“I suppose I’m next.”

I want to tell her not to bother, as the look in her eye suggests trouble. Saints, Morgene is nothing but trouble. Besides, it’s not as if our dinner has been full of peace and tolerance so far. If I were a more vengeful woman, I’d call Remmings’ attempt to send a message about us traitorous. Morgene will be hard-pressed to make more of a ruckus he would have caused if his little ploy succeeded.

Or maybe not. I’ve yet to see the powerful woman in action.

I prepared myself for this when I arranged this dinner. So, I swallow my opinions with a swig of my drink as Morgene uncrosses her legs and leans over the table, chin held in one hand.

“I will be open, but I don’t plan to share everything about my life. We don’t have the time.” I believe her. As Kierra once said, it’s the curse of those with ability to live interesting lives. I can’t fathom the life someone like her has lived.

“The basics then. The Atainna started as a Twilight clan, seeking strength through claiming strong mates, using charm and cunning.” She smiles, as if daring the table to protest her ability to charm any creature into “mating” with her. No one says anything. I don’t think Remmings could say anything, even if he wanted. He’s tossing back the shroom juice pretty hard.

“Twilighters are notoriously unstable. They’re also known to be born with…defects of the mind with a startling frequency. We believe the matriarch that changed our path was both. She was also the pinnacle of the bloodline’s breeding efforts. Izel Atainna, the Bloodied. No one knows if she received that title for the number of creatures she slew or for the intimidating number of children she birthed. Thirteen. Can you believe it?”

Morgene shakes her head. “It doesn’t seem like much for a woman that lived three centuries but when you consider she did so without the assistance of a dedicated physical caster and plenty of unions struggle to conceive one, it’s frankly ridiculous. A true monster, even without taking into account her four affinities.”

If this were me two years ago, that announcement would have made me spit out my drink in shock. Maybe gape like an idiot. Remmings certainly reacts, almost choking on his drink. The rest of the table doesn’t even flinch.

It’s impressive but not that impressive. There’s an idiot running around Harvest with four affinities and he’s far from praiseworthy. Just having the talent isn’t enough.

I’ve learned that the hard way.

Morgene isn’t bothered by the table’s irreverence. “But she was nothing more than an inbred savage. Her daughter was the one who traveled to Dusk and won the throne. Said throne passed through my family two generations to be presented to me but I refused it, preferring to hone my own strength.

“As my partner was so quick to divulge, part of that included pulling grand capers across the five provinces to perfect my space shifting. Afterwards, I became a famous trapper, turning the world into an inescapable cage. Then, I became unrivaled. For nothing can hurt you if you can’t be touched and nothing is a threat if it is locked away.”

Orum huffs around a bite of buttery roll. “Unrivaled is going too far.”

She raises an elegant brow but concedes the point. “Fine. Unrivaled in Dusk but there are plenty who can challenge me. The matriarchs of the draconid clans. Spirit, their poison eaters too, damn blights on the world. There’s also High Nooners but those fanatics can hardly be counted. Their babes are weaned with wyvern blood.”

She drains the wine in her glass. “The strangest thing happened after I reached the heights of power. Suddenly, the old instincts of the matriarchs in my blood demanded I have spawn. Worse, they demanded I make sure the things be safe and prosperous before I could return to more personal pursuits.”

Her expression turns into something soft, close to maternal. “Kii is the youngest and the most troublesome by far. And that’s why I’m here.” She waves a hand and Geneva appears at her side, filling her glass. “To make sure my precious daughter is happy and fulfilled. Also to watch my partner make a fool of himself. The Flesh Fiend of the Underwood playing diplomat. Practicing restraint.” She laughs. “This is bound to end in comedy.”

“Father is making an admirable effort,” Kierra comments. Her hand touches his broad shoulder and that’s all it takes to make him smile. Damn doting father.

“I will still test your partner on the field of battle and determine what she is made of by pulling out her insides.”

Damn crazy violent doting father!

“You can try,” I grumble.

“But not before we finish our game,” Morgene says. “I’m enjoying learning about Kii’s little friends. She never brought anyone home when she was young.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Because you would make my friends have deathmatches with beasts of the forest.”

“Well, you don’t make good hunters by letting children play with dolls. And they enjoyed eating said beasties after, didn’t they?”

“Rondel did. He’s the only one who came back after Tyrandal was mauled.” What goes unsaid is how that particular worm turned out.

“Ah, perhaps I’m misremembering. Mm, yes. That was your sister’s birthday party. They didn’t fight beasts and she grew up to be a dancer of all things, flitting about with butterflies. I stand by my decision.”

“Spirit forbid you ever doubt yourself,” Orum grumbles.

“As much as I would enjoy extolling my virtues for hours, we have others at the table.” Her eyes move to Remmings, who’s slowed down his consumption only because the shroom juice is making him clumsy, but passes him to land on Talia. “I’m very interested in hearing about Kii’s flower. It’s quite a surprise coming from my daughter who used to terrorize the Hiumura clan.”

