, alas, the magic-imbued blade reached it as well. A momentary dizziness occupied Matthias. His arrows by themselves were extremely well made and could take down most animals without any extra add-ons. Yet, even with that much magic added into it, it barely made it out of the animal. That cat must have had iron meat, he mused.

He rode out swiftly to a recovering and sheepish-looking Faean. His sharp whistle brought attendants quickly to their location. It spoke for how used the servants were to them hunting all kinds of weird beasts that they didn’t even blink an eye as they collect his huge cat of a kill.

“Thank you,” Faean spoke with an embarrassed smile that turned his attention back to the boy.

“Are you alright?” Matthias asked, by means of accepting the thanks more than much else for he knew his brother was, in fact, uninjured.

“I’m fine,” the younger answered with a badly hidden frown, “but the hunt should be ending soon, shouldn’t it?”

“Soon, yes,” he concurred, puzzled as to why Faean seemed so depressed all of a sudden. As far as he was aware, the youngest prince disliked hunts.

“I haven’t caught anything,” the boy mumbled, solving that mystery, softly like he was confessing something tragic. Oh. Matthias buried his amusement in an attempt not to seem insensitive. He would be upset at that, too, he supposed, though not quite as dramatically.

“Cain’s going to mock me, again, you know?” Faean continued, appearing genuinely anguished by that, like his older brother’s mockery was the worst thing that could happen to him.

“You’re like a girl, Faean, even the deers aren’t scared of you,” the boy mimicked with a laugh, though he didn’t seem too sure if he was mocking himself or Cain. The empathy that invaded Matthias upon hearing those words was uncomfortably great, a rare occurrence, for here was a type of pain he could actually relate to. It must be even greater for the boy, he realized, considering that Cain was his real brother, someone meant to be on his side. He swallowed that thought and did not reply.

“The deer was downed by Faean,” he instead told the passing attendants, surprising even himself. The young prince blinked at him with wide eyes that held a glitter he did not want to try and decipher.

“Is that alright?” Faean asked in a hushed tone as if this were some great scandal.

‘No one will know if you don’t tell them,” he replied in a joking whisper that earned him a beaming smile. The child’s gratitude was almost enough to reduce his regret in doing this small favor.

“So, it’s our secret?” His brother laughed, reaching out an open palm. It felt to Matthias that taking that hand was something he really shouldn’t be doing. He shook it, anyway, like he didn’t know he was creating yet another extra, unnecessary chain between them, like he hadn’t been pretending exactly that too much lately. It didn’t matter, he promised himself, there were no chains he couldn’t break when needed. They rode back to the gathering point together.

+++

The name day celebration was to be held at Duke Peroxis’s famous Floating Pavilion. Gathering here, too, had become something like a tradition for the Court after hunts, mainly Imperial Hunts. Traditions were the lifeblood of Vaela, layers over layers over layers, pressing down on them and forcing them to fit into perfect shapes. Traditions were like spells that needed no magic, controlling minds, building factions, shielding users from taking responsibility of their own acts.

Matthias reached the event rather late after having gone back to his residence to change into more appropriate attire. Red was the theme of his clothing today that matched with the decor of this place; there was yet another tradition. He didn’t particularly enjoy the brightness of that color but, well, Mikas had insisted on pairing his look with Irene’s.

Red suited Irene. Against her dark skin, the crimson and gold threads shimmered more and brought her to life. Red on him, on the other hand, made him seem even paler and had him looking like a ghost more than human. It was lucky that the popular look among the nobility was basically just that. The brighter, the lighter, the purer, the better. The most famous beauties in Vaela had that fragile and ethereal aura to them that the Court simply adored. An obvious example was his cousin, Lucia, the titled Imperial Pearl.

Speaking of whom, there she was, standing with her brother. Their eyes met and he nodded his greeting to her. Lucia and Maximus had peculiar magic, one that the Emperor greatly treasured, abilities that allowed them limited entry in into the human mind. It made them entities he was very wary around but, thankfully, neither sibling had much interest in meddling with Court affairs.

As he walked further in, the target of his wandering gaze finally made her appearance. His Princess, he thought with some mirth, looking once again like she would rather be anywhere but at this party. Lord Darnell stood beside her and they were speaking with the Lady Hale. Or, rather, Darnell was speaking and Irene was just… well, there. That fact no longer upset Matthias. He had adapted by now to the idea that his wife was never going to be helpful when in came to in-house politics.

“Irene,” he greeted with a smile, taking her hand in his grasp immediately upon reaching her like a reminder to the falcon eyes on them who she belonged to.

