Windy Fir Woodlands, 13th Moon, 24th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The wine rippled faintly in the golden goblet as Vaiu swirled it in her hand, watching the liquid shimmer like molten rubies in the early light. She stared into its depths as if seeking an answer hidden within, her reflection distorted and wavering. Her thoughts drifted, restless, flitting from one memory to another, none staying long enough to fully take root. The camp around her hummed with muted life—the shuffle of servants, the muted clang of pots, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a morning breeze. Yet she felt apart from it all, adrift in a sea of indulgence and duty. Even for one such as herself, life was too short to live all the lives she dreamed of living; searching for feelings that she knew might one day destroy her.

  She tilted her head back and drank deeply, the wine warming her throat as it went down. It did little to soothe the ache behind her eyes or the restless flutter of anticipation in her chest. Around her, the world was changing and was changing still; she could see it but barely remembered, grasping for a past long gone and better forgotten.

  “Your Holiness?” The voice snapped her from her reverie.

  Vaiu blinked, her focus sharpening as she turned to face Lovell, her niece. The younger woman stood before her, parchment in hand, her face a portrait of disapproval.

  “Yes,” Vaiu drawled at last, the word spilling from her lips with deliberate slowness. She waved a hand, vaguely motioning for Lovell to continue. Behind her, a servant lingered, holding a half-empty bottle of wine. Vaiu plucked it from the girl’s grasp without so much as a glance. She deemed it unimportant who served her—none dared poison her, not while she remained the Elders’ favoured.

  “You spaced out again,” Lovell chided, her tone pointed but not unkind. “Were you even listening?”

  “Not a word,” Vaiu admitted, her lips curving into a faint smirk as she poured the wine into her goblet. “But do go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Lovell sighed, a sound that carried both exasperation and resignation. “Prince Everhard has solidified his hold over Bycrest,” she began, her voice brisk and businesslike. “Several Algrian lords have received missives demanding their fealty and tribute. The letters are supposedly from the prince himself, though it’s likely they were written by his aide, Ser Richard. Regardless, these letters have been largely disregarded.”

  “Typical,” Vaiu muttered, draining her cup in a single gulp. She gestured for the maid to refill it again. “Let me guess. The lords are by something again? What is it this time? Don’t tell me it that gem mine again.”

  Lovell glanced up, arching a brow. “How did you—”

  “They’re always squabbling over the mines,” Vaiu interrupted. “Claula, Erytria, Kinsmouth. Without the king to play peacemaker, it is only natural they would revert to their old ways. Dangerous fools, that lot. Let me guess: blood has been spilt?”

  “Not yet,” Lovell replied, though her frown deepened. “Meanwhile, the Algrian nobility remains divided on whether to muster an army to reclaim Bycrest from the Hertaleans. With the king imprisoned, many question the legitimacy of his heir—a fledgling girl unfit to rule, by their reckoning”

  “Charming,” Vaiu murmured, her smirk widening. She drank deeply, emptying the goblet in a single, inelegant gulp before thrusting it back at the servant for a refill. “And how many among the noble lords clamours most loudly for the crown, I wonder?”

  Lovell’s lips twitched with faint amusement. “Nine, at last count. The most notable are von Berat of Stotford, the wealthiest of the lot, and von Deniz of Manchesto, the king’s third uncle. Lord von Emre of Alismouth, a distant cousin of the deposed heiress, has also garnered significant support. The rest are little more than bumbling pretenders.”

  Vaiu laughed, though the sound carried little warmth. “Ah, but isn’t that always the way of it? More kinglings and fools to muddle an already complex situation.”

  “It is unfortunate,” Lovell replied, her tone dry. “The Hertaleans and Verumites would revel in such an outcome. In fact, Verum’s involvement in Bycrest’s fall is no longer mere suspicion. From bribes to assassinations. The Verumitte crown is also suspected of approving loans, ships, and coin to bolster Hertalean forces. Their fleets remain stationed in the Ignis Basin, ostensibly to ‘protect their allies inland.’ And now, they’ve blockaded the Morgan Channel. Shortly after this announcement, Luscan raiders, given free passage through The Gulf of Manley and The Black Sea by Aries, are currently ravaging the Hertelean western islands and coastal regions. With the Hertelean first and second fleets invested in the war effort, the affected regions are incapable of mounting an effective defence. Verum's First Fleet attempted to intervene but was routed by a joint fleet of the Arien Second Fleet and a contingent of Luscan raiding vessels; both sides lost a total of twelve ships in a confrontation.”

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  “Ah, delightful,” Vaiu muttered, reclining further into her chair. “Is there no wine stronger than this?”

  Lovell continued undeterred, her tone crisp as she pressed on. “A detachment from Verum's Second Fleet has now imposed a naval blockade at the Morgan Channel and around the Algrian islands. This is already causing tension. The Ivonnians are preparing for war—they’ve called their banners and begun stockpiling provisions.”

