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“This is quite the mess, isn’t it?” Matthias von Falkenstein reclined in his soft armchair, his usual joviality gone. “I do not understand why Ludwig is acting so rashly. He always had a nasty temper, but Maximilian usually keeps him on a short leash.” Contemplation. Worry.
Arne and his distant relative had retreated to the Falkenstein prince’s extravagant lounge to discuss yesterday’s events in private. The gold-rimmed paintings and frivolously expensive satin curtains made it difficult for him to relax, which was probably a good thing considering the sensitive subject matter.
“It is strange, yes. Ludwig made a point of specifically not addressing me as ‘Prince’. I’d have expected him to be less blatant about it, for the sake of appearances at least. Why is he trying to start an open conflict? I was under the impression that Sonnenfeld and Altengau want to keep a superficial peace.”
“So was I. Something does not add up, and it vexes me that I do not know what it is,” Matthias grumbled. “This whole situation feels too convenient for us.” Arne felt no deception in his aura, which was very reassuring.
He rose from his own sinfully soft chair to vent some nervous energy by pacing around the room. “There is another matter I wanted to talk about, Matthias.”
The prince in question perked up, raising his eyebrows to signal interest.
“The rumors regarding Hohenfels and Eisengrund.”
“Oh, that thing. I didn’t know you were so close with Princess Klara. Well, we all have our preferences,” Matthias snickered.
“Ah, shut up,” Arne grinned back. “I found the person responsible for that, and she’s trying to clean it up as we speak.”
“It’s the Silberthal girl, right?”
“...Yes. How did you know?”
“I’ve met her several times, and intervening in something like yesterday’s mess is not her usual style. It was… desperate. And after you mentioned a ‘she’, it clicked.”
Arne made a mental note not to underestimate Matthias’ acumen in the future. He usually hid his sharp mind behind a facade of jokes and extroversion, which made it all too easy to regard him as nothing but a pleasure-seeking socialite.
“I see. Well, in any case, she is currently trying to… exaggerate the confrontation between me and Ludwig a little. In my favor, of course.”
“A decent enough plan. Need some help with that?” Calculation. Anticipation.
“I’d appreciate it,” Arne replied, very aware of Matthias’ mental ledger of favors. At some point, he would come knocking with a request of his own. At least he had offered it himself, so the favor would be considered significantly smaller.
“Sure thing. Are you planning to cooperate with the Silberthals in the future?” Curiosity. Scheming.
“That depends on the results Lady Katharina delivers,” Arne evaded. “For now, I’ll see if she is worth the hassle.”
“If you get bored of her, feel free to send her my way. Elenor always appreciates fresh pawns.”
“...I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, suppressing his distaste for the casual indifference in Matthias’ voice and aura. He realized that this was simply a reality of aristocratic politics, but he liked to think that Hohenfels held its allies in higher regard – even if the alliance was born of convenience.
= = = = =
“I get to fight her? Really?” Elation. Excitement.
“Under a few conditions,” Arne tried to curb his cousin’s enthusiasm. “Firstly: Smallswords only.”
“...What?”
“And secondly: No magic and no punches, at least for now.”
“Oh, come on!” Frustration.
“She’s a beginner, Fritz. You have more confirmed kills than Hohenfels Hall has residents.”
“How can someone with her aura control be a beginner?” Friedrich pouted, but there was no fire behind his words.
“Combat magic and aura control can be very different things. You know that,” Arne sighed.
Friedrich only huffed and turned his attention back to the lecturer, who was drawing elaborate battle plans on a blackboard and monologuing about the greatness of yet another old Western general. It was not particularly interesting, but Arne supposed he would have to sit through a bunch of beginner courses before the lectures became more in-depth, so the silklings weren’t left behind.
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The lackluster lesson had one upside: It was not a great loss if he got distracted by the curious gazes of his fellow students, of which at least one stared at him at any time. He was not sure if this was still an aftereffect of the engagement rumor or if Katharina had already been active behind the scenes. Yet regardless of the reason, the immense scrutiny grated on his nerves.
Much to Arne’s despair, the rest of the day continued in the same manner. It got even worse during the next course, a lengthy and terribly dull lecture on foreign relations that turned out to be almost entirely about Francia and its neighbors. Since Friedrich lacked even the faintest interest in the topic, he had gone off to God-knows-where, leaving Arne without the modicum of protection his cousin’s mere presence commanded.
Katharina, one of the few familiar faces in the room, had wisely decided to find a seat far away from him to not find herself in the spotlight as well. His other acquaintances, aside from the openly hostile ones like the Sonnenstein and Altendorf princes, also did not seem particularly interested in striking up a conversation. Prince Matthias was busy flirting with his fiancée, and Princess Maria was among the people throwing cautious glances his way on a regular basis.
