ℭ𝔥𝔬𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 Ꭾ Ꭹ Ꮢ Ꮛ || ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x ᴘɪxᴇʟ.

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♫

Orbis factor rex aeterne, eleison
(Maker of the world, king eternal, have mercy upon us.)

The somber hymn ebbed and flowed, each note blasting from protracted alloy pipes, vibrating the eardrums of the onlookers despite the open air. The colossal organ was mounted atop a slow-moving processional stand, flanked by a choir of more than forty priestesses, each clad in pale white lined with streaks of fiery red.​

Pietatis fons immense, eleison
(O immense source of pity, have mercy upon us.)

Beneath the platform upon which they rode, slaves of all races bore the heavy load, trudging forward, their downcast gazes glued to the paved marble. They once had names, stories too, whether merchants or warriors or both. But they had sought to resist the forward march of the Vriseon Empire, and for their transgressions, they were given the choice of death or servitude.​

Noxas omnes nostras pelle, eleison
(Drive off all our evils, have mercy upon us.)

Banners flying the colors of black, crimson, and gold crowded out the sky. Soldiers marched in exacting uniformity, their midnight platemails polished to a sheen. With each forward step, it was as though the ground itself trembled; the sheer size of the cavalcade stretched on and on, like a winding trail of ink.​

Noxas omnes nostras pelle, eleison
(Drive off all our evils, have mercy upon us.)

Near the front of the procession, just ahead of the massive stage housing the organ, was a smaller but far more ornate platform. A throne of wrought gold was hammered into the sturdy hardwood, massive and lumbering. At the foot of the throne, a horrid creature lounged. Its red gold fur shone with inner fire, steam curling from the corners of its mouth, and when it yawned, its terrifying fangs frightened an onlooking child. But before he could scream, his mother had already slapped her hand over his mouth. Kuvair, the beast was called. But to the inhabitants of the former Kingdom of Arun, the beast had another name. Red Death.​

Vistus qui lux es mundi dator vitae, eleison
(Vistus who art the light of the world and giver of life, have mercy upon us.)

Kuvair yawned again, nuzzling into the hand atop his menacing head, docile as can be. A hand adorned by a multitude of rings, carrying religious and military ranks both. Rhaelor Aertheos did not bear the last name of Vriseon, but he might as well have, such was his power and such was his influence. Instead, the archpriest was simply known as the Will of Vistus. He had renounced his titles and lands long ago when he devoted himself to the Church, to perpetrating the will of his God, and it was that same higher calling that compelled him to this distant land, at the very outer reaches of the Vriseon Empire.

The former Kingdom of Arun, now Vassal State, was just vast enough, just wealthy enough, just mystical enough, to merit special attention from Emperor Augustine Vriseon, the Avatar of Vistus. And what the Avatar decrees, the Will executes. The royal family of Arun is to continue its reign, on paper, to pacify the Arunian masses. But for those with even a modicum of sense, it was all too apparent why Rhaelor had descended upon this land, bringing with him battalions and battalions of soldiers as far as the eyes can see. The treaty had already been negotiated and endorsed, but the resolve of Arun was not so easily quashed. The new vassal state was too far from the heart of the Empire to be left unchecked, and its natural bounties too precious to ignore.

Rhaelor came not to conquer, but to suppress. The inevitable rebellions would be trampled underfoot like insects, and seditious plots snuffed out and shattered.

As the grand procession continued its march, wind lifted his sanguinary locks, red like his God’s fire, red like the blood he would spill. He was getting closer now, his march through the streets of Arun’s vaunted capital nearly complete, the alabaster castle just upon the horizon. His lips curved into a smile.​

"Kyrie Eleison." He murmured, offering a prayer to the heavens above. Lord have mercy upon the sinners, upon the heretics he would put to the flame.
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Wars were vicious things. Especially when one was on the losing end of one. Worse for the Divine family that had ruled, some would venture to say, for eons. Since the dawn of time, when the fire birds streaked flames across the sky before converging as one in an eternal mating dance that became the Sun. From that union, the Arun family was born, divined the Sun itself to be the eternal celestial entities that would form an empire of rolling hills festooned with lakes, connected so with ribbons of rivers that kept the green lands set to pasture fertile and green, or swaying gold heavy with wheat, or a motley of color that blossomed instead with the smell of fresh fruit.

