There’s always a frosty sort of silence between Corin and his father these days. Corin is grown now, or so he’d like to think. The innocence - and embarrassing, blinding stupidity - of youth is gone. Corin has a lot to be ashamed of, and trusting Atropa enough to let him take him out of the Court is top of the list.
Now, though, all illusions of a friendly father-son relationship have disappeared. Corin exchanges a curt nod with his father as he walks to his tutor’s room every morning, and that’s about the extent of their interaction. Atropa doesn’t make any special effort to make up with his son. The boy is here, in the southern fortress, as ordered.
But sometimes, Atropa has to intervene.
“Where are you going?” he says, extending an arm to block Corin’s passage down the fortress corridor.
Corin refuses to meet his father’s eyes. He squares his shoulders and glances away as if he doesn’t truly care. “Uncle Alaric invited me over for a game of cards,” he says sullenly.
Atropa closes his eyes briefly, as if in prayer. “Will he be serving refreshments?”
“I guess? Why does it matter?” Corin’s voice is raised now. He has no patience left for the fortress and its rules. It’s embarrassing enough that he has to go and play boring games with his weird uncle to pass the time.
Atropa pauses to think. He plans his words very carefully. But he doesn’t get a chance to say anything, because Corin ducks under his arm and continues on his way down the corridor, his narrow shoulders high and tight.
“Don’t eat the meat,” Atropa says instead, loud enough to startle a passing servant.
Corin glances back, his lip curling, and keeps walking.
in this very important lore update, somebody dies! i had to rush this one so it’s a bit sparse whoops but u get the idea
(part 1) (part 3)
~
The dungeon was perhaps the worst place to be if you had recently been stabbed in the kidney. Dark, damp, dripping gods-knew-what from the ceiling, it was a wonder that most prisoners didn't simply die of infection. Emiliano knew that the only reason he was still alive was the paper tag stuck over his stab wound, which had been tailored to fix up the wound as much as possible while still leaving him incapacitated by it.
He couldn't sit up, so he had to be content lying on the single bench. Fallon had to sit on the floor, but he wasn't complaining. In fact, when Emiliano tried to insist on letting Fallon onto the bench, Fallon refused.
The two of them were being observed, so they couldn't even voice their real fear – that Thea had been discovered, too. Emiliano had succeeded in bribing a guard to send a message to Iriangi, but there was no way of telling if the message had ever arrived, or if Iriangi had been able to do anything about it.
So it remained unsaid, a silent fear that hung between them.
“You know,” Fallon said, on the third day, “this is actually the second time I've been imprisoned down here.”
“Yeah, gods,” Emiliano said, his voice a faint wheeze. “At least you don't have that prick Rich for company this time. Count your blessings.”
Fallon laughed. He held Emiliano's hand in his own, a constant source of support. “Your father saved me, actually. I think he was under orders to kill us, but he didn't... I think even Rich survived.”
Emiliano made a noise of disgust.
Outside, the guard rapped on the door and slid back the heavy wooden covering on the cell bars, letting light flood into the room. “Oi, bodyguard,” he said harshly, “it's your mother.”
Iriangi stood beside the guard on the other side of the bars, her arms folded in very convincing admonishment. The guard laughed, stepping aside without letting either the prisoners or their guest out of his sightline.
“Wouldn't envy you now,” he said, nodding to Emiliano.
Emiliano tried his best to sit up, but the deep wound on his side hurt too much. He had to crane his neck instead to see Iriangi. She didn't look happy. Was that bad news? It was impossible to tell from her expression.
“Emiliano,” she said quietly. “I can't believe you. I'm so disappointed – what would your father say? You've disgraced our entire family. You've disgraced me.” As she spoke, she turned subtly away from the guard and flattened her hand against the bars. Written on her palm in large charcoal letters were the words SHE IS SAFE.
Emiliano's shoulders sagged with relief. But he had to play his part. “Oh, what do you know, mother?” he said as loudly as his wound allowed. “I'd sacrifice anything for our love, even my family name.”
Iriangi folded her arms again, wiping her palm on the front of her tunic to smudge away the charcoal. “I can't even look at you any more,” she said, turning away. “I've written to all your siblings and they all know what a failure you are. Hopefully this will be the last time we ever speak.”
And she left. The guard winced, sharing a strangely sympathetic look with Emiliano, then slid the wooden barrier back across to plunge the cell into darkness once more. With a gasp, Fallon turned in and put his arms around Emiliano, as best he could, and pressed their foreheads together.
“She's safe,” he breathed.
“I'm going to have to apologise for shouting at mum later,” Emiliano said, his eyes sliding shut with relief. “If I ever see her again.”
“That's all we can hope for,” Fallon said.
Several more days passed before the trial Atropa had promised. Trials at the court were a messy and broderline-barbaric business, often put on for show rather than any semblance of real justice. It was obvious that Atropa was only doing all this in revenge for the theft of Thea's egg, so there really wasn't any hope of there being a fair turnout for the trial.
Emiliano and Fallon were marched out of the cell separately; Emiliano first, because he couldn't walk on his own. Being transported by stretcher was humiliating enough, but when he and his escort made it up to the throne room it all got about a hundred times worse.
Having grown up in the Court, Emiliano knew he was moderately well-known among the lower classes, if not the nobility. He was always around Corin, but bodyguards were supposed to blend into the background. No one paid attention to a member of the militia doing their job.
Everyone paid attention to him now. People stared, a naked, morbid curiosity in their eyes. They wanted to know what type of commoner had been enough to tempt the good Prince Fallon. And of course, many of the commoners and militia members at court knew Emiliano, too, they knew his history, and there was this added layer of disgust, that he'd forsaken his own class to go and consort with the nobility.
Nobody in the throne room seemed even the least bit sympathetic.
The guards reached across and cuffed his hands together, which was pointless since he couldn't very well attack anyone with a kidney wound so bad he'd been pissing blood for days on end. The stretcher was set down at the base of the dais on which the thrones sat, so that he had to look up to meet Atropa's eyes.
It was a full court, so Rosa was there too, looking vaguely bored. Corin had a new bodyguard, of course, but his wide eyes were fixed on Emiliano with a look of utter horror. That was heartening – at least one person here was on Emiliano's side. He tried to smile at Corin, but the little prince did not seem reassured in the slightest. He was holding something on his lap; a small black notebook.
Loud murmuring from the crowd. Then the guards stepped aside and let Fallon through. He was not handcuffed; of the two of them, he was more likely to be seen as a victim. And, of course, Atropa didn't really have any grudge against Fallon.
This was an oddly heartening thought. Maybe Fallon would escape – Atropa couldn't risk angering the Sky Spire by executing Fallon or imprisoning him, so maybe it was more likely that Fallon would simply be sent home in disgrace. Thea could even go with him. Emiliano had never met Saf or Sparks, but he had no doubt that they'd welcome her with open arms.
