Airlean Tales S2E4: City of Light (1)

Azalea adored Mythaven.

Well, she adored all of Airlea, really. As the capital, Mythaven was just the largest blot of Airlea on the map. She was thrilled to march Simon Kourios through the vibrant, lively streets, each one thick with bustle, laughter, and the jaunty whittling of a fiddle or lute.

“Main Avenue is the largest street,” she explained, gesturing to the mouth of a wide road with colored flags swooping in hanging lines. “But it’s mostly closed off for today. Merchants are preparing their stalls for the night market.”

“Ah, the night market,” said Simon, sounding satisfied. “I remember sneaking out of class just for the pork wraps.”

“Oh, the pork wraps,” Azalea said dreamily. Slow-roasted and brushed in plum sauce, the pork wraps served at the night market were one of her favorite dishes. Or maybe they were beaten by the garlic flatbread. Or the fried spiraled tubers. Really, there were too many delicious things to count, sold in bounty by the mercantile stalls that lined Main Avenue.

But—one moment, how could Simon have known about the pork wraps?

“You’ve already been?” Azalea said, frowning.

“A few times,” Simon said, “though it was twenty years ago. I was invited to Mythaven for a study exchange.”

“Twenty! How old are—” Azalea cut herself off. “Sorry. That’s rude to ask.”

Simon laughed. “I find it rather refreshing.”

Despite his good temper, Azalea was embarrassed to make such an error. She quickly ushered the delegate to their next stop, which he assured her that he had never seen: the Butterfly Gardens of the northern sector, an arboretum blossoming with vibrant flowers and teeming with graceful winged insects. Light filtered down like stained glass, casting every petal in beautiful, prismatic hues.

Simon seemed especially enthralled by the vibrant, coral-red cluster of dragon violets, originally cultivated in the sky islands of Kahu Tei.

“The color reminds me of someone dear,” he said fondly, eying the vibrant petals and quirky stems. “In what conditions are they raised?”

“Oh, dragon violets are very curious flowers,” Azalea said excitedly. “As they bloom in the high altitudes of Kahu Tei, they’re used to arid climates and colder temperatures. But the curious thing is that they appear to thrive off of solar radiation. That’s why they’re not grown around the city, but instead, in controlled beds at the botany wing of the Observatorium—oh, I’m sorry to ramble. My da is a lumberjack and my ma is an apothecary, so I love plants.”

“Quite alright,” said Simon. “I find it all equally fascinating. Are they poisonous?”

“I, I don’t think so,” Azalea stammered.

“Pity,” Simon mused. “That would have been even more fitting.”

The next destination was the Hall of the Stars: an impressive gallery of sprawling glass terrariums commemorating the Mythic Stars. Each terrarium was beautifully decorated, and each managed to be wildly different from the others. A lone spear at the foot of a swaying maple tree. Iridescent scales scattered over the surface of a lilypad pond. A towering grandfather clock and its world of gears.

Then there were the tapestries—large, painstakingly woven art pieces that depicted the Asters and the legend they wrought, all in vibrant thread and interlocking patterns.

“Aster Arthus the Radiant, the first king of Airlea,” Azalea explained proudly, gesturing to the central terrarium. A luminescent sword lay embedded in prismatic stone that seemed to crawl from the depths of a pebbled lake. “When Arthus arrived on these shores, the land was crawling with shadow and filled with chaos. With Excalibur Deathsbane in hand, he banished the shadow and dispelled its curse, returning the land to the lush, bountiful place you see now.”

Simon examined the luminescent sword, which was rather handsome with its painted blade and gold leaf crossguard. “Fascinating. What gave Excalibur such power? While beautifully made, it looks like any other weapon.”

“Oh,” Azalea said sheepishly, “that’s just an imaginitive reconstruction. Nobody actually knows what Excalibur looks like.”

Simon’s eyes lit up. “Perhaps it was not of solid form, but quite literally made of light.”

