Sebastian -- Road from Reinhurst to Conevico -- Morning, 2 Myrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Some journey, Sebastian mused, leaning against the rim of the basket and gazing into a sky washed clean by morning light. At first, he’d believed there would be wonders beyond the basket’s edge. But there was little to see but snow-capped hills, endless forests, long winding roads, and distant mountains rising on the edge of sight—and, now and again, a pilgrim peering in to smile or coo at the twins with fond attention.

Especially the women.

Of all the pilgrims, it was the women who seemed most enchanted by the infants—fawning, cooing, and making soft faces that Sebastian found suffocating. Lady Vesna, at least, had given them names—Sebastian, and his brother Niall. Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure what a brother was—only that this one had been beside him since the beginning. Niall cried often and was, at times, a little thick-headed, but Sebastian supposed he wasn’t in any position to judge.

There had to be a reason they were bound together. After all—that strange woman from that even stranger world had sent them here...

Still, it felt like ages since Sebastian had seen anything new beyond the world he already knew from the basket. Yet for all the monotony, the vastness of this new world was both incredible and a little frightening. Without their caretakers, neither he nor Niall would have survived a single day.

From overheard whispers, he learned they were in a country called Lothar—a human realm bordered by the elven woods of Elentárië, the dwarven peaks of Emberstone to the north, the southern hills of Castillia, and the eastern heartlands of Romagnia.

Sebastian pieces together overheard fragments about elves—slender, sharp-eared folk attuned to magic. Some dwelled among deep forests, others beneath the sea, and a few were said to share the shapes of beasts. Curious folk, he thought.

The pilgrims often murmured that believing was more than seeing, but Sebastian found little comfort in that. He wanted to see.

The caravan reached Berkerstad, a less than lively cottage with the inhabitants brushing off snow amidst the paths and shoveling it off their roofs. The pilgrims motioned to a standstill, some to trade supplies yet a Templar’s warning about Reinhurst sent one peasant running for the elder, shouting in panic. A whole new form of commotion washed through the settlement as the village residents looked frightened and uncertain, yet the caravan's stay will be as quick as its arrival.

Commander Reickart later announced they’d reach a roadside tavern by dusk—The Mother Bear’s Den. A murmur of relief passed through the caravan, and even Niall seemed to ease in his sleep.

When awake, both twins were kept amused by the travelers—pilgrims of many tongues who traded stories and songs. They bartered goods, lent helping hands, and shared their alms with the needy. To Sebastian, the caravan felt like a moving festival—leaving each village a touch brighter than before.

Now that Niall lay calm and quiet after so much chaos, Sebastian hoped the worst had passed. The road was far from easy—winter bit hard, and food was scarce—but they were moving forward.

Night falls once again, bringing with it a welcome sight—a tavern’s firelight burning through the trees.

It stood on the edge of a wooded hollow, large and proud for a roadside inn. A roaring bonfire crackled outside, casting warmth and amber light on weary travelers. Not everyone could fit inside, of course, but for Vesna and Cassius, a table had been prepared—along with another bowl of porridge and milk-soaked bread for Sebastian and Niall. For the adults, a more generous fare—roast fowl, crisped to perfection.

A traveling bard played near the hearth—his fiddle at first tentative, then bursting into a jubilant rhythm that set hands clapping and boots thudding on the floorboards. Waitresses and cooks wove between tables, balancing trays, tankards, and the clink of freely traded coin. Games of dice, cards, and cups sprawled across nearby tables; cheers of victory rose with groans of loss, each corner its own island of revelry.

At their own table, Cassius and Vesna shared a quieter space. Their talk was sparse—friendly, yet distant—the kind of closeness shaped by duty rather than affection. Silence passed between them like a gentle tide, softened by the hum of laughter and music.

For the twins, anything was preferable to the cries that had filled the night Reinhurst burned.

Perhaps, in moments like these, there is nothing that should be said. Nothing that can be said. Contemplation—soft, pensive—seemed a better companion.

The moment passes with the arrival of Ser Reickart, who takes a seat beside Cassius, one chain-mailed arm resting against the table’s edge. 

“I’ve spoken with some of the patrons and merchants here,” Reickart reports. “They’ve seen neither hide nor hair of anyone traveling from the southern roads.” Cassius and Vesna’s attention returns, their awareness rekindled by his approach.

“Not even the bandits?” Vesna asks in mild shock, setting her cutlery aside and dabbing a cloth to her lips. Cassius however looks glum with concern.

Reickart shakes his head. “Not even them, my lady — though that may work to our favor. They don’t seem bold enough to pillage with indiscrimination. Likely they’re living rough in the wilderness and won’t risk open confrontation the nearer we draw to Conevico."

“Surely they don’t expect Lothar’s nobility to let such lawlessness go unchallenged,” Cassius remarks, suspicion edging his tone.

Reickart tilts his head side to side. “Unfortunately, the news I’ve heard is unsurprising — renewed tensions between Lothar and the Elves along the western border. The nobility may be too distracted."

At that, Sebastian perks his head from the basket, glancing toward the discussion.

“Not this again,” Vesna huffs, irritation coloring her voice. The tone alone suggests a long and bitter history between Lothar and the Elves.

“I don’t know the full details,” Reickart admits. “But there’s been a call for levies westward from the garrisons. The Elves have been harassing frontier towns, and Lothar’s giving them ‘tit for tat.’ The dwarves of Greifenberge are mired in their campaign against the Drow Imperium deep in the Under-Realms, while Lothar’s lords struggle to keep that conflict from spilling to the surface. And the winter’s cold is turning men into animals in the places they can’t protect."

“Seems their hands are plenty full,” Cassius observes, wrapping his fingers around a tankard. “That might explain the free reign these deserters have found."

Vesna seems too deep in thought to answer, but Reickart nods sagely. “My thoughts exactly. We;ve been blessed to be on the right side of Lothar to avoid a border dispute — cursed to suffer the lax security it leaves behind.”

“We cannot afford to be swept up in such affairs,” Vesna declares. “The King of Neustria is trying to court good relations with the Elves. It's best we pass through quickly — and quietly.

Cassius and Reickart both nod in agreement. “Well then,” Reickart says as he rises, pushing in his seat. “If that’s the plan, we should be up with the lark — ready for the final push toward the city. Good night to you both." 

“A blessed evening to you, Ser,” Cassius says, raising his tankard.
“And to you as well,” Vesna adds, resting her chin atop her folded hands, elbows propped on the table.

After Reickart departs, Vesna stares down at the table, and Cassius turns his gaze toward her. “You look like something weighs on your mind,” he observes softly. 

Vesna glances up at the monk, humming thoughtfully. “I don’t expect trouble before we cross into Romagnia. That’s not my worry — it’s what Lothar will become in the months ahead."

Cassius tilts his head. “You know, a pilgrimage is less about the destination and more about the faith practiced along the way. We might yet serve the people while we’re here, amidst these troubling times."

“True,” Vesna agrees, though her thoughts seem elsewhere. “I suppose I’m thinking of the consequences that follow such troubles.” She exhales, then gestures toward the portions of food remaining upon the table. “Come — help me clean the plates." 

After their meal, Cassius summoned the waitress and arranged for lodging. He requested a private room for himself, Vesna, and the children—something away from the cold, quiet and comfortable. The tavern’s owner, a portly woman with a warm smile and gentle demeanor, agreed easily. She even offered access to the baths, given their station and the children's presence.

The price was settled. The night, at last, was theirs. All that remained was to settle in—and rest.

Cassius -- The Mother Bear Tavern -- Evening, 2 Myrdas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The night was still young, and by some small miracle—or, as Cassius preferred to think, the favor of AVO—he had managed to secure a room for himself, Vesna, and the children. Praise be to AVO, he mused with quiet satisfaction.

He attended to the necessary tasks with practiced care. The basket was emptied and cleaned, lined anew with fresh linens from the tavern’s keep. The children were bathed—Sebastian amused by the splashing water, Niall more reluctant—and afterward dressed in hand-me-down clothes once worn by the innkeeper’s own children.

Cassius felt a rare sense of contentment. For once, all seemed well.
Carrying the children, basket in hand, he entered their quarters.

It was modest but had everything he had hoped for: a bed, a desk, a hearth, and a small window that peered out into the night. Warmth radiated from the fire, and the cold outside felt a world away.

His quiet inspection was broken by the sound of boots on the floorboards. The innkeeper’s husband entered, carrying a wooden cradle built for infants—low, safely fenced, and adorned with carved animal motifs: chickens, foxes, and stags.

The children were instantly delighted.

Cassius smiled faintly as he tucked them in, watching their eyes trace the carved animals as though they were alive. Niall yawned; Sebastian only stared, wide-eyed and curious.

At last, the prior turned to his own thoughts. He sat before the small desk, unrolled a travel scroll, and set out his ink and quill. The feather trembled slightly between his fingers—not from cold, but from the heaviness of unspoken thoughts.

There was much to record. More still to reflect upon. These were the lands of Lothar—a realm of mountains, forests, and solemn people. A realm freshly scarred by fire and death. He did not yet know what unrest stirred here, but his intuition whispered of something dreadful beneath the surface.

And so, with a slow breath and a steady hand, he produces his journal and scans its contents with his eyes.

“Our pilgrimage begins! We depart from Lycaron, capital of the Kingdom of Neustria, bound for the distant sands of Sehlaria and the holy city of Sehlaris. It shall be a journey unlike any I have known. Neustria—my homeland—stands proud in its chivalric heritage: defiant against the evils that beset humankind, steadfast in its resistance against Romagnian imperialism.”

“Yet I am bound for the most sacred of lands—Sehlaria, where golden sands veil the cradle of mankind, or so the Temple historians proclaim. It was there, they teach, that the first of our kind rose from the flood and took root upon this continent.”

“Now my steps carry me to the far edges of human civilization—in service of faith, and in fellowship with those who share its burdens.”

“Along this path I have found worthy companions—none more steadfast than Lady Vesna, a noblewoman of rare wit and indomitable will. I am sworn to safeguard her through this pilgrimage, though her courage oft strays into recklessness. She meets peril with the poise of one unaccustomed to fear—and perhaps too accustomed to privilege. Her husband—whose name I withhold for prudence’s sake—would scarcely stay his wrath, even for a man of the cloth, were I to fail in this charge.”

Cassius chuckled quietly at the thought of how many times he had been forced to pull Vesna out of trouble. Nobility though she was, her inexperience showed in foreign lands. Though born of woodland stock before her marriage elevated her standing, she often faltered when faced with customs beyond Neustria’s courts and manners.

Flipping through the pages, Cassius reminisced on their long passage through Sehlaria.

“We have arrived in Sehlaria—and not a moment too soon. Our voyage across the Fares Channel was particularly harsh for Vesna, who is most frail of stomach upon the waves. Already she curses my name and laments the horror of enduring it all again on our return home. Yet I can only pray that this pilgrimage will strengthen her for that journey.

As fortune would have it, our paths crossed with a band of Saharim nomads who sought passage toward the Sultan’s capital, Erahmis. It is true—our people trace their lineage to the Saharim, the people of Abraham and the Covenant of our shared God, AVO. Yet to them, He is Adonai, King of the Universe, who has chosen humanity as His favored creation. Unlike our Temple, they do not follow the teachings of the Twelve Apostles under AVO. Their laws are many, and their life is austere.

It was truly fascinating to witness a people who still adhere to the most ancient traditions of our Gospels. They adhere to the Old Scriptures—what they call the Tanakh. These are written teachings dating back to our first steps upon Balandaria, after the flood that destroyed the First Kingdom.

Yet they differ greatly from their Sehlarian brethren, who profess the Creed of Light under El Elyon—another name they attribute to AVO. The Creed of Light derives from the Tanakh, but also from the teachings of the Twin Hero Kings, David and Solomon.

Blessed by the virtue of El Elyon, David would go on to achieve fables of great deeds, compose timeless hymns, and bring glory to his people. Solomon withdrew into solitude to seek and pen the wisdom of the world, and was rewarded all things in prosperity through his steadfast faith.

These two kings, through their familial unions, would found the twin thrones of Sehlaria—the Sultanate under David, and the Caliphate under Solomon.

There is so much yet to revisit and explore within these holy lands and their libraries—and with hope, something I may bring back to inspire my many students.”

Cassius could only smile recalling the priceless tomes he was able to purchase and able to bring back home. He could scarcely wait to preach the words of the Old Scriptures—those who came before the Temple. Still, he turned the page and continued his readings.

"“Vesna and I were granted the gracious honor of dining with the Sultan of Sehlaria! Asakar Sehlaria—his rumored affliction of leprosy has made many wary of his longevity and ability to rule, yet his presence was near-angelic: adorned in cascading layers of white robes and veiled by a mask of polished mithril. His title, the Silver Sultan, is well deserved.

His manner was gracious beyond measure, his hospitality worthy of his forebear, the great King David. In all the time I have known her, Vesna seemed right at home even in this foreign land. Whatever aid I could render him as a cleric of AVO, I did so gladly.

He seemed most delighted by our pilgrimage, though often he lamented his own inability to undertake one himself. It would appear that those who follow the Creed of Light undertake a different pilgrimage altogether, known as The Seven Virtues. Those who seek forgiveness or greater piety must retrace the tribulations of King David before reaching Sehlaris—the seat of Solomon—where they contemplate their trials beneath the scrutiny of the Caliph. It was a prospect that greatly tempted me; alas, Vesna was forced to keep some rein upon my wandering zeal.

Our parting was bitter, yet the memory remains ever sweet.”

Turning the pages, he lingered upon his private prayers in Sehlaris, his wanderings with Vesna through the markets, his audience at the Palace of Solomon, and his renewed baptism in the River of Solomon.

In time, they departed the holy city, crossing the full breadth of the River of Solomon and journeying into Castillia—through hills and around mountains—until at last they reached Lothar, where the recent trials awaited them. His journal was filled with these accounts, right up to the moment of his arrival at the tavern.

His expression was drawn with concern for the unrest plaguing these lands—deserters turned brigands, preying upon the serfs of their lords. Dabbing his quill into the inkwell, Cassius resumed his account of the long and troubled road.

“Lothar has ever been a land steeped in blood and sorrow.

It is often forgotten—willingly or not—that these lands were not always the dominion of men. In ancient times, during the Age of Strife—after both the angels and AVO Himself were sundered from the world, and the remnants of humankind washed upon these shores—it was the elves who dwelt here first.

Primarily the wood elves and the dawn elves, to my recollection.

The Wood Elves, who revered the forests and communed with the trees, made their homes beneath canopies so vast they cast twilight across entire valleys. The Dawn Elves were another breed entirely—builders of radiant halls and sun-gleamed towers, who nurtured the land with careful warmth, warding away famine and frost. It was they who raised the harvests and gave praise to the gentle sun.

Yet those days are long vanished.

Following their defeat and exile in the Banner Wars, the Dawn Elves withdrew to their fabled city in the sky—a place of crystal spires and burning clouds—where their bitterness festered into fanaticism. There they remain, above the reach of earthly kingdoms, descending only to exact vengeance for their ancient humiliation. The Wood Elves, scattered and dispossessed, retreated westward into the sanctuary of Elentárië.

Thus ended the age of harmony.

Once, in the First Age, humans and elves lived as kin—bound together since the dawn of mortal-kind’s arrival upon this world. From that sacred union was born the First Kingdom, founded by Ardeth—the first human king, whom we call Adam. His bride, given to him by AVO, was the first woman: to us, Eve; but to the elves, she was Náriel.

Their reign ushered in a golden peace.

But with the Sundering came the Flood, and our bond with the heavens grew distant. Our blessed tranquility dissolved into spiritual poverty—hunger, envy, pride, and fear—and from that decay was born the bitterness that festers still, after near eighteen centuries.

Even now, though alliances form in the shadow of greater evils, the wounds have never healed. The elves—ever cautious, ever inward-looking—may stand beside humankind against the horrors that plague Balandaria, yet beneath that shared shield lies old mistrust.

Then dawned the Age of Banners.

During that cruel chapter, humankind in Lothar was shackled beneath elven yokes. Some accounts claim they were treated little better than cattle—used for sport, toil, and sacrifice. Many were sent to the high towers and ceremonial pits of the Dawn Elves, where they were offered to Solariel, the Elven Goddess of Sun and Purity.

Few records survive from that age—and fewer still without dispute.

The other elven nations—whether from pride or fear—turned their gaze aside. The Dawn Elves ruled unchallenged until Romagnia and the Orthodox Temple intervened. My Temple. It was we who declared the Great Crusade—not solely against the Dawn Elves, but in defense of humanity’s ancient rights and the restoration of the First Kingdom.

Much blood was shed in those years.

Yet of all the battlefields, none were so red, nor so bitter, as Lothar. Here the war burned hottest, where ancestral rage and divine sanction turned every stone and blade into a relic of hatred.”

Cassius looked out the window into the growing night, where a great half-full moon rose among the trees. His expression was drawn with quiet frustration, the feather quill still poised between his thumb and forefinger.

"Today, it seems the roles have not been abolished—only reversed.

Slavery, though now reduced to tatters among both men and elves, has left its mark. In Lothar, the scars run deep. The people here have known little else but the bitterness inherited from generations of subjugation and vengeance. Rather than heal, they repeat the tragedy.

The Banner Wars have been over for nearly two centuries. The men and women who bled and died in them are long gone, their bones buried beneath the same soil they once fought to till or claim. Yet the memory lives on—not as reflection, but as fuel.

As for the elves—those who endured, who watched the monuments of their gods fall and their temples burn—they still live. Their lives stretch across the ages, and so, too, does their grief.

Yet their pursuit of justice has grown twisted. It exists only in repetition—in lip service to vengeance for crimes long since drowned beneath greater ones that followed.

They speak of justice, yes—but only of that which can be weighed upon their own scales. Only retribution. Only silence for those they deem too short-lived to understand. Their memories are long, their wounds real—but their vision has narrowed.

And perhaps we humans are no better.

The humans born in Lothar know nothing of the dawn-elf temples once raised on these lands, nor of the chains that bound their ancestors. They grow up hearing only stories—of fire and cruelty, of sacrifices upon sun-altars and rivers of blood. They inherit not only land, but the same generational hatred. They pass down the hunger to avenge, to blame, to never forget—but never to forgive.

What, then, has truly changed?

We never seem to learn. Hatred is not always born of action or word—it drifts, like a seed upon the wind, seeking hearts in which to take root and grow.”

With a sigh, Cassius dipped his quill into the inkwell and rubbed at his eyes. He glanced toward the children—sleeping peacefully, nestled together on the bed—then returned to his parchment.

Perhaps Reinhurst was such a village—a secluded elven conclave living among men. A quiet place, chosen as an easy target by opportunistic soldiers—those who still harbor old resentments long after the wars ended.”

Cassius paused in thought, stealing a glance at the children in the crib.

“But as I look again at the children, I see no trace of elven heritage. Even half-elves, born of two peoples, still bear the pointed ears of their elven parentage. These boys bear none.

So then, perhaps Reinhurst was nothing more than a Lotharian village after all—ordinary, innocent, an unfortunate victim in a land that seems only a crucible for tragedy and hatred.

For now, I can only speculate upon the answers to what questions remain.

Until I have reached Conevico—until I can find records, or at least shelter—I will press on through snow and cold. And it seems it will only grow colder the further I go.”

Setting the quill down, he left the parchment open to let the ink dry. Rising from his chair, he stepped to the manger and looked down at the children. They slept like stone—deep and undisturbed upon their little mattress, curled close beside one another. Still, untroubled. Safe.

“Well now,” Cassius murmured softly. “I suppose it’s time I settle in as well.”

He stretched his arms wide, releasing the tension from his shoulders, then leaned forward to pull the blanket neatly up and around the children—tucking it gently beneath their shoulders. His hand lingered a moment upon the soft fabric near Sebastian’s cheek, then smoothed along Niall's as he traces his thumb along it's curve.

“A big day for all of us,” he whispered. Leaning across the bed, he blew out the candlelight. The room, warm and quiet, fell into darkness.

Vesna -- The Mother Bear Tavern -- Evening, 2 Myrdas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

“It has been half a year now upon this road I have walked—half a year of seeing, breathing, and experiencing the world anew,”

Vesna wrote, her hand steady as she reclined beneath the candlelit window of her room. She sat in her nightgown, the blanket curled around her legs—offering warmth where she welcomed it, and resistance where she did not.

Her door was locked, the fire beside her crackling warmly in the hearth she shared through the chimney with Cassius next door. Her desk stood mostly bare, its openness offering a welcome simplicity. Her long brown hair—unbound—spilled across the blanket like silk, each strand catching glints of firelight.

"Half a year since I last beheld my beloved city of Lycaron… she continued. My husband—AVO bless his soul—has at last begun to take his duties to the Kingdom of Neustria seriously. It has granted me great freedom, but also no small measure of loneliness in his absence.

It would be too easy to say I grew bored of governance—of estate matters, taxes, and the endless levies meant to preserve peace. But the truth is, I never had a talent for it. I believe even my husband’s inner circle knew as much. To them, I was the daughter of a gamekeeper—unsuitable for court, and perhaps for his side.

“So be it!” I had said, back then. “To faraway lands, then—where I shall return with stories worth hearing, and with prestige of my own making.”

Vesna smiled softly at the memory. Tilting her head toward the window, her gaze grew distant as she imagined returning home—her ginger-haired husband rushing to her in a frantic embrace, all decorum forgotten.

She had written him many letters from the cities she had visited—long and detailed. But receiving replies was another matter entirely. The nature of pilgrimage made remaining in one place near impossible. Even the most devoted courier would struggle to follow a woman who moved beneath notice.