Atropa held up a hand for silence. “I'm sure you all know why we're here, but if you aren't-” And he held up a sheet of paper and read off a rather dry list of charges, naming both Emiliano and Fallon and their supposed 'crimes'.
Fallon shot a sideways glance at Emiliano and forced a smile.
“So,” Atropa said, finally setting aside his script, “Emiliano. You are not of noble blood. You-”
“Father,” Corin said in a quiet, urgent voice. Hundreds of pairs of eyes turned on him and he quailed visibly; he'd never spoken up like this before, in this sort of setting.
“Be silent,” Atropa said sharply.
“No, father,” Corin said, “you're wrong about him.”
Atropa turned to face his son, visibly furious. “Now is not the time. I know you liked him, but he does not need you to defend him.”
Rosa shot an irritated look at Atropa's back, then reached across the gap between the thrones and set a hand on Corin's arm. Corin looked surprised for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Father, I'm sorry,” Corin said, “but you can't try Emiliano as a commoner, because he's not one. I... I found this in the record room last night and I think you should read it.” He held up the notebook in one shaking hand.
Emiliano couldn't do anything but stare, dumbstruck.
Atropa snatched the book off Corin and leafed through it. His lip curled. “What is this vulgarity?” he said harshly. “This is highly inappropriate...” He trailed off, as if he'd only just spotted the date on the front cover, and the hand-drawn court crest.
Now even Rosa looked interested. “What is that?” she said, reaching for the book. She stared at it for a moment, her eyebrows contorting, then lowered it and stared at Emiliano as if she had never seen him before in her life.
Emiliano shared a shocked look with Fallon. His secret was out, but how exactly was it supposed to help his current situation? The fact was that he was still illegitimate royalty, since his mother was not of noble blood like Rosa's had been. But maybe it was enough to buy him another few days.
“So, um,” Corin said, visibly terrified, refusing to look out at the crowd of spectators, “Emiliano is actually one of King Serraden's children. He's my uncle.”
Rosa flipped through the notebook, frowning. “Corin, where did you get this?”
“The records room?” Corin said, shrinking back slightly.
She cleared her throat, her expression utterly inedcipherable, then read out a passage from the book.
“'The third day of the month of plague. Today I met with my son Emiliano again. I can tell that Reginald finds his company deeply boring, but I cannot share his opinion. New to fatherhood though I am, I am already starting to wonder why I never chose to have children before. And Emiliano, my only child at Court, is a man after my own heart. He discussed his relationship with Prince Fallon today – although I find the prince to be a pleasant sort, I have to wonder what exactly Emiliano sees in him-'” She trailed off, frowning deeply.
Emiliano cast Fallon an apologetic look and a shrug.
“All right,” Atropa said, “but there's no way to verify those documents.”
“Actually, father,” Corin said, flinching a little as all the attention turned on him again, “I sp-spoke to General Fain about it and she says it's real.”
“I'll have to speak to her myself about it,” Atropa said. “And who is this 'Reginald' mentioned in the text?”
Corin shook his head helplessly.
The crowd, which had been remarkably subdued until now, started to erupt into shouts and cheers, apparently thrilled by this dramatic new revelation. Emiliano was not reassured. Rosa continued to stare at him; it was the first time ever that she looked truly caught off-guard. When Emiliano met her eyes, he actually felt a flash of anger – now she cared! But she hadn't given a shit before. Some queen she was, having let someone like Atropa gain so much control at the court.
“Fine,” Atropa said, after a long pause. “The trial is suspended.” There was a deep anger in his voice as he gestured at the guards beside Fallon and Emiliano. “See to their wounds, but don't set them free just yet.”
So that was that. Emiliano was taken to the infirmary next for a proper healing session. Fallon didn't go with him, promising in undertone that he'd do everything in his power to find Iriangi and Thea.
Several more days passed. The court was in uproar, nobility scrambling to reconcile with this new turn of events. Emiliano remained shut up in the infirmary, with only a few visitors at a time. He was under guard, though at this point he wasn't sure whether or not it was to keep him imprisoned, or for his own protection.
It seemed that Corin's sources had been proven accurate. According to Iriangi, when she found time to visit, nobody knew quite what to do next about Emiliano. He couldn't be king, he wasn't quite royal enough for the royal family. Even when he was completely healed up from his injuries, he wasn't really sure if he was supposed to leave the infirmary. Was he a prisoner or not?
“Oh, Emiliano, it's just a huge mess,” Fallon said, during one of his visits. “Atropa is obviously scrambling for a new crime to pin you with, but all he's got is that treason shit you pulled with Xandra, and nobody would ever find you guilty for that. If he even brought it up, it would only give your supporters more reason to love you.”
“My what now?” Emiliano said. He sat on his infirmary bed with Fallon, an arm wound comfortably around his waist. “Did you say supporters?”
Fallon nodded. He was still bruised from his treatment at the ball, but none of it was permanent. Emiliano could have watched him for hours.
“Oh yeah,” Fallon said. “There are people who say you should be king. They say you can free the court from its obsession with nobility, that kind of thing.” He hugged Emiliano to his side with a sigh. “There's no hope, of course. Not with Rosa still around.”
“Yeah,” Emiliano said, a spark of anger in his tone. “She let this happen.”
“Has she visited you at all?” Fallon said.
Emiliano quickly shook his head.
“Huh. You know, if I found out that I had a long lost sibling right under my nose who almost died, I'd probably want to meet them. At the very least, she could apologise.”
The next morning, Emiliano had made up his mind. He'd been given an opportunity, finally, to follow his own ambition. But, more than that, he had a chance to give Fallon and Thea a safe, comfortable life. He dressed himself with care in his bodyguard uniform, buckling on his scabbard and stopping at his own room to grab his backup sword. It was a big day and he had to look good.
Undoubtedly, Atropa would find another way to get back at Emiliano. Maybe one day Emiliano would wake up with a dagger at his throat, or maybe it would be poison, or a carefully arranged 'accident'. But he wasn't going to let Atropa get the jump on him, not again. It was Emiliano's time to strike.
There was an uneasy quiet in the air that morning. People watched him go, some calling out his name in surprise. The guards watched him with suspicion. He was alone; Fallon didn't know about this. If he'd known, he would have tried to stop Emiliano.
The guards stood aside to let him pass at the throne room doors. Court was in session; Rosa and Atropa seeing to the masses, as usual, without really caring at all for anyone's problems but their own. Corin was nowhere to be found. That was good. Emiliano didn't want the little boy to see what he was about to do.
Silence fell as Emiliano approached the dais where he had been handcuffed only a couple of days before. He didn't bow.
Atropa opened his mouth to speak, but Rosa beat him to it.
