Private The Smoke of Promise

[Malicevora]

The sun shone bright over the city of broken vows. Naya Vapna, heart of the empire, bustled in the late autumn afternoon. This deep into the South Ilican peninsula, the weather had yet to turn towards winter's chill, reflected in the dress of the passersby filtering through the streets. In robes and shortsleeves, swathed in colors too light for the year's turning in northerly counties, they abstained from such seasonal cares.

Across the central crier's square and bazaar stood the open senate forum, empty on this day save for the occasional tourist playing echo under its dome. Several legionnaires were posted along the plaza, brandishing spears and standing rapt in attention, eyes locked ahead in what could only be ceremony. This was part of their conceit, for who would dare challenge the peace of Naya Vapna itself?

Facing the forum was a palace, resplendent in all ways save size. Tall enough to dwarf most buildings, it was dwarfed in turn by the distant towers of the Raj Imperial, the emperor's palace, the heart of hearts for the imperial mainland. This smaller palace, christened the Capitol Palace for its locale, housed members of the senate for their residency in the capital. Few used it for such purposes, however, as most Senators owned lavish estates nearer the Raj Imperial or various abodes within the flower quarter.

Looming with a token guard of its own, the Capitol Palace was mostly vacant this afternoon. Empty but for a lone, militant man garbed in the ill-fitting dress of a chamberlain who stood in greeting. He waited for a time until another joined him. Then, without passing much in the way of conversation, led his charge into the palace.

A passing fashion brought them to the second floor, a long hallway that led to a single double-door opened by a crack that filtered out snips of conversation:

"Child," a voice, chiding and tired was saying, "your dissatisfaction is known but fruitless. Cease your whining, control your temper, and behave. At least, until you become empress."

"Hardly advice I need from you, Malice."

A sigh, audible even through the door.

"Address me as 'aunt' or 'senator' here," came the wry reply. "Stubborn, willful niece of mine."

A knock sounded.

"Enter."

The doors swung open to an austere parlor that housed a pair of chairs, a couch, and a desk situated below a large, glass-paned window. Lounging on the couch sat an older woman, robed in the fashion of the senate-elect, unadorned of embellishment and veneer. She wore a stern face and short hair braided tight behind her ears. Across her, pacing with arms crossed and a tick in her jaw, was a much younger woman that boasted hair to match the setting sun.

The escort greeted her with a bow.

"Primus," he said, only to be swiftly corrected;

"Senator, now."

"Senator." He snapped a salute. "At your request, I've brought Faine."

"Good. Faine, you've been briefed, if only in essence, and I expect you to have drawn your own conclusions. Report, why did I summon you? No, you be still, child." She flicked a hand over to the younger woman, whose mouth had creaked open to reply. "I will let you know when it is your turn to speak."

Sullen eyes flicked away.

 

[Faine]

Faine stared into the mirror, at all the smooth, brown planes of their face, and wondered for the hundredth time what it would be like not to be burdened by flesh.

They were hungry, again. Always so damnably, frequently hungry. Their peers claimed it was because they kept forgetting to eat. Mal, on the other hand, theorized that it was because they used their brain more in one day than most would in a year. The most unhealthy thing about them, she often swore. It wouldn’t kill them to take a nap, luxuriate in a hot bath, add sugar to their tea, that sort of thing, she had lamented daily, back when their schedules were almost exclusively devoted to military duties. And Faine, in typical Faine fashion, would simply respond, “I don’t have time.”

“Then you’re going to burn yourself down to ash,” Malice concluded.

Perhaps. Mal tended to be right, in that frustrating way matriarchs often were. But until that day of ash and doom came, Faine had more pressing concerns on their mind. Like, for instance, the unexpected summons that had awoken them from a rare opportunity to sleep past sunrise.

Faine was less than eager to open the door, and even less enthused to find themselves face to face with a legionaire-turned-messenger-boy. Deren was, unfortunately, not the older graduate’s biggest fan. This seemed evident enough in the dour set of Deren’s very symmetrical, very legionaire-esque expression, though Faine knew the hate ran deeper, starting at how his perfect soldier’s face was marred only by a slight crook in his nose. Faine could still remember how wetly that nose had crunched beneath their fist. They felt little remorse, either, considering how much worse it could have gone, and how foolish Deren had been to challenge them in the first place. Of all the errand boys Mal could have sent…

“Senator Ipqay requires your presence,” Deren announced flatly.

