Airlean Tales S2E16: The Senators (1)

Halcyon woke not to the familiar morning toll of the Mythaven bell tower, nor the uneven chime of Nana’s grandfather clock, but to the gradual warming light that cast through the water panel, sprinkling flecks of ashy color on the opposite wall.

Intrigued, he flicked a small lever by the panel and watched as the tumbling water stopped, revealing a translucent window. He unlatched the window and pushed it open. 

His view overlooked a lively slice of the city—thin canals winding through houses set on stone platforms and stilts, glass bridges arcing over glittering ponds, runic patterns inscribed into intricate statues and obelisks. Mana lamps shone proudly on tall, carved posts, simulating daylight for a citadel where much of the natural sun was masked by towering ocean walls.

Halcyon closed the window. He dressed quickly, strapped his glaive across his back, and slid out of his room. 

Right as he stepped into the hallway, the door across from him opened. Karis slid out, returned to her ordinary attire of a creamy tunic and ice-blue scarf.

“Oh,” Halcyon said instinctively.

Karis stopped. “Oh,” she replied.

There was a protracted moment of stilted silence, which told Halcyon all he needed to know. Firstly, that the events of last night had not, in fact, been a dream. Secondly, that Karis still remembered that he’d pawed at her like an animal. And thirdly, that she hadn’t appreciated his advances, and he would need a better handle on his impulses in the future.

He was just about to blurt out an apology when the door opened further, and Sethis stepped out of the very same room, fixing his collar with a hand.

The words died in Halcyon’s throat, and something roared to life from the pit of his stomach, startling him in its ferocity. Over his lifetime, he’d grown familiar with many brands of anger, but this one was different. This one blazed like a furnace, voracious and bloodseeking. This one wanted to seize Karis’s arm and pull her away from the prince, growling mine like some rabid beast.

He quickly lowered his gaze and attempted to stomp out the feeling. It was irrational in every way. The prince needed a guard through the night. Karis staying in his suite meant nothing—and even if it did, she was, in fact, not Halcyon’s, and made it quite clear that she had no interest in being so.

“Ah, Lord Yuden,” said Sethis. He gave a tired smile. “How did you rest?”

“Fine, Your Highness,” Halcyon said shortly.

“We shall be introduced to the senators at the feast today. Is there anything that I ought to know? Polite customs, or ways to not critically offend the rest of the senators as I already have Vascea.”

Despite himself, Halcyon smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “But I have a feeling that a lot has changed since I was last here.”

Sethis pondered this. “I suppose that would explain the heightened…wariness that we’ve seen around the city.”

“Atlantis is always like that.”

“Truly?”

“Worse, usually. Compared to the norm, everyone’s being downright friendly.”

Sethis grimaced. “I see. To each nation its own storm.” He stifled a yawn behind a hand. The poor man really did look exhausted. “Shall we take a stroll? A brisk walk may do me some good before the opening feast.”

Karis peered down the path to where the embassy plaza was beginning to fill. “Pardon me, but Yuden and I need to…speak for a moment, if you recall.”

“Ah, of course,” Sethis said. He nodded once at both of them. “I shall see you presently, Karis, Lord Yuden.”

Wait, Karis?

Karis dipped into a tiny curtsy. “Good day, Sethis.”

Sethis? Since when had they gotten so close? First names, staying the night—Halcyon was unbalanced by the sudden development.

Yes, unbalanced, he told himself. Not simmering with fiery, childish rage. Just…surprised.

Sethis disappeared down the stairs, and Halcyon followed Karis down into the cellar and through a side room lined with tidy wine racks.

“Sethis?” was all he said tightly as she shut the door behind them, locking them in privacy.

She cleared her throat. “He would prefer to be referred by his given name.”

“I thought you were one for propriety.”

“Nonetheless, I imagine it’s unpleasant to be called your title all day long. It would be quite tiresome to be constantly referred to as Second Royal Hunter or Her Ladyship the Second Rank.”

Halcyon’s jaw clenched. “So what, it’s given names? Just like that?”

She tilted her head at him with a mild frown. “Are you jealous of the prince’s favoritism?”

Not exactly.

“I’m sure that if you asked, he would be more than happy to drop the formalities.”

That was the last thing Halcyon wanted at the moment. 

