Melara really, really wanted to like Alisia Alden. Life would be much easier if she liked Alisia Alden.

Melara really, really struggled to like Alisia Alden.

She could act kind when Alisia was holding her hands and speaking of boys. That was more so courtesy and not really being a friend. Alisia hardly noticed the difference which was likely due to the fact that she never left her family home. You learned things about people by spending time with people. Not just servants and family, but people on your level who might offer perspectives different than your own.

Melara felt guilty about the relief she felt when Alisia walked away to mingle with others. She prayed to the Allfather and each of his children that she found success. It was unlikely. The way that Alisia Alden looked at each and every person she spoke with as though they were potential leverage toward the redemption of her house made Melara feel…used? Disgusting? It mattered not. It was over with for now.

In her state of spiked anxiety, she had forgotten to ask Alisia about Eldric! Had the woman calculated that? Melara hated politics. Why did it seem that everyone had primary, secondary, tertiary, and quaternary objectives under every interaction? Could they not just enjoy a nice dinner with a bit of music? Must everything lead to progress in some personal agenda or another?

“Trouble, daughter?” her father asked. It took every ounce of Melara’s will power to stifle her groan. Her father was the worst offender when it came to politics; only because he had not always been that way. The combination of mother’s passing and Joanna’s immediate pouncing had changed the Lord Whelin Rosamund for the worst. The man who had loved and married a Solrusian woman, who had brought half Solrusian children into the world, and had celebrated Solrusian culture. Now he looked at any association with Solrusians as political suicide. His beloved’s own culture. Political suicide.

“Daughter?”

“I am fine, father. I think I am in need of fresh air, is all.”

“Fresh air is all around us, love.” Those eyes. Blue rather than Alisia’s amber, though they looked at her in the same way. Weighing her worth as an asset rather than a person.

He was not entirely wrong. The Day of Welcome was being celebrated on the eastern palace grounds. Despite the Maran Palace hanging over them in its grim, blackstone glory, they were provided with views of the ocean. Scents of fish and fresh salt could be picked out. The air was refreshing.

The people were not.

“You are right, father. Excuse me for a moment.”

“You might miss the festivities.” Her stepmother had spoken up for the first time in what seemed like hours.

“I am heading to the overlook, is all. It is quite warm today. The summer has not lessened its grip upon Mithrock quite yet.” With that, she left her family to themselves. Her father and Joanna could trip on their webs whilst the children played with a bird.

She passed many lords and ladies on her way to the overlook. The Lady Ivalee Brineheart had joined her mother at their respective table. The Lady Violet Brineheart was reputably the hardest woman in Mithrock, and some said she was harder than any man to boot. Her word was her sword, though she also wore multiple daggers on her belt at all times. She had heard mixed opinions of Ivalee. Those who worked with her provided rave reviews. Others, including a source she trusted greatly, had seen a side of her that left much to be desired. Melara gave both a courteous nod before moving on.

Another nod was sent in the direction of the young Lord Charles Declan. Alisia’s only maternal cousin was better left alone. There was always an aura of mystery around Charles and his younger brother due to their nature as wyvern riders. Like the Reagans of Duneward, they were the only families to rule over beasts of power. One might count the Aldens and their birds, though their fowl could not raze entire cities like the others.

Melara stopped for just a moment and spoke with the Lady Trinity Faelor and her three daughters: Maria, Leanne, and Hinara. House Faelor was an anomaly among nobility. They were considered outcasts among higher circles, much like Houses Alden and Rosamund, though they seemed to relish in it. Their sigil was that of a fruit. Guava, to be exact. An open guava fruit with its pink and white on a green background.

Their land thrived on the fruit industry which, while very successful, was not generally high on the list of things for the Kingdom to monitor. Lord Whelin had taught her that the Faelors were likely the most financially intelligent house in the realm. They allowed the fruit market to thrive without much regulation and received a fair amount of coin from fruit merchants to keep it that way. Due to their lack of presence in the largest market, the many merchants of Ranidor, the seat of House Faelor, allowed them to regulate and rule in most other areas. So long as neither the merchants or Faelors grew too greedy, there could be financial stability between nobility, merchants, and the common folk.

From what Melara had learned of people in her eighteen winters, that system would inevitably fail.

The Faelors provided good conversation. Hinara was seventeen and of marrying age. They spoke of potentially tying themselves to the royal house despite their history of enjoyed independence. It seemed the Lady Trinity had ambitions outside the preservation of her house and people.