Usually, he would have been more than happy to be left alone in this manner, but today, he would have appreciated someone to talk to, for distraction if nothing else.
Finally, after two long hours that felt like an eternity, he was finally able to escape.
He desperately wanted to relax in the bathhouse and then roll up underneath his comfortable blankets with a book or two, but unfortunately, he had to prepare a smallsword lesson for a particularly vexing young lady.
= = = = =
Klara von Eisenberg strolled across the central plaza towards the arena, confused by the lack of attention she received. She had expected the obnoxious stares to worsen after her shouting match with ‘Prince’ Arnold, but the opposite had happened. Now, everyone’s eyes were firmly glued on him as well as the pompous Sonnenstein prick.
The mind of a silkling truly was a fickle thing.
That said, the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. Though it pained her to admit it, Arnold had a knack for displays of power. First his intervention back in the arena, and now the stunt he pulled at that disaster of a soirée. Openly threatening the Sonnenfeld heir was sure to cause some ripples.
In comparison, her own exit had been underwhelming. Maybe she should have grasped the opportunity herself? The prince had been extraordinarily rude after all, butting into the conversation like that. She could even have framed it as defending that nosy girl and netted herself a contact from the West, something her father had been rather insistent on.
She didn’t like it at all, though. Every moment spent talking to a Westerner was a moment better spent on anything else. What was even the point? They respected House Eisenberg barely more than Hohenfels, which spoke not just of poor judgment, but unfounded arrogance as well. If it wasn’t for the Imperial trade agreements feeding Eisengrund’s many hungry mouths–
“Good afternoon, Princess Klara. May I ask–”
Klara’s head whipped around, fixing the young lady who addressed her with an impatient look and causing her to flinch. She did not recognize her at first glance, but her red and yellow dress outed her as a silkling par excellence.
“What do you want?” the princess asked tersely, not hiding her exasperation the slightest.
“I– ahem,” the lady quickly regained her composure. “My name is Christina von Lauringen. We met a few years ago at Prince Rudolf’s name day celebration,” she added helpfully. Klara needed a few moments to place her, countless aristocratic events having long blended together into a disgustingly colorful mass of noise and stress.
“I remember. So, what does the future Duchess of Sonnenfeld want from me?”
If Christina was taken aback by Klara’s rude inquiry, she did not show it. “I came to deliver Prince Ludwig’s formal apology for interrupting your conversation yesterday,” she proclaimed, inclining her head just enough to show sincerity, but not enough to display subservience. “His Highness wishes to continue strengthening the prosperous ties between Eisengrund and Sonnenfeld, and would be deeply saddened to have this matter stand in the way.”
A ludicrous thing to say, in Klara’s opinion. If that was truly the case, Sonnenfeld would not ask for such outrageous compensation for their grain exports, often demanding a quarter of its weight in processed iron and shamelessly exploiting Eisengrund’s notoriously empty coffers.
She felt her blood begin to boil and decided to cut the conversation short before she started throwing ill-advised punches.
“If he truly wishes for that, I shall be happy to receive his personal apology.” Klara turned away, leaving the duchess-to-be to stare at her back in shock.
Even more so than earlier, she really needed to stab something – or better yet, someone.
Her sour mood did not improve when she reached the arena and found it occupied by one of the primary subjects of her annoyance. Friedrich von Hohenfels-Whatever was in the process of artlessly trashing some minor Western aristocrat once again, disinterest written on his barbaric features. He swung his saber with the grace of a charging wild boar, while his opponent’s lackluster training became apparent in frantic movements and the occasional panicked squeal.
Klara had already taken several steps in the direction of the training weapon storage, when she forced herself to turn back. It was much wiser to leave him be, for now at least. The last thing she wanted was a resurgence of the rumors–
“Running away? As expected of an Eisenberg.”
She whirled around to see the savage standing over his foe’s slumped form. He had apparently finished the duel with one of his nasty punches and was now staring right at her.
Her brief battle against her still-boiling blood ended in a growl, filling the near-total silence that had fallen upon the arena. “Need another beating, dog?”
“Ha. Talking big again, I see,” he replied, rolling his shoulders in preparation. “Don’t you remember our last fight?”
“I vividly remember you bleeding out in the sand,” she spit out, grabbed a practice smallsword and jumped into the arena.
Friedrich had the audacity to smirk at that. “Suuure. You fine with going up against a saber, or should I get a toothpick as well, as a handicap? That way your next loss will be even more embarrassing.”
“It. Was. Not. A. Loss,” she hissed. “The only reason I declared it a draw was because your nanny begged me for mercy.”
The oaf needed a few heartbeats to understand the insult, but it thoroughly wiped the smirk off his misshapen face.
“Shut up and fight,” he growled, his meager vocabulary exhausted. For once, Klara was happy to oblige.
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