“You,” she snapped, fury in her tone. She rose to her feet. “What business do you have here, you pathetic half-blood? Did your peasant mother never teach you to bow before the throne?”
Emiliano cleared his throat. His heart was pounding and he knew that his plan was so stupid that it was almost certain to fail. “Good morning to you too, sister,” he said coldly. “I've come to speak to you about article 5, section 38 of the Court rules of succession.”
Rosa frowned. She didn't know this rule. But Atropa clearly did, because he stood up. “How dare you-”
Emiliano spoke over him. “In the event of a succession crisis,” he said, almost shouting, “the rivals for the throne are permitted to nominate one champion to fight for their bid. I challenge you, Rosa, and I nominate myself.” It was, admittedly, a very strange rule. But Emiliano had bored over the rulebooks that had been drafted during the Court's infancy, and this one was legitimate. Serraden had written a lot of trial by combat into the court's rulebook.
Rosa's bodyguard, Myra, stepped forwards, clearly expecting to be chosen as Rosa's champion. Emiliano's heart thudded. Myra was big and very dangerous, the best of the best. But just as Myra began to descend the steps to reach Emiliano, Rosa cast out a hand and held her back.
“Myra, wait,” she said. “I don't need your help to fight him.”
“But – Your Majesty-”
“No. Stand down.”
Atropa's expression was so shocked it was almost comical. For the first time, he didn't seem to know what to do. All he knew was how to follow the rules, and the rules were being followed to the letter here.
Rosa pulled a short dagger from a decorative sheath at her belt. She cast off her fur-lined cape and approached Emiliano.
“My mother taught me how to fight,” she said carelessly, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “Draw, brother.”
Someone shouted at the other end of the hall – Emiliano recognised Fallon's voice – but it was too late to stop now. He drew his own dagger, a little put out that he wasn't allowed to use a sword. But no, the weapons had to be the same. It had to be a fair fight.
It wasn't. Rosa was good, he could admit it, but she hadn't been raised in the militia. He sidestepped her first strike, caught her wrist, and forced her back. She tried to circle behind him, but her movements were predictable. She was too used to shadowy assassin-work, she didn't know how to fight without the advantage of surprise or poison.
So it came as no surprise to anyone when he pivoted at the last moment, dodging her second strike, and gashed his blade across her throat before sinking it between her ribs. She crumpled to the ground and lay still.
in this important lore update (so important that i’m even daring to use the title field omg), fallon and emiliano’s situation predictably blows up in their faces.
(part 2) (part 3)
~
Sometimes Fallon wondered what life was like in most normal dragon clans. If he'd been born into just an average clan living on the edge of the Starwood, he'd have been happier. Just himself, Emiliano, and their daughter, without any external pressures or forces to speak of.
Maybe such desires were cowardly. Fallon was used to wading into the mire of court politics with a polite smile on his face; it had been his entire life for a long time. What made it so unbearable now?
Thea tested her claws on the wooden chest in the corner of his bedroom, the paper tags on her back crinkling with each movement.
“Hey,” he said, pausing in the act of winding his cravat around his neck, “hey, you stop that. Be nice.”
She watched him with wide purple eyes and babbled something incomprehensible; the only language she knew was some kind of Shadow-speak, but over the past few days she'd begun to pick up a few words from Fallon's language; her parents' names, the words for yes and no.
Abandoning the box, she pounced on one of the stuffed animals Iriangi had brought over for her; a pink pony that had been almost the same size as Thea herself at first. Now, though, the toy – and the room in general – was starting to look alarmingly small beside the growing guardian. She crushed the fleece pony against her chest frill and spoke to it in a shrill, adoring tone.
She should have been able to shapeshift, but the wound on her back made it impossible. Emiliano had promised to find a better place to hide her, but that wasn't what either of them really wanted.
Fallon glanced back at his wardrobe mirror and tied off his cravat. He gathered back his hair with a ribbon and tied it neatly at the nape of his neck. Leaning closer to the mirror he neatened up the few stray curls that insisted on sticking up at the top of his head. Usually he enjoyed the pageantry of a royal ball, the opportunity to exist in the same room as Emiliano for once, without drawing suspicion, but tonight was different. He didn't want to leave Thea behind.
“Dad!” she said, tugging at the hem of his coat. He turned quickly, before she tore it. She held up her beloved stuffed pony, eyes wide. One of its legs had parted company with the rest of its body and hung by a thread, the stuffing leaking out.
“Oh no,” he said, taking it from her. “Oh, dear.” There was no point in admonishing her for playing too rough, given her size and strength it would have been hard for her not to damage the toy. “Don't worry – oh, don't worry, sweetheart, I'll have it sent off for repairs. It's easily fixed, we'll just get someone to sew the leg back on.”
There was a knock on the door. Fallon went to answer it, indicating for Thea to move aside, so that she would not be visible to anybody at the door. She knew the drill by now, but it was getting increasingly difficult for her to do so without at least some of her body sticking out.
But their visitors were Emiliano and Iriangi, so there was no need for alarm.
“Thank you so much for this,” Fallon said to Iriangi in undertone, as Emiliano immediately went to greet Thea.
“It's nothing,” Iriangi said, her expression softening as she glanced over at Thea. “I'll look after her for tonight while you two are at the ball.” Her eyes fell on the broken toy in Fallon's hand. “And I'll sew that up for you, too.”
“Oh, would you?” Fallon said, with a sigh of relief.
“Of course.” Iriangi now turned and observed the rest of the bedroom, her eyebrows rising. “My gods, the state of this place!”
“I know, I know.” Fallon glanced back at the room with a rueful grin. It looked like... well, it looked like someone had been hiding a very lively baby guardian there for a week. The curtains and bedspread had been shredded, and even some of the flagstones bore claw-marks.
“She can't stay here,” Iriangi said quietly. “It's not fair on either of you.”
This wasn't news to anyone, so all Fallon could do was nod in fervent agreement.
“What was that?” Emiliano said, as Thea said something to him in a loud, petulant tone. “He did what? Fallon, how could you?” He pressed a hand to his mouth in mock surprise, returning to stand by Fallon and Iriangi. “Thea says you broke her pony.”
“It sounds like Thea's telling tall tales,” Fallon said. It was hard not to smile.
Emiliano laughed, his hands moving down to clasp Fallon's waist. He stretched up as much as he could and pressed a quick kiss to Fallon's cheek.
Then just as quickly Emiliano broke away, grabbing the door handle. “Okay, I have to go – Corin's probably waiting – I'll see you later, Thea, okay? Be good.” He blew her a kiss, which she clumsily reciprocated.
This was the part Fallon hated. The brief, shining glimpse into his ideal life that ended all too soon.
“And,” Emiliano said, already halfway out of the room, “I'll see you at the ball.” He flashed Fallon a dashing smile. And with that Emiliano was gone, racing away to attend to his job with a final yelled “Thanks, mum!” over his shoulder.