“You call me Yuden,” he said through his teeth, “and we’ve known each other for almost a decade.”

“You said you didn’t like the name Hal.”

“The nickname, yes. Why not use my given name like you do for the prince?”

Karis blushed. “Well, that’s—you’re different.” 

Different? He should have felt disappointed, but something about the way her eyes slid away bashfully as she said it…instead, he felt a flicker of hope.

He truly was a fool.

Karis straightened her shoulders. “At any rate, we’ve more urgent matters at the moment. Yesterday’s work was improvised, but I put in a word with the little flower. Her Support knows how to whittle, and he said he would be happy to help. I thought you might look at his handiwork, see if it pleases you.”

“What?” Halcyon said. It was a rare moment when he didn’t understand a single word coming out of her mouth. Was it some kind of cipher? Little flower? Whittle? Handiwork?

“Here.” Karis opened one of the pouches slung at her hip and retrieved a half-mask. It was a handsome thing, carved from dark wood with the edges engraved with fine feathers.

Oh. Mask. Yes. Now he understood. She’d been talking about an entirely different subject. Namely, Xiph’s command to hide his eyes from the other Atlanteans.

Well, that was good. Probably. They had more important matters to resolve that didn’t involve adolescent feelings.

Karis tiptoed up, and her nimble fingers tied the mask securely around his head, accidentally brushing his ear with a pinky. He swallowed as she stood back to survey her work, nodding in satisfaction.

“Wesley Geppett made this?” he said.

“Yes, in one evening.” Karis smiled. “He fretted a little bit, saying the left side is thinner than the right—but it works better than how we pulled your hood over your eyes all of last night.”

Had they? He hadn’t even noticed. “It’s well-made. I’ll thank him later.” Self-conscious, Halcyon raised a hand to trace the edge of the mask. “But won’t this just draw even more attention?”

“You have no hope of going unnoticed, Hal.” Karis ran her fingers through his hair in a way that made his scalp tingle. “But with the right touch, you can get the good sort of attention.”

“The good sort?”

“Nothing captures a young maiden’s imagination more than a tall, dark, and handsome stranger behind a mask.” She snapped her fingers. “And you play the stoic bodyguard. The silent yet powerful servant. Goodness, Hal, a deadly concoction indeed. You’ll thank me later when every woman is fawning over your footsteps.”

Unfortunate that such schemes wouldn’t work on the one woman he wanted it to. “I don’t see what’s so compelling about someone who stands in a corner and does nothing.”

“You’ve never read a romance, have you?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. But the women at the fêtes do love to talk.” She flicked his mask with a finger. “The important thing is that it hides your eyes, which is a slight pity. Because then, then you can’t see. Uninhibited, I mean.”

She cleared her throat and nodded to herself, as if that was the end of it. But when she unlocked the door and reached for the handle, Halcyon felt the need to speak. Even if she would rather bury the matter, there were some words he could not leave unspoken.

“Karis,” he said.

She stopped and regarded him warily.

“Last night.” He clasped his hands behind his back. Clamped down on his fingers until the knuckles ground together, aching. “I…wanted to thank you.”

Only a twitch of her brow alerted him to her surprise. “Oh.”

“It was like you said. I couldn’t really get myself to do anything.” He looked away. “Thanks for looking after me.”

Her mouth softened. A hint of a smile reached her eyes.

“We’ve always done so, Yuden,” she said quietly. “We look after each other.”

They did, didn’t they? Not always. Not in the beginning, when he’d seen her as an insufferable Academy valedictorian who couldn’t keep her nose out of his business, and when she’d seen him as a selfish, callous miscreant who always got in her way. But over the years, they did. They fought each other’s battles, watched each other’s backs.

They looked after each other when no one else could.

Halcyon continued, buoyed by a moment’s courage. “I hope I didn’t overstep. With the…when I…”

“Oh!” Karis cleared her throat. “No, I mean, I was just startled. I’m not—I’m not a prude.”

“Ah.”

“If we are speaking of improprieties, I was the one who entered your room first.”

“That’s true,” he said, relaxing. “Downright scandalous.”

“Oh, come on, Hal.”

He laughed. Karis blinked, as if she’d never heard the sound before—which was not true, because she made him laugh more than anybody else. Then she shook her head and slipped out the door, leading them to the embassy plaza and onward to the grand feast.