Well, credit to him for professionalism. No doubt this cruel and unusual punishment–a specialty of Mal’s–was chafing at his very soul. The uniform he was wearing was a disgrace. Gone were the crisp, clean lines of active duty, replaced by something so wrinkled and ill-fitting that Faine was sure palace staff had been given no time to find better.

They sighed, running a hand through a thick mess of bedhair, and replied, “Understood. Give me five minutes.”

And so it was that five minutes later, on the dot, they were trailing behind Deren’s broad, irritated shoulders through the many halls and stairs of Capitol Palace. Faine could tell he was irritated because he was even more tense than usual, muscles bunched and straining beneath coarse fabric. Of course, Faine needed a guide to Mal’s new office as much as Mal needed hands to knock someone out cold. But they didn’t see any reason to humiliate Golden Boy further, as tempted as they were to sneak away to the kitchens for some bread and cheese.

As they drew near Malice’s office in incompaniable silence, voices drifted out from a cracked door. Faine knew those voices well, and judging from their respective tones, began mentally preparing themselves for one hell of a migraine.

They entered, Deren first and Faine second. Mal’s office suited its owner to a T, all dark colors and business with only the barest touch of comfort. Across from the newly anointed Senator paced a very peeved princess, her red hair painfully bright against the oppressive backdrop of the office. She was like a flame, all passion and willfulness with none of the caution that her elders so desperately wished to instill.

Amusingly, Faine caught Deren trying to work something from his throat as he stared at the flighty, angry princess. But Mal was talking again, firing one curt order after another, and with a quick twist of her hand signaled for privacy. With no other recourse, their escort saluted once more and left the room, closing the door respectfully behind him.

“You summoned me,” Faine answered dutifully, eyes watering as they stifled a yawn, “because I have been assigned to a high priority mission requiring utmost discretion. Long term. To be carried out at the Magisterium, ad infinitum.”

They were too sleepy and too hungry to put all the pieces together quickly enough. To sense the noose that was closing around their unsuspecting neck. Instead, they asked,

“Senator, do you ah…plan on finishing that?”

Faine pointed at the tray of half eaten breakfast sitting so forlornly on one of Mal’s side tables.

 

[Malicevora]

The doors shut behind Deren's exit, cloaking the parlor in momentary silence. A welcome thing, cut by a noise that shot from Malice's throat. Indelicate.

"Help yourself," she said, gesturing to the tray. Filled with sliced meats and fruits, lined with unblemished cream and a dark sauce that patterned it in small swirls, it held more to the ceremony of a meal than any real substance. "Rejoice knowing your cleverness won you some scraps of breakfast. Remember this when next you mock my kindness. Brat."

The princess was pouting.

Perhaps, a passing fancy crossed Malice's mind, she had erred in pairing these two.

"This is Alcyone Idris Kotek, first of her name, crown princess of Arshaka by radiance of Ko, favored of"—she rolled her eyes—"you get the picture. She will be attending the Magisterium as my niece, Alcyone Ipqay, under my guardianship."

The princess lost reign of her tongue.

"You would deny me the opportunity to introduce myself, aunt? What a privilege it would have been! I'm honored," she said, "to meet my keeper."

"Sit down, you'll make Faine nervous with that pacing. Normally the Raj would have his heirs attended upon by private, vetted tutors by longstanding tradition. In this case, however, I agreed that it was more important to take Alcyone's wishes into consideration. She is to be your ward. You will ensure both her safety and keep the utmost discretion as to her identity. I need not tell you what will happen if she is discovered."

Malice, again, rolled her eyes.

"Oh, and Faine"—an afterthought, offhand—"your mother invites us to dine with her upon her arrival this evening. She booked a private dining room already, some restaurant in the flower quarter overlooking the canal. Use that time to acquaint yourselves." This she directed between the pair.

Alcyone, to her credit, merely glowered from her seat, back straight and chin tilted in defiant appraisal.

 

[Faine]

Faine would be lying if they said they didn’t descend upon the breakfast tray with a slight tremor of desperation, but they managed to eat only one morsel at a time, as a servant of the empire ought to within the prestigious confines of a senator’s office.