Fallon remained standing on the spot, vaguely overwhelmed.
Iriangi laughed. “I haven't seen that boy so happy in years.” Shaking her head in apparent amusement, she waved Fallon over to the door. “You'd better not be late, either. The sooner you get there, the sooner you can come home.”
“True, I guess.” He opened the door. “You two have fun, okay? And if anyone comes knocking, remember what to do. Iriangi, I can't thank you enough-”
“Just go!” she said. “And don't be silly, you know I love spending time with Thea. Of the two of us, I think you have it the worst off tonight.” And with a final smile, she pushed the door shut after him.
He gathered himself in the corridor outside, trying to plant an impassive look on his face. Taking a deep breath, he turned and started to walk away, but a muffled cough made him pause. He scanned the corridor – there at one end was a uniformed guard leaning against the wall, reading a book, chewing absently on the end of a pen.
That was strange. This wasn't a normal guard outpost. The guard glanced briefly over at Fallon, nodded, and turned her attention back to her book.
Fallon couldn't tell exactly why, but this struck him as wrong. His instincts were telling him something but he couldn't quite put his finger on what.
Calm down, he told himself, it's just a guard sneaking off for some leisure time.
But the wariness of years of living in secret at the court, the threat of execution hanging over his head, had never abandoned him. He trusted his instincts over his common sense.
So he walked towards the guard and raised a hand in greeting. “Hello!” he said.
She glanced back over at him. “Can I help you?”
Oh. His heart started to pound, but his expression remained perfectly at ease. “I was wondering why you've been posted here? Is there some kind of threat I should be aware of?”
She shook her head. “No, I just wanted a quiet corner to read.” She held up her leather-bound book.
“Oh, that's a relief. Well, I'll be going – enjoy the book.”
He put his back to her and very quickly strode away. As he passed his own front door again he scanned the lock and, yes, there were gouges in the metal that suggested the use of several lock-picks rather than a single key, like the one he used.
As he walked towards the ballroom, he turned over everything he knew for sure in his mind. First of all, the guard. Normal palace guards did not act like that around nobility. If that guard had been as disrespectful to another noble, she could have lost her job. She should have bowed and addressed him by his full title. But she hadn't.
And there was the book. What guard could afford a book? Bound in leather with golden lettering on the front. And why the pen? What did she have to write about?
Distant music wound through the air. Nobles in garishly-coloured clothes gathered just outside the ballroom doors, waiting for them to be thrown open. As several dragons instantly descended on Fallon and called out greetings, he regretted not going back to warn Iriangi that she was being spied on.
Just act normal. At least this came naturally to him. He chatted idly with the court nobility. They demanded he show them some of his card tricks and he obliged, producing an ace of spades from a nobleman's front pocket, all the while hoping – desperately wishing – that Iriangi and Thea were safe.
The doors swung open, revealing a hall bedecked in pink and purple, which were the latest fashionable colours of the court. Enchanted rose petals fell from the ceiling. It was all very nice, but Fallon hardly noticed it.
Queen Rosa and Lord Alejandro led the first dance, to wild applause. Fallon scanned the hall for Corin and spotted him near one of the long buffet tables, chatting to another boy his own age. Emiliano was nearby, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on Corin, ever the straight-laced bodyguard.
A servant brushed past with a tray of wine glasses. Fallon took a glass, but didn't drink any. He needed to keep his wits about him.
He moved through the crowd, carefully avoiding the dance-floor as more of the nobles moved in to take their place with their partners. At the buffet table he set down his glass and wandered along the table until Corin and the other boy were in earshot.
“But if they're dead, how can they still walk around?” Corin was saying.
Angelo, the other boy, nodded eagerly. “Well that's why I came to Dragonhome! There's something about the land here that makes dying different – did you know there's a whole village of ghosts in the east? We should go there some day!”
“G-ghosts?” Corin said. “They're real?”
“Just as real as the walking corpses,” Angelo said excitedly. He was the first to notice Fallon's approach. Quickly dropping this rather morbid topic of conversation, Angelo quickly bowed.
Emiliano frowned questioningly at Fallon over Corin's head.
“Good evening, Your Highnesses,” Fallon said, raising his voice over the music. “I hope you're both well. It's – it's a beautiful celebration, isn't it?” As he spoke he met Emiliano's eyes and tried his utmost to non-verbally communicate the danger. The boys were too young to really notice, which was a blessing.
Emiliano's skin went pale under his crackle. He tapped Corin's shoulder. “Please excuse me, Your Highness. I have to go and... check the food for poison.”
“Poison?” Corin's voice was almost comically alarmed. “Oh my gods – yes, please do. Thank you, Emiliano.”
Emiliano turned and vanished into one of the concealed serving doors that led between the hall and the kitchens. Angelo's bodyguard – a gruff, silent pearlcatcher who probably did not think much of Emiliano just then – moved to stand between the two boys, watching over them both.
Fallon waited as long as he dared, then, when most of the nobles were distracted by the dancing, left the hall by the main doors and made a beeline for the kitchens.
He did not notice the armoured guard that peeled away from the crowd and followed him out.
The kitchens were chaotic, every chef and server struggling to meet the demands of the ball. Fallon would be noticed for sure if he went in, so he backtracked a few paces and found one of the hidden doors in the corridor outside. During his time living under Xandra's reign, constantly forced to hide and travel in secret, he had learned the layout of the hidden passages by heart.
He backtracked through the narrow, dim passageway, occasionally ducking out of the way of passing servants, until he bumped into Emiliano.
There was no time for greetings. Emiliano grabbed his hand and clung on. “What's wrong?” he said hoarsely. Thin bars of light from the adjacent ballroom shone through the wall, falling in a striped pattern over Emiliano's face.
“I – I think someone's spying on me,” Fallon said. Breathless, he ran through the events of the evening. “Iriangi doesn't know, someone needs to get a message to her in secret – can you do that? Do you know anyone who could?”
Emiliano bit his lip. “I don't – I... I suppose I could bribe one of the guards...”
“Good. Take anything from my vault, I don't care,” Fallon said.
The distant music faded away, replaced by a far livelier tune. Suddenly, Emiliano growled under his breath and struck the wall with a shaking fist. Dust rained down from the dim rafters.
“He did this,” he snapped.
There was no question as to whom Emiliano was referring. “I know,” Fallon said. “But we can't act reckless, we have to be smart-”
“He's in there right now,” Emiliano said, indicating the ballroom. “And I have a sword. He doesn't.”
“You'd be executed,” Fallon said, grabbing Emiliano's other hand, to hold him back. “Think about Thea.”
Emiliano nodded rapidly, screwing his eyes shut. “Yes – you're right. I'll go and see if I can find a guard with no morals, you get back in there and keep an eye on Atropa.”
