The third floor of the Verdant Cup was reserved for nobility.

  Ilyra had made the arrangements herself, and she’d done it the night before, before ‘encountering’ Thorvyn in the training yard this dawn. She was confident he would accept when she invited him to breakfast. As usual, she’d been right.

  She sat at a small table overlooking the lake. A pot of tea brewed between them, leaves imported from the southern provinces, and the staff downstairs had clear orders that no one was to climb those stairs unless she rang.

  The first and second floors hummed with the usual morning crowd – local nobles with too much time, merchants with not enough, clerks escaping their ledgers, the odd knight still in partial armor. Up here, sunlight came in gently through tall windows, catching dust and the faint steam from the tea.

  It was peaceful here with silence, sunlight, and… one barbarian.

  Thorvyn of the Volcanic Islands sat across from her. He’d washed off the dust and sweat from their spar, but there was still something coiled about him, like a man who didn’t quite trust the ground not to open under his feet. Must be a barbarian instinct. It could make him a good bodyguard. It probably already had.

  She’d learned a few details on the last day. Ragna Valteria was the chieftain’s daughter, more or less a princess by island standards. That had surprised her at first, but it explained a lot. A girl like that couldn’t be common among barbarians. She was a Princess.

  And nobody could disrespect that title either. What made a nation… well, a nation? Among many things, one major point would be its military power. And given that the Volcanic Islands had produced Gerholt the Magmaborn, Slayer of Abyssal Titans, it didn’t lack any military power.

  Just to put it on paper, just Gerholt alone could flatten lands like Thalassaria on his own. It might take him a few hours, but he could do it. So if he alone was above Thalassaria, shouldn’t his homeland be respected as such? At the very least.

  So Ragna was in no sense less than any sovereign nation’s princess.

  It also made sense that Thorvyn traveled with her. Someone sensible always trailed after royalty with too much power and too little patience. It was likely the current chieftain’s arrangements. He likely didn’t have a relationship with the girl beyond that, either.

  Just someone to keep her safe, not a lover. Ilyra concluded in her head.

  Thorvyn had changed into a simple cream?colored tunic the palace had provided, the fabric clean and good enough to pass in polite company. The color made his white hair stand out even more. He hadn’t been keen on changing, but she’d calmly explained that going bare?chested into a noble cafe was frowned upon in Maricall, and it wasn’t civil.

  He’d given her a strange half?smile and agreed.

  His axe was missing from his back because the café required it for safety reasons. Even so, Ilyra had a feeling that he could kill most of the bottom floors with the dessert knives. Or, failing that, his hands.

  Her eyes dropped briefly to his forearm when he reached for the tea. The skin was tanned, ropey with muscle and veins.

  Impressive physicality, she thought, clearing her throat and bringing her cup to her lips. But that’s expected of any barbarian, not just Valtherians. The question is what else he has.

  That was what she was here to test. Ilyra had changed her hairstyle, putting it up in a bun. She’d also dressed herself scantily, wearing a green off-shoulder bodice that wrapped around her chest, leaving a large cleavage for show. One thing she’d learned over many years was that, be it barbarian or nobles, men loved skin. And she knew how to take advantage of that.

  The waitress brought the menus, hands steady, eyes carefully blind. She set one before each of them and retreated without comment.

  Ilyra picked hers up but didn’t look down yet. “You’ve never been here before, have you?” she asked.

  Thorvyn shook his head. “First time. I haven’t been in Maricall for long, and even if I spent a year here, I doubt I’d be visiting a place like this. They might not even allow me inside if the Count’s daughter wasn’t beside me.”

  She laughed, “The people of Maricall aren’t that judgmental, Thorvyn.” She understood why he might feel that way, given her city had separate walls for the poor and the rich, but she felt like she had to defend it. “But the Verdant Cup is… proud of its menu, yes. Expensive. If you’d like, I can recommend something.”

  His lips quirked. “As long as it isn’t all leaves and air.”

  She hid her amusement. “Not at all. Their lamb is quite good. There’s also venison in berry sauce, smoked beef, and several kinds of bread. I like almost everything here. The cook is an old friend. He’s a Halfling, and like every Halfling out there, he prides himself on serving food that makes even retired knights feel at home.”

  He leaned forward, squinting at the neat script on the page as if it were a battlefield map. “Smoked beef,” he said after a moment. “And lamb. And bread. All of it.” He frowned. “What’s ‘herb crusted’ mean?”

  She wasn’t surprised that he could read; it went along with her theory that he was here to be Ragna’s guard. Ilyra smiled. “It means they crush herbs and coat the meat before roasting,” she said. “It adds flavor.”