They half-listened as they wrapped fruit in some sliced meat, then swirled it around to mix the cream with the dark sauce. Of course, thus far they were being fed known quantities. Even if Faine hadn’t grown used to glimpsing the princess in passing as a direct consequence of living under Mal’s expansive, muscle laden wing, they would have put two and two together. Red hair, bad temper, entitled…oh, and completely unafraid of Malicevora Ipqay. That last trait was exclusive to the very powerful and the very foolish. Likely, the crown princess was both.

Faine took a bite as they were informed of her majesty’s enrollment in the Magisterium. The explosion of flavors in their mouth rendered them temporarily deaf. Salty, sweet, with a hint of something smoky and tart. Toasted fig, perhaps. That would explain the tiny seeds in the sauce. With a dash of black vinegar as well, to sharpen all the other elements.

They were floating in a taste-induced euphoria when Princess Alcyone lost her temper (again.) Faine sighed, shoving the rest of the rolled up meat-fruit into their mouth. How cliched, to use one’s wealth and influence to invade somewhere they clearly didn’t belo–

The divine amalgamation of breakfast turned into a death log in Faine’s throat. They choked, then coughed, then grabbed the nearest cup to chug its contents blindly. Lucky for them, it turned out to be tea, and mercifully lukewarm at that.

It took a while before Faine was ready to turn around again. Their throat burned and there was an odd ringing in their ears. A bit like the time they’d been hit in the head with a sparring staff.

When the ringing finally subsided, the word “keeper” echoed in its place. Faine suddenly envied Deren. His punishment was nothing, nothing compared to this. For one wild, fleeting moment, they considered propositioning the young legionnaire to swap places. They didn’t look that different, right? A little hair dye, some cleverly engineered shoes, a few weeks for one to bulk up while the other slimmed down. Besides, it would bring him nose to nose with the princess. How could he refuse?

But then Mal went on explaining, and Faine knew they’d been had. Their mother. They should’ve guessed. Granted, there would be no proof of Frida’s involvement, short of a confession from the viper herself. And Mal, being a creature of loyalty, would never betray her trust. Yet, history would suggest Faine’s paranoia was not unwarranted. There was a universe where Faine’s mother was completely innocent and this entire thing from start to finish had been Mal’s machinations and Mal’s alone. Also, in that universe, pigs flew and the sky sometimes turned green.

Faine stared blackly at the tray of delectable food. Their appetite was gone.

It was dawning on them, slowly but surely, that somehow this was also the princess’s fault. Because what in several, blighted, bleeding hells did Mal mean by taking Alcyone’s wishes into consideration?

Faine had graduated at the top of their cohort. Their blood and sweat lined the floors of the sparring rings, and their cunning mind had set new standards no matter the challenge. But this…this was a mockery. An offense. It was fucking childcare at best. What had they done wrong? Who had they wronged? Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke?

And then another thought came, unbidden.

Deren was going to hate them so much more.

Faine considered refusing. They considered so long that the room eventually grew awkwardly silent, as even the haughty princess seemed keen on their reaction, assessing them with glinty eyed curiosity. Her glower held within it a kind of dare. Between the three of them lay all the pieces of a board game, and this particular board was fraught with danger of endless variety. There were only so many moves Faine could make. They knew it, Mal knew it, hell even the princess knew it. And until Faine could figure out a way to gain the upperhand or circumvent the rules, they would have to tread carefully. They were, after all, a mere pawn by comparison.

For now.

Faine took one more sip of tea before setting down the cup politely. “Understood. If there is nothing else required of me, I shall, with your permissions, Senator, Your Majesty, take my leave to prepare.”

They inclined their head for each title to its respective bearer. Though, their deference to the princess seemed marginally shallower than to Mal.

A thought, then, “When do we expect to leave? And, for dinner tonight…will there be other guests attending?”

Faine disliked mother’s unexpected guests almost more than dining with mother herself.

 

[Malicevora]

Malicevora waited, listening beneath a veneer of patience for Faine's reply despite fixing the game in advance. Even Alcyone, still bristling, retained some blessed silence. It served neither's agenda if Faine refused to cooperate. When that answer came, she ghosted out a grin, the barest hint of smile that touched the corners of her lips. Victory, regardless of frequency, held the sweetest of tastes.

