Sebastian -- Road from Reinhurst to Conevico -- Morning, 2 Myrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Some journey, Sebastian thought, leaning against the basket’s rim and gazing out at a clear-skied morning. At first, he had believed there would be more to see beyond the basket’s confines. But mostly there were snow-covered hills, endless forests, roads, distant mountains rising from the verge of sight—and the occasional pilgrim, peering in to greet the twins with smiles, coos, and doting attention. Especially the women.

Out of all the pilgrims, it was the women who seemed most drawn to the newborns—ogling, making funny faces, or swooning in a way Sebastian found suffocating. Lady Vesna, at least, had offered them names: Sebastian, and his brother Niall. Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure what a brother was—just someone who had been with him since the beginning. He was almost always crying and sometimes a little thick-headed, but Sebastian figured he wasn’t in a position to judge.

There had to be a reason they were paired. After all, since that strange woman in that stranger world had sent them here...

Still, it had felt like ages since Sebastian had seen anything interesting beyond what they already knew. But for all the monotony, the scale of this new world was incredible—and frightening. Without proper caretakers, neither he nor Niall would have survived their first day.

From whispered overheard stories, he learned they were in a country called Lothar—a human realm flanked by the elven forests of Elentárië, the northern dwarven peaks of Emberstone, the southern hills of Castillia, and the fertile fields of Romagnia to the east.

He pieced together bits about elves: Pointed ears, slender form, more predisposed to magic. They came in many kinds—forest elves living among shadowy trees, sea elves building marble and glass under the waves, beast-elves who formed in harmony with animals. Curious stuff indeed.

Pilgrims often said that believing “was more than seeing,” but Sebastian wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to see.

On their way through the village of Berkerstad, most pilgrims seemed content to stay on the road and trade supplies—though a Templar warned a peasant about Reinhurst, prompting the man to race off shouting for the village elder. Sebastian didn’t understand why, but he listened.

Commander Reickart eventually announced they would pass The Mother Bear’s Den by day’s end—a tavern along the road. The pilgrims sighed in relief and Sebastian sensed Niall relax in his sleep.

When awake, both twins were entertained by the passengers—pilgrims from all over, speaking different languages and sharing stories. They traded goods, did helpful tasks, and gave alms to those in need. Sebastian thought the caravan was like a friendly parade, leaving each village a little brighter than when they came.

That Niall was finally calm and at peace, following all the earlier chaos, told Sebastian that the worst was behind them. Not that the road was easy—especially in winter, when food was scarce, and roots had to be dug from frozen ground—but they were moving forward.

Night descended once more, and with it, a welcome sight: a tavern.

It stood tall on the outskirts of a wooded patch, grandiose for a roadside inn. A roaring bonfire crackled outside, casting warmth and amber light on weary travelers. Not everyone could fit inside, of course, but for Vesna and Cassius, a table had been prepared—along with another bowl of porridge and soaked bread for Sebastian and Niall. For the adults, a more savory fare: roast poultry, crisped to perfection.

A traveling bard played near the hearth, his fiddle straining at first, then breaking into a jubilant, stomping rhythm that sent the patrons clapping and thudding along in time. Waitresses and cooks bustled between the tables and the bar, juggling trays of food, tankards of ale, and the clink of exchanged coin.

Games of dice, cards, and cups spun across the nearby tables. Cheers of victory erupted alongside groans of defeat, each table a pocket of revelry unto itself.

At their own table, Cassius and Vesna shared a quieter space. Their conversation was minimal—friendly, yes, but distant, the kind of closeness born more of shared duty than personal affection. Silence came and went between them, but it was a peaceful silence, padded by the tavern’s pleasant noise.

Anything was preferable to the wailing and shrieks that had filled the night Reinhurst burned.

Perhaps, in moments like these, there is nothing that should be said. Nothing that can be said. Contemplation—soft, pensive—seemed a better companion.

After their meal, Cassius summoned the waitress and arranged for lodging. He requested a private room for himself, Vesna, and the children—something away from the cold, quiet and comfortable. The tavern’s owner, a portly woman with a warm smile and gentle demeanor, agreed easily. She even offered access to the baths, given their station and the children's presence.

The price was settled. The night, at last, was theirs. All that remained was to settle in—and rest.

Cassius -- The Mother Bear Tavern -- Evening, 2 Myrdas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The night was still young, and by some small miracle—or, as Cassius preferred to believe, the favor of AVO—he had managed to secure a room for himself, Vesna, and the children. Praise be to AVO, he thought with quiet satisfaction.

He saw to the necessary tasks with practiced diligence. The basket was emptied and cleaned, refitted with fresh linens provided by the tavern’s keep. The children were given a gentle bath—Sebastian somewhat amused by the water, Niall slightly more resistant—and afterward dressed in hand-me-down clothes once worn by the tavern owner’s children.

Cassius felt a rare sense of contentment. For once, all seemed well.
Carrying the children, basket in tow, he entered the room.

It was modest, but had everything he had hoped for: a bed, a desk, a hearth, and a small window that peered out into the night. Warmth radiated from the fire, and the cold outside felt a world away.

His quiet inspection was soon interrupted by the knock of boots. The tavern owner’s husband entered, hefting a wooden manger built for infants. It was low, safely fenced, and adorned with carved animal motifs along its edges—chickens, foxes, and stags.

The children were delighted.

Cassius smiled faintly as he tucked them in, watching their eyes follow the wooden animals as if they were living things. Niall yawned. Sebastian simply stared, wide-eyed and curious.

At last, the prior turned to his own affairs.

He sat before the small desk, unrolled a travel scroll, and laid out his ink and quill. The feather trembled slightly between his fingers, not from cold, but from the weight of thoughts unsaid.

There was much to record. Much to reflect upon.

These were the lands of Lothar—a realm of mountains, forests, and stoic people. A realm recently scarred by fire and death. He didn’t know what was unfolding here, not yet, but his intuition felt something dreadful beneath the surface.

So, with a slow breath and steady hand, he began to write.

My pilgrimage began in Lycaron, the capital of the Kingdom of Neustria—now the largest of the human nations. It lies beyond the Romagnian Heartlands, past the expansive spines of the central mountains. Neustria, my homeland, bears a chivalric heritage defined by its resistance to the evils that threaten humankind—and its defiance in the face of Romagnian imperialism.

Still, the most sacred lands I’ve set foot upon lie further south still—within Sehlaria, where golden sands cover the ancient birthplace of humanity, or so say the Temple historians. It was from Sehlaria that the first of our kind emerged from the flood, and settled this continent.

Now, my steps carry me along the outer reaches of human civilization, in the service of faith and fellowship.

Along this path I’ve made good companions. None more constant than Lady Vesna—a sharp-minded noblewoman, gifted and capable. I strive to ensure her safe return from this journey, though her recklessness often leaves me anxious. Her boldness in the face of danger, her disregard for the weight of her station, leaves me as weary as it does wary. Her husband—whose name I have sworn to secrecy during this journey—would not stay his wrath, even for a man of the cloth, should I fail in this quiet charge.

Still, I carry on. From the sands of Sehlaria, we traveled north across the hills of Castillia, finally arriving now to Lothar. 

His expression seemed strained with the concern of the recent local events. These deserters looting and pillaging the serfs of their liege lords. Dabbing his feather quill into its inkwell, Cassius continues the accounts of the journey he'd made.

Lothar has always been a land steeped in blood-soaked troubles.

It is often forgotten—willingly or not—that these lands were not always a dominion of men. In the ancient times, during the Age of Strife, when after both the world and the gods themselves were sundered beneath the flood that drowned the First Kingdom, it was the elves who ruled here.

Primarily the wood elves and the dawn elves.

The wood elves, who revered the forests and communed with the trees, made their homes beneath canopies so vast they cast twilight across whole valleys. The dawn elves were different—builders of radiant halls and sunward towers, who nurtured the land with careful warmth to ward off famine and frost. It was they who raised the harvests and praised the gentle sun.

But those times ended.

Following their defeat and exile in the Banner Wars, the dawn elves were radicalized. They ascended above the clouds, beyond the reach of earthbound kingdoms, and now descend only to exact vengeance for ancient humiliations. The wood elves, scattered and displaced, retreated west into the sanctuary of Elentárië.

And so ended the times of harmony.

Once, in the First Age, humans and elves lived as kin, enjoined since the time of mortal-kind's inception into this world. The First Kingdom was born from that union, founded by Ardeth—the first human king, for whom we call Adam. His bride, given to him by the gods, was the first woman: to us, Eve, but to the elves she was known as Náriel.

Their reign brought about a golden peace.

But with the Sundering, the flood came, and the gods grew distant. Our blessed tranquility dissolved. Spiritual poverty followed—hunger, envy, pride, and fear—and from it rose the bitterness that still festers after nearly eighteen centuries.

Even now, though alliances form in the face of greater evils, the wounds have not healed. The elves, cautious and inward-looking, may stand beside humankind against the horrors that threaten Balandaria, but beneath that shared shield lies mistrust.

Then came the Age of Banners.

During that cruel chapter, humans in Lothar were enslaved beneath elven yokes. By some accounts, they were treated no better than cattle—used for sport, labor, and sacrifice. Many were sent to the high towers and ceremonial pits of the dawn elves, where they became offerings to Solariel, the Elven Goddess of the Sun and Purity.

Few accounts survive from that time. Fewer still are uncontested.

The other elven nations—whether from pride or fear—averted their gaze. The dawn elves continued their dominance unchallenged until the Romagnian Orthodox Temple intervened. My Temple. It was we who declared a crusade—not only against the dawn elves, but in pursuit of restoring the ancient rights of humanity and the memory of the First Kingdom.

Much blood was spilled in those years.

But of all the battlefields, none were as red or bitter as Lothar. It was here that the war raged hottest, where ancestral rage and divine sanction turned every stone and blade into a relic of hatred.

... A look out the window to a growing night sky with a greater half-full moon amidst the trees, a frustrated look filled upon Cassius's expression, feather quill still betwixt his thumb and pointer digits.

Today, it seems the roles have not been abolished—only reversed.

Slavery, though reduced to tatters among both men and elves, has left its mark. In Lothar, the scars run deep. The people here have known little else, but the bitterness inherited from generations of subjugation and vengeance. Rather than heal, they repeat the tragedy.

The Banner Wars have been over for nearly two centuries. The men and women who bled and died in them are long gone, their bones buried beneath the same soil they once fought to till or claim. Yet the memory lives on—not as reflection, but as fuel.

As for the elves—those who endured, who watched the monuments of their gods fall and their temples desecrated by fire and sword—they still live. Their lifespans span the ages. And so, too, does their grief.

But their pursuit of justice has become a thing twisted. It serves only in repetition, in lip service to a vengeance to crimes long since drowned in greater ones that came after.

They speak of justice, yes—but only the kind that can be weighed on their terms. Only retribution. Only silence from those they deem too short-lived to understand. Their memories are long. Their wounds are real. But their vision has narrowed.

And perhaps we as humans are no better.

The humans born in Lothar know nothing of the dawn elf temples or the chains of their ancestors. They grow up hearing stories of fire and cruelty, of sun-altars and blood. They inherit not only land, but hatred. They pass down the same hunger to avenge, to blame, to never forget—but never to forgive.

What has changed, exactly? 

We never seem to learn. Hatred... it isn’t always born of action or word. It drifts, like a seed on the wind—seeking hearts in which to root and grow.

With a sigh, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and rubbed his eyes. He glanced toward the children—sleeping peacefully, nestled together on the bed—then returned to his parchment.

Perhaps Reinhurst was such a village. A secluded elven conclave, living among men. A quiet place, chosen as an easy target by opportunistic soldiers—those who still harbor old resentments long after the wars ended.

Cassius paused in consideration, stealing a glance upon the children in the crib.

But as I looked again at the children, I see no trace of elven heritage. Even half-elves, born of two peoples, still bear the pointed ears of their elven parentage. These boys bear none.

So then, perhaps Reinhurst was nothing more than a Lotharian village after all. Ordinary. Innocent. But even that seemed unlikely. Their nation—the region of High Lothar, if his maps were right—was on the far opposite side of the principality from where they now traveled. How these children came to be here... he could only guess.

For now, I can only speculate the answers for what questions remain.

Until I have reached the city, until I can find records—or at least shelter—I will press on through snow and cold. Northward to Conevico. And it seems it will only grow colder the further I journey.

Setting the quill down, he left the parchment open to let the ink dry. Rising from his chair, he stepped to the manger and looked down at the children. They slept like stone—deep and undisturbed upon their little mattress, curled close beside one another. Still, untroubled. Safe.

“Well now,” Cassius murmured, his voice a whisper to himself. “I suppose it’s time I settle in as well.”

He stretched his arms wide, releasing the tension from his shoulders, then leaned forward to pull the corners of the blanket neatly up and around the children—tucking it gently beneath their shoulders. His hand lingered a moment on the soft fabric near Sebastian’s cheek.

“A big day for all of us,” he said quietly.
He leaned across the bed to blow out the candlelight.
And the room, warm and quiet, fell into darkness.

Vesna -- The Mother Bear Tavern -- Evening, 2 Myrdas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

It has been half a year now on this road I’ve walked—half a year of seeing, breathing, and experiencing the world anew,

Vesna wrote, her hand steady as she reclined beneath the candlelit window of her room. She sat in her nightgown, the blanket curled around her legs, providing warmth where she chose to invite it, and resistance where she did not.

Her room was locked, the fire behind her crackling warmly in the hearth they shared through the chimney with Cassius next door. Her desk stood mostly bare, its emptiness offering a kind of welcome simplicity. Her long brown hair, unbound, spilled over the blankets like silk, catching firelight in its strands.

Half a year since I’ve seen my beloved city of Lycaron... she continued. My husband—gods bless his soul—has finally begun to take his duties to the Kingdom of Neustria seriously. It’s granted me great freedom, but also no small measure of loneliness in his absence.

It would be too easy to say I was bored of governance—of estate matters, taxes, levies to preserve peace. But the truth is, I never had a talent for it. I believe even my husband’s inner circle knew it well. To them, I was the daughter of a gamekeeper. Unsuitable for court. Unsuitable at his side.

"So be it!" I said, back then. “To faraway lands, then—where I’ll return with stories worth hearing and prestige of my own making.”

Vesna smiled softly at the memory. She tilted her head toward the window, eyes distant as she imagined returning home—her ginger-haired husband rushing into a frantic embrace, all decorum forgotten.

She had written him many letters from the cities she visited, long and detailed. But receiving replies? That was another matter entirely. The nature of pilgrimage made staying in one place near impossible. Even the most devoted courier would struggle to track a woman moving under low profile.

Still, she liked to think that at the end of this road she roamed, she will once again rejoin her family and revisit the letters she sent, and the journal she now writes.

My beloved husband, before setting out on his tour of Neustria, insisted I take along Father Cassius of St. Noscrim’s Priory. A peculiar man, but reputedly a veteran adventurer from his days as a Holy Knight—of the Hospitaller Order, if I recall correctly. Militant healers and guardians of monasteries, they are devoted to the arts of hospice and restoration. Thankfully, we’ve yet to face violence on our pilgrimage. Feral monsters are uncommon along the roads, and mostly remain deep in the wilds—where my skills as a hunter have brought no small relief to the caravan.

Being noble by marriage grants me legal rights to hunt, and thanks to my upbringing as the gamekeeper’s daughter, I can put better food on the table than any companion we travel with. For once in a long while, I feel truly depended upon—and grateful for the company around me.

After we reached Sehlaria, and continued our journey along the eastern shores of Castillia, we came upon a village in Lothar—burned to its foundations. At first, I feared we had wandered into war with the elves or fallen prey to pirates. But according to speculative reports from the Templars, it appears Lothar suffers from a rot within its military. Deserters turned marauders, perhaps. Or it may be that the elves have grown bold enough to strike far across the country’s breadth. Or maybe they were just brigands—lucky ones, yet to be culled.

Whatever the cause, we managed to rescue two human infants from the ruin. Two lost children, found amid the ashes of that village. We saved what little we could.

Vesna paused, her pen resting briefly as she leaned her head back against the wall beside her bed. Then, after a thoughtful breath, she resumed.

Their parents are unknown to us. And if I am honest, I see little hope that they will ever be found. Cassius believes he might track them down—and while I encourage his optimism, I cannot help but hold a more somber view. If the worst is true, I wonder if I might adopt little Sebastian and Niall into my household.

My own children, Jessarel and Aurélie, are already well into their independence. So self-sufficient, in fact, that my departure likely stirred them little. I had imagined this pilgrimage would be something of a test—to see whether my little birds could fly without the nest. And they have if the tutors my husband hired on are to be believed.

At twenty-eight, I’m told I am still in my prime, at least by the standards of our station. But bringing home a child under such circumstances may raise eyebrows—suspicions of infidelity, given my long absence. Better, then, that I consider adopting them not as sons, but as wards. That would, at the very least, be palatable to the tongues of court. Assuming, of course, that Cassius’s clerical savior complex doesn’t compel him to dedicate them to the Church.

Her expression darkened slightly as she dipped her quill again.

Though I have spoken at length with Cassius about the spiritual nature of this pilgrimage, my true reason lies elsewhere. I travel not merely for devotion, but for the prosperity of Neustria—and in service to my king. I intend to open negotiations with the independent city-state of Dogeia, which grows increasingly anxious about the Republic of Romagnia’s ambitions.

Romagnia’s clergy have long pushed for a unified Pax Romagnia, seeking to bring all of Balandaria under one secular and religious yoke. Their dream of empire—dormant since the Age of Banners, some two or three centuries past—has begun to stir again. Not since they stood in open contest with the elves, Sehlaria, and my beloved Neustria has their expansionist appetite shown such teeth.

It is my duty to ensure those ambitions remain only dreams. I must keep Romagnia dormant—especially where it concerns our vulnerable allies.

Time is short. The recent unrest in Lothar has left me deeply concerned for the stability of our western neighbors. I will need to act swiftly if I am to complete my task—before unforeseen events make my already fragile position even more precarious.

The hour is late with the wind blowing the candle out as if to signify it was time to turn in, causing Vesna to smile, taking the candle and her journal to lay out upon her empty desk. Closing the window with a locking clasp, it was time to turn in for the evening.

Sebastian -- Conevico -- Midday, 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

“There it is!” shouted Alvar, the master carpenter, rousing Sebastian from his slumber. The boy peeked from the opening of the basket he’d grown so accustomed to. Today, Sebastian, Niall, Cassius, and Lady Vesna were seated on a bench inside the wagon, nestled within the larger caravan.

“The city walls of Conevico! We’re finally a stone’s throw from Romagnia!” Alvar declared with a wide, toothy grin. Both Cassius and Vesna’s expressions brightened at the sight of the distant stone-walled city.

As the caravan rolled closer, Sebastian finally saw them—the towering, tree-height walls of gray stone, far grander than he could have imagined. In his childlike perception, they looked more like the distant snow-capped mountains than anything made by human hands. Wooden palisade extensions topped the stone, where guards stood watch, peering down at the arriving travelers.

