The Scenes
Links / scenes in white text transpire at least semi-publicly, where characters may have seen or heard about events.
Those in Gold are only known to the characters involved, but are provided for general exposition.
Please do not use this information IC.
If you need to visit the Seregonian Academy RPR for a refresher, click here!
The Festival Announcement
There was some calm after the Demon Hunts. Not true downtime, perhaps, but a brief easing of responsibility. Patrols shortened, halls quieted, and the endless rhythm of preparation softened just enough that Draconen Prime could breathe again. Yet, beneath that calm there lingered a feeling shared by many: something new was approaching.
The day it arrived did not appear remarkable at first… but then the castle began to come to life.
Announcements echoed through the immense halls of Draconen Prime, the message repeating from chamber to chamber, corridor to corridor, until even the furthest wings of the mountain had heard it: The Queen would address them later that evening from the Ilios Exedra.
It didn’t take long for the news to spread beyond the palace walls.
Later that evening.
Castle Draconis was built directly into the distinct cliff face of the Spine of Solterra; its five levels and their accompanying landings were supported by hundreds of columns and loads of magic, looking out over all of Draconen Prime. Far above them all, jutting out towards the land itself off of the landings of the Heliarch Sanctum, was the Ilios Exendra, a special, albeit rarely used feature of the castle.
The platform utilized many avenues to make it the perfect place for address, starting with its location. Situated far to the western side of the Castle, it ensured that with the aid of Draconian eyesight—known for its ability to see vast distances, and even zoom and focus in draconic fashion—the maximum number of people could see the speaker, either from the landings of the various Castle levels, from the sky around it, from the mountaintops, or even from the ground itself with effort. Sound was easily carried from this platform through a spiderlike web of magical veins that wove through the rock of both the castle and Draconen Prime like roots. When any communication began from the Ilios Elendra, those veins—usually dormant—blazed to life, amplifying the message throughout the country for all to hear clearly.
Members of the Queen’s Guard stood in their ceremonial ranks along the upper landings, Syndicate operatives and nobles leaned against the stone pillars of the second and third landings in quiet conversation, and citizens of every district gathered along the outer terraces of the commercial district. On the ground below, citizens had taken to using their roofs as seating, if not amongst those who had chosen to hover above for better vantage points. Curiosity hummed through the crowd, speculation traveling faster than the wind.
Had another war begun? Had the Son’Rashiidians discovered something new? Had the Demon Hunts uncovered a threat greater than any they had faced before?
As Sol walked out onto the Ilios Exedra, the murmurs vanished.
No Draconian announced her, it wasn’t necessary; her presence alone was enough to pull the air taut with attention. Even those who had never seen her in person before felt the subtle shift that accompanied her arrival, as though the mountain itself had straightened beneath her feet.
For a moment she said nothing.
Then she began.
“You rarely hear a Seregonian speak seriously about the gods these days. Have any of you wondered why?” Her voice carried easily through the land's magic, seeming to bubble up from the earth itself.
“In other lands, gods make the world turn. Entire nations bend their lives around divine favor. Yet here in Maegliin Seregon, that devotion has quietly faded. The Tamurilians revere the land and the magic that flows through it rather than any distant deity. The Son’Rashiidians live far too long to treat gods as anything other than curiosities worth studying. Draconians once worshiped the Great Dragon who granted them the power to survive this mountain in the first place… That leaves only some ancient Te’Sorthenian lineages who still cling to the old ways.
And, of course, there is me… perhaps the greatest reason devotion to gods has waned in this land.” A faint ripple of quiet amusement moved through the crowd, the Seraph remaining silent for a long moment and allowing the congregation to adjust. When she began again, it was with a soft pace along the high platform.
“I was given life long ago, before these kingdoms had taken shape, by one who is called a god. From that beginning I learned something rather quickly: The word ‘god’ is little more than perspective.
Mortals give the name to those whose abilities exceed their understanding. Those who appear capable of passing judgment or delivering miracles. They place such beings upon pedestals, either pretending they possess no flaws… or excusing those flaws entirely in order to justify their worship. My father is called a god by many. I use the word only because it allows you to know who I am speaking of, not because I agree with it.” Sol’s gaze swept slowly across the gathered Draconians, her movement stopping.
“The truth is far simpler. Gods are no different in temperament or entitlement than any Seregonian. Draconian, Son’Rashiidian, Tamurilian, Te’Sorthenian… the same flaws exist in all of us. The only distinction between them and you is the happenstance of power. They claim divinity because they possess abilities you do not, and so people pray to them.”
Another pause lingered.
“If you seek miracles, I would advise you to pray to the same thing the gods themselves pray to, though even they don’t truly understand it. Rather, they simply call it… 'The Truth'. Creation itself. The totality of existence. The vast current through which thought, matter, and time flow together.” She folded her hands loosely behind her back.
“According to their own beliefs, the beings you call gods are merely manifestations of thought interacting with that Truth. Ideas given form by the faith of ancient peoples. Their abilities came from that interaction. Their power came from those who believed in them, and the only lasting thing they ever gave back to those people… were Seraphs.” Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“With that, we arrive at the reason I speak of this today. I am the first of the Seregonian Seraphs. I was born from the ambitions of Appollyon, a figure manifested by the ancient peoples of this land as the embodiment of the sun itself. For a time, I was expected to stand among the heavens beside the others of his kind…Instead, the ‘gods’ cast me down. They sent me to Arcondelial to live among what they considered my father’s failures, believing I would share the same fate.” Her voice remained steady. “But those ‘failures’ had other ideas.”
A faint murmur stirred through the crowd.
“The Arcondelian Angels forced me from their realm in turn, and I wandered this world for many years as little more than a target for the beings who had created me…Until one day…I heard the cries of this mountain.” Her gaze softened. “And so, I bound myself to you. To those who lived then, and to those who would be born long after. On that day my blood became yours. The power they had once claimed as divine began to flow through every Draconian who followed. Together, we took that power…and we built something greater than anything the gods had intended.”
A quiet breath escaped her. “We had four centuries together, then my creators decided our time had been long enough.”
Many in the crowd already knew the history that followed. The silence that spread through the Heliarch Sanctum and Protos Kleros landings carried the weight of it.
“I was taken from this world for a thousand years. But as you can plainly see… I returned.” She paused briefly. “Though not in the same way I left. As many of you suspected, my return was not perfect. I was reincarnated into a body incapable of containing the full nature of what I am. Most of my seraphic strength was sealed away simply to prevent it from destroying the vessel that held it.
For a time, I believed that limitation permanent. Had I known there was a solution, I would have sought it. Had I believed a better ruler existed for Draconen Prime than a diminished Seraph… I might have stepped aside. Neither of those things proved true from my perspective.”
A faint smirk touched her expression.
“It was the Son’Rashiidians who eventually discovered the nature of the problem.” She allowed a brief pause, as if remembering the conversation. “They explained what had happened. More importantly… they explained how to undo it.”
Her tone shifted slightly, quieter but more personal. “Any hesitance you may have noticed in my leadership since my return was not due to uncertainty about this kingdom. It was uncertainty about myself. Like the gods I spoke of earlier… I am not immune to doubt. My thoughts and emotions are no different from any Draconian standing here today. I am just as capable of losing confidence in my own path.” Her brow lifted slightly. “And yes, the rather awkward situation surrounding my… relationship with Artemian did little to help matters.”
The crowd shifted uneasily. Sol raised a hand almost immediately, a small, irritated rumble echoing in her throat. “It’s fine. We can discuss it. It happened. You’ve all kindly spent half a millennium pretending it didn’t exist on my behalf. I assure you, that can end today.”
A few scattered chuckles broke the tension.
“I am myself again. The full strength of my seraphic nature now flows freely through this body. The peculiarities of my reincarnation have become little more than an inconvenience to a creature who has lived six thousand years. I am not Artemian’s sister. I am not cousin to any Knight. To call Cassandra and Arthurian my parents, or Maxerion my uncle, would be false. They were simply the means through which I returned.”
Her voice grew firmer. “I am a Seraph. I am the well from which Draconian sovereignty originates. The moment in history when the Dragon-blessed Te’Sorthenians of this mountain became something more.”
A faint shimmer of golden light flickered across the balcony rail as she spoke. “With my restoration, that power returns with me.” She allowed the words to settle. “This is not metaphor. The Son’Rashiidian researchers have already begun work on the next generation of the Tri-Seraph serum. With the addition of my undiluted blood, they can perfect what has until now been flawed. A new era of Draconian strength is already being prepared.”
Yet again, she paused to let this sink in.
“My restoration has also eased the anxieties of our neighbors. The nations of Maegliin Seregon have agreed to reaffirm their pacts with the Seraphic Crown officially. Delegations will soon travel here to witness that renewal.” A faint smile touched her expression. “Which brings me to the real reason I gathered you all tonight.”
Spreading her wings slightly behind her, the Seraph raised her volume. “Draconen Prime will host a festival.”
A wave of murmurs rippled across the landings.
“Delegations from across the island will gather within our walls. The Son’Rashiidians will unveil their progress, alliances will be renewed, and each Draconian present will be given the opportunity to take part in something rarely offered in this world.”
She paused deliberately once more.
“Together with our smiths, Son’Rashiidian alchemists, and Te’Sorthenian mages, you will have the chance to forge a Seraphic weapon of your own.”
This time the reaction was louder.
“Forging techniques once kept only by those you called gods will be placed into your hands. Quests will unfold. Competitions will test your skill. Opportunities will present themselves for every Draconian who wishes to prove their worth.” Her voice lowered slightly. “This festival is not merely celebration; it is remembrance, and preparation.”
Trailing her eyes slowly across the thousands gathered beneath her, she continued. “We have always been something unusual in this world. A people born not from divine grace…but from defiance.” She straightened. “Let the nations see what that defiance has become. Let them witness the fire of this mountain. And remind them all—” Golden light flickered faintly across the balcony once more. “—what it means to be Draconian.”
