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“I know what you are,” Princess Clara said, staring at Eleanor evenly.

Eleanor sipped at the tea that had been provided for her. This was one of the last places that she expected to end up today. Once Willem told her Clara was interested in diplomacy, Eleanor had put out a few feelers, trying to catch the princess’ attention. She hadn’t expected a bite so quickly. They were certainly taking ample precautions; there were enough guards here to end her without a moment’s delay.

“And what am I, Your Highness?” Eleanor asked, maintaining her calm. She wasn’t afraid to die. “Befuddled? Confused? Curious about why the Princess has summoned me to the royal palace without explanation or warning?”

Clara stared with her bright brown eyes that almost seemed golden. “I hope… cooperative. Elsewise…” The princess looked around at all the many guards surrounding them.

In truth, the gig had been up the moment that Eleanor received the invitation. If the Princess knew, or even suspected, she couldn’t leave this city without being apprehended. It was better to cooperate and see what could be gotten out of this situation. Besides… this was what she wanted to happen.

“We could be speaking in a dungeon, with thick metal bars reinforced with magic between us. Why this setting, Your Highness?” Eleanor maintained her composure.

“Because when you’re offering freedom, you don’t want to use coercion as your tool.” Clara shook her head. “That isn’t how I want this to end, if you’re amenable. I want to make use of your ties to reach out toward the party that you’re employed by.”

“Employed.” Eleanor laughed. “Willem said that you were angling for diplomacy. I didn’t think anyone was naïve enough to think that was possible.”

“Why would it be impossible?” Clara asked, naively curious.

Eleanor shook her head. “I would need to explain much that you don’t know of the land.”

“In truth, I prefer to listen.” Princess Clara crossed her hands over one another.

Eleanor debated whether or not to say anything but in the end, she decided to bare her analysis of the situation freely. “Allow me to set the scene, then. Avaria, ruled by an increasingly paranoid oligarchy, has an elite class that dwindles in both number and competence. They consolidate power in ever fewer, ever more brittle hands, fearing that Arnoud might employ espionage just as they have. Meanwhile, its slave population swells—silent, overworked, and dangerously aware.” Eleanor fixed the Princess with her gaze. “Can you reason what that means?”

The Princess stared back. “I imagine you can.”

“Their competence may be dwindling, but they can see the writing on the wall. The disparity grows unsustainable. Resentment simmers just beneath the surface. Fearing contagion from foreign ideas—freedom, rebellion—the ruling elite imposes strict isolationism, sealing borders and minds alike. They’re trying to prevent the inevitable spark from reaching the powder keg they've built with their own hands.” Eleanor shook her head. “Engaging in diplomacy would be that spark. If the slaves know that there’s weakness, and they know their masters are so few, they will fight. Thus, they’ll never do it.”

“You make it sound as if their regime is very fragile,” the princess noted.

“I would liken it to a zombie. The Grand Crusade launched against them was more crippling than you know,” Eleanor explained. “They’ll do their best to break through into this land, as they believe it their method of breaking the rut that they find themselves in. If they don’t succeed, inevitably some spark will hit and civil war will erupt. I’ve little doubt that the new oligarchy that takes power will exploit the Fount of Avaria just the same as the last, beginning the cycle anew. That has been the history of my homeland since time immemorial. And that is why diplomacy will always fail.”

“Willam implied that you could be the back door through which I could engage in diplomacy with them,” Clara said.

“Because Willem doesn’t know what I’ve told you. Avaria’s own circumstances demand that it remains isolationist. The foul volcano makes beasts of decent people. Once they’re corrupted, they won’t go back.” Eleanor shook her head. “There won’t ever be any diplomacy. And that’s why I hoped I could talk with you myself. I thought it might come at a later date, but this is more than sufficient.”

Princess Clara looked uneasy. “What do you want?”

“An alliance. I want an alliance. Not you, me, and Willem, but you and me alone.” Eleanor leaned in, deciding to seize the opportunity presented to her. “As I’ve mentioned, the slaves far outnumber the elites in Avaria. If we can start something… if you can help me start something… the whole thing could crumble overnight. And then… you would be ready. Ready and waiting. You could bring the law of this land to the barbaric wasteland that is Avaria. And if you don’t? Well… can’t be any worse than before.” Eleanor pointed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to set up with Baptiste.”