The sounds grew louder—voices, clattering hooves, creaking wheels—but it wasn’t the noise that unsettled Sebastian. It was the smell. A foul, wrenching stench wafted from the city, jarring his senses and stifling his curiosity. Not long after, Niall began fussing—grumbling and squirming, but not crying.

“Oh, you two must’ve never been in a city before,” Cassius observed aloud, casting a helpless look toward the children. The monk—now guardian to both boys—clearly had business in Conevico.

“Well, at least we’re not walking through the muck of the streets,” Lady Vesna quipped as the wagon rolled through the open gates with the rest of the caravan.

“Did you already make arrangements with a tavern?” Vesna asked, glancing over at Cassius.

“Not with a tavern, no. I was expecting to stay at the cathedral—provided they’re not already full to bursting this time of year,” Cassius admitted. It seemed his planning had been less thorough than was typical for a pilgrim. Then again, he had a great deal more to consider now—two infants chief among them.

“You could stay with me in the castle, if all else fails,” Vesna offered. “It may still be Lothar, but even this far west, I’m sure the local lord would host a Neustrian official with the right... encouragement.”

“Failing that, the poorhouse is always available,” Alvar chimed in, walking alongside the wagon. He’d apparently overheard their exchange. “A roof is a roof, even if it’s not the finest one.”

“Ah, Alvar. That reminds me,” Vesna said, turning to him. “Could you assist me tomorrow with gathering fresh supplies for the caravan? We need nails, and our crowbar’s practically useless.”

“Sí,” Alvar said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The wagons are aging too. I’d like to give them a look over, see if they can’t be mended. Free of charge, of course,” he added quickly. “But I could use a noblewoman’s presence to help haggle better prices from the merchants.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t go flaunting your lineage quite so carelessly,” Cassius remarked with a furrowed brow. Then he sighed. “...Though I might just take you up on that offer of hospitality, Lady Vesna. I’d rather the children have the best we can offer them.”

He reached into the basket to gently tickle the infants through their swaddling blankets, drawing cheerful giggles from both. “I still need to report this to the Temple and see what comes of it. If their parents are alive... I may need to remain here, at least long enough to ensure they’re returned safely.”

“Of course,” Vesna said. “But if it does come to that, I expect you to bid me farewell properly. I detest meek goodbyes.”

Cassius laughed softly in acknowledgment and raised a hand to his chest in mock solemnity before dipping his head in a respectful bow. “I promise, good lady—I’ll keep you informed. But I also have a duty to you. I swore to return you to Lycaron. My stay here wouldn’t be long. I imagine I’ll rejoin the caravan before you’re even halfway to Theleto.”

"Would be a shame to lose you, padre," Alvar said with a note of remorse. "But if it’s for those poor souls, the shame would be mine alone." He extended a hand, which Cassius took in a firm handshake.

"Hopefully I won’t be gone too long. I’ll miss your sailor stories—and your company," Cassius chuckled, prompting a grin from Alvar.

And with that, their goodbyes were concluded as the wagon continued its slow journey through the snow-laden, muck-slicked streets.

The sounds of the city were overwhelming—abundant and almost deafening. Even from Sebastian’s limited vantage within the basket, he could glimpse the dwellings of stone and wood as the caravan wagon rumbled along the bumpy, noisy street. Lines of laundry were strung between the buildings, fluttering gently in the morning breeze like leaves on branches beneath a clear blue sky.

Voices filled the air: an argument over a lost shipment, a hired hand being told for the third time to repeat his chores, gossip whispered between townsfolk, the rhythmic clatter of tools in the hands of craftsmen. It was a vast sea of motion, emotion, and sound. The smells—sharp, sour, strange—and even what little the children could see from within the basket were enough to make them cling tightly to what was familiar rather than brave that bubbling chaos.

Templar Commander Reickart returned then, mounted upon his horse and riding alongside the wagon, keeping pace with the caravan as it continued deeper into the walled city.

“The caravan will resume its path to Theleto in two days’ time,” the holy knight announced. “From there, we should have smoother travel than we did in Castillia.”

“I would hope so, being this close to the cradle of civilization,” Vesna replied dryly, her rapier wit drawing a few distant chuckles from nearby pilgrims. Reickart only smiled at the Neustrian noblewoman.

“You’ve been kind, diligent—and, dare I say, invaluable in these trying days, Lady Vesna. On behalf of the men, the Templar Order thanks you,” Reickart said, bowing his head in respect.

Vesna rose to her feet, despite the wagon’s motion. Her stop appeared to be near, and she was preparing to disembark. “We still have a week before we reach Theleto,” she said, adjusting her cloak. “Let’s just make sure we survive the day.”

The caravan began to disperse for the day once the wagons were stabled and the horses properly tended. Pilgrims wandered off in clusters of twos and threes toward inns, public fountains, and the many streets and sites of curiosity scattered throughout the city. Cassius, carrying the basket cradled in the crook of one arm and clutching his walking stave in the other, offered brief farewells to Lady Vesna and Alvar the carpenter. The noblewoman lingered long enough to straighten the blanket wrapped around Sebastian and Niall, sharing a glance with the children that lingered in her eyes even after she had turned to go.

“Come now,” Cassius murmured, setting his course with deliberate pace. “Time to pay our respects—and maybe even find where we’ll be laying our heads.”

They passed beneath a wide archway, the sounds of the outer market fading behind them and replaced by a more urban hum—less frantic, more purposeful. The streets of Conevico were a striking contrast to the open road. Stone towers of multiple stories loomed above with narrow balconies, their ironwork crawling like ivy across window frames. Unique, artisan-shaped arches met winding bridges suspended between structures, like the weaving of some architectural spider. The paving stones were uneven from centuries of wear, damp in the shade and slick with city grime.

Children in tunics and smocks played by the gutters, chasing one another with sticks, while a street peddler hawked cured boar strips and dried pomegranates from beneath a striped canvas awning. The clatter of hooves and carts echoed through the corridors of tall buildings, intermingling with the ever-present tolling of bells—soft and resonant, distant yet constant, as if Conevico itself breathed in time with the rhythm of its cathedral.

Sebastian, peeking from the basket’s brim, saw towers not unlike the trees of old—soaring, vertical things—but made of ashen gray stone instead of living bark. Ornate carvings peeked out from nearly every surface: saints, cherubs, knights, and grim-faced gargoyles that hunched atop gutters, eternally drooling runoff into the streets below. One statue in particular—a saint wielding a lantern and staff—stared down with eyes hollowed by age, yet framed in flowering ivy that clung lovingly to the wall around him.

As they turned a corner into a broader thoroughfare, the city’s Grand Cathedral of AVO revealed itself in full majesty. Its spires pierced the heavens like spears. Rose-colored stained glass bloomed in circular arrays across its façade, catching the late morning light like captured fire. The buttresses stood like wings holding the structure aloft, and even at this distance, the scent of burning incense and warm tallow wax floated faintly in the air.

The plaza before the cathedral was a kaleidoscope of activity. Clerics in cream-colored robes swept the marble with bundles of straw, while beggars murmured prayers at the foot of a stone fountain depicting AVO—the divine source—arms outstretched and gaze turned skyward. A group of Templars, clad in polished white and crimson steel, stood in silent vigil near the cathedral steps.

Cassius paused a moment to let the children adjust to the magnitude of it all. “This, little ones,” he said softly, his voice colored with reverence, “is where we may find answers… or at least the path toward them.”

He drew in a breath, straightened his shoulders, and stepped toward the great doors of the cathedral, each step echoing softly across the sunlit plaza. The great oaken doors gave way with a low groan, their weight shifting inward on its iron hinges. A blast of incense-laced warmth spilled outward, mingling with the outside chill as Cassius stepped into the cathedral proper.

Inside, the light transformed. No longer the crisp gold of a late morning sun, but rather a filtered bloom of amber and rose, refracted through massive stained glass windows that rose high into the vaulted ceiling. The air inside was thick with silence, not emptiness—but reverence. The kind of hush only broken by the occasional murmur of prayer or the soft footsteps of an acolyte shuffling between rows of stone pews. The mosaic flooring glimmered faintly beneath his boots, a blend of lapis, onyx, and mother-of-pearl forming great holy seals and star-burst sigils sacred to AVO.

Cassius paused just inside the narthex, adjusting his hold on the basket as he took in the cathedral’s full grandeur. A central nave stretched long and high toward the altar, flanked on either side by rows of columns carved in the likeness of angelic sentinels. The dome above bore a painting of the Firmament—AVO’s divine throne—encircled by the twelve celestial avatars, each wielding a different symbol of the divine virtues: sword, scroll, balance, flame.

The children stirred slightly in awe. Even in their infancy, something ancient stirred in the heart when standing in such a space. Cassius inclined his head briefly to the central altar, then veered left toward a small doorway beneath a carved arch reading Domus Consilii—the Chapter House.

The stone halls, separated from the main cathedral, resembled an ancient monastery more than a modern temple. Narrow and timeworn, they echoed with the faint sound of distant prayers. Just as Cassius rounded a bend in the corridor, he spotted a lone figure in dark robes and a drawn hood.

“Ah—brother,” Cassius called softly but firmly. The hooded man, emerging from a side passage, paused at the tone in Cassius’s voice. He quickly adjusted his pace, approaching the priest and the bundled children with silent urgency.

“I am Prior Cassius of St. Avalor’s Priory in Lycaron, here on pilgrimage.” he said. “There’s been an emergency—Reinhurst village was burned to the ground.”

“Goodness gracious,” the hooded-man gasped, recoiling slightly. “Reinhurst? Was it... the Elves?”

Cassius shook his head. “We don’t know. The Templar scouts believe it may have been Lotharian deserters, but to be honest, our caravan never gave pursuit. To my knowledge, they haven’t been caught either. What matters now is that I need access to the Temple archives and any available aid. These two children—” he lifted the basket gently “—were the only survivors we found.”

“How terrible...” the monk murmured, his expression stricken. “Please, just a moment. The Terce prayers are concluding shortly. I’ll send for Father Nikodemus. He’ll need to confirm your identity before the Ordo Luminary grants access to the records.”

He bowed slightly, then gestured ahead. “If you’d like, we have an herbal garden you may wait in—it’s quiet there, peaceful.”

“Thank you,” Cassius said, returning the bow.

The man led him to a modest archway, opening into an enclosed courtyard walled in on all sides by the cloistered walkways of the Chapter House. Roofed colonnades offered shelter along the perimeter, lined with lit sconces, their firelight dancing softly against the ancient stone. Within the garden’s square lay neat beds of winter-root herbs, pale sage, and evergreen clippings wrapped in burlap. Despite the season, a few hardy blossoms clung to life beside a small stone well.

Cassius stepped under the cover of the corridor and let the warmth of the firelit walls and the open-air calm settle his breath. He glanced down at the children. “See that, little ones?” he said gently. “We have a garden like this at home, too. But ours is wider... big enough to hold a tree.” He smiled faintly, rocking the basket lightly in his arms as they waited.

A tree, even in a garden open to the sky yet surrounded by walls? It might as well have been a house with a tree inside it. The world seemed full of possibilities, but Sebastian was still so new to it all that he couldn’t quite grasp what was and wasn’t considered “possible.”

They didn’t wait long before the choir’s song fell into silence. Before Sebastian could even drift off to sleep, the sound of a door opening broke the calm, followed by the appearance of two figures—one in black robes, dressed similarly to Cassius, and the other clad in peculiar armor. It wasn’t nearly as imposing as the Templars’ full plate—more subdued in color, made of darkened leather rather than metal.

“Brother... Cassius, was it?” the black-robed man asked, prompting Cassius to turn toward him, both hands resting on the basket’s handle.

“Brother Nikodemus, would I be presuming correctly?” Cassius asked, tilting his head forward respectfully.

The robed man nodded. “Thank you for taking the time to see me,” Cassius added with a bow of his head.

“Yes, yes, quite. Brother Tybur passed along the details about Reinhurst,” Nikodemus said, waving a hand. “Something about needing Temple assets... under the Luminary’s jurisdiction?”

“That would be correct,” Cassius affirmed. “I’m trying to ascertain the whereabouts—or perhaps the fate—of these children’s parents. They were the only survivors we found, and our caravan had no luxury to linger with deserters or bandits prowling the countryside. I was hoping there might have been an inquiry filed... or even a survivor who made it here.”

Nikodemus looked visibly stricken at the news. “By the Blood of the Angels... These are dark days indeed, when there is more mercy in winter’s chill than in the hearts of men.” He sighed, turning to glance at the man in the dark leather armor. “Brother Algier?”

The man called Algier was lithe, pale, and had an almost wispy demeanor—not quite gangly, but clearly someone whose life had hardened him into a lean, quiet presence. He had the look of someone raised in austerity, perhaps even poverty. His hand lifted to his chin in thought, eyes shifting from the stone floor to the distant view of the garden—until Nikodemus addressed him, and he returned his gaze.

“This is honestly the first I’ve heard of Reinhurst being burned down,” Algier said calmly. “If there were survivors, we would likely have received word by now—either from the garrison or one of the surrounding settlements. From the sound of it, your caravan might be the first to report the tragedy at all, Cassius.”

“No...” Cassius breathed, stunned by the revelation, his brow creasing. It was perhaps the worst possible news he could have heard.

Algier quickly raised a hand, placating. “That doesn’t mean everything is certain. Our riders bring new reports daily. We’ve only just learned of this now, and the Ordo Luminary never sleeps, as they say. While my own archives may not hold the answers, the information network the Faith has spent centuries refining may yet uncover something.”

He paused, eyeing the children. “Do they have names?”

“No. At least... none that I know of,” Cassius admitted. “They were found in a hollowed-out signpost, just before dawn. No note, no sigil... nothing but a basket and a pair of blankets to keep them warm.”

Algier sighed, his hands resting on his belt, thumb idly twiddling along the leather. A complicated expression flickered across his face—one Cassius couldn’t quite place.

“…I can’t promise anything,” Algier finally said. “The most I can do is begin inquiries—missing children, potential survivors from Reinhurst. Naturally, we’ll do everything within our means to shed light on the matter. No doubt Grand Prince Ulrich, and that of Duke Rubhert Arco, will want these deserters subdued before chaos spreads throughout the region. If the bandits took prisoners, their testimonies might help us identify the culprits—or at the very least, confirm witness accounts.”

His gaze shifted to the children, a faint frown upon his face with a slight scowl pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Nikodemus nodded solemnly. “Have faith, Brother Cassius. You’ve done well—both for the Faith, and for your new charges.” He folded his hands gently before his abdomen and offered a warm, if tired, smile.

“Of course.” Cassius bowed his head respectfully. “I’m afraid I must impose a bit further… Is there any place within the cathedral where I and the little ones might stay? Just until Fehrdas morning—or sooner, if word of their parents arrives.”

“Ah, your pilgrimage continues? To Theleto?” Nikodemus inquired with a thoughtful hum. Cassius nodded.

Nikodemus sighed. “Unfortunately, our monastery is filled to bursting—pilgrims, the poor, the sick. Winter has driven many through our gates, and we’re hard-pressed for space. However, if nothing new turns up during your stay here, we’ll make certain to forward any findings to your lodgings in Theleto.”

There was a hint of apology in his voice, but his sincerity was evident.

At that, Algier made a half-turn, clearly preparing to depart. “Then we’ll begin mobilization. We’ll need to sweep the forest, the village ruins, and brave a good deal of winter’s reach. Lord Ruberht Arco must be informed, and the surrounding villages placed on high alert. If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed and turned briskly down the garden corridor.

“A moment, Brother Algier,” Cassius called, taking a step forward. The Luminary paused.

“If you’re heading to the castle—to Lord Arco—might I accompany you? I have a friend among the nobility who’s offered me lodging. It may help if someone of standing vouched for me at the gates.”

“I don’t see why not,” Algier replied with a brief nod. “Come. We mustn't waste time.”

With that, he resumed his pace—quicker now than the one Cassius had entered the cathedral with.

Cassius -- Conevico -- Midday, 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

It was a steady walk, but unlike the smoother journey from the wagon bench, Cassius now felt the hardness of cobblestone beneath his boots and the slick grime of the street muck clinging with each step. From the cathedral, their path led onward—toward the castle—through the bustling marketplace. The houses here faced inward toward the market square, their facades a patchwork of plaster and timber, while townsfolk jostled among the stalls, voices rising in an uneven chorus. Peddlers praised their wares with exaggerated flair, each trying to outdo the next.

“So, from what I’ve gathered about your caravan,” Algier began, sidestepping a crowd of gawkers fixated on an auctioneer. “You were on pilgrimage to the city of Sehlaris... from Lycaron? You’ve come a long way, Prior.”

“I would say so. These bones feel a few years older already,” Cassius replied with a wry smile. “But it was a most awe-inspiring journey. The Sepulcher of King Solomon—everything I hoped it would be, and more. I only wish I could have stayed the month... but the Sehlarians kept raising the jizyah for me.”

“Hm,” Algier grunted thoughtfully. “Were I given the time for meaningful travel, I’d be tempted to go there myself.”

As they left the bustle of the stalls behind, the path brought them to a walled partition enclosing the Arco family’s keep—Conevico’s castle. A moat, cleverly woven into the city’s river system, circled the stronghold, the water flowing beneath a broad stone bridge. The current rippled with icy intent as it meandered back toward the sea.

Just as they began their crossing, a fearful whimper rose from the basket. The children stirred uneasily, clearly perturbed by the water rushing below. “Ah, one moment, Ser Algier,” Cassius said gently, setting the basket down to check on his charges.

“Oh heavens, tell me you aren’t hungry again?” Cassius mused aloud, a hint of dry humor laced in his voice. “Or is it that you're afraid of heights?” He puzzled gently as he knelt beside the basket, giving its occupants a quick once-over before lifting it back into the crook of his arm. With a steady step, he resumed his crossing over the stone bridge, toward the monument of looming stone walls nestled within the heart of the city.

Ahead stood the castle's gatehouse—its portcullis bristling with jagged iron teeth, the kind that spoke of grim intentions for anyone foolish enough to force their way in… or out. It hung ominously above the archway, poised like the maw of some slumbering beast.

As they crossed, the rush of water in the moat softened beneath the sound of murmured orders and bootsteps overhead. The guards, stationed along the battlements, bore the sigil of House Arco upon their tabards—a silver sword entwined in grapevines and blooming leaves, stitched against a field of deep navy. One of the sentries called down a formal challenge, but upon spotting Algier’s distinctive cloak and the insignia pinned to his shoulder, he returned only a curt nod. With a clank and groan, the portcullis rose, granting passage into the outer courtyard.

Beyond the gatehouse, Conevico Castle revealed a somber scene: gardens stripped bare by winter, leafless trees stretching spindly limbs skyward like skeletal sentinels. The cobbled pathways had been recently cleared of snow, but the remaining slush and packed footprints told of regular passage. The trees—gray and forlorn—cast long shadows over the frostbitten hedgerows.