That was the problem with people. Even when something had been proven to work for extended periods of time, it was not good because it was not new.

Even then, who would she marry Hannah to? The High King was thirty-four years of age and, in some circles, was said to prefer the company of men. That left three options: Harley Alden, Alexander Brightwing, and Edwyn Mara. Lord Harley was older than the High King. Alexander was the adopted son of Eustace Alden and sworn sword to the Prince, meaning he was both irrevocably linked to a terrorist and likely to swear an oath which forbade him to wed. Edwyn himself was going to be High King and was the most sought after bachelor in the realm, even if he was holding up one of the most important celebrations of the year.

Eventually she made it to the overpass. No clouds cluttered the sky. The sounds and smells of the ocean breeze enveloped her. Nature would not lie to her. Nature could not lie to her.

A bell sounded, a signal that the wayward prince had arrived.

Melara inhaled one last time and turned around, heading back to the people who forced her to be something she wished she was not.

- - - -

Go and find the Prince, they said. We would be thankful, they said. We will not dress you down along the two of them, they implied.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

All Mithrocki nobility were absolute shite. The only thing worse than Mithrocki nobility was becoming Mithrocki nobility.

What had been the point? Why had his father worked so hard to lessen their quality of life? They were not any richer than they had been. In fact, they had likely been better off in their finances when they were simply bankers. Now they paid taxes as bannermen to the Poes and the High King alongside those they were already paying from their bank. Probably. Not that he knew, as his father had stopped allowing him to work with the bank and Hyanth had a prick up her arse. He was the eldest son, which in this land meant he was to inherit all of his father’s noble holdings. It mattered not that Hyanth belonged with these people. It mattered not that Mel was more thoughtful and introspective than anyone at this celebration. It mattered not that Lavender and Yurel had more joy for life by themselves than the ten folks nearest to them combined. The Thornkeep and all surrounding lands were to be Eldric’s.

Women watched him everywhere he went. Before House Rosamund had been recognized by the Emperor, women could not have cared less about Eldric. Alisia Alden had given him no mind. Understandable. He was not of nobility and her family was not one which had the room to shoot anymore arrows into their own feet.

Now, Alisia noticed him. It had been three years since the ascendancy of their family and the two of them had taken plenty of time to steal a kiss or two when folks were not looking. Never more than that, because Mithrocki customs were, once again, shite.

Alisia noticed him. That was great. Every other fucking noblewoman with a presumably working reproductive system had noticed him as well. Being rich, handsome, and funny had not been enough for them. Nope. One had to be a little less rich, still handsome, and wear a silk doublet with his father’s sigil on it. It did not even matter if he was funny!

Finally- well, not finally. This list was ever growing and he was nowhere near the end. Finally, for the moment, was that no one with a fucking sigil on their coat was able to separate the individual from their allegiances when it came to actions which upset them. Therefore, despite going and fetching Prince Edwyn and Alex, and despite the fact that he had quite literally been present at the ceremony at the time he was supposed to, he was lumped in with the two when blame was dispersed. All three had been verbally reprimanded by the High King in front of everyone! What was he to do? Argue with the High King? Tell him that he was wrong to yell at him before all of his subjects as he, at the request of the Prince’s mother, had gone to find them?

No. It would not do to make the High King look like a fool. He would not mind if an outburst knocked his father and horrid stepmother down a peg or two, but anything that hurt those two would trickle down onto his siblings. Other than Hyanth, his siblings were the only genuine folk he remained close with. Alisia as well, but she was as much a noblewoman as a knife was, well, a knife.

The ceremony finished. The High King said some flowery words. The Prince followed the High King’s example. The First Years of Court were welcomed. All nobility who were currently either thirteen or fourteen were forcefully admitted. How it was different from a hostage situation, Eldric did not know. Some commoners would be admitted as well, though this was entirely on merit of either the physical or scholarly type. All admits would be allowed to study a field of their choice whilst the young nobility would be forced to learn the subtleties of politics. Commoners might learn the Arcane. Some might aspire to become a part of the King’s Service. Others might become doctors.

Eldric did not have to worry about this education. His house had been granted ascendancy after he’d known fifteen winters. He had been exempted from Regalia alongside Hyanth and Mel. So many subtleties. Worrying about them was as productive as debating with a horse or his stepmother. Before him now was a joust. Watching a joust was simple.