“Pardon my tardiness,” he continued, directing it to all of them and no one in particular. His eyes flickered to Darnell as his tone turned just the slightest bit less amiable when he continued, “thank you for taking care of my Princess in my absence.”

His short interaction with Ammon Darnell had yet to reveal to him where the Lord meant to throw his lot. Up until a couple weeks ago, Matthias had viewed this man as one of Andrew’s. This sudden stickiness of this man to Irene and, therefore, him didn’t sit well with him just yet. He didn’t need loyalty from the man, not to him, only details of the deal the older was clearly aiming to make with him.

“You’re forgiven on basis of the feast I hear you brought back from the hunt,” Rian Hale teased in that coy manner the women in Court so liked. Lady Hale, too, was another entity he couldn’t be comfortable around. Not that he held any uncertainties about her character, not at all, this one he took caution of for her fondness for low blows. Still, he laughed good-naturedly in reply, like they were friends, like he hadn’t deemed her vile in private conversations many times before.

Hale handed him a glass of wine, acting the part of the good host, raising a silent toast to him before she left to speak with the other small groups around them. It was then that Matthias noticed that Irene was drinking alcohol as well.

“Wine? That’s not like you, Princess,” he spoke, turning to face her properly at last.
 
His hand in hers. What should have been a romantic gesture instead felt like a proclamation of ownership. Irene kept her gaze directed towards the table, features schooled into impassivity, if only to keep the slowly rising panic at bay. More people have stepped onto the glass dock. How many more before it starts to break? Her grip tightened on his hand, fingers intertwining, body seeking support in another’s warmth.

“Desperate times,” Irene began, goblet pinned to the table with her free hand, “call for desperate measures.”

And desperate they were. The wind had picked up, lifting the ocean waves in a dance. Water pooled onto the dock, rippled over the glass and the flickering lights of torches, but no one seemed to have noticed it. Chatter picked up as the late-commers made themselves comfortable. No one heard the roaring waves. Maybe Irene was imagining the sound. She gripped Matthias’s hand harder.

Quick, nervous shuffling alerted her to the presence of a servant. He scuttled over, head and back tilted forward in a bow, and extended his arms to present the clay pitcher. Irene slid her goblet to the edge of the table in a silent request for it to be refilled. A gloved hand covered the top, fingers curling around the rim, stopping the boy from doing his duty.

“That is quite enough, don’t you think?” Ammon’s purr was as quiet as a whisper, eyes alight with warning when Irene looked up from beneath a furrowed brow. “The celebration had only just begun. So many more wines will be brought. You must try them all—”

His words fell on deaf ears. Irene tilted the goblet until it was no longer pinned by Ammon’s hand. Some wine spilled onto the table, fell on the floor to mix with the red petals, but she did not care. Ammon, on the other hand, cast a furtive glance around the room, surveying for eyes that might’ve seen what happened. His gaze lingered on Matthias.

“Very well.” Ammon straightened, hands folded behind his back. “Enjoy the celebration.”

Irene sent him off with a silent toast.

The wine was heavily watered down, its taste sweet and bitter, its aroma of spices just enough to mask the salt of the ocean in the air. Irene cradled the goblet in both hands, choosing to watch the drink inside swivel as the dock moved on the waves. She treated the celebration as any other event at Court – a waste of daylight and food, hours and money that could’ve been better spent on war preparation.

War. The thought pulled her attention from the goblet to Matthias at her side. He hadn’t spoken to her about Izmar or their wedding. He mentioned no allies nor deals. For all she knew, he hadn’t done a thing and wasn’t planning to.

Neither did you, hypocrisy nagged at her thoughts. Months spent in Vaela had brought her no closer to Izmar, her decision to remain separate from politics effectively trapping her in ignorance. Ammon’s words rattled in her mind, or maybe that was the wine making her nauseous. She clung onto the warmth of Matthias’s hand in hers, slinking back into the comfort of denial. She did not need to seduce him into love, all she needed was to remind him of a kingdom gifted to him and the time that was running out to go and collect the crown.

But she’d told him before. Weeks ago. He shushed her with promises that all will be done in time.

She sighed in exasperation into her goblet. A mercenary’s life was less demanding. Navigating a tavern of drunken patrons much easier in comparison to small-talking a gathering of nobility into going to war with her. A mercenary she could pay, convince, beat up as a last resort. What could she say or offer to a nobleman who couldn’t profit from a war?

Maybe she could start handing out the Izmar mines. Mountain knows there were many. The thought made her snort into her goblet.