Above, soldiers marched along the parapets, their footfalls echoing across the courtyard in practiced rhythm. The walls themselves were fitted with ascending stone staircases, zigzagging up to the ramparts, where the guards moved like quiet silhouettes patrolling the heights. Their presence was not ceremonial, but vigilant—evidence that this place, though noble, was built for war.

“This is a castle, little ones,” Cassius murmured to the children as he gently rotated the basket in his arms to give them a view of the courtyard. Their wide, blinking eyes drank in every detail. “The lord of this land and all his noble companions dwell here,” he explained, though he knew full well his words were lost to infancy. Still, some part of him hoped that the experience itself—the awe, the sheer scale—would linger in their memories.

Before them rose a pair of great doors, nearly half the size of the city gate they had just passed. Ebony wood reinforced with iron, they loomed in grand design—more aesthetic than practical, built to impress rather than withstand siege.

Cassius approached, treading the stone path that led to the main entrance. But just as he neared the steps, Algier raised a gloved hand.

“Wait here, Prior Cassius,” the Luminary instructed, quickening his pace toward the doors. “Clergyman or not, my business here is more official. Let me test the waters for you before you start appealing for Duke Arco’s hospitality.”

Cassius exhaled gratefully and nodded. “That would be most appreciated. Thank you.” With a nod of acknowledgment, Algier slipped through the towering doors and closed them behind him.

Left in the quiet of the courtyard, Cassius surveyed the looming walls. A castle like this was nearly the size of a small village, fortified with purpose rather than extravagance. Its position along the Lothar-Romagnian border marked it as a holdfast along the sea and border.

This design… it must be from the time of the Banner Wars, Cassius considered. Conevico had once been a Romagnian imperial city—a forward stronghold used in their passage into Lothar during the wars against the Elves, back when Balandaria teetered on the edge of domination. Though the Empire had long since fractured, and the city had fallen into Lotharian hands, the bones of Romagnian ambition still lingered here in stone and steel.

It was only a quarter to half an hour before the grand doors of Conevico Castle opened once more, with Algier emerging from within.

“Duke Ruberht Arco will receive you,” Algier announced, though his tone held a note of concern. “But I’d brace myself—he’s currently entertaining an... unwanted guest.”

“Guest?” Cassius echoed, a flicker of worry tightening his brow. “It’s not Lady Vesna, is it?!”

“Yes... and no,” Algier replied cryptically, his expression darkening as he glanced back toward the doors. “Duke Arco is handling a... complication. But he will receive you once the matter is resolved.”

A complication? Just what was waiting inside that they were about to walk into? Cassius could only wonder as he drew in a sharp breath.

“I suppose we’ll see when we get inside,” he muttered with a resigned sigh.

The one thing Cassius had no patience for was becoming tangled in the games of secular lords—power, pride, and politics. Whatever awaited within those walls, it was one thing for nobility to be in a foul temper. It was quite another to ask for their charity while caught in the shadow of their grievances.

The grand doors of the castle parted with a low groan, assisted by the vigilant guards stationed at their posts. They gave way to the foyer hall, a space that immediately enveloped Cassius and Algier in hushed opulence as they stepped inside.

Descending half a dozen wide stone steps, they entered a spacious receiving chamber—a flattened seating hall adorned with banners of deep indigo, their hems embroidered in gold thread, each bearing the sigil of House Arco: a sword entwined in grapevines and leafed blooms. The room exuded a sense of restrained majesty, a place designed not to awe through grandeur, but to impress through taste and discipline.

The furniture was made of finely carved oak—broad tables, high-backed armchairs, and low benches arranged in deliberate symmetry. Each piece bore signs of age, polished smooth by generations of use. Along the walls stood tall vitrines and pedestals displaying relics and artifacts: ceremonial swords, antique helms, aged scrolls sealed in wax, and bronze busts of former lords—all carefully arranged for the eyes of petitioners awaiting their audience with the ruling house.

High arched windows lined the upper reaches of the chamber, their glass slightly fogged from the winter air outside, casting dappled rays of cold light onto the stone floors below.

Cassius need not have been close to the throne room to hear the tension festering within. Raised voices bellowed through the corridor—one deep and imperious, the other quick and pointed—an argument boiling behind doors not built to conceal emotion. The sounds caused the two children in his basket to stir, shrinking deeper beneath their blankets, their small faces hidden from the cold swell of conflict.

Once inside, the throne room of Conevico revealed itself in full grandeur. The space was vast and reverberant, its ceiling arched high above and ribbed with ancient beams of dark, lacquered oak. These bore intricate carvings of harvest feasts, armored knights drinking from goblets, and the curling abundance of vineyards. Warm light filtered through tall stained glass windows along the southern wall, casting colored pools of crimson, emerald, and amber across the polished stone floor. Each pane depicted some legend of House Arco—knights in triumph, kings in negotiation, the blessing of AVO on the city’s founding.

At the far end of the room, the ducal throne rested atop five ascending steps, shrouded in a plush carpet dyed a deep indigo jasmine. It was carved of dark walnut, its armrests formed into spirals of grapevines with orb-like finials, and its back etched with the image of trellised vineyards heavy with fruit. The leather cushion glistened softly in the flickering light, a well-used seat for a lord accustomed to both ceremony and scrutiny. Behind the throne, carved into the stone wall itself, twin staircases spiraled upward to the lord’s private quarters, flanking the dais like coiled serpents. Hanging between these stairs were great banners: a sword wrapped in flowering grapevines against a navy field—the sigil of House Arco.

Bas-relief carvings adorned the stone walls throughout the room, portraying Conevico’s rise from a Romagnian frontier outpost to a claimed jewel of Lothar after the bloody toll of the Banner Wars. The air held the scent of beeswax and ancient parchment, mingled with the lingering sweetness of incense curling from a neglected censer beside the dais. Candelabras of wrought iron lined the walls like skeletal vines, their candleflames dancing against the polished flagstones. A great bronze chandelier—shaped like a wheel of interwoven branches—hung high above, unlit but heavy with presence.

Near the base of the throne steps, a low iron balustrade marked the line between ruler and petitioners—a silent reminder of hierarchy. Behind this, a shadowed alcove in the left wall housed silent advisors and guards, half-visible in the gloom, waiting with folded hands and attentive eyes for when their counsel might be called.

Cassius stood still a moment, his boots leaving faint, damp prints on the smoothed floor. He turned the basket slightly to allow the children a view of the hall’s towering grandeur.

The man seated upon the throne was a portly sort, adorned with a circlet of jade and amethyst across his brow. A bushy goateed beard framed his face, while a bald patch dominated the top of his head, surrounded by shoulder-length locks combed over in a futile attempt to obscure the bare dome. He was dressed in layered furs and garments of humbling brown hues, a voluminous white wolf pelt draped about his shoulders like a regal scarf.

Three figures stood before this nobleman. Cassius recognized one immediately—Lady Vesna, poised and alert at the nobleman’s side. Yet it was the pair she flanked that drew the most attention: two green-haired individuals, one taller, the other clearly a child. Their attire was foreign, bearing none of the muted earth tones common to Lotharian fashion—neither grey, brown, nor moss. The contrast was striking.

The reason for this became abundantly clear when Cassius caught sight of their ears—tapered, sharp, unmistakably elven. Judging by their composure and appearance, they were wood elves, and of noble stock at that.

The adult elf woman stood with quiet dignity. From her shoulders flowed a twin-parted, velvet-green cloak attached to a finely made traveling tunic. Her vivid green hair was tied into a long ponytail that hung with the swaying shape of a horse's tail. Beside her stood the child, whose similarly green locks fell loosely about her shoulders, as if she were attempting to grow it out in imitation of her guardian. She wore a rough, brown winter top and pants, more modest and ragged than the fine attire of the woman beside her.

"You expect me to offer you hospitality, elf?!" bellowed the man who could only be presumed as Duke Ruberht Arco. "Hospitality—while your kin stalk our western lands, take my people into captivity, and leave behind nothing but burning ruins and broken families!?"

"Herr Arco, this is—" Vesna began, only for the nobleman to raise a hand. The room fell into an oppressive silence until the elven woman stepped forward and broke it.

"Duke Arco, the Dawn Elves are not the Wood Elves. I am ambassador of the Wood Elves to the Kingdom of Neustria. Our diplomatic entourage was ambushed and routed while crossing through Lothar, en route to the Romagnian border. I ask only for a night’s sanctuary beneath your protection so that we may depart safely to Neustria at first opportunity."

Her voice was soft, restrained with the poise expected of an envoy—yet edged with urgency. And yet, the nobleman’s fingers impatiently twitched against the armrest of his throne as he cast a hard gaze upon the two elves.

"You simply had to come through Lothar? No ships would take you around our borders?" he asked, voice sharp with incredulity. "For an ambassador, you seem woefully unaware—or worse, contemptuously dismissive—of how your kind is received here."

Arco stepped down from his throne, eyes narrowed.

"It is not just the Dawn Elves who plague this land," he continued, voice rising. "The High Elves, whom you both serve under, have turned our patience into mockery. The attacks in the past year alone outnumber the digits on my hands and feet. Tell me, Ambassador—if this bloodshed came from any human nation, would I be expected to tolerate it?"

"Herr Arco," Eirina said more firmly, clenching a fist while the elven child at her side clung to her tunic, "the Sehlarians of the south are a known enemy of my people. Sailing through their waters risks slavery or death. As for the Emberstone passes, winter has turned them into oceans of ice. Our appointment is not with your lordship, but with the Neustrian crown. I do not condone attacks upon your people—nor does the crown I serve. Queen Marvhen Sylvian of the Wood Elves has long worked to bridge divides through the Council of Queens. But I do not—cannot—speak for the others."

A thunderous slam of Arco’s fist into the throne’s armrest shattered the silence of the room.

"And that, right there, is the whole damn problem with your kind!" Ruberht snarled, pointing a shaking finger at Eirina. "You speak as though your voice carries the weight of promise—but those you claim to represent make liars of you every time!"

He turned away, pacing to a brazier that smoldered near the dais, staring into its firelight with hands clasped behind his back.

"The Wood Elves do not speak for all elves, do they?" he scoffed. "Curious. Curious indeed. And yet... when it matters most, your kind either act too late—or not at all. The Age of Strife, the Banner Wars, the years of enslavement, the massacres. Where were your councils and queens then? Far too eager to join, and complicit still even today."

He turned back, eyes flashing with cold fury with the wood elf's retreating downcast.

"The High Elves still raid our western reaches. The Dawn Elves descend like wraiths and leave only corpses behind. You may speak of peace, Ambassador Gladeleaf—but you still serve under the banner of Elentárië, carry the same blood as they. And until someone—anyone—is held accountable for the whole, your kind will forever be seen as liars."

He ascended once more towards the throne and reclined within it with the weight of a judgment passed. "And so, by my mercy, I will not have you imprisoned and ransomed back to your queen. But you will find no hospitality within these walls. Sleep in the taverns, as others do. This audience is concluded."

He waved a dismissive hand, the gesture firm and final. The noble’s voice had been low, but it resounded with a kind of controlled fury that made even stone feel brittle. Cassius, watching from the side, could see it clearly: this was no theatrical performance. Lord Ruberht’s hatred was deep-rooted—an old tree fed by both recent grief and generational resentment.

Vesna, her brow furrowed with concern, stepped forward at last.

"Herr Arco! There are no taverns left with open reservations. They have nowhere to go," Vesna protested, her voice firm. The ambassador clutched her child closer, her expression pale. "…And that’s not even to speak of what the townspeople might do—"

"Then they can sleep in the gutter, the frosts or the poorhouse." Arco snapped. "My decision is—"

A polite throat-clearing cut through the tension. Cassius stepped forward, past Vesna and the elven pair.

“…And who are you?” Duke Arco demanded, his tone sharp. “Only the brave—or the utterly foolish—interrupt my courtly proceedings. Monk, pilgrim, or otherwise.”

“Actually, good Herr Arco, I am Prior Cassius of St. Noscrim’s Priory in Lycaron, I am party to the Lady Vesna here.” Cassius replied with a respectful bow. “I caught only the tail end of this conversation, but if I may—might I ask that you extend your hospitality not only to myself, but to your elven guests as well?”

The nobleman’s face soured. He leaned his elbow against the armrest and began idly stroking his beard, eyes fixed on the cleric. The atmosphere tensed further—Vesna, the ambassador, even the children in the basket sensed it, shrinking into their blankets.

"You must have ignored more than just this conversation, Prior," Arco said darkly. "Perhaps history itself. Lothar is no place for elves who are not subservient to the realm—and by extension, to Grand Prince Ulrich and his law. This woman represents an enemy of my country during a time of barely concealed hostility. She is a heretic to your clergy, and in all likelihood, a spy for the Elven Council of Queens. Under what delusion do you presume I have any desire to tolerate her presence in my home?"

Cassius bowed his head slightly, unshaken. Vesna and the elves looked to him, their expressions uncertain, perhaps even skeptical.

"Forgive me, my lord-duke, for any overstep. I do not claim to understand the full depth of this conflict," Cassius said humbly. "But I would point out that she is already a guest of another household—that of the Royal Household of Neustria. While Lothar’s relations with Elentárië may be strained, The Kingdom of Neustria’s are not. And should something happen to their ambassador here, it may sour relations between your prince and their king. Even over for the life of an elf."

Arco blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the bluntness of the logic. "The King of Neustria is far from this place," he said at last, his tone cautious. "He doesn’t suffer the elven indignities our border must endure. Unless you’re telling me King Castor will compensate me for this act of goodwill..."

Cassius did not falter. "Actually, my concern is less about compensation—and more about your standing with Grand Prince Ulrich," he replied calmly.

Arco leaned back in his throne, a slow frown growing on his face.

"And why would the Grand Prince care if these two lived or died?" he asked. "This isn’t his court, it’s mine. And even if it were, Lothar is already contending with elven raiders, dawn elven sacrificial cults, and kidnappers. There are enough bad actors here to populate a hundred plays, Father Cassius. It wouldn’t surprise me if the next guest who arrives is carrying a declaration of war."

Cassius drew in a breath and met the duke’s gaze evenly, even as he stood at the foot of the throne's steps.

"And that is precisely why it matters. If, by refusing sanctuary, you incidentally derail an appointment between Neustria and Elentárië, the consequences won’t remain within Conevico. Ulrich’s name will be brought into that inconvenience—your name will. Whether rightly or wrongly, one's perception of a slight can often be punishment enough."

Duke Arco rubbed his chin slowly. His expression shifted—less fury, now replaced with more contemplation.

“You’re suggesting I might place Ulrich in an uncomfortable position with Neustria,” he said, a bit more measured. "An interesting proposition. But if Neustria is in fact trying to hold diplomatic ties with Elentárië, then their ire is not likely to change much in the grand scheme of things." Duke Arco points out. "If a war is to occur, it would not be with Neustria invading our shores, Elentárië is too far west with Romagnia and Lothar between them."

As Duke Rubhert was explaining his viewpoint with Cassius, the prior heard a disturbance in the doorway with a messenger arriving and slipping a missive into Algier's hands who opens and scans its contents.

"To put it bluntly," Duke Rubhert declares. "What Neustria wants from us when it concerns the elves, is simply not our concern. We will not deal with any more bloodshed in these lands—"

"Forgive me, Lord-Duke," Algiers declared stepping forward with a grave expression on his face. "It may already be too late to prevent that bloodshed entirely." He states tucking away the missive in his satchel while facing the throne.

"Father Algiers, I have enough on my plate without the full weight of your Temple crashing down on my authority," Duke Arco huffed. "I said I would see to your emergency after—"

"This matter might be related, Herr Arco. Lady Eirina Gladeleaf, am I correct in presuming?" Algiers interjected, turning toward the elven ambassador, who stiffened at being addressed. "You mentioned your entourage was destroyed—do you know by whom?"

Cassius found it oddly telling that Algiers seemed familiar with the ambassador's name. But the Ordo Luminous were the Temple's eyes and ears across Balandaria—spies, diplomats, and informants embedded in every major city, always attuned to loose lips and sensitive threads. Of course he would know. Most likely that missive provided the much-needed information.

“...Lotharian soldiers,” Eirina replied, voice steady despite the tension. “They wore the colors and banners of the black eagle of Grand Prince Ulrich. But they extorted us, and their manner was more rogue than regimented. Even after we paid their 'tolls,' they turned on us... kidnapping... and...”

She trailed off, her voice faltering. Algiers had heard enough. He turned back to Herr Arco, whose face was beginning to twist with growing confusion and frustration.

“Herr Arco, I have reason to suspect the same group that ambushed Lady Eirina’s convoy may be responsible for the razing of Reinhurst. Deserters or criminals masquerading as your soldiers—or perhaps the Grand Prince’s at large.”

The portly lord gripped the edge of his beard, visibly agitated. The implications of Algiers’ statement weighed heavily. The notion that deserters might be pillaging villages in his fiefdom—under his banner—could not be tolerated. Algiers had spoken too quickly for him to ignore the implications, and now Arco faced a dilemma: act too harshly and risk sparking unrest, act too softly and risk appearing complicit.

“My caravan’s Templar Commander can vouch for the presence of these deserters,” Cassius added, stepping forward.

“That will not be necessary,” Duke Arco muttered with a weary exhale. “An investigation will be conducted. I’ll see to it my marshal cracks down on this banditry...as for my other concerns.”

His eyes returned to Eirina and her daughter, lingering. Cassius held firm, yet it was Algiers who spoke up in place before Cassius could.

"Lord-Duke, I also must remind you that regardless of Grand Prince Ulrich's policy towards the elves that both Lothar and Elentárië are subsidiaries of the Divine Alliance." The temple official declares.

Vesna then takes a step forward joining the defense of Eirina. "You said a moment ago that what Neustria wants out of Lothar when it concerns the elves is irrelevant. Understand this, Ulrich will have far more of a reckoning from just the elves on account of your actions. But dissatisfied members of the Divine Alliance because of your inability to broker peace. That includes Neustria."

The Ducal Lord reclines in his chair in deep thought of the matter, contemplating, Cassius finally saw his opportunity and concluded with a final viewpoint of defense.

"The damages done may be the work of bad actors, but it can still be attributed to Lothar if the wrong message is perceived abroad, high or low in station." Cassius advised, still treading carefully. "As Temple scripture says..." He raised his hands outcast gently. "Do not seek to domineer over your charges, but be an example to the flock."

The Duke Arco closed his eyes, sighing deeply.

Cassius pressed a step further, sensing the edge of the moment. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby, some have entertained angels unawares." His voice softened. “This city is a beacon for pilgrims and a testament to Lothar’s piety. Surely…”

Arco raised his hand, signaling Cassius to stop. The monk obeyed immediately.

“Enough prattling, monk, all of you.” the duke snapped. Then, with a begrudging lean forward in his throne, he fixed his eyes on the ambassador. “Eirina Gladeleaf,” he said, voice heavy with bitterness. Speaking past the three who stood in front of the ambassador in their address to the Duke. “By the grace—or perhaps the damnable persistence—of the Temple your kind has mocked for generations, I will grant you temporary hospitality. But should I discover even the faintest trace of deception or malevolence from you or your child, I will take your dominant hand as recompence.”