  “War,” Vaiu mused, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Such an amusing little game. And who else has been dragged into this delightful mess?”

  “Tequila and Quilton have denounced the Hertalean assault on Bycrest,” Lovell continued, glancing at her parchment. “Both described it as ‘uncouth’ and ‘grasping.’ The Quiltonian envoy even suggested that the Verumites are testing the limits of their influence, which could provoke some ‘unforeseen consequences’. In response, a marriage proposal on behalf of the Hertalean crown prince, Everhard un Wesselbutum to Verum's first princess, Alina de Scymaester, was made by the Hertalean crown imploring that the marriage would further unify their kingdoms' bonds. Verum has yet to respond, though I suspect the proposal might be supported by King Lendar given how beneficial it would be for his son's reign in the end.”

  Lovell opened her mouth to speak again, but another voice interrupted her. “Your Holiness.” A maid’s head poked through the tent flap, her expression one of cautious urgency. “The Nameless have returned.”

  Vaiu stiffened, slowly setting her goblet aside. “And?”

  “They’ve brought your quarry, Your Holiness,” the maid said. “Lord Aden is with them, as are the Queen and the heiress.”

  "...Where is he then?"

  “Outside with the—”

  Lovell raised a brow, watching her aunt closely. “Aden,” she interjected, a strange expression—something between a grimace and confusion—bubbling unto her countenance. “I thought you despised the Duke.”

  “I do,” Vaiu snapped, though her voice lacked conviction. She adjusted the folds of her crimson dress, her fingers smoothing the fabric with deliberate care. “Bring him to me,” she ordered, waving the maid off.

  “As you wish, Your Holiness,” the maid replied before ducking back out of the tent.

  Lovell lingered, her arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at her lips.

  “I do,” Vaiu said again, glaring at her niece.

  Lovell’s smirk widened. “Of course you do.”

  Vaiu huffed, rising to her feet in a swirl of crimson fabric. She adjusted her dress and patted at her dark hair, her movements quick and uncharacteristically fidgety. “How do I look?” she asked, glancing at Lovell.

  “Drunk,” Lovell replied, her tone dry.

  Vaiu shot her a look. “You rude wench.”

  Lovell turned to leave, her laughter soft but unmistakable. “...I am leaving.”

  "What! No! You will not abandon me here!" Vaiu barked, though there was no real venom in her voice.

  "Nay, 'ready have, M'lady."

  "Get back here, you traitorous wench! I said get back here, godsdammit!"

  Aden sighed deeply, the sound carrying the weight of his unease as he followed the abbess through the encampment. Their Majesties had remained behind, detained by the presence of another woman—a fact that gnawed at him, though he was powerless to change it. Resigned, he trailed the woman at a measured pace. The camp—if one could call it that—was more akin to a military outpost. In the centre of the clearing stood an orderly cluster of linen tents, large enough to house command quarters, yet portable enough to vanish before dawn's light. Saddled horses, nearly two dozen strong, stood tethered at one edge, their eyes gleaming warily in the faint glow of the rising sun. Though sparsely populated, Aden noted the quiet figures of abbesses and the cowled Nameless moving through the camp like whispers on the wind.

  At last, they halted before a modest tent. A woman stood waiting at the entrance, her bearing and elaborate garb marking her as someone of rank within the Creed.

  “You may address me as Priestess Lia,” she said, her tone brisk and unyielding, as though rehearsed countless times. “While you are in our care, I expect you to comport yourself with decorum in the presence of Her Holiness. I trust you are familiar with our rules?”

  Aden inclined his head, his face betraying nothing.

  “Good,” she said curtly, lifting the tent flap with practised precision. “Enter.”

  Aden stepped inside, his boots making no sound on the woven rugs beneath. The air within was heavy with the scent of spiced wine and something floral he could not name. At the centre of the tent, a slender woman reclined on an arrangement of cushions. To one side, a tray of goblets and several empty wine bottles sat atop an ornate tablecloth, its embroidery delicate and fine. Aden’s gaze returned to the woman. Her eyes met his, sharp and assessing, a shadow of something unspoken flickering there.

  “It’s been some time,” Aden said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the conflict within him. Forlornness? Longing? Perhaps even wariness. He couldn’t say for certain, and neither, it seemed, could she.

  “Yes,” Vaiu replied, her voice measured but taut, her expression a mask of neutrality. “Yes, it has.” Her hand rested on her lap, fingers twitching slightly. Aden recognized the nervous tic for what it was, though she stilled it the moment she noticed his gaze.

  "You seem tense," he observed, raising a brow. For some reason, he found the sight of the anxious Matriarch, contrived as it may be, somewhat amusing.

  “No,” she said quickly, her voice firmer now, though the denial rang hollow. “Why should I be? You are the one held captive, not I.”

  Aden fell silent for a moment before chuckling softly, his gaze softening and losing a bit of its edge for a moment.

  Then he smiled, saying. "How have you fared, little red?"