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“I don’t trust that wily old bastard,” Beolf huffed, arms crossed in the seat across from me in the royal carriage. He thumped the back twice to signal the driver to take us back to the palace. “There was something off about that whole hall actually. I’m hardly a practitioner and even I could feel some nasty magic at play in there.”

Something that the woman Haron said nagged at me. “I wonder what the woman yelling at Nebold meant about the dead wanting vengeance. What could he possibly be doing to make dead people angry?” My eyes drifted down to where my hand rested on Behar’s head, rubbing my thumb between his eyebrows as he closed his eyes in contentment. I could feel my own brows furrow in annoyance at the puzzling riddle.

It all felt connected. Nebold was doing some kind of questionable spellcasting, and Haron seemed to be in the way of whatever he was trying to accomplish with it.

Chapter Five

Irin

There were accounts that Princept Morrette Hilj was a skilled practitioner of necromancy. The known founder of it, in

fact. From what the Julran refugees spoke, there was a massive spell casted, powerful enough to raise a small army

of the dead to fight the Golathians, likely meant to buy them enough time to flee unnoticed. If magic is a zero-sum

and has a cost for every action…What was the cost of that spellcasting, I wonder?

-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 37 of Ber's First Reign

Atimid knock at the study door drew my eyes to it. It was not one of my guards. They practically beat the door down when making their presence known. And it wasn’t one of the other nobles clambering for an audience. Those were only accepted during court hours, and it was well past dinner. This was my sacred time to hide alone in my study and read. My time to avoid all the chaos flying around and pecking holes in my life like ravenous carrion birds. My problems would hardly wait for me to die before they took their piece of me.

"Enter," I called across the room.

My hand drifted to the half-full tumbler of goldtine spirits, chilled to the perfect temperature with a large chunk of ice and kept cool in the crystal glass. Its deceptive, mellow sweetness had brought me low many times—the morning hangovers were almost too high a price for the temporary escape from reality it offered—yet it was still my comfort drink to soothe the headaches brought on by stress. The bulky ring on my right pointer finger clinked loudly against it as I lifted the drink, the ruby-eyed dragon making up the Gailish royal crest staring right at me from its coiled pose. I narrowed my eyes at it as I took a healthy gulp of the liquor, savoring the burn down my throat.

The familiar blonde curls of Ittman Juril—my late father's most trusted advisor—poked through the crack he’d made in the door. "Good evening, Your Highness. I am glad to find you here. Do you have a few moments to spare?"

Not really.

"Certainly. Please come in, Highlan Juril. Would you like some goldtine?" I lifted the decanter sitting at my elbow in offering before refilling my own glass. He waved off the gesture and stepped fully into the dim study, pushing the door shut quietly behind him.

"No, thank you. My wife would have a fit if she smelled it on my breath." His head shook in a 'what can you do' manner. "I would never openly bemoan her stern behavior, but I wish she would lighten up every once in a while. She strives to be proper at all times."

Lie.

I raised my glass to him and took another sip. "Well, cheers to not having a stern wife."

“Yet,” he added pointedly. The fake smile on his face was meant to indicate a joke, but it was more of a threat. Nonetheless, I forced a laugh and took another sip to keep the annoyance from my face.

Ittman's shoulders slowly loosened with the casual demeanor I showed for his benefit.

"In all earnest, Your Highness, I hope that status changes soon. The council is definitely… more on edge, with you being the only viable heir and none of your own to solidify the Gailish line. We would be distraught to see the crown pass to some distant cousin in the Monato family."

Lie.

The bitter, ashy taste in my mouth at the presence of a spoken lie was too strong to be washed away, even by the poignant and distinctive flavor of goldtine. An unfortunate side effect of my inherent magic, and a flavor I became accustomed to from a young age growing up in the royal court. I tried to keep the twist of my lips hidden by the press of my glass against them, but something must have given my disgust away. Ittman began to twitch and fidget with the hem of his stiff vest.

"Which brings me to why I sought you out tonight," Ittman began, moving slowly to sit opposite of the elaborately carved monstrosity of a desk my father had selected for this study. He meant it to be intimidated and imposing, with each leg sporting the intricate etching of a monstrous, scaly virilan, its mouth gaping and fangs bared at whoever had the misfortune of facing it. The depiction was to the craftsman’s own taste—fortunately, the creatures were only shown in ancient texts from the First Reign of Ber, long before the land of Erewen split into three countries. "We, as in the Council of Advisors, spent a considerable amount of effort putting together the folio of possible candidates to select as a wife following your coronation. I’m sure you remember from the meeting just after the funeral. And I wanted to make you aware of my sister being nominated as one to include in said folio…"

Ah, so we get to the crux of the matter now.

Of all the carrion birds circling me, the Council was by far the worst. I wasn’t particularly mourning my father—I was, after all, the one who’d poisoned him myself—but the audacity to schedule a meeting within the moon phase after his body was put to rest and present this ridiculous list of bridal candidates was baffling to me. I’d pushed off every meeting for the past four months or so since his death, but it was becoming more and more difficult to avoid having to be in the same room as the scavengers again.

"I assure you she will not be considered to marry."

Whatever Ittman was blubbering on about petered to a halt. The quick flare of offense lit his face, creasing his brow and darkening his otherwise light blue eyes. "Pardon? Can I be so bold to ask why Ishma would not make a suitable bride in your eyes?"

“I’m wondering why you would think sheisa good candidate. In an unbiased view, of course. I would expect that much from my advisor.”