He leant forwards and kissed Fallon again, this time with a desperate urgency and a whispered plea to be safe. Then he was gone, racing away down the dark passage.
Fallon counted along with the music, waiting until at least three minutes had passed before he dared follow Emiliano out. As he walked he scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away any trace of Emiliano – a rogue crackle stain could be their undoing – and under his breath he whispered plausible excuses for his absence to himself. He couldn't shake his doubt – maybe he'd been wrong to include Emiliano at all, maybe that was suspicious...
Raised voices sounded from the ballroom. The nobles were cheering again; presumably the queen was leading another dance. Rosa was a rare sight at events like this and she always drew awe and adulation from the crowds.
Someone shouted nearby. Fallon paused with his hand on one of the exit doors, frowning, but the person didn't shout again. Maybe one of the servants had dropped a tray in the kitchens. Things tended to get heated there.
He pushed the door open, cautiously.
It was wrenched instantly out of his grip as someone seized it and threw it open. He caught a very brief glimpse of a crowd of guards and nobles alike before hands reached out and grabbed at him – tangling in his clothes and hair and antlers, dragging him out into the open. He yelled on instinct and hit out, and was rewarded by a solid punch to the gut. Winded instantly, he lost the strength to resist, and now he was being pulled through a crowd of hostile jeering, surrounded on all sides by dizzyingly bright splashes of colour and rose petals and hard metal armour.
Then he was through and the guards were throwing him to the marble floor of the ballroom. He lay there for a moment, stunned, his hair falling loose around his face. Pain radiated from all over his body and he could hardly breathe and when he looked up at the wide ring of Dorchadas nobility all around him, nobody made a move to help him.
Another yell, muffled but close. He scrambled to his feet, leaving a smear of blood on the floor behind him. A pair of very large guards off to the left held a limp figure between them. Emiliano was not struggling, but he was still trying to shout past the restraining hand clamped over his mouth. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other wide and fixed on Fallon.
And then, finally, Fallon caught sight of Atropa. The Lord of Court Dorchadas stood by the crowd, not quite a part of it, a pleasant, relaxed smile on his face.
“Prince Fallon,” he said in a businesslike tone, “what is your relationship with this man?” And he indicated Emiliano with a dismissive gesture.
Lie. Fallon could hardly think, he couldn't make sense of the situation, it was a nightmare come to life – he almost answered truthfully, but a scrap of his parents' training filtered through. Lie to get out of trouble. Make something up. Anything was better than being caught.
Fallon's voice was hoarse, as if he'd been choked. Maybe he had. “I... do you mean the Prince's bodyguard, my Lord? I don't understand – what relationship?” He glanced over at Emiliano, who had a look of acceptance in his uninjured eye – it was better for one of them to make it out of this ordeal than none of them. Thea needed a father.
Atropa beckoned to a nearby guard, who stepped out of the crowd. Fallon's heart sank – it was the guard he'd seen outside his room. She still held her book, and now she began to read from it.
“Roughly an hour ago, the royal bodyguard was seen exiting Prince Fallon's personal quarters.”
Oh, no.
She continued – “This morning, shortly after breakfast, the royal bodyguard was again seen outside Prince Fallon's quarters. And again yesterday evening, and yesterday morning, and the evening before-”
“Okay, yes,” Fallon said sharply, his mind racing. “I know the bodyguard from Queen Xandra's reign, my Lord, and I was using him as a way to get to your son, the heir to the throne. I represent the Sky Spire empire and I was hoping that our next king would deepen the alliance between our two empires, and regard us favourably.”
“But you did not come to me with these concerns,” Atropa said. “My son is not old enough to have any influence.”
“Well, er,” Fallon said, “it's better to start early, is it not?” He reached up and fastened the coat buttons that had come undone, neatening up his outfit. “But I have to reiterate – I don't care about the bodyguard at all.”
“I see,” Atropa said. He watched Fallon for a long moment, his eyes utterly dead and cold. The nobles were talking in low, guilty voices amongst themselves, concerned, wondering if perhaps they'd been a little too hasty in judging Fallon.
It was working. Fallon could hardly believe it.
Then Atropa signalled to one of the guards restraining Emiliano. The guard released Emiliano's arm, drew a dragger, and plunged the blade into Emiliano's side.
The guards dropped Emiliano and stepped back. He crumpled without a sound. A puddle of blood spread across the pristine marble floor, mingling with the fallen rose petals. Emiliano did not move.
Fallon was running before he'd even formed a coherent thought, before his brain woke up and told him that it wasn't a fatal wound and that Atropa was just trying to get a rise out of him. He fell to his knees beside Emiliano and checked for a pulse – it was there, thank all the gods. But it was weak. Emiliano was still in danger and Fallon would never ever let him bleed out alone in a room full of hostile dragons.
Medical training had never been Fallon's strong suit. He found the wound, pressed a hand to the deceptively small gash and leant on it with as much force as he dared. With his other hand he tapped Emiliano's face, checking for signs of consciousness. Emiliano made a weak noise of complaint, which was enough.
“You idiot,” Emiliano mumbled, his slitted eye fixed on Fallon's face. “Now we're both fucked.”
The guards were closing in again. Someone grabbed Fallon's shoulder and tried to shove him aside, but now that the game was up Fallon had no reason to pretend to be accommodating. With a snarl he lashed out, taking advantage of his size to knock the guard back. While everyone was still reacting in shock to this, Fallon dived for the scabbard at Emiliano's side. It was empty, of course. Instead, Fallon wrenched the scabbard out of its flimsy, decorative housings, hoping to maybe used it as a club.
The flat of a blade clashed down on his hand and he recoiled, dropping his improvised weapon. And then the guards were on the two of them again, and Atropa's voice in the distance was ordering the two of them to be arrested and put on trial. Pinned to the ground, it was all Fallon could do to keep Emiliano in his sights, even as someone shoved a spell tag onto him that pushed him effortlessly into unconsciousness.
emiliano does something very dumb and very very brave
(sliiight warning for horror in this one... i kept it pretty vague/not at all graphic but if u don’t like implied torture of children maybe skip this one)
~
“Hey, Emil – I think I've figured out why I keep seeing that man.”
Emiliano nodded absently, drawing a pristine polishing cloth along the length of his scabbard. Dust and dirt had been caught in the engraved details, but no blood. He hadn't seen a battle in a long time. No doubt his skills were getting rusty. Maybe he could-
Corin nudged him impatiently, practically bouncing on the spot. “Don't you want to know why?”
“Hm?”
“He's following you around,” Corin said, finally seating himself at the dining table. Emiliano stood to attention behind his chair. As a lowly bodyguard, he was not allowed to sit with the royal family. He had to eat his meals later, once Corin was asleep for the night.