Water rippled around feet and skirts of mingling nobility. Men and women moved around the dock freely, unafraid of the too-fragile glass and the ocean depths below. Several times someone would come to speak to Matthias, ignoring Irene as it had become customary at Court, though Irene sensed the obvious hostility with which the Prince was regarded. Irene remained seated, blending in with the red decorations, as silent as a shadow and just as invisible. It suited her.

A sudden gust of wind brought water onto the dock. Irene gripped the armrests of her chair, fear of the ocean and the venue’s fragile construction conjuring all sorts of ways the wind can upend the dock and send everyone into the water. Chatter continued, specked with laughter. Irene couldn’t look up from the table, too nauseous to lift her head. She watched instead the petals be carried away on the ocean waves towards the shore.

“Such a pity you cannot enjoy the food,” someone spoke, close enough that Irene realized they were addressing her, “we’ve forgotten you have severe allergies to seafood.”
There was food? Irene dragged her eyes down the table, towards the silver plates laden with different kinds of fish.

“Perhaps the cooks will have game ready by the end of the night,” the noblewoman continued, “for which we must thank our Highnesses.”

The dock rocked, and Irene’s stomach lurched. She did not bother replying. Instead, she focused on a distant dot of firelight on the shore. Someone must have set up a fire there but it was too far, too blurry, to make out who and for what.

Blood roared in her ears, pounding like drums to match the distant music played on the shore. A splitting headache increased with each draft of watered wine but the taste – sweet and bitter, cool and fragrant – calmed the nausea, kept the contents of her stomach at bay whenever a particularly big wave splashed under the dock.

When the sun had set and all guests were present the festivities began in earnest. The centre of the glass platform was cleared to give space to the entertainers who danced, scantily dressed in the thinnest of silks and jiggling jewellery. Light flickered around the dancers in red and blue and white and pink, a magic trick performed by the musician who played on a string instrument at the back.
Irene blanched at the sight of the flashing colours. Unnatural, she deemed it. Just lights, she tried to convince herself, they are just lights. An illusion. Harmless.

Drums continued their lively, almost tribal beat. Each pluck of the musician’s string sent the coloured lights into a frantic dance, ribbons of magic swirling around the dancers. In the haze of alcohol Irene thought the dancers were floating above the water. Some part of her mind that remained sober understood that the darkness made the dock invisible, casting an illusion of bejewel water below. It was a beautiful sight nonetheless. The painful way it made her stomach twist did not let her enjoy the view.

Without the sun to warm them a cold had descended onto the venue. Someone had ordered warmed spiced wine to be brought over. Irene took her time with the drink, feeling it go straight to her head. Pacing herself was a good distraction from the rising over the music voices, the harmless magic, and most of all from the dark waters below her feet.

Torches lit anew when the dancers and their magic stopped. The music continued, an impossibly quick succession of notes as the musician’s fingers plucked on the strings. The magic lights swirled in the air, gathered into one large mass and started to dissipate over the docks in specs of lightest blue, glimmering like snowflakes in moonlight. Most fell above Theus, disappearing just before they touched the boy’s shoulders.

Someone laughed, another clapped. Irene found something infinitely interesting in the pitch-black horizon.

“It is time, isn’t it?” Scrape of a chair on glass as the nobleman stood and made his way to the centre of the dock. The dancers left towards the back, bells on their ankles singing with every step. “My wife often tells me I have a horrible imagination when it comes to this.” The nobles laughed. “I will try not to embarrass myself in front of the talented ones watching me.” Irene thought she’d seen the man cast a pointed look at Matthias. Odd.

She watched the scene unfold in her periphery. The nobleman lifted his arms, heavy bejewelled hands splayed. Murmurs hushed to near perfect silence broken only by the waves clashing against the dock. Torch fire grew dimmer by the second until only embers remained.

Then, something bright and blue drifted below the dock. It was round and quick when it swam up and quickly dove into the dark waters. Irene only noticed it because she was watching the waters in barely concealed paranoia. She tensed, hands curling into the armrests, and looked at the floor. Darkness and then…a light coming closer and closer until it was no longer a blurry shape. It swam beneath the dock, carried away on the wave. A nearly translucent blue jellyfish that left ribbons of light in its wake.

The first jellyfish was joined by another and another until dozens of them rose towards the docks, swam along its underside towards the shore or lingered just beneath the waves. Their light bathed the dock in silver illumination so bright it rivalled the moon. Then, the creatures rose above the waves, but their bodies did not disturb the water, as though they were illusions made of light. Some jellyfish remained suspended in the air, floating lanterns of silver magic, while the rest continued their silent swim above the heads of a silent audience.

“I, Kleon of Noble House of Dmetor, congratulate Sixth Prince Theus Marc Vaether on his names day. May your future be illuminated by the allies at your side.”