Her tea, chilled after idling at her side, did wonders in wetting her throat. That speech, the need to explain extraneous detail after detail, was all too similar to her new routine as Senator. No amount of repetition prepared her for that. It parched her with startling regularity.

The princess was not given to such subtleties. Alcyone's smile near laughed from her lips, delight crooning in eyes that met Faine's with an unashamed frankness. Were it not for Malicevora's earlier chiding, she seemed entirely ready to clasp Faine by the hand; instead, she settled for a swift clap of her own.

Malice, despite herself, did smile true at that. She interrupted the princess:

"Your friend, Deren, too will be in attendance."

Setting aside her teacup, she folded her hands in her lap, allowed Faine a moment's comprehension in the sudden still.

Alcyone crooked a brow.

"That servant from earlier? Why?"

"Child, that 'servant' is a part of the Arakshasa, no matter how dull his facade. An empress must have a shadow," she said, lilting her eyes in an appraisal of Faine, "or two, if it should please the Raj. Frida knows him as my chamberlain. See to it that impression does not change."

A nail rapped against porcelain rim.

"Return to my offices by four to escort us, earlier if you've need of me to prepare you an outfit."

 

[Faine]

It was always grating, the way Mal preened in self satisfaction whenever she got her way. Of course, to most others, she merely transitioned from austere to less austere, but to someone who had endured far too many hours picking apart her every expression, she was practically gloating.

What did manage to catch Faine off guard, however, was the princess. Upon their agreement, she lit up like a dying fire being tossed a fresh log. It was unsettling. They had to fight the instinct to take a step back, momentarily convinced from the look on her face that she was about to do something grotesque, like hug them.

Thankfully, she did not. Faine’s nerves were frayed enough as it were. Which was why when Mal dropped the next fire bomb of information, they were glad they’d already set the tea cup down. All that delicate porcelain would have shattered in their fist.

Faine was unsure what exactly Deren had done to earn Mal’s undivided attention, and frankly, it was probably healthier to remain ignorant. But the legionaire’s presence would present all kinds of complications during a function they already dreaded attending. It took most of their energy to deal with their mother; it was going to be downright maddening to have to split their attention four ways.

Tests. Life was just a never ending series of tests.

It was mildly amusing, at least, that Princess Alcyone seemed oblivious to the fact that the servant in question would quite literally impale himself on a spear if she so much as suggested it.

Faine tucked away the rest of Mal’s instructions, cataloguing them in their head as “deal with later” versus “deal with now” and bowed out of the room with an acceptable amount of decorum. Whatever discussed afterward was beyond their purview. They were careening down the hallways, not daring to stop until they were back in the gloomy confines of their chambers. The windows were still shuttered and curtains draped, the bed decidedly unmade. They’d instructed the servants never to enter unless by personal request. So it was that most days, Faine swept out their own fireplace, made the bed when they could be bothered, and left trays of empty bowls and plates by the kitchens.

The door slammed behind them as they immediately set to pacing. There were worn spots on the rugs, if they cared to notice, and they did not. Their mind was racing instead with strings of thoughts and hypotheticals. Some included fantasies of strangling Mal, the princess, and their mother in no particular order. Others, using Deren as target practice.

In the end, Faine settled for taking out their frustrations via mortar and pestle. They ground herbs with tight lipped concentration until they had four large bottles filled to the brim. By the end, they were marginally more tired and sweating lightly, but their nerves were still jittery. The sheer number of possible scenarios set them on uncharacteristic edge, fingers drumming against the dark wood of their desk.

Poisons. They would need poisons. But what kind? Subtle ones, certainly, and some sedatives as well. Perhaps ones that cause unbearable itching or loose bowels. Or would that incite some kind of investigation, should there be concern over an epidemic amongst the students?

“Fuck,” Faine swore, slamming down a freshly filled jar. Navigating court politics as a lone agent was one thing. Protecting a willful princess without alerting the entire empire of their ruse was entirely another. It had been a long, long time since they came face to face with a task that felt impossible. And yet here they were, having agreed to the thing like an idiot. They should have stalled. Thought of some excuse, anything, to buy themselves time to think.