Silence followed for only a moment, before the recuperating nation erupted to life.
The Arrivals
Days before the festival’s official opening, the castle began to swell with life.
Draconian merchants arrived first from the plains, flooding the commercial district with temporary stalls and traveling carts that crowded the streets with new wares and louder bargains. Te’Sorthenian nobles followed soon after, the wingless carried from the ground on orsnagai, their arrival carefully timed ahead of their Queen’s procession. From the skies came the Son’Rashiidians in great numbers, watchers and monks descending in quiet formations, while the delegation from Tamuril arrived a day behind them.
The castle was transformed almost overnight. Corridors once orderly grew lively with unfamiliar voices; visiting dignitaries filled guest chambers along the third and fourth floors, while restaurants, lounges, and bath houses on the fifth thrived under the sudden press of population.
High-born figures from Te’Sorthene and Tamuril could occasionally be spotted near the Seraphic Throne, though they rarely lingered long. The upper levels of the castle, however, had unmistakably fallen under Son’Rashiidian occupation. They moved with deliberate purpose. Always observing. Always recording.
Spare chambers were converted into temporary laboratories, their doors guarded more by silence than by Queen's Guard. Within them, Son’Rashiidian scholars worked tirelessly to finalize preparations for the unveiling promised during the festival: the completion of a new serum, long anticipated and carefully concealed until this moment.
The festival hadn't yet begun, but the island had already arrived to witness it.
Son'Rashiidian Arrival
The arrival of the Son’Rashiidians was marked with noticeably less fanfare, though only by deliberate design—Corinno Phython preferred it that way.
Their delegation dwarfed that of every other nation, yet the sight inspired little spectacle and even less noise. Watchers, archivists, monks, and researchers arrived in disciplined waves, descending through the air with quiet precision. The unveiling of the new serum alone required hundreds of specialists, and the Son’Rashiidians had come fully prepared.
For this greeting, Sol required only herself and a small contingent of Queen’s Guard, arranged in orderly formation along the landing terraces of the Heliarch Sanctum. No ground procession had been prepared. Most of the delegation possessed wings, and those without crossed the skies through practiced magic, arriving as naturally as migrating constellations returning to familiar stars. Their approach was announced not by trumpets, but by shadow.
Corinno appeared first upon the horizon.
One of the three Son’Rashiidian Elders and Headmaster of the Academy, he represented the draconic lineage of Son’Rashiid itself. In his true form, the elder dragon stretched well beyond a hundred feet in length, scales catching the moonlight like burnished glass. Though he possessed a smaller diplomatic form, today he flew in majesty, bearing members of the delegation upon his back.
Most prominent among them stood his fellow Elder, Dessa Devallia of the unicorn lineage.
Corinno banked gracefully above the Sanctum, vast wings folding as he descended onto the Ilios Exedra. The structure held his weight without protest. Scholars and attendants disembarked in practiced order before the Elder’s form shimmered, folding inward until he stood once more in his humanoid shape.
Even diminished, he towered nearly eight feet tall. Together, the Elders approached where the Exedra met the landing platforms.
Sol inclined her head respectfully. “I take it Elder Rensen remained at the Academy in your stead?” she asked, noting the absence of the third Elder.
“Lord Corinno. Lady Dessa.”
Corinno smiled warmly, the expression carrying familiar ease. “You perceive correctly, Sun-Seraph. Every gathering requires one mind to remain at the hearth while the others travel.” His gaze rested briefly upon her, thoughtful and sincere. “And I am pleased to find you well.”
The words carried deeper meaning than spoken aloud. Sol accepted it with a small nod. “Thank you, Elder.”
Her attention drifted toward the steady stream of Son’Rashiidians continuing to land along the Exedra’s length.
“With numbers such as these, I suspect the castle may find itself entirely introduced to your serum before the festival concludes.”
Corinno’s eyes brightened. “That is our intention. Though knowledge, like medicine, is best administered collaboratively. We will rely upon your people’s assistance.”
Elder Dessa stepped forward, voice gentle but precise. “The serum approaches completion. A handful of reagents remain beyond our borders, scattered across Maegliin Seregon. You mentioned the festival would require quests to guide its participants?”
Sol’s smile widened slightly. “I did.”
“Then perhaps we offer the first,” Dessa continued. “Would it please Your Majesty to have your citizens retrieve what remains necessary?”
“A splendid beginning,” Sol replied. “Provide the materials required, and we shall see them gathered. Unless, of course, you would prefer to oversee the quest personally?”
Dessa bowed her head, silver mane catching the light. “It would honor me to do so.”
“Then it is settled.” Sol gestured toward the castle beyond. “Let us see your people settled, and afterward we may speak at leisure. It has been too long since our last conversation.”
Corinno inclined his head in agreement. “Time passes swiftly for mortals,” he said lightly. “For us, it merely gathers stories worth sharing.”
Together, they turned toward the Sanctum, while behind them the Son’Rashiidian delegation continued its silent, orderly descent, transforming the castle not through spectacle, but through presence.
Those Who have Arrived from Son’Rashiid
- Elder Corinno Phython (Dragon)
- Elder Dessa Devallia (Unicorn)
- Hundreds of Son’Rashiidian monks, researchers, watchers, archivists.
Tamurilian Arrival
Keziah was not looking forward to today.
Delegates from Tamuril were arriving in Draconen Prime. Her homeland. Her family. With them came expectations she had spent decades learning to ignore, outrun, or outright defy. Ceremony. Tradition. Performance.
An event of this scale hadn’t occurred since before her conversion. Most Draconians rarely encountered Tamurilians at all, and the attention alone made her stomach churn. The last thing she wanted was to stand apart from her fellow Draconians again… yet that was precisely what today demanded.
Days before the delegation’s arrival, the designer from the VestiariumArak appeared at the Tamurilian common room’s door, armed with instructions from the crown, delivered through Axilya. The converts, she explained, were to serve as the living bridge between cultures. There would be no retreat into Tamurilian familiarity, no blending into Draconian anonymity.
They were to be unmistakable. In short, they were exhibits. Proof that Draconen Prime could claim Tamurilian lineage while displaying Draconian triumph.
The result was a room filled with converts dressed in traditional Tamurilian finery, every flowing element constrained wherever possible by manifested armor. Customary runes traced bare skin in sacred patterns from home, yet the designer layered Keziah in precious metal ornamentation that felt less like honor and more like a cage. To the Atheik, each polished piece screamed the same truth: she was no longer Tamurilian, no matter how faithfully the symbols were reproduced.
The woman had even attempted feathers.
Feathers!
As though culture could be glued into place for aesthetic balance.
The Tamurilians shut that down immediately, though not before Orixian, ever amused, offered several of his own feathers for Keziah’s hair. The gesture had made her feel sick.
Now, they stood arranged in flawless ranks upon the first-level landing platform, immaculate trophies beside the collection of Queen’s Guard and the Sun-Seraph herself, awaiting the High Chief’s arrival.
They were awaiting her bloodline—but not her family.
The current High Chief was a great-nephew of the firefly Atheik, four generations removed from her sister’s succession. Keziah had only met him once or twice. Her attention lingered on the darkening sky until the sensation of being watched pulled her back. She turned just enough to meet Sol’s gaze.
“I half expected you to attempt avoiding this affair,” the Queen murmured, the comment low enough to remain private.
Under different circumstances, she might have—however, Keziah’s ambitions had sharpened of late, and advancement within Draconian ranks required impeccable conduct… and convincing performance.
“I wouldn’t wish to disappoint my Queen by withholding one of her game pieces,” she replied quietly, lifting her chin as her posture settled into noble precision. As she faced forward again, she could almost feel the smile tugging at the Seraph’s lips.
Conversation ended there. The sun had set an hour earlier, and distant lights now shimmered on the horizon. A few scattered Firefly-bound figures approached through the sky, set apart from their dark companions. The delegation had arrived.
Their landing unfolded as full procession: nearly fifty Tamurilians of varying bonds and status descending in ordered formation. They arranged themselves behind the High Chief, his wife, and their three Atheik children—children who noticed the converts immediately, eyes wide in open fascination.
Of course they stared. To them, the converts were living legends. Their Ivkre Atheik leader bordered on myth within Tamuril itself. Keziah felt irritation prickle beneath her skin. Outwardly, she didn’t move.
The High Chief stepped forward in time with the Sun-Seraph, meeting her between the gathered cultures and bowing respectfully.
“High Chief Vaethis,” the Queen greeted warmly. “Welcome to Draconen Prime. You must be weary after such a flight.”
Her arm extended toward Keziah, the cue unmistakable. Keziah stepped forward.
“I assume you are familiar with Castle Draconis’ own Atheik?”
For the third time, she truly saw him. Young. Remarkably young for his station. A silver-tabby firefly-bonded like herself, though softened by generations of distant lineage. Unlike her, he retained the delicate wings of a Tamurilian and the bright golden glow of unbroken heritage. It was hard to miss the fact that his adornments were a bit flashier than those Keziah was used to seeing on one from their home. His eyes studied her with reverence… and something the convert couldn’t place. It didn’t make her comfortable.
“Lady Keziah,” he said carefully. “First Atheik of High Chief Cudix of the Eighth Reigna. Ivkre warrior. First Tamurilian Draconian convert.” Recognition. Formal acknowledgment.
He did not bow. Everyone behind him did.
Suppressing a sigh, Keziah inclined her head in return, new-metallic eyes settling on her great-nephew. “It is Queen Sol’s intention that your delegation remain under the guidance of myself and the other converts during your stay.”
Sol gave a small approving nod before extending her opposite arm toward the Queen’s Guard. “While your delegation includes several Ivkre, and you have Keziah herself, you will also be accompanied by a squad of Queen’s Guard for your protection.”