A round of applause escorted Kleon to his seat, the table to the right of Prince Marc and Lady Hale. A noblewoman took his place in the centre of the dock, about Kleon’s age – which Irene guessed to be in his early 50s but it was so very hard to see in the light, so hard to focus when a translucent magical illusion hovered above her shoulder – and did not wait for the applause to seize before performing a magic of her own.

She roused the winds until the waves threatened to crash onto the dock. The petals flew into the air in a wild dance. The flower decorations around the dock were quickly stripped bare until all of the petals were part of the many spirals the woman commanded them into.

In the chaos of colour no one noticed the man beside the noblewoman. He raised a hand to point at the whorls of petals. A spark ignited on one petal and it was set aflame in bright red fire. Sparks jumped from one petal to the next until rings of flame lit the docks. But the fire did not consume the petals, nor did it smoke or emit any warmth. And yet Irene pressed against the back of her chair, fighting the urge to flee the docks, away from magic and the people who so carelessly used it.

Finally, the rings started to dissipate, and wind brought the sparks to land onto the hair and shoulders of Marc, Hale and Theus. The two nobles bowed before them, heads lowered in genuine reverence.

“We, Dmetor and Tharybis of Houses Arcas and Ariston, congratulate Sixth Prince Theus Marc Vaether on his names day. May loyalty to the imperial family burn bright in all of your subjects.”

The nobles took turns in performing. After Dmetor and Tharybis came a young woman by the name of Cleo of Noble House of Midylos. She scattered the sparks into the ocean where they sizzled into smoke and summoned birds from the glowing embers. Then came Itys and Aeaces, Cois and Hesione, each casting a magic that illuminated the night. Each wished to Theus and his parents a long life unobscured by obstacles, free from strife and hardships, of impious allies and greedy followers. To a boy who had just turned eight these blessings must have made no sense.

Ammon’s turn was next. The nobles followed an order that Irene suspected was related to how close they were kept as allies to the First Prince. Ammon simpered as he cast his magic, as though the entire event amused him to no end. He cared not for the flair, opting instead for something more tangible, more useful. He set a hand onto one of the wooden beams and it grew into an arch of vines and intertwined branches specked with green of new leaves. Red flowers bloomed to replace the ones torn off during earlier demonstration.

Ammon stepped back from the beam to bow. “I, Ammon of Noble House Darnell, congratulate Sixth Prince Theus Marc Vaether on his names day. May the Empire’s foundation remain ever stable.”
No one stepped forward after Ammon had vacated the centre of the dock. Hushed whispers rose from the nobles.

“Princess Irene.” Hearing her name had Irene look up from the waters she was staring into ever since the magic demonstration began. “It is your turn to bless the Sixth Prince.”

She couldn’t tell who spoke. It was too dark to see. Her head continued to ache, her stomach to twist and turn, the wine suddenly too sour. The smell of fragrant spices was making her sick. The dock rocked on the waves and the icy water splashed against her skirt.

The benefit of avoiding looking at the blessings the nobles gifted onto Theus was that Irene had counted at east three exit routes off the dock. One was to jump into the water, which was out of the question. Second, to go around the tables, along the side-route take by the servants that brought food from the shore on trays of mother of pearl and coral. Third, through the centre, a straight line to the shore.

She did not care for humiliation nor how her sudden departure was going to be perceived as an insult to the Imperial Family. She did not even think that far. She stood up, trembling hands cold and rigid after clutching the armrests of her chair for so long. Alcohol had made her body light and turned her mind into a haze of slow-moving thoughts. Lights danced in the corner of her vision, remnants of silver jellyfish and birds of smoke. It disoriented her.

Irene did not make her way to the centre. To go there was to pass the arch Ammon had grown. To walk there was to step onto the petals that were alight with fire earlier. The thought had nearly made her empty her stomach onto the nearest unfortunate noble.

“I congratulate Prince Theus on his names day.” Bile rose in her throat when she leaned forward in a poor attempt of a bow. “May you find happiness in the years to come.”


***


Irene may as well have slapped the nobility of Vaela and spat on them for good measure.

Shock rippled through the crowd, silencing every whisper. Ammon clenched his jaw, cursing all the Saints for his luck, and watched as Irene quickly departed the dock. The foolish woman may as well have announced she was an imposter – no woman of noble birth could navigate the precarious curved edge of the dock with such agility. Thankfully the insult she’d thrown into Prince Theus’s face was grave enough to occupy everyone’s mind.

Ammon stood up without thinking, head turned to watch Irene leap onto the shore and half-jog along the water-line until she was but a dark silhouette against white sand. She bent over the water, maybe retching or dry-heaving, and then unceremoniously sat down on the ground. Ammon quickly took the opportunity to right the situation.