Karis remembered the day it all changed. For her, at least.

She had been younger. Before Havenport. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty years old. Old enough to have developed some skill, young enough to have overestimated it.

The sky had been wet and dark, shedding fat drops of rain over the shadowed moors of northern Airlea. Karis lay among splintered corruption carcasses, staring listlessly at the weeping clouds. Most of her left side was numb. The rest of her body was racked with pain, and a gash over her hip was still squeezing blood between her pressed fingers. Her leg was crooked and she doubted it would bear weight. She doubted she could move at all.

Well, well, she thought vaguely. I shall die in the vainglory of combat, just like my dear father. After all my talk of never making his mistakes.

A blob shot from the horizon, loping past her like a bounding gazelle. Recognizing the silhouette of a springstepping manacrafter, Karis tried to raise her voice and call for help. Her lungs refused to cooperate.

With her last fleck of mana, she pulled together a thimble of sugar-dust and sent it high into the sky. It exploded into a fractal, and shimmered as it gently descended.

The silhouette stopped. Then it bounded again, drawing closer to her. Though the moor was bitterly dark, the clouds strangling out even moonlight, Karis recognized the faint sea-blue glow of residual mana around a familiar glaive.

In any other situation, she would have groaned. Halcyon Yuden. That boy was more likely to dance on her grave than to keep her from it. But she was just relieved, unbearably relieved, to see a human face out in the wilderness.

“Hal,” she gasped out. The noise was wet and broken from her lips, like a dying animal.

Halcyon knelt next to her swiftly. If he felt like laughing, he showed no sign of it on his face. He removed his cloak and wadded it under her hand, stemming the gash as best he could.

“I have to get medical assistance,” he said shortly. “This is beyond me.”

Karis groaned and reached for him. There was no point in getting help. Death had already sunk its fangs into her. Now she just didn’t want to die alone, in the dark, a forgotten smudge on a land washed with blood.

Halcyon squeezed her hand tightly, the warmth of his skin a feverish heat against the sleet of the rain. “I’m coming back,” he said firmly. “I’m going to find a field medic. Thom, if I have to. Then I’ll be right back. You can hang in there just a little longer, I know you can.”

He’d disappeared before she could stop him, his windsoles blitzing at a speed she’d never seen from him. 

Karis had lain there miserably, torn in that space between waking and eternal sleep for what felt like hours, though it must have been only minutes. Then, through the veil of the rain shone a speck, then two. Spirits to guide her to the other side, no doubt.

“My mother,” she slurred as the specks grew larger. “Send her…all my love.”

One of the spirits said, “Tell her yourself,” which she thought was really quite rude. But darkness claimed her before she could muster a snappy reply.

She woke in the guild infirmary, where the creamy cotton sheets glowed in the tender light of dawn. She ached and every breath seemed to pound at her ribs, but she was alive. Porridge from her mother sat on the small table next to her bed, protected in a lidded bowl.

And inexplicably, Halcyon Yuden was there, curled up in a chair too small for him, sleeping at her bedside.

Karis remembered staring at his face. Tracing the thick swoop of his brow, his arced cheekbones, the relaxed slant of his mouth. Taking in the awkward angle of his neck and the hasty way he’d thrown a blanket over his lap.

I’m coming back, he’d promised.

He must have known that she hadn’t wanted him to go. That she hadn’t wanted to be alone. And since she’d been too delirious to recognize him when he returned, he’d decided to make good on his promise by staying until she woke.

Still, she thought, reaching out a hand, he needn’t have kept a vigil through my recovery. It must have taken days, at the very least.

Before she knew it, her fingers were brushing back his bangs, and if her heart had not fallen, she knew that it had, at the very least, stumbled.

The Warmongers’ banquet hall, also called the Hall of Victory, felt much like stepping into the deep ocean—a jarring contrast to the rigid, dark look of the dominion.

Towering walls painted deep cerulean, a reflective marble floor, an oval domed ceiling translucent with flecks of ocean light—every inch of the massive chamber exuded magic. At the end of the hall was an elevated dias, where six chaises were set in a half-circle around a table spilling over with a bounty of fruits, wine, and decorative coral.

“It’s inspired by Atlantis’s mythological paradise of Elysium,” Azalea whispered to Karis. “Battles are very important to the Warmongers. After a successful battle, they all congregate in this hall to celebrate the victory. Then they feel like they’re celebrating side-by-side with the fallen warriors.”