He shifted his gaze to Cassius. “And you, Prior, will share in that responsibility. As virtuous as your advice may be, I suggest you share it freely with our good ambassador—for both your sakes.”

“Of course, Herr Arco,” Cassius answered with a respectful bow. Vesna, Eirina, and the child followed suit.

With a grunt, Duke Arco rose and descended the steps of the throne toward a side door carved into the stone wall to the left of the room’s entry. “Your accommodations await in the guest wing,” he said brusquely. “Remain here. The chamberlain will escort you shortly.”

He glanced to Cassius and Algiers. “Father Algiers, I want your full account of these deserters—and of what happened at Reinhurst. Prior Cassius, I will speak with you again this evening.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Algiers replied, placing a reassuring hand on Cassius’s shoulder before following the nobleman into the recesses of the castle.

Cassius, Vesna, and the elven guests were left in the now quiet throne room.

“Thank you, Duke Arco!” chirped the little elven girl, her voice sweet and small.

The only response was the thud of the closing door as the duke and Algiers disappeared, and the lingering feeling that something sharp had just been dulled—if only temporarily.

"That... looked like it could have taken a turn for the worse," Eirina the elf remarked, turning to Cassius with a suspicious, inquisitive glance. "And to what end would you go out of your way for someone like me?"

Before Cassius could answer, Vesna interjected. "Oh no, this one’s with me. He’s part of my pilgrimage caravan," she explained. "He’s a bit of a wet mop when it comes to common sense, but a good soul."

She then turned to Cassius, pulled him aside from the elves by the back of the neck, and glared at him with an expression only a lifelong friend could manage. “You miserable lout! I had it under control. You already have enough to consider without sticking your neck—well, now your hand—out for others,” she scolded, gesturing pointedly at the children in his care. “What good will you be to them if you lose your hand and spend the rest of the journey on the mend!?”

Cassius looked appropriately sheepish, his brows raised and expression apologetic, though he still attempted to justify himself. “I just wanted to help! I was well within my confidence to leverage this to our favor.”

Vesna’s glare only intensified, and her grip on the back of his neck tightened. Cassius tried again.

“I do sit beside your husband when it comes to managing his lands. I’ve picked up a thing or two about how nobles think.”

Vesna finally released him with a sigh, crossing her arms and glaring with residual frustration. When Cassius turned back to the elves, he noticed they were watching with a mix of confusion and slight amusement. He took a breath and spoke, now addressing Eirina directly to clarify his motives.

“T-that said... however our faiths may differ on the nature of the Godhead, we still share this world. And cruelty is far too easily and thoughtlessly handed out these days.”

Eirina relaxed her hold on her child and offered Cassius a faint smile. “Well, I’ve learned how to conduct myself among humans. Truthfully, we came here as a last resort. A snowstorm is coming. We were nearly at the Romagnian border, but we traveled five days straight to avoid being caught in it.”

“A Snowstorm?” Vesna asked, brow raised. “And you mentioned Lotharian soldiers extorting and trying to kidnap you? What happened?”

Eirina looked toward the high window where sunlight beamed faintly through. “The storm is already forming. I can see the air channeling, the frost building in the west and crawling eastward. With how the wind is blowing, it’ll sweep right across the Lothar-Romagnian border,” she said calmly. “As for our attackers... I want to say bandits. But they wore Lotharian armor and banners. That was bad enough. We escaped, only to be found again by one of Herr Arco’s patrols. They brought me and Mahelverhen, here. And the rest... well, you saw.”

“I hate that name!” the elven child suddenly shouted, cheeks puffed out in a comical pout. Her sudden protest earned a burst of laughter from the basket Cassius held, drawing curious glances from the others.

"Oh! I didn't know human monks could have children," the elven girl said, skipping over to peer inside the basket. She knelt down and beamed with delight. “Awh—hahaha~! They're adorable!”

Bright-eyed and full of mischief, the girl’s joy was infectious. Niall giggled and waved at her, while Sebastian stretched out his arms with a wide, open-mouthed smile.

“Oh no, child. Priory monks cannot have children,” Eirina corrected gently. Then, glancing up at Cassius, she added with a raised brow, “They... aren’t yours, are they?”

Vesna’s frustration had clearly passed. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

“No. But that’s yet to be decided,” Cassius replied, setting the basket down beside the girl. “Perhaps over dinner I can explain their situation in full.”

The girl—Mahelverhen, as she’d been called—continued playing with the children, her long elven name a clear mark of noble heritage, even if she seemed less than fond of it.

From behind the throne, a well-dressed man descended the steps, jingling a ring of keys as he approached, inspecting each as if accounting for their purpose.

“Madam Vesna, Lady Gladeleaf... and you are?” he asked politely.

“Prior Cassius of Lycaron,” the monk replied, his hands clasped behind his back with a courteous nod.

"Yes, yes, quite," repeated the jacketed man. "Your living quarters have been arranged. I am Liebehrt, Chamberlain of Conevico Castle. Duke Arco will be hosting dinner within the next hour or so. It is advised that you brush up on proper dining etiquette before being seated at his table."

Well, these people certainly think highly of themselves, Cassius thought to himself. Meanwhile, Niall and Sebastian were far too busy giggling and laughing at the elven child's playful tickling to care about such formalities. For now, it seemed they would get to enjoy the luxuries of the castle.

"If you would not mind, we have maidservants who can tend to the children," Liebehrt added. "They will, of course, be provided with proper food and care."

The elven child looked poised to protest, but Vesna stepped in with a chuckle and came to her side.

"Come now," Vesna said gently. "The grown-ups have grown-up things to discuss. You’d be stuck in a chair and bored out of your mind otherwise. Can we trust you to look after little Sebastian and Niall?"

"...I...guess," the elven girl conceded reluctantly. "Which one is who again?" she asked, kneeling beside the basket.

Vesna pointed to Niall. "This one, the green-eye'd one with the white hair is Niall," she explained.

"But he's a human. Why does he have an elven name?" Mahelverhen asked curiously.

"Who’s to say for sure if they're human or half-elven?" Vesna replied. "They were found in a basket by the road—we don’t know who their parents are."

"They can’t be half-elves. Their ears aren’t even remotely pointed," the girl pointed out.

"Sometimes, little leaf," Eirina chimed in gently, "half-elves develop their ears later in life. Some look completely human until adolescence, and others appear as full-blooded elves until age catches up with them. It's not always obvious."

"Oh," the girl murmured, nodding thoughtfully.

"And this one is Sebastian," Vesna added, pointing to the second child.

"Niall aaaand Sebastian! Got it," the elven child declared excitedly.

"You said you disliked your name—Mahelverhen, was it?" Vesna asked. "Emerald Elven Legacy. That’s... quite a name. Almost fitting for a princess."

"What did you want your name to be?"

"Mmm, my friends call me Magirou for short," she said proudly with a grin.

"Ma-gi-rou," Vesna repeated slowly. "That’s not elven. That’s... almost nonsense." She laughed gently.

"It's easier on the tongue and easier to remember!" Magirou insisted, placing her hands on her hips. "I don’t care for... for... sophesim..." She fumbled over the word until her face lit up. "Sophistry!" she exclaimed triumphantly.

Magirou. That was the name she had chosen for herself. Cassius couldn’t help but smile. Eirina looked on, half helpless, half amused, as her daughter so completely rejected her carefully chosen name.

Just then, the door to the western corridor opened, and Liebehrt reentered, flanked by two maidservants.

"The ladies of the house will attend to the children. Count Rubehrt Arco has extended his invitation to the rest of you for dinner," Liebehrt announced with a tone as pompous as it was practiced, casting a sweeping glance over the group.

"Well then, Magirou," Vesna said, crouching beside the girl. "Can I count on you?"

"You can! Promise," Magirou affirmed brightly, grinning as she carefully hefted the basket into her arms.

The maidservants gently escorted her along, leaving the rest of the group to follow Liebehrt deeper into the castle.

Sebastian -- Castle Conevico -- Night, 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The evening was spent within the warm, secure cradle of Castle Conevico. The room assigned to Magirou and the children was spacious yet humble—two single beds positioned on opposite walls, a small desk near the door, and a modest dining table set against the far side of the room. The beds were laid with cotton-weaved mattresses and topped with simple linen sheets.

Magirou presided as guardian over Sebastian and Niall for the night. It was the first time Sebastian had been permitted freedom from the basket without Cassius or Vesna fussing over him, worrying with every move. The toddler crawled across the bed’s surface on hands and knees, feeling the rough but comforting fabric beneath his palms. What a fine feeling this was—simple, but delightful. With a soft sigh, Sebastian collapsed into the linen sheets, letting mirthful comfort spread through his body.

Niall, on the other hand, was still brimming with energy. Once freed from his confines, he rolled and giggled with abandon, his laughter bouncing off the stone walls. Curious, Sebastian raised his head slightly to see what had delighted him so, only to find Magirou at play—tickling his brother’s feet and gently moving his arms as if to make him dance.

Magirou was a cheerful and playful soul, filling the evening with bright company while the grown-ups—Cassius, Vesna, and Eirina—were away at dinner, lost in their adult conversations and important affairs. Whatever those entailed, they mattered little now. Magirou had taken it upon herself to attempt something more ambitious: coaxing intelligible words from her young charges.

"My name is Magirou!" she announced with dramatic flair, kneeling beside them. "Mah-ge-roh! Try and say it—either of you! Maaaaaaah?"

She stretched the syllables out in exaggerated tones, filled with hopeful encouragement. But to the infants' underdeveloped minds, her efforts were interpreted not as instruction, but as play—joyful, musical, and nurturing in nature. The meaning of the words escaped them, but the affection behind them was understood.

Sebastian, for his part, found his attention drifting to the window. There, through the glass panes, the dark night sky grew alive with the shimmer of falling snow. Tiny crystals danced and scattered through the wind as the storm crept quietly over the city. He scooted beneath the window, sitting close to watch the drifting flakes in awe.

"Ohhh, you like the snow, huh?" Magirou said, gently setting Niall down so he could wobble about on his own. She slid over beside Sebastian, her voice low and affectionate. "It is very pretty… but it can be cold and dangerous if we let it in, you know."

Dangerous? Sebastian wondered. Sure, it was cold… but here, inside this room, it was warm. Safe. Comforting. That was the logic he settled on, as best a toddler's mind could manage.

After watching the snow for a while, Magirou rises from her knees to clasp the wooden window panels shut. Well, if it was dangerous, it was dangerous, Sebastian reasons.

"It's going to get even more cold as the night goes on, so ..." Magirou continued to speak. "How's about a story?" She entices with Sebastian and Niall angling their heads to the sides.

"Alright but first," she whispered, voice lowered as though in reverence to the hush outside, "we’re making a fort." Niall squealed with delight, kicking his feet. Sebastian blinked curiously from where he sat curled near the window.

Magirou grabbed two fire pokers from the hearth and took the pillows from the head of the bed, propping the pokers upright like makeshift support beams. Draping the blankets over them, she squinted at her handiwork with a grin of approval. Spotting a basket of herbs on a nearby shelf, she tucked it under her arm and crawled into the newly fashioned bed-fort. Carefully, she secured the blanket edges to allow more room inside.

Once she was satisfied it could fit them all, she lifted the blanket flap.
“Come on, little lords,” she called softly, patting the mattress-padded floor.

Both boys crawled inside—Sebastian cautiously, Niall with a wild flail of limbs. Giggling, they settled beneath the canopy. Magirou adjusted their bedding, placing a folded pillow between them.

“There,” she said with a warm smile. “Now it’s official. Lords of the Bedfort!”
She pulled a small bundle of dried clover and thyme from the herb basket and began twisting the stems into little woven rings.

“What sort of story suits this occasion?” she asked herself aloud. The boys didn’t understand all her words, but her voice was a spell in itself.
“Ah!” she exclaimed, eyes brightening. “I know just the one.”

Magirou began without pause.

“Long ago, before the world’s first snowfall, the stars bemoaned their loneliness. So Lómelindë, the Twilight-Singer and elven goddess of the moon, wept from on high. From her silver tears came the Moon-Weaver, a great spider spirit—older than the trees, wiser than owls.”

Sebastian watched her lips move, eyes wide with wonder. Niall reached for one of the thyme rings with sticky fingers, which Magirou gently swatted his hand away.

“Each night, the Moon-Weaver walks the world, weaving dreams from star-silver thread and placing them in the hair of sleeping children. So the stars can visit the dreamworlds of those who slumber beneath their gaze. Not all children, though… only those who dream in bliss and peace.
Only those who are gentle—even when the world is not.”

She crowned Sebastian with a braided ring of thyme. He touched it with his chubby fingers, blinking up at her with awe.

Magirou beamed.
“That’s for you, dream prince.” Her voice softened, slowing.

“And the Moon-Weaver only comes to children who still believe in wonder... even when the grown-ups forget how.”

She absently rubbed a brittle leaf between her fingers. Then, as if casting aside a heavier thought, she reached over and crowned Niall, who squealed and wriggled with glee.

Sebastian leaned into her side, his eyelids drooping. The warmth of the fire, the rustle of the blanket, and the rhythm of her voice were magic made real.

“And when the night is deepest, and the wind howls just right, you might even hear her weaving—click-click, stitch-stitch, soft as moth wings...”

Niall yawned, stretching like a kitten before flopping onto his back, thumb half in his mouth. But then—Magirou gasped.

Sebastian blinked up, startled, just as she lunged across the bed.

Niall had rolled too far—his small body leaning into the fort wall. The blanket dipped, the poker bent, and with a quiet fwump, the whole side of the bed-fort collapsed. A muffled thud followed.

Magirou dove through the linen, yanking the blanket down with her, and landed with a soft grunt. The fire pokers clattered. Sebastian could only watch, frozen.

Then came the crying. Seconds later, Magirou reemerged, hoisting a sniffling Niall back onto the bed. Her face was pale, breath slightly ragged.

“Oh gods, oh… okay,” she whispered with visible relief, checking Niall over.
“Just a bump. You’ll be alright, little bird.”

Sebastian crawled carefully toward them, now aware to steer clear of the bed’s edge. A good lesson: stay grounded, or gravity wins.

But Niall kept crying—big, watery sobs as tears streaked down his red cheeks.

Magirou frowned thoughtfully.
“Well,” she said softly, “there’s always a way to fix this.”

She sat Niall upright, cradling him in her lap. Then, closing her eyes, she raised her hands—palms open, fingers still. The air shifted. Something subtle, like static along the skin or the whisper of wind through leaves.

Sebastian felt it too—somewhere in the hairs on his arms, something hummed. Not wind, not warmth… something more primal. Intuitive.

Magirou’s eyes opened. They shimmered with an amber glow. She was focused, brows pinched in concentration.

“Nestalë.” Magirou said—almost like a command.

From the tips of her fingers to the center of her palm, a soft cyan light formed. It swirled into a glowing sphere, dim but pulsing, like fog alive with color. The energy flowed gently toward Niall, encircling him. His pained expression shifted—from sadness, to confusion… to wonder.

To Sebastian, it was mesmerizing. What was this strange light? Where did it come from? Was it helping him? Calming him? Could someone like me do something like that?

The door creaked open. A maidservant stepped in, alarmed. “Is everything alright?”

Magirou gave a calm nod and a short hum. “Poor Niall took a tumble. Nothing a salve cantrip couldn’t fix.”

The maid exhaled with relief. “Do you want us to take over from here? You don’t have to look after two children all on your own, not at your age.”

“Oh no, it’s a pleasure,” Magirou replied brightly. “I used to do this all the time with my cousins. Humans are just… more energetic.” Her observation earned a chuckle from the maid and another servant lingering in the hall.

What captivated Sebastian most, though, was that magic—the way it danced at her fingertips and did something. Niall, besides the tear-streaked cheeks, seemed wholly unharmed. In fact, he was already giggling again.

Could I do that too?

Sebastian raised his hands and pointed his chubby fingers at Niall. He babbled in imitation, trying to recreate the spell, to summon something. But nothing happened.

Magirou giggled. “Ah! Hahaha! Are you trying to cast magic? Oh, you precious thing.” She cooed and reached out to smooth his hair. “Even elven children can’t use magic this young. And you’re a human.”

Wait—what does that mean? Sebastian panicked inwardly. Does that mean I’ll never be able to do it? Ever? A swell of frustration rose up inside him, tears welling fast behind his eyes. But before they could spill, a soft hand rested on his head—Magirou’s hand—gently stroking.

“You have to learn the words, just like everyone else,” she said kindly. “But you can’t speak yet. Not yet, anyway.”

She looked him in the eyes, and hers sparkled with mischief and encouragement. “But I can teach you, if you want. Is that what you want?”

Sebastian didn’t know how to explain what he felt—only that he needed to learn it. Not the words. Not yet. But the power behind them. The ability to comfort, to heal, like she had.

Just as he was about to reach for her, a loud grumble echoed through the room. Not from him, but from Magirou. She looked down at herself and sighed, hands on her belly. The Niall burst into laughter at the sound, the earlier tension forgotten. Even Sebastian let out a small laugh.

Magirou smiled sheepishly. “Alright, that’s enough excitement for one night.” She stood up and stretched. “Time for you two to sleep. And time for me to get some supper.” She glanced toward the maid. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer now.”

“Of course. We’ll see them tucked in.” The maid gave a warm smile.

Magirou leaned in, tickling the boys beneath their chins, then stroked their heads softly—one after the other. “Goodnight, little lords,” she whispered, before skipping out of the room.

The maids gathered the children, settling them on the mattress as they retrieve the firewood pokers and readjusted the children gently under the bed’s linens. Warmth returned, the weight of the blankets like a protective shield from the night.

Sebastian, nestled beside his soothed and sleep-heavy brother, exhaled a deep breath. Sleep again.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he would try again. There was still so much to learn—and somewhere within, he knew his chance would come.

Cassius -- Castle Conevico -- Night of 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The dining hall was a spacious, box-shaped room adorned with trophies and artifacts commemorating the long history and achievements of House Arco. Mounted heads of elk, wolves, bears, and boars lined the upper walls, alongside faded banners of dynastic nobility and tarnished crowns from wars fought in their name. Glass display cases showcased weapons from the ancient days of Lothar and the old Romagnian Empire—swords, axes, and even relics believed to belong to knightly orders long disbanded.

The dining hall of Castle Conevico was a chamber of dignified austerity and aged grandeur. It stretched long and wide like a warship turned sideways, the stone walls draped with aged velvet banners in indigo and bronze—colors of House Arco. Each banner bore the family’s crest: a sword entwined with grapevines, flanked by heraldic lions.

At intervals between the banners stood display alcoves, holding relics of military triumph and noble legacy: a cracked dueling shield from the Banner Wars, a rusted but finely-engraved halberd believed to have belonged to the founder of Conevico, and a taxidermy griffin head—clearly more myth than fact—hanging above the western hearth.