The land was a bounty in and of itself. They were rich in trade, prosperous in their riches, and had fought back the hand of greed before.

But the Divine royal family had not seen war in fifty years, perhaps even more. There were whispers on the street from the common folk; heresy, if the spies themselves were not a part of things said in blasphemy to the bloodline itself. Some questioned whether the Family in power had ever been Divine, though those who uttered the worst of the rumors met their fate face down in their own blood. Most commonly, the word had begun to spread that the Divine were no longer such, that their blood had been diluted over too many births, until it ran as clear as the waters that surrounded their great palace sat atop a hill so as to look down on the sprawling city below. The green lands beyond. Others whispered that the decision to mate outside of the Sun’s own body had created a rift, as the Emperor and his harem came from other, more minor symbols of Divinity that made up the rest of the ruling caste.

Seven daughters and three sons. It was the other reason why eyebrows rose, as the Emperor had been on His throne for twenty years now and had His choice of women bred for the purpose of spreading His seed. And yet - He had sired mostly girls.

And that of His boys had been killed. All except one, who had disappeared. Perhaps even taken prisoner by those that marched now, like some grand procession, down the white and gold swept streets of the Celestial city. Under the blaze of the afternoon’s sun, everything looked to be clean - pristine; colors shining in washed out shades of pastel to further reflect the Sun that winked down, mocking the sound of victory’s music that showed its feat to all of those that lined up, awe-struck or panic seized.

Uncertain that their Divine rulers were still able to protect them as they had done for a generation - more - now.

So while the way chimed with the sounds of triumph, a more potent discord was starting to spread amongst the masses: voices.

The Emperor sat on the dais raised high above everything else, stone faced and grim. Though the arrogant lines of His face remained unlined, there was silver sprouting from His temples that lightened the pitch dark of his hair. Bronzed skin and a proud, hawk-like face, his eyes were that of a predator’s: golden, dark like the richest coin passed around in barter, and still fierce despite the blood-soaked losses left out on the fields of battle. Standing out against his otherwise sun bathed swarthy, a ceremonial robe of stark white trimmed in gold wiring, emblazoned with the Sun itself: two great birds wreathed in flame, intertwined together to form a sphere of globe. Rubies and citrine danced in the light from the gold torque around his neck, resting against his otherwise bare chest. Rings of the same shone from His thick fingers, which clutched too tightly onto the arms of the granite throne He sat upon.

His wife, who had shunned Her name when she had become one of the Divine, stood instead of sat just behind the throne, head respectfully bowed, eyes reading the lines in the open floor of the dais. An intricate coil of rose red flamed Herr golden hue of Her skin. Though still in shadow, Her eyes were the green of a blade of grass. Her lips carmine and full. A smattering of freckles dusted Her cheeks, hidden under the cosmetics artfully applied to a pretty face. Where the Emperor wore white, She wore gold.

Then there were the daughters, even more in the shade of the alcove, all in a line in varying shades of their Divinity. Daughters of Earth and Sky and Water and even the shadow of the Moon. Only two were truly of the Sun. All were present, with the exception of the Moon, though no one spoke of Vestele’s absence. Nor did they dare to.

They stood in order of importance, starting with the two Named daughters: Maya and … Ayla.

Only one was born of the newest Divine Empress, and despite being the youngest of them all, it was Ayla who would be Heir if her brothers did not return alive. Out of the six girls present, she was the only one who squinted out over the sprawl of the city at the dark line of men who thrummed their steady way towards where they waited. Eyes like chartreuse, the gold-green of one of her companions, and just as filled with feline curiosity.