“And after an unsuccessful battle?”

“Then they congregate here to drink away their sorrows.”

Either way, the Warmongers would be drunkards. Karis was forming quite the picture of these odd and aggressive people.

An Atlantean warrior gestured Sethis towards the chaise longues, while servers led the rest of the delegation in orderly lines to sit at long tables. To Karis’s relief, she was seated at the front, close to the dias. A single burst of windsoles could get her to the prince in the blink of an eye. Halcyon was seated far down the hall. His new mask had garnered some attention, but the novelty of it faded quickly when he refused to answer any questions about it. Thankfully, Hunters were known to be eccentric, and most of the delegation simply chalked it up to that.

A deep horn blared, heralding the entry of the Senators, and commotion erupted.

Heavy, armored footfalls filled the room in syncopated rhythm as an enormous stately procession entered the hall. Regiments of warriors began to parade into the hall, each accompanied by a troupe of dancers—then finally, carried on extravagant palanquins were each of the senators, dressed in huge, garish ensembles that bordered on ridiculous. Each section of the procession was split by an Atlantean warrior carrying an enormous battle standard, proudly announcing their dominion.

“Irene Cnidea Zorbea,” called the first standard-bearer. “Senator of the Lover, She Who Bears the Ensign of Ardor.”

Irene was a gorgeous, sensational woman with an extravagant dress spilling down her generously endowed figure. Luscious pink waves tumbled across her caramel skin, cresting to the floor like a waterfall. She could have made a perfect likeness in one of the ancient murals of the city, were it not for the enormous, ballooned parasol that protruded above her, translucent flesh rippling like a jellyfish. The sight somehow managed to make her appear both terribly ridiculous and terribly dangerous.

Irene clapped her hands, and one of her soldiers immediately fell to his hands and knees beside her palanquin. She used his back as a stool to elegantly descend, and his elbows bowed slightly at the weight of her infinite skirts and frankly ludicrous parasol. 

She turned to regard Sethis with a canted brow and a sugared smile. “Welcome to Atlantis, Prince Lunaren. The Dominion of the Lover greets you.”

Her entourage punctuated this statement with a quick rap of their spears against the floor—which Karis was beginning to recognize as not only a sign of unity, but also an admittedly impressive sound.

Sethis bowed, looking wary. “It’s an honor to be invited, Senator Zorbea.”

Her smile sharpened, almost feline. “I do look forward to getting to know the prince of Airlea.”

A noblewoman who sat further down the table from Karis released a scandalized scoff. But Karis was unmoved. The common ear might interpret such a statement as innuendo, but after hearing of King Lunaren’s past shenanigans, the subtext was clear: Irene doubted the veracity of Sethis’s identity, and she would be watching his every move with the utmost attention.

All the better. The more eyes on the prince, the less were on Halcyon.

As Irene reclined sideways on her chaise, silk pooling over her voluptuous figure to the ground, the second standard-bearer called forth:

“Rathos Antheos Vathalos, Senator of the Harvester, He Who Bears the Ensign of Bounty.”

Rathos was a dignified man with a grave aura. A tangled crown of antlers—no, wait, it was a material fashioned into the likeness of coral—rested majestically on his head, an artistic contrast to the long tresses that flowed over his shoulders and down his back. He even showed stag-like grace as he bowed.

“Prince Lunaren,” he said, the sound deep and somber. “May your sojourn be both fruitful and peaceful.”

Sethis bowed back and said something trite, but Karis was too distracted to listen closely. She’d imagined someone called the Ensign of Bounty to be more on the cheerful side. What had possibly happened to strike him with such a profound sense of loss?

She had no time to ponder further, for Rathos had reclined in his chaise, and the herald was raising his voice again.

“Xiphia Kairhea Vascea, Senator of the Warmonger, She Who Bears the Ensign of Battle.”

Xiph was dressed very differently from when Karis had last seen her. Gone was the girlish tunic and the laidback ponytail. Her hair was braided and curled to a perfection that appeared almost waxy, and a stuffy dress was tied up to her chin, a bone cage bracing her torso like a skeleton. 