To his left was Alisia. She was chatting about something he would likely be interested in were his brain not smoldering in frustration. Melara sat to her left, looking out toward the oceanic horizon rather than the sport. To his right were Edwyn and Alexander. Both were watching with intent. They all sat in the High King’s booth, though King Haryn had not stayed for the festivities. An odd man, he was. Maybe he’d loosen up when he met a proper woman.

The booth was an over-sized palanquin. More akin to a platform, though it had seats and was transported by the hands of many men who held it up in the air. The High King wanted to call it a palanquin and a booth rather than a platform, so it was referred to as such. The booth had three levels to it. The first two made up the entire platform and acted as stairs. These levels were covered with rugs of emerald green and gold; the colors of the imperial House Mara. The seats had no such decoration. They had cushions. Cushions! Jousting was a sport where men and women put their lives on the line for sport. Eldric would not watch someone die while he sat on a pillow!

Hours had passed since the tourney began. Tuning back into reality, Eldric was able to discern that this was the final bout. Finals, by their very nature, were supposed to be excellent match ups.

This one was phenomenal.

The young Charlie Declan, the cousin to the Prince’s cousin, had only seen sixteen winters yet was the tournament favorite. Danforth Reagan had known eighteen and rode a war horse as impressive as any that Eldric had ever seen. The beast looked like something a Huntsman would be asked to kill. Bulky, gargantuan, and porcelain white, the horse looked more like a bull. It made Charlie’s horse seem a foal in comparison. Danforth’s full suit of spell-forged plate armor with the blood-red tower painted on the breast only emphasized the difference.

Despite his plain suit of plate and average seeming charger, Charlie sat lance up and ready to joust.

I think I would like to get to know him a bit. He might be genuine.

The castle horse-master sat atop his seated tower, an emerald flag embroidered with the golden wand of House Mara in his grasp. He raised the flag above his head and the jousters lowered their visors. He raised it an inch higher. They readied lance and shield.

The flag fell. Two horses exploded toward one another. Silence save the beating of hooves filled the field.

The first bout came and went. Both lances bounced off of the other’s shield. Reaching the opposite end of the fence, they both raised their visors and prepped for the next charge. They’d work on a silent count now. One they’d practiced since they could ride a horse, most likely. They’d both count to three once their visors dropped.

Both men nodded. Visors dropped. The second bout began.

The speed of the horses was otherworldly. Though they felt much longer, the bouts lasted seconds. Like the first, this one came and went with two deflections.

Another lift. Another nod. Another drop. So came the third bout.

As the horses neared one another, Charlie lost a bit of balance in his seat. His lance swung wildly and struck Danforth’s warhorse in the thigh. No skin was punctured, but the blow was strong. Harming the horse was illegal in this sport, but Charlie seemed to have done it on accident.

Never mind. There is not a genuine bone in his body.

Danforth’s horse recovered. The beast had not fallen and neither had Danforth, so the horse master ruled in favor of continuing. If Danforth was angry, he did not show it.

A nod, a drop, a silent count. The fourth bout ended it all.

The riders neared one another again, though it was obvious that the porcelain warhorse was in far too much pain to continue on. With momentum on his side, Charlie’s lance struck Danforth square in the chest. The heir of Duneward was grounded. A thunderous applause broke through the silence on the field.

These idiots had all fallen for it. Charlie Declan did not make mistakes. Anyone who had truly lost balance on a horse going that fast would have fallen off the moment the lance hit any part of the enemy, rider or mount. The child had cheated. Though, like earlier, who was Eldric to say otherwise? Call the winner a cheater in front of this crowd of fools?

Idiots. He was dismayed to see Alexander and Edwyn standing and clapping. Alisia was doing the same! Surely she was better than that. Pride was able to subdue a bit of his irritation when he saw that Mel looked disgusted with the whole ordeal.

The booth was closest to the riders. No more than a dozen or so paces. Eldric heard something loud. Someone loud. A yell? A roar. Danforth Reagan had taken off most of his armor and held a blade in his hands. He was sprinting full force, blue Spirit from his Aegis Kova flying off him like sweat. Charlie had no clue. He was drowning in the euphoria of his false glory.

A small, shining silver and a beam of Red light exploded from the booth. A thrown dagger cut one of Danforth’s hands and the spell knocked him off his feet and through the fence. Eldric looked to his right. He saw Alexander, another dagger in his hand and ready to throw. He saw Eldric, his wand unlatched and pointed toward Danforth. Both had worry plastered on their faces.

All Eldric could do was place his head in his hands and groan.

I’m going to get blamed for this too!