“That's cool,” Emiliano said, not really listening, too busy watching the back doors with a slight frown. Rosa was nearly always late, but it was pretty rare for Atropa to delay like this. Artemio slouched against the wall behind Atropa's chair, reading through some ledger or other, smoke curling up from his lips. Emiliano coughed loudly, pointedly, but Artemio didn't seem to hear.
Emiliano scowled. Dinner with the royal family was about as interesting and engaging as dishwater. He wiped his scabbard down again, his thoughts jumping ahead to his own dinner later – he'd finally have Fallon to himself for the first time since the beginning of the jamboree. Celebrations in the Court were highly class-segregated, and Fallon had been invited to so many parties that he'd been unable to refuse without jeopardising his status. So Emiliano had been left alone most nights.
Now, though, the main religious celebrations were over and Fallon had a night off. Emiliano had a special evening planned – he'd poured his savings into the fancy bottle of wine that now lay cooling under his bed – and all he had to do now was make it through this boring royal chore first.
Artemio ground out his cigarette under his heel, his curious gaze rising from his ledger to fix on Corin for a moment.
“And,” Corin was saying, “sometimes I think he must be using magic or something because no one else can see him, and-”
The door creaked open. Atropa emerged, wiping his hands clean with a lacy handkerchief. With a gracious nod to Artemio, he took his place at the head of the table.
“Your mother won't be joining us tonight,” he said, waving for the servers waiting at the edges of the room. “We'll eat without her.”
Corin glanced over at something in the corner of the room, then back over at Atropa. His enthusiasm visibly died away, replaced by a quiet, obedient look. With a short nod, Corin spread a napkin on his lap and waited while the servers brought the food to the table.
At first, Emiliano had been dumbstruck at the differences between royal dinner and bog-standard civilian dinner. Corin was a good-natured boy, no doubt about that, but sometimes Emiliano wondered how he would fare if – gods forbid – he actually had to serve his own food some day, or clean his own bedroom without someone waiting on him hand and foot. And that was Emiliano's cousin. How could their upbringings have been so different?
“Tell me what you learned today, Corin,” Atropa said softly, taking up his cutlery. Although not technically of royal blood, he was perfectly at ease surrounded by servants. “Adreanas tells me you're making great progress with your genealogy lessons.”
Corin nodded. “Yes, father,” he said earnestly, without meeting Atropa's eyes. “I'm drawing a family tree with what I've learned. You never told me that grandfather Zaer was related to Verveine Redsand. Does that mean we're related to Queen Xandra?”
Atropa nodded, tucking his pale pink hair behind his ear. “Yes, though very distantly. It's not worth thinking about; you see, Verveine Redsand fathered a lot of children during his time as Commander Rezann's plague general, he is ancestor to half of northern Sornieth. But through his connection with the Commander and the wealth he earned, our trading company was able to get off the ground. Verveine's third daughter, Kyras, was the first to start trading under an official-”
Emiliano zoned out for a while. Atropa was a deeply boring person, all too fond of breaking into long, dull lectures about the minutiae of running a trading company. Just two more hours, Emiliano promised himself, tucking his polishing cloth into his jacket pocket.
Atropa continued to drone on.
“It's interesting, is it not, that your non-royal side boasts a far more distinguished bloodline,” he said. “We have been a fixture in Sornieth for hundreds of years, and the founder of this kingdom – may the gods rest his soul – was born a nobody from a clan that has since been destroyed.” He smiled, self-satisfied. “Not to discount the achievements of King Serraden, but his lineage is really nothing special.”
Emiliano's hands curled into fists. He bit his tongue. Two more hours...
Corin nodded, too young to really question his father's teachings. But then the boy paused, fork-in mid air, and cast a shocked glance at the empty corner of the room. He flinched a little, his gaze flashing between Atropa and the corner of the room. The torches lining the walls guttered for a few moments, under some imperceptible breeze.
Suddenly, Artemio swore. He lowered his balance sheet, beckoning to Atropa.
“We have a problem, my lord,” Artemio said. “I've triple-checked this and it seems like we are missing a hundred and twenty thousand gems from that latest transaction – I must have balanced it wrong, perhaps. Either that or we have a thief in our ranks.”
Corin frowned a little, put out. Business talk was all too common at the dinner table.
“I see,” Atropa said, casting an expert eye over the balance sheet. “Well, let me fetch my own records, we'll have to sort this one out.” He spread Artemio's sheet over the tablecloth, pushing aside his plate. “You, servant,” he said, glancing up at Emiliano. “Fetch a folder from my quarters. The red one, please, it should have last week's date on the cover.”
Emiliano felt like snapping at him that he was not a servant, but honestly this was as good an excuse as any to take a well-needed beak from the incredibly boring dinner table conversation. He ducked his head in assent and made for the door. Atropa and Artemio were deep in discussion about their latest transaction, no longer paying any attention to the room at large or poor Corin.
Emiliano strode down the corridor towards Atropa's quarters. It was, of course, as lacy and purple as everything else belonging to Atropa. Didn't the man ever get tired of such a restrictive colour scheme? Emiliano shut the door in his wake and glanced around the neat room.
There, on the desk, was a stack of folders. Emiliano sorted through them, stifling a yawn. The red folder with last week's date was on top of the pile, unfortunately. He'd been hoping that it would be hard to find, so that he could avoid having to stand through dinner conversation.
He took the folder and opened it up, but his curiosity died instantly at the sight of the rows and rows of numbers all cramped together in a hugely complicated grid. It meant nothing to him, but he did have it in himself to be thoroughly impressed by the sheer quantities of treasure and gems being dealt with her. With a sigh he snapped the folder shut and turned to go.
A faint, cold breeze stirred his hair, catching his attention. Shoving the folder under his arm for safekeeping he turned, frowning. Atropa's window was closed. But there was a draft pushing through the lifeless air, carrying with it a bitter, acrid smell that Emiliano thought he knew from somewhere, but he couldn't remember where...
Atropa's bookshelf – crammed with more folders and ledgers – was out of place. Pushed away from the wall, leaving a dim crack through which the breeze came. A secret entrance.
Emiliano couldn't help it. Even though the secret passageway no doubt led somewhere boring like the royal water closet, he had to check it out. Visions of a hidden vault stuffed with gems danced before his eyes. If the loss of hundred and twenty thousand gems wasn't worth raising the alarm about, then the loss of far less would barely be noticed...
He pulled the bookshelf further away from the wall, widening the entrance, and slipped inside. It was dark and dusty, that strange, almost acidic smell lingering in pockets along the narrow corridor. At some point, he started to hold his breath.
There was a light at the end of the winding corridor. Eyes narrowed against the sudden brightness, Emiliano emerged into perhaps the worst room he had ever seen in his life.