“Welcome, Prince Lunaren,” she said. Her public tone was pleasant enough, but Karis was certain that every word was dripping with irony. “You’re far more handsome than your portrait. I’m afraid that Simon’s drawing hand did not quite do your jawline justice.”

Sethis’s cheeks pinkened, but he kept his composure as he bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Senator Vascea. I must admit I’ve harbored some curiosity since I heard of our arrangement.”

A nice theatrical display for the eyes of the Airlean delegation, who believed this was their first meeting. And the prince said he can’t lie.

Xiph lifted a brow. “Is that so? And how do you find me?”

Karis nearly choked. Such a brazen question would have never been posed in public view of the Airlean gentry! 

Sethis released a surprised chuckle before he promptly tempered himself. “I prefer not to conclude too much from a single meeting,” he said significantly. 

“Then you find me disfavorable.”

Again, Karis nearly choked at the bold lack of tact.

“Far from it.” Sethis politely took Xiph’s hand and raised it, brushing his mouth over her knuckles. “I find myself fascinated to learn more.”

Now Xiph was the one turning pink, and she hastily stepped away, pulling her hand from Sethis’s grasp. 

“The Dominion of the Warmonger greets you,” she said coolly. The spears of her soldiers throttled the floor. “May your sojourn be one that is peaceful and prosperous.”

Uneventful was what she really meant, no doubt.

As Xiph moved to lounge on her chaise, Lady Cerida Quintrell scoffed from across the table. “That is His Highness’s promised? A child! She can barely stand on her feet, let alone sit on a throne!”

“Well, it is easier to sit on a throne than to stand,” said Lord Gilliad tiredly.

“Not that you would know,” Lady Cerida snapped.

Karis flinched. Ah, marital bliss. What better place to be than between a nasty woman and her reluctant husband?

Her gaze wandered down the table, where Halcyon sat with Azalea Fairwen, who was studiously jotting notes in a little leather journal. Every so often, Azalea raised her head and whispered something, visibly excited. Halcyon smiled in that softer way that he only afforded to little ones (certainly, he never smiled at Karis like that) and gave a short reply.

Then Halcyon’s mask turned in Karis’s direction, and she promptly broke her gaze, switching her attention to the dias. There was no point in wishing for a different seating arrangement. In fact, she should be counting her blessings on the opportunity to listen in on the Quintrells. The greatest suspects required the closest attention.

The Warmonger’s standard-bearer called for the next name: “Sethis Galen Lunaren, Crown Prince and Heir Apparent of the Kingdom of Airlea.”

If Sethis was surprised to be called upon, he masked it well. He smiled benignly at the crowd, then turned to the circle of senators. His mien likely seemed perfectly regal to the others, but Karis could detect a stiffness in how he kept his hands at his sides, suppressing the temptation to clasp them behind his back. He was anxious. Perhaps even fearful. At least he let little of it show.

“Airlea thanks you for your goodwill and your hospitality,” the prince said. “It is my fervent hope that this day will mark the firstfruits of a propitious alliance to come.”

The Airlean delegation called a strong “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” in support, which was possibly the most united Karis had seen any Airleans since the Great Storm. But she supposed that the only thing more unifying than imminent annihilation was the presence of a foreign nation.

As Sethis motioned for the delegatory gifts to be carted forth—mostly a bounty of livestock, produce, quality leathers, and other natural resources found plentiful on the fertile soil of Airlea—Karis curiously peered at the Atlantean senators. Irene was watching the prince with a lazy, indulgent smile, not dissimilar to a stuffed panther already eying its next meal. Rathos was silent, his gaze unwavering and tightly restrained, giving away no emotion or thought.

Xiph, though—Xiph was not even watching the prince.

The young senator’s eyes roved the Airlean delegation, pausing on certain faces before moving on. A slight gnawing on her lower lip betrayed her nerves.

Oh, Karis thought. She’s trying to find her betrothed.

There seemed little point to it, as any idea of marriage between their countries had been made unattainable. But she supposed that curiosity was an insatiable creature, and if she were in the same situation, she would also be searching for her fated husband.

Xiph’s gaze paused on Captain Raymond Bannister for a moment. When he gave a broad smile of pride at Sethis’s words, she shook her head minutely and moved on to the sallow face of a weaselly Observatorium sage. She stared at the sage, and her lips pulled into a frown.