  “Hmm, flavor. Flavor is good.” Thorvyn nodded, apparently satisfied with that explanation. In the end, his reactions were still barbaric. “I’ll have that.”

  “And for you, my Lady?” the waitress asked.

  “The vegetable tart and a small portion of lamb,” Ilyra said. “And more of the jasmine tea. I love that. Give the tea master my gratitude.”

  “Of course, he’ll be glad.”

  The waitress wrote it down and left them again.

  Ilyra watched Thorvyn as he folded the menu and set it aside. He knew how to be gentle. He did not have the clumsy hands she’d seen in some island raiders at court. His grip was measured, the movement neat. But he made no effort to hold the menu the “proper” way, and when he reached for the teacup, he didn’t bother with the silly two?finger grip her etiquette tutors had insisted upon.

  He knows some things and ignores others, she decided. I’ve heard that Valtherians often leave for the mainland for years at a time and then return. I’m assuming whoever is equivalent to a teacher on that island taught him some. That’s workable. I can fill the gaps.

  “I’m glad you agreed to join me,” she said, turning the cup in her hands. “It’s easier to talk without half the knight corps staring holes in us.”

  Her knights had woken up fast once the news of her duel traveled. Halfway through their duel, they were being watched by too many people. That wasn’t the reason why she brought him here of course, it was just a good excuse.

  Thorvyn made a low sound that might have been agreement and took a sip. He didn’t make a face at the taste. That boded well.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Hot,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Smells nice. Tastes like… flowers and smoke, I guess.”

  An oddly precise description. Ilyra smiled. “You have a better palate than some lords I’ve met.”

  “Those lords need better cooks, then,” he replied, deadpan.

  She laughed and let the moment breathe.

  He’s relaxed now. Or I think he is. That was a good place to start. “I wanted to thank you properly,” she said. “What you and Ragna did in that forest… it wasn’t just a rescue. It was a message. Velkor overreached. We’re not as alone as some people believe.”

  Thorvyn shrugged, as if he didn’t see what the fuss was about. “We saw kidnappers and a coin opportunity. The rest followed. There’s no need for thanks.”

  “Perhaps. But intent doesn’t always matter as much as result.” She folded her hands. “The result, in this case, is that I’m still breathing, alive and well, while Velkor wasted good money hiring people who died on my father’s land. I intend to make use of both.”

  He tipped his head slightly. “You’re very calm about that. Not all of them died, you know? Some have returned and reported the incident already.”

  “That’s fine, I can deal with it. And if I can’t, I have you to watch my back, don’t I?” She showed him a soft smile. “Waybound trains you for… complicated situations. I have had some practice fighting off assassins and kidnappers there.”

  “Really?”

  “Why, yes. If you’re interested in the story behind it, well… I think three hundred years ago, a foreign nation’s princess was nearly killed after she was abducted. Ever since then, a new class has been held to teach everyone how to defend themselves during such incidents. I know, I know, I still got captured, but you can’t blame me, I was relaxed within the walls of my own house.”

  His gaze sharpened a fraction at the mention of the academy, then softened again. Then he laughed, “Do only nobles and Princesses attend Waybound? I don’t see how a commoner would benefit from such a class.”

  Ilyra found that funny. Of course, a barbarian didn’t understand the intricacies of it, and what weight the name Waybound really carried.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Nope. Merchants’ children go there too. Well, the tuition fees are pretty high, so only the wealthy can afford them. Most of the time, anyway. If any Professor recommends a talented commoner, or if a commoner passes the trials with impressive results, they’re granted a scholarship. Very rare. One recently notable scholarship student would be… hmm, I think her name’s Zerina? She’s a poor merchant’s daughter from Thalassaria, actually.” She went on, “Regardless, I’m getting off point. Even commoners like her will surely benefit from this technique, because while she may have been born a commoner, just graduating from Waybound would make her one of the elites of the world. Like every elite, she’ll have enemies too.”

  “Makes sense…” he absorbed her words. At least he was the obedient type. “Everyone around here seems to be from Waybound,” he said. “You. Queen Isolde. Half the people with titles, I guess. Must be quite the place.”

  “It is,” she said, a little pride creeping into her voice. “The world’s elite shoved into one city for four years. It makes for interesting winters.”

  “Sounds crowded,” he said.

  She smiled. “It can be. But useful connections are rarely made in quiet rooms.” She let that hang, then leaned forward a little. “Speaking of connections… my father mentioned you’re headed for Fenixia. That’s a long way from here to be going for a rumor. What’s up with that?”

  “Rumor?” he frowned. “Why do you think it’s a rumor? I’m searching for my mother, whom I’ve never met. But I know she’s not a rumor,” he said. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t harden. It simply went flat.

  Ilyra blinked. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know,” he cut in, then relaxed again. “She was last seen there. That’s all I have. So I go there.”