The floor was a well-swept foundational stone, polished to a muted gleam, scuffed where centuries of boots and shoes had scraped during dances, feasts, and war councils alike. Along the edges of the hall, a colonnade of squat, squared pillars supported wooden beams overhead—each beam carved with curling leaf motifs and battle dates, painted subtly in faded ochre.

The room’s lighting came not just from the crackling hearth at the hall’s head, but also from a series of iron-forged chandeliers, suspended from blackened chains. Each chandelier held dozens of stubby candles in reds, browns, and tallow white, their soft flickering light dancing across the bronze accents and shadowing the high, barrel-vaulted ceiling.

Three long banquet tables filled the chamber in a U-shape, each of dark oak, worn smooth by time and polished by generations of service. The tables were set with simple yet weighty cutlery, mismatched in some places—proof of old wealth, not ostentation. Carved pitchers of watered wine and flagons of warm cider accompanied baskets of garlic bread and bowls of marinated olives, alongside roasted root vegetables glazed with spiced honey.

The air carried a mingled scent—roast poultry, boiled mutton, rendered fat, and fresh herbs—earthy and filling, a proper winter’s fare. Platters of dried fruits, wheels of hard cheese, and trencher boards of game meat were brought in by liveried servants moving with quiet efficiency.

Despite its martial past and defensive architecture, the hall did not lack elegance. A massive ironwood table stood beneath the lord’s high seat at the room’s center, behind which hung a painted triptych showing the three greatest battles of House Arco’s lineage—each rendered in muted oils, depicting mud-slicked fields, fallen soldiers, and the family’s banner flying amid smoke and ruin.

At the far end of the room, three long banquet tables formed an incomplete square, leaving the side nearest the great hearth open. The fire roared in the wide stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Overhead, iron chandeliers suspended clusters of red, indigo, and natural wax candles, creating a mosaic of warm, ambient light. The tables were already laden with seasoned bread redolent of garlic, bowls of olives and grapes, and stoneware pots resting on cloth squares, filled with steaming lentil and mutton stews enriched with carrots, potatoes, celery, and basil.

Lord Ruberht Arco eventually entered, now dressed in less formal attire: a green tunic layered over a black-sleeved undershirt. He was accompanied by a young man—his nephew, it seemed—wearing chainmail and a waffenrock bearing Conevico’s colors. The resemblance was unmistakable, though the youth was leaner and lacked his uncle’s rotundity. Instead of balding, he bore a mane of curling brown hair and the early stages of a beard.

Algiers rejoined the group, circling the tables toward Cassius. Beside the monk, Lady Vesna and Eirina admired the dishes emerging from the kitchens—roast duck, chicken, lamb—presented with the same grandeur as the hall itself.

“Jovial!” Lord Ruberht boomed, spreading his arms wide. “You’ve all taken me up on my offer. Even you, Lady Ambassador.” He placed a hand over his chest in acknowledgment.

Cassius blinked. It had only seemed just earlier, this same man threatened to cut off his hand should something go amiss. Now he extended smiles and courtesies? But as Eirina dipped into a gracious curtsy without hesitation, Cassius realized this was likely the noble way—one face for the public table, another in private rooms.

As Lord Ruberht drew Vesna and Eirina into conversation, Algiers placed a firm hand on Cassius’s shoulder from behind and leaned close.

“We received word from the west, there's a snowstorm on the horizon, we can’t send out any detachments to search for the deserters… or for the villagers of Reinhurst,” he whispered.

Cassius’s face fell, grim lines setting into his features. It made sense; braving the storm could cost more lives than it saved.

“Take heart, Brother Cassius,” Algiers added. “If the villagers made it to civilization, they’ll survive the storm. And once the weather breaks, our couriers will resume their routes. We’ll know more then.”

Cassius gave a small, sharp sigh and nodded, his gaze drifting toward the fire. It gnawed at him—the warmth in his hands, the food on the table—when those he might have saved could be starving or freezing somewhere out in the cold.

“Come, friar!” Lord Ruberht called cheerfully. “You are under my hospitality, are you not?”

He stood at the head of the table beside his nephew, with Vesna and Eirina smiling expectantly at the two men. The invitation was clear.

But Algiers cleared his throat. “Regretfully, I must return to the Temple. There are preparations still underway, and we must ensure the sick and poor have the provisions they need. Father Nikodemus sends his regards.”

He placed a hand over his chest and offered a respectful bow.

“Of course, of course!” Ruberht nodded. “Tell that old hermit he’s still my cleric, and there’s a place at this table for him if he ever chooses to join us. You as well, Goodman Algiers.”

There was a surprising warmth in the duke’s voice, enough to coax a rare, genuine smile from the usually reserved church agent.

Upon Algiers’ departure, Cassius stepped forward with his arms folded behind his back, addressing the young man in chainmail—Lord Arco’s nephew.

“Forgive me, matters of the clergy can be quite distracting. I didn’t catch your name, young master,” Cassius inquired.

“It’s quite alright, Father,” the young man replied. “Ser Heinrik—Marshal of Conevico’s levies and soldiery. And its heir.” He removed his leather gloves as he spoke, revealing a scarred hand well acquainted with hardship. Cassius clasped it in his own, giving a firm shake and noting the strength behind the young knight’s grip.

“This is rather unusual,” Vesna remarked, turning to Lord Ruberht as he poured himself a goblet of wine. “Have you taken no wife, my lord? By now, most men of your station would have heirs of their own—son or daughter.”

The question cast a shadow across Ruberht’s face. He swirled the wine in his chalice thoughtfully.

“Once, I had...” he began, his voice quieting. “But my late wife—gods rest her soul—though we tried for many years, never bore a child. My physicians tell me it is unlikely I ever will.” He attempted to speak lightly. “And so, I remain a consequence-free bachelor,” he added with a dry chuckle, though the grief beneath lingered in his tone.

He reached out and clapped a hand affectionately on Heinrik’s shoulder, giving him a light, playful shove. “Still, Heinrik is the son I never had. A capable young man, more than ready to rule when I’m too feeble or too far gone. Talk of marriage should be aimed at him, not me.” He laughed again, and Heinrik’s cheeks colored with visible embarrassment.

“A happy day, should that come,” Vesna offered kindly.
“Indeed,” Eirina added with a gentle nod.

Cassius smiled faintly, watching the warmth between uncle and nephew. Behind the stern coldness of the throne room, perhaps Ruberht was simply a man hardened by duty, guarding fiercely what he loved.

“Speaking of which, Friar,” Ruberht added with a smirk. “I trust those little rugrats of yours aren’t the wild oats of some youthful gallivanting?”

“Oh, heavens no,” Cassius replied quickly. “We found them amidst the ashes of Reinhurst. I remain true to my vows of celibacy.”

“A pox on such creeds!” Ruberht scoffed as he turned and walked to the head of the table, lowering himself into his seat with practiced ease. “The gods gave us the world, gave us life and desire, and then the spirit to do with it as we will. Why men like you throw away the greatest pleasures of existence for a better claim on divine attention... I’ll never understand.”

With a sweeping gesture, he invited the others to take their seats. Vesna took the place beside Ruberht, Heinrik across from her. Eirina chose the furthest end of the table, subtly placing Cassius between herself and the lord—a quiet reminder that not all wounds heal quickly.

“With all due respect to the women around me,” Cassius said, his voice mild, “I don’t think I could quite maintain who I am if my thoughts drifted too often to such... topics, even toward those considered most desirable.”

“Pah!” Ruberht scoffed with good humor. “Plenty a fishwife would go kissing frogs in hopes of finding a prince who looks like you, Friar. I don’t believe for one second you’ve never been tempted.”

“Uncle!” Heinrik protested, clearly embarrassed. “Nikodemus would be clouting our ears with sermons if he heard you speaking like this—tempting a man of the cloth!”

Ruberht planted his goblet down with a loud thud and glanced toward his ward. “It’s worldly truth, my boy. Since the founding of the First Kingdom—between the First Man and Woman, who were flesh and divine both—their union would be as sinful as the Friar’s.” He gestured grandly toward Cassius.

Eirina, intrigued, leaned slightly forward. “A scandalous idea in the world of today. You mean the First Human Man and the First Elven Woman. Many on either side would come to blows over that suggestion, even back in Elentárië.”

“Oh?” Ruberht arched a brow. “The Chantry teaches something similar in your monasteries, then?”

“Perhaps,” Eirina mused. “As you probably know, ours is a woman-dominated culture. When a woman enters the Chantry, she must renounce some physical pleasures. Marriage is still a practice amidst our priesthood. But I’ve noticed that humans accept both men and women into their clergy,” she added, glancing toward Cassius. "Yet they aren't permitted to marry."

“Ah, you mean the nunnery,” Cassius said with a nod. “Nuns serve primarily as stewards of Temple estates. I wouldn’t say they hold the same duties as monks or priests, but at the very least, we don’t deny women the chance to serve. Not like our Sehlarian brethren.”

Eirina’s pleasant expression faltered slightly. The mention of Sehlaria brought a hint of shadow to her face. Unlike the Romagnian Orthodoxy, the Sehlarian sect had schismed from conventional AVOist worship, embracing a fundamentalist, male-dominated society where women were spurned and relegated to servitude.

“I don’t think I would have minded an elven husband,” Vesna said idly, a mischievous smile curling her lips. Cassius’s expression immediately shifted into one of quiet concern. “Though,” she added pointedly, “let’s just say I’m quite content with my current, thoroughly human husband.”

“Our high elves are like that too,” Eirina said, echoing Vesna’s observation. She then turned to Cassius, her tone teasing. “Too vain to be modest, yet quick to flaunt their chastity. Perhaps a mix of beauty and confidence is your type, Father?”

Cassius didn’t respond—at least not with words. He simply lifted his goblet and drank deeply, as if he might hide within the wine itself. The laughter that followed was good-natured, filling the dining hall with a brief warmth that even reached the prior’s ears.

Yet despite the mirth, Cassius couldn’t help but consider the notion that lingered beneath their conversation.

The First Kingdom... the cradle of all mortal kind. The pureblooded elves might have escaped the touch of time, but not the bite of steel. When AVO and the Ancient Gods shaped the world, they formed its verdant lands, its seas, its jewels, and beasts. And from divine image, they created Man—flawed and solitary. So from higher essence, they shaped another, a companion with noble bearing, capable of giving life. Together, they founded the First Kingdom, and their children inherited its grace. But time unspooled, and tragedy followed. Humanity evolved its own women, elves their own men. As differences became fixed, the divide between their peoples widened. And to this day, debate still rages over who is the true heir to the First Kingdom, that sacred inheritance once decreed by the gods.

The human realms contest one another for the claim—but among the elves, it is the high elves who most vehemently assert their right, solemn and unyielding, above all others.

Just then, the room quieted—tension settling like dust in the air—as if everyone realized the conversation teetered near dangerous ground. Differences between human and elven faiths, theology, and history had sparked disputes for centuries. Especially when a Temple cleric like Cassius was present.

“This is all theoretical, of course,” Cassius said, offering a disarming smile. “My vows remain sincere.” He poured himself a goblet of wine, and the others followed suit, reaching for bread and meat to fill their plates.

“Hm. That’s rather disappointing,” Vesna teased, taking a sip from her wine goblet before reaching for a leg of roasted poultry. “The best part of preachy do-gooders is finding what really makes them squirm.”

Cassius gave a sheepish laugh, his eyes retreating to the comfort of his plate.

It was Heinrik who spoke next, biting into a loaf of garlic bread before addressing the table. “Father Cassius, if you’ll pardon a shift in topic,” he began, prompting Cassius to pause mid-scoop of stew. “In your work, there are holy knights, paladins, and crusaders. I’ve always wondered—what’s the difference between the three? And… which of them might allow me to produce an heir? You know, for whoever takes up the mantle of Conevico after me.”

Cassius leaned back, considering. “Well, that depends on what you mean by ‘holy knights.’ The title varies by order and by function. Only Crusaders take a formal vow of chastity. Holy knights, however…”

He gestured with his goblet, easing into explanation. “Holy knights are devout warriors who often operate outside the Temple’s direct control—though still under its blessing and guidance. Crusaders, on the other hand, are the Temple’s sword and shield in name and purpose—part of the Ordo Praesidium. Their vows are more absolute.”

“And paladins?” Heinrik pressed, now leaning forward as the table gradually fell into rapt attention.

“Paladins,” Cassius said, smiling, “are something different altogether. They’re not an order, but a discipline. They fight as knights do—steel in hand—but are imbued with divine power through the strength of their oaths. Their magic isn’t like that of wizards or clerics. It’s... uniquely personal.”

“Different how?” Heinrik asked, intrigued.

“I’m no paladin myself,” Cassius admitted, “but I’ve read many tomes on the subject. Their power is bound to the integrity of their vows. To their honor. And to whether they uphold the oath they swore—be it to a god, a crown, the law, or the people.”

Rubehrt gave his nephew a look of restrained disapproval, clearly not fond of the conversation’s direction, though Heinrik pressed on undeterred.

“I’ve just always found it confusing,” Heinrik said. “Holy knights, crusaders, paladins—so many titles, and all tied to the Temple in different ways. I was interested—" he glanced at his uncle with a touch of defiance, "—in service to AVO and the good gods through military training.”

Cassius brightened at that. “Well, then. It’s good to clarify. Technically, holy knights are not a formal arm of the Church. Think of them more as... religiously inclined mercenaries, if that makes sense. They serve the Temple’s interests, yes, but not always directly—and not under the Temple’s command structure.”

“In contrast,” he continued, “the crusaders of the Ordo Praesidium are wholly devoted. They answer directly to the Arch-Cleric. No inheritance. No marriage. Total service.”

Eirina stirred her soup, her face softening with a hint of pity. “Such rigid restrictions. The Chantry in Elentárië never enforces such harsh vows. Our holy warriors still marry, still raise families. We’re too small a kingdom to demand such sacrifices.”

Cassius nodded in agreement. “That’s likely why the Temple sets stricter standards—perhaps to avoid favoritism between noble and common-born recruits. And, admittedly, humans are the majority in Balandaria. With numbers comes structure. Structure breeds... rigidity.”

“Ah,” he added, “but to finish your question. Paladins aren’t bound by the Church, necessarily. Some are. Many are not. Their oaths are varied—some swear to uphold justice, some to a king, others to a cause or even personal vengeance. What binds them isn’t the object of the vow, but their unwavering devotion to it. Their powers only persist as long as their word holds true.”

“So...” Heinrik said, brow furrowed in thought. “A paladin could fight for evil. If the vow demanded it.”

Cassius nodded slowly. “Yes. A vow is still a vow, no matter how dark the cause. And a paladin’s power answers to conviction, not morality.”

Cassius noticed Heinrik mulling over his words and motioned gently to continue his observations.

“Well, training to be a paladin certainly involves more than just swearing an oath. Though I’m not fully familiar with the specifics of their training,” he clarified. “I’m a cleric, not a paladin. But one thing is certain—those with darkness in their hearts can still take vows. Oaths of vengeance, for example, can turn a person into something quite monstrous. Conquest, slaughter, retribution… all dressed up as righteousness.”

“Ahhh, is that where your vows come in?” Ruberht interjected with a knowing grin, raising his goblet in amusement. “Your vows as a cleric of AVO.”

“Yes, precisely,” Cassius said with a chuckle. “My divine abilities, however, are not my own—they’re granted by AVO. In exchange, I’m bound to follow His teachings. It’s not quite the same as a paladin’s oath, which draws power from their personal conviction. My magic comes directly from AVO. Still, the devotion required is just as strict.”

“I suppose that’s just as well,” Ruberht mused, smirking. “It would take quite the woman to stand between you and the Creator of the world.”

Eirina leaned forward with a soft chuckle. “Considering AVO is a woman, I imagine She’d make quite the appealing rival.”

“…No, AVO is very much a man,” Ruberht countered, furrowing his brow. “For man He made in His own image.”

Eirina’s polite smile thinned, her eyes narrowing slightly. Cassius could only inwardly sigh—once again, the divide between their cultures reared its head.

Another difference between the human Temple and the elven Chantry: the gender of the Divine. It was a fundamental, even inflammatory, schism in doctrine. The human Temple taught that AVO was male—Creator, Father, Shaper of Life from the clay of stars. But the elven Chantry revered AVO as a divine mother, a celestial womb from which all things were born and nourished.

Human and elf. Man and woman. These were the founding questions—the “Four Corners,” as theologians called them—around which countless canticles and debates had been built. Who should rule—the human or the elf? The man or the woman? Which reflection of the Divine was true?

“In any case,” Vesna interjected, acting as both icebreaker and—perhaps more aptly—a fire-stopper, raising her goblet with a disarming smile. “This wine is rather spectacular. I noticed your banner is adorned with grapes and vines. Is that a nod to a family winery?”

The portly lord turned toward her with visible relief at the change in subject, clearly eager to move past the theological friction with his elven guest.

“In vino veritas,” Rubehrt declared, placing his hand dramatically over his chest. “The Arco family motto: In wine, there is truth.” He chuckled, swirling the goblet in hand. “Back during the Banner Wars, this city was Romagnian. That was when the Empire still had the power to assert its influence in Lothar.”

Eirina, visibly cooled by the turn in conversation, offered a quiet sigh and let the previous topic drop. “How did the city come under Lotharian control, then?”

Heinrik set down his goblet after a thoughtful draught. “That’s a… tale with a few thorns,” he said, glancing toward Rubehrt, their expressions shadowed by a shared hint of guilt—or was it sorrow?

Vesna raised an eyebrow, her fingers idly circling the edge of her fork as it rested beside her roast poultry. “I’m not one to judge,” she said lightly. “And at least it won’t be a boring story.”

“Very well,” Rubehrt said with a shrug of resignation. “My ancestor, Rudolf Arco, was among the recruits of the famed Romagnian Imperial Black Legions. He served in the vanguard during the Western Campaigns against the elves. This would’ve been around 1511, during Lothar’s transition from an independent kingdom into vassalage under the Romagnian Empire.”

He poured himself more wine before continuing. “Even today, Lothar remains home to some of the most prestigious martial schools in the human world. From longsword techniques to hand-to-hand combat—we inherited much from our northern ancestors, the Saphyrheim Vikings.”

Heinrik nodded and began carving into his roast poultry. “We had fine soldiers—Battlemasters, or Kampfmeister in the Lotharian tongue. But being on the edge of two worlds made us a contested buffer zone between Romagnia and the elven dominions.”

“Conevico, as a port town straddling the border between Romagnia and Lothar, had access to trade routes spanning all the southern ports—even those in Sehlaria,” Rubehrt added. “At the time, Romagnian soldiers came and went constantly, marching eastward to the front. Eventually, the Black Legions stationed themselves here. That was before Castillia became the main theater of war—once the Sehlarians declared their damned jihad and entered the fray.”

His expression darkened.

“You’ve just come from Castillia, Lady Vesna,” he said, briefly nodding toward the noblewoman. “So you can imagine—they were practically at our gates.”

He took a long sip from his goblet before finishing the thought. “With war swelling across the continent, Rudolf Arco rose quickly in the ranks out of necessity. Conevico, with its access to supplies and transit lines, became a vital military hub. He went from quartermaster to military governor. That was when the Arco family became vassals directly under the Emperor of Kings—the Caesar of Romagnia.”