But also of feline cunning.

A dark fringe of lashes made the vibrant gaze stick out, more than the paler undertones of bronze or the pitch black whip of her braid that was strung in gold and red down her back, where it curled close to her hip. Like the monarch butterfly, she wore darkness around her willowy frame, though oranges and reds and golds popped like crackles of frame that licked their way up her body, holding in its embrace. With every shift, the colors moved with her, flickering like flames.

Those flames were in her eyes now, watching. Waiting to see what would come of this ceremony. ​

 

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The procession would not stop until it marched straight up to the waiting royal family, close enough that with a running start, an athletic individual might be capable of leaping from one to the other. It was then that Rhaelor stood, raising a hand - the music halted. Instantly. Jarringly. The silence that followed was deafening.

There was no herald’s announcement; one was not needed. Anyone here of any worth has heard of the name Rhaelor Aertheos. And, even if they were not able to put a face to the name, the likeliness of a midday sun, the Sigil of Vistus, etched just below his hairline made his identity unmistakable. Unlike those lifeless birds embellishing the emperor’s robes, the sun equidistant from his dark, arching brows blazed. A shade so bright, so inhuman, that only the gold of his eyes could rival the shade. If the emperor’s eyes were comparable to burnished coins, then Rhaelor’s were the hallowed fire that would melt those coins until only ashes remained. A flame motif that continued through the rest of his clothing. A red overcoat garbed his tall, imposing form, a vibrant shade that complemented his fiery mane. The gold-lined ensemble was tight around the broadness of his shoulders and cinched around the waist, just tight enough to highlight his musculature and to emphasize the vigor of his comparable youth. He was old enough that he exuded sophistication with every motion, but young enough that everything from his eyes to his smile dripped with arrogance.

Three fingers bent downwards.

The footsoldiers surrounding his platform banged their helbards against the marbled ground thrice in perfect unison, ringing clangs that echoed. A sound repeated as the next segment of soldiers emulated the same. And the next. And the next… They were so well-trained that but for just how deafening the sounds were, it was possible to mistake them as having been generated by a single helbard. A reminder of just why Arun stood no chance on the battlefields.

Ah but what was a victory procession without a little fanfare?

Kuvair stood up straighter at his owner’s urgings, his chest puffing up as he inhaled-- catapulting into the sky now in a burst of flame. His roar sundered the silence and drowned out even the reverberation of helbards. Rhaelor etched arcane sigils with his upturned hand, and conflagrations blossomed across the sky in radiant patterns far more extravagant than what the Arunian masses were used to witnessing. Bright enough to, just for a moment, rival the ardent blaze of the sun itself. And within it all, Kuvair soared, howling his terrifying song with potency and grandeur. It was entertainment, to be sure. But more importantly, it was a more compelling show of force than words could ever hope to accomplish, a direct challenge to those who dared proclaim divinity and yet had nothing but flowery robes to show for it.

When all of that was said and done, when both the eyes and ears of every individual unfortunate enough to bear witness to the violent display were just a tad overwhelmed, he lowered his hand again and the world fell silent once more at his command.

He beckoned Kuvair back, mounted the fearsome beast, and bid Kuvair to bring himself onto the emperor’s raised dais. The sun was behind his back, casting his shadows upon the seated emperor as though a metaphor for what’s to come. He never broke eye contact with the emperor, as if his wife and his children did not exist at all.

And finally, he broke the tension with a smile, almost…gentle, in comparison to all that had transpired.

“I am Rhaelor Aertheos, Your Royal Majesty.” His voice was deep, masculine, cool and collected unlike his appearance. He was not so diplomatic that false honey dripped from his words, but nor was he so abrupt as to be brutish. “His holiness, Sacrum Imperator Augustine Vriseon, sends his regards. His holiness wishes that I convey his desire for lasting peace between our people, and, to assist with that task, has instructed that I serve as the praetor of Arun, as Your Royal Majesty’s right-hand.”