  “I see.” She took a sip of tea to cover the small misstep. Careful. Don’t poke the wound just to see if it bleeds. “Did my father explain we have some history with Fenixia?”

  “He said your House kept in touch,” Thorvyn replied. “Letters. Contracts. Nothing too deep.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “We were never close allies, but there was mutual respect. When the Duchy burned three hundred years ago, my great-great-grandfather was one of the first to write to the Last Phoenix.”

  “Solara Fenixia?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Solara Fenixia. She somehow survived the destruction, while the rest of her family, everyone else with phoenix blood, burned to ashes. The details are… muddy. Some say imperial betrayal, some say the Erebian court had a hand in it, some blame internal coups. The truth was buried with the bodies. Only she walked away.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Well, it’d be wrong to say the truth was buried. It was revealed at one time, and there was an intense fight. But the details of that are nowhere to be found,” she said, “I guess the Empire came in some kind of agreement with the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult.”

  Thorvyn seemed to know that Solara was connected to the Divine Cult, wherever he’d learned about it. Probably from Queen Isolde, the way he spoke about her.

  He listened without interrupting, then shifted his attention to chew his bread while she spoke, dipping it absently into the sauce, the way a man used to eating on campaign might do. If he found the history lesson patronizing, he didn’t show it.

  “If the House was destroyed,” he asked, “how are they back to power then?”

  “Well… that’s the million-coin question. The current Fenixia Duchy is very strange,” she continued, “Nobody knows where they came from. Some say they are Solara’s distant relatives, while others say she had offspring with a tribe of Firebird people. Some even go as far as to theorize that… after reaching the heights of 9th Ascension, she revived her family using [Flames of Reincarnation].”

  That took Thorvyn aback. “Truly?”

  “Like I said, nobody knows. Regardless, the Fenixia Family still holds the name, but not as much authority as it did in the past. Fenixia as it was three hundred years ago is gone. What remains is… a shadow that insists it’s still a flame.”

  He ate his food. “And you’re telling me all this because…?”

  “Well, you saved my life, so I’m grateful to you. I’m seeing that you are walking into that shadow without a lantern which is a bad idea, so I’m giving you information,” she said. “Fenixia is paranoid. Outsiders asking about missing women will be treated like spies, especially barbarians from outside the empire. If you go alone and knock on the wrong door, you may not come back out. Trust me on this.”

  She let that settle, then added, more lightly, “If you had a letter of introduction, however, from a House they respect, those doors might open wider. Or at least stay ajar long enough for you to ask the right questions and leave.”

  He wiped his fingers on the edge of his plate, completely ignoring the napkin at his elbow. “You’re offering that letter, my lady?” he asked.

  “I’m offering access,” she said. “Letters, names of people it would be safe to approach, and the books in our library that hold history and explain noble connections. Thalassaria is one thing; as a sovereign nation, they surely held a lot of information, but Fenixia is part of Ethenia. Our House knows more about it. If you’re serious about finding your mother, it would be foolish not to use what we can give.”

  He was quiet for a heartbeat, then another.

  “I thought you already decided that,” he said. “When you asked your father about me and why I was going to Fenixia.”

  For a moment, Ilyra was confused about what he meant by mentioning it like that. Was he talking in riddles? She quickly smiled despite herself. “So you did notice, Thorvyn,” she said. “Yes, I asked. It would have been irresponsible not to. Does that bother you?”

  “No,” he said. “If I were you, I’d do the same.”

  Good, she thought. He understands that much, at least.

  The food arrived then, giving the conversation a natural pause. The waitress set the plates down, bowed, and then vanished back down the stairs. The smells of roasted meat and herbs wrapped around them.

  Thorvyn dug in without ceremony.

  He used the knife, but he clearly preferred his hands. He didn’t seem to care that fat dripped down his fingers. The sight would have made her stepmother Mirelle faint.

  “What about you?” he asked between bites. “You said your House isn’t what it used to be either. Fenixia burned. Your lands are drying slowly. Velkor throws money around. Sounds like a lot to juggle.”

  Ilyra dabbed at her lips with the napkin. Why’s he talking like this now? She was feeling a subtle shift. “You have a blunt way of summarizing things.”

  “You jumped over your fiancé pretty quickly when we talked yesterday,” he said mildly. “I thought that was impolite of me not to notice.”

  She went still for half a second.

  There we go again, ugh that gross bastard. “Lord Lothar,” she said. “Velkor’s heir. We’re betrothed for the sake of contracts and ‘regional stability.’”

  “And for love, I’m sure,” Thorvyn said, expression bland.