Keziah’s gaze snapped back to the Seraph.
Protection? Of course. A patrol to ensure she fulfilled her duties… and resisted the urge to vanish.
“I have assigned one of my Martik Synta to each visiting culture,” Sol continued, gesturing toward her assembled commanders. “Each accompanied by a selection of Tarchis. They will ensure your comfort and the festival’s harmony.”
Vaethis bowed again. “We appreciate the kindness and find it most agreeable. I look forward to the opportunity to speak more fully with Lady Keziah.” His bright eyes returned to her, carrying unmistakable intent. Keziah’s narrowed in response. “The few opportunities I have had in the past all seemed to conclude with her sudden disappearance.”
You little shit. The convert thought.
The Sun-Seraph laughed lightly. “I would not take that personally, High Chief Vaethis. Every High Chief since her father and sister have expressed the same frustration. Those who managed to keep her in one place long enough for conversation usually required a bow staff.”
Keziah’s eyes flicked toward Sol. The political language translated easily, a gentle smile wrapped around a precise message: She belongs here now.
Vaethis understood as well. His pleasant expression held, though tension gathered behind it. “The tales of her Ivkre ambition have endured the centuries,” he replied smoothly. “I do not share the same interests, however. Perhaps discussion of family might succeed where politics and hobbies have not?”
One of Keziah’s brows lifted. Sol’s followed a heartbeat later.
“That is certainly possible,” the Queen said warmly. “It has only been a few centuries since her siblings passed. Wait much longer, and she may have a Draconian family of her own crowding those memories you hope to revisit.”
Keziah nearly choked.
The Seraph’s smile shone with unbearable sweetness, but beneath it lay unmistakable challenge. Worse still, Vaethis stepped directly into it.
“Mmm. Perhaps. Though such a family would most likely be a hybridized Tamurilian-Draconian one, would it not? Given the arrangement High Chief Cudix established with Orixian’s lineage. Surely such matters remain… of interest to our people.”
Ice slid down Keziah’s spine. He had spoken of the marriage arrangement openly. In front of the Queen’s Guard. In front of Kazimier.
Her anger settled instantly into something colder. Your stay here is going to be miserable. She swore internally. The instinct to cut him down rose fast, but a subtle flick of Sol’s wings crossed her vision. Invisible to anyone else. Clear as command.
Stand down. Keziah forced stillness.
The Sun-Seraph shifted, folding her hands behind her back and lengthening her posture, the perfect portrait of gracious diplomacy. “Ah, yes,” she said lightly. “I had nearly forgotten, given how many centuries have passed since its drafting.”
Her gaze drifted toward a Son’Rashiidian watcher documenting the arrival. “Orren, remind me. Under Seregonian law, what is the hierarchy of legality regarding marriage arrangements?”
The watcher startled at being addressed but stepped forward immediately, bowing his head.
“Your Majesty, Seregonian law respects each nation’s sovereignty in contractual matters, but grants the unified Seregonian ruler supreme authority to override such agreements.”
Sol tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I see. Then the arrangement remains valid… unless I choose to amend it?”
“Yes, Highness.”
She nodded once and returned her hands behind her back, turning again to Vaethis. Keziah watched in mounting disbelief as the young High Chief spoke again.
“Alas, no amendment has yet been issued,” he said politely. “So the agreement stands at present, does it not?”
The air tightened.
Keziah could feel Sol’s irritation despite the serene expression she maintained. Vaethis was meant to reaffirm loyalty. Instead, he was probing for leverage.
“For now,” the Queen replied softly. It sounded like concession. It was anything but.
She turned away from him, stepping toward the Martik commanders. With her back to the High Chief, her gaze moved across the Synta ranks before settling squarely on Kazimier. Keziah didn’t know what, but she was certain that something passed between them. Silent. Final.
When Sol faced Vaethis again, the pleasant mask had returned, flawless. Judgment had already been passed, and Keziah knew it instantly.
“Regardless,” Sol said smoothly, “allow me to introduce Kazimier Aradus, the Martik Synta assigned to your delegation.” As she watched this, the convert was fairly sure he hadn’t been. Not originally, at least. “I assure you, he will take the best care of you. He is one of the pair I adopted after the Invasion, after all.”
The words carried maternal pride, but the meaning beneath them was unmistakable.
Keziah understood.
So did Vaethis.
Kazimier was not an honor. He was a warning.
Before the High Chief could muster another clever reply, Sol spoke again. “Unfortunately, preparations for the festival demand my attention and I must retire.” Her gaze shifted briefly to Kazimier, beckoning him forward from the ranks. “Kazimier’s Tarchis and the converts will escort you to your accommodations. Worry not, High Chief Vaethis. I will have him keep constant eyes on Lady Keziah as well.”
Her smile returned, perfectly pleasant. “For now, however, I must borrow her. She will rejoin you in the guest wings shortly.”
Kazimier POV
Kazimier did not move when the Queen’s attention passed over him on the platform—but he felt it.
It was not a summons. Not yet.
It was a mark.
He remained at attention as the exchange unfolded, posture carved from discipline, gaze forward, but nothing within him was still. The High Chief’s tone, the subtle insistence beneath polite phrasing, the deliberate invocation of an old contract—Kazimier tracked it all with the same cold precision he brought to a battlefield. This was not diplomacy. It was testing the edge of a blade.
And Keziah was the blade being tested.
He did not look at her when the arrangement was spoken aloud. He did not need to. The shift in the air was enough—the way tension coiled tight and silent, the way Sol’s wings flicked in that near-invisible command. Stand down.
Kazimier obeyed the same order, though it had not been given to him.
By the time Sol named him aloud, placing him before the delegation like a polished weapon, the outcome had already settled in his mind. Assignment altered. Objective updated.
Containment of the nobility. Observation of them. Pressure when needed to redirect unruliness.
The High Chief understood it too. Kazimier caught the flicker of it—the calculation behind the eyes, the brief tightening of jaw before diplomacy smoothed it away again.
Good. Let him understand. His lips twitched ever so slightly. More sneer than smirk; a promise as much as warning for the Tamurilian chieftain.
​
​
Those Who have Arrived from Tamuril
- High Chief Vaethis of the 13th Reigna
- High Chief’s wife, Vaelithra
- High Chief’s 2 Atheik children: Caevyren (M) and Sylorien (F)
- 48 Tamurilians of various statuses
Behind Closed Doors
(after Tamurilian arrival)
The platform cleared quickly. Tamurilians dispersed under escort, attendants guiding them toward prepared quarters. Vaethis lingered only long enough to watch Keziah depart beside the Seraph, Kazimier not far behind. A low growl slipped past his composure, audible only to his wife. Keziah didn’t look back.
Sol led them through Castle Draconis, past the throne chamber and into a smaller conference room tucked along the first corridor. The door shut behind them, and the Queen’s mask fell instantly.
“Well,” Sol said sharply, irritation finally surfacing, “he’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” Her attention snapped to Keziah. “The contract he referenced. Refresh my memory.”
Keziah stiffened, resisting the instinct to glance toward Kazimier. If Sol asked, refusal wasn’t an option.
“My father drafted an open arrangement with Orixian’s family,” she answered carefully. “He was among those you selected for conversion... The condition being that I ultimately controlled time.” A beat passed before she added quickly, “I have made it very clear that I have no intention of honoring an obligation created centuries ago by people who are no longer alive.”
Sol nodded slowly. “Do you remember what I told you at the feast?”
Unease crept across Keziah’s expression. “…Which part?”
“The part concerning my intentions for you.” Sol exhaled, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “Situations like this are precisely why. You are generations removed from your father, yet your life will be endlessly interrupted by mortals tied to bloodlines that expire every four centuries. Dual citizenship makes you valuable. It also makes you vulnerable.”
“I told you leadership must match the immortality I grant my people. This is why.” She studied Keziah closely. “You told me at the feast that you were not pursuing marriage. Should I interpret that as complete rejection of your father’s arrangement?”
The reaction was immediate.
“Are you serious?” Disgust overtook Keziah’s composure. “Have you met Ori? Absolutely not. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Infinite ones.”
Sol eased into an armchair, clearly satisfied. “Good. Had you shown even the slightest interest, I would hesitate to intervene. But since you don’t, I fully intend to do so. I will not allow a young High Chief to leverage you against me.”
Her expression hardened slightly. “Unfortunately, I can’t simply invalidate the contract. Overriding it outright would require replacement with another binding agreement. My authority has limits in appearances, if not in reality.”
Tilting her head, she allowed a pause, watching the convert. “I do, however, have a proposal.”
Keziah hesitated. “What kind of proposal?”
“For starters, Kazimier will ensure your ambitious little nephew doesn't corner you alone. Consider that immediate relief.” A faint smile followed. “Beyond that, I suggest we create a new arrangement.”
The firefly froze. “…I’m sorry, what?”
Sol rolled her eyes lightly. “A feigned engagement. We select a Draconian noble with no present interest in marriage, you appear formally betrothed. Legal documentation of intent overrides the existing contract while remaining entirely reversible.” Gesturing vaguely, she continued. “A guild member. Queen’s Guard. Someone suitable and uninterested in permanence. The specific individual matters very little. What matters is time. Time for you to choose your own future.”
The Seraph’s gaze sharpened. “—Because eventually, you will need a legitimate solution. I assure you, my patience for Tamurilian succession politics will diminish within a few generations.”
Leaning heavily against the armrest, she added dryly, “Ideally, you become the next evolutionary symbol of Draconian leadership.” A pause. “Otherwise, perhaps we allow the Flesh Hunger Draconians to visit Tamuril. They would appreciate dietary variety.”
When the color drained from Keziah’s face, Sol sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m joking. Mostly. Breathe.”