Oh hoh? Is my normally unrepentant wife blushing? “The Hiumura sisters were spoiled children who thought they could flutter about and every young hunter would pander to them. Pretty idiots. It is an insult to compare our flower to that trash.” Ouch. Harsh words made harsher by the fact Kierra isn’t the type to hurl around those kinds of insults casually.

“What is this flower nonsense?”

Remmings says his first words since his plan was foiled and he was faced with the devastating realization of what Geneva is. Have to admit, his despair feels good. Not because I enjoy that kind of thing but because it’s nice to have someone around that understands what she is.

Alana understands conceptually but, at her core, she’s a musclehead. She measures something’s threat but how much stuff in can break strictly in the physical sense. All Kierra cares about is that Geneva works for us. The potential damage she can inflict is a bonus, if anything. Talia’s the worst of the three. Pretty sure she admires the succubi, despite knowing exactly what they are and what they’re capable of.

Remmings? He looks like he’s drinking to the end of the world.

“I gathered it was a pet name for a mistress, but it appears to be more? It would be nice to hear that my precious daughter isn’t just a monster’s plaything.”

Orum looks at the other father at the table with something approaching sympathy. “Few parents are happy to hear that their children are flowers, but you have nothing to worry about. Our Kii is honorable. She will care for your daughter for the rest of her life.”

“Flowers are a tradition of the Twilight clans,” Morgene says, voice slipping into the familiar cadence of a lecturer. “Breeding is all about control. When you mix that with a heap of often equally horrifying and ridiculous traditions, as well as demented minds, it doesn’t make for loving families. Sons are breeding stock to be used however the matriarch pleases, normally traded for other stock, and daughters are seen as competition.

“Originally, flowers were the daughters of powerful matriarchs who made themselves subservient to their mothers. Hm. It was something similar to insect ‘princesses’, females who are valuable as they lay eggs that grow the hive but have lesser authority than a queen. In return, the matriarch gave them territory to manage and helped them to secure good mates. A deal many took as it was dangerous for a daughter to start her own clan. If they even got the chance. There was a chance their mothers would slay them immediately if they refused.”

“The tradition means something else now,” Kierra says quickly after her mother pauses, shooting Morgene an annoyed glare. I don’t blame her. Remmings is looking a little pale. “Today, a flower is simply one that does not wish to dedicate themselves to the eternal pursuit of strength. In exchange for subordinating themselves to another, they are exempt from many of our more…dangerous traditions. It is like choosing not to participate in a game but tying your fate to one of the teams.”

“They are also generally caretakers,” Morgene continues, apparently no longer interested in horrifying us with elven history. “It’s not a hard requirement but it’s standard for them to be homemakers or artisans. Though not every homemaker or artisan is a flower. A dangerous assumption to make.”

“A ladle can be more dangerous than a sword in the right hands,” Orum says with a sagely nod.

“…so a mistress,” Remmings says drolly. He reaches for his cup and finds it empty, but that problem is solved by Geneva placing a full bottle of Herbanacle next to him. He eyes it for a moment before screwing off the top and putting it to his lips, cup be damned.

“Teacher?”

He pauses, wiping away the shroom juice that dribbles from his lips as he turns to her.

“You belong to the crown.”

He scowls. “I work for the king.”

Her lips turn up in a micro expression of amusement. “You do what he tells you, when he tells you. Yes?”

The head interrogator grudgingly nods his acknowledgment of being the king’s dog.

“In return, he gives you gold, limited authority, and protection.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I do what my clan wants when they want. In return, I get vastly more wealth, far more authority as it is directly tied to their power, protection by that power, a vastly extended lifespan, and personal power trained by the most accomplished mental caster on the continent. I also was given sight.” Her expression widens, becoming more noticeable and gaining a faint touch of smugness. “I would also wager that I enjoy my work far more than you. I have the far better deal.”

“It’s not the same!” he roars, slamming a fist on the table.

“Why not?”

“It’s not work! You’re…selling yourself to these…these…”

“Everyone who does any kind of work is selling themselves. Even marriage is a trade, one person giving themselves for another person.”

“…but don’t you want to fall in love?” Remmings asks with a bit of desperation. “Live as you want? Have children?”

Her smile morphs into a frown of confusion, the expression so clear I’m sure it’s one of her practiced expressions. A bit of extra flourish to help her father-guardian understand her. “I’m living as I want. No one forced me. As for children, Lou and Kierra seem to like the idea so I assume I will have them at some point.”

The poor man looks absolutely defeated. “I suppose you want my blessing.”

“It would be nice, considering if you don’t enthusiastically support our union, you may die tonight.”

“I understand your offense now, daughter,” Morgene eventually says into the ensuing silence.