“Well,” he spoke with a voice too light for the tense atmosphere that descended onto the dock, “I suppose felicitations are in order.”

There, that caught everyone’s attention. Good. He allowed himself a glance at Matthias, praying to all Saints, dead and alive, that the prince has enough senses to play along.
 
Every five steps on this Pavilion stood an antagonist of his story, laughing and drinking wine. What a pleasant sight. The hostility against him was so through the roof in this place that a total stranger to Court conflicts would yet be able to tell. It was subtle and unspoken but present.

People would sneak into his conversations with even vaguely friendly parties and cut it off. His sparse allies were spread so thin that he would have to walk halfway down their table to speak to one. The occasional snark and sneering glances thrown his way seemed to grow more intense with every passing minute. He was being rather thoroughly alienated. Matthias couldn’t decide whether he was more amused or uncomfortable.

He watched Irene drain her fourth cup of wine and wished he could join her in washing away troublesome worries with alcohol. He had said nothing about her drinking with the thought that she had enough of a mind to handle herself. That thought might have been wrong. It was lucky for both of them that the wine was so watered down she would need a dozen to really get drunk.

Matthias gazed at the performances as he listened to the Lord seated beside him speak, paying full attention to neither. Through the light mist , the flashing silks dripping from the dancers’ bodies seemed to meld into the dark, sparkling ocean. Colored lights weaved around the performers like trained animals, a pretty show of magic that was staple in the presence of nobility unless the troupe aimed to displease.

When the torches lit up, the flickers of light vanished and the dancers came to a standstill. A rather glitzy exhibition followed and Matthias thought nothing of it until Lord Dmetor rose. Ah. They were going to do that. This particularly pesky tradition had slipped his mind when preparing for the party, in part because it was rarely done lately and he was not made aware it would be happening tonight.

Talented ones, Lord Dmetor had called him. They could have at least tried to make it less obvious that he had been left out of the loop on purpose. Not that it mattered, ultimately, he would figure something out.

A clink of metal beside him made him turn to Irene whose goblet had left her hand.

Oh.

Irene.


He stared at her as she stared at nothing. Her hands trembled. His fists clenched. He ravaged his mind in search of an excuse to save her. This had been a foolish mistake on his part. He had overlooked an essential possibility. But, no, it was fine. As long as she sat still, just like she had done this entire time, he could do something to cover for her. As long as she kept quiet and trusted him to get her out of this, he would.

But, of course, she didn’t.

Damn the Saints.

+++

May you find happiness in the years to come
, Princess Irene had blurted out before running off the Pavilion with suspicious agility. A heavy atmosphere settled over the room as the nobility struggled to comprehend the rare rudeness with which the Izmarian woman had addressed them.

Andrew’s gaze went naturally to Matthias who had been seated beside the runaway Princess just as many others did. An awkward silence took over the previously cheery buzz of the pavilion. His poor younger brother had a completely stiff expression and he could practically hear the gears turning desperately in the boy’s mind to grasp an escape route. A smirk formed on his lips that he carefully hid with his goblet.

“Well, it seems like felicitations are in order,” Lord Darnell spoke up, suddenly, catching the room’s attention. There was a split-second of hesitation on Matthias’ face that even Andrew barely caught before a soft smile graced the younger Prince’s face and he responded with, “Perhaps.”

A vague answer that gave no assurance of anything to anyone. A calm expression that betrayed nothing of his feelings. How like his brother. If Andrew didn’t know Matthias so well, he might have been unsure about the truth of this abrupt hint of a pregnancy. But he knew for sure after seeing that quick pause. This was just an excuse to get out of the worsening situation.

Unwilling to let this event go just like that, Andrew placed down his cup and made to enquire more. He couldn’t even get a word out, however, when a gasp from the side redirected the crowd’s short-lived attention once again.

Threads of glistening silk flew into the Pavilion, crawling up the pillars and handrails, cutting past people from all directions. The beautiful threads slid and danced as they spread themselves in the expanse of the room.

“Let us remember that the focus of this party is my beloved nephew,” Matthias voiced as he rose with false affection tinting his voice.

Something cold brushed across him and left a trail of moisture on his skin. It’s not silk, Andrew realized belatedly, it’s water. The clear ocean water was joined by red wine and sparkled underneath the lights. Streams of water as thin as hair weaved a pattern across the pavillion and formed an intricate net around the people.

His breath hitched for a beat as his instincts screamed. It would be so easy for Matthias to kill someone on this dock right now.

