The morning sun slipped inside the tall, arched windows of Marquess Maxim Mellon's estate, bathing the polished stone floor and lacquered wood of the study chamber in golden light. Little specks of dust floated like suspended stars in the warm light. It was here, under the gaze of various tomes and scrolls of long-forgotten lineages, that Luenor sat across from the Marquess and Hunter, his posture straight even with the remnants of pain in his ribs.
He tasted warm herbal tea, the steam curling around his face, and feeling the only slight tug of healing bandages beneath the liberally styled folds of his white tunic. Hunter stood next to a very tall shelfholding various grimoires, his arms folded, giving a very severe look—not to the men in the room but glazed on the door out of habit, not from necessity.
Marquess Mellon spent time observing Luenor, who was seated with his back facing the windows and his large frame contrasted against the light. The Marquess spoke with the quiet sense of an individual that was all too familiar with war and having waited for something that was not meant to be.
"I never considered the Surevas made Echlion their home." There was a slight shiver in his voice like he was tasting something too sweet and had not thought about it before. "I had only hoped you'd come back to Carrowhelm someday... to your own people."
Luenor smiled faintly; however, it wouldn't touch the sadness in his eyes. "Echlion is where we survived. Not lived, not truly. We hid in plain sight. But home?" He breathed out, "That's still Ganglen. Even if I come back to ashes or rubble, that's where I belong."
Mellon tilted his head. "And yet the name lives. The bloodline carries on."
Luenor Balkan put down the tea cup carefully on the table. "I will not reveal myself publicly. Not yet. As soon as there is a rumor on the street, enemies will stir."
Mellon nodded again, more soberly this time. "Smart. Too many would rather you were left buried. Siegfreed. Duke Verasus. Even the capital would be nearly as reluctant."
They were quiet for a beat, before Luenor shifted. "Speaking of the capital, I want to know what you are going to do with Robert Maynard."
The question plopped like a stone in still water. Mellon's brows rose in inquiry. "Maynard? He's arrested, of substantial charges too. In the cells in town, of course."
Hunter's demeanor shifted. He hadn't thought Luenor would mention this so quickly.
"Why do you say that?" Mellon said, slowly.
Luenor tilted forward a bit. "Because he is innocent, at least of what he is accused of."
Mellon's demeanor became markedly darker. "He ran black-market cargo through the southern lowlands. Tries to negotiate with guild mercenaries behind my back."
"He did," Luenor said. "But the ambush? The abduction of Dallast? The poisoned ledgers? That wasn't him."
Mellon blinked. "Who, then?"
"Alfrenzo," Luenor said. "He planted evidence. He manipulated the chain of command to make it look like Maynard had gone rogue. It was a play that crippled your grip on the trade routes, while redirecting suspicion. Bobby's city knights arrested Maynard and thought they got the mole."
Bobby Venhart, still wearing a simple tunic in the corner, with his right arm still in a sling, straightened up. "You caused that ambush?" he asked, quietly, with palpable tension.
"I regret the losses," Luenor said, looking him in the eye. "But I needed to know who would move. Who would side with who. What loyalties remained. Dallast was never in danger. It was staged. I had to create noise to shake out the real threat."
"You played us," Bobby said through gritted teeth. "All of us."
Hunter took a half-step forward but Luenor raised a hand. "He has a right to be angry."
Maxim rubbed his temples and drew a deep breath. "Curse the webs you've started spinning, boy. And I thought I was the politician."
Luenor rose and walked slowly to the window, turning his gaze to Carrowhelm. "It's fine if you release Maynard. But sever his influence over the grain and shipping contracts with the city. Buy a little time gracefully. You can't afford to alienate the capital's supply lines, not now."
"That is far easier said than done," Mellon muttered.
"Linlin will help," Luenor added, perhaps a bit too casually.
Both Bobby and Mellon stiffened up at once. The name sliced through the atmosphere of the room like a knife.
"You know Linlin?" Mellon asked slowly, now sounding afraid.
"I've met her," Luenor said, still facing out the window. "We negotiated a mana contract. She knows who I am."
Bobby turned to Hunter and then back. "The East's Grand Mage? The woman who burned a warlord alive with a rain of stars?"
"She offered me some wine," Luenor replied. "And a contract."
Mellon stood up, quickly paced a few paces, then faced him again. "Unless you are some kind of ridiculous luck piece... or this is a longer game than any of us thought."
"I don't believe in luck," Luenor said.
There was a long pause. Then Mellon smiled. "You really are Arhenius's son."
He held out his hand. "Then we will be allies again. House Mellon stands with House Sureva."
Luenor took it. "Then we are in agreement to begin rebuilding."
"I presume you want Chote to stay?" Mellon asked.
"Yes," Luenor said. "He is going to study at the forge. The dwarves like him."
"Even Grumbrik?"
"He yelled at him seven times in five minutes. At this point that is almost like an apprenticeship."
Mellon chuckled. "Consider it done. And I will begin looking for the old Sureva bannerman. Quietly. Cautiously. I don't know where they have gone. Most are scattered; some chose to follow another lord after the fall, and some simply vanished."
Bobby finally spoke up. "What about the lowlands?"
"Leave them be," Luenor said. "They are ours already without war. Gurt, and now the orphans run a whole network of ears and hands across the land. The Fangbangs trust me."
"Beggars." Mellon mumbled. He began to swirl his goblet. "Street kids."
"Eyes in the gutters," Luenor corrected him. "And oddly enough, sometimes eyes in the gutters see more than eyes in the towers."
The great hall of Carrowhelm sparkled that evening from the light cast off the silver chandeliers and soft music from the enchanted flutes. For once, laughter filled the hall without pretension, and it seemed their spirits were finally not strained for the first time in many weeks and maybe months.