It had a low ceiling, like a dungeon, and the arrow-slit windows were free from glass or shutters. More bookshelves lined the walls, but these ones didn't contain any books, only a collection of large glass jars filled with murky fluid. In the centre was a couple of metal tables, some still grungy with variously-coloured blood, metal and leather restraints at each corner. Emiliano stepped back, automatically, and something crunched under his foot.
He looked down, then threw himself backwards with a yelp of horror. The floor was messy, covered with brightly coloured shards. It was as if someone had smashed a potter's workshop on the floor, but these weren't bits of ceramic. They were egg shells.
Emiliano would have fled, but a faint glow on one of the bookshelves caught his attention. Sitting innocuously between a pair of massive bell-shaped jars was a whole shadow egg, its glowing patches throbbing faintly. Some kind of metal instrument had been pushed into the shell, like a thermometer or something, and deep purple fluid had welled up around the puncture site. The pulse of light from the egg was uncomfortably irregular, like a failing heartbeat.
The egg was clearly important to someone – it was being studied – and its absence would be noticed. Emiliano turned to go, knowing well that he would never bring himself to leave without the egg.
So he held his breath, turned back around, and edged out into the room again. Fragile, discarded egg shells cracked underfoot. He tried not to notice. As he approached the shelves, he found he could make out shapes lying motionless in the fluid, a collection of things with skinny tails wrapped around their bodies and tiny, delicate hands pressed up against the glass. He almost expected them to start moving, but they were eerily still.
Bile rose into his mouth. He took a quick breath, bracing himself, trying not to see any more of the wet specimens than he already had, and reached for the egg. It was a foot across, awkward to hold, but comfortingly warm. He took the metal instrument and carefully withdrew it from the contents of the egg, spilling more purple fluid over his hands. The cracks on the egg's surface widened at the disturbance and his heart almost stopped – he could escape with an egg, but not with an infant – but the thing did not stir. The pulsing glow seemed to strengthen once the cruelly hooked end of the metal instrument was gone, but maybe that was just Emiliano's wishful thinking.
“Nothing to it,” he mumbled to himself, wiping away more embryonic fluid. Hugging it to his chest, he turned and practically ran from the room.
Back in Atropa's bedroom, he found the discarded folder on the floor by the bookshelf door. It was time for some quick thinking.
Five minutes later, he emerged back into the dining room, his jacket scrubbed clean and the requested folder in his hands.
“There you are,” Atropa said boredly, beckoning to him. “Put it there. Now, Artemio, we'll check the balance from yesterday – these are my vault details...”
Trying very hard not to be sick, Emiliano nodded and quickly relocated himself to his customary position behind Corin's chair. The dinner passed in a nightmarish haze as he struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face. How long before Atropa knew exactly who had taken the egg? If Emiliano was lucky, he had until that evening. If he was unlucky...
Finally, the dinner was over. Corin was still chatting on about the invisible man, but Emiliano couldn't even pretend to be interested this time. He accompanied Corin to his bedroom, stammered out a distracted goodnight and shut the door in his wake.
Once he was certain he was unobserved, he darted away from Corin's room, back towards the corridor leading away from the dining room. He almost bumped into Rosa's own bodyguard, Myra, who was passing by. Gasping out a quick apology he continued on.
The corridor looked the same as it had earlier. He walked down it, trying to act casual, and paused by a fussy little end-table. A large ornate vase stood on it. Emiliano peered inside. The egg was still there. His heart pounding, he grabbed the vase and shoved the rim against the wall – gently – until it cracked.
“Oh dear,” he said loudly, picking up the vase. “Oh no – what a shame...”
A servant just rounding the end of the corridor frowned at him.
“It's broken,” Emiliano said, indicating the vase helplessly. “I'll take this away to be repaired.”
“Fine,” the servant said, “as long as you take credit for it I don't give a shit what you do.”
“That's the spirit,” Emiliano said weakly, wrapping his arms protectively around the vase. He carried it out of the royal suites, loudly explaining to every servant he came across that he was simply taking it away to be repaired. Nobody stopped him. Hardly daring to believe it, he picked up the pace until he was just short of breaking into a jog.
Fifteen minutes later he was knocking hard on Iriangi's front door with an elbow, unable to open it up himself. He still shared a home with his mother.
She opened the door and frowned for a moment, eyeing the vase. “Emilio, what-”
“Hi, mum!” he said brightly, breathless. “Hi, sorry – I've got to run, Fallon's expecting me-”
“Did you break that?” she said, a warning tone creeping into her voice as she stood aside to allow him entry.
“Yes, but it's fine, it's just... it's a present for Fallon. He won't mind. Excuse me...” Emiliano darted into his bedroom, setting down the vase for a moment while he flattened himself to the floor to extract his precious bottle of wine from its ice box. He jammed it under his arm, grabbed the vase again, then escaped before Iriangi could question him any further.
He had to shout at Fallon's front door, unable to knock with his arms so occupied. Fallon answered after only a moment, a tiny frown on his face.
“You said you'd be here half an hour ago,” he said, beckoning. “Did Prince Cosimo keep you waiting?”
“Um. Shut the door, Fallon.”
Fallon did so, eyebrows raised. There was a small table in the centre of his living quarters, already set for dinner. There were wine glasses and roses. Emiliano would have given anything for it to be a normal date night.
“What's with the vase?” Fallon said.
Emiliano set it down on the ground, then extracted the bottle of wine. Turning away, he fumbled for the corkscrew on the table. Behind him, Fallon peered into the vase.
“Uh, Emiliano...”
Emiliano poured himself a brimming glass of wine and drank desperately. After a few deep, steadying breaths, he glanced around to see Fallon holding the damaged shadow egg at arm's length, his expression bewildered.
“Um, wow, Emilio,” he said, “I've never – uh, this is a lot to take in – maybe we should have discussed beforehand if we wanted to have ch-”
“No,” Emiliano gasped. “No, that's not it.” There was something in his tone of voice that made Fallon lower the egg and stare at him.
“What's wrong?” Fallon said, noticing for the first time that Emiliano was breathless and shaking.
So Emiliano told him the full story. It all came out in a rush – his misguided curiosity, his inability to leave an innocent egg behind in some filthy torture chamber, the dead things preserved in glass jars. By the time he was finished speaking, Fallon was gaping at him in horror.
“What – what'll we do?” he said quietly. “He'll know who took it, Emilio, this isn't good.”
“I know, I know – that's why I brought it here. We can keep it secret here.”
Fallon nodded silently. “Okay... but... what then? What will we do with it?”
Emiliano stared at the egg, comforted by its tiny pulsing glow. The wine had steadied his nerves somewhat, and for the first time in what felt like forever he could actually think. Atropa would be on the lookout for an egg. The best way to thwart him would be to ensure that there was no egg to be found.
a quick look into rosa’s daily life and her relationship with atropa and corin. also foreshadowing for tomorrow’s Big Update ayy
~
Somewhere in the depths of the ramshackle city that had grown up outside fortress Dorchadas, a rooster crowed.