Her tone softened, though seriousness lingered beneath it. “If not you, it will be someone else. Possibly even that Orixian you dislike so much. Tell me honestly, do you want him ruling Tamuril?”
“Please don’t joke like that,” Keziah murmured, voice unsteady.
The Seraph relented, leaning back before shifting her attention to Kazimier. “I want the youngest Adista assigned to your Tarchis detail for the Tamurilian guard. They pose little military concern, but I want observation. Her talents suit that purpose.”
Her gaze sharpened further. “Your focus is the High Chief. Know where Keziah is at all times. If he requests conversation, you are present. Beyond that, I want his movements monitored and quietly investigated.”
Again, she paused.
“Suggestions? Concerns?”
Keziah watched the exchange, something almost familiar settling over the room. *Just like a royal*, she thought. Orders delivered with absolute certainty to someone who understood her methods without explanation. A commander speaking to a trusted general.
Sol’s lips curved faintly. “…Opinions?”
Keziah blinked. She wants his opinion?
It made sense when she stopped to think about it, Sol had stated it indirectly not long before... He was family. Of course, Keziah’s own thoughts towards the male in question had her moving her eyes to the floor, cheeks heating with embarrassment towards the conversation now transpiring. She didn’t want to consider how he viewed what he was hearing.
Kazimier had followed without question when Sol dismissed the platform, his steps measured and silent behind her and Keziah. He did not intrude upon their space, but neither did he fall far enough to be considered absent. A shadow at proper distance. Present. Listening. Always listening.
Inside the conference chamber, when the door shut and Sol’s irritation surfaced, Kazimier remained exactly where he had positioned himself—just off her flank, within reach, but not within the circle of conversation unless called.
He took mental notes through the revelation of the marriage contract. The prospective Orixian’s former lineage in relation to Keziah’s. The ceding of control for the ‘when’ given to Keziah; and yet. It wasn’t a true method of giving her an ‘out. Her father had planned well it seemed.
His expression did not change, but something in him sharpened. A relic agreement, centuries old, now resurfaced as leverage. Not a coincidence. Not ignorance. The High Chief had come prepared.
And Keziah: her rejection was immediate, given as an absolute.
Kazimier’s brow ticked up for a millisecond before he regained external control over his expression. He didn’t believe she understood that her delay in time did not negate the contract in any sense. Something he’d heard Orixian express as well. Though; then he listened as Sol gave the girl the only out.
Surprised and not as Sol pressed further, when she steered the conversation toward future arrangements: a false marriage. Kazimier’s focus narrowed. Not on the words themselves, but on the structure beneath them. The Queen was not merely reacting. She was building upon a plan she’d already hinted at. And hadn’t Keziah said something as well.
Keziah’s reaction to the proposal—shock, resistance, unease—was expected. Kazimier did not look at her, but he heard it clearly enough in the shift of breath, the slight break in composure.
A feigned engagement. Practicality and efficiency. Dangerous, if mishandled. Kazimier’s gaze lowered a fraction, not in submission, but in thought. Whoever filled that role would not simply be a name on parchment. They would become a focal point for Tamurilian attention, for internal court scrutiny, for any opportunist seeking weakness.
It would need to be someone unmovable. Someone who could withstand being watched. Someone who would not mistake proximity for permission. Kazimier’s jaw tightened, just slightly.
When Sol addressed him directly at last, issuing her orders, Kazimier inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“Understood and done.”
His voice was even, controlled, carrying no excess weight. Orders regarding his Tarchis and friend, her surveillance of the High Chief—each one settled cleanly into place. No hesitation. No need for clarification.
But when she asked for his suggestions, concerns; opinions— That was where he lifted his gaze. Not sharply. Not challengingly. Simply direct and measured.
“My Queen,” he began, tone respectful but unsoftened, “the High Chief is not acting on curiosity alone. He is probing for jurisdiction—testing how far Tamurilian precedent extends within your domain.” A brief pause. Not for effect but as a point. “The contract gives him a narrative. Legitimacy, if left unchallenged. He clearly will continue to press it until it yields advantage or is replaced.”
His eyes shifted, just once, toward Keziah before returning to Sol.
“The feigned engagement may resolve the immediate pressure from him. It will have to be between Keziah and someone that either makes sense for an attachment prior to this announcement; or of such a status within our nobility that even the high chieftain can not question its validity. That limits your options I fear.”
Here he paused again, chin lifting as he counted off on one hand the prospects he thought would fit her needs most. “Mendacious Vensali, Siegmund Knight, possibly that weird dark silver armor wearing Syndicate male. He’s often around their guild leader.” Another pause, “Rhysand Sorthena, or” A breath, “me.”
Another breath and he'd add. "Though that last would be the outlier to this plan as you know Xavier and a host of others will question such a contract." He glanced at Keziah and added, "Though she did effectively plant a seed when she openly named me as a helper for her in a fight between her and Triumph before Xavier and Artemian."
This input given he'd look back to Sol and wait. Returned to stillness, hands clasped behind his back, expression once again composed into disciplined neutrality.
Keziah’s gaze stayed firmly glued to the floor as conversation transpired between the Queen and her commander. There were a host of thoughts running through her mind, and none of them were settling.
Sol, on the other hand, listened quietly, watching, absorbing, nodding here and there at points she clearly agreed with.
She didn’t speak until he mentioned her limited options, rolling her head slightly in consideration as a quiet, “Too true.” Floated from her lips.
The Seraph’s watch drifted upwards as he began to list names, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if she were imagining each of their faces as they were announced, a lone index finger drifting to her chin in thought.
In the breath after his suggestion of himself, her focus dropped to him, eyes narrowing further, a conniving smirk blooming on her countenance as he continued. The last comment drew her eyes towards Keziah, but only momentarily.
Instead, she maintained the stare on Kazimier, tapping her chin before her voice cut the air like a song. “Kazzimmmier…” Too similar to how a mother might coo at their child to get their full attention.
“You understand, I assume, that you just offered me a solution that keeps this issue nearly confined to this room and allows me to flaunt one of my own family as said solution, correct? I can easily handle Xavier with truth and his secrecy, and others wouldn’t dare question me… but in offering such a suggestion you’re effectively waving a bird in front of a fox. Are you so certain you’d be willing to place your own bachelorhood on hold for these circumstances?”
Her tone had remained steady, but honest. It was more than evident that she had no intention of utilizing him without his full understanding of the situation, even if the deviousness had all but taken over her expression.
Rather than expecting an immediate reply, she slid her eyes to Keziah, narrowing once again.
“And you. I do intend to allow you objections… though…given the one I am currently questioning is Kazimier, easily among the finest Draconians beneath this mountain… I assume you wouldn’t.”
The ability to object was entirely true, but the tone that had followed was that of a mother daring some girl to refuse her child.
Keziah, for her part, was locked in a state of shock, missing her cue to speak and causing Sol to roll her eyes.
“Keziah.” She said, louder, drawing the girl from herself. “Well? Would you be accepting?”
The convert’s eyes only flickered to him for a split second, her mind in catch up mode from the buffer that had formed, recognizing what she had been asked in delayed fashion before quickly turning her focus back to Sol.
“Sorry, yes…” She said quickly, her gaze falling once more.
Only then did Sol glance back at Kazimier, features serious now. “Have you thought about it? The girl would, of course, be on your schedule. Should you decide a true marriage arrangement is in your goals, her time will have run out and the decision will simply be mine.” A quick flicker of eyes back to Kez, returning immediately thereafter.
“Your suggestion of Siegmund could likely be fitting as well… though with less security, and far less gloating on my part.” His obvious opportunity to get himself out of Sol’s grip.
Kazimier did not move when Sol’s tone shifted. Not when she drew his name out like a hook or when the implication settled, heavy and deliberate, between them.
Though his eyes narrowed and a slow blink followed—measured, unimpressed.
He had already answered her.
The low sound that left him was more breath than voice. “I knew it the moment you asked for my opinion, Sol.” His gaze remained steady on her, unflinching beneath the weight of her attention. “I offered options. And honesty. As I always do.”
Nothing more. No apology. No retreat.
His attention shifted only when hers did and landed upon Keziah.
The other woman had not moved. Not truly. Instead her gaze remained fixed to the floor, posture drawn inward in a way that did not suit what he knew of her. Not the chaotic little thief who had stood against the likes of Saiga Triumph and his brother in a room full of Draconians. Not the one who had moved with teeth and fire when pressed into a corner.
His ears angled back—subtle, but telling. Annoyance with her delay. At the hesitation in her posture and tone initially. At the way she shrank from a moment that required presence.
When Sol had been forced to call her name a second time and she startled into response, Kazimier’s gaze remained on her a second longer than necessary. Heavy. Then he looked away.
By the time Sol returned her attention to him, he had already settled again—ears forward, posture unchanged, composure restored as if it had never shifted at all.
He rolled one shoulder, slow and loose beneath the weight of armor.
“I can’t claim the timing is inconvenient,” he said evenly. “Rinnah Vensali has made her intentions… increasingly obvious.” A faint pause. “Given other matters requiring my attention, this arrangement would serve as a useful diversion.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward Keziah—acknowledgment, nothing more—before returning to Sol.
“As for Siegmund,” he continued, voice steady, “you are correct. He is a viable alternative. A Knight, and a name that carries weight enough to satisfy scrutiny. But not the same control.”
There it was. The real distinction. Kazimier did not dress it further.
He stilled completely once more, hands clasped behind his back.
“The decision remains yours, my Queen.” A slight inclination of his head followed. “And hers… as you choose to allow it weight.”
No challenge. No simple agreement.
Something in between—deliberate, measured, and entirely Kazimier. Then silence. He held it easily.
Sol had to laugh softly at the male’s talk of convenience. How like Kaz to weasel his way out of the attentions of a noble in such a fashion, really. By the time he’d spoken on Siegmund, she was reading him as more of a willing volunteer than simply naming options, nodding.