"That sounds like a mixed blessing," Vesna remarked. "Your family was elevated to imperial nobility, but in exchange, the war was everywhere—and you had to shoulder a greater share of the conflict."

"For certain," Heinrik agreed. "The Romagnian Empire was seeking to use the war as a chance to expand on every front. Just as the elves were. And Sehlaria, of course." The marshal gave a nod, then added, "Castillia was still an independent kingdom at the time. And all three nations, Romagnia, Sehlaria and Elentárië were circling it like ravenous dogs. They were our allies, but… how should I put it?"

Eirina spoke next, her tone reflective. "They appreciated the help, but didn’t feel they owed it to anyone to become a vassal. I imagine that was Lothar’s position too, when the same situation befell them."

Vesna nodded in agreement. "Absolutely. When the Romagnian Empire declared its intention to reunify Balandaria and re-establish the First Kingdom, they called upon Neustria, Albion, and Maldavia to honor their treaties of alliance. But—"

She gave a wry smile as she leans back in her chair before continuing. "They refused. I suppose they foresaw the threat Romagnia would become later down the line and decided not to take part. Wasn't long before, the Three-Crown Concordat was formed. Those three kingdoms united in protest against Romagnian expansion."

Cassius added with a thoughtful nod, "Albion led that coalition, especially after their schism with the Temple. Arch-Cleric Gregorius III of the Romagnian Orthodox Temple was far too eager to apply old precedents of crusades—particularly against Albion, because of their alliances with the Fey. The wounds from the previous age were still too fresh. They weren’t about to let the Temple reassert control over their lands."

Rubehrt scoffed lightly but nodded all the same. "It’s not an easy thing, letting a foreign nation keep their thumb on you for generations. But—" He gave a pointed look to Eirina, raising his wine chalice. "Your queens gave us little choice in those days, with how they ruled."

Eirina did not flinch from the criticism. "Yes. The Dawn Elves were the worst perpetrators, and the High Elves—who claimed dominion over all elvenkind—did nothing. Worse… we suspect some of them secretly participated in the barbarities. It remains a shameful time in our history."

Heinrik leaned forward slightly. "Why did the Dawn Elves take humans for slaughter and sacrifice? That was the root of it, wasn’t it? But then the retaliation—"

The high elves declared that humans must be enslaved for their own good. That I cannot fathom."

Eirina looked a mix of troubled and thoughtful, her finger pressed lightly against the rim of her wineglass.
“Do you want the elvish account of the reason... or the more sensible one?”

Cassius interlaced his fingers and rested them on his lap.
“Wouldn’t hurt to look through both sides of the lens.”

Eirina sighed, tilting her head back slightly as she leaned into her seat.
“The Dawn Elves claimed it was our sun goddess, Solariel, who spurred them into their anti-human crusade. This came in response to the discrimination, enslavement, and pogroms committed against elvenkind under her watchful gaze. Solariel governs much of what the Chantry attributes to the sun—light, the day—but also searing justice and inflamed vengeance. She’s often seen as the goddess who blesses harvests for the virtuous and burns fields of chaff for those who live sinfully.”

She paused to take a long draught from her goblet before continuing.

“It’s not uncommon for elves to offer sacrifices to her. Sometimes, it’s animals—meant as acts of penitence, a way to soften Solariel’s hot-blooded nature with the gentle offering of blood. But...”

“That’s already quite traditional,” Vesna said, raising her brows. “But going from animals to humans is quite a leap.”

The nobles around the table murmured quiet agreement, watching the elven ambassador carefully.

“Yes,” Eirina admitted. “And they went further than anyone expected. According to the Orthodox Elven Chantry at the time, Solariel’s contempt for humanity’s disregard of elven life pushed the belief that humans were chaff to be separated from the wheat. That true penitence could only be earned through human sacrifice—willing or not.”

She met their gazes squarely, no hint of evasion in her voice.

“The High Elves and the Dawn Elves spearheaded the movement, yes. But it wasn’t unanimous. Sea Elves, Wood Elves—many among us opposed it. Still, the High Elves pressed on, preaching that humanity had descended into decadence and purposeless barbarity. That humans needed to be shackled and made obedient for the coming age. The Dawn Elves descended from the skies and... as you Lotharians know all too well—”

She turned to Rubehrt and Heinrik, both of whom looked grim.

“Families were enslaved. The defenseless suffered cruelty beyond description. What followed were scars—memories that never healed. Eventually, Lothar begged its Romagnian allies for aid. Thus began the Banner Wars.”

A heavy silence fell over the table until Cassius finally spoke.
“And... what was the elven perspective of this?”
Eirina looked down, her expression hard to read.

“The queens were dissatisfied with the state of Balandaria and their proximity to humanity. Even if we put aside the grievances of slavery and discrimination, elves live long lives. And long life tends to sour the spirit. The bitterness builds. Mortals—humans—live short lives. They lack the constitution to savor life’s full breadth, and so they become reckless, ambitious... or they chase fleeting pleasures.”

She looked up again, her tone quieter.

“I’m not as old as the queens of that time. But if I had to liken it to something, it would be this: imagine growing up in a world where most of Balandaria was ruled by unweaned children—who themselves were raised by other children, all of whom do terrible acts amongst each other with no hope of growing to be any better.”

“Terrifying,” Rubehrt muttered. “And yet, to do what they did—”

"On the contrary, Lord Rubehrt." Eirina professes, looking directly towards Rubhert. "It is actually because yours were a terrifying species in a more pragmatic sense amongst us elves. Humans have taken much land and in so short a time, expanded on it well. Short-sightedness can seem plenty childish to someone who lives their lives presuming events in the long-term simply because a mind tends to be too mired in paradox. It's been a blessing for you in a way I believe most elves would not want to admit. They believed they could outlive human ambition and that it would come crumbling down and that a time-weathered humanity could never stand against a time-resistant species such as ours. Something you and your kind were more than able to prove wrong."

Such a statement almost made Rubehrt chuckle and smile.
“Well, I suppose when you say it like that...” he murmured, letting the thought trail off—open to whatever interpretations his listeners might conjure. “But to answer your question about my lineage’s place in Conevico...” He straightened slightly, goblet in hand. “I presume you know the end of the Banner Wars was... chaotic, yes?”

Eirina nodded.
“Yes. Caesar Titus Damarxus invited the elven queens and the warring monarchs to his war camp for a summit—to negotiate peace, to free the enslaved humans, even to release the elves within his own empire. To stop the calamity. Our queen was among those who attended.” Her voice held a note of unease.

“Right.” Rubehrt gave a solemn nod. “The summit quickly devolved into a shouting match. Grievances traded like coin, double standards on full display. Hollow concessions. The usual politicking. Nothing was being resolved.”

He paused to sip from his goblet.

“It was only on the seventh day that... it happened.” His voice dropped. “Titus snapped. He drew his sword and struck the High Elven queen, Nelthia Mithrilas. Possessed, raving—he screamed obscenities and ordered his soldiers to kill the elves.”

Cassius’s brows drew together. He remembered this part well—from his studies in the Romagnian monasteries.
“There was a particular name he screamed, wasn’t there?”

Rubehrt nodded grimly.
“Satanael.”

The name alone was enough to make the wine in Cassius’s mouth turn sour. Satanael—a fallen celestial, the great betrayer. A malevolent spirit who once stood beside AVO, now the trickster and corrupter of mortals. His influence had given rise to the monstrous races across the eastern seas, in the dark empire of Alazar on the continent of Myrathis. There, his dominion festered, ever plotting against AVO and his divine order.

Rubehrt continued, his tone thick with memory.
“Titus screamed that devil’s name like it gave him the right—like he was invoking some ancient law to slaughter them in his stead. The High Elven queen didn’t survive. Yours,” he gestured toward Eirina with his chalice, “thankfully escaped. But many didn’t. A good portion of elven leadership died in that tent. The ones with the voice and strength to lead your people through peace.”

He looked down into his wine. “For a moment, it seemed humanity might gain the upper hand in the aftermath. But when Titus returned to the Romagnian capital... he was betrayed. Slain by his own imperial councilors.”

Eirina frowned at this. “This part confuses me greatly. Why would he do all of this? And why would his countrymen turn on him? He was by far one of humanity’s most competent generals—hailed as the brightest and most accomplished of his time, both as an ambassador and a leader.” She looked to Rubehrt, hoping for a human perspective—only for the lord to slam his chalice down upon the table, looking thoroughly stumped.

“No one knew!” Rubehrt exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Not even the Ordo Cleri—many among their congregation would’ve been happy to exorcise Titus of any foul corruption Satanael had inflicted, then throw him right back into the war!” He muttered, half to himself. “As for the councilors... I imagine they were none too pleased about losing power. Titus had stripped many of their ancestral rights and autonomy over their lands and households. And yet, they feared a counterattack from the elves on account of the summit—worse, a strike from the Three-Crown Concordat now that Titus was dead. With no written heir, no legal successor, Romagnia descended into disarray. Some say Satanael truly did possess Titus, just to sow chaos in the world.”

He paused, glancing at the others.
“But... strangely... it did—and then it didn’t.”

Henrik picked up where his uncle left off. “It was nearly a month after the summit when the elves surrendered their efforts at expansion. More than that—they gave up on the idea of an elven empire entirely.” He looked to Eirina, as if prompting her to explain what had driven that decision.

“That’s true,” Eirina confirmed with a nod. “We had... an unexpected insurrection within our own people. It led to a crisis of succession. Queen Nelthia Mithrilas had ruled for—gods, nearly since the end of the Age of Strife. Her sister, Elenaeil Mithrilas, now rules as Queen of the High Elves. But I like to believe that the better part of the elven people rose up and took power from those who would’ve wrought further harm on the world. It’s something I work to preserve... and carry forward.” She paused, then turned to Rubehrt. “But I believe we were discussing your lineage.”

“Ah, yes,” Rubehrt cleared his throat. “As Henrik said, the surrender came, and peace talks followed. With Titus murdered, and the war refocusing on Sehlaria—plus a revolution erupting on the Neustrian border—Lothar began to question its future as a vassal to an empire that was clearly falling apart.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes reflecting the firelight.

“The Arco family served with pride in the Romagnian Black Legions... married into Romagnian nobility... but we never forgot our roots in Lothar. We reclaimed the name, the culture, even the land—when independence was called for by Lothar’s First Grand Prince, Wilkas Nuremburg.”

A heavy silence followed his words.

“My ancestors betrayed their own comrades that day... but we fought for our land. We died for it. And for a time, we stood side by side with those same comrades. Those were better times.” He sighed. “But brother against brother... such things leave a bitter wisdom—for such sweet grapes.”

So, the Arco family had claimed their title and lands through an opportunistic act of independence—turning against a crumbling Romagnian Empire after using its strength to repel elven aggression. Cassius now understood the melancholy in the Arco legacy: a proud history marred by betrayal. Though justifiable in survival, the stain of divided loyalty would follow them in the eyes of future generations.

Eirina considered this, then stood with a faint smile. Raising her chalice toward Duke Rubehrt, she spoke in the old Imperio tongue:
“Vinum recens pro vino aceto.”
(Fresh wine for vinegar wine.)

Rubehrt blinked, unsure of the phrase, until Cassius chuckled softly and translated.
“Fresh wine for vinegar wine—although I suppose that’s just a poetic way to say: may what comes next be better than what has soured.”

A smile crept across Rubehrt’s face. He rose and raised his goblet to Eirina, who looked slightly embarrassed by her translation.
“Vinum recens... pro vino aceto,” he echoed.

They drank, sharing a small but symbolic toast.

The feast continued into the night, the wind howling stronger against the stonework of the castle. The rafters creaked overhead, and the shutters strained to hold back the storm. It wasn’t clear how much time had passed before the final dishes were cleared, the wine glasses emptied, and the laughter began to quiet. Duke Rubehrt finally stood, brushing down his tunic.

“I believe that will do for the evening, my friends.” he announced warmly. “Let’s call this feast concluded. There is much to do to make sure the city is tended, to keep the watch on alert to help anyone through the storm."

Vesna rose alongside Eirina, prompting Cassius to glance at them both before finishing his wine and standing as well. Vesna was the first to speak.

“Of course, Lord Duke. Thank you again for your hospitality. If there’s any way we can repay it, you need only ask.”

Eirina echoed the sentiment with a graceful bow, and Cassius followed suit, bowing with a respectful nod of his head.

Rubehrt and Henrik chuckled at Cassius’s modest and somewhat reluctant posture but returned the gesture warmly as the guests began to file out. Servants moved in swiftly, clearing away the remnants of the feast.

In the corridor beyond the dining hall, Vesna walked ahead with Eirina at her right and Cassius at her left. The long stretch of hall echoed softly with their footsteps. The noblewoman stretched her arms up high, arching her back before letting them drop back down to her sides with a deep sigh.

“Haaaah~!” Vesna yawned, then smirked over her shoulder. “Maybe I owe you an apology, Cassius. Looks like you handled that nicely.”

Eirina looked rather surprised. “I never would’ve thought Rubehrt was a man of such consideration after today... though the night is still young, as you humans say.”

“Me? Are you talking about what happened in the throne room?” Cassius asked, curious.

“Of course, you dense head!” Vesna grinned. “You set the table perfectly for Eirina to do what ambassadors do best—soothe tempers. Maybe you missed your calling in diplomacy and etiquette.”

“I’m not sure,” Eirina mused. “Being raised in a monastery must have gutted the pride and masculinity out of the good prior for him to handle things in such a calm and measured way.” Her words earned a slight wince from Cassius. “But as you know, sweet words and quick thinking are nothing without a good heart—and for that, I do thank you.” She paused to bow her head in gratitude.

Cassius felt uncertain how to respond. He lived humbly and did his work without expectation of praise. “…Yes, well. Hopefully, once you make it out of Lothar, your road—and your daughter’s—will be less troubled.”

“Ah, while we’re on the subject,” Eirina said, looking between Vesna and Cassius. “Do you mind if I travel with your pilgrimage caravan? My daughter and I would be no burden, but my armed escorts were killed or captured. I can’t afford to wait for a new detachment.”

Cassius barely had time to process the request before Vesna cut in decisively.

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling at Eirina before looking to Cassius. He was caught between concern and hesitation—yet couldn’t help but be drawn into agreement by Vesna’s decisiveness.

“We should inform Ser Reickart,” Cassius said cautiously. “It’s his retinue, and he’s in charge of security.”

“Well, rest assured,” Vesna replied, spinning lightly on her heel, “your good-natured initiative inspired me to act. So, blame no one but yourself.”

Cassius followed along, glancing at Eirina beside him. “That’s all well and good, but Reickart might appreciate a forewarning.”

“We’ll tell him—after the snowstorm passes,” Vesna replied matter-of-factly. “If you want to search the city in this weather to find him, be my guest. I have confidence he won’t mind. He’s a pious knight, after all, whatever concerns he might burden himself with.”

“I’m rather inclined to agree with Cassius,” Eirina added with a faint sigh. “But I suppose we’ll see come the morrow.”

At last, they reached the corridor where their private quarters had been arranged. Cassius stepped forward and knocked twice on the door before opening it. Inside, the warm amber glow of the hearth lit the room gently. Magirou sat beside the young twins, who lay snuggled atop the bed, their heads resting against pillows. The elf girl sat upright, her posture dreamy and still.

“Ah, the little ones tuckered themselves out,” Vesna observed.

Eirina moved past the others and gently approached the bed. She sat on the foot of it, placing a calming hand on Magirou’s thigh. The elfling stirred and blinked open her eyes, surprised to see everyone watching her.

“It’s time for bed, little leaf,” Eirina said softly.

Magirou rubbed her eyes and stood. The two elves left the room quietly. Vesna turned to Cassius, hands on her hips.

“Mind if I take the little ones off your hands for the night?” she asked with a friendly smile.

“Feeling homesick and motherly now all of a sudden?” Cassius replied with a slight smirk and a nod. “Sure. I could use a quiet evening to gather my thoughts.”

“Grand.” Vesna stepped over to the bed, scooping the children into her arms and carrying them to their cradle basket. She tucked them in gently, folding the corners of the comforter over their small frames. “By the way, assuming we can even leave the castle tomorrow, I’ll need to head to the market to arrange supplies for the caravan.”

“What about you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“I suppose I’ll attend morning service at the chapel,” Cassius said thoughtfully. “I’d like to browse the Ordo Luminary’s archives as well… assuming I can avoid the frost.”

“Well,” Vesna said, rising with the basket in her arms, “thanks to your gamble, we’ll be doing that more comfortably than most.”

With a soft curtsy and a final smile, she carried the twins out and gently closed the door behind her, leaving Cassius alone to finally turn in for the night.

??? -- Castle Conevico -- Night of 4th Wehnsdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The snowstorm shrouded the city of Conevico in shadow, the blizzard blanketing the streets and rooftops beneath the heavy clouds. From the darkness of the castle courtyard, a cloaked figure emerged, twirling a tri-clawed grappling hook in a practiced hand before hurling it upward. The hooked piton arced through the air and latched onto the top of the battlements with a metallic clink.

Gripping the rope tightly, the figure leapt and began scaling the castle wall. As a patrol passed near the palisade above, the intruder swiftly unhooked the grappling line from the battlement’s viewing niche and tucked it into a satchel.

Without hesitation, the cloaked figure rushed along the wall walk, arriving at a side door that led into the castle’s interior. With a quick glance over the shoulder, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

The private quarters beyond were sparsely guarded, save for a few maidservants carrying firewood or sweeping soot and snow from the carpets. Keeping to the shadows, the hooded stranger moved silently, each step carefully placed to avoid detection. He carried himself as though he belonged—but made every effort to go unnoticed.

He reached the guest chambers and tested one of the doors. Locked. A quick glance left and right preceded the emergence of a small set of tools from his satchel. He selected a lockpick and knelt, working with precision until the lock gave a faint click.

The door creaked open with a cautious push.

Inside, the noblewoman Vesna lay asleep, curled protectively around the children she had brought with her. The intruder eased the door shut—but left it just shy of the latch—and crept slowly toward the bedside.

His eyes moved from the sleeping noblewoman to the children, then to the wicker basket resting beside them. Something about it gave him pause. With frustration flashing across his features, he crouched low and placed a gloved hand over the basket’s lid. He whispered, “Detego.”

A soft light bloomed from his palm.

The glow bathed the basket's surface, which began to shimmer, silver luster surfacing beneath the woven disguise. The humble wicker flickered with hidden radiance as the enchantment reacted—revealing the truth of its craftsmanship.

The intruder stiffened.

His gaze darted to the children. The light from his hand winked out as his fingers slowly reached for the dagger sheathed beneath his cloak.

For a tense moment, violence seemed certain.
But then... something changed.

His hand hovered at the dagger’s hilt, trembling with indecision. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he let it fall away. His shoulders sagged. A quiet exhale escaped him. He turned toward the door in an attempt to make a quick exit.

