Thank you for the tag @captainsaku! At the moment, I’m still limping through the opening chapters of Stonebreaker, trying to get a feel for the story and work on strengthening my atrophied writing muscles. Anyway, I figured I’d share what I have so far of Adiran’s introductory chapter. It’s basically just an awkward, descriptive mess, but at least it’s something. At this point, I’ll count that as a win!
I also put a short glossary at the end in case some terms were confusing. <3
Chapter 3 - A Scene
Be present. Do not cause a scene.
They were simple enough requests, Adiran supposed, as he braced himself and drained his third flute of wine. He knew it was poor form to cringe after swallowing, but the dry white was about as pleasant as a mouthful of sand and only went down half as well. If he was the paranoid type, he’d think the servers were offering him the worst vintages on purpose.
Then again, the celebration had stretched into its ninth day, now. Even the royal cellars had a limit.
Despite overstaying its welcome, the event remained at a predictably lofty height of splendour. In the ballroom - Vetrose’s famed Silver Font - delicate rivulets of water, no wider than the span of a hand, curled their way across the marble floor, draining into a shallow pool at the base of the royal thrones. Above their heads, weavelight strings were draped elegantly between pillars and across wide arches, their glowing pinpricks joining the blazing chandelier to bathe the room a honey-gold.
Beneath that radiant light, the Talveran nobility moved like swans, jewellery glittering, ankle-length gowns and embroidered jackets flashing enough to catch the attention of nesting crows. Hundreds packed the Font that night - an entirely different crowd to the evening prior, and likely the one prior to that. Attending Talveran court, with its litany of demands and expectations, was an exhausting and expensive affair. Every evening demanded a new outfit. A new glittering showpiece. A new plan for navigating the treacherous waters of social interaction, careful not to show too much interest in any one person. One night was difficult enough to survive. Very few could afford to be present for an entire turn’s worth of celebration.
Unfortunately, Adiran had no choice in the matter. It just had to be his brother returning from the northern border. As if no one else had ever come back from that waste of a campaign.
Another mouthful. Another weary swallow of something half as strong as it needed to be. Honestly, he’d almost rather be swallowing sand. At least that meant he’d be in the arena, getting his ass kicked practicing for something that mattered, instead of wasting his time decorating the wall. Divider’s Own, Lorvain was meant to have arrived by the third day! Adiran might have been able to slip away if he had been around to soak up the attentions of the lords and ladies. But no. The beloved Crown Prince had probably stopped to fawn over milkmaids and shepherds at every town between here and Morgate. Really, they should have accounted for that before throwing such a ridiculous event...
A prince should want to know his people, Adiran. I thought you understood that?
Threading paths expertly between the nobility were almost three dozen servers dressed in vibrant Volise green. Silver trays were held aloft on the pads of their gloved fingers as they moved in rehearsed patterns around the room, making sure every hand that sought a glass found a delicate stem. It was a different sort of dance; the kind that typically went unnoticed, the same way a clock’s hands are appreciated more than the mechanism behind the face. They knew the position of every crack in the stone; every rivulet.
None of them ever looked down.
Speaking of timing, the only reason Adiran paid the servers any heed was to make sure he got his right. On cue, he finished his wine with a grimace and thrust it towards a well-groomed young woman, her dark hair braided and pinned neatly around her head. Without so much as an errant blink, she bobbed carefully at the knees, accepted the glass, and replaced it with a new one from her tray.
“Careful not to drop that,” Adiran said, taking the drink and giving it an experimental sniff. Sweeter. Thank the Divider for that.
The server hesitated. They always did. Every night. “Your Highness?” she asked, and her lilt was perfection. Just the right amount of simpering, blended with polite curiosity. Someone had taken her training seriously.
“Am I slurring already? What I’m saying is that if the Crown Prince finally shows up and you’re in the middle of mopping a puddle, the King will have your hide for saddle leather. So...” He extended one bored finger towards the tray, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Tread lightly.”
The server’s mouth opened, and for a moment no sound followed. For just one blissful, fleeting second, Adiran thought he’d finally done it. He’d finally won.