Still, she liked to think that at the end of this road she wandered, she would once again rejoin her family—and revisit the letters she had sent, and the journal she now wrote.

Before my husband set out on his tour of Neustria, he insisted I take Father Cassius of St. Noscrim’s Priory with me. A peculiar man, yet reputed a veteran adventurer of old—once a Knight of the Hospitaller Order, as I recall. Militant healers and guardians of monastery-hospitals, they devote themselves to hospice and restoration. Thankfully, we have yet to meet bloodshed on this pilgrimage. Feral beasts are rare along the roads; when they do appear, my hunting has spared the caravan no small trouble.

Being noble by marriage grants me the right to hunt, and thanks to my upbringing as a gamekeeper’s daughter I put better fare upon the table than any companion we have. For once in a long while, I feel relied upon—and quietly grateful for the company about me.

After Sehlaria, as we followed the eastern shores of Castillia, we came upon a village in Lothar—burnt to its foundations. At first I feared we had stumbled into war with the Elves or been prey to pirates. Yet Reickart's reports are grim: a rot in Lothar’s soldiery—deserters turned marauders, perhaps. Or Elven boldness reaching farther than before. Or merely well-fortuned brigands, yet to be hunted down.

Whatever the cause, we rescued two human infants from that ruin—two lost children found amid ashes. We saved what little we could.

Vesna paused—pen resting as she leaned her head back against the bedchamber wall. After a measured breath, she resumed.

Their parents remain unknown. If I am honest, I hold little hope they will be found. Cassius vows he might track them down—and while I applaud his optimism, I keep a more sombering mind. If the worst comes to pass, I have wondered whether I might take Sebastian and Niall into my household.

My own children, Jessarel and Aurélie, are already grown to their independence—so self-sufficient that my leaving likely moved them little. I had imagined this pilgrimage would test whether my fledglings could fly without the nest; if the tutors my husband hired are to be believed, they have.

At twenty-eight years of age, I am told I remain in my prime, by the standards of our station. Yet bringing a child home under such circumstances might raise concerns—suspicions of infidelity, given my long absence. Better, then, to consider them wards rather than sons; that would placate the tongues of court. Assuming, of course, Cassius’s clerical zeal does not compel him to offer them to the Church.

Her expression darkened as she dipped her quill once mor.

Though I have spoken at length with Cassius of the pilgrimage’s spiritual aims, my true purpose reaches further. I travel not only for devotion, but for Neustria’s prosperity—and in service to my king. I mean to open negotiations with Dogeia, increasingly anxious under the shadow of Romagnia’s ambition.

Romagnia’s clergy long have pressed for a unified Pax Romagnia, a single secular and religious yoke over Balandaria. Their imperial dream—dormant since the Age of Banners centuries past—stirs anew. Not since they once contested Elves, Sehlaria, and Neustria has their appetite shown such teeth.

It is my duty to keep those ambitions only dreams. I must keep Romagnia pacified and within dormancy for the sake of our allies.

Time is short. The recent unrest in Lothar fills me with grave concern for the stability of our western neighbors. I must act swiftly if I am to complete my task—ere unforeseen events render my already fragile position undone."

The hour grew late, and a sudden gust snuffed the candle—as though the night itself had decided her vigil was over. Vesna smiled faintly, taking the candle and her journal to lay upon the desk. As she did, her gaze caught the corner of the surface, where a wax-sealed letter lay waiting—one she knew well, sent by her husband as part of her diplomatic charge.

She reached for the envelope, fingertips brushing its smooth vellum. The wax seal gleamed faintly in the half-light—a crowned lion resting one paw upon an open tome: the Royal Signet of the House of Neustria. It was her duty to see it safely delivered to its intended recipient.

Vesna closed her eyes, her hand rising unconsciously to her ring finger—bare, unadorned. Realizing, she lowered her gaze, longing for the days when she could wear her ring openly once more. But the King had demanded secrecy, and she would not risk her husband’s name before the royal court.

Letting her hand fall away, she opened the desk drawer and placed the sealed letter within. She shut it firmly, casting a glance over her shoulder toward the door. With a soft sigh, she checked the lock once more, then crossed to the window and drew it closed with a click of the clasp. It was time, at last, to turn in for the night.

Sebastian -- Conevico -- Midday, 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

“There it is!” shouted Alvar, the master carpenter, rousing Sebastian from his slumber. The boy peeked from the opening of the basket he’d grown accustomed to. That morning, Sebastian, Niall, Cassius, and Lady Vesna sat together on a bench inside the wagon, nestled among the caravan train.

“The city walls of Conevico! We’re finally a stone’s throw from Romagnia!” Alvar declared with a wide, toothed grin. Cassius and Vesna both brightened at the sight of the distant stone-walled city.

As the caravan rolled closer, Sebastian finally saw them—the towering, tree-high walls of gray stone, far grander than he could have imagined. To his childlike eyes, they looked less like walls and more like distant snow-capped mountains. Wooden palisades crowned the stonework, where guards stood watch, peering down at the arriving travelers.

The sounds grew louder—voices, clattering hooves, creaking wheels—but it wasn’t the noise that unsettled Sebastian. It was the smell: a foul, wrenching stench that wafted from the city, jarring his senses and stifling his curiosity. Before long, Niall began to fuss—grumbling and squirming, though not yet crying.

“Oh, you two must’ve never been in a city before,” Cassius observed, casting a helpless glance toward the children. The monk—now guardian to both boys—kept them close to him so as to ward off the scents of the city.

“At least we’re not walking through the muck of the streets,” Lady Vesna quipped as the wagon rolled through the open gates with the rest of the caravan. “Did you make arrangements with a tavern?” Vesna asked, glancing toward Cassius.

“Not with a tavern, no. I’d hoped to stay at the cathedral—provided they’re not already full to bursting this time of year,” Cassius admitted. His planning seemed less thorough than Vesna's. Then again, much has happened in Lothar, everything seemed to be uncertain as of late.

“You could stay with me in the castle, if all else fails,” Vesna offered. “It may still be Lothar, but even this far west, I’m sure Lord Arco would host a Neustrian envoy—with the right... encouragement.”

“Failing that, the poorhouse is always available,” Alvar chimed in, walking alongside the wagon. He’d clearly overheard their exchange. “A roof’s a roof, even if it’s not the finest one.”

Cassius looked to be considering it for the moment before Vesna's voice broke his train of thought. “Ah, Alvar. That reminds me,” Vesna said, turning to him. “Could you help me tomorrow with gathering fresh supplies for the caravan? We need nails—and our crowbar’s practically useless.”

“Sí,” Alvar said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The wagons are aging, too. I’d like to give them a look over, see if they can’t be mended. Free of charge, of course,” he added quickly. “Though I could use a noblewoman’s presence to haggle for better prices on materials.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t flaunt your lineage quite so carelessly,” Cassius remarked with a furrowed brow. Then he sighed. “...Though I might just take you up on that offer of hospitality, Lady Vesna. The children should have the best we can offer them.”

Cassius reached into the basket and gently tickled the infants through their swaddling blankets, drawing cheerful giggles from both. “I still need to report this to the Temple and see what comes of it. If their parents are alive... I may need to remain here—at least long enough to ensure they’re returned safely.”

“Of course,” Vesna said. “But if it does come to that, I expect you to bid me farewell properly. I detest meek goodbyes.”

Cassius laughed softly in acknowledgment and raised a hand to his chest in mock solemnity before dipping his head in a respectful bow. “I promise, good lady—I’ll keep you informed. But I also have a duty to you. I swore to return you to Lycaron. My stay here won’t be long; I imagine I’ll rejoin the caravan before you’re even halfway to Theleto.”

“Would be a shame to lose you, padre,” Alvar said with a note of remorse. “But if it’s for those poor souls, the shame would be mine alone.” He extended a hand, which Cassius took in a firm handshake.

“Hopefully I won’t be gone too long. I’ll miss your sailor stories—and your company,” Cassius chuckled, prompting a grin from Alvar.

And with that, their goodbyes were concluded as the wagon rolled onward through snow-laden, muck-slicked streets.

The sounds of the city were overwhelming—abundant, layered, and nearly deafening. Even from Sebastian’s confined vantage within the basket, he glimpsed the mingled dwellings of stone and timber as the caravan wagon rattled along the uneven street. Lines of laundry stretched between buildings, fluttering in the morning breeze like leaves quivering beneath a clear, blue sky.

Voices filled the air—an argument over a lost shipment, a hired hand scolded for the third time to repeat his chores, gossip traded between townsfolk, and the rhythmic clatter of craftsmen’s tools. The city was a sea of motion, sound, and smell—sharp, sour, and strange. Even what little the children could see from within their basket was enough to make them cling to the familiar rather than brave that bubbling chaos.

Templar Commander Reickart appeared then, mounted upon his horse and keeping steady pace beside the wagon as the caravan pressed deeper into the walled city.

“The caravan will resume its road to Theleto in two days’ time,” the holy knight announced. “From there, we should find the journey smoother than through Castillia.”

“I would hope so—being this close to the cradle of civilization,” Vesna replied dryly. Her rapier wit drew a few chuckles from nearby pilgrims, though Reickart only smiled at the Neustrian noblewoman.

“You’ve been kind, diligent—and, dare I say, invaluable in these trying days, Lady Vesna. On behalf of the men, the Templar Order thanks you,” said Reickart, bowing his head in respect.

Vesna rose despite the wagon’s motion, steadying herself as though to disembark. “We’ve still a week before Theleto,” she said, adjusting her cloak. “Let’s make sure we survive the day first.”

When the wagons were stabled and the horses tended, the caravan began to scatter for the day. Pilgrims wandered off in pairs and trios toward inns, fountains, and the countless streets and curiosities the city offered.

Cassius, the basket cradled in one arm and his walking stave in the other, offered brief farewells to Lady Vesna and Alvar the carpenter. The noblewoman lingered long enough to adjust the blanket around Sebastian and Niall, sharing with them a soft, wordless glance that lingered even after she turned away.

“Come now,” Cassius murmured to himself and his charges, setting off at a deliberate pace. “Time to pay our respects—and perhaps find where we’ll lay our heads tonight.”

They passed beneath a broad archway, the clamor of the outer market fading behind them—replaced by a steadier, more deliberate urban rhythm. The streets of Conevico were a world apart from the open road. Stone towers rose in tiers, adorned with narrow balconies whose ironwork curled like vines. Elegant arches met with suspended bridges between structures, weaving the city together like a spider’s web. The paving stones were uneven from centuries of wear, slick with damp and city grime.

Children in tunics and smocks darted along the gutters, chasing one another with sticks, while a street peddler hawked cured boar strips and dried pomegranates from beneath a striped awning. The clatter of hooves and carts reverberated through the corridors of tall buildings, blending with the distant toll of bells—soft, resonant, constant—as though Conevico itself breathed in rhythm with its cathedral.

Sebastian peeked from the basket’s brim, gazing at towers not unlike the trees of old—soaring, vertical things of ashen stone rather than living bark. Ornate carvings adorned nearly every surface: saints, cherubs, knights, and grim-faced gargoyles hunching over gutters, eternally drooling runoff into the streets below. One statue in particular—a saint with lantern and staff—stared down with hollowed eyes, framed by flowering ivy that clung lovingly to the wall around him.

Turning a corner into a grander thoroughfare, the city’s Great Cathedral of AVO unveiled itself in all its majesty. Its spires pierced the heavens like lances. Rose-colored stained glass bloomed across its façade in radiant circles, catching the late morning light like captured fire. The flying buttresses held the structure aloft like wings, and even from afar, the air was perfumed with incense and warm tallow.

The plaza before the cathedral was a living kaleidoscope of motion and devotion. Clerics in cream robes swept the marble with straw bundles, while beggars murmured prayers at the foot of a fountain depicting AVO—the Divine Source—arms outstretched, gaze lifted heavenward. A cluster of Templars, armored in white and crimson, stood in silent vigil at the base of the steps.

Cassius paused, letting the children absorb the grandeur before them. “This, little ones,” he said softly, reverence warming his tone, “is where we may find answers… or at least the path that leads to them.”

He drew a slow breath, straightened his shoulders, and stepped toward the great doors of the cathedral—each footfall echoing softly across the sunlit plaza. The oaken gates yielded with a low groan, ancient hinges straining under their own weight. A wave of incense-laced warmth poured outward, mingling with the crisp morning air as Cassius crossed the threshold into the sacred interior.

Inside, the light changed—no longer the clear gold of morning, but a filtered bloom of amber and rose, refracted through towering stained glass windows that reached high into the vault above. The air was dense—not with emptiness, but with reverence. It was the kind of silence broken only by a whispered prayer or the careful tread of an acolyte moving between rows of stone pews. Beneath his boots, the mosaic floor shimmered faintly—lapis, onyx, and mother-of-pearl forming sacred seals and sigils devoted to AVO.

Cassius paused in the narthex, shifting the basket in his arms as he absorbed the vast grandeur of the space. The central nave stretched long and high toward the altar, flanked by columns carved in the likeness of angelic sentinels. Overhead, the great dome bore a fresco of the Firmament—AVO’s divine throne—encircled by twelve celestial avatars, each holding a symbol of virtue: sword, scroll, balance, flame.

The children stirred faintly in awe. Even in infancy, the soul seemed to recognize holiness. Cassius bowed his head toward the altar, then turned left toward a small doorway beneath a carved arch inscribed Domus Consilii—“The Chapter House.”

The adjoining halls felt older—monastic rather than ceremonial. Narrow, timeworn corridors echoed with the faint murmur of distant prayers. As Cassius turned a corner, he caught sight of a lone figure in dark robes and a drawn hood.

“Ah—“Brother,” Cassius called softly yet with quiet authority. The hooded man, emerging from a side passage, paused at the tone and quickened his pace, approaching the priest and his burden with silent urgency. “I am Prior Cassius of St. Avalor’s Priory in Lycaron, on pilgrimage,” he said. “There’s been an emergency—Reinhurst village has been burned to the ground.”

“Good heavens,” the hooded man gasped, recoiling. “Reinhurst? Was it… the Elves?”

Cassius shook his head. “We don’t know. The Templar scouts suspect Lotharian deserters, but our caravan never gave pursuit—and to my knowledge, they’ve yet to be caught. What matters now is access to the Temple archives and any available aid. These two children—” he lifted the basket slightly “—are the only survivors we found.”

“How dreadful…” the monk murmured, his face falling. “Please, just a moment. The Terce prayers are concluding soon. I’ll send for Father Nikodemus. He’ll need to confirm your identity before the Ordo Luminary grants you access to the archives.”

He bowed and gestured ahead. “If you’d like, we have an herbal garden you may wait in—it’s quiet there, peaceful.”

“Thank you,” Cassius said, inclining his head in return.

The monk led him through a modest archway into an enclosed courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the cloistered walkways of the Chapter House. Roofed colonnades provided shelter along the perimeter, their sconces casting a gentle dance of firelight against ancient stone. Within the garden’s square, neat beds of winter-root herbs, pale sage, and burlap-wrapped evergreens lay tended with care. Despite the cold season, a few hardy blossoms still clung to life beside a small stone well.

Cassius stepped beneath the shelter of the corridor, letting the mingled warmth of firelit stone and open air calm his breath. He glanced down at the children. “See that, little ones?” he murmured. “We have a garden like this at home too—but ours is wider, big enough to hold a tree.” He smiled faintly, rocking the basket in his arms as they waited.

A tree, in a garden open to the sky yet enclosed by walls? To a child’s mind, it might as well have been a house with a tree inside it. The world seemed full of wonders—but Sebastian was still so new to it that he couldn’t yet tell what belonged to dream and what to the real.

They didn’t wait long before the choir’s song faded into silence. Just as Sebastian began to drift toward sleep, a door creaked open, breaking the calm. Two figures appeared—one in black robes like Cassius, the other clad in subdued armor of darkened leather rather than steel, far less imposing than the Templars’ gleaming plate.

“Brother... Cassius, was it?” asked the black-robed man. Cassius turned toward him, both hands resting on the basket’s handle.

“Brother Nikodemus, would I be presuming correctly?” Cassius asked, inclining his head in respect.

The robed man nodded. “Thank you for taking the time to see me,” Cassius said, bowing slightly.

“Yes, yes, quite. Brother Tybur passed along the details about Reinhurst,” Nikodemus replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Something about requesting Temple assets—under the Luminary’s jurisdiction?”

“That’s correct,” Cassius affirmed. “I’m trying to determine the whereabouts—or perhaps the fate—of these children’s parents. They were the only survivors we found, and our caravan had no time to linger with deserters and bandits prowling the countryside. I hoped there might be an inquiry filed—or a survivor who reached the city.”

Nikodemus blanched at the news. “By the Blood of the Apostles... these are dark days indeed—when winter’s chill shows more mercy than the hearts of men.” He sighed and turned toward the armored man. “Brother Algier?”

The man called Algier was lithe and pale, with a wiry, almost ascetic bearing—not gangly, but tempered by hardship into a quiet, lean presence. His features bore the trace of someone raised in austerity, perhaps even poverty. One hand lifted to his chin in thought, Cassius caught him glimpsing directly at the children before his eyes drifted to the stone floor, then outcast towards the distant garden—until Nikodemus addressed him, drawing him back.

“This is the first I’ve heard of Reinhurst’s burning,” Algier said evenly. “Had there been survivors, word would likely have reached us by now—either from the garrison or a nearby settlement. From the sound of it, your caravan may be the first to report the tragedy, Cassius.”

“No…” Cassius breathed, his brow furrowing as the weight of the revelation settled. It was perhaps the worst news he could have imagined.

Algier lifted a hand in reassurance. “That doesn’t mean all is certain. New reports arrive daily, and the Ordo Luminary never sleeps, as they say. My own archives may hold nothing yet—but the Faith’s network may still uncover something.”

Algiers paused, glancing toward the basket. “Do they have names?”

“No. At least… none that I know of,” Cassius admitted. “We found them in a hollowed signpost before dawn—no note, no sigil, only a basket and a pair of blankets to keep them warm.”

Algier exhaled softly, his hands settling on his belt, thumb idly tracing the worn leather. A complicated expression flickered across his face—one Cassius couldn’t put into words.

“…I can’t promise anything,” Algier said at last. “The most I can do is begin inquiries—missing children, possible survivors from Reinhurst. Naturally, we’ll do all we can to shed light on the matter. No doubt Grand Prince Ulrich and Duke Rubhert Arco will want these marauders subdued before chaos spreads further across the region. If the bandits took prisoners, their testimonies might help us identify the culprits—or at the very least, confirm the reports.”

As Cassius nods, looking downcast, Algier's gaze once more drifted to the children. A faint frown shadowing his face as a slight scowl tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Nikodemus nodded solemnly. “Have faith, Brother Cassius. You’ve done well—both for the Faith and for your new charges.” He folded his hands over his abdomen and offered a warm, if weary, smile.

“Of course.” Cassius rose then bowed his head respectfully. “I’m afraid I must impose a bit further… Is there anywhere within the cathedral where the little ones and I might stay? Just until Fehrdas morning—or sooner, if word of their parents arrives.”

“Ah, your pilgrimage is still on the move—to Theleto?” Nikodemus asked with a thoughtful hum. Cassius nodded.

Nikodemus sighed. “Unfortunately, our monastery is filled to bursting—pilgrims, the poor, the sick. Winter has driven many through our gates, and we’re hard-pressed for space. However, if nothing new arises during your stay, we’ll ensure any findings are forwarded to your lodgings in Theleto.”

There was apology in his tone, yet his sincerity was unmistakable.

At that, Algier made a half-turn, clearly preparing to depart. “Then we’ll begin mobilization. We’ll need to sweep the forest and the village ruins and brave a good deal of winter’s reach. Lord Rubhert Arco must be informed, and the surrounding villages placed on high alert. If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed and strode briskly down the garden corridor.

“A moment, Brother Algier,” Cassius called, stepping forward. The Luminary agent halted.

“If you’re heading to the castle—to Lord Arco—might I accompany you? I have a friend among the nobility who’s offered me lodging. It may help if someone of standing vouched for me at the gate.”

“I don’t see why not,” Algier replied with a brief nod. “Come—we mustn’t waste time.” With that, he resumed his pace—quicker now than the one with which Cassius had entered the cathedral.

Cassius -- Conevico -- Midday, 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

It was a steady walk, though unlike the smoother journey from the wagon bench, Cassius now felt the hardness of cobblestones beneath his boots and the slick grime of the street muck clinging with each step. From the cathedral, their path led onward—toward the castle—through the bustling marketplace. The houses here faced inward toward the market square, their façades a patchwork of plaster and timber, while townsfolk jostled among the stalls, voices rising in an uneven chorus. Peddlers praised their wares with exaggerated flair, each trying to outdo the next.

“So, from what I’ve gathered about your caravan,” Algier began, sidestepping a cluster of gawkers fixated on an auctioneer. “You were on pilgrimage to the city of Sehlaris—from Lycaron, yes? You’ve come a long way, Prior.”

“I would say so. These bones feel a few years older already,” Cassius replied with a wry smile. “But it was a most awe-inspiring journey. I traveled amongst the Saharim, dined with the Sultan, and the Sepulcher of King Solomon—everything I’d hoped it would be, and more. I only wish I could’ve stayed the month... but the Sehlarians kept raising the jizyah.”

“Hm,” Algier grunted thoughtfully. “Were I ever given the time for proper travel, I’d be tempted to go myself.”

Leaving the bustle of the stalls behind, the path brought them to a walled partition enclosing the Arco family’s keep—Conevico Castle. A moat, cleverly integrated into the city’s river system, circled the stronghold, the water flowing beneath a broad stone bridge. The current rippled with icy intent as it meandered back toward the sea.

