Everything seems to be in order in Mero's affairs, and he decides to request a precise statement of expenses to evaluate what remains in his reserves. Seated in his office at the Imperial School of Mor, a room with walls paneled in dark oak where the scent of wax and old leather lingers in the air, he taps the solid wooden table distractedly, his fingers brushing the notches left by years of use. A tall mullioned window, framed by rough stone, overlooks an inner courtyard where the cobblestones shimmer under a fine rain, its fogged panes filtering a pale light that illuminates the shelves laden with leather-bound volumes and rolls of yellowed parchments. A black stone fireplace, where a fire crackles softly, casts flickering shadows on the walls, warming the space despite the cool air seeping through the gaps in the poorly fitted windows.
He signals to a servant, a young man with neatly combed brown hair, dressed in a gray and silver livery matching the school's colors, whose boots resonate on the polished floor. "Summon the secretary," Mero orders in a calm yet firm voice, his eyes scanning a pile of commercial reports on the table—letters sealed with red wax, lists of expenses scrawled in black ink, sketches of buildings under reconstruction. He wishes to obtain a comprehensive assessment of the remaining resources, an overview that will allow him to evaluate the allocation of funds for ongoing and future projects—the repairs in the lower town of Mor, where houses with light-colored stone facades slowly rise from the ashes, the trading posts scattered across the Empire, and his personal commitments that oscillate between duty and affection.
The secretary arrives shortly after, a middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back into a strict bun, her round glasses perched on an aquiline nose. She wears a charcoal gray wool dress with impeccable cuffs, carrying a thick ledger under her arm, and bows with measured deference before sitting across from him, unfolding her documents on the table with methodical precision. The room, bathed in the pale light from the window and the crackling of embers, comes alive with the rustling of parchments she spreads out—columns of neatly aligned figures, red ink annotations highlighting major expenses, notes scribbled in the margins tracing the flow of gold and silver that marked the past year.
After a meticulous tally of the expenses, the secretary looks up at Mero, adjusting her glasses with a quick gesture. "You have approximately twenty million piastres in gold left, Your Highness," she announces, her clear voice resonating in the silence of the room. "Over the year, one million was invested in creating your spice import-export company—the reinforced hull ships sailing to the Sable-Gris archipelago, the thatched-roof warehouses built in the Shadow Mountains, the first cargoes of rare spices transported by caravans with tinkling bells. Eighteen million has been invested in fire relief and the reconstruction of the city—this money has been placed in a special account, used as needed to erect houses with ochre stone walls and massive wooden quays along the shimmering river of Mor. Finally, one million covered the school's expenses—the five hundred thousand piastres annual fee for courses, lodging, and meals in these vaulted-ceiling halls and dormitories with windows overlooking paved courtyards—as well as various personal expenses, from embroidered tunics to gifts sent to loved ones."
Mero listens in silence, his gaze fixed on the figures aligning like sentinels on the parchment, his fingers drumming softly on the wooden table. The lower town of Mor stretches out in his mind—the cobblestone streets lined with buildings with red-tiled roofs still damp from the last rain, the squares where residents gather under faded canvas awnings to discuss the work, the quays bustling with the clatter of ropes and the cries of boatmen transporting goods on patched-up ship hulls. He reflects, a shadow of concern crossing his face. The investments in his company and the reconstruction will yield long-term benefits—the rare spices sold in markets with carved wooden stalls, the taxes from flourishing trading posts—but he has overspent at the school. The classrooms with gray stone walls, where professors deliver their lessons under vaulted ceilings adorned with faded frescoes, and the dormitories with massive wooden beds aligned under windows overlooking paved courtyards, have consumed a portion of his funds that he deems excessive. He must regain control, reestablish a balance between his ambitions and his resources.
With the remaining twenty million piastres in gold, he still has a solid foundation, but he knows that an adjustment is necessary to better manage his short-term finances. He realizes that he must maintain a long-term vision—the future revenues from his trading posts, the taxes from merchants established in warehouses with ochre stone walls—while limiting immediate expenses, particularly those of the school, which have exceeded his expectations. "Regarding my budget at the school," he begins, his voice firm yet naturally authoritative, "I must pay five hundred thousand piastres annually for courses, lodging, and meals—the meals served in the great hall at massive oak tables, under vaulted ceilings where iron chandeliers cast dancing shadows, the nights in dormitories with white stone walls where autumn winds seep through poorly fitted windows. But my personal expenses must not exceed twenty-five thousand piastres per month. This will allow me to maintain my standard of living without affecting my long-term finances."
The secretary takes note with silent diligence, her fingers gripping the pen that scratches the parchment in a light rustle, the black ink flowing in neat lines under the flickering light of the fire. "I will ensure that your instructions are followed, Your Highness," she assures, adjusting her glasses with a quick gesture before looking up at him. "Your budget will be adjusted accordingly, and the monthly expenses will remain within this limit." She bows her head in respect, then retreats, leaving Mero alone in the room where the embers crackle softly, casting a soothing warmth on the paneled walls and shelves laden with rolled parchments.
A few days later, a discreet knock at the office door breaks the afternoon silence. Mero looks up from his parchments, where he was annotating a report on the work near the river. "Come in," he says, his voice resonating in the room with paneled walls where the scent of warm wax still lingers in the air. The door opens, and Master Antonin appears, followed by Leila, a radiant smile illuminating her tired face. In her arms, she holds a baby wrapped in a soft wool blanket, a little girl with a peaceful face sleeping lightly.