All of this was just a foregone formality anyway, a show for the common folks. The emperor dared not provoke him, not when he held the man's most important asset, his son.
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If this were anywhere else, the comparison might have been drawn to the similarities between the sigil marked on Rhaelor’s head and the Sun god that the Arun empire worshipped, even personified with their royal bloodline that had nothing but disdain when they looked upon the man.

Well, the Emperor. His wife was forbidden to look upon the other male; his daughters not high enough in the caste to look upon the male either. Only Ayla defied the order given to them prior to the arrival of the foreigners, but it was not disdain that shown in her eyes as her gaze crawled through the ranks of men that made up the procession; there was curiosity there, allowed to rest openly on the heart-shaped visage; just as the jade of her eyes had a lambent glow as it flicked from face to face. Underlying that display that suggested an inquisitive nature was something … else. She kept it suppressed, the astute cunning that looked just below the surface.

She hid it underneath the mere act of rebellion that she displayed instead: she looked. She saw. She found something lacking in the display that pulled the corners of her mouth down and puckered her soft mouth, petulant as someone entitled. And utterly expected. Her attention landed on Rhaegor himself last, undaunted; him she looked at with near disinterest, if not for the flicker that still burned in her stare.

A challenge, perhaps.

Or perhaps she was trying to share a secret with just a look.

There is another secret here, one that only the dead now hear. They sometimes whisper it down below, buried beneath a ton of earth, skeletons grinning up into the stone of their tombs. The dead knew. The only true daughter of the Sun was not at all a daughter of the Sun. She belonged to the Night instead. And the Night did not fancy itself a god, but something worse.

But there was no one left to tell the Emperor that. And the daughter herself may very well have been just as oblivious to it as the rest of the living. But Ayla still stood smug, out of the Emperor’s line of sight, but in clear line of sight of those who stood before them. She, who really belonged to the fathomless stretch of dark, the quiet time, the cloaked time - she stared back at the pair of gold-lit eyes that blazed brighter than the gilded token the Emperor had become.

And wanted to snuff out his light.

The Empress flinched when the roar broke through the sky, shuttering the very air. Some of the daughters that stood in a lined sidled away, curving their forms away from the lines and lines. They wished to return to the comfort of their rooms and gardens, to not have to witness any of the unpleasantness in the world. Pampered creatures. Spoiled brats. They wished to admire their jewels and play with their pets, not wait to meet what their fate might be.

The Emperor remained stone faced and impassive in his great throne. Ayla still wore a promise of dampening the flames on her face.

The Emperor finally moved as the zealot spoke, also putting on a show for the people who watched, even if they could not hear what was spoken between the two. The smile that stretched His face transformed it; he was a depiction of benevolence with eyes made of steel that was hungry for bloodshed even if peace had been called.

They had lost many. The Sun Emperor would not let the lives lost phase him.

“Divine Emperor,” He corrected. Not His Royal Majesty. His blood ran with the divine and not that of a man’s. The correction was spoken gently, but the reminder was the same blade that glittered in his eyes, wrapped in velvet. The surrounding walls amplified His voice as well, turning it into a rumble, giving the illusion of the presence that He commanded. “And it is our honor to have you here with us today, a symbol that our two countries can know peace. My men will find housing for all of your men; you, of course, will stay my family and I in the palace. There - we will dine, we will make friends, we will speak. And from that, I hope that we might come to further agreements and continued prosperity between us.”

He knew how to speak; despite the lack of any preternatural force behind His voice, the Emperor had a natural charisma that broke down the stoic walls of the face He had just been wearing. He smiled in a way that made him look benevolent, as if He were gracing Rhaelor with his presence; that the other male’s company was cherished, even while it had the undertone that suggested that the other male was lesser than He.

Because he was.

The Emperor did not even incline his head; he remained seated as well, facing forward and yet still managing to look down from the raised dais in which He sat, overlooking all.