It was just as apparent to Sol that he had just placed the ball directly in Keziah’s court, turning her attention back to the convert.
“It seems you’re a lucky little firefly. A willing Martik Synta or your own guild’s Weapon Master? The choice is yours, Keziah.”
For her part, Keziah had transitioned into trying as hard as possible to appear the composed Draconian noble she was meant to be, though everything inside of her was screaming.
She couldn’t say something about it didn’t make her extensively delighted… but she was also considering the consequences of Kazimier being roped into her story in *this* fashion. How it could wreck her new goals. But then… allowing herself to be attached to Siegmund, even in a feigned fashion, would wreck them far more.
Unfortunately, this meant she now had to put words to the decision. While she was internally praying her cheeks weren’t showing it—she knew the blush was there.
“If it’s my choice… then I’d prefer Kazimier.” She said quietly, dedicated now to keeping her eyes in Sol’s direction. Had she dared look at the male now, she wasn’t sure what would happen.
It brought another chuckle from Sol. “Well. This has worked itself out well, now hasn’t it?” She stated, rising from the armchair with a long stretch of arms and wings.
“In that case, bring her back tomorrow, Kazimier. We’ll need you both to sign the agreement if we wish to destroy that pesky old one.”
As she settled, she pointed to the convert. “Feel free to torture the Chief with the mere suspicion of such an arrangement if you see the chance. For all intents and purposes, she is yours...” She laughed outright.
This nearly had Keziah object on principle, but she quickly stopped herself, drawing her body up proudly.
Looking near impressed she’d held her tongue, Sol flashed her a big smile, before waving her hand in gesture. “You’re both dismissed, don’t let me hold you up more.”
Kazimier was not surprised.
From the moment he had added his own name to the list, the outcome had already begun to narrow. Sol did not overlook advantages when they were placed so cleanly before her, and of all the options presented, his carried the highest likelihood of securing her goal with the least amount of external interference.
This had always been the most efficient path.
The only variable had ever been Keziah.
He did not look at her when the choice was offered. Instead, he listened, measuring the hesitation in her breath, the way she forced composure over something far less steady beneath it. He could hear it as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud.
And then she did.
“If it’s my choice… then I’d prefer Kazimier.”
Of course you would.
The thought came without heat. Without arrogance. Simply confirmation of a calculation already made.
A faint pressure touched the corner of his mouth; something that might have become a smirk if he allowed it, but it was contained as he inclined his head once toward Sol in acknowledgment.
“As you command.”
The words came cleanly, without hesitation, his tone as even as ever despite the shift in circumstance.
“Do you wish Xavier present as a witness,” he added after a brief pause, “or will you have other arrangements made ahead of time?”
He allowed just enough space for her reply, committing it to memory the moment it was given before moving forward without question.
Only then did his attention turn to Keziah fully. Not in passing. Not in avoidance. Direct. Measuring.
He took a single step forward—just enough to close the distance expected of the role now placed between them—his gaze settling on her with quiet assessment. There was no softness in it, no attempt to ease the situation she had just stepped into. Only awareness. Then, just as quickly, the moment passed.
“As our Queen has said,” he continued, voice steady, “we should return to the public side of this… gathering.”
A slight pause followed before he added, more formally,
“Lead the way, Lady Keziah Nymphi.”
There was a faint, disarming curve to his mouth this time—controlled, intentional—as he lifted a hand to gesture toward the door, offering her precedence without relinquishing control of the situation.
His gaze shifted back to Sol briefly, business settling over him once more as naturally as breath.
“I will be sending Ta'Sage Adista with several of her command to continue escort of the Tamurilian delegation,” he said, tone returning fully to that of a commander receiving orders.
A beat passed.
“Is there anything you would prefer they keep the delegation from involving themselves in this first evening?”
Sol shook her head at the request of Xavier. “I think for now, Artemian and I can handle the situation. Best not to rile your brother any more than necessary. He will, of course, understand my position and considerations, and follow my directions… but we know how your brother likes to harbor half-hearted grudges against me when I frustrate him.” She only laughed at the observation.
The laugh faded instead into observation, watching as Kazimier stepped closer to the small convert. For the briefest of moments, she had her suspicions. They were shaken from her mind, reminding herself that Kazimier was nothing if not professional. She’d given him a task, and he didn’t cut corners.
Even so, her laugh was unable to avoid continuation at Keziah’s reaction to such an address as he began to lead her out. Suspicions of Kazimier may have passed quickly, but the look in the firefly’s eyes at being called such by one such as the Martik… that set the Seraph’s suspicion about her on fire.
She said nothing. Not until Kazimier glanced back to her, nodding to the bit of information before considering his question. “Let’s keep them on the upper floors for the moment. I don’t want them wandering the district just yet.”
Yes. That would make her life easier. Offering a bow of the head, she allowed Kazimier to catch up to Keziah, who had wandered over to wait for him by the door.
The sight brought another smile to Sol’s features. Wouldn’t that just be convenient… She half day-dreamed to herself as they left the room.
Kazimier had not missed the look that crossed Keziah’s eyes when he addressed her. The flicker of it, brief but telling, was enough to register even as he gave no outward reaction. He did not press it, did not acknowledge it, but it settled into memory all the same, filed away with the same quiet precision he applied to everything else.
He had not missed Sol, either.
The way her attention lingered, the way her amusement stretched just a fraction too long, the way her gaze followed Keziah rather than him. It was subtle, but not subtle enough. Something in him tightened at that, a faint lift of hackles that never reached his face. It would not be seen, not by her, not by anyone. But it was there, noted and contained.
When Keziah turned and moved for the door, he followed at the same measured distance they had entered with, posture unchanged, pace controlled, nothing in his bearing suggesting the shift that had just occurred. Not yet. Not within Sol’s sight.
At Sol’s answer to his question, he inclined his head once in acknowledgment, accepting the directive without further comment. Keeping the Tamurilians to the upper floors was efficient, contained, and easy enough to enforce. The rest required no words.
They stepped out into the corridor, and the door shut behind them.
Te'Sorthenian Arrival
As Lady Axilya Shael moved in quick, precise circles around her, taking measurements and murmuring notes to herself, Triumph felt memory pull at her like a tide.
Another life surfaced. A smaller girl. A brighter court.
Back when she had been Talaessë Ilyana Nelésthar, eldest Princess of Te’Sorthene, first daughter of Queen Zahra Mylaeala Nyx.
Her life then had wanted for nothing. Discipline had been expected, of course. A princess carried herself properly or not at all. Yet she had been adored as much as trained. The finest toys. The finest silks. Every indulgence wrapped carefully in expectation.
Lady Axilya Shael, proprietor of the Castle Draconis Alpha Branch of the Vestiarium Arak, was herself Te’Sorthenian nobility. Though she now resided permanently in Draconen Prime for the sake of ambition and opportunity, something unmistakably Te’Sorthenian lingered about her.
Unlike their lost princess.
Perhaps that was why the memories returned so vividly. Axilya moved like home, smelled like home, spoke with the cadence of home. Even her designs carried that unmistakable Te’Sorthenian philosophy of elegance: beauty as authority.
The designer had been commissioned to create ceremonial attire for visiting converts from across Maegliin Seregon, particularly those whose conversions held political weight. Triumph wasn’t precisely one of them. And yet… she was.
Once a blemish upon the Quarra Lineage during her exile, she now returned polished into something closer to gold. A prestigious pawn of the Seraphic Throne.
Her removal from succession had been unquestioned after her Draconian conversion. That it remained permanent, however, depended entirely upon Sol.
Every Te’Sorthenian understood that truth.
At any moment, the Sun-Seraph possessed the authority to replace their monarch with a different heir. A Draconian heir. One already carrying royal blood. The possibility lingered over Te’Sorthene like distant thunder.
Axilya’s presence existed for precisely such political theater. Different converts conveyed different messages. Tamurilian converts, she had explained, would appear recognizably Tamurilian yet unmistakably claimed by Draconian authority.
Triumph’s purpose was the opposite. She was meant to look unmistakably Te’Sorthenian.
The Seraph could have requested her original form. A few days without Sol’s blood would have returned her to the blonde, wingless softness of her youth. That wasn’t the plan.
“No, no,” Axilya had said sharply while adjusting a seam. “Her Majesty wishes to dress you as Te’Sorthenian royalty. She explicitly requested you remain in your Draconian form.”
The woman laughed under her breath.
“In her words: ‘Her Draconian appearance bears the influence of Seraphs. What better way to remind her sister’s descendants of her elevated status?’”
Triumph raised a brow. “I’m surprised to hear you so enthusiastic about unsettling Te’Sorthenian royalty.”
Axilya smiled brightly.
“My dear Princess, I work in Draconen Prime. I design for the Alpha Branch and report directly to the Queen of Maegliin Seregon. I understand hierarchy very well. Compared to the Sun-Seraph, Te’Sorthenian royalty are merely large fish in a small pond.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed.”
“And what does that make Sol?”
Axilya giggled. “You know what an orca is?”
“…the whale killer?”
“Precisely. One would hate to be an atherina in its waters.”
“…You see Te’Sorthenian royalty as that small?”
“Not you,” Axilya corrected warmly. “Your conversion elevates you above the rest. You are far more delphis than atherina.”
A small smile touched Triumph’s lips. “Weren’t orcas once mistaken for those?”
“Well educated, M’Lady. Until reports of ships being attacked spread. Some cultures now fear them as demons.”
“And yet you compare a divine being to one.”
Axilya tilted her head thoughtfully. “Some cultures consider demons merely fallen angels.”
Triumph smirked. “Best not repeat that theory in front of a traditional Draconian.”
“Belief does not define truth,” Axilya replied lightly. “Perhaps every culture describes the same divinity differently.”