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Mero stands up, a mix of surprise and warmth crossing his gaze. He hasn't seen Master Antonin since his wedding. Leila, radiant despite the dark circles under her eyes, approaches with a quiet grace, the baby nestled against her. "We greet you warmly," says Antonin, his smile wider than ever, his eyes sparkling with evident pride. He bows his head in respect, then adds: "This is our little Amélie. We have been eagerly awaiting this moment, and she is everything we hoped for—a light in our lives."
Leila gives him a soft smile, her eyes shining with tenderness as she gently rocks the child. "I am so happy that you are here to share this moment with us," she says, her voice filled with emotion. "She already carries a bit of our family's history." Little Amélie, in her peaceful sleep, seems to radiate an innocence that softens the atmosphere of the room, her rosy cheeks contrasting with the white wool of her blanket.
Mero approaches, his gaze lingering on the child's face with a mix of curiosity and affection. "Amélie," he murmurs, a note of reverence in his voice, "like my great-great-grandmother. A queen who protected the kingdom of Sel for fifteen years after her husband's death, raising their only child alone. A legendary name in our family, carried by a woman whose decisions shaped our coasts and seas."
Antonin and Leila exchange a complicit glance, visibly touched by the depth of this name and the history it embodies. Antonin, in an admiring tone, responds: "We chose this name for Amélie not only for its sound but also in the hope that she will grow up with a part of that strength and wisdom that have marked our history."
Leila, her eyes shining with pride, adds with a tender smile: "We hope she will have the spirit of that queen, but above all, her ability to bring harmony and peace, even in the darkest moments." Little Amélie, in her sleep, seems to almost embody the tranquility of these legendary values, her lips curling into a slight smile as Leila gently rocks her.
Antonin settles into a chair near the table, his travel clothes—a gray wool tunic with frayed cuffs and a thick coat in sea tones—still marked by the dust of the roads, curious to know Mero's thoughts. Leila takes a seat beside him, placing Amélie in an improvised cradle made from a folded blanket on a nearby chair, her little hands fluttering slightly in her sleep. The room, with its paneled walls and crackling fire, fills with a familial warmth that contrasts with the usual austerity of the school, its vaulted-ceiling halls and dormitories with white stone walls where autumn winds whistle through the windows.
Then, after exchanging news about the city, Antonin and Leila share their wish to return to the kingdom of Sel to raise Amélie. The words fall like a stone in calm water, and Mero feels a pang in his heart, a silent pain mixed with a deep understanding. Leila, who has shared so many moments with him—the long evenings in the palace halls of Sel, the discussions under the market awnings near the river, the trials faced in the shadow of the fire—is about to turn a page he hadn't yet considered.
"I know you have your reasons," he says, a slight smile lighting up his face despite a hint of melancholy in his eyes, "and I am happy that you are returning to our kingdom." He pauses, his voice softening. "But know that this door will always remain open for you, at any time." Antonin bows his head with silent gratitude, his eyes reflecting sincere appreciation.
Leila looks at him, her eyes shining with emotion as she adjusts the blanket around Amélie. "I will never leave your heart," she murmurs, her voice trembling but firm, "even if my steps lead me elsewhere. I will always be there, in the wind and the sea of the archipelago, somewhere in every wave. And you too will remain a part of my life." Antonin, more pragmatic but equally moved, adds: "Thank you."
The departure approaches, and as they stand to take their leave, Mero feels that this goodbye marks a deeper transition than he had imagined. Leila, Master Antonin, and their daughter are preparing to return to the kingdom of Sel, their silhouettes fading down the corridor with cold stone walls, their footsteps echoing on the floor until they disappear into silence. The streets of Mor, with their houses with light-colored stone facades lined with cobblestone alleys, their quays bustling with the clatter of ropes and the cries of boatmen, stretch beyond the windows, but in his mind, Mero already sees the shores of Sel—the white sand beaches lined with palm trees with slanted trunks, the quays where ships with patched sails dance on turquoise waves, the markets with rough wooden stalls overflowing with dried fish and rare spices.
When they arrive in the kingdom, a surprise awaits them. Mero decides to offer them five hundred thousand piastres to help build their life there, a gesture of generosity that will allow them to settle without the constraints of imperial service, far from the missions that would send them to the far corners of the world. He knows that this sum will give them the freedom to choose their path where Amélie will grow up, surrounded by the scents of salt and spices that define their native land.
He writes a letter with thoughtful care, seated at his desk where the pale light filters through the mullioned window, the scent of warm wax filling the air as he seals his words in a thick parchment envelope. "To Master Antonin and Leila," he begins, his pen gliding over the paper in a light rustle, the black ink flowing in neat lines. "I wish for this sum, five hundred thousand piastres in silver, to be a gift for you and Amélie. You have shared precious moments with me, and I want to offer you this help so that you can build a peaceful and fulfilling life in our kingdom. You will not be bound to serve the Empire as pawns in an imperial game, but free to forge your own path, with the security of knowing you are supported. May this contribution be a stepping stone to your happiness and allow you to settle serenely into a promising future. With all my friendship, Mero de Sel."
He ensures that the letter accompanies the funds, carefully placed in a carved wooden chest with iron fittings, adorned with the trident of Sel, to be delivered upon their arrival in the kingdom. This gesture, a testament of love and generosity, brings Mero a sense of peace as he imagines their surprise, a tender smile crossing his face, tired from the challenges of the past year.