“Come,” He said at last, finally standing, a towering presence. He swept His hand, indicating that this … display was over with. The motion also brought forward His own guards, who before then had been unseen whispers lined between pillars. Silent, assessing; invisible eyes and deadly force - not for their might, but for their stealth. As wraiths, they filed down the stairs - beyond - moving to flank the first row of men that had followed the procession.

The Emperor left His dais first, for He would always be first. It was His wife, head bowed still, that made her silent greeting to Rhaelor himself by dropping down into a deep now, the silk of her dress flowing underneath her fingertips. “Follow me, Lord Praetor,” she murmured in a soft voice.

For they would be second. Where last would be the daughters, lingering behind until it was most appropriate to follow, but before any personal guard that would be brought with the praetor inside the palace.​

 

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And it was then, with his first two words to Rhaelor, that the Emperor of Arun sealed his fate.

“Of course, Divine Emperor.” Rhaelor echoed coolly, not dropping a beat, sweeping forward into half of a bow. His hair slid over his shoulders, framing the sharpness of his jawline, and concealing the way the muscle of his jaw pulsed from how hard he clenched his teeth. Heretic! He suppressed the urge to decry, lowering his gaze, as if in deference, but really just to conceal the way his eyes sharpened and his pupils constricted with ire. To proclaim divinity to a servant of Vistus, this self-absorbed mortal must die.

Nothing more was uttered, his bow conveying all that needed to be said. Rhaelor would be lying if, in that very moment, he didn’t contemplate simply giving the order for massacre. This heretic’s blood would make a fitting tribute to Vistus. It was only in remembrance of His Holiness’ orders that he held his hand. Discretion, My Will, His Sacrum Imperator, the true manifestation of divinity had said. Arun was beaten, but not so weakened as to not put up a fight if We sought conquest the hard way. We trust that you will find a better way. A better way indeed. He would play this game, for however long it might take. There were far more effective ways to neutralize a threat than straightforward violence.

It was only after the Emperor was more than two dozen steps ahead that he straightened once more. A terse nod, but not impolite, offered to the imposter’s spouse, before following as she had requested. She wouldn’t do. He mused to himself even as he assassinated the emperor every which way in his mind. The Empress did not have enough status, that much was clear. The Son then? Now that was an interesting idea, but a challenging one. That boy was a stubborn one. Arrogant to the bone. A dog that would likely bite the hands that fed as soon as it sensed any slackness in its leash. Perhaps, another one of the children then… He resolved to get to know them better even as he made his way into the palace.​

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A feast.

How terribly trite. Surely there was more, something, anything, to compare feebly against the show he had put on for the Arunian masses and for the imperial family. Where was all of that mysticism His Sacrum Imperator found so fascinating about.

Rhaelor was unmoved even as he took the seat as offered, paying little attention to the varied delicacies lining the great tables. His gaze was carefully neutral as he surveyed the other occupants of the room. Aside from Kuvair, who now once again curled beside his owner, he brought no additional personal guards. After all, for what purpose did weapons and armaments serve, when he was the flame that would melt all of them to ashes and cinders.

He would make a point of meeting the gaze of each of the imperial daughters, noting who flinched or dropped her gaze, and who did not. Enough of a spine, but not too much. Surely there must be at least one out of seven that would serve his purposes.
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She watched him watch everyone else after the hubbub and ceremony had faded into the background and the ceremony around their current state of being. They all wore their masks, whether it was made of pride, or anger, or fear. Or something other - an indistinguishable mask that ignored the obvious: the Empire of Arun was becoming a thing of the past and this feast was the first punctuation mark in making it officially so. Her Father may put on airs, sitting again on His pedestal made to prop him up over everyone and everything else in the room, but the veneer was beginning to chip in ways that were becoming more noticeable to those around them.

The servants whispered. The courtiers passed glances at each other. The shadows moved themselves along to breathe the words that were left unspoken in the air, reaping whatever discord was left after the army’s procession earlier that day had dirtied the pristine streets with more than just horse shit and the filth that came with too many men packed in one place.