Karis found herself unnecessarily amused, similar to watching a dog chase its tail, or a cat leap for a dangling string. If the good senator but blinked, she would realize that the true crown prince was right in front of her.

But it was more fun to see her suffer.

The gifts were dispersed; the speech concluded. Sethis seated himself in his chaise like the senators. The Atlantean soldiers did not applaud or toast, but struck the butt of their weapons on the ground in one loud, chorusing thud, which sounded respectful enough, albeit ominously unified.

Xiph’s standard-bearer cleared his throat. “You may note the absence of Senator Lukas Incirris Tripeas, Senator of the Hedonist, He Who Bears the Ensign of Leisure,” he said. “He is unable to attend today’s festivities due to an urgent matter, and sends his well-wishes and utmost regrets.”

Xiph snorted. “The urgent matter of his liver.”

Irene swished the wine in her goblet with a flick of her wrist. “The Ensign of Drunkenness,” she said cuttingly.

They had meant for the insult to be heard, Karis supposed, or they would have spoken in Atlantean.

The final standard-bearer took center stage. “Daryn Nephine Lamdous. Senator of the Aegis, She Who Bears the Ensign of Wisdom.”

But that could not be right. At its founding, Atlantis had been governed by a body of twelve senators. How could their number have dwindled, and why had the missing seven not been replaced? Karis tried to recall how many senators had been actively governing just before the Great Storm, but her memory failed her. Had there been eight? Nine? She was convinced that there had been more than five, at the very least.

Daryn was a severe-looking woman, her hair arranged into a perfect straight cut that only emphasized the angular, unforgiving line of her brows and lips. Her right hand held a proud golden spear; her left was fastened with a large, perfectly round buckler. Most notably, a strange apparatus flowered out from her back, extending around her like giant crab claws. Karis had never seen anything like it.

Daryn examined Sethis closely, her gaze cool and detached. Her mouth slid into a downward line. Then she turned to address the hall.

“The Aegis Dominion finds no favor in these landwalkers,” she announced. “We shall furnish them with no hospitality.”

The Airlean delegation froze, confused. But around the hall, Atlanteans were surging to their feet, voices raised in a sudden clamor. Xiph instinctively stood, unveiled rage scrawled over her face. 

“You insult my judgment, Aegis,” she snarled. “Did we not all agree at the last Senate to seek out allies?”

“Snake!” cried a Warmonger soldier distantly. “Deceiver!”

“You dishonor our lady!”

“Aegis sharks!”

Irene only looked mildly amused and sipped at a goblet of wine. Rathos surveyed the scene with an air of detachment.

Daryn glanced lazily about the room, as if everyone present was beneath her notice. “I see no allies,” she said icily. “None worth the effort, at least.”

A symphony of metal erupted as Warmonger soldiers slammed their spears into the ground. “Dedemitos!” they cried. “Dedemitos! Dedemitos!” 

Xiph spluttered a visceral-sounding insult in Atlantean.

The ruckus had Karis sliding to Sethis’s side, hand on her sword, manawell humming in preparation. At the end of the hall, Halcyon had unslung his glaive from his back. Surely Atlantis was not uncouth enough to break out in a fight in the midst of formal proceedings—but Karis wouldn’t take her chances. Even the retinues of the nobility were beginning to cluster around their lieges.

She heard Sethis curse under his breath. “We must alleviate the situation, now.”

“Would you like to know your options, Your Highness?”

Simon Kourios’s voice sounded so close that Karis nearly slit his throat on reflex. She turned to see the envoy lurking just behind them, looking grim.

“Do I have any good options?” Sethis replied.

“That depends. Do you desire to contest the senator’s contempt?”

Sethis’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t mean a duel.”

“I do. Senatorial contempt may be challenged with a formal engagement of single combat between two representatives. You may elect a champion to fight in your name.”

“That’s barbaric!” Karis snapped. “A waste of a perfectly fine warrior! Duels were outlawed in Airlea for a reason.”

“Is this a common occurrence, Lord Envoy?” Sethis said calmly.

“No.” Simon looked to Daryn, who was completely unperturbed. “This is poor taste to the extreme. A tradition of bygones invoked without purpose.”

Sethis’s jaw set in a hard line. He turned to Daryn and raised his hand. When that failed to quiet the clamor, he drew his sword with a powerful ring, and the resonant sound forced the crowd into silence.

