"Everywhere I go it’s the golden lions, always eating the sun. One truly wonders when it will finally choke on it and just die."

The pair had come face to face with a massive banner of a golden sun devouring a lion, draped over the gates to the Lectern’s grand antechamber. Beyond the gates, the hall was abuzz with muted voices and the shuffle of restless feet as servants and students waited to be called.

"Perhaps we should give it a sun too irresistible; they have no choice but to devour it?" Lady Anisia continued, her tone sharp with annoyance.

"Or perhaps we could just take its head off and feast on the body?" Mikhil interjected, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Bold," Anisia replied coolly, "but the lion unfortunately has many friends. Better it dies without getting as much blood on our talons. A gryphon strikes when the time is right—and leaves the vultures and hyenas to clean up the mess."

Mikhil shrugged with a twitching smile, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Less blood, less fun.”

Lady Anisia gave him a measured look, her fingers resting lightly on her cane.

“At least not on us”, she said, her tone firm but calm.

“Blood attracts other predators. One should never wound ourselves in a hunt lest we become the hunted. This wilderness has many predators; and most prey are already devoured.”

A brief silence hung between them as mother and son stared up at the banner, its golden lion frozen in its endless feast of a celestial object.

“Come, let us leave,” Lady Anisia said, her tone as measured as ever. “Let the prideful beast gorge itself to death. We have other, more pressing matters to attend to.”

Mikhil nodded and stepped ahead, with his mother strode just one pace behind. Together, they moved through the now mostly deserted labyrinth of marble halls, their reflections flickering across mirrored pillars and polished stone as they made their way toward the entrance.

Turning a corner, they came face to face with an entourage wrapped in gold and black.

The servants crowded around something, their plain but finely embroidered tunics marked with subtle golden thread shaped into the lion crest. Heads bowed and voices hushed, they moved with a practiced efficiency, their hands darting back and forth as though tending to something delicate. They didn’t seem to notice the pair as Lady Anisia and Mikhil approached, their presence swallowed by the quiet hum of activity.

At the flanks of the group stood two guards, silent and motionless. The sun-eating lion glared from their chest plates, its golden jaws frozen mid-bite like their wearers statuesque stance. Their armor, layered with plate, mail, and gold, gleamed unnaturally—polished to perfection, no doubt by some unlucky servant tasked with scrubbing every inch.

Though no weapons rested in their hands, small one-handed axes hung from their belts—functional, but understated. Small runic inscriptions pulsed softly along their shoulders and gauntlets with a faint amber glow, most likely some kind of magical enchantments casted onto them by arcanists.

One of the guards spotted the pair, their posture stiffening as their gaze flicked toward them. Leaning slightly, the guard whispered into the ear of a nearby servant, who turned sharply to look at the newcomers. The servant’s eyes widened as if glimpsing a terrible reckoning, and they quickly moved to the center of the circle, their voice hushed as they delivered the message.

The entourage began to shift, spreading like petals of a gilded flower to reveal the ash haired Lady Iruja Navkan Balgrodov, in the middle of rising to a stand. Draped in flowing black and gold silks, her eyes sharply flicking over the approaching pair like a beast sizing up its next meal.

Beside her, the wounded cub, Karl Navkan Balgrodov, lay wrapped in bandages like a cocoon, his face pale and swollen. His breaths came shallow and slow, with the faint scent of numbing herbs lingering in the air around him.

“Salutations, Lady Navkan.” Lady Anisia greeted the lioness heartily, her voice warm and unhurried. As she spoke, her fingers made the faintest of gestures—a subtle, nearly imperceptible signal to Mikhil. The pair came to a stop before Navkan’s pride, Lady Anisia leaning slightly to the left on her cane, while Mikhil squared his shoulders and adopted a stoic, unflinching stance with hands behind his back.

"Likewise, Lady Opetlev," Lady Iruja replied, with a stitched smile.

"I assume you’ve just returned from the Head Lectern?" she continued, her tone smooth and unbroken. "And I trust he has informed you of the… incident?"

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“Oh, you mean the incident that left young Karl in…” Lady Anisia trailed off, lightly tapping her cane against the floor before pointing it at the barely conscious Karl. “... that situation?”

“Young Karl will recover,” Lady Iruja replied, her tone smooth, though a faint twitch in her left eye betrayed her irritation. “But I cannot say the same for your son’s… public perceptions.”

A soft chuckle escaped Lady Anisia as she leaned forward ever so slightly, her yellow eyes glinting with amusement.