Vertical columns of blue and violet silk twenty feet in length hung high above the long banquet tables which ran the full length of the room. The Sureva crest had been finally hung and starred beside that of Carrowhelm in fine crimson and gold threads.
The feast was sumptuous. Platter after platter of roasted duck glazed with blood orange honey were passed along with braised venison rolled in blackthorn leaves. Silver bowls overflowed with spiced plum soup peeking out under freshly baked loafs of fig and chestnut bread alongside wheel bursts oozing hot cheese.
Dion sat with Tio and Eva, and attacked the roast meat with both hands. "This is the best meal I've had in years," he said, juice dribbling down his chin.
Eva smiled and shook her head. Tio, whose eyes were wide with delight, picked little flecks of a fruit tart that he had, and stealthily secured himself a second one while no one was watching.
As the story dragged on about how Arwin had once secretly taken a noble's boots while passing through Echlion, Dion, still drinking from his cup, found the humor too overwhelming and snorted wine out of his nose.
While the others were joking, Farin remained less jovial, standing a little removed and sipping from his goblet of mulled wine - his eyes swinging to Luenor who was now sitting at the head of the table with Hunter and Mellon - quiet, yet attentive.
Bobby, dressed more simply, raised his goblet high. "To the return of House Sureva!"
Everyone in that hall raised their drink to him.
Later, the conversation turned to matters of strategy.
"What of Duke Siegfreed?" Bobby asked, leaning forward. "What would he do if he knew the Sureva heir is alive...?"
"He will," Luenor answered. "As time does allow, we must use it carefully - we will strengthen our alliances, strengthen Carrowhelm, and speak to the outer vassals."
Mellon nodded. "I'll take care of it in a discreet way."
"And the mercenaries?" Hunter prompted.
"They have finished their job," Luenor said. "Pay them properly, send them on their way. Let them remember us as magnanimous."
By the morning farewells started.
Hunter said goodbye to each sellsword, and thanked them in person. Many looked shocked, but the sellswords left us with fat coin purses.
Dion walked with Eva and Tio to the gate.
"You better come visit," Tio said, hugging his leg.
"You think it will be that easy to rid myself of you?" Dion smiled. "Tell Chote to eat something that isn't soot."
In the courtyard, Gurt expertly avoided Luenor's eyes, but at the last minute Luenor paused before him and said, "Still stealing from the kitchens, I see."
Gurt nearly dropped his wine, then bowed so fast he knocked over a cart.
At the forge, Chote stood nervously before Grumbrik, wearing a smith's apron two sizes too big.
"You?" Grumbrik barked. "You exploded three vents, ruined my ceiling, and killed a man with a broken shaft. Now you want to learn forging?"
"Yes… please," Chote replied meekly.
Grumbrik stared at him, then groaned. "Stubborn and curious. Fine. A proper dwarf, I suppose."
____
According to the first Atazzian Commandant: somewhere far off, in her opulent room draped in enchanted silk and thick imported carpets from the Sombardy, Linlin reclined sideways on a velvet divan carved of wyrmwood and inlaid with moonsilver.
The firelight flickered softly against the enticing outline of her gown—a lustrous and scandalously sheer deep violet dress that draped her body like liquid night, studded with mana crystal flecks arranged to resemble constellations, all twinkling with each breath she took. She appeared like a goddess swimming in space, and appeared to float isolated in a sphere all her own.
One long leg dangled over the other, smooth and bare beneath the hem of her dress. One jeweled slipper dangling off her toes. With her idle fingers, she stroked the soft fur of her companion curled beside her—Tofu, her trusty mana-hound. The dog lifted its precious head to her every time her rings clinked.
"Alfrenzo played well," she purred aloud, her tone like warmed wine. "The boy has teeth. And he kept his word."
She extended her free hand and flicked her fingers dismissively. A sorcerer, one of the mages at court, standing quietly in the shadow with a proper posture, bowed deeply and departed the chamber without making a sound.
As the heavy door closed behind him, Linlin leaned further into the plush curve of the divan, a lazy smile playing on her lips.
"Let her enjoy her victory while it lasts," she said to herself. "Let them laugh and drink, and think they have survived something."
Outside, beyond her floating tower among the crescent hills of Eleveign, the clouds thundered pressure, but not here. Here the air was warm and filled with the perfume of enchanted orchids, and her windows revealed only blue skies. The illusion was deliberate - Linlin despised interruption.
Far away from the tower, down into the sloshing muddy roads beyond Carrowhelm, a carriage creaked and cycled along the road. Inside, Faren talked about their importance while ruts formed under their wheels with the same speed they rattled. "We left Dallast in the woods and the beasts will take care of him."
Hunter shrugged, nonchalantly leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "You still want to forge your own skyshard blades, Luenor?"
Luenor exhaled a long breath. "Maybe. We planned the plan, and plotted the plot, and prepared for forever. Apparently we could have just walked into the castle."
"But then," Dion said with a grin, "we would have missed Arwin get humbled."
Arwin, still wrapped in bandages said, "it hurts dammit I'm still healing."
The carriage erupted in laughter, carrying on into the grey morning haze.
In her tower Linlin absentmindedly drew circles along Tofu's back. "Let him laugh. Let them all laugh. But if Alfrenzo—if Luenor—is going to the capital..."
Her eyes lit up.
"I will be there to greet him."
Tofu gave a short, high-pitched yip that sounded like a question.
Linlin giggled and threw her arm around his small fuzzy body. "Yes, yes," she said. "You can come also."
Tofu wagged his tail.
"But you'll need a new outfit." Linlin said as she grabbed a bolt of shimmering thread from the embroidery basket beside her. "Something...capital."