As they began their crossing, a fearful whimper rose from the basket. The children stirred uneasily, disturbed by the water rushing below. “Ah, one moment, Ser Algier,” Cassius said softly, setting the basket down to check on his charges.

“Oh heavens, don’t tell me you’re hungry again,” Cassius mused, a hint of dry humor in his tone. “Or is it that you’re afraid of heights?” he asked gently, kneeling beside the basket to give its occupants a quick once-over before lifting it back into the crook of his arm. With a steady step, he resumed crossing the bridge toward the looming stone walls rising at the city’s heart.

Ahead stood the castle’s gatehouse—its portcullis bristling with jagged iron teeth, the kind that spoke of grim intentions toward any fool who might try to force their way in… or out. It hung ominously above the archway, like the maw of a slumbering beast.

As they crossed, the rush of water in the moat softened beneath the sound of murmured orders and bootsteps overhead. The guards stationed along the battlements bore the sigil of House Arco upon their tabards—a silver sword entwined with grapevines and blooming leaves, stitched upon a field of deep navy. One sentry called down a formal challenge, but upon spotting Algier’s cloak and the insignia on his shoulder, he gave only a curt nod. With a clank and groan, the portcullis rose, granting passage into the outer courtyard.

Beyond the gatehouse, Conevico Castle revealed a somber scene: gardens stripped bare by winter, leafless trees stretching spindly limbs skyward like skeletal sentinels. The cobbled paths had been recently cleared of snow, but the remaining slush and packed footprints spoke of regular passage. The trees—gray and forlorn—cast long shadows over frostbitten hedgerows.

Above, soldiers marched along the parapets, their footfalls echoing through the courtyard in practiced rhythm. The walls were fitted with ascending staircases that zigzagged up to the ramparts, where guards moved like quiet silhouettes patrolling the heights. Their presence was not ceremonial; it was for the sake of vigilance—proof that this noble place had been built for war.

“This is a castle, little ones,” Cassius murmured to the children, rotating the basket in his arms to give them a view of the courtyard. Their wide, blinking eyes drank in every detail. “The lord of this land and all his noble companions dwell here,” he explained, though he knew full well his words were lost to infancy. Still, some part of him hoped that the experience itself—the awe, the sheer scale—would linger somewhere in their hearts.

Before them rose a pair of great doors, nearly half the size of the city gate they had just passed. Ebony wood reinforced with iron, they loomed in grand design—built more to impress than to withstand a siege.

Cassius approached, treading the stone path toward the main entrance. But as he neared the steps, Algier raised a gloved hand.

“Wait here, Prior Cassius,” the Luminary instructed, quickening his pace toward the doors. “Clergyman or not, my business here is official. Let me test the waters before you start appealing to Duke Arco’s hospitality.”

Cassius exhaled gratefully and nodded. “That would be most appreciated. Thank you.” With a brief nod of acknowledgment, Algier slipped through the towering doors and closed them behind him.

Left in the quiet of the courtyard, Cassius surveyed the looming walls. A castle like this was nearly the size of a small village—fortified with purpose rather than extravagance. Its position along the Lothar–Romagnian frontier marked it as a holdfast both by the sea and the border.

This design… it must date back to the Banner Wars, Cassius mused. Conevico had once been a Romagnian imperial city—a forward stronghold used in their campaign into Lothar during the wars against the Elves, when Balandaria itself teetered on the edge of domination. Though the Empire had long since fractured and the city fallen into Lotharian hands, the bones of Romagnian ambition still lingered here in stone and steel.

Nearly half an hour passed before the grand doors of Conevico Castle opened once more, and Algier emerged from within.

“Duke Ruberht Arco will receive you,” Algier announced, though his tone carried a note of concern. “But I’d brace myself—he’s currently entertaining an... unwanted guest.”

“Guest?” Cassius echoed, a flicker of worry tightening his brow. “It’s not Lady Vesna, is it?”

“Yes... and no,” Algier replied cryptically, his expression darkening as he glanced back toward the doors. “Duke Arco is addressing a... complication. He will receive you once the matter is resolved.”

A complication? Just what awaited inside that they were about to walk into? Cassius could only wonder, drawing in a sharp breath.

“I suppose we’ll see when we get inside,” he muttered with a resigned sigh.

If there was one thing Cassius had no patience for, it was becoming entangled in the games of secular lords—power, pride, and politics. Whatever awaited within those walls, it was one thing for nobility to be in a foul temper; it was quite another to beg their charity while caught in the shadow of their grievances.

The grand doors of the castle parted with a low groan, assisted by the vigilant guards at their posts. They gave way to the foyer hall—a space that immediately enveloped Cassius and Algier in hushed opulence as they stepped inside.

Descending half a dozen broad stone steps, they entered a spacious receiving chamber—a flattened seating hall adorned with banners of deep indigo, their hems embroidered in gold thread, each bearing the sigil of House Arco: a sword entwined in grapevines and leafed blooms. The room exuded a sense of restrained majesty, meant to awe through grandeur, impress through taste and discipline.

The furnishings were of finely carved oak—broad tables, high-backed chairs, and low benches arranged in deliberate symmetry. Each bore the polish of generations. Along the walls stood tall vitrines and pedestals displaying relics and artifacts: ceremonial swords, antique helms, aged scrolls sealed in wax, and bronze busts of former lords—all arranged with precision for the eyes of petitioners awaiting their audience with the ruling house.

High, arched windows lined the upper reaches of the chamber, their glass slightly fogged by the winter air outside, casting dappled rays of cold light upon the stone floor below.

Cassius need not have been near the throne room to hear the tension festering within. Raised voices carried through the corridor—one deep and imperious, the other sharp and insistent—an argument boiling behind doors never meant to conceal emotion. The sounds made the two children in his basket stir, shrinking deeper beneath their blankets, their small faces hidden from the cold swell of conflict.

Once inside, the throne room of Conevico revealed itself in full grandeur. The space was vast and resonant, its ceiling vaulted high above and ribbed with ancient beams of dark, lacquered oak. Upon these were carved intricate scenes of harvest feasts, armored knights lifting goblets, and the curling abundance of vineyards. Warm light filtered through tall stained-glass windows along the southern wall, casting pools of crimson, emerald, and amber across the polished floor. Each pane told a legend of House Arco—knights in triumph, kings in counsel, and the blessing of AVO upon the city’s founding.

At the far end of the chamber, the ducal throne rested atop five ascending steps, draped in a plush carpet of deep indigo jasmine. It was carved from dark walnut, its armrests formed into spirals of grapevines capped with orb-like finials, and its back etched with trellised vineyards heavy with fruit. The leather cushion glimmered faintly in the flickering light—a seat well worn by a lord long accustomed to both ceremony and scrutiny. Behind the throne, twin staircases spiraled upward to the lord’s private quarters, flanking the dais like coiled serpents. Between them hung vast banners: a sword entwined in flowering grapevines upon a navy field—the sigil of House Arco.

Bas-relief carvings adorned the walls, portraying Conevico’s ascent from Romagnian frontier outpost to Lothar’s hard-won jewel after the bloody toll of the Banner Wars. The air was steeped in beeswax and old parchment, laced with the fading sweetness of incense curling from a neglected censer beside the dais. Wrought-iron candelabras lined the walls like skeletal vines, their flames dancing over the polished flagstones. Overhead hung a great bronze chandelier—shaped like a wheel of entwined branches—unlit, yet heavy with presence.

At the foot of the throne’s steps, a low iron balustrade marked the divide between ruler and petitioners—a silent reminder of hierarchy. Beyond it, a shadowed alcove in the left wall held silent advisors and guards, half-seen in the gloom, waiting with folded hands and patient eyes for when their counsel might be summoned.

Cassius lingered a moment, his boots leaving faint, damp prints upon the smooth stone. He turned the basket slightly, granting the children a view of the hall’s towering grandeur.

The man upon the throne was a portly sort, adorned with a circlet of jade and amethyst upon his brow. A thick goateed beard framed his face, while a bald patch gleamed at the crown of his head, surrounded by shoulder-length locks combed over in vain to conceal it. Cladded in layered furs and garments of humble brown hues, a voluminous white wolf pelt draped about his shoulders like a regal scarf.

Three figures stood before him. Cassius recognized one at once—Lady Vesna, poised and alert at the duke’s side. Yet it was the pair she flanked who drew the eye: two green-haired figures, one taller, the other clearly a child. Their attire was foreign, assembled in emerald and silver, lacking the muted earth tones of Lotharian fashion—no greys, browns, or mossy hues. The contrast was striking.

The reason soon became clear when Cassius caught sight of their ears—tapered, sharp, unmistakably elven. Judging by their bearing and composure, they were Wood Elves, and of noble stock at that.

The adult elf stood with quiet dignity. From her shoulders flowed a twin-parted cloak of velvet green, fastened over a finely made traveling tunic. Her vivid hair was bound into a long ponytail that swayed like a horse’s tail. Beside her stood the child, her own green locks falling loosely about her shoulders, as though she sought to mimic her guardian’s grace. She wore a rough brown winter coat and trousers, modest and ragged beside the woman’s finery.

“You expect me to offer you hospitality, elf?!” bellowed the man who could only be Duke Ruberht Arco. “Hospitality—while your kin stalk our western lands, seize my people into bondage, and leave behind naught but burning ruins and broken families?!”

“Herr Arco, this is—” Vesna began, but the duke raised a hand. The room fell into heavy silence until the elven woman stepped forward and broke it.

“Duke Arco, the Dawn Elves are not the Wood Elves. I am ambassador of the Wood Elves to the Kingdom of Neustria. Our diplomatic entourage was ambushed and routed while crossing through Lothar, en route to the Romagnian border. I ask only for a night’s sanctuary beneath your protection, that we may depart safely to Neustria at first opportunity.”

Her voice was soft, restrained with the poise expected of an envoy—yet edged with urgency. The nobleman’s fingers, however, twitched impatiently against the armrest of his throne as his gaze hardened upon the pair.

“You simply had to come through Lothar? No ship would take you around our borders?” he asked, voice sharp with incredulity. “For an ambassador, you seem woefully unaware—or worse, contemptuously dismissive—of how your kind is received here.”

Arco straightened his stance from within his throne, eyes narrowed.

“It is not merely the Dawn Elves who plague this land,” he continued, voice rising. “The High Elves—whom both Wood and Dawn alike serve beneath—have turned our patience into mockery. The attacks in the past year alone outnumber the digits on my hands and feet. Tell me, Ambassador—if such bloodshed came from any human nation, would I be expected to tolerate it?”

“Herr Arco,” Eirina said more firmly, clenching a fist while the child at her side clung to her tunic, “the Sehlarians of the south are sworn enemies of my people. To sail their waters is to risk slavery or death. As for the Emberstone passes, winter has rendered them oceans of ice. Our appointment is not with your lordship, but with the Neustrian crown. I do not condone these attacks upon your people—nor does the crown I serve. Queen Marvhen Sylvian of the Wood Elves has long labored to bridge our divides through the Council of Queens. But I do not—cannot—speak for the others.”

A thunderous slam of Arco’s fist into the throne’s armrest shattered the silence of the room.

“And that, right there, is the whole damn problem with your kind!” Ruberht snarled, pointing a trembling finger at Eirina. “You speak as though your voice bears the weight of promise—but those you claim to represent make liars of you every time!”

Arco rose from his throne yet turned away, pacing to a brazier that smoldered near the dais, staring into its flames with hands clasped behind his back.

“The Wood Elves do not speak for all elves, do they?” he scoffed. “Curious. Curious indeed. And yet... when it matters most, your kind either act too late—or not at all. The Age of Strife, the Banner Wars, the years of enslavement, the massacres—where were your councils and queens then? Too eager to join, and complicit still today.”

He turned back, eyes flashing with cold fury as the Wood Elf’s gaze fell to the floor.

“The High Elves still raid our western reaches. The Dawn Elves descend like wraiths and leave only corpses behind. You may speak of peace, Ambassador Gladeleaf—but you still serve beneath the banner of Elentárië, bear the same blood as they. And until someone—anyone—is held accountable for the whole, your kind will forever be branded as liars.”

He ascended once more to the throne and settled into it with the weight of judgment passed. “And so, by my mercy, I will not have you imprisoned nor ransomed back to your queen. Yet you shall find no hospitality within these walls. Sleep in the taverns, as others do. This audience is concluded.”

He waved a dismissive hand—firm, final. The noble’s voice, though low, carried a controlled fury that could have cracked stone. From his place at the side, Cassius saw it plainly: this was no performance. Lord Ruberht’s hatred was old—rooted deep, nourished by recent grief and generations of resentment.

Vesna, her brow furrowed with concern, stepped forward at last.

“Herr Arco! There are no taverns left with open reservations. They have nowhere to go,” Vesna protested, her tone firm. The ambassador clutched her child closer, her face pale. “And that’s not even to speak of what the townsfolk might do—”

“Then they may sleep in the gutter, the frost, or the poorhouse,” Arco snapped. “My decision is—”

Cassius felt the compulsion in his chest, whatever sense or reflex guided him, it did so through a polite throat-clearing that cut through the tension. Although now it had ultimately caused all eyes to rest on the monk. Anxiously, Cassius stepped forward past Vesna and the elven pair.

“. . . And who are you?” Duke Arco demanded sharply. “Only the brave—or the utterly foolish—interrupt my courtly proceedings. Monk, pilgrim, or otherwise.”

“Good Herr Arco, I am Prior Cassius of St. Noscrim’s Priory in Lycaron, in company with Lady Vesna here,” Cassius said, offering a respectful bow. “I caught only the tail end of your discussion, but if I may—might I ask that you extend your hospitality not only to myself, but to your elven guests as well?”

The nobleman’s expression soured. He leaned an elbow upon the armrest, idly stroking his beard as his eyes fixed on the cleric. The tension deepened—Vesna, the ambassador, even the children in the basket felt it; the twins drew further beneath their blankets.

“You must have ignored more than this conversation, Prior,” Arco said darkly. “Perhaps even history itself. Lothar is no place for elves not bound to the realm—or to Grand Prince Ulrich and his law. This woman, this elf stands as an enemy of my country in a time of fragile peace, in defiance of our shared-coalition under the Divine Alliance. She is a heretic to your clergy, and likely a spy for the Elven Council of Queens. Under what delusion do you presume I should tolerate her presence within my city, let alone beneath my roof?”

Cassius bowed his head slightly, unshaken. Vesna and the elves turned toward him—afeared, uncertain, even skeptical.

“Forgive me, my lord duke, for any overstep,” Cassius said humbly. “I do not claim to grasp the full breadth of this conflict. But I would note that she is already a guest of another realm—of the Royal Household of Neustria. While Lothar’s relations with Elentárië may be strained, Neustria’s are not. Should misfortune befall their ambassador here, it could sour relations between your prince and their king… even over the life of an elf.”

Arco blinked, momentarily disarmed by the logic. “The King of Neustria is far from this place,” he said at last, his tone wary. “He doesn’t suffer the elven indignities our citizens must endure. Unless you mean to tell me, King Castor will compensate me for this act of goodwill…”

Cassius did not waver. “Actually, my concern lies less with compensation—and more with your standing before Grand Prince Ulrich,” he replied evenly.

Arco leaned back into his throne, a slow frown forming.

“And why would Grand Prince Ulrich care whether these two live or die?” he asked. “This isn’t his court, it’s mine. And even if it were, Lothar already contends with elven raiders, dawn-elven cults, and kidnappers. There are enough bad actors here to enact a hundred plays of tragedies, Father Cassius. It wouldn’t surprise me if the next guest carried a declaration of war.”

Cassius drew in a steady breath, meeting the duke’s gaze from the foot of the throne's steps.

“And that is precisely why it matters. Should you refuse sanctuary and thus derail a meeting between Neustria and Elentárië, the consequences will not end at Conevico’s walls. Ulrich’s name will be drawn into it—yours as well. And whether rightly or wrongly, perception alone can serve as punishment.”

Duke Arco rubbed his chin, his expression shifting—less fury now, more contemplation.

“You’re suggesting I might place Ulrich in an uncomfortable position with Neustria,” he said, his tone more measured. “An interesting proposition. But if Neustria truly seeks diplomacy with Elentárië, their ire will not shift much in the grand scheme. And if war does come, it will not be Neustria invading our shores. Or do you mean to tell me otherwise?”

As Duke Rubhert was explaining his viewpoint with Cassius, the prior heard a disturbance in the doorway with a messenger arriving and slipping a missive into Algier's hands who opens and scans its contents.

"To put it bluntly," Duke Rubhert declares. "What Neustria wants from us when it concerns the elves, is simply not our concern. We will not stand for any more unjustified bloodshed in these lands—"

As Duke Ruberht explained his reasoning to Cassius, a disturbance sounded at the doorway—a messenger hurried in, slipping a sealed missive into Algier’s hands, which he swiftly opened and scanned. Upon looking to the messenger, Algiers thanks the messenger and slips a payment of coins into his hands. Afterwards the courier bows his head and retreats from the proceedings from the court.

“Forgive me, Lord-Duke,” Algiers said, stepping forward with a grave expression. “It may already be too late to prevent that bloodshed entirely.” Algiers tucks the missive into his satchel before facing the throne.

“Father Algiers, I have enough upon my plate without this monk nattering in my ear—and without the full weight of your Temple crashing down on my authority,” Duke Arco huffed. “I said I would see to your emergency after—”

“This matter may well be related, Herr Arco,” Algiers interjected, turning to the elven ambassador, who stiffened under his regard. “Lady Eirina Gladeleaf—am I correct in presuming? You said your entourage was routed—do you know by whom?”

Cassius found it telling that Algiers already knew the ambassador’s name. The Ordo Luminous were, after all, the Temple’s eyes and ears across Balandaria—spies, diplomats, and informants embedded in every major city, ever-attuned to loose tongues and sensitive threads. Of course he would know; the missive Algiers just received likely carried all the context he required.

“...Lotharian soldiers,” Eirina said, her voice steady despite the tension. “They bore the black and red colors and banners of the Lotharian black eagle—of Grand Prince Ulrich. But they extorted us, their manner more rogue than regimented. Even after we paid their ‘tolls,’ they turned on us... kidnapping... and...”

Her voice faltered, the weight of memory halting her words. Algiers had heard enough. He turned to Herr Arco, whose expression twisted with mounting confusion and frustration.

“Herr Arco, I suspect the same band that ambushed Lady Eirina’s convoy may also be behind the razing of Reinhurst—deserters or criminals masquerading as your soldiers, or the Grand Prince’s.”

The portly lord gripped his beard, visibly agitated. The implications of Algiers’ words weighed heavily: deserters pillaging villages beneath his own banner. Algiers had spoken too swiftly to be ignored. Now Arco faced a dilemma—act too harshly and risk unrest, too softly and risk complicity. Was he acting on the hope that these attackers were not human? Cassius could not discern.

“My caravan’s Templar Commander can attest to the presence of these deserters,” Cassius added, stepping forward.

“That will not be necessary,” Duke Arco muttered, exhaling wearily. “An investigation will be conducted. My marshal will see this lawlessness crushed... as for my other concerns.”

His gaze lingered on Eirina and her daughter. The two elves clutching one another closely under his smoldering gaze. Cassius held firm, but Algiers spoke first.

“Lord-Duke, I must remind you—regardless of Grand Prince Ulrich’s policy toward the elves—that both Lothar and Elentárië remain vassals of the Divine Alliance,” declared the temple official.

"I need no reminder, you rogue. What I need and require is an assurance of stability for my people. Need I remind you of the scriptures yourself? 'Eye for Eye, Tooth for Tooth?' " Arco beseeched with a gestured pointed finger to his own face.

Vesna stepped forward to stand beside Eirina. “You said a moment ago that what Neustria wants from Lothar concerning the elves is irrelevant. Understand this, Herr Arco—Ulrich will face reckoning not only from the elves, but from discontent within the Divine Alliance over Lothar's failure to broker peace. While that same pressure will be applied upon Elentárië, Neustria could yet serve as the steppingstone toward true reconciliation. As a representative of King Castor of the House of Neustria, these are his hopes—for the elves and for all our neighbors.”

The Ducal Lord reclined, deep in contemplation. Cassius saw his opportunity and pressed forward with his final appeal.

“The damage may be the work of bad actors,” Cassius said carefully, “but it will still be attributed to Lothar if the wrong message spreads—whether in high courts or among commoners. As Temple scripture says…” He raised his hands gently. “Do not seek to domineer over your charges, but be an example to the flock.”

Arco raised a hand to silence him, and the monk obeyed at once.

Cassius pressed on, sensing the moment’s edge. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” His voice softened. “This city is a beacon for pilgrims, a testament to Lothar’s piety. Surely…”

Arco raised his hand, signaling Cassius to stop. The monk obeyed immediately.

“Enough prattling, monk—all of you,” the duke snapped. Leaning forward in his throne, he fixed his eyes on the ambassador. “Eirina Gladeleaf,” he said, voice heavy with bitterness, speaking past those who stood in her defense. “By the grace—or the damnable persistence—of the Temple your kind has mocked for generations, I will grant you temporary hospitality. But should I discover even the faintest trace of deceit or malice from you or your child, I will take your dominant hands as recompense.”

He turned to Cassius. “And you, Prior, will naturally share in that responsibility. As virtuous as your counsel may be, I suggest you offer it freely to our good ambassador—for both your sakes.”

“Of course, Herr Arco,” Cassius said, bowing respectfully. Vesna, Eirina, and the child followed suit. ... Well, this was a tenuous position Cassius found himself as he gulped, keeping his gaze to the carpeted stone floor.