Azalea drooped. “I hope not.”

“Why’s that?”

“It would be hard to look at.” She glanced wistfully and the sword pressed into the stone. “Excalibur sounds like such a beautiful thing, it would be a waste not to have a form.”

Simon only laughed. Mindful of the passing hours, Azalea kept the following explanations brief.

“Aster Merlin the Demented, the first High Sage and most powerful manacrafter in the world,” she said, gesturing to a terrarium with an ornate clockface, paper shadows shifting within its workings. “He was rumored to master space and time itself. Next, Aster Carmine the Fleet-footed, young forager of the lifebringing sundew herb during the Blinding Plague. Aster Robin the Bold, a gentleman thief who pilfered from the corrupt aristocracy during the slave trades on the Iron Road.”

Simon hummed and began to examine the placards with keen interest.

“There are countless legends of bravery and sacrifice here,” Azalea continued excitedly. “Aster Caspian the Restored, Aster Lattice the Balletic, Aster Elwood the Deceiver—oh, I could go on and on all day.”

“Would I be able to meet one?” said Simon, glancing up.

“A Mythic Star?” Azalea fumbled. “Well, I mean, I think that they’re dead.”

He pointed at the placard. “But this description speaks of ‘the ongoing presence of their spirits and the reincarnation of their valor…’”

“Oh, that’s not, um. I mean, there’s a little folk legend that we like to entertain.” Azalea bashfully bowed her head. “That the valorous spirits of the Mythic Stars are sometimes…inherited by sons and daughters of Airlea. As in, there may be modern-day incarnations of the fairytale Asters.”

“Intriguing,” said Simon, rubbing his chin lightly. “How do these symptoms manifest? Do the incarnations look the same? Pass through a descendent bloodline? Or is it random?”

“Well…”

“Do they live out the same destiny as their mythic ancestors? Do they share in the same mana proficiencies and skills? What of curses or blessings, do those pass on as well?”

“Oh, no, the theory isn’t proven,” Azalea said hurriedly. “Really, I wouldn’t take it seriously. I think it’s mostly just to explain why the Lunaren bloodline has stayed as our kings.”

Simon frowned. For the first time that day, he appeared genuinely disappointed. “I see.”

Azalea had somehow upset him. Oh, this was all going terribly.

Churning with nerves, she quickly ushered him from the museum and to Gilded Square, a broad and polished road lined with upscale shops that serviced affluent patrons: baroque boutiques, extravagant bakeries, tapestries and paintings and craftsmen of every kind. Although Azalea never had the means to purchase such goods, she always found them delightful to look at.

Simon was peering into the impressive display of bejeweled coinpurses and satchels when a familiar flash of juniper green caught Azalea’s eye. Her heart leapt as she excitedly scanned the throng of socialites, only to fall at her feet with a sickening crash.

Wes was there in his lovely juniper coat, walking down the road.

He was also with a girl.

Well, of course he was. Azalea had known that. He was with Miss Wots-Her-Face and her big, fawnlike eyes and shiny, perfect curls and a father who was rich and powerful and not a lumberjack from some rustic village. And of course they would be in the wealthy district, where the city guard dressed in special uniforms and the candies were made of gold. Azalea shouldn’t have been surprised.

But seeing Wes, her Wes, strolling down the polished avenue, arm in arm with another girl…

Azalea swallowed. Her throat had suddenly closed up.

The girl turned and said something to Wes, lips spreading demurely over her perfect, straight teeth. And Wes—

His face melted into a smile, lovely and warm as the dawn peeking out from behind the mountains.

Azalea’s heart twisted hard, so sharp and painful that she gasped and curled her fingers over her chest. Her gaze began to blur, welling with tears. Wings fluttered in the aching spot, begging her to flee.

“Are you alright?” Simon said concernedly. “You’re not looking well.”

She nearly jumped at the sound of his voice. When had he turned away from the display and begun studying her face like a new species of insect? She hadn’t even noticed.