The room, for all its spacious grandeur and echoing marbled floors and high, vaulted ceilings, still reeked of the sour smell of fear. Of nerves. Of uncertainty. She drank it in, but Ayla was not without her own mask. She smiled the smile of the Sun’s own daughter: radiant, albeit with more knowledge and mischief around a pair of curved up lips than she ought to have known.

Like she knew everyone’s secrets.

So once she had finished watching everyone else and settled her attention on him, with the sun embossed sigil on his forehead, she noticed.

Disguised as a pawn in a room filled with players that had better moves, Ayla slid from the seat she had occupied on the left of her Father as His preferred daughter their meal had been cleared away and conversation became a murmur of activity around the table. On sandaled feet, she padded silent on the floor until she was able to drop into a seat just across from the man who had caused the air to stir. The brilliant oranges and golds and reds that fanned up from the billowing skirts she wore settled right along with her, until the seventh daughter looked to be wearing only black.

The seat she occupied was still warm from someone else. She wiggled on it, making herself comfortable, then moved to rest her elbows on the linen that covered the table, smiling as if this would be a pleasant exchange between them. Gems sparkled on her fingers, attached to delicate chains that followed her knuckles and attached themselves to bangles on her wrists.

“You are uncomfortable here,” she offered by way of greeting. Then, with her nose wrinkling, she continued. “Or bored. There will be festivities tomorrow to further celebrate your arrival that you would find more entertaining, I think.”​

 

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Whether Rhaelor felt such ennui was up to debate, but it appeared that entertainment insisted upon dropping into his lap regardless.

He turned a cool gaze - it was remarkable how cold that vibrant shade could burn - to the newcomer, assessing her with a pointed look. She was young, younger than him by a few years at the very least, young enough that not a single line marred her features, but old enough to carry herself with the poise required in such a setting. She looked familiar. He paid a little more attention, before vaguely connecting the female seated across from him to a dossier he had been given once upon a time. Ayla Arun. Seventh born. Considered to be a true-born daughter of the sun and as such, a favored child. Her remarkable beauty was more of an afterthought with how focused he was on these games everyone here played, but certainly not disregarded.

He softened his gaze, his lips curling into a pleasant smile. Given the limitations of his slitted pupils and the Mark of Vistus he wore, there was only so much room for Rhaelor to appear courteous and unfrightening, but that was certainly the angle he went for as he greeted those pointed words with a shrug.

“You have a keen gaze, Your Highness.” Compliments, flowing from him with much more ease than his previous interactions with the Emperor. Already his mind was turning. Young. Favored. Curious enough to come and try her luck even whilst the servants cowered. She seemed like something that could fit his agenda just fine.

“I am a little uncomfortable,” he flashed her a disarming smile, “it’s a bit difficult to mingle when I don’t know anyone here.” He relaxed his posture, offering contrast against the rigidity he carried himself with during his unofficial victory procession. “And I have to try since it’s so very important that our people get along, don't you think? I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened to Zaenia only half a decade ago?” A threat, barely concealed, a Kingdom razed to the ground with Holy Fire for its daringness to defy. But his smile contained no such threat, temperate and serene, as he watched her carefully. Would she flinch? Would she fear? He was testing her. Would she be suitable for his purposes?

“Anyhow, perhaps it would help me settle in if I were to learn more about the imperial family?” He raised a goblet of too-expensive wine to lips, swallowing a smile at her reaction. “It’s awfully loud in here to talk though, would Your Highness care to show me to the Royal Gardens, perhaps?”​

 

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This one was not human. She was not one of the so-called Divine, either. It was barely there, scratching underneath the surface of girl-made flesh, taunting behind a jagged smile and peeking out from inside a gaze that was neither from the Emperor or Empress. Not if one looked too closely, or even that they had not paid the female more than a passing glance at all. They were all subtle things, thrown away in favor of other things. This was, after all, a land ruled by a Divine Emperor, never an Empress. As it stood, if the Sun’s male heirs were lost, Ayla was only the favored. She would be Consort only until she could fall pregnant and give birth to another male, who would then cull the favor of Divinity. Failing a son, it would fall to the other daughters to beget a true Heir for the kingdom.