With a grunt, Duke Arco rose and descended the throne steps toward a side door carved into the stone wall. “Your accommodations await in the guest wing,” he said curtly. “Remain here. The chamberlain will escort you shortly.”

He turned to Cassius and Algiers. “Father Algiers, I want a full account of these deserters—and of what befell Reinhurst. Prior Cassius, we will speak again this evening.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Algiers replied, resting a reassuring hand on Cassius’s shoulder before following the nobleman into the shadows of the hall.

Cassius, Vesna, and the elven guests were left in the now quiet throne room. Yet before Arco could fully depart, the small elven child smoothed away from her guardian's hand and positioned herself infront of everyone. “Thank you, Duke Arco!” chirped the little elven girl, her voice sweet and small.

Arco paused for a heartbeat, then carried on. The only reply was the dull thud of the closing door as the duke and Algiers vanished, leaving behind the lingering sense that something sharp had just been blunted—if only for a time.

“That… looked as though it might’ve taken a turn for the worse,” Eirina remarked, her elven features sharp with suspicion and curiosity. “To what end would you go out of your way for someone like us?” She inquired as she rejoined her child close to the hip with her hands upon her shoulders.

Before Cassius could answer, Vesna cut in. “Oh no, this one’s with me. He’s part of my pilgrimage caravan,” she said. “A bit of a wet mop when it comes to common sense—but a good soul nonetheless.”

She turned to Cassius, seized him by the back of the neck, and dragged him a few paces aside—her glare that of a woman long accustomed to cleaning up his messes. “You miserable lout! I had it under control! You’ve enough to worry about without sticking your neck—well, now your hand—out for others!” she snapped, gesturing sharply toward the children. “What good will you be to them if you lose that hand and spend the rest of the journey on the mend!?”

Cassius looked suitably chastened—brows raised, expression apologetic—but still tried to defend himself. “I only meant to help! I was well within my confidence to leverage this to our favor.”

Vesna’s glare deepened, and her grip on his neck tightened. Cassius, stubborn as ever, tried again.
“I do sit beside your husband in managing his lands. I’ve picked up a thing or two about how nobles think.”

Vesna sighed, releasing him at last, crossing her arms and glaring with residual frustration. When Cassius turned back to the elves, he found them watching—confused, faintly amused. Drawing a steady breath, he addressed Eirina directly.

“T-that said… however our faiths may differ on the nature of the Godhead, we still share this world. Cruelty is far too easily—too thoughtlessly—handed out these days.”

Eirina relaxed her hold on her child and offered Cassius a faint smile. “I am an ambassador; I'll have you know. I’ve learned how to conduct myself among humans. Truthfully, we came here as a last resort. A snowstorm is coming—we were near the Romagnian border, but we traveled five days without rest to avoid being caught in it.”

“A Snowstorm?” Vesna asked, brow raised. “And you mentioned Lotharian soldiers extorting and trying to kidnap you? What happened?”

Eirina turned to the high window, where faint sunlight spilled through. “The storm’s already forming. I can see the air channeling—the frost rising in the west, creeping eastward. At this pace, it’ll sweep clean across the Lothar–Romagnian border,” she said evenly. “As for our attackers… I’d like to say bandits, but they wore Lotharian colors and banners. We escaped—barely—only to be found by one of Herr Arco’s patrols. They brought Mahelverhen and me here. The rest… you saw.”

“I hate that name!” the elven child suddenly burst out, her cheeks puffed in a comical pout. Her outburst drew laughter from the basket Cassius carried, earning her a few curious glances. “Oh! I didn’t know human monks could have children!” the elven girl said, skipping over to peer into the basket. She knelt, eyes wide with delight. “Awh—haha! They’re adorable!”

Bright-eyed and brimming with mischief, her laughter was infectious. Niall giggled and waved, while Sebastian stretched his little arms out with an open-mouthed grin.

“Oh no, child—priory monks cannot have children,” Eirina corrected gently. Then, glancing up at Cassius with a raised brow, she added, “They… aren’t yours, surely?”

Vesna’s frustration had clearly passed. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, likely finding great humor in Cassius's prospects as a monk siring children.

“No—but that’s yet to be decided,” Cassius replied, setting the basket beside her. “Perhaps over dinner, I can explain their situation in full.”

The girl—Mahelverhen, as she’d been called—continued playing with the twins, her long elven name a clear mark of noble birth, though she seemed far less fond of it.

From behind the throne, a well-dressed man descended the steps, a ring of keys jingling as he approached, inspecting each as though taking silent inventory of their purpose.

“Madam Vesna, Lady Gladeleaf... and you are?” he inquired politely.

“Prior Cassius of Lycaron,” the monk replied, clasping his hands behind his back with a courteous nod.

"Yes, yes, quite," said the jacketed man. "Your quarters have been arranged. I am Liebehrt, Chamberlain of Conevico Castle. Duke Arco will host dinner within the hour. I would advise brushing up on proper dining etiquette before being seated at his table."

These people certainly think highly of themselves, Cassius mused privately. Meanwhile, Niall and Sebastian were too busy giggling at the elven child’s playful tickling to care for such formalities. For now, it seemed they would enjoy the castle’s fleeting luxuries.

"If you don’t mind, maidservants can tend to the children," Liebehrt added. "They will, of course, be provided proper food and care."

The elven child looked poised to protest, but Vesna chuckled and stepped to her side.

"Come now," Vesna said gently. "The grown-ups have grown-up things to discuss. You’d only be bored sitting through it. Can we trust you to look after little Sebastian and Niall?"

"...I... guess," the elven girl conceded reluctantly. "Which one is which again?" she asked, kneeling beside the basket.

Vesna pointed to Niall. "This one—the green-eyed boy with the white hair—is Niall," she explained.

"But he’s human. Why does he have an elven name?" Mahelverhen asked curiously.

"Who’s to say for sure whether they’re human or half-elven?" Vesna replied. "They were found in a basket by the roadside—we don’t know who their parents were."

"They can’t be half-elves. Their ears aren’t even slightly pointed," the girl protested.

"Sometimes, little leaf," Eirina chimed gently, "half-elves develop their ears later in life. Some look human until adolescence, others appear fully elven until age catches up with them. It’s not always obvious."

"Oh," the girl murmured, nodding in thought.

"And this one is Sebastian," Vesna added, pointing to the younger child.

"Niall aaand Sebastian! Got it," the elven child declared brightly.

"You said you disliked your name—Mahelverhen, was it?" Vesna asked. "‘Emerald Elven Legacy.’ That’s... quite a name. Almost fit for a princess. What did you want your name to be?"

"Mmm, my friends call me Magirou for short," she said proudly, grinning.

"Ma-gi-rou," Vesna repeated slowly. "That’s not elven. That’s... almost nonsense," she laughed softly.

"It’s easier on the tongue—and easier to remember!" Magirou insisted, hands on her hips. "I don’t care for... for... sophesim..." She fumbled until her face lit up. "Sophistry!" she exclaimed triumphantly.

Magirou. The name she had chosen for herself. Cassius couldn’t help but smile. Eirina looked on—half helpless, half amused—as her daughter so completely rejected her carefully chosen name.

Just then, the western corridor door opened, and Liebehrt reentered, flanked by two maidservants.

"The ladies of the house will attend to the children. Count Rubehrt Arco extends his invitation to the rest of you for dinner," Liebehrt announced in a tone as pompous as it was practiced, casting a sweeping glance over the group.

"Well then, Magirou," Vesna said, crouching beside the girl. "Can I count on you?"

"You can! Promise!" Magirou affirmed brightly, grinning as she carefully hefted the basket into her arms.

The maidservants gently escorted her away, leaving the others to follow Liebehrt deeper into the castle.

Sebastian -- Castle Conevico -- Night, 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The evening passed within the warm, secure cradle of Castle Conevico. The room assigned to Magirou and the children was spacious yet humble—two single beds placed on opposite walls, a small desk near the door, and a modest dining table set against the far side. The beds were laid with cotton-woven mattresses and topped with plain linen sheets.

Magirou presided as guardian over Sebastian and Niall that night. It was the first time Sebastian had been granted freedom from the basket without Cassius or Vesna hovering anxiously over him, worrying at every move. The toddler crawled across the bed’s surface on hands and knees, feeling the coarse but comforting fabric beneath his palms. What a fine feeling this was—simple yet delightful. With a soft sigh, Sebastian collapsed into the linen sheets, letting mirthful comfort wash through him.

Niall, on the other hand, was brimming with energy. Once freed from his confines, he rolled and giggled with abandon, his laughter echoing against the stone walls. Curious, Sebastian lifted his head slightly to see what delighted him—only to find Magirou at play, tickling his brother’s feet and moving his arms as if to make him dance.

Magirou was a cheerful, playful soul, filling the evening with light and laughter while the grown-ups—Cassius, Vesna, and Eirina—were away at dinner, lost in their serious conversations and important affairs. Whatever those entailed mattered little now. Magirou had set herself a more ambitious task: coaxing intelligible words from her young charges.

"My name is Magirou!" she declared with dramatic flair, kneeling beside them. "Mah-gee-roh! Try to say it—either of you! Maaaaah?"

She stretched the syllables out in exaggerated tones, brimming with hopeful encouragement. But to the infants’ undeveloped minds, her efforts were not understood as instruction but as play—joyful, musical, and nurturing. The meaning of her words escaped them, yet the affection behind them was felt.

Sebastian, for his part, found his attention drifting toward the window. There, beyond the glass panes, the dark night sky came alive with the shimmer of falling snow. Tiny crystals danced and scattered through the wind as the storm crept quietly over the city. He scooted beneath the window, sitting close to watch the drifting flakes in awe.

"Ohhh, you like the snow, huh?" Magirou said, gently setting Niall down so he could wobble about on his own. She slid beside Sebastian, her voice soft and affectionate. "It’s very pretty… but it can be cold and dangerous if we let it in, you know."

Dangerous? Sebastian wondered. True, it was cold… but here, inside this room, it was warm—safe, comforting. That was the logic he settled on, as best a toddler’s mind could manage.

After watching the snow for a while, Magirou rose from her knees and clasped the wooden window panels shut. Well, if it was dangerous, it was dangerous, Sebastian reasoned.

"It’s going to get even colder as the night goes on, so..." Magirou mused. "How about a story?" she coaxed, as Sebastian and Niall tilted their heads curiously.

"Alright, but first," she whispered, lowering her voice as though in reverence to the hush outside, "we’re making a fort." Niall squealed with delight, kicking his feet, while Sebastian blinked curiously from his spot near the window.

Magirou fetched two fire pokers from the hearth and took the pillows from the head of the bed, propping the pokers upright like makeshift support beams. Draping the blankets over them, she squinted at her handiwork with a grin of approval. Spotting a basket of herbs on a nearby shelf, she tucked it under her arm and crawled into the newly fashioned bed-fort, carefully securing the blanket’s edges to allow more room inside.

Once satisfied it could fit them all, she lifted the blanket flap. “Come on, little lords,” she called softly, patting the mattress-padded floor.

Both boys crawled inside—Sebastian cautiously, Niall with a wild flail of limbs. Giggling, they settled beneath the canopy. Magirou adjusted their bedding, placing a folded pillow between them.

“There,” she said with a warm smile. “Now it’s official—Lords of the Bed-fort!”
She pulled a small bundle of dried clover and thyme from the herb basket and began twisting the stems into little woven rings.

“What sort of story suits this occasion?” she asked aloud. The boys didn’t understand all her words, but her voice was a spell in itself.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, eyes brightening. “I know just the one.”

Magirou began without hesitation.

“Long ago, before the world’s first snowfall, the stars lamented their loneliness. And so, Elthariel, the Twilight-Singer—the elven goddess of the moon and stars— wept from on high. From her silver tears was born the Moon-Weaver, a great spider spirit—older than the trees, wiser than the owls.”

Sebastian watched her lips move, eyes wide with wonder. Niall reached for one of the thyme rings with sticky fingers, and Magirou gently batted his hand away.

“Each night, the Moon-Weaver walks the world, weaving dreams from threads of star-silver and placing them in the hair of sleeping children—so that the stars might visit the dreamworlds of those who slumber beneath their gaze. Not all children, though... only those who dream in peace and kindness. Only those who remain gentle—even when the world is not.”

She crowned Sebastian with a braided ring of thyme. He touched it with his small fingers, blinking up at her in awe.

Magirou beamed. “That’s for you, my dream prince.” Her voice softened, slowed to a whisper.

“And the Moon-Weaver only comes to children who still believe in wonder... even when the grown-ups forget how.”

She absently crumbled a brittle leaf between her fingers. Then, as though shaking off a heavier thought, she reached over and crowned Niall, who squealed and wriggled with glee.

Sebastian leaned against her, eyelids drooping. The warmth of the fire, the soft rustle of the blanket, and the cadence of her voice wove a spell around him.

“And when the night is deepest, and the wind howls just so, you might hear her weaving—click-click, stitch-stitch—soft as moth wings…”

Niall yawned, stretching like a kitten before flopping onto his back, thumb half in his mouth. Then—Magirou gasped.

Sebastian blinked up, startled, as she lunged across the bed.

Niall had rolled too far—his small body pressing against the fort wall. The blanket sagged, the poker bent, and with a quiet fwump, the whole side of the bed-fort collapsed in a muffled thud.

Magirou dove through the linen, pulling the blanket down with her, landing with a soft grunt. The fire pokers clattered to the stone. Sebastian could only watch—frozen.

Then came the crying. Moments later, Magirou reemerged, lifting a sniffling Niall back onto the bed. Her face was pale, breath unsteady.

“Oh gods, oh… okay,” she breathed with relief, checking Niall over. “Just a bump. You’ll be alright, little bird.”

Sebastian crawled carefully toward them, mindful now to steer clear of the bed’s edge. A good lesson: stay grounded, or gravity wins.

But Niall kept crying—big, watery sobs streaking down his red cheeks.

Magirou frowned thoughtfully. “Well,” she murmured softly, “there’s always a way to fix this.”

She sat Niall upright, cradling him in her lap. Then, closing her eyes, she raised her hands—palms open, fingers poised. The air shifted—something subtle, like static brushing the skin or wind whispering through leaves.

Sebastian felt it too—in the fine hairs of his arms, a faint hum. Not wind, not warmth… something older. Primal. Instinctive.

Magirou’s eyes opened, shimmering with an amber glow. Her expression tightened in concentration.

“Nestalë.” Magirou said—almost like a command.

From the tips of her fingers to her palm’s center, a soft cyan light gathered. It swirled into a faintly glowing sphere—dim, yet pulsing, like living fog. The light drifted toward Niall, encircling him. His pained expression softened—from sadness, to confusion… to wonder.

To Sebastian, it was mesmerizing. What was this strange light? Where did it come from? Was it helping him? Calming him? Could he ever do something like that?

The door creaked open. A maidservant entered, startled. “Is everything alright?”

Magirou gave a calm nod, accompanied by a reassuring hum. “Poor Niall took a tumble. Nothing a simple salve cantrip couldn’t fix.”

The maid exhaled in relief. “Shall we take over from here? You don’t have to watch two children alone—not at your age.”

“Oh no, it’s a pleasure,” Magirou replied brightly. “I used to do this all the time with my cousins. Humans are just… more energetic.” Her playful remark earned a chuckle from the maid and another servant lingering by the door.

What captivated Sebastian most, though, was that magic—the way it danced at her fingertips and worked. Niall, tear-streaked but unharmed, was already giggling again.

Could I do that too? Sebastian asks himself.

Sebastian raised his hands, pointing his small fingers at Niall. He babbled in imitation—trying to recreate the spell, to summon something. But nothing happened.

Magirou giggled. “Ah! Hahaha! Are you trying to cast magic? Oh, you precious thing.” She cooed, smoothing his hair. “Even elven children can’t use magic this young—and you’re human.”

Wait—what does that mean? Sebastian panicked inwardly. Does that mean I’ll never be able to do it? Ever? A swell of frustration rose inside him, tears pricking at his eyes. Before they could spill, a soft hand came to rest on his head—Magirou’s hand—gently stroking.

“You have to learn the words, just like everyone else,” she said kindly. “But you can’t speak yet. Not yet, anyway.”

She met his gaze, her eyes sparkling with mischief and encouragement. “But I can teach you, if you’d like. Is that what you want?”

Sebastian didn’t know how to explain what he felt—only that he needed to learn it. Not the words. Not yet. But the power behind them: the ability to comfort, to heal—like she had.

Just as he reached toward her, a loud grumble echoed through the room—not from him, but from Magirou. She looked down and sighed, hands over her belly. Niall burst into laughter at the sound, the tension of moments ago forgotten. Even Sebastian let out a small laugh.

Magirou smiled sheepishly. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for one night.” Rising, she stretched. “Time for you two to sleep—and for me to get some supper.” She glanced toward the maid. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer now.”

“Of course. We’ll see them tucked in.” The maid smiled warmly.

Magirou leaned in, tickling the boys beneath their chins, then softly stroked their hair—one after the other. “Goodnight, little lords,”

The maids gathered the children, settling them on the mattress as they retrieved the fire pokers and tucked the boys gently beneath the bed’s linens. Warmth returned, the weight of the blankets a soft shield against the night.

Sebastian, nestled beside his soothed, sleep-heavy brother, exhaled deeply. Sleep again. And tomorrow—?
Tomorrow, he would try again. There was still so much to learn—and somewhere deep inside, he knew his chance would come.

Cassius -- Castle Conevico -- Night of 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The dining hall was a spacious, rectangular chamber adorned with trophies and artifacts that commemorated the long and storied history of House Arco. Mounted heads of elk, wolves, bears, and boars lined the upper walls, interspersed with faded banners of dynastic nobility and tarnished crowns from wars fought in their name. Glass display cases displayed weapons from the ancient days of Lothar and the old Romagnian Empire—swords, axes, and relics once belonging to knightly orders long revered or disbanded.

The dining hall of Castle Conevico exuded dignified austerity and aged grandeur. It stretched long and wide like a warship turned sideways, its stone walls draped in aged velvet banners of indigo and bronze—the colors of House Arco. Each banner bore the family crest: a sword entwined with grapevines, flanked by heraldic lions.

Between the banners stood alcoves housing relics of military triumph and noble legacy: a cracked dueling shield from the Banner Wars, a rusted but finely engraved halberd said to have belonged to the founder of Conevico, and a taxidermied griffin’s head—clearly more myth than fact—mounted above the western hearth.

The floor was a well-swept foundation of stone, polished to a muted gleam and scuffed where centuries of boots had worn their mark during dances, feasts, and war councils alike. Along the edges, a colonnade of squat, squared pillars supported wooden beams overhead—each beam carved with curling leaf motifs and battle dates, their faded ochre paint lending the room a venerable charm.

The hall’s light came not only from the crackling hearth at its head but also from a series of iron-forged chandeliers suspended from blackened chains. Each chandelier bore dozens of stubby candles—reds, browns, and tallow white—their soft flickers dancing across bronze accents and playing shadows over the high, barrel-vaulted ceiling.

Three long banquet tables filled the chamber in a U-shape—each of dark oak, worn smooth by time and polished by generations of service. The tables were set with simple yet weighty cutlery, mismatched in places—proof of enduring wealth rather than ostentation. Carved pitchers of watered wine and flagons of warm cider stood among baskets of garlic bread, bowls of marinated olives, and roasted root vegetables glazed with spiced honey.

The air was thick with the mingled scent of roast poultry, boiled mutton, rendered fat, and fresh herbs—earthy and filling, a proper winter’s fare. Platters of dried fruits, wheels of hard cheese, and trencher boards laden with game meat were borne in by liveried servants moving with quiet efficiency.

Despite its martial heritage and fortress-like design, the hall did not lack elegance. Beneath the lord’s high seat stood a massive ironwood table, and behind it hung a painted triptych depicting the three greatest battles of House Arco’s lineage—each rendered in muted oils, with mud-slicked fields, fallen soldiers, and the family’s banner rising through smoke and ruin.

At the far end, the three banquet tables formed an open square, leaving space near the great hearth. The fire roared in the wide stone cavity, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Overhead, chandeliers suspended clusters of red, indigo, and natural-wax candles, creating a mosaic of warm, ambient light. The tables were already laden with garlic-scented bread, bowls of olives and grapes, and stoneware pots filled with steaming lentil and mutton stew enriched with carrots, potatoes, celery, and basil.

Lord Ruberht Arco entered at last, dressed in less formal attire: a green tunic layered over a black-sleeved undershirt. At his side walked a young man—his bodyguard or marshal, by the look of him—clad in chainmail and a waffenrock of Conevico’s colors. There was clear family resemblance, though the youth was leaner and lacked his liege's rotundity. He wore a mane of curling brown hair and the first hints of a beard.

Algiers rejoined the group, circling the tables toward Cassius. Beside the monk, Lady Vesna and Eirina admired the dishes arriving from the kitchens—roast duck, chicken, and lamb—each presented with the same grandeur as the hall itself.

“Jovial!” Lord Ruberht boomed, spreading his arms wide. “You’ve all taken me up on my offer—even you, Lady Ambassador.” He placed a hand over his chest in a mock bow of greeting.

Cassius blinked. Only hours earlier, this same man had threatened to cut off his hand should anything go amiss—yet now he offered smiles and courtesies? But as Eirina dipped into a graceful curtsy without hesitation, Cassius theorized this was likely the way of whimsical nobility: one face for the court, another behind closed doors.

As Lord Ruberht drew Vesna and Eirina into conversation, Algiers placed a firm hand on Cassius’s shoulder and leaned close.