“Senator Lamdous,” he called. His voice—ordinarily so full of warmth and life, now stiff and cold—echoed in the fresh stillness. “You have disgraced us this day. On behalf of Airlea, I invoke the right to challenge your contempt through formal engagement. Select your champion at once.”

For a moment, all was quiet. Then the Airlean retinue burst into noise, shuttered murmurs strewn alongside the occasional yelp:

“Your Highness, I beg you reconsider!”

“A dueling tradition? How uncouth!”

The Atlanteans were no less animated, split cleanly between excitement and shock. The Lunaren prince, known for being a weak and shoddy puppet of a ruler, had invoked combat! Senator Daryn’s disgraceful behavior aside, this was revolutionary.

Daryn herself seemed unbothered. She met Sethis’s challenge with a lifted chin and a detached smile—as if this outcome had been expected.

“Very well,” she said coolly. “Let it be done here and now.” She turned to the herald. “Clear the hall.”

Noise scattered throughout the room as all in attendance stood. Nobles and soldiers alike moved to the edges of the hall; tables and chairs were removed. Murmurs swept around in waves as Xiph swept down from the dias, looking thunderous. 

“That devil-faced rat-eating venom-spitting stump of a shrew,” she spat. Her eyes sliced to Sethis. “And you. You know that my hands are tied, don’t you? You’ve invoked prominthei se kor somas, one of the oldest rights in our nation. And I can’t elect one of my warriors for your champion.”

“I figured,” Sethis said evenly. “It seemed likely to me that senators would have to maintain neutrality in such circumstances. My question is simply—was I truly correct to devolve to such extreme measures?”

“It was necessary if you wished to remain in Atlantis,” Simon replied. “To withhold favor does not merely mean fewer refreshments at the banquet table. It declares a lack of protection within their borders, and a right to seize any persons or belongings passing through Aegis custody.”

“Even if we don’t intend to pass through their dominion,” Xiph added, “the term ‘Aegis custody’ can technically be extended to shared areas. Like the central Polis, or even if we’re all invited to the same event.” She hissed between her teeth. “An old and stupid law that should have been abolished ages ago, if not for Irene and her petty ancestors.”

“Then for any chance at harmony, we must enact a duel,” Sethis said. He shook his head. “The irony does not elude me.”

“Put me forward.” Halcyon’s voice was abrupt, but not unexpected; Karis had seen him skillfully cutting through the crowd to Sethis’s side amidst the hubbub. “I’ve sparred with Aegis warriors before and I’ve fought in the kennels. I’m our best bet.”

Karis cut in. “And if someone recognizes your Leventis foundation? If they see your talent for water and start asking questions?”

“She has a point,” Xiph said.

“You would raise far too much suspicion, Hal,” Karis continued. “It has to be me.”

The flash of panic that crossed Halcyon’s face was eclipsed by anger. “This isn’t a sporting joust. It’s a death match.”

Karis nearly snapped at him then, but she held her tongue. She’d known him long enough to realize he spoke not from doubt, but worry.

“A death match?” Sethis cut in sharply. “Surely there is a procedure to yield.”

Xiph snorted. “Atlanteans don’t yield. Not against landwalkers. You, on the other hand, pink witch lady—they might offer you mercy to yield. Only because Daryn’s objection was entirely unexpected.”

“I do not need any such mercy,” Karis hissed. “And I am not a witch.”

Sethis grimaced and clasped his hands behind his back. “No Airlean should risk their life for this. Since I made the decision, I should take on the burden.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Karis said. “You are the heir to the throne. If you were to die, disaster would befall.” She folded her arms. “It shall be me, and that’s that.”

There was no further time to deliberate. The furnishings had been cleared, and Daryn and her warriors had gathered at the center of the hall. As Simon led them to face the senator, Halcyon tugged Karis aside by the arm and spoke in a low rush of words.

“Fighting people is worlds apart from fighting corruptions.” He sucked in a breath. “I know you’ve sparred at the Academy. But remember that here, the enemy will always aim to permanently maim or kill. And they won’t flinch to do so.”

Karis winced. Even students who despised each other at the Academy never truly struck to kill.

“Alright,” she said. “Tell me what you can about the Aegis fighting style.”