“Hear that, Mikhil? Public perceptions?” Lady Anisia said with mock jest, lightly patting his back. Mikhil had to steel himself, his lips fighting to suppress a smile.

Lady Anisia straightened, her fingers tapping her cane lightly against the floor.

“Ever since my son enrolled in this damnable institution we dare to call a school, he has been called an orphan, a bastard, whore son and many other despicable things.”

Covering her mouth with her gloved hands, Lady Anisia continued with mock incredulity. “Orphan? Whore son? My son’s bloodline may not run in a circle, Lady Iruja, but I assure you, it runs strong. At some point, you have to stop caring, don’t you, Child?”

Mikhil inclined his head slightly towards his mother. “The lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep, after all.” He declared with a stoic face that struggled to hide a smile.

“Sharp tongue, child. Let us hope your bite matches your bark,” she said, spitting the words delicately as her smile thinned.

Without missing a beat, Mikhil leaned slightly to the side, his finger lazily pointing toward Karl.

“That one didn’t.”

Karl groaned faintly, though it wasn’t clear if it was in response or merely a reflex of his injuries. The sound hung awkwardly in the air, drawing the servants back into a frenzy as they rushed to tend to him, their hands darting toward his bandaged form. The faint scent of numbing herbs and spices grew stronger as more were applied to dull his pain.

Before Mikhil could say another word, a gentle yet firm hand settled on his shoulder, extended from a smiling Lady Anisia. Mikhil leaned back slightly, reasserting a stoic stance, his expression smoothing into practiced composure—as though he hadn’t just been mocking the competition moments ago.

“A very passionate child, Lady Opetlev,” Lady Iruja said with a smooth tone. “Perhaps he should be taught the virtue of restraint as well—lest he does something reckless in the heat of it.”

Lady Anisia’s lips curved into a faint smile, her tone as calm as ever.

“A young man willing to defend his family’s honor with his own blood on the line is not reckless—he is dutiful. Passionate, perhaps, but dutiful nonetheless. Any mother would be proud to raise such fine men.”

“That, I will have to agree with,” Lady Iruja said smoothly, though her gaze flicked back to Karl.

Lady Anisia tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile.

“But whether or not it’s successful depends,” she said lightly, pausing just long enough for the words to sink in, “perhaps on adequate parenthood?”

Lady Iruja’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, her sharp eyes narrowing before she recovered. “Adequate parenthood,” she repeated with a veiled disdain. “A noble ideal, though one wonders how much depends on the temperament of the child.”

“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Lady Anisia said, her tone light and conversational. “Though it’s a blessing that mine came from another basket, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lady Anisia tapped her cane lightly against the floor, a mock chuckle escaping her lips.

“Well, it seems we have both wasted enough time indulging in petty squabbles,” she said, her tone light, almost airy. “I’m sure you have far more pressing matters to attend to. As do I.”

She paused, letting the air hang heavy between them. Then, with a faint, cutting smile:

“Unless, of course, hurling words is all the Lady of Navkan is good for.”

“I shall meet you another time, Lady Opetlev,” Lady Iruja said, her voice smooth as silk as she turned and strode toward Karl.

“I hope not,” Lady Anisia muttered under her breath, loud enough for only Mikhil to hear. With that, she and her son began making their way through the crowd. Servants and onlookers quickly stepped aside, clearing a path—except for one guard.

The pair came to a halt in front of the armored man, who stood firm, his expression unreadable beneath his gilded helm.

“What are you, a buffoon? Hello!? A lady is walking through,” Lady Anisia snapped, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like a blade. She turned sharply toward Lady Iruja, who was bent over, consoling Karl. “Has the House of Balgrodov lowered its standards enough to field such dull-armed men?”

Lady Iruja stiffened, her sharp gaze snapping to Anisia. With a reluctant and hasty gesture, she waved the guard aside, allowing the Opetlevs to pass.

As they walked past, Lady Anisia’s gaze briefly met with that of a calm servant girl standing near the edges of the crowd. The exchange lasted less than a moment, a small insignificant flicker of recognition passing between them before the Opetlevs continued on their way. No words were spoken, and the girl returned to her work without so much as a glance after them.

Only once they were far enough away did Lady Anisia lean slightly toward her son, her voice a near-silent whisper of gleeful malice.

“That was one of our agents.”

Mikhil couldn’t help but grin, the corners of his mouth curling upward as he cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Next you’re going to tell me one of our operatives is in bed with a Balgrodov.”

Lady Anisia put her right hand over her head as if hurt by the statement.

“Just one?” She asked

“Truly, you underestimate us, my child.”