“You’d betray Willem to work with me?” Eleanor noted.

“Betray?” Eleanor repeated, then narrowed her eyes. “He went behind my back in summoning Galahad to Gent. He was doing what was best for him. This isn’t any different. I’m not doing this as a betrayal, I’m doing it because I want what’s best for me. It’s overdue that I paid it back. And like back then, he won’t be harmed by this in the slightest.”

“But surely he would agree with you, cooperate with you if you reason with him logically,” Clara pointed out.

“He wouldn’t start a war. I know him that well.” Eleanor shook her head. “Even if it was a rebellion in a good cause, he’d be hesitant. But this is something that needs to happen, with or without his approval.”

“I’m getting the sensation that this is about something more,” the princess rightfully called out.

“It is.” Eleanor leaned in close, causing Princess Clara’s guards to ready themselves. “Willem’s mine. I won’t allow you, or anyone else, to get even the vaguest sensation that you might have a chance. He can’t stand to lose, even if he doesn’t care about the prize offered. Thus, I’ve taken it upon myself to make him lose.”

“You’re asking for me to do a lot on faith alone.” Clara looked unsettled.

“I’m doing this one way or another.” Eleanor shrugged as if it wasn’t important. “I’m going to act on the day of that engagement party. Either I die, or I succeed. That’s always what I’ve wanted to achieve coming here, doing their bidding. I’ve decided I’m not a slave any longer. I’ll do what I want, or die where I stand.”

“I can’t… this is very…” Princess Clara sighed, looking distressed. “I want to discuss more details.”

“Best be quick about it,” Eleanor said, dropping all formality. “I wouldn’t want the duke to get suspicious.”

***

The days passed by quickly, and eventually, Duke Baptiste’s engagement party came. It couldn’t be called that officially, of course, because of the fact that the duke still had a spouse. But it was that in all but made, with all the trappings of ceremony that came with it. Most people assumed that he was simply taking a mistress, but those more in the know knew what was happening.

Among those in the know was Count Tielman.

Since a few days ago, when Viviene told him the things that she had endured at the hands of her uncle, Tielman had been incredibly short tempered. Not toward her, of course, but toward everyone else. It was incredibly infuriating to know what she had endured. It felt as though he’d failed her, even though he’d been nothing more than a child himself when it occurred.

He had mixed feelings about this event today. On the one hand, it seemed to show that the duke had moved on. On another, he simply didn’t want to be in the man’s presence. He didn’t know if he’d be able to hold his tongue, and he didn’t want to make things difficult for Viviene or his son. Things were getting better between the family. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to make up for what he had done, but he would be happy spending the rest of his life trying.

The event proceeded quite normally before the duke arrived with his date in tow. The moment that Tielman saw the woman that the duke had chosen, it felt like his blood froze and his vision narrowed. The woman looks frighteningly similar to Viviene in her youth. As his rage nearly bubbled over, he felt someone squeeze his hand.

“Be calm,” Viviene said quietly.

Tielman calmed himself, taking note of her appearance. She was far more composed than he was. He needed to be strong and unshakable, for Viviene’s sake. He needed to help her demonstrate that the duke no longer had any sway over her. He intended to try his very best.

Then, Duke Baptiste came over.

“Viviene,” the duke said warmly, and the very sound of his voice made Tielman’s stomach turn. “I’m so glad you could make it. I thought that you might come up with some excuse to stay away, as you did when we were children. Eleanor, this is Viviene.”

“How are you?” Eleanor said politely, offering her hand to shake.

Viviene shook her hand. “I’m very well, thank you. Nice to meet you.”

“Perhaps soon, you’ll need to be calling her Your Grace,” Baptiste said. “It might have been you… but things came in the way,” Baptiste looked at Tielman. “Not that it matters anymore. I’ve got what I want, now.” He put his arm around Eleanor.

Tielman ground his teeth very fiercely. It was the only way he could hold his tongue.

“She’s my niece, despite appearances,” Baptiste informed Eleanor. “She used to refuse to bathe for days on end,” Baptiste told Eleanor, looking at Viviene. “She did everything she could to make herself filthy. That changed, of course, when I decided to take a personal hand in things. Thereafter, she endeavored to keep her appearance immaculate. You might say I’m the reason that she’s so well-groomed today.”