The net instead slowly pulled itself into a vague shape in front of the fascinated Theus. A head formed, a body, then wings, crystallizing as Matthias’ intent came to life. The figure was merely the size of a goblet, small enough to be held in a child’s palms, yet everyone could see clearly what it represented.

“I hope that, one day, the son will take the likeness of his father and becomes as mighty as a Dragon.” The words reverberated through the room with a greater weight that any simple birthday wish. Andrew’s eyes travelled over to the Princess stranded on shore and felt his confidence waver for a flicker of a second.

Whispers rippled through the ever-curious nobility and the Izmarian’s offence against them seemed completely forgotten in favor of more interesting gossip. He pursed his lips in slight displeasure as he glanced at Lord Darnell. A force on his side that he needed to be wary of, it seemed, for the man was not tactless enough not to have triggered this on purpose. There was clearly some kind of underlying relationship between Darnell and Princess Irene that he was missing.

Irene Azdahaag. Saints, what a headache of a woman. He couldn’t possibly leave her alone now. Standing up, Andrew took advantage of the bustle to slip out of the Pavilion.

+++

Matthias wasn’t sure how wise it had been for him to allow the Court to think that Irene could be pregnant when they hadn’t even come close to lying in the same bed. Ammon Darnell’s sudden lead-up to the topic had left him with little choice but to play along considering his lack of supporters around. His only consolation was that he planned for their wedding to be soon and then they would have a child, anyway, so the timing was really only a little off.

He waited impatiently for the Lords to be done with flaunting their petty magic tricks so he could check up on Irene. He had a guard watching over her but that wasn’t enough to ease his mind. She had been perfectly well the last he saw of her. Considering that she was fitter than half his soldiers, her sudden illness was a worrisome development. The last thing he needed now while he was arranging a siege campaign halfway across the continent was a sick fiance to worry about.

Once the last man concluded their blessing, he rose and navigated his way toward the bridge, cleverly avoiding everyone that showed the slightest intention to speak with him. He had rushed there, yet, it seemed there was someone with even less patience than him.

Andrew was with Irene. A frown invaded his features as he took in the sight of the two together. An ominous feeling came over him. It was not just his hatred of his older brother that brought that on. Andrew had a history of stealing people from him. Irene wasn’t one so easily swayed, he had enough experience with her obstinacy to understand that, but he couldn’t help but feel an urge to pull her away from the man.

There was one thing his older brother excelled at that Matthias tended to fail in and it was pretending to be normal. More specifically, it was being approachable, relatable, a companion rather than a leader. Where Matthias oft found himself stuck on a raised platform, Andrew knew how to build a bridge that linked him to anyone of any class and any race. Where Matthias inspired reverence, Andrew inspired camaraderie. Where Matthias could only pity, Andrew could empathize.

Letting Irene speak to Andrew was a dangerous thing.

Matthias pursed his lips. His footsteps quickened toward the duo so he could politely take Irene off Andrew’s hands. He had just reached the midpoint of the bridge when an intruding hand came into sight to stop him.

+++

He could feel eyes on him. Matthias’s guard, he imagined, for that paranoid boy could never leave any spot or person unwatched no matter where he went. He ignored it in favor of his target. Speaking of, the Princess Irene looked rather terrible hunched over at the shore. Andrew thought vaguely that it was a waste of such a beautiful dress to be dragged around in the sand like that. He kept that idea to himself as he approached the woman.

“Princess Irene,” he called, tone halfway between a question and a greeting, hesitance tinting his voice. Her head snapped to him immediately and he noticed, not for the first time, how un-ladylike she was upon close inspection. She projected the image of royalty quite well when she was seated and silent. Yet, she was not practiced enough to hide her rather warrior-esque physique and mannerisms. At least, not from him.

Matthias had been quick in erasing any possible paths he could have taken in tracking down the Izmarian Princess’s past. Andrew knew no better about this woman than what Matthias said was so. But Matthias had said this woman had been a mere, simple common girl. That was clearly not so.

Knowing he had her attention, he put on a smile and asked, “Are you well?”
 
How fascinating to watch the intricacies of human emotion. The subtle changes perceived only by those who could see the unguarded expressions, rarest of all here. There were advantages to remaining on the side lines, quiet and unimportant. Ammon did not keep to himself out of shyness, did not participate in Court intrigue out of lack of ambition. He thought himself the smartest of the courtiers, to a certain limit, of course. He wasn’t a total narcissist.

He kept his opinions to himself, even whilst advising the Princes, irrespective of whether it was Andrew or Matthias. Both children, too young to rule and still bent on petty family feuds. Speaking to the former felt like bashing his head against an impenetrable wall – that thick royal skull refused to listen to any counsel. And the latter…that remained to be seen.