Then, like underappreciated clockwork, her lips shaped themselves into a beatific smile, and she dipped into a curtsy. The tray never even wobbled. “Thank you for your concern, Your Highness. On my word, I will remain diligent. I would not dare bring shame on our King’s house.”
Damn it. The smile Adiran flashed back - half a sneer - could cut glass. But the server had already completed her parting bob and returned to her dance, weaving and gliding among the gaggle of silver-bloods with her tray of weak wine. Expression turning brittle, Adiran huffed and leaned back against one of the massive marble pillars - just one of fifteen lining the room. He’d claimed it on the first evening, like a hound staking its territory. Most people knew better than to bother him once he’d found his haunt, but the serving staff simply didn’t have that luxury. He supposed it was probably unkind, to force them to speak to him. But Divider, he was just so bored...
Scowling, he took a long swallow of his new drink, the chilled, sweet liquid a welcome enough sensation as it ran down the back of his throat.
So he was unkind. So what?
“Are you finished losing to the servers for tonight, or should I come back later?”
A familiar voice, and right on time. Adiran gave no indication of surprise, barely even turning to acknowledge the man. After all, this was just another ritual for them; a way to take a knife to long hours of affluent, barely drunk loitering. “Yeah, I’m done. An earthquake couldn’t shake them.” His gaze finally cut across, delivering what he hoped was a scathing look as Riin settled against the pillar beside him. “Took you long enough. Get distracted by all the pretty gowns and pouting lips?”
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Riin chuckled softly, utterly immune to Adiran’s glare. “Could you blame me if I was? Everyone looks appealing under this light.”
“That’s generous of you.” Sniffing, Adiran glanced up. Even with the smoke-glass covers encasing each glowing orb, he still had to squint against the brightness of the weavelights. “Guess it could be worse. We looked more like corpses before the covers were put on.”
“Really? I’m glad I missed it.”
“Yeah. Being dead inside is more than enough.”
Riin laughed, and a faint smile curved Adiran’s lips. He quickly hid it behind his glass. Truthfully, the entire ‘weavelight saga’ had been ridiculous. The King and Queen had commissioned hundreds of them from Tel Shival, purely because no one else had ever done it. Even the wealthiest families only ever had a few per household, usually kept in a lantern or a sconce in the most frequented rooms. After two seasons of painstaking arrangement that nearly killed two of their staff, the Silver Font soon found itself bathed in a thematically violent silver light. It had been an exciting novelty, at first; nobility flooded in from all over Talvera just to bask in the glow of thousands of wasted sicets. But then they quickly realised that colours didn’t behave the same way. Their favourite jewellery didn’t catch the eye. Their skin didn’t appear as youthful and rosy. Instead, every flaw - every stray hair or unpolished button - was placed on stark display for the vultures to pick at.
The weavelights were as bleak and clinical as a physicker’s ward. They sucked the warmth out of everything they touched.
In Adiran’s mind, the wash of corpse-light over each soiree was a perfectly fitting thing. But, as was typical, no one else agreed. So, they decided to encase each of the weavelights in honey-tinted glass and returned the room to almost exactly how it looked before. Back when it was lit by oil and flame.
That was how things were in Talvera. Decisions were made, sicets were spent, and then everyone just wanted to go back to how things used to be. Like nothing had ever happened.
GLOSSARY
Weavelight - spheres of crystal or glass, with a light-bearing glyphstring engraved by a thaumist specialising in Weaving. Maintains a bright, steady silver light. Cannot be dimmed or turned off at will.
Thaumist - a well-trained practitioner of the thaumic arts, capable of manipulating thaumic essence.
Turn - ten days.
Tel Shival - An independent, famously insular city dedicated to the training and cultivation of thaumists and thaumaturgical study.
Sicet - Currency used in the Allied Kingdoms.
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Tagging: @frenchy-and-the-sea, @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @bladeverbena, @thefluffynug, @rufinagertrude, @arduyn, @anarchyduck, and anyone else who has a WIP they’d like to share!