“My hope was that the filth would deter you.” Viviene smiled, acting unbothered. She tightened her grip on Tielman’s arm—he couldn’t tell whether it was because of her unease, or an attempt to remind him of restraint.

“Don’t be like that. It was merely childhood,” Baptiste reminded her. “You always were… sensitive.”

Tielman observed objects in the room. Gold chandelier. Servant. Wine glass. It was the only thing to keep him from breaking.

“My uncle tends to get like this when he thinks he’s won a great victory,” Viviene informed Tielman, talking about him as if he wasn’t there. “Savor it. It’s a rare occurrence.”

“My,” Baptiste commented. “That fire in your eye—it almost suits you. Though… we both know how easily your fire goes out when the room gets dark.”

Tielman’s fist snapped forward before thought could catch it. Rage surged ahead of reason. He smashed Baptiste in the face—once, then again, not out of strategy but pure, blinding fury. His aura flared violently, instinctive and unchecked, hurling him forward with terrifying speed. He seized Baptiste in a crushing grip and drove him to the ground, slamming him down like prey. Then he mounted him, knees pinning down the man’s arms, and began to strike—each blow more savage than the last. Blood sprayed. Knuckles split. His fists rose and fell like hammers with no rhythm, no mercy, no restraint. The world around dissolved into shrieks and chaos, but Tielman didn’t hear it—he saw only red. He wasn’t fighting. He was punishing. Beating. Breaking.

Eventually people tried to pull them off—Tielman, though, wasn’t finished. Whoever they were, they couldn’t beat him in raw strength. He shoved them back without thinking, without seeing. Hands clawed at his shoulders, his arms, his collar, but he only doubled down, raining more blows onto Baptiste’s face with a fury that bordered on madness. He wasn’t just trying to win—he was trying to erase. He wanted the man’s smirk shattered, his pride pulped, his teeth counting their losses one by one as the blood pooled in his mouth. Let him drink broth through a straw. Let him never look smug again.

Eventually, too many people swarmed him to ignore. They dragged at him with enough force that his balance broke. Tielman let himself go slack—not out of mercy, but calculation. If he stopped resisting, they’d let go sooner. If he looked calm, they’d think the storm had passed. He lifted his hands slowly, like they were weapons still cooling, and let them drag him back, eyes fixed on the ruin he’d made of Baptiste’s face.

“What am I paying you for?! How long were you going to let him do that?!” Baptiste shouted at his guards, some of whom had broken bones from attempting to stop feeling from beating Baptiste. The duke’s face was an utter wreck, but Tielman felt it wasn’t enough. Several teeth had scattered all around, and some of the wounds on his face glowed with golden aura.

Baptiste pointed at Tielman eventually, giving the best smile that he could despite the damages. “You do realize what you’ve done, haven’t you? Assaulting a duke?!” Baptiste laughed furiously, then gestured toward his face. “Let’s just say that I won’t have any aura scars. Very glad to have the affirmation that you’re a simple-minded brute!”

“I’m afraid that’s not true,” Willem said, walking forward. “What you just witnessed was not an act of cruelty, but a civic duty fulfilled. The blows? Legal. The kicks? Just emphasis.”

“Willem, I’ll make this right with you,” Baptiste promised, brushing past his words. “But I needed to expose the truth.”

“This was a citizen’s arrest, executed with all the dignity and restraint the situation demanded—which is to say, very little. One must be firm with crime, after all,” Willem shouted to all attending. “Tielman has been instructed of the truth—that Duke Baptiste Dubois is a traitor. My father took it upon himself to deliver justice. Swiftly. Repeatedly. With the blunt instruments available to him, that he might apprehend the traitor alive.”

The rage taking hold of Tielman’s mind was too strong for him to even understand what his son was saying. As the guards gripping Tielman’s arms relaxed, he broke free and dashed forth madly. He tackled Baptiste and ran as fast as he could, busting through the stained-glass window and out into the streets of the capital.

As the two of them fell, wreathed in aura, he saw something very unusual—a large contingent of royal knights, led by Galahad. They nearly landed among them.

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