Just then, the doorhandle began to shift.

The intruder's eyes widened—then narrowed—as the door was pulled closed again from the other side with a thump.

A maid’s voice rang faintly through the door. “Wind’s picking up, girls. Make sure all the doors are locked.”

Her footsteps echoed down the hall and faded.

The stranger let out a breath of silent relief and glanced over his shoulder. Vesna stirred, shifting slightly under the covers. One of the children murmured softly in their sleep. He froze—but neither woke.

After one last moment of stillness, the cloaked figure pressed his ear to the door. Hearing nothing beyond, he slipped the lock, opened the door just enough to slip through, and disappeared into the darkened corridors of the castle.

Behind him, the silver luster faded from the basket. Its radiant gleam receded, layer by layer, until it resumed its unassuming wicker form—as if its true nature had never been revealed at all.

Sebastian -- Castle Conevico -- Morning, 5th Tihrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The day after their first night in the castle was a most uneventful droll of lollygagging. The snowstorm winds were still howling, carrying with them enough snowfall to trap most of Conevico’s residents inside their homes. Any attempts to clear the streets quickly became a futile effort, as the snow piled into great white walls, turning the city into a labyrinth for its own citizens. The city guard had to be roused to redirect the civilian effort, carving out key paths through the snowbanks and clearing the city gate to allow weary travelers refuge within the walls.

Vesna had braved the bitter, desolate cold that morning to arrange the purchase of supplies for the caravan’s departure the next day. By the time she returned, she was a frigid, soaking-wet mess—though thankfully, her comforts by the fireplace were already prepared by the ever-pompous chamberlain, Liebehrt.

The adults spoke at length about the journey ahead: their destination east toward Theleto, and from there onward to Neustria and the City of Lycaron. During this, Eirina excused herself from the castle—now that they were in civilization, she needed to send correspondence to her queendom. A visit to the scribe’s house was necessary to inform her superiors of recent events... though this would occur under the watchful eye of Lord Rubehrt. She was trusted—but not without verification.

Back in the guest quarters, Sebastian spent the next few hours atop Cassius’s bed, hands stretched out in imitation of the magic Magirou had shown him. She sat beside him, watching with fascination and encouragement.

“The word is Nestalë, little Seb! Nestalë! Come on, you can do it!” Magirou cheered, clapping her hands to spur him on. Sebastian flustered with frustration, trying to form the word—only to tumble forward, catching himself with his palms on the mattress.

Vesna, seated on the floor with Niall cradled in her lap, gently smoothed the boy’s cheeks as she watched the scene play out. A smile tugged at her lips. “Human children can’t conjure magic the way elven children can, little Magirou,” she chided gently. “And I don’t think a human’s first word is going to be in Elvish.”

Cassius smiled from his desk, where he had been writing in his journal while awaiting the snow’s end... hopefully in time for their scheduled departure. Magirou sighed in defeat at Vesna’s comment.

“That might be true, but... it’s all Seb wants to do ever since I cast that spell on Niall. He was really fascinated by it,” Magirou explained.

Cassius chuckled, rising from his chair and kneeling beside the bed next to Vesna. He reached out to pat Niall’s head, then looked to Sebastian. “Fascinating glowing lights always dazzle a child’s eyes. That’s probably why he wants to learn magic,” he said. “But as you know, magic isn’t something that’s gifted to everyone. Not everyone can become a great wizard—or be blessed by the gods, like a cleric.”

Magirou let out a thoughtful sigh, then turned to Cassius. “That’s not quite the case for us elves. We’re naturally predisposed to magic... unlike everyone else. Although, that is true—Seb isn’t an elf.” Her cheeks puffed in disappointment.

“Well, you never know. He might be a sorcerer,” Cassius said with a grin.

Magirou blinked. “Wait, what’s the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer? Aren’t they the same thing?” she asked, arms crossed. Meanwhile, Sebastian was back on his feet, hands extended in another dramatic attempt to conjure something—again, with no success.

“Ah, well,” Cassius began, “to put it simply: a wizard learns magic through study and training. It’s an academic pursuit, and they can learn a wide range of spells. Clerics like me, on the other hand, don’t learn spells—we’re granted divine power by our gods. Sorcerers don’t learn magic like wizards either, but for a different reason.”

“Okay... but why call Sebastian a sorcerer?” Magirou asked, tilting her head.

Cassius looked at the boy, who now clenched and unclenched his tiny fists with exaggerated focus. “A sorcerer inherits their magical gifts. It’s either in their blood—passed down from some powerful ancestor—or born of a transformative event that altered their body in some way. Unlike wizards, they don’t study magic. They feel it. It comes through intuition. And when it does awaken... it can be very potent.”

Magirou’s eyes lit up. “Stronger magic? So a sorcerer could beat a wizard in a magic duel?” she asked eagerly.

Cassius and Vesna both laughed.

“That’s a debate as old as magic itself,” Cassius said. “There have been countless duels between sorcerers, wizards, druids, clerics—even warlocks—over who wields the most powerful discipline. But there’s no clear answer. Each has their strengths. People are gifted differently when they come into the world. That can be both a blessing... and a curse.”

“Oh! That makes sense now!” Magirou exclaimed. “Like the Albion legend! Merlin and Morgan le Fay! That kind of rivalry!”

“Exactly,” Vesna nodded. “Merlin was a heroic wizard; Morgan was a powerful sorceress, ambitious and eager to harness the power of the Fey.”

Magirou beamed, catching Sebastian just as he toppled again and settling him into her lap. “Those stories are always the best. I want to be my own Morgan le Fay—powerful through my own efforts!”

Cassius gave her a wry smile. “Goodness. Your mother ought to keep an eye on you.” He stood up, brushing his robe. “I’m heading to the kitchens for a quick bite. Do either of you want something from the pantry?”

Magirou shook her head. Vesna looked toward him with a thoughtful expression.

“Not me, personally... But by the way—did you accidentally waltz into my room last night?” she asked with a tilt of her head.

“Huh? No, not at all,” Cassius replied, brows raised. “If anything, I wouldn’t have left my bed if a chain leash had dragged me out—it was freezing.”

“Hm.” Vesna shrugged. “Ah well.” She adjusted Niall so his head rested beneath her chin and tickled his sides, drawing a giggle. “Probably just the maids. I heard them outside after the door shut.”

Cassius gave her a curious glance, but hunger quickly won out over suspicion. With a nod, he turned and left the room—leaving the girls to tend to their infant charges.

Cassius -- Castle Conevico -- Midday, 5th Tihrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The monk hugged the folds of his thick woolen robe closer as he made his way through the corridor toward the kitchens. The castle’s old stone bones creaked under the wind’s pressure. Fire sconces guttered behind oiled glass, casting flickering light along the stone floors. Despite the deep interior, the foyer was not spared the cold—the grand entrance doors were built more for grandeur than insulation.

He passed into the wide circular antechamber and was just about to descend the stairwell toward the servants’ wing when the main door slammed open with a loud thud.

Cassius halted mid-step as a gust of snow-laden air rushed into the hall, slapping against tapestries and tugging at his sleeves. A flurry of frost followed the newcomer—Eirina—now stomping snow from her heeled boots and violently shaking her traveling cloak with no concern for the fine rug beneath her.

"That pompous, poxy-faced rat-fucker of a man," Eirina muttered, breathless and irritated, brushing snow off her shoulders with an agitated sweep. "Honestly, if he calls me 'your Radiant Eminence' one more time, I will hex his tongue to freeze to the roof of his mouth. It'd be an improvement for that creep—and no one would be any the wiser. Maybe even a relief."

She stomped once more, turning—only to see Cassius standing there, several feet away, half-turned in shock, caught in a moment between greeting and disbelief.

Eirina froze. Her pupils widened slightly, snowflakes still melting in her lashes.

Cassius could only blink. A beat passed in which only the howling wind seemed to break the silence.

“…Well,” Cassius finally said, struggling to suppress a laugh, “that’s a passion fit for a pulpit. But a little lacking in prose and manners.”

Eirina closed her eyes and sighed, clearly trying to steady herself after the emotional outburst. She looked upward, lips tightening before letting out a breath of surrender. She turned and closed the door behind her, resting her back against the wooden frame.

“I thought I was alone,” she muttered, by way of excuse.

Cassius raised his hand with a soft chuckle, stepping toward her. “Let’s just carry on as if you were. But I must admit—you wear a much more elegant mask than I do. Or so I thought.”

Eirina glanced over Cassius’s shoulder toward the interior doors warily. “Do you think anyone else heard?”

Cassius tilted his head. “With that storm blowing outside? Not unless one of the statues grew ears.” He gave her a warm smile. “That aside, welcome back.”

She returned the smile with faint embarrassment, rubbing warmth back into her arms. “Thank you. My visit to the scribe’s house took longer than expected—your city is a frigid maze. You’re lucky to be tucked away indoors. A castle, of all things. Thankfully, there’s an effort to keep the people warm. The guards are providing firewood reserves.”

"Ah, good," Cassius said with relief, glad the less fortunate members of his caravan were receiving help amid the blizzard. “Well, I was headed to the kitchen to do something about my stomach’s most impassioned complaints,” he added, motioning to the hallway. “Would you like me to fetch something for you from the pantry? Maybe something hot from the oven—you must be freezing.”

Eirina arched a brow, then shrugged off the remainder of her cloak with a dramatic sweep, shaking off one final clump of snow. “I’ll walk with you. After Liebehrt’s endless procession of courtesy phrases, I could use the company of someone who doesn’t speak like a soggy wet pillow full of air.”

Cassius laughed, gesturing ahead. “Well... for what company someone like myself can offer you—I’m rather anxious to share our experience in Lotharian cuisine. Though I suspect a kitchen might be an entirely different dancefloor than you’re used to.”

“Then we are headed to the noblest place in the castle,” she quipped, falling into step beside him, cloak trailing behind as the two vanished down the corridor into warmth and the smell of baked bread.

The heavy stone walls soon narrowed into a cozier corridor, lit by low sconces and warmed by the gradual scent of hearth smoke, roast meats, and lentils. The deeper they went, the warmer the stone floors felt beneath their boots.

Eirina walked beside Cassius, her long green hair still beaded with the last glimmers of melting snow. She was uncharacteristically quiet at first, glancing at him sidelong with a tilt of her head as though weighing something silently. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but clear.

“Your accent,” she said. “It’s familiar... Neustrian? No—something else. Like Neustrian with too much gravel and sandpaper in it.”

Cassius smiled as they rounded a bend. “Close. It’s Romagnian. Or—was.” He rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. “My family’s Romagnian by birth. I grew up in a little hill village just outside Altarium, the old capital. Lived there most of my life before the adventuring bug bit me.”

Eirina’s brow rose slightly. “Really? I would have assumed you were Maldavian, given your manner. You don’t speak like most Romagnians I’ve met—none of that theatrical bravado.”

Cassius gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “That’s because I was raised by a blacksmith and a governess. My father’s harshness, but my mother’s discipline.”

“Oh?” Eirina’s interest sharpened. “Do tell.”

“My father, Lucian, was a smith,” he said, hands behind his back now as they walked. “Honest work—built gates and horseshoes most days. But he had a quiet artistry to him. He loved shaping iron as though it had a will of its own—like he wasn’t hammering it into form but coaxing it there. Said the difference between a weapon and a tool was never in the steel... but in the hands that bore it.”

"I guess if you were boiling your brains over a fire, something profound would have to fall out from it," Eirina quipped, Cassius laughing at her observation.

“And your mother?” she asked, a touch gentler now.

Cassius’s voice softened. “Seraphine. She worked in the city—Altarium. Served as a governess to a merchant family, sometimes nobility if she could get a good post. She was clever. Quietly fierce. Taught me to read far before the monasteries got their claws in me. Taught half the bumpkin children in our village how to speak without chewing their own tongues.”

“Taking care of so many children, and as a job? She sounds formidable,” Eirina said with genuine admiration.

“She had to be,” he replied, nodding. “Romagnia’s not kind to educated women who don’t belong to high blood. She carved a place out for herself with nothing but ink, manners, and grit.”

They passed a pair of scullery maids lugging firewood. Cassius greeted them with a warm nod. The younger of the two blushed, bobbed a curtsy, and hurried on.

“You seem proud of them,” Eirina said after a pause.

“I am,” he admitted. “We had little, but they gave me everything they could. When I set out as an adventurer, it wasn’t to escape—it was to do something with what they’d given me. I think that’s why I started adventuring. I thought I’d bring good into the world, with my hands and my words.”

Eirina looked at him thoughtfully, one of her arms folded lightly across her chest.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked. “Home?”

Cassius was quiet for a moment as they turned down the final hallway toward the kitchen. The warmth hit them stronger here—a wave of fresh bread, onions, and grease from a recent roast wafting through a cracked door.

“…Sometimes,” he admitted at last. “But I’ve come to realize that ‘home’ is just another word for wherever your purpose takes root. And right now, mine seems to be stuck in the snow with two newborns, a noblewoman I have to babysit, and an elf who curses like my father when the hammer strikes his thumb. Sort of feels like I never left.”

Eirina cracked a toothy smile, mixing a scoff with a laugh. A hand rose to cover her mouth.

“You tell anyone I said that,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully, “I will freeze your tongue to your spine.”

Cassius raised his hands in surrender. “Noted. Tongue. Spine. Frozen. You can consider it already frozen as far as I'm concerned.”

They both smiled as Cassius opened the thick wooden door, and the warmth struck them like a thrown quilt. The kitchen beyond buzzed like a hive—steam rising from bubbling pots, knives rhythmically tapping against worn wooden boards, and the sharp scent of sea salt and rendered fat tangling in the air with baking herbs.

Eirina blinked at the sudden change in atmosphere, then stepped through with an almost childlike curiosity.

The kitchen’s head cook—an aproned woman with arms like kneaded dough and a ladle that could have doubled as a cudgel—barked instructions in the Lotharian dialect, directing her kitchen hands like a general at war. One scullery boy darted past with a tray of chopped fennel, another with a bottle of vinegar syrup.

And in the center of it all, shimmering on cast iron skillets and sizzling atop slate slabs, was the centerpiece of the midday meal: Krakenpfanne mit Speckglasur und Blütenküchlein.

Cassius’s nose twitched as he tried to read the signature dish’s name but ultimately drew a blank. His Lotharian vocabulary was rusty, though Eirina looked rather thoughtful at the words.

“Conevico’s signature dish,” the head cook declared upon seeing their reaction. “Kraken pan-seared in garlic oil, glazed with candied bacon, served with zucchini flower fritters dusted in sea salt and cornmeal.”

“Candied... bacon?!” Cassius repeated, looking rather bizarrely at such a suggestion.

“Quite so. We were lucky—we managed to get the latest catch before that snowstorm set in. Everything’s fresh and neatly prepared. We could prepare you both servings if you’d like,” she offered.

Eirina tilted her head, watching one of the cooks fan out the vibrant blossoms like golden origami. Her eyes savored the view thoughtfully. “Fried blossoms…” she murmured. “Now that, I could find room for.” She glanced at the squid sizzling in its pan and added, “The rest I’ll treat as... cultural research.”

Cassius grinned. “We’ll call it diplomatic sampling.”

They didn’t linger long. After a brief conversation with one of the kitchen hands—Cassius placing an order for two servings of the signature dish—they were told it would be just a few moments while the dough rested for their fritters. They left with the promise of two steaming plates to be sent to the guest dining room.

The room where they had once dined with Lord Rubehrt now felt quite changed in the daylight hours. The torches and banners remained. The fire in the hearth was maintained as though it were still the hour of the wolf, casting flickers of amber across the flagstones. Most of the long tables stood vacant, save for the occasional castle retainer or traveler hunched over their bowls, shoulders stiff from the cold.

Cassius and Eirina entered side by side, their footsteps softer here. The air smelled of cloves and lemon rind—leftovers from spiced tea being poured into pewter cups.

They selected a quieter corner table near the hearth. Eirina gracefully slid into her seat, setting her gloves on the table and crossing one leg over the other with practiced elegance.

“I must admit,” she said, rubbing her hands together for warmth, “I was expecting salted root mash and stewed oats. Not exotic cephalopods and candied bacon.”

Cassius smirked as he took his seat opposite. “Conevico’s a port city. If it doesn’t swim or climb rocks, it’s probably not on the menu. That, and despite their rugged nature, perhaps Lothar does have a sophisticated culture all to itself,” he mused, to which Eirina conceded with a nod.

The two glanced toward the kitchen doors, where bursts of warmth and the occasional clang of pots signaled the castle’s cooks hard at work. Cassius turned back to Eirina, his voice casual but curious.

“So. You’ve heard my humble beginnings—a blacksmith’s son and a scholar’s shadow.” He folded his hands on the table. “But what about you? What’s the life of a Gladeleaf diplomat like?”

Eirina lifted a brow at the question but didn’t flinch. Instead, she folded her hands primly in her lap and answered with practiced ease. “It’s precisely as boring and political as you imagine it. I’m the second daughter of the Gladeleaf Line—wood elven, mind you, not high elven, before you ask.”

“What do you mean?” Cassius inquired.

“Ah-hah.” Eirina nodded knowingly. “I forget—you’re human. You don’t reproduce the same way we do... Elves are born as a byproduct of the environment we spend our development in from the moment of conception,” she explained. “If an elf’s mother spends her time in the forests, they produce wood elves like me. In places of great magical power, they produce high elves. So on, so on.”

Cassius nodded along with the logic. “Ah yes. I recall now,” he said. “That must be rather jarring—having a child of a different caliber of species in your own family.”

“It’s not as uncommon as you might think. For certain, when our women conceive a child, we are kept in the same realm as our families beforehand to maintain our elven identities—but you know yourself, the world is vast, and not everything is certain,” Eirina replied, watching him with a scholar’s interest.

“We’re a family known in Elentárië for our pedigree in diplomacy and lawfare. Treaties, charters, trade disputes. The usual tedium. I was always considered the more... dependable child.”

“Your older sister was not?” Cassius ventured.

Eirina gave a quiet, unladylike snort. “Sirael is the firstborn. Brilliant, glamorous, infuriating. She was raised to charm entire courts and command attention with a flick of her braid. But she’s... impulsive. So when things fall apart—when her speeches outpace her judgment or her cleverness catches fire—I’m the one sent to untangle the mess.”

Cassius began to understand, responding with a nod. “And you were sent abroad because your family trusts your restraint.”

“Not... exactly, though I suppose that's part of it,” she said, though her tone was not without edge. “I’ve spent the last century mending strained alliances, calming wounded egos, and finding ways to say ‘no’ without anyone realizing they’ve been denied. And still, at home, Sirael is the one they toast at festivals. You begin to realize—no matter what you do—you'll always be overshadowed by tradition and precedent."

Servants arrived to offer Cassius and Eirina water, cider, or wine while they waited in anticipation of their meal. They both elected to enjoy the cider and were handed goblets before the staff quietly departed.

Cassius mused aloud, leaning back slightly. “Different world, same story. The ones who hold things together are always standing just offstage.”

