“Must the meeting take place in such a decrepit setting?”

Mikhil muttered as he settled into his seat, carefully nudging a jagged piece of the splintered wooden floor away with his boot.

Lady Anisia lowered herself gracefully onto the chair beside him, her composure untouched by the disrepair around her. Behind her stood Palgrin and Kalsev, fully armored from head to toe. Their pollaxes rested lazily against their shoulders, yet their sharp eyes betrayed unwavering vigilance.

“The more rundown, the better—it keeps prying eyes away,” Lady Anisia replied, leaning back in her chair with measured ease. “You should grow accustomed to such places, child. Dark, dingy settings divert attention. Even if they knew we were meeting, they wouldn’t know where or when. Because they'd be looking at our estates, our palaces, our fortresses. Not some shack in the middle of a swamp. That is why we are here.”

“Heh, If the mold doesn’t kill me first,” Mikhil muttered under his breath, scraping a patch of fungi from his chair. He flicked the crumbling remnants toward the door with a faint grimace. “What’s taking them so long?” he added, his gaze fixed on the entrance.

“Patience, child,” Lady Anisia cautioned gently. “Many a general fell by charging in too early into a fight.”

Mikhil gestures broadly at the empty room, his hands sweeping as if to cast some unseen spell. “This general seems to have marched onto an empty battlefield.”

“Then this general has the advantage of time to prepare,” Lady Anisia countered smoothly. “Use it wisely.”

A pause.

"I suppose I should start digging ditches and laying down stakes?" Mikhil quipped, his grin widening.

“A competent foe, late for the field of battle, will know you’ve prepared ditches, stakes, barricades, fortified positions, and taken the high ground,” Lady Anisia replied, tapping her cane softly against the floor. “The trick is to make them attack anyway, rather than retreat in the face of such overwhelming odds. Otherwise, if your enemy doesn’t take the bait, all that preparation is wasted.”

A knock on the door and an Opetlev servant entered. She bowed and announced.

She leaned in towards Mikhil and whispered, "That is what differentiates a competent tactician from a brilliant one."

"Lord Quelos Iomadae Balgrodov and Lady Cirina Iomadae Balgrodov have arrived."

"Good." Lady Anisia curtly replied. The servant bowed and exited.

“I was beginning to think a bear got them,” Palgrin muttered, clearly having suppressed a laugh. “Would’ve made for a funny story.”

"What kind of mad bear would take its chances with a small convoy of armed magi-guards?" Kalsev inquired, growing amusement in his voice.

"A bear that hates Balgrodovs." Palgrin answered as he gently punched Kalsev's shoulders as the two shared a laugh.

Lady Anisia allowed herself a brief, calculated smile before her composure returned.

"Look alive, boys. They're here."

The two men straightened themselves up, puffing themselves slightly to appear more imposing behind their matriarch. Mikhil, too, adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter. The discomfort that had plagued him moments ago gave way to an expression of calm, emotionless composure as befitting a typical Opetlev.

Whispers and footsteps drew closer until two figures entered the room.

The first to enter was an aging man, his gold-embroidered surcoat adorned with a series of medals that clinked faintly with each deliberate step. A small lion sigil on his chest unmistakably marked him as a Balgrodov.

Following closely behind was a young woman dressed in an elegant white and gold gown. Her ash-gray hair framed a face with striking azure eyes that were constantly darting around the room. With gloved hands, she lifted the hem of her dress and performed a small, graceful curtsy—a polite formality if anything—before stepping forward to join her father in the den of vipers.

The two Iomadaes took their seats in chairs as dilapidated as the house itself, their gazes locked onto the stony-faced Opetlevs. The Opetlevs returned the scrutiny, their eyes meeting those of their potential allies with equal intensity.

Several seconds passed before Lady Anisia broke the silence, tapping her cane lightly against the wooden floor.

“So, are we here to stare at each other or to discuss terms?” she said, cuttingly.

Only the distant chirping of swamp bugs and birds answered her at first, the oppressive quiet stretching for several moments.

Finally, the old man spoke, his tone deliberate and measured.

“Let us not forget this is about the death of a distant cousin of mine.”

Lady Anisia’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

“A cousin you were happy to leave to his own devices until the opportunity to leverage his passing arose,” she said smoothly. “But by all means, Lord Quelos, we are all adults here. Let us address this tragedy for our own mutual benefit, as adults should.”

Quelos’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening.

“Family matters are rarely so simple, Lady Anisia,” he replied, his tone edged. “Nor are alliances with the Opetlevs. Forgive me if I proceed with caution.”

Cirina, seated quietly beside her father, cast a sharp glance between the two, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“And forgive us,” she interjected, her voice bitingly soft, “if we request reassurances that our… cooperation will not be met with the usual ‘Talganreach Two-Timing.’”