Rosa groaned, dragging a hand over her face to scrub away her sleep. Her hair was a greasy tangled nest around her head. When she opened her eyes there was a brief moment of Where am I? when she saw the bare rafters above her head. She was not in the royal suite, that was certain. Then the night before crashed into her like a physical force and she sat up.
Ember's hand fell off her chest. Rosa glanced back; Ember, a mercenary, was still asleep, her scarred limbs spread-eagled and her cropped hair sticking up at the back. Rosa reached out as if to nudge her awake, but at the last moment her hand faltered and fell to her side.
Instead, she slipped carefully out of bed and collected her commoner disguise from the floor. The plain cotton clothing grated against her skin, which felt hot and sensitive from the night before. She carefully caught up her hair and wound a headscarf around it, wincing a little as the rough cloth touched the bite marks that trailed under her ear and down the side of her neck.
Finally, she laced up her boots and headed for the door. This was no royal suite; Ember was lucky enough to have two rooms to live in. Her kitchen was crowded against the wall, close to the bed. It made entry and exit easy and mostly unimpeded.
As she pushed the front door open, there was a rustle from behind her.
“Wait,” Ember said, her sleepy voice thick with confusion. “Hey, where are you going?”
Rosa left.
Hunching her shoulders against the gazes of the dragons who crowded the street outside, she set off back towards the fortress. As she went she passed by a seedy inn, where her own bodyguard, Myra, had been staying the night. Her armour hidden by a long cloak, Myra clanked a little as she ran to greet Rosa.
“Morning, Your Majesty,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You know, it would make my job a lot easier if you didn't disappear on me every night.”
“But you still found me,” Rosa said, beckoning.
Myra snorted, nodding. She was a large, no-nonsense sort of woman with a broadsword almost as long as Rosa was tall strapped to her back under her cloak. “One day I'll be waiting out here and you won't come back, and then I'll be out of a job.”
“Nonsense,” Rosa said, “any noble in the court would sacrifice a first-born to have you as their bodyguard.”
They approached the enormous fortress doors, which were currently held open to allow the flow of traders and handservants to enter the court for their morning rounds. Rosa and her escort blended in with the crowd. Myra eyed each passer-by with a practised look of suspicion.
“Who was the lucky lady last night, then?” she said.
“A wildclaw mercenary,” Rosa said quietly, her gaze set dead ahead. It felt as if her chest was slowly being crushed as she recalled the night before. She didn't want to go back to the court. She wanted to lie in Ember's arms all morning and have breakfast with her.
“Mercenaries, warriors, pit-fighters,” Myra said. “I'm sensing a pattern here, Your Majesty.”
Rosa simply nodded. She didn't want to explain why she tended to go for the rougher sort of woman when she could hardly walk down the street without spotting at least five girls she could imagine spending the rest of her life with. The trappings of femininity could be beautiful on someone else, but lately all they did was remind her of her own life, of the splendour of court, of everything she wanted to get away from.
Somehow, she'd thought that being queen would be different. She'd thought she'd have enough power, finally, to do whatever she wanted. But that was not what had happened. As soon as Corin was of age, she'd promised herself, it would be time for her to abdicate.
She and Myra made it back to the royal suite un-accosted. It was so early in the morning that there was no one of consequence around to see her slip back into her quarters; the nobles tended to sleep in.
Half an hour later she emerged from her room, dressed like a queen once again, cocooned in her finery. Her head held high, she joined her family in the breakfast room and took a seat, pushing her chair as far away from Atropa as she could. He didn't glance up as she entered, engrossed in some documents emblazoned with the Winterborn crest.
Corin didn't react much to her entrance, either, which was unusual for him. He poked at his breakfast, apparently deep in thought. There were dark rings under his eyes.
“Well, Corin,” Rosa said, trying to inject a bright tone into her voice, “what are you doing today? Meeting up with Prince Angelo again?”
Corin nodded. “Mm. Maybe.”
“You should invite him round for dinner one day,” Rosa said, with the fervent hope that no outside royalty would ever see what her home life was really like.
Atropa turned a page with a rustle, speaking without looking up. “You'd better not be neglecting your classes.”
Corin nodded again, then abruptly pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “I have to meet my tutor now,” he said. “Can I be excused?”
“Fine,” Atropa said with a wave of the hand. “Remember to pay attention to him, this time. He told me yesterday that you weren't...” He trailed off with a short sigh. Corin was already gone.
Rosa no longer had any reason to stay; she'd already made a point of never being alone in a room with Atropa, a habit established well before her coronation. After marrying Adair, she'd gone to live in the Winterborn hold with all his adoptive brothers, including Atropa. When she'd finally left, incredibly relieved at the prospect of never ever having to interact with Atropa again, she had done her best to forget about what she had witnessed in the hold.
Zaer had known, of course, that she was massively uncomfortable around Atropa. Which was exactly why he'd been sent over to marry her after her coronation.
“You're too soft on him,” Atropa said, folding shut his documents.
“Forgive me,” Rosa said, her voice icy cold, “if I refuse to take parental advice from a beast.”
He sighed, as if she was simply being unreasonable. “You know I'm right,” he said, “and in five years when he can't handle his own responsibilities, you'll wish you had listened.”
She paused with her hand on the door handle. “My son will be a king,” she said, a touch of pride in her tone, “not a spineless, glorified merchant - nor a filthy excuse for a dragon, like you.”
“He's my son too,” Atropa said softly, meeting her eyes for the first time. “in fact, he's more mine than yours. Once he's older he'll see that there's more worth in the company than there is in this archaic monarchy business.”
She wrenched the door open. “I'm not wasting my time arguing with the likes of you. Go fuck a corpse or something, we’re done here.”
“One more thing,” Atropa said, as if the two of them had merely been arguing about a stain on the tablecloth. “It's about Corin's bodyguard.”
Rosa had to linger on the threshold. “What about him?” She could only sort of picture the bodyguard in question; brightly coloured and small for a guardian, but deadly with a rapier. He'd always seemed amiable enough.
“He's unsuitable for the job,” Atropa said, the first shred of annoyance entering his tone. “He didn't turn up for almost three days, and now he seems constantly on the verge of falling asleep. He's not vigilant enough to be a bodyguard.”
Rosa was torn for a moment, between her desire to oppose every single decision Atropa ever made, and her common sense telling her that this really was not appropriate bodyguard behaviour. She compromised; “Fine. I will find a new bodyguard for him. Myra will know someone.”
“Very good,” Atropa said, opening his document again and reaching for his teacup.
With a suppressed snarl, Rosa slammed the door shut in her wake.