Those were the rules of this particular game as they stood in the eyes of the men who were blinded by the light. The Night did not need such luminescence and those who were a part of it played a different game, with a different set of rules, from under the cover of the long shadows cast by the moon. It was under the cover of darkness that the real game was played.

This foreigner did not know the rules. Ayla had watched him this entire night so far. He grew bored of the peacocks and empty gestures. He thought he already knew how to play this game and that he had already won, for better or for worse. By her rules, he was just as blinded by the scenes that had played out before him thus far. Perhaps even more so, for she had cast more than a fleeting look at the emblem on his head, though her gaze had never lingered and only passed here and there to study. To watch.

By her rules, he had death written into his fingertips, still stained even though they were clean. Likely, his entire body would be stained. And no doubt he presumed that his fire cleansed. This man - he was a zealot with an ego and too much pride.

Did he know?

Ayla’s keen gaze flickered, meeting his. They were tempered now, placid as one of the green ponds that decorate the myriad of gardens that littered the palace grounds. Whatever it was that had peeked from beneath the surface before was momentarily drowned and replaced by nothing more than the seventh and favored daughter of the Emperor. She wore a smile, too, in order to be appeasing.

“I’ve been watching you,” she admitted, her voice soft and sweet, dashed with the meekness associated with the Divine females of the Empire. But it was laced with something else, a hint of spice to give the sugar that coated her tongue a bite. The garnish was the curiosity that lifted her features and turned them cunning as she turned a sidelong look down the table to check and see if she had earned any notice from her mother, siblings, or even her Father himself before turning back towards Rhaelor.

She winked like they were keeping a secret, saying nothing as she slid from her seat almost as soon as she had arrived. Her skirts whispered around her ankles, brilliant orange flickering like the flames lighting the braziers and turning the entire hall gold and bronze. “Come, I will show you my favorite garden, and we can talk. I will teach you the rules to play my Father’s game so that you can begin to fit in. It is as you say - it is important for our people to get along.”

There were hidden meanings within meanings with that sentence. Like the dark cloth that enveloped her, just one subtle movement revealed something of what was underneath. The same went with the cryptic way she spoke. Then, with a conspiratorial smile and a floating come-hither gesture with her hand, she slipped away from the table and began walking, a wraith in a den on mongerers.

No one paid the daughter of the Sun any heed. Or even if the guards littered throughout the passageway to where she headed did turn to follow her with their eyes, or even Rhaelor as well, it slipped away like water on oil, perpetuating indifference to her passage. It was not their place to question her. And it was not their place to stop the foreigner, either, though he they might report on later to the Emperor.

She passed at least three gardens during her waltz through gilded halls. They were not hers, after all. Hers required turning corners and wandering through an open air courtyard where a fountain burbled happily in the shape of a two headed lion, then through an arch of night blooming flowers whose fragrance perfumed the air long before she stepped over the threshold. Her garden opened up into the idea of a field, even though they were still in the midst of the great complex that made up the palace and everything inside it. While a path meandered through the space, with a motley of flowers, shrubs, exotic trees lined the way and arranged in a seemingly chaotic disarray in the space, it all led to the apex in the center. Small ponds were arranged in a circle, larger than anyone could see from this vantage, and displayed each of the cycles of the moon - a full wax and wane, ending with a pool darker than the others to indicate a new moon. Two great cats lounged around this pool, tails flicking with aggression as they watched pale iridescent fish flit about in its depths.

Ayla paused just inside the space of the garden, waiting as her attention roved around, then up to stare into the velvet night sky littered with stars.

Tonight was a new moon, after all.​