-----
Days later, an ornate black case arrived at Triumph’s chambers. Three attendants assisted her into the garments within. The attire itself was not difficult, merely elaborate beyond reason, layered with ornaments and ceremonial precision.
When finished, she looked every inch a Queen of Te’Sorthene—perhaps even more magnificent than one.
Escorted toward the first landing, she barely reached the corridor before Sol appeared, seizing her arm and pulling her into a private chamber.
“You look pretty. Axilya outdid herself,” the Seraph said, closing the door behind them.
“Thank you… though that was abrupt.”
Sol smiled. “I wanted a word before the procession arrives.”
“I assume this concerns my role in your diplomatic game.”
“How observant, my double.”
“I doubt I’ll be acting as your double this time. Especially now.”
“You are correct,” Sol said with a soft laugh. “This time, you will simply be yourself.”
Triumph glanced at her attire. “My former self, or my Draconian one?”
“I want your Te’Sorthenian lineage unmistakable,” Sol replied. “But in every other respect, I want the Draconian. You’re going to use your familial connection to approach Queen Lyraen closely enough for observation.”
“I hardly know her. I was kept at arm’s length when I returned.”
Sol turned away suddenly. “What can you tell me about the current Queen?”
Only then did Triumph notice Axilya seated comfortably beside the hearth, teacup poised in delicate Te’Sorthenian porcelain.
“Queen Lyraen Solmara Vireth,” Axilya began. “She ascended roughly fifty years ago. Two children: Crown Princess Aevyra, near a century in age, and Prince Caelis, some twenty-five years younger.”
Sol gestured for Triumph to sit.
“The Queen favors diplomacy. A careful ruler. Ritual over reform. Stability above innovation. As she ages, Princess Aevyra increasingly governs beside her.”
“And the Princess herself?” Sol asked. “How might she view Triumph?”
Triumph winced.
Axilya hesitated. “She was raised on stories of Talaessë as… tragedy. A cautionary tale. I suspect she sees Lady Tala—”
“Triumph,” the convert corrected quietly.
“My apologies. She likely sees Lady Triumph less as family and more as… a constitutional complication.”
Sol nodded thoughtfully.
“And the Prince?”
“I don’t think he feels the same,” Triumph said.
Both women looked at her.
“He used to leave gifts for me with the guards. I think he was forbidden from speaking to me directly.”
Axilya smiled faintly. “That aligns with his reputation. Emotional where his sister is pragmatic. Possibly sympathetic.”
Silence stretched.
“What of the people?” Sol asked. “How is Triumph regarded now?”
Axilya leaned forward, clearly enjoying the conversation.
“The traditional nobles favor continuity. They offer respect but prefer Lady Triumph remain politically invisible. No doubt the decision to house her in a distant tower pleased them.”
Sol nodded.
“There are Restorationists,” Axilya continued. “They argue the Princess was unjustly removed. They believe divine intervention preserved her. They don’t necessarily want her crowned, but they value the leverage she represents.”
“Predictable.”
A nod of agreement from the noble came before she continued again. “The younger nobility aligns with Princess Aevyra. They fear Triumph’s existence signals instability to foreign powers. And then…” She smiled. “The romantics.”
Triumph sighed. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“The Immortal Heir.” Sol supplied, laughing.
“The returned exile.” Axilya added, the same amusement on her features.
Triumph rolled her eyes, then turned serious. “Is that your intention? To place me on Te’Sorthene’s throne someday?”
Sol leaned back. “Would that truly be so terrible?”
“I don’t know if I’m that person anymore.”
A long pause followed.
Finally, Sol spoke gently. “It isn’t my present intention to replace Te’Sorthenian leadership. You are the lighter of two pressures I maintain upon your homeland. The knowledge that a legitimate heir with a Draconian lifespan resides in Draconen Prime keeps Te’Sorthene cooperative.”
Triumph nodded slowly. “And the other pressure?”
Axilya laughed softly. “You are speaking to the Seraph who annihilated an entire land of vampires in moments. Surely you understand.”
Horror crossed Triumph’s face. Sol merely offered a sad, honest expression.
“We hope such measures remain unnecessary,” she said quietly. “Your presence simply ensures they never are.”
Triumph swallowed. “Am I meant to present myself as a threat?”
“No,” Sol answered. “A symbol.” She continued: “When Princess Aevyra ascends, she cannot ignore you as her mother has. She must define you. Advisor. Envoy. Relic. Or exile. The last is impossible now. The third grants you too much power. Which leaves the first two.”
Sol shrugged lightly. “Whatever role she chooses… the final decision will still pass through me.”
Triumph frowned. “Wouldn’t that weaken your leverage?”
“It merely allows her to save face.”
“I see…”
-----
Sol had asked Triumph to give her a spare moment with Axilya, leading the Te’Sorthenian convert to step out into the hall, heading towards the platform.
Unfortunately for her, her timing was dreadful, stepping out just in time for Xavier to turn a corner into that same hall.
The convert meant to turn and walk as quickly as possible, but as his gaze caught her, she froze uncomfortably. There was no point, he was already stalking towards her.
Xavier had never been nice to Triumph. Not once. Her only impression of her fellow Saiga was as a bully, forcing her to try to straighten—as if it could afford her some protection.
The male slowed as he crossed the distance, stopping short a few feet of her and blatantly running eyes over her in observation. While she knew her armor would only antagonize more abuse from him, she felt vulnerable without it, with almost everything Draconian about her hidden.
“I take it Sol let Axilya loose on you?” He asked, his tone casual, almost sympathetic. It caused Triumph’s brows to furrow in confusion, glancing down at herself and trying to redirect her preparation towards the question.
“I… yes.” She stated simply, hesitantly.
To her surprise, the Aradus heir sighed, shaking his head. “Faux-saiga you may be, but the armor is still yours. It’s a shame for her to make you hide it.”
… It wasn’t exactly a compliment, still held his usual insults—but the tone was less harsh.
Shocking herself now, “I feel naked.” Slipped out with a tiny growl of frustration, bearing her vulnerability to the usual tormentor.
“We were all Te’Sorthenian once. Becoming Draconian is to rise above that old form. Of course, you feel naked. Your evolution is hidden when dressed that way.” The male said, extending an arm to her. “Come on.”
“Excuse me?” She asked, staring at the offered appendage.
Rolling his eyes, he growled, reaching down with his free hand to take one of hers, wrapping it around the offered arm and starting to move along the long hall towards the platforms.
“Calm down, and don’t get any ideas.” He said as she fell into uncomfortable step beside him.
“Don’t get any ideas? What exactly are you doing right now?”
The question and tone made him laugh once, shaking his head. “Astonishing even myself, I’m showing mercy to a fellow Saiga… even if it’s you.”
“Mercy?”
“Yes, Triumph, mercy. Sol is more than welcome to dress you up like a Te’Sorthenian princess if she wishes, but that doesn’t mean your status as a Draconian needs to be hidden. At the very least, another armored Saiga’s support nearby can act as a reminder.”
He wasn’t looking at her, just straight ahead up the hall as her incredulous expression morphed into quiet consideration.
It seemed that while Xavier was willing to bully other Draconians, he wasn’t willing to allow them to seem demeaned in front of any who weren’t of the same race. Even one he hated.
“You’re surprised.” He said. Not a question, an observation.
“I mean… yes? You don’t strike me as the ‘merciful’ type, especially to the one you refer to as ‘faux-saiga’.”
“My calling you that bothers you?” There was no sympathy in it.
The question caused her to stop walking, the male’s body jerking from forward momentum when she acted as an anchor. When he spun to glance down at her, she’d be staring at him with an expression that clearly said *’No shit.’*
“If it annoys you, change it. Become worthy of the name. Do you find it satisfying to have saiga armor just because you have to chug straight Sol-blood to keep up your Draconian form?”
While before she’d been paused, now, she was frozen, eyes widening in horror at the knowledge he had just established. “You know…?” Golden gaze shifted around the hall, making sure no others were around to have heard it before looking back up at the tall male.
His expression wasn’t one of gloating, as she expected. Closer to boredom, really.
“That you’re a part-time Draconian? Yes. I do.” He stated, raising a brow as he studied her, the arm that had been leading her before now a lock between them, a point of leverage that was being used by both.
“If you know that… why do you care about my Draconian status? Shouldn’t that just make me inferior in your eyes?”
“You are inferior in my eyes.”
Her stung expression to this commentary, slightly drawing back, had him groan.
“I forget that you’re young and haven’t spent much time in Draconen Prime— So here’s a history lesson. I’m a true to form Saiga Draconian who was converted straight from the invasion and raised by Sol herself. That woman is a Mother to me. Due to my bloodline and armor, my double lacunae present in close to full force. They always have.”
Triumph was confused, and it showed on her face. Though… the information as to his relationship with Sol… that did help.
In response to that confusion, he replied more plainly. “I find everyone inferior. The only above me are the Seraphs themselves.”
“Is that your way of telling me ‘don’t take it personally’?”
He shrugged nonchalantly.
“I see… But still. Why aren’t you trying to use the part about my form against me? I assume Sol told you?”
“She did.” Xavier confirmed, curiosity crossing his features for the first time. “Why are you anyway?” He asked, dodging her question.
“Why am I what?”
“Why haven’t you done a full conversion after the swap? Are you afraid?”
“I guess.”
“Why?”
With a light growl, she muttered, “It’s been my experience that one’s situation can change in an instant. “
The comment caused the male to soften in an uncharacteristic way, going so far as to close a touch of the space between them, leaning down the slightest degree. When he spoke again, the tone had changed minutely.
“It’s been my experience that putting complete faith in Sol pays off. Half-measures won’t get you anywhere. If you want to be a true Saiga, it requires you to treat that fear as an enemy that you have control of. Sol is your sun. Everything else is burned away in her light. You aren’t letting yourself be what you’re supposed to be.” Only then did he straighten up, tone returning to normal. “Thus, you are Faux-Saiga.”