Whatever else, unpredictability was part of neither of the princes’ characteristics. Too much to hope for Matthias to use announcement of pregnancy to his advantage, the boy diverted the crowd’s attention to his talent for magic. Ammon sat back into his seat, fingertips pressed to his temple as he leaned against the armrest, goblet in hand to hide the quirk of his lips. While others watched ribbons of silk water dance to a boy’s commands, Ammon took the time to think about babies.

News of an heir could not have been more fortuitous to a Prince who was considered for the title of heir apparent. Ammon was not fool enough to think the inky streaks of a curse on Irene’s chest to be anything but the Mark. He’d seen it only once before, felt sick at it and at himself for thinking it a brilliant if not insane manoeuvre to control the population. He was young, bitter, rebellious to an extent. He did not think much of it when he’d seen it on Irene, but she was not conning a possible heir apparent to Vaelan throne at the time. There will be no pregnancies in the near future for her.

Regardless of the vague Perhaps, the news was out there. Prince Matthias of Vaela, the Saint, was to be a father. Time will tell if that was true but with this one suggestion Ammon had solidified Irene’s position at Court. Unless something went horribly awry, Matthias would not – could not – discard her.

An iridescent shine reflected on the silken ribbons of water pulled Ammon’s attention to the table farthest from the centre. His own was beside Prince Andrew’s – he was not surprised to have been escorted to a seat so hidden in shadow, trapped at the edge of the dock by surrounding tables full of courtiers he knew of but never spoken with – and too far to overhear the conversation that sparked his interest. A servant lingered longer than necessary at Lucia and Maximus’s table. Ammon could see a shadow of a crease forming between Lucia’s delicate brows.

He’d almost forgotten about the twins, so little was their importance. They rarely appeared at Court and for all his admiration of the twins’ intelligence, neither possessed the skill nor will to be more than eye-candy for the courtiers. But Ammon held no doubts that if Matthias admitted or denied Irene’s pregnancy, all of Court would come to Lucia for confirmation.

Across the dock Maximus turned is head to look at Ammon and raised a goblet. Careful not to let surprise show, Ammon responded in kind. Damn the twins. Damn him for being so careless to step out of shadow without setting precautions in place. He looked into his goblet and wished he could drain it all to drown out the bitter taste at the back of his tongue.

As Mattias performed the last of his magic show, Ammon mulled over the idea of speaking to Lucia, glean whatever damage Irene had inadvertently caused at the luncheon, but knew he’d find out nothing. Better to deal with the cracks in trust he had formed between him and Andrew.

He rose from his seat without a word and headed for the bridge. His table was closer and he intercepted Matthias without needing to quicken his step.

“Such great news you’ve shared with us tonight, yet I see no happiness in your expression. Is news of an heir that upsetting?” Ammon lowered his hand, which had hovered a breath away from Matthias’s shoulder, as though he meant to pat the other in congratulations but thought against it at the last moment. “Do not worry for your betrothed. Iris had been sick for months when pregnant with our daughter. Let women take care of their needs in private, shall we?” A smile curved his lips and he glanced to the party behind them, towards the tables and the food. “Unless…I misread the situation and your Princess had only eaten bad seafood?”

The prince stared at him for a silent second with a smile that exuded annoyance more than any sort of positive emotion. Then, in a tone that made unclear his real meaning, he replied, “A quick-witted man, aren’t you, Darnell?”

Ammon retuned the other’s mirthless smile. “So I’ve been told.”

As if he had not, very obviously, avoided the topic on hand, Matthias continued, “Is there a message you mean to pass?” His true words - if you have nothing worth my time, get out of my way - rang loudly unsaid.

Unpredictability was not part of the brothers’ characteristics. Not for the first time Ammon curiously, with a note of amusement, observed the similarities between the two. Their rivalry was not unprecedented – indeed, what siblings so close in age and personality did not war with each other – and far from secret at Court.

“Ah, you are quick to return to matters of Court when the celebration has only started. There is a message, though for another time, with less watchful eyes surrounding us. It is a private matter, I assure you. One that concerns my beloved prince and his brother.” Ammon was careful not to direct his gaze to either of the princes for too long, his mannerisms and voice instead carefree and smooth. Words came to him easily, effortlessly weaving a message embroidered with hidden meaning.

Which prince did he support? Both. Neither. Even he had little clue where the events are going to take him. All he had to do was stay afloat and keep another, a much less experienced swimmer, alive.