Azalea quickly rubbed at her eyes and looked away. “I’m alright,” she said hurriedly. “I just saw…a friend.”

“Oh,” Simon said. He looked thoughtful. “Then you would like to greet them?”

“No, he’s busy. It’s alright.” Azalea exhaled. “It’s alright.”

He was happy. It was a good thing. Yes, all was how it should be. How it must be.

“I think it won’t be long before the night market opens,” Azalea said, “so why don’t we start—Mister Simon?”

Mister Simon the Lord Envoy of Atlantis was nowhere to be found.

Myths preserve her! He had been kidnapped under her very nose! Azalea frantically scanned the crowd for his large, wiry frame, or perhaps a particularly lumpy potato sack. But then she saw Simon casually sauntering down the road, silver head bobbing high among the throng.

Right towards Wes.

Azalea gasped as she scrambled to the envoy’s side. “Pardon, Mister Simon, sir,” she mumbled, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing of interest in this direction.”

“Is that so?” Simon hummed.

“In fact,” said Azalea with growing panic, “just the opposite way is—is a fascinating, um, what was there—watchmaker! Clockmaker! There are big, big clocks that are made of glass, and the workings are turned into a decorative set piece, so they look like giant snowglobes—”

“Fascinating,” said Simon, and he stepped right into the oncoming path of Wesley Geppett.

Oh no. This was a disaster.

Wes stopped short, as did the girl on his arm. His gaze flickered over the tall envoy in strange clothes, then shifted to Azalea, who was attempting to curb a strong desire to shrink into the road.

Simon strode right past Wes as if he had not noticed him at all. He stopped before the nearest shop window, peering through curiously, as if he’d suddenly developed an avid interest in—were those corsets and fishbone petticoats?

Azalea mumbled something that sounded like an apology in Wes’s direction and scurried to Simon’s side. Maybe Wes would simply walk on and pretend that she hadn’t just interrupted his nice outing.

“Um,” she said hesitantly, “sorry, Mister Simon, but this shop…”

“It appears to sell women’s clothes.” Simon tilted his head. “Perhaps I should purchase some as a gift.”

Azalea reddened. “No, these are—they’re—”

“Pardon me.”

Azalea stiffened at the sound of Wes’s voice from behind her. She had never quite heard him speak like that—cold and short, a thread of danger in his ordinarily friendly tone. She cringed as Simon turned to face him, looking curious.

Oh, she thought miserably, why couldn’t Wes have simply walked on and ignored us? Now he’s angry that we’re interrupting him.

“Good day,” Simon said. “Do we know each other?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure.” Wes smiled. It looked thin. “Wesley Geppett, at your service. I couldn’t help but notice your accoutrements, Sir…?”

Oh—oh! Yes, as a host, Azalea was supposed to front the introductions. Not stand about with her tongue tied, leaving Simon on his own.

“Y-yes,” she said, fighting for composure. “This is Lord Simon Kourios, envoy of the honored Atlantean delegation.”

She bowed belatedly, then turned to Simon and bowed again.

“And Mister Simon, this is Lord Wesley Geppett, Scion of the Eminent House of the Heavensward Tree. Um—there are four Eminent Houses of Airlea, considered to be the most powerful and respected, with the longest legacies and the closest ties to the king.”

The ties between the royal family and the Eminent Houses went back to the era of the Round Table, but Azalea knew that this was not the hour for a rambling history lesson.

“I see,” said Simon, nodding amicably. “An honor to meet you, Lord Geppett.”

“Likewise.” Wes took the hand of the lady next to him to politely guide her forward. Azalea’s throat burned at the sight. “May I present my companion, Charlene of House Penrose.”

Azalea felt as sour and pruny as a pickle. Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to fully regard Wes’s companion.