“Do you call me that because of my partial status, or because of my age?” She asked, blinking up at him.
“Skill. Your form is a weapon and you’ve no idea how to use it.” He said with a shrug, turning to walk again and pulling her along, the same as before.
“Okay… Train me then.”
The request made him stop their progression before it truly got started, raising a brow as he glanced back at her.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. Who better than a Saiga to fix the problem?”
Xavier studied her for a long moment with great skepticism, eyes narrowing before his next statement in blatant suspicion. “You realize I’m not the least bit interested in you, correct?”
“Huh?”
“I have my eyes firmly set on a prize of High Draconian stock, I’m not interested in a once-Te’Sorthenian-Princess.” He said flatly, causing Triumph to nearly choke, smacking at him with her free arm.
“Gods! NO. EW. I don’t want a damned relationship with you! Gross!”
“What the hell do you mean ‘gross’? I’m the most decorated bachelor in Draconen Prime.” He growled back, offended by her outburst and pulling her suddenly close. “And I know you aren’t calling my appearance unattractive…”
The sudden pull drew a squeak of surprise from the convert, using an arm to push away—at least back to the previous configuration.
“I’m sorry, okay? I just mean… no. That wasn’t my intention. I don’t need you to have… that… kind of interest in me. I sincerely hope you don’t, as my own intentions lie elsewhere as well. You’re free to your… uh… prize. Or whatever. I meant train me. Nothing else. If I want to move like a Saiga, I need to learn from one.”
Instantly, he assumed his cooler posture from before, returning to a moment of study before gesturing for them to continue walking with his head. “I could be persuaded.” He said when they were back in motion. “For a Draconian, at least.”
She blinked, glancing up at him.
“Fully convert.” He clarified. “When you do… fine.”
They’d been closer to the platform than she realized, the ability to converse cut short as the broke into an open area where other Queen’s Guard and a few Te’Sorthenian converts were arranged loosely.
Xavier’s offer of support on the landing hadn’t ended with an escort, the male moving into the ranks and subtly rearranging the procession in such a way as to place Triumph right up alongside himself and the two other Saiga present—Quenta Vensali and Veniro Sorthena.
By the time Sol an Axilya filed onto the platform, he was stretching his tall body beside her, covering a yawn before glancing over at a Seraph that had stopped to stare at him with a raised brow. No doubt she’d noticed the position shift, meeting the matching golden eyes of Triumph for a brief moment before laughing softly and moving off to take her place.
-----
It only took about fifteen minutes of waiting before the Te’Sorthenian Royal Procession was landing on the platform, borne from the ground with the help of orsnagai. The convenience of schedule when transport aid was needed.
The common Te’Sorthenians had arrived in the prior days, leaving this arrival to be only the royal family and a dozen extras, a collection of guards and court nobles.
By the time they’d finished disembarking and orienting themselves, Queen Lyraen Solmara Vireth was positioned at the front of the procession, flanked by her children, Princess Aevyra Lethanis Solvaen and Prince Caelis Vaethryn Oronar.
The meeting of worlds was about to begin.
-----
​
As the royals approached the Sun-Seraph, they did so in mixed states. Queen Lyraen bore composure and observation, her daughter already prepared with a diplomatic smile. The Prince, on the other hand, was watchful, quietly tense as his gaze searched Draconian faces, lingering on the solely Te’Sorthenian garbed female before quickly returning to the Seraph-Queen.
Triumph understood the situation her kin was in. They’d never seen her in this form. For the moment, she was nothing more than another Draconian in the procession.
Though Queen Lyraen made to bow, The Seraph closed the distance, halting the action with a graceful touch to the Te’Sorthenian ruler’s arm. To any other observers, it appeared a means of reserving her dignity—Lyraen knew better.
Between monarchs, it was control. A subtle indication that the Te’Sorthenian would act as the Seraph wished. You will bow if I allow it.
“Your Radiance.” Lyraen said instead, perfect practiced cordiality in place. “I must admit, I was but a child the last time I was honored with the sight of you. Your appearance has changed since then, though your grace shines more brightly.”
“Thank you, Queen Lyraen. You honor this gathering with your attendance, as well as myself with your words.” The Seraph responded, a faint smile touching her expression before shifting her attention to the heirs that stood a few feet behind her. “These must be your children.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Lyraen extended her arms to her sides, each of her children taking a step forward. “Crown Princess Aevyra and her brother, Prince Caelis. They are most excited to attend the festival and become more acquainted with the ways of our ruling kingdom.”
“I certainly hope we can be both entertaining and educational to them.” Sol replied pleasantly. “I’ve assigned one of my Martik Synta to your delegation’s safety for the duration of the festival, though I considered you may be more comfortable if I left your care to fellow Te’Sorthenians.”
Now, it was the Seraph who gestured members of her own ranks forward. Triumph understood her cue, as did Lady Axilya, each stepping forward behind Sol to mirror the Te’Sorthenian heir’s position.
For as composed as she was, the hint of confusion was visible beneath it.
“I apologize, Queen Lyraen… it occurs to me that perhaps you’ve never seen Queen Zahra’s child in this form?” More strategy. Strategy that paid off in mass in the second the Te’Sorthenian’s masks faltered. As quick as they were to replace them, Sol had seen what she needed to.
It had been most evident in the Princess’ expression, a quickly flickered gaze to her right muddled by discomfort. The Prince had gone still, eyes widening ever-so-slightly on Triumph beside her.
Even the congregation behind them gave the Seraph something to absorb, a few of the guards shifting instinctively before stopping themselves.
Of course, they did. Biologically, culturally, and historically… they were staring at a former heir, standing amongst their oldest political rivals.
Lyraen alone retained her perfect composure, studying Triumph the way one might study a constellation, respectfully—but carefully.
“Your observation is correct, Radiance. This is certainly a new visage to us.” She said, before meeting Triumph’s eyes. “I daresay it suits you, Lady Triumph. I trust you have settled into your new home well?”
The convert wasn’t fooled, not yet. After all, she had herself been raised by a Te’Sorthenian Queen. “Very well, Queen Lyraen. The Sun-Seraph has been most gracious.”
“You’ll have to excuse me for the surprise, Lyraen, I couldn’t bear to force her appearance back to that of your Princess. I had thought Te’Sorthenian garb might make her feel more comfortable, but I fear my considerations may have only served to vex her fellow Saiga.” Sol jumped in once more, a soft gesture of her head drawing Xavier forth from the ranks.
Triumph took an immediate and respectful step away from the Seraph to allow him to stand between them.
“While I have no natural-born heirs of my own, I did effectively adopt two children when I came to Draconen Prime in the old age. I trust you recognize the Aradus name?”
The mere mention of the name had Princess Aevyra’s shock at the mention of Saiga in conjunction with Triumph mutate into a hard stare at the male with clear political intent, while Queen Lyraen’s expression morphed to that of one hearing pleasant news.
“To be sure, all within Te’Sorthene know of the Aradi trading family.. I suspect a great many of our people still hide traces of Aradus blood in their veins. As I understand, they were among the many great families who sponsored the first expedition to this mountain.” She explained as she appraised the tall figure, who gave her a obligatory bow of the head, but otherwise remained his natural self.
Sol’s purpose was clear enough. An Aradus would naturally stir a Te’Sorthenian crowd, and his pristine black armor on clear display next to Triumph would act as a stand in for her own Saiga armor after such status was blatantly stated.
“Your historical intellect is most impressive. Indeed. This is Xavier, the eldest of their living heirs.”
“You seem to have a skill for salvaging familial heirs from the dangers of time.” The Te’Sorthenian said carefully.
“That does appear a fair assessment, doesn’t it?” The Seraph replied with a chuckle, a simple smile on her delicate features. “I even have the Atheik heir of Tamuril’s High Chief Cudix in my ranks.”
The comment was given as an aside, but it had the intended effect. There would be no alliance for leverage with the new Tamurilian chief, as he was in effectively the same position Te’Sorthene was.
“Prestigious subjects to be sure…” A question lingered on the tip of her tongue, one the Seraph seemed to understand instantly.
Sol nodded her agreement, turning a curious expression on her fellow monarch. “I must ask though… does Te’Sorthene still regularly cater to diplomatic interaction with Tamuril these days?”
Lyraen’s features turned to consideration, though it felt she already had an answer in mind. “I do not believe it is nearly as regular as I understood it to be during the eras of those mentioned.” She admitted. “High Chief Vaethis and a few of his siblings were sent when I was younger, however, after my experience—and those I’ve heard of previously— I was hesitant to agree to such an arrangement with his children.”
Something in the woman’s eyes brought a fully friendly smile to the Sun-Seraph, much to Triumph’s surprise.
“I take it you read Queen Zahra’s accounts.” She laughed.
“I did.” Her gaze shifted for the briefest moment to Triumph, something akin to pity in her expression. “Thankfully, none of our visiting envoys were Ivkre.”
It took the convert by surprise, entirely unused to any true emotion being directed at her by this woman. And yet. In this instance, she looked almost caring.
“I’m sure Triumph would love to compare experiences with you all. I can’t deny I’m curious about our young High Chief Vaethis as well. Perhaps hearing your wisdom may help me better understand him as a leader?” Sol continued.
“I would be honored to share what I know, Radiance.” The Te’Sorthenian monarch offered, glancing at Triumph again. “I doubt my stories could be nearly as trying as yours, Lady Triumph, but where there is common ground, I would appreciate the opportunity to learn.”
Triumph blinked. This time, she did believe her to be speaking genuinely. “I… have a feeling my mother likely detailed those times better than I ever could, but… I would be willing to try to entertain.”
Lyraen gave her a smile. When the royal turned back to the Sun-Seraph, the redhead’s demeanor seemed even more positive towards the Te’Sorthenian Queen.