Too little too late. There was no more time to spare, as the hour of torture-disguised-as-dinner drew ever nearer. Despite their irritation, Faine did not miss the offer Mal had tucked within her orders.

It was painfully obvious that they had nothing suitable for an evening meal with literal royalty. Their wardrobe was respectable, made of quality materials and tailored to pinpoint precision. It was also, however, meant for daily use amongst the nobility, made well enough to blend in but not well enough to draw unwanted attention. Serviceable and ultimately forgettable–that was the goal in every aspect of Faine’s public persona.

In the past, when it had just been their mother or Mal, they had gotten away with wearing whatever plain, lived in clothing they’d been stewing in while lost in another one of their experiments. And those were the bulk of their social outings. It almost wasn’t even worth mentioning their father. As infrequent as those visits were, they were even less formal. The last one had involved nothing more than a campfire and a freshly caught rabbit on a stick. It took weeks to get the stench of smoke out of their cloak.

Faine rubbed their eyes, then pulled out a small watch from a hidden pocket. It was one of their many secrets, as certain opinions within the realm frowned upon new forms of technology, but the halfbreed found it far too useful of a tool not to use. Afterall, it was the sole reason behind their immaculate punctuality, and what kind of fool would give that up?

They flipped the silvery lid open and squinted. Time to go, again. Tucking the watch back into its hiding place, they left their room and headed for Mal’s office once more, this time without a dour faced chaperone.

They arrived to find Mal’s door fully shut. Faine took a fortifying breath and rapped their knuckles three times against the solid wood, two long one short.

 

[Malicevora]

What opened the door was no servant but rather the glaring figure of a princess, hair still wet from bath and cheek flushed from rouge that did not quite hide the fresh sting of bruising that split the flesh. Layered cloth fitted tight to her form, palette deep in how it contrasted the pale of her powdered skin. The body of her dress appeared silk with gilded patterning, long sleeves of spilled lace decorating her arms. They puffed out at the shoulder, obscuring posture.

Her lips, curled tight in frown, were dotted in black paints mirroring the fashions popular in the lands east of the isthmus. Even so, her scowl did little to diminish the effect. She turned on a heel wordlessly, leaving it to Faine to shut the door behind, and navigated over to the sofa.

The senator's office bore closer resemblance to a seamster's shop than any chamber of state. Racks of clothes ranged the marbled floors in tidy rows, organized by color and cloth and lining the room from deskside window nearly to the door. Despite this, only Malicevora and the princess presided the room.

The senator herself wore a simple toga of pristine silk that coiled up to her chin. It left her shoulders bare, with a similar split visible from right blade to the back of her hip, bound by thin golden links and a sash of vivid red. A chain hung from a piercing at the corner of her eyebrow connecting a ring holstered there to a matching one at her ear, stark in accompaniment to the only other accessory she kept; an ivory pin in her hair.

Minimalism embellished her, suited well the militant stir of her gaze. It was marred, slightly, by the presence of a brush she held loose in a palm.

"From here," she said, gesturing to the far side of the room, "to here you will find an assortment of suitable clothes tailored to your size. You brought no jewelry. No matter, pick from what is left on my desk. "

She rapped at the enamel on her brush, pursed her lips.

"Frida sent a few pieces of her own. I expect they will not suit your tastes."

Alcyone, who had maintained an uncharacteristic silence, turned up her nose at the discourse. She was all eyes for Malice, arms crossed and hands knotted into fists, expression contorted in what defiance she could muster. Hers was a loud silence, a point of rebellion in echo to the still fading handprint that marred her cheek.

Malice, in turn, smiled in a facsimile of warmth.

 

[Faine]

Faine found themselves face to face with a slightly damp, glowering princess. Or, rather, the slightly damp forehead of a glowering princess. Alycone gave them a look that was popular amongst nobility of her age. The kind that all but said, I don’t care if every last person here lives or dies. Then she turned on her heel and left them standing in the open doorway, though not before they caught a glimpse of a bruised, split lip.

Honestly, Mal could do with more subtly in her new position. This wasn’t the barracks, no matter how much she pretended she didn’t wish it were, cavorting around in all her finery.