She was beautiful. Oh, she was fair and winsome as a cloudless sky, her hair in perfect golden ringlets, her eyes like sapphires. Next to such an effortlessly poised creature, Azalea felt frumpy, even in one of her nicer town dresses. She felt a visceral, very un-Hunterly hatred for this perfect, pristine girl.

Charlene Penrose curtsied prettily, her teeth as white as the sun. “Truly, the honor is ours, Lord Envoy. I pray you enjoy your time in the crown jewel of Airlea to the utmost!”

Bootlicker, Azalea thought sourly. Then she scolded herself. Aron was rubbing off on her.

“And you must be—the Scarlet Rider herself!” Charlene beamed at Azalea, curls flouncing as she bobbed her head. “How lovely it is to meet you. Papa says that you saved my brother’s life, you know. He was one of the reserve captains called to Dead Rest. You’re a true hero!”

“Oh,” Azalea said, stumped by the girl’s sudden warmth. The last time she had spoken to rich girls, they had tried to dump her head in dishwater at the Academy kitchens. “I’m…glad. That he—lived. Your brother.” Lovely. She was the pinnacle of eloquence.

To her shock, Charlene’s gorgeous eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Me too. Oh, when he left the manor, the last I saw of him was the back of his tabard fluttering until it was swallowed by the darkness. It was an awful omen. I thought I would never see him again.”

Unbidden, Azalea thought of her own brother Azure—and how she would feel to see only the back of him as he stepped into darkness, never to return.

She swallowed and pushed the thought away, unwilling to entertain it.

“The sun has nearly set,” Simon noted. “Shall we head to the night market, Azalea?”

An odd look fluttered over Wes’s face, but it quickly smoothed over. Azalea, eager to put distance between herself and Wes’s companion, nodded eagerly.

“Have a good evening, We—Lord Geppett, Lady Penrose,” she said with a hasty curtsy. “Sorry to disturb you.”

Before she could dart away, dragging Simon with her to safety, Wes spoke. “It was no disturbance,” he said smoothly. “In fact, I believe we’d enjoy a bit of company. You say you’re headed to the night market? Why don’t we all attend together?”

Azalea wanted to wilt. Oh, why wouldn’t he simply let her leave with dignity? The last thing she wanted was to trail behind like a pathetic miser as Wes and his beautiful, perfect, noble lady flirted in front of her face.

“Mister Simon?” she tried. Surely the delegate was bewildered at the sudden company and would prefer to dismiss himself.

But Simon only said: “That sounds rather lovely.”

Azalea wanted to scream.

Charlene seemed equally enthused with the idea, so off they trotted to the night market. Bright and friendly as she was, Charlene quickly engaged Simon in a stimulating conversation of the intricacies of wine pairings with Magvarian cheese—whatever that was—and how different “undertones” of cheese ought to be complemented—whatever those were. Wes took the opportunity to touch Azalea’s elbow, pulling her back until he could just speak to her without being heard.

“Where’s his guard?” he asked quietly.

Azalea, who had been tossed and turned in quite the emotional maelstrom, struggled to keep levelheaded and not be snappish in the way her tormented heart demanded. “Who?” she said stiffly. “The envoy?”

Wes’s gaze flickered over the long gold pin that secured Simon’s sash. “If I’m not mistaken, that clasp is indicative of a ranking consul in one of Atlantis’s dominions. An important advisor or minister, like the magistrates are to the king.”

That intrigued Azalea enough to curb her temper. “Lady Karis said he was the Prime Consul. I hadn’t heard of such a position, but it sounds very important.”

“I don’t think it’s a traditional rank. Each Atlantean dominion is known to…more or less organize however they see fit.” Wes glanced over. “But regardless, he’s an Atlantean delegate in a foreign land. He shouldn’t be walking around unaccompanied.”

Azalea frowned. “He’s not unaccompanied. He’s with me.”

“Alone with you. It’s not safe if dangerous rogues are dead-set on taking his life. And…it’s not entirely appropriate, either.”