“I hardly think we need to keep you standing outside all day.” She was saying. “If you would, follow me please. I’ll introduce you to the Synta that will be in charge of your detail and we can converse for a short while before we get you to your accommodations.”
Turning to Xavier and Triumph, “The Saiga are dismissed for now. Go ahead and take Lady Axilya with you as well. Triumph, we’ll send for you later so you can catch up with your family. The Martik can handle this from here, thank you for your support.”
They were commands, but her expression said they were as much a reward for their part well performed.
Xavier acted on them immediately, giving her the customary respectful bow of the head before he turned to step out behind her, gesturing for Axilya to move and lead the small procession inside. Triumph followed behind him, eyes cast back the tiniest degree as she watched the other two Saiga fall in after her.
The group had broken apart once they’d entered the inner castle halls, Quenta and Veniro vanishing down a western hall, Axilya peeling off to head back to the VestiariumArak with a friendly wave.
Triumph followed Xavier, but only in so much as he was walking in the direction that happened to agree with her own considered path. Since they were still in close proximity, she decided to voice a curiosity.
“Can I ask you something?”
He didn’t look at her, though he slowed his pace a hint, allowing her to walk more beside than behind him for the time being. “What?”
“Sol is like your mother, you said… So then you know her well…”
“Better than most.”
“In that case… what happened back there? At first it was like she was antagonizing and quietly threatening Queen Lyraen—which I understand
the point of—but… it felt like that changed somewhere after they started talking about Tamurilians?”
This did gain a glance from her fellow Saiga, a brow rising. “And you don’t see why?”
“Not really?”
Xavier stopped walking, studying her for a second before he spoke. “You’re not very bright.” He said cooly. “Sol may have to play political games because of her role as Maegliin Seregon’s leader, but that was for your benefit. All of it.”
Triumph blinked. “Wait… what?”
“Regardless of whether her rationale was sound or not, Sol exiled you—diminishing your status both here and in your homeland and leading to whatever treatment it is you receive from your line’s descendants. However, she also changed her mind. Lifted that exile. Did that make the effects vanish for you?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not exactly.”
“There you go. She knows that. She’s trying to help you because of it, as much as make it clear to your kin that mistreatment or disrespect towards you is unacceptable. Her demeanor changed when it became evident that Queen Lyraen was open to at least attempting to build some form of relationship. I expect should she not continue to display such intent, she’ll see the Sun-Seraphs other side quickly.” He watched her for a few seconds. “Now. Do you have your answer? I’m not intent spending more time with you than I have need to, Faux-Saiga.”
He had already started walking again, hitting the intersection of halls just ahead of them before her. When he turned to walk deeper into the castle, she reoriented her own path, heading straight to avoid following him.
She certainly had a lot to think about.
Behind Closed Doors: Xavier
Xavier had been summoned by Sol.
That, in and of itself, wasn’t odd. Being summoned to her rooms… was slightly more so. Nonetheless, he came as called, following the Seraph in when she opened the door for him.
Sol had stalked off into the main room, leaving him to follow after her, wondering.
“Plan to scold me for rearranging your procession with the Te’Sorthenians?” He called as she vanished into another room briefly—too briefly to follow.
When she reappeared, it was with confusion written across her face, taking a moment to recognize what he spoke of and waving a hand at him. “That? Of course, not. You helped another Saiga, one that is a fantastic throttle for the Te’Sorthenians, and even a friend now. No.”
What began as casting off his question slowly turned more serious at her last word, gesturing to a seat. Xavier sat—filled with suspicion as he watched his adoptive mother.
The suspicion only rose when she dropped herself into the seat closest to him, leaning back and watching him for a long moment.
“What did I do this time?” He asked quickly. It wasn’t often that self-consciousness was heard in Xavier’s voice. When it was, the Seraphs were always involved.
“You didn’t do anything. It’s what you’re going to do. Or… not do, I suppose.”
The male raised an eyebrow.
“First, I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to fly into a rage, yes?”
“You’re starting to scare me, you know that?”
The Seraph offered him an amused smile, shaking her head slowly.
“It’s nothing to be scared of, you just won’t like it.”
“And why is that?”
She sighed. “Because I’m going to use your brother, and you won’t like how.”
Immediately misunderstanding, disgust and horror began to grow across his features, earning him a quick slap across the chest.
“Don’t be crass, Xavier. I need to feign an engagement for my Atheik convert. Your brother is the best candidate I have.”
The Saiga was still and silent for a long moment, blinking at Sol as he placed the statement against known information. “Atheik… convert… Atheik is … Tamurilian?”
A nod of confirmation.
“Would your Atheik be small? Flashy arms? Flickery tail? Pink hair?” He asked suspiciously.
Sol’s head tilted. “She would be.”
“And you want to arrange a fake engagement between my brother and this girl because…” His body was still, voice measured, slowly absorbing information in line with the woman’s request that he not ‘fly into a rage’.
The Sun-Seraph put her full attention on him, speaking clearly and without embellishment. “The new High Chief means to use an arrangement her father made with another convert’s family as leverage against me. I won’t allow it. I have plans for her.”
“Plans…” he repeated.
Sitting back, she gave him the answer he was searching for. “I intend to eventually re-establish the proper line of succession in Tamuril.”
“By placing a natural Atheik convert heir in the position…” It was easy enough to deduce from there.
“Yes.”
For a long moment, he was quiet, a repetitive nod and clenching jaw the only true sign that he was mulling over this new wisdom.
“Do you mean to do that to the Faux-Saiga as well?”
She shook her head. “Not unless I have to. The Te’Sorthenians lose their magic with conversion at a higher rate than other races. I don’t wish to deplete their ranks. The Tamurilians, on the other hand…they have Ivkre. Given long enough, and with enough conversions, I can spread the lifestyle through the entire race; reinforcing it, lengthening lifespans.”
“Evolution.” He absolutely understood. He’d said as much to Triumph recently. Sol nodded.
“And Kazimier because?”
Laughing, she replied, “I may have gotten a bit annoyed by High Chief Vaethis’ nerve and assigned Kazimier to the Tamurilian delegation out of spite…”
Even Xavier couldn’t help but smirk. “To torture him, no doubt?”
Her hands came up in front of her. “Guilty.”
“Which led into him engaged to a Tamuriliannnn… how?”
“I had to deal with the situation. He was already in the room, fit my needs perfectly, and…. Said something about it being a convenient method of avoiding the advances of Rinnah Vensali.”
This made him laugh out loud.
“It was obvious enough that she was trying.”
“Was it?”
“Intensely.” He said, sighing. “Alright. What am I supposed to do with this information?”
“Preferably? Not give your brother hell and make sure its true nature remains a secret. I need it to be believed.”
“… That an Aradus willingly entered an engagement with a young Tamurilian convert? Look. I can keep a secret, but I can’t promise anyone will believe it.”
“Technically one did…”
“A fake one.”
“It was willing, at least.”
“With the knowledge that he doesn’t have to go through with it.”
She watched him, considering what she’d seen in the firefly’s eyes when Kazimier treated her as a true Draconian noble. “Would that be so bad if it were true?”
It instantly made him suspicious, Sol waving off the doubt. “It’s not, I just mean… she is effectively the equivalent of a Princess.”
“And I told one of those she wasn’t good enough for an Aradus yesterday. What’s your point?”
Sol’s jaw dropped slightly. “… What?” The questions became quicker from there.
“Are you talking about Triumph? What brought *that* on? Are you interested in the Te’Sorthenian? Don’t you think that—”
She was about to ask about the hypocrisy, but he instantly realized what he walked into, groaning as he rose enough to lean over the distance between chairs, trying to smother the woman. She’d already erupted into laughter.
“I thought you were meant to be chasing Aidelyth!” She fought out around his attempts to cover her mouth.
“I am chasing Aidelyth!” He asserted, immediately shaking his head suddenly a moment later. “What am I talking about!? I’m not chasing shit! I’ve already all but won!”
Xavier had paused his assault for the briefest moment when the realization hit him, enough time for Sol to gain the upper hand, shoving him back into his seat with a hand to his chest, leaning over him as she pinned him there.
“If you’ve ‘won’, why did you feel the need to tell Triumph she wasn’t good enough for an Aradus? Hmmmm?”
She was peering down with those gold eyes like a hawk, the male surrendering with another sigh. “She asked me to train her. Seemed suspicious.”
Sol pulled away, dropping back to her seat and staring at him with a raised brow. “… She asked you to train her and you assumed she wanted to sleep with you? Is that it?”
His arms crossing in front of him, eyes narrowed on her, told her all she needed to know.
“For fuck’s sake, Xavier.” She laughed, shaking her head. A few seconds later, she glanced back at him. “Are you going to do it?”
“Told her I would if she fully converts. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
The Saiga was already slipping out of the chair, moving towards the door slowly. When he looked back at her, she was beaming with motherly pride. About right. He had assumed she wanted the girl fully converted.
“What would I do without you and your brother?” She smirked.
He rolled his eyes.
“You’d smite two nations. Was that all this was about? Don’t bully my brother, don’t tell the secret?”
“You’re right.” Sol laughed. “But yes. It was. You’re not terribly angry with me?”
Xavier shook his head, shrugging a moment later. “He agreed to it. His problem. It’s not like I have to like the woman he actually tries to marry, either.”
“Very true.”
Gesturing to the door, the seraph rolled her head back to follow his path. “Why are you two always so quick to run off? Too busy to spend time with me?”
“You want to spend time with right after you tell me you arranged a fake marriage for my brother?”
Another laugh.
“No, you’re right. Get that out of your system first. Come back when you’re feeling more amiable.”
“Wronggggg brother!” He called on his way out, closing the door behind him and pausing for a moment. To talk to Kazimier, or no…
Xavier pondered it for a long moment, before shrugging and wandering off to know gods only knew what.