“Who, it seems, has taken an uncharacteristic interest in an item otherwise ignored by others. Should I warn him against this friendship or encourage him, I wonder.” In the distance, Ammon could see Irene relax onto the sand, arms crossed behind her head. The display summoned warmth into his smile. He turned just enough to keep Matthias in his periphery. “New interests do carry with them a certain degree of danger.”

Matthias seemed to consider his words as he glanced wordlessly at the duo standing near the shore. “You should do what is best for your prince, of course,” he finally replied with a meaningful glint in his eyes as they met Ammon’s, “and I will be glad to receive your message at my residence on another day.”

“It will be my pleasure.” Of course. How else would this conversation have ended? Ammon wanted to pat himself on the back for a job well done, but sunk into a bow instead and gestured towards the celebration with an outstretched arm. “Shall we return?”
 
She did not reply for a while, silence stretched between them, turning the situation into an awkward exchange of cautionary stares. Princess Irene’s eyes darted to Andrew’s waist, where a sword hung, then to his hands, skirting along his forearms and shoulders in search of something. When her eyes finally met his, she seemed to have relaxed a fraction as recognition dawned.


“Yes,” she said, a little too harshly, and perhaps having caught the rudeness in her voice let out an exasperated sigh. “I feel better than I have earlier. Being on solid ground helps.” Here, Andrew smiled knowingly in agreement.


She lowered into a crouch in a flurry of layered skirts, one hand pressed to her neck where sweat glistened. “What madman constructs a damn dock from glass,” she whispered and turned to look up at the prince. “I have not seen you since the jousting tourney, Your Highness. Another event I found no pleasure in. Neither have you, I suppose.”


Andrew blinked at her like she had spoken a different language. Her words out of any other Lady would have been taken as a hidden insult by him. The clear look in her dark eyes, however, turned him against the idea that she had reminded him of his latest painful defeat at the hands of her fiance out of malicious intent. He found his guard lowering a fraction at the realization of the Izmarian’s naivete.


Andrew blinked at her like she had spoken a different language. Her words out of any other Lady would have been taken as a hidden insult by him. The clear look in her dark eyes, however, turned him against the idea that she had reminded him of his latest painful defeat at the hands of her fiance out of malicious intent. He found his guard lowering a fraction at the realization of the Izmarian’s naivete.


“I have grown used to those sorts of antics by now,” he laughed, cleverly hiding the missed beat in his response. Surprise flickered across Irene’s features at Andrew’s laugh and she turned away. The half-shadows failed to hide the faintest hint of a smile. She did not seem to care.“I hoped I hadn’t worried you then. Matthias…” he trailed off, studying her for any signs of shifting emotions as he continued, “is surprisingly harsh for a Saint. I’ve gotten used to that too.”


“Mm.” Irene made a non-committal sound and lifted an equivocal should as she relaxed onto the sand from a tense crouch. “Maybe you have.” Then, she added, almost as an afterthought, “Your Highness.” Andrew’s arched a brow at her belated and rather unenthusiastic show of manners but said nothing. The ocean breeze grew cold as a beat passed in quiet observation, signalling the onslaught of night.


“Has Matthias sent you?” Irene questioned, breaking their wordless streak of few seconds. Andrew studied her eyes as he worked to a respond. He wondered if he would find a glimmer of hope, that her beloved would be so caring, or a hint of disappointment, that it wasn’t Matthias himself in her company on this gorgeous shore. Instead, he found nothing but curiosity and a dash of confusion. He smiled.


“Oh, no, he’s quite occupied at the moment,” he dismissed. Indeed, he was sure many would like to talk to Matthias about his apparently oncoming heir. Which reminded him of his delayed congratulations to the deliverer of this supposed good news. “Congratulations, by the way, on your pregnancy,” he remarked casually. Her response solidified his expectation that it was a falsehood, a throwaway lie for the sake of escape.

Brows drew together in a frown, casting shadows across her features as understanding dawned on Irene. She glanced towards the docks, a flutter of lashes lowered in minute anger.

“Of course,” the words were mouthed without sound and Irene exhaled a drawn-out sigh, hand lifted to press to her forehead. She ran her palm upwards to her hair to smooth it further, then dropped it to her mouth, eyes still glaring at the dark shapes blotting out the light on the glass dock. “I should not be surprised he used my sickness to his advantage. I am not surprised. I wonder if that makes it worse.”

Sand made it awkward to get up, sliding from under her feet, denying her a foothold. Once up, Irene made no effort to dust off the sand, to brush it from her hair or hands, and looked only slightly less uncomfortable than she did while on the dock.

Then, she raised her gaze towards the night sky and was quiet for a moment. “Return to the celebration. I am leaving. I’ve seen enough water for the night.”
 

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