Azalea stiffened. This time, she could not veil her glare. “You’re alone without guard, walking around with Lady Penrose.”

“Other than the bowman on the roofs and the lancer following a block behind, you mean?”

“The what?” Azalea’s head swiveled around, frantically searching for threats. People milled around in a thick cloud in every direction.

A slight tinge of amusement colored Wes’s voice. “Charlene’s guards. It’s hard to tell you’re being followed, unless you’re specifically looking for it—which I usually am.”

How had Azalea missed not one, but two people stalking them from the shadows? She blushed, ashamed. It was good that nobody had meant Simon true harm, or her ignorance may have very well cost him his life.

“Don’t worry too much,” Wes said. “It shouldn’t be your duty to look out for his safety, anyway. That’s why he should have guards.”

Though intended well, his words did little to reassure her. Azalea walked into the night market with new alertness, unable to fully appreciate the ringing lutes, festive lights, and sizzling stalls as she usually did. Thankfully, Simon’s mood did not seem impeded; his head turned every which way.

“Sometimes I forget,” he said wonderingly. “You have entire roasts out here. In a public market, that anyone can buy.”

“People don’t eat well in Atlantis?”

“Oh, they eat like kings. Smoked fillets, fried squid, fresh mussels and clams, buttered crab on wild rice. If you enjoy seafood.” He chuckled. “It can become rather tiring.”

“Oh,” Azalea said sympathetically. “Maybe we can reopen trade lines. I would like for everybody to have the chance to eat pork wraps.”

Simon’s brows shot up. “That was not quite the sentiment of Lady Caelute.”

“Lady Karis doesn’t want Atlanteans to eat pork wraps?”

He laughed aloud. “I suppose not.”

Azalea thought about this for a moment, then nodded to herself. “Well—Lady Karis is a very generous person. I’m sure it’s just because she hasn’t eaten one yet. I’ll have her try one, and once she knows how delicious they are, she’ll change her mind.”

Simon laughed again, a softer sound. He moved to purchase one of those very pork wraps, drawing a coin from his purse—an Airlean mint that Azalea immediately recognized. She quickly gripped his arm.

“Oh no! Wait, you mustn’t,” she said seriously. “That’s the wrong coin. It’s very valuable.”

Simon examined the golden coin in his palm with great interest. “Does Airlea not trade in gold?”

“Yes, but—this is a gilding. You’ll want to pay with a dime, which is a tenth of the value. You can tell because a dime is smaller. And it’s plated with fake gold, while a gilding is plated with real gold.”

“Ah. Now that you mention it, I faintly recall something of the sort.”

Nonetheless, Simon passed the cook a gilding—and purchased ten pork wraps, which he generously divvied out to their party. Azalea attempted to protest, saying that he was a guest, but Simon only waved a hand and said consider it gratuity for today’s excellent tour, which made Wes scowl for some unknown reason.

The next stall that caught their interest was one crammed with books. Not the dignified, leatherbound tomes that graced the archives of the Observatorium and the royal palace, but ones more cheaply bound, either wrapped in thin vellum or paper. The covers were decorated with eye-catching illustrations, which lent to both their exciting appeal and cheap, banal sensationalism.

Simon immediately gravitated to the stall, thumbing through pages with interest. Charlene shrieked at the sight of one particular book decorated in frosted plum blossoms and frothing ocean waves.

“Oh, at last, the conclusion!” she cried, clutching the book to her chest. “I can’t wait to see how Heartsign will resolve the coup!”

“What?” Azalea said.

Charlene gasped. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the Court series! Oh, sweet Lady Fairwen, if you have any vague inclination for literature, you simply must add it to your library!” She snapped up a tome with expert precision and thrust it into Azalea’s hands. “Here, the first volume. You’ll thank me later.”

Azalea looked at the large, swooping letters: The Court of Sugared Crowns. A tale of forbidden love. By Heartsign. It sounded quite lurid.