“We received word from the west—there’s a snowstorm on the horizon. We can’t send any detachments to search for the deserters… or the villagers of Reinhurst,” he whispered.

Cassius’s face fell, grim lines setting into his features. It made sense, however; braving the storm could cost more lives than it saved.

“Take heart, Brother Cassius,” Algiers added. “If the villagers made it to civilization, they’ll survive the storm. Once the weather breaks, our couriers will resume their routes, and we’ll know more then.”

Cassius sighed and nodded, his gaze drifting toward the fire. It gnawed at him—the warmth in his hands, the food on the table—knowing that those that might have saved could be starving or freezing somewhere in the dark.

“Come, friar!” Lord Ruberht called cheerfully. “You are under my hospitality, are you not?”

He stood at the head of the table beside his nephew, with Vesna and Eirina smiling expectantly at the two men. The invitation was clear.

But Algiers cleared his throat. “Regretfully, I must return to the Temple. There are preparations still underway, and we must ensure the sick and poor have the provisions they need. Father Nikodemus sends his regards. I must also prepare for when we may send our search parties.”

He placed a hand over his chest and bowed respectfully.

“Of course, of course!” Ruberht nodded. “Tell that old hermit he’s still my cleric—and that there’s always a place at this table for him, should he choose to join us. You as well, Goodman Algiers.”

There was a surprising warmth in the duke’s tone—enough to coax a rare, genuine smile from the usually reserved church agent.

After Algiers departed, Cassius stepped forward with his arms folded behind his back, addressing the young man in chainmail—Lord Arco’s man-at-arms.

“Forgive me—matters of the clergy can be distracting. I didn’t catch your name, young master,” Cassius inquired.

“It’s quite all right, Father,” the young man replied. “Ser Heinrik—Marshal of Conevico’s levies and soldiery. Nephew to Lord Arco—and his heir.” He removed his leather gloves as he spoke, revealing a scarred hand seasoned by hardship. Cassius clasped it firmly, noting the tempered strength behind the young knight’s grip.

“This is rather unusual,” Vesna remarked, turning to Lord Ruberht as he poured himself a goblet of wine. “Have you taken no wife, my lord? By now, most men of your station would have heirs of their own—a son or daughter.”

The question darkened Ruberht’s expression. He swirled the wine in his chalice, gaze distant and reflective.

“Once, I had...” he began, his voice lowering. “But my late wife—AVO rest her soul—though we tried for many years, never bore a child. My physicians tell me it is unlikely I ever will.” He tried to sound lighthearted. “And so, I remain a consequence-free bachelor,” he added with a dry chuckle, though the sorrow beneath lingered in his tone.

Ruberht reached out and clapped Heinrik’s shoulder affectionately, giving him a light, playful shove. “Still, Heinrik is the son I never had—a capable young man, more than ready to rule when I’m too feeble or too far gone. Talk of marriage should be aimed at him, not me.” He laughed again, and Heinrik’s cheeks flushed with visible embarrassment.

“A happy day, should that come,” Vesna offered kindly.
“Indeed,” Eirina added with a gentle nod.

Cassius smiled faintly, observing the warmth between uncle and nephew. Beneath the stern austerity of the throne room, perhaps Ruberht was merely a man hardened by duty, guarding fiercely what he loved.

“Speaking of which, Friar,” Ruberht said with a teasing smirk. “I trust those little rugrats of yours aren’t the wild oats of some youthful gallivanting?”

“Oh, heavens, no,” Cassius replied quickly. “We found them amidst the ashes of Reinhurst. I remain true to my vows of celibacy.”

“A pox on such creeds!” Ruberht scoffed, striding to the head of the table and lowering himself into his seat with practiced ease. “The Lord God gave us the world—life, desire—and the will to use both as we choose. Why men like you throw away the greatest pleasures of existence for the illusion of divine favor... I’ll never understand.”

With a sweeping gesture, he invited the others to sit. Vesna took the place beside Ruberht, Heinrik across from her. Eirina chose the far end of the table, subtly positioning Cassius between herself and the lord—a quiet reminder that not all wounds heal quickly.

“With all due respect to the ladies present,” Cassius said mildly, “I doubt I could remain the man I am if my thoughts strayed too often to such... matters, even toward those most deserving of such compliments.”

“Pah!” Ruberht scoffed good-naturedly. “Plenty a fishwife would kiss frogs in hopes of finding a prince who looks like you, Friar. But dare you tell me your eye doesn't bend.”

“Uncle!” Heinrik protested, mortified. “Nikodemus would clout our ears with sermons if he heard you—tempting a man of the cloth!”

Ruberht set his goblet down with a resonant thud and glanced toward his ward. “It’s worldly truth, my boy. Since the founding of the First Kingdom—between the First Man and Woman, both flesh and divine—their union would be as ‘sinful’ as the friar’s.” He gestured grandly toward Cassius.

Eirina leaned forward, intrigued. “A scandalous idea in today’s world. You mean the First Human Man and the First Elven Woman. Many a human and elf would come to blows over such a claim—even in Elentárië.”

“Oh?” Ruberht arched a brow. “So the Chantry teaches something similar in your monasteries?”

“Perhaps,” Eirina mused. “As you may know, ours is a matriarchal culture. When a woman enters the Chantry, she must take on certain ascetic practices. Marriage, however, remains a practice among our priesthood. Yet, I’ve noticed humans accept both men and women into their clergy,” she added, glancing at Cassius, “however they've forbidden them to marry.”

“Ah, you mean the nunnery,” Cassius said with a nod. “Nuns serve chiefly as stewards of Temple estates. Their duties differ from monks or priests, but at least we don’t deny women the chance to serve—unlike our Sehlarian and Saharim brethren.”

Eirina’s pleasant expression faltered. The mention of Sehlaria cast a faint shadow across her face. Unlike the Romagnian Orthodoxy, the Sehlarian sect—the Creed of Light—stood in schism from orthodox AVOism, embracing a fundamentalist, male-dominated creed that spurned and subjugated women.

“I don’t think I’d have minded my husband sporting elven ears and ethereal grace,” Vesna said idly, a mischievous smile curling her lips. Cassius’s expression shifted into quiet concern. “Though,” she added pointedly, “I’m quite content with my current, thoroughly human husband. I couldn't possibly imagine the backlash of today's standards of an elf ruling over humans."

“Our High Elven matriarchs are like that with humans too,” Eirina said, echoing Vesna’s observation. Eirina then turned to Cassius, her tone teasing. “Although our Queens are too vain to be modest, yet quick to flaunt their chastity. Perhaps a mix of beauty and confidence is your type, Father?”

Cassius didn’t respond—at least not with words. He simply lifted his goblet and drank deeply, as if he might hide within the wine itself. The laughter that followed was good-natured, filling the hall with a fleeting warmth that even reached the prior’s ears.

Yet despite the mirth, Cassius couldn’t help but consider the notion that lingered beneath their conversation.

The First Kingdom — the Kingdom of all mortal kind. The pureblooded elves may have escaped the touch of time, but not the bite of steel. When AVO and His council of celestials shaped the world, they formed its verdant lands, seas, gemstones, and beasts. From divine image, they created Man—flawed and solitary. From higher essence, they then shaped another: a companion of noble bearing, capable of giving life. Together they founded the First Kingdom, and their children inherited its grace. But as time unspooled, tragedy followed. Humanity birthed its own women, the elves their own men. As differences took root, the gulf between them widened. And to this day, debate still rages over who holds the true claim to the First Kingdom—that sacred inheritance once decreed by AVO.

The human realms contest one another for the claim—but among the elves, it is the high elves who most vehemently assert their right, solemn and unyielding, above all others. The House of Mithrilas, a direct line of descendance from Norea, fourth child of Adam and Eve, the first pureblooded elf and daughter of their union. The elves have long established their genealogies and guard them zealously, for theirs is a culture that sought to be ever closer to the divine through established birthright.

At that moment, the room fell silent—tension settling like dust in still air—as if all had realized how close the discussion edged to dangerous ground. Disputes between human and elven faiths, theology, and history had endured for centuries—especially with a Temple cleric like Cassius seated among them.

“This is all theoretical, of course,” Cassius interjected with a disarming smile. “My vows remain sincere.” He poured himself a goblet of wine; the others followed suit, reaching for bread and meat to fill their plates.

“Hm. Disappointing,” Vesna teased, sipping her wine before reaching for a leg of roasted poultry. “The best part of pious do-gooders is finding what truly makes them squirm.”

Cassius gave a sheepish laugh, his eyes retreating to the comfort of his plate.

Heinrik spoke next, biting into a loaf of garlic bread before addressing the table. “Father Cassius, if you’ll pardon a shift in topic,” he began, prompting Cassius to pause mid-scoop of stew. “In your work, there are holy knights, paladins, and crusaders. I’ve always wondered—what’s the difference between them? And... which of those paths would allow me to sire an heir? You know, for whoever takes up Conevico after me.”

Cassius leaned back, considering. “That depends on what you mean by ‘holy knights.’ The title varies by order and function. Only the Crusaders of the Ordo Praesidium take a formal vow of chastity. Holy knights—such as the Templars, Teutonics, and Hospitallers, however—”

Cassius gestured with his goblet, easing into explanation. “Holy knights are devout warriors who often operate outside the Temple’s direct command—though still under its blessing. Crusaders, however, are the Temple’s sword and shield—part of the Ordo Praesidium. Their vows are far more absolute.”

“And paladins?” Heinrik pressed, leaning forward as the table gradually fell into attentive silence.

“Paladins,” Cassius said with a faint smile, “are something else entirely. Theirs is not an order, per se, but a discipline. They fight as knights do—steel in hand—but their power is born from oath and conviction. Their magic isn’t like a cleric’s prayer or a wizard’s art—it’s uniquely personal.”

“Different how?” Heinrik asked, intrigued.

“I’m no paladin myself,” Cassius admitted, “but I’ve read enough to know their power is bound to the integrity of their vows—to their honor, and to whether they uphold what they’ve sworn. Be it to a god, a crown, the law, or the people, their might flows from that devotion. Many channel healing through their touch or elemental concentration through their blades—it depends entirely on the vow.”

Ruberht shot his nephew a glance of restrained disapproval, clearly disliking the conversation’s course—but Heinrik pressed on undeterred.

“I’ve just always found it confusing,” Heinrik said. “Holy knights, crusaders, paladins—so many titles, all tied to the Temple in different ways. I was interested—” he glanced at his uncle with a flicker of defiance—“in serving AVO and country through military training.”

Cassius brightened at that. “Well, then—it’s good to clarify. Technically, holy knights aren’t a formal arm of the Church. Think of them more as... religiously inclined mercenaries, if that makes sense. They serve the Temple’s interests, yes, but not always directly—nor under its command structure. In contrast,” he continued, “the crusaders of the Ordo Praesidium are wholly devoted. They answer only to the Arch-Cleric. No inheritance. No marriage. Absolute dedication.”

Eirina stirred her soup, her face softening with a hint of pity. “Such rigid restrictions. The Chantry in Elentárië never enforces such harsh vows. Our holy warriors still marry—still raise families. We’re too small a kingdom to demand such sacrifices.”

Cassius nodded to Eirina. “Given how much land your people have lost—and how deeply family shapes your culture—it’s understandable. Humans are the majority; we can afford such vows from a place of comfort, but numbers demand structure, and structure breeds rigidity.”

Cassius noticed all eyes fixed on him and hastened to conclude. “Ah, but to answer your question—paladins aren’t bound to the Church, necessarily. Some are; many are not. Their oaths are varied—some swear to uphold justice, others to a king, a cause, or even vengeance. What binds them isn’t the object of the vow, but their unwavering devotion to it. Their power endures only so long as their word holds true.”

“So…” Heinrik said, brow furrowed. “A paladin could fight for evil—if the vow demanded it.”

Cassius nodded slowly. “Yes. A vow is still a vow, no matter how dark the cause. A paladin’s power answers to conviction, not morality.” Seeing Heinrik deep in thought, he gestured for him to continue listening. “Training to be a paladin involves far more than swearing an oath. Though I’m no expert in their regimen,” he admitted, “I’m a cleric, not a paladin. But one thing is certain—those with darkness in their hearts can still take vows. Oaths of vengeance, for example, can twist a person into something monstrous. Conquest, slaughter, retribution… all dressed up as righteousness.”

“Ahhh—is that where your vows come in?” Ruberht interjected with a knowing grin, raising his goblet. “Your vows as a cleric of AVO.”

“Yes, precisely,” Cassius said with a chuckle. “My divine abilities aren’t my own—they’re granted by AVO. In return, I’m bound to follow His teachings. It’s much like a paladin’s oath, except my magic comes directly from AVO. Still, the devotion required is just as strict.”

“I suppose that’s just as well,” Ruberht mused, smirking. “It would take quite the woman to come between you and the Creator of the world.”

Eirina leaned forward with a soft chuckle. “Considering AVO is a woman, I imagine She’d make quite the appealing rival.”

“…No, AVO is very much a man,” Ruberht countered, frowning. “For man He made in His own image.”

Eirina’s polite smile thinned, her eyes narrowing slightly. Cassius could only sigh inwardly—once again, the conflicts between their faiths revealed itself.

Another difference between the human Temple and the elven Chantry: the gender of the Divine. It was a fundamental, even inflammatory, schism in doctrine. The human Temple taught that AVO was male—Creator, Father, Shaper of Life from the clay of the earth. But the elven Chantry revered AVO as a divine mother, a celestial womb from which all things were born and nourished.

Human and elf. Man and woman. These were the founding questions—the “Four Corners,” as theologians called them—around which countless canticles and disputes had been written. Who should rule: the human or the elf? The man or the woman? Which reflection of the Divine was true?

“In any case,” Vesna interjected, serving as both icebreaker and—perhaps more aptly—a fire-stopper. She raised her goblet with a disarming smile. “This wine is rather spectacular. I noticed your banner bears grapes and vines—does it honor a family winery, perhaps?”

The portly lord turned toward her with visible relief at the change in subject, eager to move past the theological friction with his elven guest.

“In vino veritas,” Rubehrt declared, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “The Arco family motto: In wine, there is truth.” He chuckled, swirling his goblet. “During the early years of the Banner Wars, this city was Romagnian—back when the Empire still held sway over Lothar.”

Eirina, cooled by the shift in topic, exhaled softly and let it drop. “How did the city fall under Lotharian control, then?”

Heinrik set down his goblet after a contemplative draught. “That’s a tale with a few thorns,” he said, glancing toward Rubehrt. Their expressions shared a fleeting shadow of guilt—or was it sorrow?

Vesna raised an eyebrow, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her fork as it rested beside her roast poultry. “I’m not one to judge,” she said lightly. “At least it won’t be a dull story.”

“Very well,” Rubehrt said, shrugging in resignation. “My ancestor, Rudolf Arco, served among the recruits of the famed Romagnian Imperial Black Legions. He fought in the vanguard during the Western Campaigns against the elves—around 1511, during Lothar’s shift from independent kingdom to imperial vassal.”

He poured himself another measure of wine before continuing. “Then as now, Lothar was home to some of the most prestigious martial schools in the human world. From longsword forms to hand-to-hand combat, we inherited much from our northern ancestors—the Saphyrheim Vikings.”

Heinrik nodded, carving into his roast. “Our Masters-at-Arms—Battlemasters, or Kampfmeister in the Lotharian tongue—trained warriors for generations. But being on the wild frontier of civilization made our lands a perpetual buffer zone between Romagnia and the elven dominions.”

Rubehrt nodded, swirling his wine idly. “Conevico, straddling the border between Romagnia and Lothar, enjoyed access to trade routes spanning the southern ports—even as far as Castilia and Sehlaria.” he said. “At the time, Romagnian soldiers came and went in constant rotation, marching eastward to the front. Eventually, the Black Legions garrisoned themselves here. That was before Castilia became the war’s main theater—after the Sehlarians declared their damned jihad and entered the fray.”

Rubehrt’s expression darkened as he turned toward Vesna.

“You’ve just come from Sehlaria through Castilia, Lady Vesna,” he said with a brief nod. “You can imagine—they were practically at our gates, whether by the long road or by the straight of the sea.”

Vesna and Cassius nodded at the recollection, remembering their own passage through Castilia: rocky lands and rolling hills, but along the eastern coast, paved merchant roads ran from the seaside towns all the way to the Lotharian border. It would take little more than a month to march an entire army from Sehlaris to Conevico.

Rubehrt took a long sip before continuing. “As war swept across the continent, Rudolf Arco rose swiftly through the ranks—necessity demanded it. Conevico, with its supply routes and transit lines, became a vital military hub. Before long, he advanced from quartermaster to military governor. That was when the Arco family became direct vassals under the Emperor of Kings—the Caesar of Romagnia.”

“That sounds like a mixed blessing,” Vesna remarked. “Your family was elevated to near-viceroy status within the Empire, but in exchange, war was everywhere—and you bore the greater share of it.”

“Indeed,” Heinrik agreed. “The Romagnian Empire sought to use the war as an opportunity to expand on every front—just as the elves did. And Sehlaria, of course.” The marshal nodded. “Castilia was still an independent kingdom then, and all three powers—Romagnia, Sehlaria, and Elentárië—circled it like ravenous hounds. Allies in name, but… how shall I put it?”

Eirina spoke next, her tone reflective. "They appreciated the help, but didn’t feel they owed it to anyone to become a vassal. I imagine that was Lothar’s position too, when the same situation befell them."

Vesna nodded. “Exactly. When the Romagnian Empire declared its intent to reunify Balandaria and re-establish the First Kingdom, they summoned Neustria, Albion, and Maldavia to honor their treaties. But—” She leaned back with a wry smile. “They refused. I suppose they foresaw the threat Romagnia would become. Soon after, the Three-Crown Concordat was formed—those kingdoms united in protest against imperial expansion.”

Cassius nodded thoughtfully. “Albion led that coalition, especially after its schism with the Temple. Arch-Cleric Gregorius III of the Romagnian Orthodox Temple was far too eager to invoke old crusader precedents—particularly against Albion, for its alliances with the Fey. The wounds of the previous age were still too raw. They wouldn’t let the Temple reassert dominion over their lands.”

Rubehrt scoffed lightly but nodded. “It’s no easy thing, letting a foreign nation keep its thumb on you for generations. But—” He shot Eirina a pointed look, raising his chalice. “Your queens gave us little choice, with how they ruled.”

Eirina didn’t flinch. “Yes. The Dawn Elves were the worst perpetrators, and the High Elves—who claimed dominion over all elvenkind—did nothing. Worse, we suspect some even took part in the barbarities. It remains a stain on our history.”

Heinrik leaned forward slightly. “Why did the Dawn Elves take humans for slaughter and sacrifice? That was the root of it, wasn’t it? And why would the High Elves claim that humans must be enslaved for their own good? That, I still cannot fathom.”

Eirina looked troubled, her fingertip tracing the rim of her glass. “Do you want the elvish version of events—or the sensible one?”

Cassius interlaced his fingers, resting them on his lap.
“Wouldn’t hurt to look through both sides of the lens.”

Eirina sighed and tilted her head back slightly, settling into her seat.
“The Dawn Elves claimed it was our sun goddess, Solariel, who inspired them to wage their anti-human crusade. This, they said, was in response to the discrimination, enslavement, and pogroms inflicted upon elvenkind under her watchful gaze. Solariel governs much of what the Chantry attributes to the sun—light and the day—but also searing justice and vengeful wrath. She is seen as the goddess who blesses harvests for the virtuous and scorches the fields of the sinful.”

She paused to take a long draught from her goblet before continuing.

“It is not uncommon for elves to offer sacrifices to her—sometimes animals—as acts of penitence, to soothe Solariel’s fiery nature with the gentler offering of blood. But...”

“That is already quite traditional,” Vesna remarked, raising her brows. “But leaping from animals to humans is another matter entirely.”

The inhabitants around the table murmured quiet agreement, watching the elven ambassador carefully.

“Yes,” Eirina admitted. “And they went further than anyone expected. According to the Orthodox Elven Chantry of that era, Solariel’s contempt for humanity’s disregard of elven life gave rise to the belief that humans were chaff to be separated from the wheat—that true penitence could be earned only through human sacrifice, willing or otherwise.”

She met their gazes squarely, with no hint of evasion in her tone.

“The Dawn Elves and several High Elven matriarchs spearheaded the movement, yes—but it was far from unanimous. Sea Elves and Wood Elves alike opposed it. Still, the Dawn Elves pressed on, preaching that humanity had fallen into decadence and purposeless barbarity, that mortals must be shackled and made obedient for the coming age. The Dawn Elves descended from the skies and... as you Lotharians know all too well—”

She turned to Rubehrt and Heinrik, both of whom wore grim expressions.

“At the time,” Eirina continued, “Lothar had already taken much of our land. We were a people diminished, living among those who blamed us for their ills and segregated us in their cities.” She looked downcast. “Families were enslaved. The defenseless suffered cruelty beyond description. What followed were scars—memories that amidst my people never healed. In time, the elves began to return such horrors upon Lothar until they cried out to their Romagnian allies for aid. Thus began the Banner Wars.”

A heavy silence fell over the table until Cassius finally spoke.
“And... what was the elven perspective of this?”
Eirina lowered her gaze, her expression unreadable.

“The queens grew dissatisfied with the state of Balandaria and their closeness to humanity. Even setting aside the grievances of slavery and discrimination, elves live long lives—and long life sours the spirit. Bitterness festers. Mortals live brief lives; they lack the constitution to savor existence in full and thus grow reckless, ambitious... or obsessed with fleeting pleasures.”

She looked up again, her tone quieter.