With an inward sigh that was becoming far too commonplace, Faine stepped inside and shut the door behind them. They took in the barrage of colors, patterns, and bad tempered yet finely dressed women, and that sigh trapped in their chest found itself suddenly inspired to transform into weeping and gnashing of teeth. Silently, of course. And only in complete privacy.

Faine’s gaze followed the brush from one end of the room to the other. It reminded them uncannily of earlier days, when Mal would run war drills with the new recruits.

Hell. How, in all Blight blasted corners of the world, did they end up here?

The brush in the Senator’s hands did not bode well for Faine’s tricky head. But, at least, they had bathed the night before and applied some mild, fragrant oils, making their thick hair more manageable. Beneath inky locks, they felt a phantom twinge. They would need to file down their horns again before departing to the Magistrum.

Faine did their best to ignore the prickly, seething presence that was Princess Alycone, who was stewing in the corner of their eye. Her silence was almost worse than her shouting; it was a dam, waiting to burst, barely able to contain the rage brewing just on the other side.

At least she looked the part well enough. Imperial and imposing from head to toe, Alycone was nestled in enough costly fabrics to feed an entire village for weeks.

As they surveyed the seemingly endless array of clothing, a thought occurred to them. Faine paused and looked up at Mal, careful not to glance Alcyone’s way, and to modulate their tone down to casual small talk.

“Senator, perhaps it would be prudent to, ah…offer Her Highness some cosmetics? So as not to cause anyone unnecessary alarm.” Or mother to assume that I have immediately failed in my task, allowing the princess to come to harm so soon. Of course, Faine did not say the second half out loud. They weren’t even sure how the princess was injured and thought it best not to rub salt to the wound.

After a minute or two of pacing, they stopped to pick out a doublet of deep indigo. It was made of a soft and undoubtedly expensive fabric. Very finely spun wool, perhaps, with borders of black velvet.

“This one will do,” they announced mildly, “though I’m not sure if you have something matching to complete the ensemble?”

 

[Malicevora]

Malice moved over to the sofa while Faine picked out an outfit, tilting the princess's head up to check the bruising on the younger woman's lip.

Alcyone, for her part, managed to blank her expression. A scowl lurked there, just below the surface, but not a hint of it peeked out on her lips. Only her eyes revealed emotion, glistening in a way that spoke to lessons learned.

Malice, to her credit, smiled approvingly as she idly brushed out the princess's still damp hair.

"Address her as Alcyone," she said, "or as my niece. Until she matriculates from the Magisterium she is not to be known as a member of the Raj. Deepen the rouge yourself, dear, you're more familiar with these powders than I."

She looked back to Faine.

"You make me repeat myself. Pick for yourself among the pieces left on my desk." Quite an assortment presided there, resting on cushions atop a large oak jewelry box: rings of make plain and extravagant, most emblazoned with the signatures of renowned Svapnan artisans, bands and anklets, necklaces and amulets, a variety of studs and rings for piercings of all kinds.

Alcyone broke her silence, saying, "For the doublet, you should accent it with one of the silver brooches. The garnet one suits your eyes at least."

 

[Faine]

It was something of a mental gauntlet, as always, sussing out what Mal was really saying. Faine was sure part of it was to humble the princess, which seemed to be working only in the most superficial sense. No doubt the child was learning how to pretend. Within this battle of wills, each new round resulted in a marginally improved performance. But underneath?

The spy-in-training narrowed their eyes. This would have to be dealt with, one way or another. The bed of hot coals that made up Princess Alcyone’s baseline emotions. For if it was not, it would surely get at least one of them killed, and they had no illusions about who would be the easier sacrifice.

Faine tried and failed to assess whether Malice was being obtuse. Instead, the princess chose to offer advice, no doubt in subtle defiance of her elder.

They turned to give her a neutral look. “Thank you, Alcyone.”

She was right, of course. Cool tones paired better for the likes of Faine, who found gold garish and attention seeking. The garnet, however, left them unsure, as they’d never been told that anything went with the umber of their eyes. Well, on second thought that wasn’t quite true. They’d once been accused of having eyes filled with schemes, which evidently complimented unchecked ambition well.

Faine took the brooch and fished out a pair of black velvet trousers before disappearing behind the screens. There was a floor length mirror for their convenience as they made quick work of changing into their new ensemble.