“Ah,” Simon said brightly. “Most excellent. I’ve been wanting to see the evolution of Airlean literature since my last visit. No doubt much has changed.”

Wes shifted from one foot to the other, looking nervous. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly name this as, as classic Airlean literature.”

“Nonsense. To understand a people, one must read what they read. And hardly anybody reads the stuffy theses of the academics. This, on the other hand—this seems popular.”

Wes quieted, looking grim. Curious, Azalea thumbed through the first pages. One particular excerpt caught her eye immediately:

The exiled lord is nothing like she imagined. Tall and stark, his figure cuts a feathered line into the black marble, his shadow falling softly as a raven’s wing. The candlelight kisses his copper skin with a sunset gleam; he steps closer, raising her hand to his mouth. A pleasant heat radiates over her skin when his lips press on her knuckles. His eyes hold her captive with an ocean glimmer, the current within them treacherous as the depths.

“A pleasure, Caelute,” says Lord Halcyon, “to meet at last.”

Oh, thinks Karis vaguely. Oh no.

Azalea choked, immediately holding the book away from her as if it would impart disease.

“Lady Karis’s name!” she exclaimed. “And Lord Halcyon’s! Who would dare?”

“Hm?” said Charlene distractedly, handing seven dimes to the shopkeep for her own purchase. “Oh, yes, quite alright. The first page disclaims any resemblance to persons living or dead.”

Azalea colored. “That doesn’t absolve responsibility! Disclaimers don’t work like that!”

Charlene waved a hand. “It’s fine. Everybody knows that the First and Second Hunter are enamored with each other, at any rate.”

“They—you—what?!” Azalea spluttered. “No, Lady Karis and Lord Halcyon are—they—they can barely stand each other!”

“Really?” Wes said.

Azalea nodded fervently. “You should feel the air when they’re in the same room. It’s as tense as a leyline.”

“Ah,” Wes said, looking awkward.

Nevertheless, Azalea’s traitorous eyes drifted back to the pages before her. She skimmed quickly, every sordid paragraph demanding her attention. And what a tale it told!

The dark and brooding prince Halcyon, exiled from his homeland by his unjust tyrant of a father. The stunning warrior princess Karis, beautiful and brutal as winter’s chill, locked into an arranged marriage with a gluttonous fool to save her little sister. Like a shadow of death, Halcyon stole her away from the wedding—only to command her blade for when he raised a coup against his father.

Azalea staggered back, reeling. “This, this book is all lies! Lord Halcyon is portrayed to be so—so angsty. He’s actually quite nice!”

“It seems like the natural development of bardic yarns,” said Simon amusedly. “With the printing press readily accessible to the public, I’m not surprised that the ardor of admirers has crept into popular literature.”

“Then it’s all—it’s all—”

“Fictitious, yes.”

“I was going to say libel.”

He laughed. “Goodness. I fear for the arts and entertainment under your watchful eye.” He passed her a tome blooming with azalea flowers: The Stormrider’s Lullaby. A tale of legendary heroism. By Pathfinder.

Azalea gasped and hid her face in her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Simon said. “They say only good things. You seem beloved by the people.”

It did not matter. She did not even want to chance a glance at whatever lay within.

“If you’d like,” Wes said, “you could bring charges against the author. For unauthorized publication.”

“No, no,” Azalea said, taken aback. “That seems much too extreme. I think—they’re only having a bit of fun.”

“That they are!” Charlene said, looking relieved. “Oh, Lady Fairwen, even if it is within your rights, I beg you not to be too harsh! These tales are quite innocently diverting, and everybody knows they aren’t true at all.”

Wes looked unconvinced, but Azalea only smiled. It was difficult to forget Charlene’s pure joy at seeing Heartsign’s latest novel, and she knew that these stories brought countless others similar excitement. Life under the threat of the Storm was difficult enough; she certainly wouldn’t begrudge the citizens of Airlea some harmless fun.