“I am not as old as the queens of that era, but if I had to liken it to something, it would be this: imagine a world where most of Balandaria is ruled by unweaned children—raised by other children—each committing terrible acts with no hope of ever maturing.”

“A terrifying picture to paint,” Rubehrt muttered. “Yet, for the elves to do what they did—”

“On the contrary, Lord Rubehrt,” Eirina replied, meeting his gaze. “It is because your kind was terrifying to us—pragmatically so. Humans seized vast lands and, in so short a time, flourished upon them. To an elf, such short-sightedness seems childish; we plan for centuries, separating ourselves from the mire of mortal paradox. Yet that short-sightedness was your greatest blessing, though few elves would admit it. They believed human ambition would crumble with age—that a time-weathered humanity could never stand against a time-resistant people like ours. You and yours proved them wrong.”

The remark nearly drew a chuckle and smile from Rubehrt.
“Well, when you put it that way...” he murmured, letting the thought trail off—open to interpretation. “In good faith to AVO, if peace were ever granted, I would treasure the chance to forgive and to cherish the tranquility our shared Lord God might bestow.”

Rubehrt chuckled. “Certainly—but you, Lady Gladeleaf, could fill in the blanks. Our ancestors fought in many campaigns of the Banner Wars, but something finally ended the Elven Imperium, did it not?”

Rubhert muses and chuckles. "Certainly, but you, Lady Gladeleaf could fill in the blanks. Our ancestors fought in the Banner Wars in many campaigns, but there was something that put an end to the Elven Imperium, yes?"

Eirina nodded.
“Yes. Caesar Titus Damarxus invited the elven queens and the warring monarchs to his war camp for a summit—to negotiate peace, to free the enslaved humans, even to release the elves within his own empire—to end the calamity. Our queen was among those who attended,” she said, her voice edged with unease.

“Right.” Rubehrt gave a solemn nod. “The summit quickly devolved into a shouting match—grievances traded like coin, double standards laid bare. Hollow concessions. The usual politicking. Nothing was resolved.”

He paused to sip from his goblet.

“It was on the seventh day of council that... it happened.” His voice lowered. “Caesar snapped. He drew his sword and struck down the High Elven Queen, Nelthia Mithrilas—raving, possessed, screaming obscenities as he ordered his soldiers to slaughter the elves.”

Cassius’s brows knit together. He remembered this part well from his studies in the Romagnian monasteries.
“There was a particular name he screamed, wasn’t there?”

Rubehrt nodded grimly.
“Satanael.”

The name alone was enough to make the wine in Cassius’s mouth turn sour. Satanael—the fallen celestial, the Great Betrayer. A malevolent spirit who once stood beside AVO, now the trickster and corrupter of mortals. His influence gave rise to the monstrous races across the eastern seas, in the dark empire of Alazar upon the continent of Myrathis, where his dominion festers still, ever plotting against AVO and His divine order.

Rubehrt continued, his tone thick with memory.
“Caesar screamed that devil’s name as though it gave him the right—as though he were invoking some ancient law to justify the slaughter. The High Elven queen did not survive. Yours,” he gestured toward Eirina with his chalice, “thankfully escaped. But many did not. A great portion of elven leadership perished in that tent—those with the voice and strength to lead your people toward peace.”

He looked down into his wine. “For a moment, it seemed humanity might seize the upper hand in the aftermath. But when Caesar returned to the Romagnian capital... he was betrayed—slain by his own imperial councilors.”

Eirina frowned. “This part confuses me greatly. Why would he do all of this? And why would his countrymen turn on him? He was by far one of humanity’s most competent generals—hailed as the brightest and most accomplished of his time, both as an ambassador and a leader.” She looked to Rubehrt, seeking a human perspective—only for the lord to slam his chalice down upon the table, looking thoroughly confounded.

“No one knew!” Rubehrt exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Not even the Ordo Cleri—many within their ranks would’ve been happy to exorcise Titus of whatever corruption Satanael had inflicted, then send him right back to war!” He muttered, half to himself. “As for the councilors... I imagine they were none too pleased to lose power. Titus had stripped them of their ancestral rights and autonomy over their lands and households. Yet they feared retribution from the elves after the summit—or worse, a strike from the Three-Crown Concordat now that Titus was dead. With no heir, no legal successor, Romagnia fell into chaos. Some say Satanael truly did possess Titus, merely to sow discord in the world.”

He paused, glancing at the others.
“But... strangely... it did—and then it didn’t.”

Henrik picked up where his uncle left off. “It was nearly a month after the bloody summit that the elves abandoned their campaign of expansion. More than that—they renounced the very idea of an elven empire.” He looked to Eirina, as if prompting her to explain what had driven the decision.

“That’s true,” Eirina confirmed with a nod. “We faced... an unexpected insurrection among our own. It led to a crisis of succession. Queen Nelthia Mithrilas had ruled for—gods, nearly since the end of the Age of Strife. Her sister, Elenaeil Mithrilas, now rules as Queen of the High Elves. But I like to believe that the better part of our people rose up and seized power from those who would have wrought further harm upon the world. It’s something I strive to preserve—and carry forward.” She paused, then turned to Rubehrt. “But I believe we were discussing your lineage.”

“Ah, yes,” Rubehrt said, clearing his throat. “As Henrik said, the surrender came, and peace talks followed. With Titus murdered, the war shifting toward Sehlaria, and a revolution brewing on the Neustrian border, Lothar began to question its future as a vassal to an empire that was clearly collapsing. Lothar no longer”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes reflecting the firelight.

“The Arco family served with pride in the Romagnian Black Legions, married into Romagnian nobility—but we never forgot our roots in Lothar. We reclaimed our name, our culture, even our land—when independence was called for by Lothar’s First Grand Prince, Wilkas Nuremburg.”

A heavy silence followed his words.

“My ancestors betrayed their own comrades that day... but we fought for our land. We died for it. And for a time, we stood side by side with those same comrades. Those were better days.” He sighed. “But brother against brother—such things leave a bitter wisdom... for such sweet grapes.”

Thus, the Arco family had claimed their title and lands through an opportunistic act of independence—turning against a crumbling Romagnian Empire after using its strength to repel elven aggression. Cassius now understood the melancholy in the Arco legacy: a proud history marred by betrayal. Though perhaps justified in survival, the stain of divided loyalty would linger in the eyes of generations to come.

Eirina considered this, then rose with a faint smile. Raising her chalice toward Duke Rubehrt, she spoke in the old Imperio tongue:
“Vinum recens pro vino aceto.”
(Fresh wine for sour wine.)

Rubehrt blinked, uncertain of the phrase, until Cassius chuckled softly and translated.
“Fresh wine for sour wine—though I suppose that’s just a poetic way to say: may what comes next be better than what has soured.”

A smile crept across Rubehrt’s face. He rose and raised his goblet to Eirina, who looked slightly embarrassed by her fumbled translation.
“Vinum recens... pro vino aceto,” he echoed.

They drank, sharing a brief yet symbolic toast.

The feast carried on into the deepening night. Wind howled harder against the castle’s stonework; rafters groaned and shutters strained to hold back the storm. No one could tell how much time had passed before the last dishes were cleared, the goblets drained, and laughter softened to a weary murmur. At last, Duke Rubehrt rose, brushing down his tunic.

“I believe that will do for the evening, my friends,” he announced warmly. “Let us call this feast concluded. There is much to see to—ensuring the city is tended, the watch kept alert, and aid offered to any caught in this blazed snowstorm.”

Vesna rose alongside Eirina, prompting Cassius to glance at them both before downing the last of his wine and rising in turn. Vesna spoke first.

“Of course, Lord Duke. Thank you again for your hospitality. Should there be any way to repay it, you need only ask.”

Eirina echoed the sentiment with a graceful bow, and Cassius followed, offering a respectful nod.
Rubehrt and Henrik chuckled at Cassius’s modest, almost reluctant posture but returned the gesture warmly. As the guests began to depart, servants swept in to clear the remnants of the feast.

Beyond the dining hall, Vesna led the way, Eirina at her right and Cassius at her left. Their soft footfalls echoed down the long corridor. The noblewoman stretched high, arching her back before exhaling with a long, theatrical sigh.

“Haaaah~!” Vesna yawned, then smirked over her shoulder. “Maybe I owe you an apology, Cassius—you handled that better than I expected.”

Eirina looked surprised. “I never would have thought Rubehrt capable of such consideration after today… though, as you humans say, the night is still young.”

“Me? You mean what happened in the throne room?” Cassius asked, brow raised.

“Of course, you dense head!” Vesna grinned. “It was a foolish thing you did but, you set the stage perfectly for Eirina to do what ambassadors do best—smooth ruffled feathers. Maybe you missed your calling in diplomacy.”

“I’m not sure,” Eirina mused. “Being raised in a monastery must have tempered the pride and masculinity out of the good prior—else he wouldn’t be so calm and measured.” Her teasing drew a faint wince from Cassius. “Still, sweet words and quick thinking are nothing without a good heart. For that, I thank you.” She bowed her head gently.

Cassius hesitated, uncertain how to respond. Such praise sat uneasily with him. “…Yes, well. Hopefully once you’re beyond Lothar, your road—and your daughter’s—will be less burdened.”

“Ah, while we’re on the subject,” Eirina said, glancing between Vesna and Cassius, “might I accompany your pilgrimage caravan? My daughter and I would be no burden—my escorts were either slain or captured, and I cannot afford to wait for replacements.”

Cassius barely had time to process before Vesna cut in, decisive as ever.

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling at Eirina before turning to Cassius. He hesitated, torn between concern and practicality—but Vesna’s certainty drew him toward agreement.

“We should inform Ser Reickart,” Cassius said cautiously. “It’s his retinue—he oversees its security.”

“Well, rest assured,” Vesna replied, twirling lightly on her heel towards their quarters, “your good-natured initiative inspired me. So if it backfires, you’ve only yourself to blame.”

Cassius followed, glancing toward Eirina. “That’s all well and good, but Reickart might appreciate a warning beforehand.”

“We’ll tell him—after the snowstorm passes,” Vesna replied matter-of-factly. “If you wish to brave the city in this weather to find him, be my guest, you've been a good-hearted fool. Far be it from me to stop that aspect of yourself. But no doubt he’ll understand—he’s a pious knight, however he frets.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Cassius,” Eirina said with a faint sigh. “But we’ll see come the morrow.”

At last, they reached the corridor of their private quarters. Cassius stepped forward, knocking twice before opening the door. Within, the warm amber glow of the hearth bathed the room. Magirou sat beside the young twins, who lay nestled atop the bed, heads resting against down pillows. The elf girl sat upright, dreamy and still.

“Ah, the little ones tuckered themselves out,” Vesna observed.

Eirina stepped forward, approaching the bed. She sat at its foot, resting a calming hand on Magirou’s knee. The elfling stirred, blinking awake under the watchful eyes of the room.

“It’s time for bed, little leaf,” Eirina said softly.

"Mmmnh." Magirou rubbed her eyes and rose. The two elves left quietly after bidding their good evenings. Vesna turned to Cassius, hands on her hips.

“Mind if I take the little ones off your hands for the night?” she asked with a friendly smile.

“Feeling homesick and motherly all of a sudden?” Cassius teased with a smirk and a nod. “Sure. I could use a quiet night to gather my thoughts.”

“Grand.” Vesna crossed to the bed, scooping the children into her arms and setting them into their cradle basket. She tucked them in gently, folding the corners of the comforter around their small frames. “By the way, assuming we can even leave tomorrow, I’ll need to visit the market to prepare supplies for the caravan.”

“What about you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“I suppose I’ll attend morning service at the chapel,” Cassius said thoughtfully. “Perhaps browse the Ordo Luminary’s archives—if I can brave the frost.”

“Well,” Vesna said, rising with the basket in her arms, “thanks to your gamble, we’ll be sleeping more comfortably than most.”

With a soft curtsy and a final smile, she carried the twins out, closing the door quietly behind her—leaving Cassius alone at last to turn in for the night.

??? -- Castle Conevico -- Night of 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The snowstorm shrouded the city of Conevico in darkness, the blizzard blanketing streets and rooftops beneath a ceiling of heavy cloud. From the shadowed castle courtyard, a cloaked figure emerged, twirling a tri-clawed grappling hook with practiced ease before hurling it skyward. The hooked piton arced through the air and latched onto the battlements with a muted metallic clink.

Gripping the rope tight, the figure leapt and began to climb. As a patrol passed along the palisade above, the intruder moved swiftly—rolling over the battlement’s edge and onto its flat surface—before unhooking the line from its niche and slipping it back into his satchel.

Without hesitation, the cloaked figure darted along the path atop of the wall and arriving upon a side door leading into the castle’s interior. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he slipped through and eased the door shut behind him.

The private quarters beyond were sparsely guarded, save for a few maidservants carrying firewood or sweeping soot and snow from the carpets. Keeping to the shadows, the hooded stranger moved silently, each step carefully placed to avoid detection. He carried himself as though he belonged—but made every effort to go unnoticed.

He reached the guest chambers and tested one of the doors. Locked. A quick glance left and right preceded the emergence of a small set of tools from his satchel. He selected a lockpick and knelt, working with precision until the lock gave a faint click.

The door creaked open with a cautious push.

Inside, the noblewoman that accompanied the traveling monk laid upon the bed, curled protectively around the children she had brought with her. The intruder eased the door shut—but left it just shy of the latch—and crept slowly toward the bedside.

His eyes moved from the sleeping noblewoman to the children, then to the wicker basket resting beside them. Something about it gave him pause. With frustration flashing across his features, he crouched low and placed a gloved hand over the basket’s lid. He whispered, “Detego.”

A soft light bloomed from his palm.

The glow bathed the basket’s surface, which began to shimmer—silver luster surfacing beneath the woven disguise. The humble wicker flickered with hidden radiance as the enchantment reacted, revealing the truth of its craftsmanship.

The intruder stiffened.

His eyes darted to the children. The light in his palm winked out as his fingers slowly reached for the dagger sheathed beneath his cloak.

For a tense moment, violence seemed certain.
But then... something changed.

His hand hovered at the dagger’s hilt, trembling with indecision. Slowly—almost reluctantly—he let it fall away. His shoulders sagged with a quiet exhale as he turned toward the door to make a quick exit.

Just then, the door handle began to turn.

The intruder’s eyes widened—then narrowed—as the door was pulled shut again from the other side with a dull thump.

A maid’s voice called faintly through the door: “Wind’s picking up, girls. Make sure all the doors are locked.”

Her footsteps echoed down the hall before fading away.

The stranger released a silent breath of relief and glanced over his shoulder. Vesna stirred, shifting beneath the covers, and one of the children murmured softly in their sleep. He froze—but neither woke.

After one last moment of stillness, the cloaked figure pressed his ear to the door. Hearing nothing beyond, he eased the lock open, slipped through the narrow gap, and vanished into the darkened corridors of the castle.

Behind him, the silver luster faded from the basket. Its radiant gleam dimmed, layer by layer, until it resumed its humble wicker form—as though its true nature had never been revealed at all.

Sebastian -- Castle Conevico -- Morning, 5th Tihrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The day after their first night in the castle passed in a most uneventful droll of lollygagging. The storm winds still howled, carrying enough snowfall to trap most of Conevico’s residents indoors. Any attempts to clear the streets quickly proved futile as snow piled into great white walls, turning the city into a labyrinth for its own citizens. The city guard had to be roused to redirect the civilian effort—carving key paths through the snowbanks and clearing the city gate to grant weary travelers refuge within the walls.

Vesna had braved the bitter, desolate cold that morning to arrange the purchase of supplies for the caravan’s departure the next day. By the time she returned, she was a frigid, soaking-wet mess—though thankfully, her comforts by the fireplace were already prepared at the order of the ever-pompous chamberlain, Liebehrt.

Cassius returned as well, having attended his duties and scoured the cathedral archives. There were no records of any feasible parentage for the twins, and without the ability to survey the wilderness properly, progress was at a standstill. Hope of finding survivors had all but dimmed by the time he returned with the news.

The adults spoke at length about the journey ahead—their destination east toward Theleto, and from there onward to Neustria and the City of Lycaron. During this, Eirina excused herself from the castle. Now that they were in proper civilization, she needed to send correspondence to her queendom. A visit to the scribe’s house was necessary to inform her family and superiors of recent events—though it would occur under the watchful eye of Lord Rubehrt. She was trusted, but not without verification.

Back in the guest quarters, Sebastian spent the next few hours atop Cassius’s bed, arms outstretched in imitation of the magic Magirou had shown him. The elf girl sat beside him, watching with fascination and encouragement.

“The word is Nestalë, little Seb! Nestalë! Come on, you can do it!” Magirou cheered, clapping her hands to spur him on. Sebastian flustered with frustration, trying to form the word—only to tumble forward and catch himself with his palms on the mattress.

Vesna, seated on the floor with Niall cradled in her lap, gently smoothed the boy’s cheeks as she watched the scene unfold. A smile tugged at her lips. “Human children can’t conjure magic the way elven children can, little Magirou,” she chided gently. “And I don’t think a human’s first word is going to be in Elvish.”

Cassius smiled from his desk, where he had been writing in his journal while waiting for the snow to end—hopefully in time for their scheduled departure. Magirou sighed in defeat at Vesna’s remark.

“That might be true, but... it’s all Seb wants to do ever since I cast that spell on Niall. He was so fascinated by it,” Magirou explained.

Cassius chuckled, rising from his chair and kneeling beside the bed next to Vesna. He patted Niall’s head, then looked to Sebastian. “Fascinating glowing lights always dazzle a child’s eyes. That’s probably why he wants to learn magic,” he said. “But as you know, magic isn’t something gifted to everyone. Not everyone can become a great wizard—or be blessed by the gods, like a cleric.”

Magirou let out a thoughtful sigh, then turned to Cassius. “That’s not quite the case for us elves. We’re naturally predisposed to magic... unlike everyone else. Although, that is true—Seb isn’t an elf.” Her cheeks puffed in disappointment.

“Well, you never know—he might be a sorcerer,” Cassius said with a grin.

Magirou blinked. “Sorcerer? Wait, what’s the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer? Aren’t they the same thing?” she asked, arms crossed. Meanwhile, Sebastian was back on his feet, hands extended in another dramatic attempt to conjure something—again, without success.

“Ah, well,” Cassius began, “to put it simply: a wizard learns magic through study and training. It’s an academic pursuit, and they can master a wide range of spells. Clerics like me, on the other hand, don’t learn spells—we’re granted divine power by our gods. Sorcerers don’t learn magic like wizards either, but for a different reason.”

“Okay... but why call Sebastian a sorcerer?” Magirou asked, tilting her head.

Cassius looked at the boy, who now clenched and unclenched his tiny fists with exaggerated focus. “A sorcerer inherits their magical gifts. It’s either in their blood—passed down from some powerful ancestor—or born of a transformative event that altered them in some way. Unlike wizards, it’s not a trained discipline—it’s more... intuition. There’s instinct in their magic, and some might even say it’s stronger.”

Magirou’s eyes lit up. “Stronger magic? So a sorcerer could beat a wizard in a duel?” she asked eagerly.

Cassius and Vesna both laughed.

“That’s a debate as old as magic itself,” Cassius said. “There have been countless duels between sorcerers, wizards, druids, clerics—even warlocks—over who wields the strongest art. But there’s no clear answer. Each has their strengths. People are gifted differently when they come into the world. That can be both a blessing... and a curse.”

“Oh! That makes sense now!” Magirou exclaimed. “Like the Albion legend—Merlin and Morgan le Fay! That kind of rivalry!”

“Exactly,” Vesna nodded. “Merlin was a heroic wizard; Morgan was a powerful sorceress—ambitious and eager to harness the power of the Fey.”

Magirou beamed, catching Sebastian just as he toppled again and settling him in her lap. “Those stories are always the best. I want to be my own Morgan le Fay—powerful through my own efforts!”

Cassius gave her a wry smile. “Goodness. Your mother ought to keep an eye on you.” He stood from his chair, hand upon the surface of his desk, the other hand brushing his robe. “I’m heading to the kitchens for a quick bite. Do either of you want anything from the pantry?”

Magirou shook her head. Vesna looked toward him thoughtfully.

“Not me, personally... but by the way—did you accidentally waltz into my room last night?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Huh? No, not at all,” Cassius replied, brow raised. “If anything, I wouldn’t have left my bed even if someone slapped a chain leash on me and dragged me out—it was freezing.”

“Hm.” Vesna shrugged. “Ah well.” She adjusted Niall so his head rested beneath her chin and tickled his sides, drawing a giggle. “Probably just the maids—I heard them outside after the door shut.”

Cassius gave her a curious glance, but hunger quickly won out over suspicion. With a nod, he turned and left the room, leaving the girls to tend to their infant charges.

Cassius -- Castle Conevico -- Midday, 5th Tihrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The monk drew the folds of his thick woolen robe tighter as he made his way through the corridor toward the kitchens. The castle’s old stone bones creaked beneath the wind’s pressure. Fire sconces guttered behind oiled glass, casting flickering light across the stone floor. Despite the depth of the interior, the foyer was not spared the chill—the grand entrance doors were made for grandeur, not insulation.

He entered the wide, circular antechamber and was about to descend the stairwell toward the servants’ wing when the main doors slammed open with a heavy thud.

Cassius halted mid-step as a gust of snow-laden air rushed into the hall, whipping at tapestries and tugging at his sleeves. A swirl of frost followed the newcomer—Eirina—who stomped snow from her heeled boots and shook her traveling cloak with little concern for the fine rug beneath her.