“Defensive. Structured. Powerful, but predictable.” Halcyon grimaced. “In a way, it’s fortunate that you’re facing an Aegis. They’re formidable in groups, but reliant on tactics issued by their master strategist. They don’t train to be solo champions the way Hunters do in Airlea.”

Karis tried not to feel relief. Complacency would be the quickest road to her death. “A cautious style, then? Or will they move to cripple me on the first strike?”

“I doubt it. The Ensign of the Aegis has always been averse to risk. They’ll start slow. Test the waters.” He reached up and squeezed her shoulder. “Your sugar-thread is a big advantage. They won’t be able to sense it.”

“And their manacraft? They must have developed techniques that we know nothing of.”

“You won’t be fighting anyone who can wield Old Magick. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

That implied that there were wielders of Old Magick about, and that managed to worry Karis even more.

Halcyon released her, and she followed Simon to the center of the hall. Daryn awaited them with what looked to be her champion—a wiry woman built like a jaguar, bare arms corded with muscle, gold helm plumed with indigo and maroon feathers.

“Behold,” Daryn intoned, addressing the hall with a loud voice. “The Aegis champion, ninth of the lauded Owleyes, slayer of four hellsharks—Elena Boreus!”

The Aegis warriors clattered their spears against their shields and roared. The Lover warriors politely tapped their spears on the ground. The Warmongers remained silent and stone-faced.

Daryn turned to Sethis with a lifted brow, waiting. Sethis ducked his head towards Karis, his face in turmoil.

“I did not intend to put you in such danger,” he murmured. “Are you absolutely certain—”

“Announce me, Sethis.”

He turned to the hall and raised his voice. “I announce the Airlean champion, second of the Royal Hunters, conquerer of the Noadic archfiend of corrosion—Karis Caelute!”

“Huzzah!” cried the Airleans. All of them. Even the Warmongers rapped their spears against the ground, joining the chorus of cheers.

Noadic archfiend of corrosion did have quite the nice ring to it. Even if Karis had never actually heard anyone refer to the Class Five at Northelm in such a way.

Daryn raised her hand and waited for the chaos to die down. “The rules are simple,” she said. “Fighters are not to leave the arena. Manacraft is permitted. The bout ends when one of the fighters is dead.” 

The fingers of her raised hand clamped into a fist.

“Stalaistra!” she barked.

Karis watched as Aegis warriors encircled her and the other champion. With one sweep, they knelt and lowered their spears, forming a makeshift arena with a deadly perimeter.

Oh, Karis thought numbly as she drew her rapier. Intellectually, she had known that she was involving herself in a duel to the death. But the gravity of it hadn’t hit until she was staring down the point of a spear.

Would she die here? On foreign soil, sword in hand, fighting for honor she wasn’t sure she believed in?

No, she could not die. She would not break her mother’s heart again. 

In which case, she needed to steel herself for the kill.

Karis turned to examine her opponent. Elena was intimidating indeed, a steady stance and hard eyes speaking of years on the battlefield. If it came to blows or a contest of strength, Karis knew she would lose. Yet Halcyon’s insights were correct; there was a rigidity in Elena’s movements that Karis thought she might exploit.

Noticing her keen perusal, Elena lifted her chin. “Have you made peace with your gods?” she goaded. “Because I send you to their halls today.”

Some scattered booing from the Warmongers, but they were shushed by Xiph.

Karis saluted with her rapier, the point flicking upward and then to the ground. “You will send me nowhere but to the victor’s podium,” she returned.

Elena’s mouth lifted into a smirk, and for a moment, Karis felt the inklings of a kindred spirit.

Perhaps we can simply fight to yield, she thought. She wouldn’t mind grabbing a strong drink with this selfsame lady after this was all over.

Daryn raised her spear. “Fighters,” she said, “are your preparations concluded?”

“Aye!” Elena called, hitting her spear and shield together.

Karis took a moment to look out into the watching crowd. Halcyon was standing next to a grim-faced Sethis, shrouded by his mask. Next to him, Azalea was ashen grey, hands visibly shaking where she clasped them together. Oh, the poor peace-loving, gentle-hearted thing. She probably hated this whole affair.

“Aye,” she replied, turning to fix her eyes on Elena. From this moment on, her gaze could not leave the enemy.

Daryn nodded. “Kraima, kleotas, kollunas!” she roared.

She hit her spear on the ground with a definitive ring and the match began.

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