  She snorted before she could stop herself. So he was funny too, when he wanted to be. “If love enters that man’s calculations, it’s only where he can use it to buy something,” she said. “The marriage thing… It’s a bargain. Grain for steel. Plains for hills. And old grudges buried under shared profit. That’s the story they tell, at least.”

  “And the story you tell?” Thorvyn asked.

  “That I’m trapped,” she said, surprising herself with how quickly the word came. It was likely because he was someone unrelated to her land’s politics that she could be this honest to him. “We know he ordered that kidnapping. And yet…”

  “And yes?”

  “We can’t prove it neatly enough to present it at court. Even if we could, calling him out publicly risks the Emperor’s patience,” she sighed. “Velkor feeds too many legions for the crown to shake them easily. If I confront him without proof and fail, Marcellis finishes collapsing and Velkor gets our lands anyway.”

  She realized she’d started speaking faster. She forced herself to slow down. “So we wait. And sharpen. And hope the Mythborn Trials give me enough shine that the Emperor reconsiders which House should hold which contracts. If I shine bright enough, I might even get to request the Imperial Archmage to look at the drought and find a way to fix it, or at least push it back from Maricall.”

  Thorvyn was quiet for a moment, chewing slowly. His gaze had gone distant, focused somewhere past her shoulder.

  “So your fiancé’s House,” he said, after swallowing, “sits north and west of you. Higher ground. Less hit by drought.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Their hills catch more rain. And their distance from Erebia made it so that the blight hasn’t bitten them as sharply as it has us.”

  “And the imperial grain contracts used to be mostly yours?”

  She nodded. “Our ambergrain fed half the western legions.”

  “And now?”

  “...We share.” The word tasted bitter. “On parchment, it looks like regional cooperation. In practice, we sell less, they sell more, and the clerks in the capital send us polite notes about ‘market adjustments.’”

  Thorvyn tore a piece of bread in half. “So if you marry him,” he said, “and your House keeps shrinking while his keeps growing, where do those contracts go in ten years?”

  “To Velkor,” she said automatically. “Unless I–”

  She stopped herself. Realized what she’d said. How easily it had come out. No, now she was surely talking too much. Even if he was an outsider.

  Thorvyn didn’t press. He ate another bite of lamb instead.

  “Looks like I was right,” he said quietly. “That is a lot to juggle.”

  She stared at him across the table.

  She had meant to spend this meal learning him. Probing. Showing him the city from her vantage point and letting him understand, slowly, that his best chance at finding what he wanted ran through House Marcellis.

  Instead, she’d found herself talking about Lothar, about contracts, about imperial clerks who wrote her House out of ledgers with neat little lines and “market adjustments.”

  Thorvyn Valteria had barely volunteered anything new about himself. He hadn’t objected to her reading of Fenixia, yet he’d somehow turned the talk toward her weaknesses without ever raising his voice.

  He finished his plate and set the knife down.

  “The food is good,” he said. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “You’re welcome,” she managed.

  “And for the stories.” He lifted his cup one last time, then drained it. “About phoenixes, your grain, and the iron hills.”

  “You may find them useful,” she said, trying to regain a bit of ground. “If we work together.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

  He stood.

  “If you do decide to confront your fiancé one day,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “try not to do it for free. Men like that only understand loss, not shame.”

  The line landed heavier than she expected.

  He inclined his head in something that was not quite a bow. “Thanks for the meal, Lady Ilyra. Good luck with your House. It looks… nice from the outside.”

  Then he walked toward the stairs.

  She watched him go, her tongue caught behind her teeth. A dozen prepared phrases crowded in her throat, offers, barbs, and clever little jabs she could toss after him to reassert control of the scene. None of them made it past her lips.

  His footsteps faded under the murmur of the lower floors.

  The lake outside the window glittered, as beautiful and remote as it had been when they arrived.

  Ilyra looked down at her own plate. Her lamb had gone cold. The vegetable tart sat half?eaten, forgotten somewhere between Lothar’s name and the word “Velkor” coming out of her mouth more often than she liked.

  She realized, belatedly, that she’d spent most of the meal talking about herself. Her House and her bindings. Thorvyn had offered very little, and yet she’d walked away feeling as if she’d been the one laid bare.

  Her cheeks warmed.

  You thought you could lead him around by the nose with tea and views, she admitted to herself. And he let you. Right up until he didn’t.

  Ilyra remained quiet for a long time, her brows tight. Then she signaled the waitress and asked for more tea, because if she was going to sort out this new problem, she might as well do it properly caffeinated.

  “...I hope you’re worth the trouble, Thorvyn Valteria,” she murmured as she sipped tea.

  Her gaze fell on the sugar bowl between them. He hadn’t touched it. Not even once. No sugar-coated words, huh?

  She’d underestimated her opponent.

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