"That pompous, poxy-faced rat-fucker of a man," Eirina muttered, breathless and irritated, brushing snow from her shoulders in an agitated sweep. "Honestly, if he calls me 'your Radiant Eminence' one more time, I’ll hex his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It’d be an improvement—and no one would be any the wiser. Probably a mercy."

She stomped her feet again to clear the snow from her boots—then froze, seeing Cassius standing a few paces away, half-turned in startled disbelief.

Eirina froze, her pupils widening slightly as snowflakes melted in her lashes. Cassius blinked, the only sound between them the howling wind.

“…Well,” Cassius finally said, fighting a laugh, “that’s passion fit for a pulpit—if, but lacking in prose or manners.”

Eirina closed her eyes and sighed, composing herself after the outburst. Her lips tightened before she exhaled in surrender, turning to shut the door behind her and leaning back against the wooden barrier.

“I thought I was alone,” she muttered, by way of excuse.

Cassius lifted a hand with a quiet chuckle, stepping closer. “Let’s just pretend you were. Though I must admit—you wear a far more elegant mask than I do. Or so I thought.”

Eirina glanced past Cassius toward the inner doors, wary. “Do you think anyone else heard?”

Cassius tilted his head. “With that storm outside? Not unless one of the statues has ears.” He smiled warmly. “That aside—welcome back.”

She returned the smile with faint embarrassment, rubbing warmth into her arms. “Thank you. My visit to the scribe’s took longer than expected—your city is a frozen maze. We’re lucky to be tucked indoors. A castle, no less. Thankfully, the guards are distributing firewood to keep people warm.”

"Ah, good," Cassius said with relief, heartened that the less fortunate were being helped. “Well, I was bound for the kitchens to address my stomach’s most impassioned complaints,” he added, gesturing down the hall. “Shall I bring you something? Perhaps something warm from the oven?”

Eirina arched a brow and shrugged off the rest of her cloak with a dramatic sweep, shaking loose a final clump of snow. “I’ll walk with you. After Liebehrt’s endless procession of feigned courtesy, I could use company that doesn’t puff out like a soggy wet pillow full of hot air.”

Cassius laughed, gesturing ahead. “Well... for whatever company I can offer, I’m eager to introduce you to Lotharian cuisine. Though I suspect a human kitchen may be a rather different dance floor than you’re used to.”

“Then we’re headed to the noblest place in the castle,” she quipped, falling into step beside him, her cloak trailing as they disappeared down the corridor toward warmth and the smell of baked bread.

The heavy stone walls soon gave way to a cozier corridor, lit by low sconces and carrying the gradual scent of hearth smoke, roast meats, and lentils. The deeper they went, the warmer the stone floors grew beneath their boots.

Eirina walked beside Cassius, her long green hair still beaded with the last glimmers of melting snow. At first, she was uncharacteristically quiet, glancing at him sidelong with a subtle tilt of her head, as though weighing something silently. At last, she spoke—her voice soft but clear.

“Your accent,” she said. “It’s familiar... Neustrian? No—something else. Like Neustrian with too much gravel and sandpaper in it.”

Cassius smiled as they rounded a bend. “Close. Romagnian. Or—was.” He rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. “My family’s Romagnian by birth. I grew up in a little hill village just outside Altarium, the capital. Lived there most of my life before the adventuring bug bit me.”

Eirina’s brow rose slightly. “Really? I would have assumed you were Maldavian, given your rough, bold manner. You don’t sound like most Romagnians I’ve met—none of that theatrical bravado.”

Cassius gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I was raised by a blacksmith and a governess. I’ve traveled a fair bit, adapting my speech to each language I learned. I suppose I’ve gathered quite a mix in my travels.”

“Oh?” Eirina’s interest sharpened as she watched his face while they walked. “Do tell.”

“My father, Lucian, was a smith,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “He believed in honest work—made gates, hinges, horseshoes most days. But there was an artistry in him. He shaped iron as if it had a purpose of its own—as if guiding it there. Said the difference between a weapon and a tool was never in the steel... but in the hands that wielded it. Much like the work of the Lord God, he’d say.”

"I guess if you were boiling your brains over a fire, something profound would have to fall out from it," Eirina quipped, Cassius laughing at her observation.

“And your mother?” she asked, her tone softening.

Cassius’s voice softened. “Seraphine. She worked in the city—Altarium. Served as a governess for a merchant family, sometimes nobility if she landed a good post. She was clever, quietly fierce. Taught me to read long before the monasteries got their claws in me—and half the village children how to speak without chewing their own tongues.”

“Taking care of so many children—and as a job? She sounds formidable,” Eirina said with genuine admiration.

“She must be,” he said, nodding. “Romagnia’s not kind to educated women who aren’t of high birth. She’s stubborn, like my father. I suppose I inherited that from both.”

They passed a pair of scullery maids hauling firewood. Cassius greeted them with a warm nod; the younger blushed, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried off.

“I don’t know about that. You’ve shown plenty of qualities—and besides, you seem most proud of them,” Eirina said after a pause.

“I am,” he admitted. “We had little, but they gave me everything they could. When I set out as an adventurer, I was set to do something with what they’d given me. I thought I’d bring good into the world, with my hands and my words.”

Eirina studied him thoughtfully, one arm folding across her chest.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked. “Home?”

Cassius was silent a moment as they turned down the last hallway toward the kitchen. The warmth struck stronger here—a wave of bread, onions, and roasting grease spilling from a cracked door.

“…Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I’ve come to realize ‘home’ is just another word for wherever your purpose takes root. And right now, mine’s stuck in the snow with two newborns, a noblewoman I’m bound to, and an elf who curses like my father when the hammer hits his thumb. Feels like I never left.”

Eirina cracked a toothy smile, half scoff, half laugh, covering her mouth with a hand

“You tell anyone I said that,” she warned, eyes narrowing playfully, “and I’ll freeze your tongue to your spine.”

Cassius raised his hands in surrender. “Noted. Tongue. Spine. Frozen. Consider it already done.”

They both smiled as Cassius opened the thick wooden door, warmth striking them like a thrown quilt.

The kitchen beyond buzzed like a hive—steam rising from bubbling pots fastened within a hearth-stove built into a chimney that accommodated an oven from underneath, knives tapping rhythmically against worn boards set upon the surfaces of the table, and the scent of sea salt and rendered fat tangling with baking herbs.

Eirina blinked at the sudden shift in atmosphere, then stepped through the door with a touch of childlike curiosity.

The kitchen’s head cook—an aproned woman with arms like kneaded dough and a ladle that could have doubled as a cudgel—barked orders in the Lotharian dialect, commanding her kitchen hands like a general at war. One scullery boy darted past with a tray of chopped fennel, another with a bottle of vinegar syrup.

And in the midst of it all, shimmering on cast-iron skillets and sizzling atop slate slabs, was a lineup of dishes in progress—the centerpiece of the midday meal: Krakenpfanne mit Speckglasur und Blütenküchlein.

Cassius’s nose twitched as he tried to read the dish’s name but drew a blank. His Lotharian was rusty, though Eirina looked thoughtful at the words.

“Conevico’s signature dish,” the head cook announced, catching their expressions. “Kraken pan-seared in garlic oil, glazed with candied bacon, served with zucchini-flower fritters dusted in sea salt and cornmeal.”

“Candied... bacon?!” Cassius repeated, eyeing the idea with comic disbelief.

“Quite so. We were lucky—managed to get the latest catch before the snowstorm set in. Everything’s fresh and neatly prepared. We can serve you both, if you wish,” the kitchen hand offered.

Eirina tilted her head, watching one of the cooks fan out the vibrant blossoms like golden origami. Her gaze lingered, appreciative. “Fried blossoms…” she murmured. “Now that, I could find room for.” She glanced at the squid sizzling in its pan and added, “The rest I’ll consider... cultural research.”

Cassius grinned. “Let’s call it diplomatic sampling.”

They didn’t linger long. After a brief exchange with one of the kitchen hands—Cassius placing an order for two servings—they were told it would be only a few moments while the fritter dough rested. They left with the promise of two steaming plates to be sent to the guest dining room.

The room where they had once dined with Lord Rubehrt felt changed in daylight. The torches and banners remained, and the hearth fire still burned as if it were the hour of the wolf, casting flickers of amber across the flagstones. Most of the long tables stood vacant, save for a few retainers or travelers hunched over their bowls, shoulders stiff from the cold.

Cassius and Eirina entered side by side, their footsteps muted. The air smelled of cloves and lemon rind—remnants of spiced tea still being poured into pewter cups.

They chose a quiet corner table near the hearth. Eirina slipped gracefully into her seat, set her gloves on the table, and crossed one leg over the other with practiced ease.

“I must admit,” she said, rubbing her hands for warmth, “I expected salted root mash and stewed oats, not exotic cephalopods and candied bacon.”

Cassius smirked as he sat opposite. “Conevico’s a port city. If it doesn’t swim or climb rocks, it’s probably not on the menu. Perhaps Lothar has a refined culture all its own,” he mused. Eirina conceded with a nod.

They both glanced toward the kitchen doors, where bursts of warmth and the clang of pots signaled the cooks hard at work. Cassius turned back to Eirina, his tone casual but curious.

“So. You’ve heard my humble beginnings—a blacksmith’s son and a scholar’s shadow.” He folded his hands on the table. “What about you? What’s life like for a Gladeleaf diplomat?”

Eirina arched a brow but didn’t flinch. Folding her hands primly in her lap, she replied with practiced ease, “It’s precisely as tedious and political as you imagine. I’m the second daughter of the Gladeleaf Line—wood elven, mind you, not high elven, before you ask.”

“What do you mean by that, there's nuance in your heritage?” Cassius inquired.

“Ah-hah.” Eirina nodded knowingly. “I forget—you’re human. You don’t reproduce the way we do. Elves are shaped by the environments our mothers dwell in from conception onward,” she explained. “If she lives in the forests, she bears wood elves like me. In places of great magic, she bears high elves. And so on.”

Cassius nodded along. “Ah, yes, I recall now,” he said. “That must be strange—having a child of a different kind within your own family.”

“It’s not as uncommon as you’d think. When one of our women conceives, she’s kept in her family’s realm to maintain her elven identity—but the world is vast, and not everything stays so neatly defined,” Eirina replied, watching him with a scholar’s interest.

“We’re a family known in Elentárië for our pedigree in diplomacy and lawfare—treaties, charters, trade disputes, the usual tedium. I was always considered the more... dependable child.”

“Your older sister was not?” Cassius ventured.

Eirina gave a quiet, unladylike snort. “Sirael’s the firstborn—brilliant, glamorous, infuriating. Raised to charm the Sylvan Court and command attention with a flick of her braid. But she’s... impulsive. So when things fall apart—when her speeches outrun her judgment or her cleverness catches fire—I’m sent to untangle the mess.”

Cassius nodded, beginning to understand. “And you were sent abroad because they trust your restraint.”

“Not... exactly, though that’s part of it,” Eirina said, her tone edged. “I’ve spent the last century mending strained alliances, within and beyond my homeland. And still, at home, Sirael’s the one they toast at festivals. You realize—no matter what you do—you’ll always be overshadowed by tradition and precedent.”

Servants arrived to offer water, cider, or wine while they waited for their meal. Both chose cider and were handed goblets before the staff quietly withdrew.

Cassius mused aloud, leaning back slightly. “Different world, same story. The ones who hold things together are always just offstage.”

Eirina glanced at him, something soft flickering in her gaze before she masked it behind a sip of cider. “Perhaps that’s why we get along, monk. Babysitting Lady Vesna must be much the same.”

The monk considered this, then waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, she can have first place all she wants. If I want to come home with my hide intact, I’m happy staying in the back of the saddle.”

“My condolences,” Eirina said—her tone balanced between humor, apology... and something warmer, more contemplative.

They fell into a companionable silence, bound by mutual understanding. Just as the hearth’s warmth began to lull them into quiet reflection, the kitchen doors creaked open—ushering in a gust of savory steam and motion. Two attendants entered bearing wide, covered platters, followed by a third balancing a dark glass bottle in each hand.

Cassius and Eirina turned toward the commotion just as the servers reached their table, one bowing slightly.

“Compliments of His Grace, Duke Rubehrt,” said the elder server, setting a carved wooden tray between them. “Krakenpfanne mit Speckglasur und Blütenküchlein—paired with a vintage mead from the Duke’s winter reserve. He hopes the road ahead tastes a little sweeter for it.”

With a fluid gesture, the lid lifted—and a ribbon of steam unfurled from the tray.

Cassius’s brows lifted at the sight. “Saints above.”

Before them gleamed a careful arrangement of seared squid tentacles—slightly charred at the tips, glistening in lemon-garlic oil and flecked with fresh dill. Nestled beside them were clusters of diced bacon, caramelized to a dark sheen and lacquered with honeyed glaze that softened the brine of the squid.

At the platter’s center, like a crown, sat a ring of crisped zucchini flower fritters—delicate, golden, curled like sun-withered blossoms, dusted with sea salt.

The mead came last, poured with reverence into horn-handled goblets. Its scent was floral and sharp, with notes of dried fruit and a faint trace of spice—ginger, perhaps.

Eirina blinked at the plate—more specifically, the squid—then glanced at Cassius. “Is this a meal or a dare?”

Cassius chuckled. “Lotharian food always looks like it might fight you back.” Still, he reached first—cutting a cluster of squid, bacon, and fritter into a single bite. “But it’s worth the risk.”

Eirina eyed the fritters with more curiosity than suspicion. “The flowers are beautiful,” she murmured, plucking one delicately, as though handling a relic. A tentative bite—and her brows lifted in surprise. “Crisp on the outside, soft in the center. Garlic... thyme?” She hummed appreciatively. “I didn’t expect this to be so good.”

“You say that like you thought humans only just discovered fire,” Cassius teased.

“I’ve simply never seen such inspiration applied to something so... squishy.” She gestured toward the squid with mock gravity. Pressing her fork to a seered tentacle, she inspects her meal. “I’ll admit—it’s my first time trying squid.”

Cassius blinked—then, unexpectedly, another question slipped out. “Just how old are you, exactly?”

Eirina looked briefly startled, glancing aside. “That’s rather abrupt to ask, don’t you think?”

“Ah forgive my curiosity, elves do not age like we do. You’re a world-trotting diplomat—and a mother—so I have to wonder: is it vegetarian preference, or are you just a picky eater?”

“It’s true... we can eat anything,” Eirina admitted, taking another fritter into her mouth for a momentary chew. “I’m simply partial to produce. And bread, of course.” She paused. “And while I am three hundred and twenty-two years old, that doesn’t mean I’ve the table manners of a child.”

Cassius blinked. Three hundred and twenty-two. He had no real idea what that meant in terms of elven culture—this wasn’t like comparing humans to dogs or cats. He was utterly out of his depth.

“My apologies. I’m almost thirty myself,” he said, chuckling as he sliced into the bacon. “I was thinking like a human—judging by our own small scale.” He popped a bite into his mouth, chewed, and grunted in approval. “Mmrh~! Good stuff.”

Eirina sighed but surrendered to curiosity, tasting a piece of caramelized bacon. She chewed slowly, then nodded with approval.

“It’s good. It's ... leaner than I was expecting. Mmm,” she muttered. “I suppose I’ll need to try the squid next to see how well it all pairs.”

Together they sampled the squid tentacle cutlets—Cassius savoring each bite, and even Eirina showing a surprising delight in the taste.

“Oh goodness!” Eirina exclaimed, brightening in a way that startled the monk.

“Ah! Discovered something you liked?” Cassius asked, grinning.

“It’s the lemon! My favorite fruit,” she declared, carving another piece. “It’s chewy too—there’s a lot to savor: sugar, salt, and sea.” She hummed thoughtfully.

“As a Romagnian, I’m partial to seafood myself,” Cassius said. “The Aeducan Sea teems with fish like this—squid, halibut, oysters, scallops. I’m rather fond of eel.”

Eirina stopped chewing and gave him a flat look. “And there, you’ve lost me. Eel?” she said, raising a brow.

“What’s with that look? You’re glowing over squid, but eel is where you draw the line?” Cassius asked, feigning offense.

“I’ll wait another three centuries before I try another rubbery, slimy, greasy fish, thank you very much,” Eirina said dryly, but her expression warmed as Cassius snickered at her chipmunk cheeked expression.

Both Eirina and Cassius laughed—and for a while, the world outside, with all its wars, politics, and cold, melted away into the simple pleasure of shared food and firelight.

Vesna -- Castle Conevico -- Evening, 5th Tihrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The light outside the castle dimmed into violet shadow, snow drifting like powdered silk down the narrow alleys and over the spired rooftops of the old stone city. Inside the great hall, music and warmth thrummed with life once more.

The dinner feast had begun. Tapestries along the walls glowed with amber light, and the long tables were dressed anew with roasted meats, candied roots, and dark winter wines. Nobles and guests murmured and laughed, their flushed faces and bright voices echoing into the arched beams above.

Vesna stepped quietly away, her leather shoes made little sound on the flagstones as she passed through the tall side doors into the old throne room, where shadows ruled once more.

The hearth burned low, casting a dim red pulse across the floor. The walls stood hushed, the windows shuttered tight against the storm’s faint whisper outside. In that solitude—silent but for the creak of wood—stood Duke Rubehrt Arco.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders limned by the hearth’s flicker as he faced the elevated seat of power. The throne was modest by Lotharian standards—no gem-encrusted monstrosity—but carved of oak and iron-bound, with the family sigil of vine and spear cresting its back.

Vesna paused at the edge of the hall, watching him. His profile was stern, contemplative—his gaze locked on the empty chair, as if waiting for it to speak.

She drew a breath and stepped forward. “My lord... is everything well?”

Rubehrt didn’t turn at once. When he spoke, his voice sounded as though it had waited all evening to leave his throat.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the throne, “when you look upon that seat... do you see yourself sitting there?”

He paused, then continued—his tone low, weighted with something unspoken.

“Do you see the ones who supported you—cheering you on? And those who sneered, who wished for your failure—on their knees, lamenting their lot?”

Vesna stood still, caught between answering and deciphering. There was no sarcasm in his tone. No bitterness. Whether the question was rhetorical or not was its own challenge.

She glanced at the throne, giving it her own moment of thought. Her husband had owned much of Neustria’s land; his vassals were many, and life at court was hard enough without the constant clashes between families. Often, she feared he had taken on too great a burden for them both.

“Given the state of my husband most days,” she said gently, “asking for anything more would be a curse on us both.” She offered a faint, knowing smile. “The throne I occupy is tiresome enough without needing a crown besides.”

Rubehrt gleaned something from her words and finally turned his gaze toward her. “A throne, you say? ... And from what noble family do you hail, again?”

Vesna lifted her hands in a small, dismissive wave. “Vesna de Lessay, House of Lessay,” she said. “My lineage is of minor circumstance—and even then, my family of birth were huntsmen.”

The Duke’s expression shifted—surprised, yet impressed. “Ah—nobility through marriage, then. Still, a family of huntsmen isn’t far from the gentry. And even so, I can see you’ve done rather well for yourself.”

“I’ve been fortunate to have a husband I truly love,” Vesna said with quiet candor. “Such is our lot in life.” She glanced again toward the seat of power. “You ask if I could ever see myself upon such a throne?” Her gaze lingered, thoughtful. “…Within a month, I’d rip out all my hair and scream until someone threw me into the sea.”

Rubehrt let out a dry scoff, his lips quirking into a wry smile. “That would be a sight. Though given how it’s aged me,” he said, brushing a hand over his already-bald scalp, “perhaps I’ve been your resounding inspiration. I remember how I must have looked the first time you saw me.”

Vesna tilted her head, recalling her arrival—how Rubehrt had sharply rebuked Eirina and Magirou. Yet she was no stranger to the strain between elves and Lotharians. In her eyes, both sides bore guilt and grudges alike.

“It’s not my place to judge how you rule your lands,” she said. “I’ve only been in your country five—no, six days? Yours is the only city in Lothar I’ve seen.”

“Oh, don’t pretend to such false modesty,” Rubehrt grumbled, turning from the throne and walking toward the corridor leading to the foyer. Vesna followed close behind. “Politics is the devil’s game—it demands that you dance to whatever tune is played, no matter how soulless. Stay in it long enough, and even the best men change: peasants become less than people, enemies to your ideals become  your allies, and your friends become those you most suspect of treason.” His voice lowered. “You begin to dehumanize even a mother trying to protect her child.”

Vesna understood. Her initial walk in between Rubehrt, Eirina and Magirou wasn’t lost on her.

“Is it truly so dire between Lothar and the Elves?” she asked. “What of the Divine Alliance? Both Lothar and Elentárië are bound by Balandaria’s many defense pacts—wouldn’t that forbid such hostility?”

“In theory, yes,” Rubehrt said with a weary shrug. “But you know the Divine Alliance was forged in the Age of Tyranny—when the world was caught between two dooms: the Apocryphirum Empire and the Draconian Imperium. We sided with the dragons to banish the Mindflayers, and soon after were compelled to banish the dragons as well. The Alliance endured only because the Drow beneath our feet continue to threaten us from the Under-Realms.”

Rubehrt paused, glancing toward her. “But we must still tend our own gardens. Elentárië and Sehlaria are so monumentally opposed they’ve each forbidden the other’s people entry into their lands. And if I recall, Neustria has been having its own problems with Romagnia of late.”

Vesna knew that all too well; her expression darkened.

“…Yes,” she admitted. “They’ve been quietly plotting with the Orthodox Temple—to force vassalization upon the Free City of Dogeia.”

Rubehrt nodded grimly. “Then you see why the Divine Alliance means so little to our leaders. Everyone who rises to power learns that as long as a worse alternative exists, it gives leeway to their own evils. History, after all, seems always to have been the choosing of the lesser evil—never the pursuit of an ideal.”