“Excuse me,” Azalea said, waving to the bookseller. “This is an interesting collection. But what are those red books in the corner?”

“Alright, that’s enough browsing,” Wes broke in, looking flustered. He placed his hands on Azalea’s shoulders and steered her away. “We should either purchase something or leave the poor seller be.”

Confused, she let him guide her away from the books and onward to a line of stalls serving fried foods. But she was promptly distracted by a skewer of crispy Yueraian dumplings and a bowl of Zuhadite bean cakes, and thought nothing more of it.

Charlene and Simon joined them presently, and Azalea’s jaw nearly dropped at the library that Simon now cradled in his arms. Books of all colors spilled across his chest in a rainbow of paper, the title of each tome more bewildering than the last: Beast of the Talebloom, The Archmage’s Wife, Of Ten Thousand Kittens and a Pint of Mulled Cider.

“Mister Simon!” Azalea exclaimed.

“These are quite engrossing,” he said cheerfully. “I do believe I’ve learned more about Airlean culture in the past thirty minutes than the past four decades.”

“But they’re all—it’s not true!”

“Of course not,” he said, placating her. “But it is the subliminal intentions and messages beneath the text that truly elucidate Airlean values and morals.”

Azalea had no idea what he was going on about, but she saw Wes’s eyes suddenly light up. He’d always had more of a learner’s bent and scholarly disposition, and she had no doubt that he would get along with Simon—once he had warmed up to the envoy’s presence.

But before Wes could say anything, the close rattle of metal sabatons rang on the cobblestone, and a smooth, cool voice proclaimed:

“Pardon the interruption.”

Azalea turned. The Captain of the Royal Guard, Lilian Forsythe, stood before them, flanked by four other guards dressed in equally splendid blue and gold. Azalea had only seen the captain in passing, but both then and now, Lilian made a strong impression: a tall, aristocratic nose, piercing eyes, orchid-blue hair falling back from her sharp face. She acknowledged Azalea and Wes with a brief nod before fixing her clear, unblinking gaze on Simon.

“Lord Envoy,” she said, “the crown has granted you audience. Prince Sethis, the heir apparent, would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Simon’s ever-present smile adopted a mysterious, unnerving tint, as seamlessly shifting as the surface of the ocean.

“Intriguing,” he said mildly. “The prince calls me at such a late hour, clearly at his convenience, and speaks of my convenience?”

There was no edge to his tone, but Azalea still felt a prickle up her spine. But Captain Forsythe did not flinch.

“We were preparing an appropriate venue,” she said evenly. “Forgive us for the delay. The notice was short.”

This time, Azalea flinched. Simon’s accusations had been returned twofold, with little endeavor at civility.

Simon only nodded. “Very well,” he said. He looked at Azalea. “Pardon the untimely interruption, but if there was nothing else on the schedule…?”

“Oh,” Azalea said faintly. Actually, the night market always concluded with a beautiful show of illusion and color, presented by Robin Hood, the troupemaster of the elusive Merry Troupe. The show was a crowd favorite among children and adults alike, and Azalea would have loved for an Atlantean envoy to witness it.

But Azalea was not ignorant. Scarcely one day into Simon’s visit, political tensions were already boiling. She would be a fool to push for a silly light and color show with the Captain of the Royal Guard waiting on them.

“It’s, it’s alright,” Azalea managed, gripping her fingers together tightly until she could feel her heartbeat pounding in the thin bones. Perhaps she could diffuse the situation a little with a positive spin. “I’m sure the crown prince would love to see you. And your books—I can have them delivered to your suite.”

Simon’s smile raised further, but he said nothing more. He let Azalea take his stash of books—so plentiful that she had to shuck some of them onto poor Wes—and fell in line with Captain Forsythe, disappearing without complaint.

Azalea clung onto the books tightly. She should have absorbed the surrounding merriment, but even with Charlene’s excitable chatter, even with playful sparks lighting up the air, she could not help but feel a profound sense of doom.

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