When they re-emerged, they were still their usual, somber self, but they had to admit that the quality was something to be appreciated. The velvet was soft and cool with a comforting heftiness, the brooch understated while still advertising as intended. Faine supposed it was better to get used to it now, being perceived as someone closer to Alcyone’s equal, rather than grappling with it under the scrutiny of strangers.

“This should…suffice?” Faine asked, finding themselves in a rare, sustained state of uncertainty. There were few things they struggled to grasp in this world, fashion being one of them, and they were not keen on how vulnerable they felt.

 

[Malicevora]

Alcyone gave Malice a hooded look, loosely veiling the satisfaction she felt.

The older woman managed to still herself before shaking her head again.

"You look fine," she said.

Moving to her desk, she picked up a bell and rang it twice.

"Come," she said, making for the door, "we will take a palanquin to the canal. Frida arranged a gondola to take us straight to the restaurant from there."

The extravagance ill-suited her, but at least Alcyone's eyes lit up at the mention. The lanterns would be lit as dusk fell over the city, promising an envious view of Naya Vapna. It took some effort to conceal the change in legion patrols in the area to ensure both the safety and privacy of the princess.

A pity she could not have delegated the task to Faine alone. That was a luxury reserved for their illustrious academy days, far from the eyes of Alcyone's siblings. Perhaps there, under a name not her own, the princess could find a measure of freedom for a time.

Malice's gaze, once soft and near fond in its cast upon the younger woman, sharpened. She could be free, until her name was needed to replace the Raj. Indeed, this empire of hers would soon know an empress.

The staff reserved for Malicevora approached the party at the door, all bows and acquiescence, and led them to the palace's entrance where a palanquin awaited. Malice stepped onto it first, nodding for the princess to follow.

"Take the rear, Faine."

No hint of apology in tone. Despite the hour, there was yet work to be done.

 

[Faine]

Well, that was a relief.

Faine had not been keen on being made to try on several different things or brush out their stubborn hair, so the quick approval was a welcome change to Mal's usual, critical tongue.

Gondola...one eyebrow raised an imperceptible degree. Faine disliked the idea of being trapped in anything arranged by their mother. Let alone a small, water bound vessel with no walls and therefore plenty of angles to be struck by an arrow from. Even a tiny, poisoned tipped dart would do the trick, and there were plenty of windows and shadowed alleys for assassins to wait in.

The princess, however, did not seem to share their concerns. She brightened at the very mention. Faine took note, saying nothing. They wondered how the princess would fare without all of her usual privileges and luxuries. In exchange, she would have greater freedom, yes, but it would be to the tune of a lifestyle she simply has never had reason to prepare for. Academy life would still be cushy in most senses. Just...not in the same realm as royalty.

Alas, there was only one way to find out.

Faine took additional note of the momentary softness in Mal's eyes as she gazed upon the now slightly mollified princess. That also did not bode well. What was the actual purpose of this farce, really? For all her acerbic treatment of Alcyone, it was clear Mal loved the child. Albeit in hard bitten Mal fashion. And to have entrusted said child's life to Faine and Faine alone, away from her power and supervision, was not something they processed lightly.

Faine obeyed Mal's order without a word, arranging themselves behind the two women as staff members lead them to the palanquin. It was a ridiculous mode of transportation in Faine's eyes, but if it made the princess happy then it was likely worth a few more moments of peaceful cooperation.

Plus, it had walls. Gaudy walls made of latticed wood and silky fabrics, but surely some was better than none.

They piled in one after another, Mal on one side, her juniors on the other. It was slow going once they got started and felt strange sitting in close quarters besides royalty, but Faine reminded themselves for the umpteenth time that this was something they would have to get used to.

Fortunately, the trip to the restaurant was relatively uneventful. There had been an awkward moment when Alycone went a bit wobbly stepping into the gondola, tipping it just enough for water to slosh in, but Faine steadied her before she could rock the boat further. Then they made sure that they alone sat where the water had pooled some. Their clothes were dark and boots darker still; they would survive a bit of dampness.

The restaurant was nestled in an elegant building, far from the most extravagant but still expensive enough to cost the average citizen a month's worth of wages. Standard Frida tastes.

As the exited the gondola, once again with Faine in the rear, they took a breath to fortify themselves.