Vesna said nothing but felt the weight of his words as he slowed in the corridor and stopped at its center. He turned to look at her directly.

“I feel it in my bones,” he said quietly. “This coming era will be one of wolves and darkness.”

“…What do you mean?” Vesna asked. “That everything will collapse around us?”

Rubehrt turned his gaze to one of the glowing braziers lining the hall and walked slowly toward it, warming his hands upon arrival.

“Perhaps. My lands have known peace for years—but elsewhere? The Elves to the west, the east toward Romagnia, even the dwarven leagues of the Under-Realms—there’s never been rest. Their war with the Drow has spanned centuries, so far beneath our feet that you almost forget its existence. And now, even this quiet corner of mine isn’t safe from turmoil.”

Vesna approached, extending her hands toward the brazier’s warmth.

“I know the feeling—anxiety for the future.” She smiled faintly. “But I do not think it heralds the world’s end. I’m not one to turn immediately to celestials for our worldly troubles.”

Rubehrt raised a brow in mild surprise. “No?”

She shook her head. “If some higher power meant to destroy us, I imagine it would’ve happened already. If there is one meant to destroy us, we are no doubt protected by one greater, and all I can do is give thanks. Instead, I place my faith in the good and glad-hearted—to hold the world together, piece by piece. It is our world, and we are not the only ones who share it.”

“And yet you’re on a pilgrimage?” he asked, bewildered. “Do you not truly believe in AVO?”
“I do believe in AVO,” Vesna said, clearly and firmly. “But I do not believe in men who think to make themselves God.” Rubehrt looked thoughtful, letting her words settle.

“The Romagnian Temple has played kingmaker in every kingdom it touches—always in pursuit of the ‘One True King’ of prophecy, the one destined to reunite mortalkind and elves under the First Kingdom. One wonders whether they believe it themselves… or if the prophecy was invented merely to legitimize their influence.”

Rubehrt’s expression hardened in thought. “I’ve not heard many good words about our illustrious Arch-Cleric Marius. The rumors of his lack of scruples have certainly reached my ears.” The duke gestured toward the bruise along the side of his face.

From Vesna’s perspective, the discussions surrounding Arch-Cleric Marius held that he was elected for his supportive theological views on the authority of the Crusades—views that had aided the Divine Alliance’s war against the Drow and the potential invasion by the Monsters of Myrathis. Vesna now feared such efforts might drift toward Dogeia and toward the long-standing goal of a unified Pax Romagnia.

Rubehrt, however, cleared his throat. “…You’ve clearly considered this deeply. And perhaps—I agree with you, in part.” He lowered his voice. “But be careful with such thoughts, Vesna. You travel among Templars, clergymen, and who knows if one of my staff is a Luminary spy? Best not speak so freely.”

“My apologies,” Vesna said quickly, bowing her head. “I meant no offense, nor to disrespect your hospitality.”

“You didn’t.” Rubehrt dismissed it with a quiet wave. “Never mind my ramblings, Your Ladyship. Such frustrations shouldn’t stain our evening.” He resumed walking toward the great doors at the end of the corridor. Vesna remained still, watching him depart into the distance.

“My Lord Arco,” she called gently.
He stopped, turning halfway toward her.

Vesna faced him fully. “Things will work out—whether by AVO’s hand or our own,” she said, voice calm and sure. “I still have hope—for this world, and for whatever lies beyond it.”

Rubehrt gave her a small smile, smoothing the sleeve of his regalia.

“…Would that I had your confidence in these times...” he said at last, and was about to turn away when Vesna walked toward him, prompting him to stop. “Hnm?” he hummed in curiosity.

“You’ve told me,” Vesna began, digging into her satchel, her fingers scouring through its contents, “that our history has ever endeavored to choose the worst evil.” Her hand found a familiar parchment, and she drew out a letter sealed in wax. Rubehrt’s eyes scanned the parchment and the wax emblem—a seated crowned lion with a paw upon an open tome.

“I propose an alternative. I ask that you deliver this to Grand Prince Ulrich,” Vesna declared, raising the letter to Rubehrt, who slowly turned it over before returning his gaze to her.

“The royal seal of Neustria?” Duke Rubehrt remarked, confused. “What is the meaning of this!?” The duke turned fully to Vesna, who clasped her hands before her, watching his reaction with a diplomatically neutral expression.

“One block lifts the other,” Vesna reasoned vaguely. “Neustria is willing to uphold the expectations of the Divine Alliance concerning the elves—if Lothar is willing to help Neustria.”

Rubehrt frowned, suspicion and skepticism clear in his expression, as he raised the letter and attempted to break its seal.

“You may do that at your own risk,” Vesna stated sharply, halting Rubehrt’s curiosity. “But I suggest it be given to Grand Prince Ulrich first. Your ignorance of the letter’s contents may very well save you from a hideous misunderstanding.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?! Is this blackmail!? Extortion!?” Rubehrt stepped toward Vesna, who merely glanced upward at the nobleman, unbothered by his rising hostility.

“Neither,” Vesna explained calmly. “It is a warning and a courtesy from King Castor of Neustria himself. Its contents will be known soon enough once this letter reaches Ulrich’s hands. With luck, we can steer the Divine Alliance back to its proper course.”

“By what method—and with what intention—do you mean to achieve this?” Rubehrt asked. “How can I trust you if I cannot judge the message you hope to send!? You would have me risk my honor for nothing!” he snarled, his grip on the letter tightening.

Vesna could see his staunch reluctance, and in truth, she sympathized. She slowly closed her eyes and drifted a hand into her satchel, clutching a heavy golden band carved to fit a finger. She smoothed her fingers over its form and withdrew her hand in a tight fist.

“You are right, Duke Arco. It is not fair to ask such things with so little given. So I offer you a courtesy—against the wishes of my entourage—that you might trust my honor and my intentions toward you and toward Lothar.” Vesna extended her hand and opened her palm, revealing a ring.

Rubehrt was cautious at first, but upon closer inspection his face shifted to fear and hesitation. He nearly dropped the letter, halted only by Vesna’s other hand raised in a flat-palmed gesture. She closed the ring back into her fist and returned it to the satchel, leaving Rubehrt pondering these newfound circumstances.

"You are ... !!!" Rubehrt began.

"I am a noblewoman in service to her King. And that is what is true and all you must say about me amidst others for now. You may tell Ulrich of what you know of me if it will help your case. But I insist this letter be delivered, and by your hand." Vesna reasons to Rubehrt. "I will of course compensate you from out of my own wealth for this favor you will have done for me, or anything you ask of me."

Rubehrt hesitates, his eyes shifting from side to side, his fingers smoothing along the material of the letter. "Why can you not send it? Why ... rely upon me? This letter in your hands, with this seal, is far more effective presentation than I."

Vesna smiles at this. "I have an appointment to keep in Theleto. Consider this a favor in the light it shall shine upon your family. And because I have a good feeling about you. I have a nose for this sort of thing, as my husband might say." 

"...Hah!" Rubehrt nervously yet relieving laughs. "You are ... not at all what I expected in the least. Lord AVO above." The balding man closes his eyes and rubbing a palm along his temple. "No. You are right. Very well." Rubehrt clears his throat. "And who else knows about this ... delicate matter?"

"Only me." Vesna flatly states. "I merely ask that Neustria be able to retrieve our Elven Ambassador from your hospitality and in peace. She will be most helpful in our ability to help Lothar."

"No doubt." Rubehrt agrees with a nod, tapping the letter from one hand to the other. "Very well. I had no intention of harming the elves since your timely intervention." He explains. "Is there ... anything else I might impart to Ulrich besides the letter?"

"... Yes." Vesna straightens herself. "Tell him the author of this letter will be in Theleto, along with many others given similar letters. Whatever he decides to do with this information, it should be known that ignorance cannot be an excuse any longer."

"That's ... quite heavy handed. ... And ominous." Rubehrt professed. "What is Neustria even plotting? ... Wait." Rubehrt further digested her words before glancing at Vesna. "Others? Given similar letters? Do you intend controversy within the Temple!?"

Vesna closes her eyes and curtsies. "Everything will be clear when you deliver this letter to Ulrich. I recommend delivering it in person and keeping the existence of this letter to yourself. Not even my pilgrimage knows of this. But the hour is late, and I must prepare for my departure."

Rubehrt realizes this to be true and huffs. "... You play a dangerous game, good woman. I hope this intrigue doesn't end in the worst for you, as you have shown me such unnecessary courtesy."

The noblewoman never-the-less grins. "We'll have to talk it over when next chance we're given. Perhaps Heinrik's wedding? Provided you would invite someone such as myself. Good evening, Lord Arco." 

With that Vesna departs for her rooms leaving Rubehrt weakly smiling, holding the letter in his hands as he examines it once more. "...Good heavens, what a handful." Rubehrt chastises to himself with a chuckle before turning back towards the throne room, pocketing the mysterious letter within his tunic.

Sebastian -- Castle Conevico -- Morning, 6th Fehrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Early morning came, and the tight-knit group that Sebastian had accompanied since his first days in this world was packing to leave the castle. Before he and his brother Niall knew it, they had been returned to the familiar prison of their blanketed basket, ready to set off once more into the world.

Of course, the departure was enough to conjure the portly, balding Lord of Conevico from his seclusion—long enough to offer his farewells and well-wishes to his guests. And though Sebastian had formed a less-than-ideal first impression of the lord—perhaps even decided he was wrathful by nature—he now found himself reconsidering. Duke Rubehrt and Heinrik Arco placed a hand over their crests, eyes closed in solemn sincerity and offered their guests a parting blessing in the name of AVO.

Once beyond earshot of the castle gates, Magirou declared, “It was obviously my good manners and winning smile that changed his heart,” smoothing her hair back over her pointed ears with mock grace. Eirina and the others gave a half-hearted chuckle, amused despite themselves.

The city was blanketed in a fresh layer of snow. Burghers and members of the city garrison shoveled, pitched, and hauled snow by the wagonload from the urban walls. Yet no matter how white and clean the city appeared beneath its wintry shroud, the stench and grime beneath it still lingered.

“Well, no sense waiting,” Cassius declared, drawing his cloak tighter. “Let’s reconvene with our caravan.”

Vesna nodded reassuringly, and together the group wound through the narrow streets and snow-choked alleys toward the eastern gate.

The sun was just beginning to rise along the horizon when they arrived. The caravan was stirring to life—Templar knights saddling their horses, loading equipment into carts, and aiding pilgrims with their belongings. Commander Reickart, the Templar leader, was moving among the travelers, helm beneath one arm, issuing orders with brisk efficiency. His close-cropped hair showed the remnants of a dirty-blond hue beneath a dusting of frost.

“AVO be praised,” Reickart greeted with a dry smile. “Glad to see you weren’t snowed in.”
“I take it the children will be coming with us then?” he added, glancing at the basket Cassius carried.

“To Theleto, yes,” Cassius confirmed. “From there... I’ll remain for a month before seeking passage to Lycaron.”

A hint of sorrow passed over Reickart’s face. Vesna touched her own jawline thoughtfully, falling silent.
“It’s in the hands of Lord AVO,” Reickart said solemnly, placing a gauntleted hand on Cassius’s shoulder. “And yours.” The weight of those words needed no further explanation.

“We’ll have new company,” Vesna offered, changing the subject. She turned, gesturing toward Eirina and Magirou as they stepped forward.

“Elves?” Reickart raised an eyebrow. While his tone was pointed, it lacked any real hostility. “Though I suppose it natural an elf might find reason enough to leave Lothar these days.”

“Would our presence be a problem, Commander?” Eirina asked calmly, keeping an arm around her daughter.

“Only two more mouths to feed, by my reckoning,” Reickart said with a shrug. “But elves and humans have a... rocky history. And Theleto is the sacred seat of the Romagnian Orthodox clergy.” He paused, giving her a measured look. “I can get you there, but—”

“We have an embassy,” Eirina assured him. “Despite the disagreements between our Chantry and the Temple. Once I reach it, I’ll no longer be a burden to your company.”

“…Fair enough,” Reickart said, conceding the point. “Regardless, you’ll be protected on the road as if you were ordained faithful.” He struck his breastplate with a closed fist and lowered his head respectfully.

“Eirina can help clear the snow with her magic,” Vesna added. “That might ease some of the tensions around her presence—if it gets us moving faster.”

“I won’t pretend we don’t need the help,” Reickart said, chuckling as he fitted his helm over his head. “We’re moving within the half-hour. If she can clear the road ahead, it’ll be most appreciated. Until then.” With that, he strode off to rally the caravan’s vanguard.

“He was rather amenable,” Eirina observed, while Magirou glanced in awe at the armored knights around them.

Cassius snorted, resting a hand on the basket. “Vesna’s influence, no doubt.”

“Laugh it up, prior,” Vesna said with mock irritation, tossing her hand in his direction. “It’ll likely be a month’s journey—snow permitting—before we reach Theleto.” She pinched her brow, recalling the route. “Three cities on the way, if I remember right. First is Roccia.”

“Better Romagnia than Lothar,” Magirou said with a confident grin, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “They say it’s the more elegant side of human culture.”

“Wait until you see Neustria,” Cassius added, trying to impress her. “Our knights, our tourneys, our beautiful countryside—it’s the jewel of mankind.”

“For certain!” Vesna agreed, hoisting herself into one of the wagons with a helping hand from Cassius. “Neustria is the finest of the human kingdoms—and soon, the crown jewel of the world.”

Magirou was helped up into the wagon, while Eirina remained behind, standing at street level beside the wheel. “I’ll move ahead with the vanguard to melt some snow,” she said to her daughter. “Stay with Vesna and Cassius, all right?”

“Sure thing, Mother!” Magirou chirped, waving as Eirina turned and marched off toward the city gates.

And soon, the wagons creaked into motion. Wheels grinding through slush, hooves striking cobblestones, the caravan began its long treck from Conevico and back into the wilderness.

There was more to see. More to explore. Roccia lay ahead.

It was a shame, Sebastian thought—or would have, had he known—how little he’d seen of Conevico: a chapel, a few streets, three rooms in a castle. He experienced the mirth and merriment of the castle staff, the warm shell of castle walls amidst the cold, the wonders of magic. He could not yet walk. He could not yet speak. But some part of him already longed to roam freely, as the caravan did. He already held the goal to be able to perform the magic he witnessed Magirou 

One day he'll be able to do these things.

One day.

Sebastian -- Road to Roccia -- 7th - 10th Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The passage of time went by uneventfully as Eirina used her magic to melt the snow covering the roads, allowing the caravan to travel steadily across the open plains and hills from one destination to the next. The hardest part of her efforts lay in locating the paved roads beneath the snow, so as not to waste her limited magical reserves on dirt trails or icy ditches.

From his place in the wagon, Sebastian watched Eirina with wide-eyed wonder, holding out his little hands and gurgling with effort as he attempted to mimic the cone of fire she conjured—much to the laughter of the onlookers. Vesna smiled softly and glanced down at Niall, who sat at the wagon's bed playing with a set of newly carved wooden toys, a gift from Alvar the carpenter. Alvar himself sat beside Cassius, across from Vesna, watching the children with a quiet fondness.

“Thank you again for the toys, Master Carpenter,” Vesna said warmly.

Alvar flashed a charming grin. His accent carried the distinct cadence of Castillia—foreign to the ears of most Neustrian and Romagnian pilgrims. “Ah-hah, not a problem at all, Lady Vesna. You’ve been kind enough to accommodate me since work dried up in the Selenga shipyard. I figured I should repay the favor. Besides, being snowed in the poorhouse was driving me mad. How do you northerners stand it?”

“Good patience and virtue, I reckon,” Cassius muttered beneath his blanket, eyes shut against the chill. “Or we’re just too stoic to complain.”

“There’s a roaring fire up front if you’re that cold,” Vesna teased.

The others turned to look—just in time to see Eirina ahead of the caravan, casting a cone of fire into the snow. The orange flare illuminated the falling flakes and the scorched earth beneath. Cassius frowned. “I’ll spare myself the singed eyebrows, thank you. You could be generous and share that wolf pelt you’ve been flaunting.”

“Finders keepers,” Vesna replied with a smug grin. “I hunted and made this cloak myself. It’s got good memories. Not something I’ll hand over to just anyone.”

Alvar chuckled. “A hunter, a noblewoman, and sharp as a dagger. Your husband must be the luckiest man in the world, Lady Vesna.”

“He doesn’t even know the half of it,” she replied with a satisfied smile. “…And what about you, ser? No wife?”

As the wagon rolled on, Sebastian tried once again to cast a spell, only to wobble and fall back into Cassius’s lap. Niall continued playing with his toys at the passengers’ feet, with Magirou seated beside him, leaning back against the lower bench.

Alvar shook his head. “No wife. I’ve always been too eager to see the world. When I heard you were heading for Theleto—well, with work drying up, I had to come along. I have a dream of learning the art of construction—becoming a master builder. I’ve heard Romagnian and Neustrian chapels are a marvel.”

“I thought the cathedrals in Castillia were beautifully designed,” Cassius added. “Especially in the south. There’s a beautiful mix of Sehlarian influence there.”

“True, padre, true. But have you ever stare at a wall long enough that you feel like you’ve seen all there is to see?” Alvar asked. Cassius gave a moment of consideration before a thoughtful nod. “There you have it.”

Magirou chimed in. “You worked at a shipyard? Does that mean you build ships?”

“Sí, quite so.” Alvar smiled at her. “Castillia’s navy is the pride of the Divine Alliance. Our galleons and merchant fleets keep the sea lanes secure. Even if pirates from the south or Saphyrheim raiders from the east give us trouble, we always give them a good chase and scare.”

“What made the work dry up?” Magirou asked, head tilted.

Alvar sighed. “No new orders. And what work we did have was repairs. Merchants these days are too frugal to commission new vessels.” He shrugged. “You’d think with the New World discovery, we’d have more work than we could handle. But no. Castillia must be tightening its purse strings.”

In 1778 GSE, a Castillian naval expedition had sailed south of Sehlaria in search of new fisheries and lands beyond the known world. They returned in 1779 with wonders: new resources, exotic spices, tales of fertile continents, indigenous tribes, and ruins believed to belong to the long-lost First Kingdom. The news spread like wildfire. The Divine Alliance scrambled to expand its influence in this "New World," quickly followed by the Monster hoards of the Alazarian Imperium from far away Myrathis. Conflict was inevitable. Perhaps Castillia was saving its coffers for that.

“Honestly, master carpenter, if you could build a ship to take us home, I’d show you around my humble abbey myself,” Cassius joked, drawing smiles all around.

“Half tempted, padre,” Alvar grinned. “I’d even love to help spruce the place up—AVO willing. The world will always need a good builder. Maybe someday it’ll know the name Alvar Luego.”

Cassius laughed. “It’ll take a fleet, a cathedral, or a castle for a builder’s name to live on. They don’t commission those lightly.”

“I know,” Alvar said, leaning back with a sigh. “I’d need to learn from a master builder. I know ships, so that’s a start. Neustria, Romagnia, even Maldavia have fine ships.”

“So do the elves!” Magirou added brightly. “Why not go to them?”

Alvar chuckled. “Señorita, the day the elves let a human apprentice on one of their ships is the day I’m crowned king of their pretty little council. It’s not that I wouldn’t be honored—Castillia’s had good dealings with the elves. But that’s about as far as it goes.”

Magirou seemed to consider this as she looked back down at Niall. Meanwhile, Vesna glanced at Sebastian—now standing again with his fingers outstretched, eyes glistening with fresh tears.

“You were right, Magirou,” she said softly. “Maybe I should introduce him to the royal court wizard. He’s too determined for his own good.”

“Dios mío,” Alvar chuckled. “Didn’t even touch the toys. What a strange kid.”
“Strange?” Magirou quirked a brow. “What child wouldn’t want to use magic?”
“Ay, got me there,” Alvar conceded with an approving nod.

“The last thing we need is a toddler throwing fireballs,” Cassius sighed, casting a wary eye at Sebastian.

Up ahead, Eirina cast another cone of fire—flames spiraling from her fingers into the snow, melting a clear path through the frost and singeing the grass beneath. It was a graceful demonstration of the spell’s cone-shaped arc.

“Lachmá!” Eirina shouted, hands wreathed in flame, fingers adjusting the flow.

Sebastian mimicked her, pointing his hands at the snow beside the wagon, eyes burning with effort. He thought he was helping. He didn’t know just how little he could contribute.

Panting, arms trembling, he was near exhaustion.
“I think he’s getting tuckered out,” Magirou noted.
But Sebastian was stubborn. He raised one hand, gurgling with strain, one eye clenched shut. “...Mmml…”

The caravan stirred around them as the cry rang out: Roccia was near. They’d be there within the half-hour. Excitement spread. Magirou stood up, shielding her eyes as she scanned the horizon. Vesna leaned out and pointed to the distant Romagnian burgh rising against the winter sky.

But Sebastian blocked it all out. “...Mmml…” he whispered, focusing.
Tiny buds of fire bloomed around his hand—brief, flickering like flower petals.
“Mmm-Laac—” he strained…

Only to be scooped up suddenly by Cassius.

“Here we are, little Sebastian,” the monk announced. “Your first Romagnian city! Can you say Roccia?”
Sebastian blinked, his concentration broken. He looked toward the horizon, reaching his hands forward.

“Mmmmrr—” was all he could manage.
“Well, he’s getting there,” Vesna laughed. “Not quite a word yet.”

Cassius chuckled, sitting with Sebastian on his lap. The child rested there, disappointed, still unsatisfied with his lack of results—but safe, and warm, and loved.