Eirina glanced at him, something soft flickering in her gaze before she hid it behind a sip of cider. “Perhaps that’s why we get along, monk. Babysitting the Lady Vesna must be the same way.”

The monk gave it some thought, then waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, in that regard, she can have first place all she wants. If ever I want to come home with my hide intact, I'm happy riding the back of the saddle.”

“My condolences,” Eirina said, her tone balanced between humor, apology... and something warmer, more contemplative.

They lapsed into a companionable silence, bound by mutual understanding. Just as the warmth of the hearth had begun to lull them into quiet reflection, the kitchen doors creaked open with a gust of savory steam and motion. Two attendants entered bearing wide, covered platters—followed by a third balancing a dark glass bottle in each hand.

Cassius and Eirina turned toward the commotion just as the servers reached their table, one bowing slightly.

“Compliments of His Grace, Duke Rubehrt,” said the older of the two, setting a carved wooden tray between them. “Krakenpfanne mit Speckglasur und Blütenküchlein. Paired with a vintage mead from the Duke’s winter reserve. He hopes the journey ahead tastes a little sweeter for it.”

With a fluid gesture, the lid was lifted—and a wisp of steam unfurled like a ribbon from the tray.

Cassius’s brows lifted at the sight. “Saints above.”

Laid before them was a gleaming arrangement of seared squid tentacles—each charred slightly at the tips, glistening with lemon-garlic oil and faint wisps of fresh dill. Nestled beside them were clusters of diced bacon, dark with caramelization and lacquered with a honeyed glaze that gave off a gentle sweetness against the brine of the squid.

At the center of the platter, like a crown, sat a ring of crisped zucchini flower fritters—delicate, golden, and curled in on themselves like sun-withered blossoms, dusted with a touch of sea salt.

The mead came last, poured with reverence into carved horn-handled goblets. Its scent was floral and sharp, with a finish of dried fruit and something faintly spiced—ginger, perhaps.

Eirina blinked at the plate, more specifically at the squid, then looked to Cassius. “Is this a meal or a dare?”

Cassius gave a low chuckle. “Lotharian food always looks like it might fight you back.” Still, he reached first—using knife and fork to gather a cluster of squid, bacon, and fritter into a single mouthful. “But it’s worth the risk.”

Eirina eyed the zucchini blossom fritters with more interest than suspicion. “The flowers are beautiful,” she said, plucking one gently, as if handling a relic. She took a tentative bite—and her brows rose in visible surprise. “Crisp on the outside, soft in the center. Garlic... thyme?” She gave a thoughtful hum. “I didn’t expect this to be so good.”

“You say that like you thought we humans only recently discovered fire,” Cassius teased.

“I’ve simply never seen such love applied to something so... squishy.” She gestured to the squid with a pointed look. “...I have to admit, it’s my first time trying squid.”

Cassius blinked at her—then, unexpectedly, an entirely different question slipped out. “Just how old are you, exactly?”

Eirina looked momentarily shocked, then glanced off to the side. “That’s rather out of the blue to ask, don’t you think?”

“Well, your kind doesn’t age the way we do. You’re a world-trotting diplomat—and a mother—so I have to wonder: is it the vegetarian preference, or are you just a picky eater?”

“It’s... true, we can eat anything,” Eirina admitted, grabbing another flower fritter and munching it. “I’m just partial to produce. And bread, of course.”

She paused for effect. “And while I am three hundred and twenty-two years old, that doesn’t mean I have the table manners of a child.”

Cassius blinked again. Three hundred and twenty-two. He had no real idea what that meant in elven terms—this wasn’t like comparing a human to a dog or a cat. He was out of his depth.

“My apologies. I’m almost thirty myself,” he said, chuckling as he sliced into the bacon with fork and knife. “I was thinking like a human—judging by our experiences.”

He popped a bite in his mouth, chewed, and grunted with satisfaction. “Mmrh~! Good stuff.”

Eirina sighed but surrendered to the peer pressure, trying a piece of the caramelized bacon. She chewed slowly, then nodded with quiet approval.

“It’s good. Mmm,” she muttered. “I suppose I’ll need to try the squid next to see how well it all pairs.”

Together, Cassius and Eirina sampled the squid tentacle cutlets—Cassius savoring every bite, and even Eirina showing a surprising delight at the taste.

“Oh goodness!” Eirina exclaimed, brightening in a way that startled the monk.

“Ah! Discovered something you liked?” Cassius asked, grinning.

“It’s the lemon! It’s my favorite fruit,” she declared, quickly carving another piece. “...It’s very chewy too. There’s a lot to savor—the sugar, the salt, the sea.” She hummed thoughtfully.

“As a Romagnian, I’m partial to seafood myself,” Cassius said. “The Aeducan Sea is full of fish like this—squid, halibut, oysters, scallops. I’m rather partial to eel.”

Eirina stopped chewing. She looked at him with flat disapproval.
“And there you’ve lost me. Eel?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“What’s with that look? You were glowing like a birthday girl over squid, but eel is where you draw the line?” Cassius asked, feigning offense.

“I’ll wait another three centuries before I try another rubbery, slimy, greasy fish, thank you very much,” Eirina said dryly.

The two laughed, and for a while, the world outside—its wars, politics, and cold—melted away into the simple pleasure of shared food and firelight.

Vesna -- Castle Conevico -- Evening, 5th Tihrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The light outside the castle dimmed into violet shadow, snow still drifting like powdered silk down the narrow alleys and spired rooftops of the old stone city. Inside the great hall, music and warmth thrummed with life once more.

The dinner feast had begun.

Tapestries along the walls now glowed with amber light, and the long tables were dressed anew with roasted meats, candied roots, and dark winter wines. Nobles and guests murmured and laughed, their faces flushed with drink, voices echoing into the arched wooden beams above.

But Vesna stepped quietly away.

Her leather shoes made little sound across the flagstones as she slipped through the tall side doors into the old throne room, where shadows reigned once more.

The fire in the hearth burned low, offering a dim red pulse across the floor. The walls stood hushed, the windows shuttered tight against the storm still whispering outside. And in that solitude—silent but for the creak of firewood—stood Duke Rubehrt Arco.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, broad shoulders lit by the flicker of the hearth’s glow, facing the elevated seat of power. The throne itself was modest by Lotharian standards—no gem-encrusted monstrosity—but carved of oak, iron-bound, with the family sigil of the vine and spear cresting its back.

Vesna paused at the edge of the hall, watching him. His profile was stern, contemplative—his gaze locked on the empty chair, as if waiting for it to speak.

She took a breath and stepped forward gently. “My lord... is everything well?”

Rubehrt didn’t turn to her immediately. Instead, he spoke in a voice that sounded like it had waited all evening to leave his throat.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the throne, “when you look upon that seat... do you see yourself sitting there?”

He paused, then continued—his voice low, heavy with something unspoken.

“Do you see the people who supported you, cheering you on? And the ones who sneered, who wished for your failure... on their knees, lamenting their lot in life?”

Vesna stood still for a moment, caught between answering and deciphering. There was no sarcasm in his tone. No bitterness. Whether the question was rhetorical or not was its own kind of challenge.

She glanced at the throne, giving it her own moment of thought. Her husband had owned much of the land in Neustria, his vassals were many, and life at court was hard enough without the constant clashes between families. There were times she worried he had taken on too great a burden for them both.

“Given the state of my husband most days,” she said gently, “I think to ask for anything more would be a curse on us both.” She offered a faint, knowing smile. “The seat I occupy is tiresome enough without needing a crown to go with it.”

Rubehrt gleaned something from her words and finally turned his gaze toward her. “A throne, you say? ... From what noble family do you hail again?”

Vesna raised her hands with a small, dismissive wave. “Vesna de Lessay. House of Lessay,” she said. “My lineage is minor. And even then, my family of birth were huntsmen.”

The Duke’s expression shifted—surprised, but impressed.

“Ah. Noble through marriage. Still... a family of huntsmen isn’t far seperated from the gentry. And even then—you’ve done rather well for yourself.”

“I’ve been fortunate to have a husband I truly love,” Vesna said with quiet candor. “Such is our lot in life.” She glanced toward the seat of power once more. “You ask if I could ever see myself upon such a throne?” Her gaze lingered, thoughtful. “…I think within a month, I’d rip out all my hair, screaming until someone threw me into the sea.”

Rubehrt let out a dry scoff, his lips quirking into a wry smile.
“That’d be a sight. Though given how it’s aged me,” he said, brushing a hand over his already bald scalp, “perhaps I’ve been a resounding inspiration for that conclusion. I remember how I must have looked the first time you saw me.”

Vesna tilted her head, remembering her arrival—how Rubehrt had harshly rebuked Eirina and Magirou. But she was no stranger to the strained relations between the elves and the Lotharians. In her eyes, both sides bore guilt and grudges alike.

“It’s not my place to judge how you rule your lands,” she said. “I’ve only been in your country five—no, six days? Yours is the only city in Lothar I’ve seen.”

“Oh, don’t pretend to such false modesty,” Rubehrt grumbled, turning from the throne and walking toward the corridor leading to the foyer. Vesna followed close behind. “Politics is the devil’s game. It demands you dance to whatever tune is played, no matter how soulless. Stay in it long enough and the best men change: peasants become less than people, enemies become allies, and your friends become the ones you most suspect of treason.” His voice lowered. “You begin to dehumanize even a mother trying to protect her child.”

Vesna understood. The reference to Eirina and Magirou wasn’t lost on her.

“Is it truly so dire between Lothar and the Elves?” she asked. “What of the Divine Alliance? Both Lothar and Elentárië are under Balandaria’s defense pact. Wouldn’t that forbid such hostility?”

“In theory, yes,” Rubehrt said with a tired shrug. “But the Divine Alliance was forged in the Age of Tyranny, before, when the world was caught between two dooms: the Apocryphirum Empire and the Draconian Imperium. Any mortal who thought it better to serve Mindflayers or Dragons was out of their mind. So, when the dragons banished the Mindflayers, we banished the dragons. The Alliance held... because the Drow still threaten us from below.”

He paused, glancing toward her.
“But we must still tend our own gardens. Elentárië and Sehlaria are cultures so monumentally opposed, they’ve forbidden one another’s people entry into their respective lands. And if I recall correctly, Neustria has been having its own problems with Romagnia of late.”

A fact Vesna knew all too well. Her expression darkened.

“…Yes,” she admitted. “They’ve been quietly expanding toward the Free City of Dogeia. And we’ve sworn many oaths of protection to them.”

Rubehrt nodded with grim understanding.
“Then you see why the Divine Alliance means so little to our leadership. Without a greater enemy, we turn on each other. Without something worse than our own failings to unite us—some horror that demands we stand shoulder to shoulder—we revert to suspicion and division. Just as we did when the Dragons and Mindflayer hordes still walked this world. We stood together then. But only then.”

Vesna said nothing, but she could feel the true weight of his words as he slowed in the corridor, stopping at the center of its stone path. He turned and looked at her directly.

“I feel it in my bones,” he said, “this coming era will be one of wolves.”

“…What do you mean?” Vesna asked. “That everything will collapse around us?”

Rubehrt turned his gaze toward one of the glowing braziers lining the hall and walked slowly to it, warming his hands.

“Perhaps. My lands have seen peace for years. But elsewhere? West of here, in the dwarven halls, there’s never been rest. Their war with the Drow spans centuries yet so far beneath our feet you oft forget its occurrence. And now? Now even this quiet corner of mine isn’t safe from turmoil.”

Vesna approached, her hands extending toward the brazier’s warmth.

“I know the feeling. Anxiety for the future.” She smiled faintly. “But I don't think we can attribute it to the ends of days, I’m not one to immediately turn to celestials for our worldly troubles.”

Rubehrt raised a brow in surprise.
“No?”

She shook her head. “If some higher power meant for our destruction, I imagine it would’ve happened already. Otherwise, I place my faith in those good and glad-hearted around us—to hold the world together, piece by piece.”

“And yet you’re on a pilgrimage?” he asked, bewildered. “Do you not believe in AVO?”
“I do believe in AVO,” Vesna said, clearly and firmly. “But I do not believe in the Temple.”
Rubehrt looked thoughtful, letting her words settle.

“The Romagnian Temple has played kingmaker in every kingdom it touches, always in pursuit of the ‘one true king’ of prophecy—one who’ll reunite mortal-kind and the elves under the First Kingdom. One wonders if they believe it themselves… or if the prophecy was created to legitimize their influence.”

Rubehrt’s expression hardened with thought.
“…You’ve clearly considered this deeply. And perhaps—I agree with you, in part.” He lowered his voice. “But be careful with such thoughts, Vesna. You’re surrounded by Templars. And who knows if one of my staff is a Luminary spy? Best not speak so freely.”

“My apologies,” Vesna said quickly, bowing her head. “I meant no offense, nor to disrespect your hospitality.”

“You didn’t.” Rubehrt dismissed it with a quiet wave. “Never mind my ramblings, Your Ladyship. My own frustrations shouldn’t stain the evening.”

He resumed walking toward the great doors at the end of the corridor. Vesna remained still, watching him.

“My Lord Arco,” she called gently.
He stopped, turning halfway toward her.

Vesna faced him fully. “Things will work out. Whether by AVO’s hand or our own,” she said, voice calm, sure. “I still have hope—for this world, and for whatever lies beyond it.”

Rubehrt gave her a small smile, smoothing the sleeve of his regalia.

“…Good night, Your Ladyship,” he said at last, and turned again to continue his path.

Vesna lingered, watching him go, then turned in the opposite direction—back toward the glow of firelight and the quiet din of the dining hall beyond.

Sebastian -- Castle Conevico -- Morning, 6th Fehrdas, Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Early morning came, and the tight-knit group that Sebastian had accompanied since his first days in this world was packing to leave the castle. Before he and his brother Niall knew it, they had been returned to the familiar prison of their blanketed basket, ready to set off once more into the world.

Of course, the departure was enough to conjure the portly, balding Lord of Conevico from his seclusion—long enough to offer his farewells and well-wishes to his guests. And though Sebastian had formed a less-than-ideal first impression of the lord—perhaps even decided he was wrathful by nature—he now found himself reconsidering. Duke Rubehrt and Heinrik Arco placed a hand over their crests, eyes closed in solemn sincerity and offered their guests a parting blessing in the name of AVO.

Once beyond earshot of the castle gates, Magirou declared, “It was obviously my good manners and winning smile that changed his heart,” smoothing her hair back over her pointed ears with mock grace. Eirina and the others gave a half-hearted chuckle, amused despite themselves.

The city was blanketed in a fresh layer of snow. Burghers and members of the city garrison shoveled, pitched, and hauled snow by the wagonload from the urban walls. Yet no matter how white and clean the city appeared beneath its wintry shroud, the stench and grime beneath it still lingered.

“Well, no sense waiting,” Cassius declared, drawing his cloak tighter. “Let’s reconvene with our caravan.”

Vesna nodded reassuringly, and together the group wound through the narrow streets and snow-choked alleys toward the eastern gate.

The sun was just beginning to rise along the horizon when they arrived. The caravan was stirring to life—Templar knights saddling their horses, loading equipment into carts, and aiding pilgrims with their belongings. Commander Reickart, the Templar leader, was moving among the travelers, helm beneath one arm, issuing orders with brisk efficiency. His close-cropped hair showed the remnants of a dirty-blond hue beneath a dusting of frost.

“AVO be praised,” he greeted with a dry smile. “Glad to see you weren’t snowed in.”
“I take it the children will be coming with us then?” he added, glancing at the basket Cassius carried.

“To Theleto, yes,” Cassius confirmed. “From there... I’ll remain for a month before seeking passage to Lycaron.”

A hint of sorrow passed over Reickart’s face. Vesna touched her jawline thoughtfully, falling silent.
“It’s in the hands of Lord AVO,” Reickart said solemnly, placing a gauntleted hand on Cassius’s shoulder. “And yours.” The weight of those words needed no further explanation.

“We’ll have new company,” Vesna offered, changing the subject. She turned, gesturing toward Eirina and Magirou as they stepped forward.

“Elves?” Reickart raised an eyebrow. While his tone was pointed, it lacked any real hostility. “Though I suppose it natural an elf might find reason enough to leave Lothar these days.”

“Would our presence be a problem, Commander?” Eirina asked calmly, keeping an arm around her daughter.

“Only two more mouths to feed, by my reckoning,” Reickart said with a shrug. “But elves and humans have a... rocky history. And Theleto is the sacred seat of the Romagnian Orthodox clergy.” He paused, giving her a measured look. “I can get you there, but—”

“We have an embassy,” Eirina assured him. “Despite the disagreements between our Chantry and the Temple. Once I reach it, I’ll no longer be a burden to your company.”

“…Fair enough,” Reickart said, conceding the point. “Regardless, you’ll be protected on the road as if you were ordained faithful.” He struck his breastplate with a closed fist and lowered his head respectfully.

“Eirina can help clear the snow with her magic,” Vesna added. “That might ease some of the tensions around her presence—if it gets us moving faster.”

“I won’t pretend we don’t need the help,” Reickart said, chuckling as he fitted his helm over his head. “We’re moving within the half-hour. If she can clear the road ahead, it’ll be most appreciated. Until then.” With that, he strode off to rally the caravan’s vanguard.

“He was rather amenable,” Eirina observed, while Magirou glanced in awe at the armored knights around them.

Cassius snorted, resting a hand on the basket. “Vesna’s influence, no doubt.”

“Laugh it up, prior,” Vesna said with mock irritation, tossing her hand in his direction. “It’ll likely be a month’s journey—snow permitting—before we reach Theleto.” She pinched her brow, recalling the route. “Three cities on the way, if I remember right. First is Roccia.”

“Better Romagnia than Lothar,” Magirou said with a confident grin, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “They say it’s the more elegant side of human culture.”

“Wait until you see Neustria,” Cassius added, trying to impress her. “Our knights, our tourneys, our beautiful countryside—it’s the jewel of mankind.”

“For certain!” Vesna agreed, hoisting herself into one of the wagons with a helping hand from Cassius. “Neustria is the finest of the human kingdoms—and soon, the crown jewel of the world.”

Magirou was helped up into the wagon, while Eirina remained behind, standing at street level beside the wheel. “I’ll move ahead with the vanguard to melt some snow,” she said to her daughter. “Stay with Vesna and Cassius, all right?”

“Sure thing, Mother!” Magirou chirped, waving as Eirina turned and marched off toward the city gates.

And soon, the wagons creaked into motion. Wheels grinding through slush, hooves striking cobblestones, the caravan began its long treck from Conevico and back into the wilderness.

There was more to see. More to explore. Roccia lay ahead.

It was a shame, Sebastian thought—or would have, had he known—how little he’d seen of Conevico: a chapel, a few streets, three rooms in a castle. He experienced the mirth and merriment of the castle staff, the warm shell of castle walls amidst the cold, the wonders of magic. He could not yet walk. He could not yet speak. But some part of him already longed to roam freely, as the caravan did. He already held the goal to be able to perform the magic he witnessed Magirou 

One day he'll be able to do these things.

One day.