Palgrin’s eyes shot a look at Kalsev behind his helmet, an invisible joke.

“Let me put it this way: we might backstab you in the future, but for now, we won’t. Does that sound agreeable?” Lady Anisia continued.

“Honest, at least,” Lord Iomadae said, nodding slightly.

“We have always been honest,” Anisia replied, her tone steady and unbothered. “When you deal with us, you know it will bite down the line… probably. Better an honest foe of a lion than a snake for a friend, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Fair, but what exactly do you want with us?” Lord Iomadae continues.

“We Opetlevs will handle the dirty work. All we want is a way in,” Anisia said plainly.

“A way in where?” Lord Iomadae asked innocently.

“Don’t play coy with me, Lord Iomadae. Algrod’s little ball,” she replied sharply.

A pause hung in the air as Cirina gazed at Anisia.

“You want us to allow Opetlev agents into the ball?” Quelos asked.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“What? Were you planning to kill that oversized man for us?” Anisia countered smoothly.

“Mind your tongue, witch matriarch,” Quelos growled, his voice low and dangerous. “He may soon find himself six feet under, but even then, he remains my kindred.”

“I’m certain your kindred are well-acquainted with such familial bonds,” Anisia said smoothly.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Lord Quelos’s voice rose slightly, a sharp edge creeping into his tone.

Behind Anisia, Kalsev and Palgrin subtly tightened their grips on their weapons as small blue lightning crackled faintly around the eyes of the presumably slighted Iomadaean patriarch.

Moments passed as if bloodshed would erupt in the very next.

Then it was Cirina who broke this silence.

“Lady Anisia Opetlev, graciously remind me—did you summon us to the middle of nowhere to taunt us, or to discuss terms for our mutual benefit?”

The pale woman turned her head and regarded the Iomadaean heir with her piercing yellow eyes.

Moments passed before she spoke, turning her head towards the fuming lord.

“My apologies, Lord Quelos. Forgive us Opetlevs for our unfortunate habit of inviting unnecessary animosity with our words.”

Quelos turned to his daughter, his gaze lingering on her as she gave the faintest nod. Slowly, the sparks in his eyes faded, and he turned back to Anisia.

“I accept your apologies,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat.

“Pleasantries aside,” he continued, “let us get down to business.”

“You want us to let some of your men into the Aracara Palace Ball?” Lord Quelos asked, his tone measured.

Anisia nodded once, her expression calm.

“And you’re saying these men will handle Algrod with minimal input from us?”

“Just get them inside, and we have a deal,” Anisia replied smoothly.

Quelos leaned back in his chair, his gaze narrowing as he considered her words.

“No plans, no layout of the palace—nothing. You just want our men in?” He paused, the silence thick with suspicion. “Either you’re leaving far too much to chance, or you already have something planned. And I’ve never known the Opetlev family, under your leadership, to rely on the former.”

He leaned forward slightly with a sharpened tone.

“Are you going to let us in on the plan?”

“Algrod is to be killed. Simple as that,” Anisia said, her voice cool.

“Yes, but how exactly? Poison?”

“No.”

Quelos raised an eyebrow.

“Why not? It sounds like an easy way to deal with him. A quiet death, and we can frame a kitchen servant or two afterward. Pin it on someone unimportant.”

Anisia and Mikhil exchanged a glance of knowledge.

“No,” Anisia said firmly as she turned back to face the Iomadaes.

With narrowing eyes and a tugging question, Quelos was ready to voice his concern. But it was Anisia who answered it before the inquiry was voiced.

“We already attempted it.”

Quelos opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Something—shock, perhaps—seemed to block any sound. He turned to his daughter with jaws ajar, who too mirrored his expression of disbelief. The two Iomadaes looked at each other, then back at the Opetlevs.

Finally, Cirina broke the silence, her tone clipped but resigned.

“I think I’d prefer not to know the details. Let’s leave it at that.”

Cirina paused, waiting as her father gathered himself before continuing.

“My father and I want… assurances.”

“Such as?” Anisia inquired smoothly.

“We can’t have a bunch of Opetlev men running around chopping up guards, servants, and other Balgrodov kin just to get to Algrod,” Cirina said firmly. “Questions will be asked, and heads will roll. Our House and your family are already on the verge of an open feud—this would very likely tip the scales into uncodified warfare.”

“So you want us to do it discreetly?”

“We want you to ensure neither we nor yourselves are tied to this attempt.”

“You think they won’t suspect us?”

“We’re saying: don’t leave evidence,” Cirina clarified.

Lady Anisia nodded thoughtfully.

“And I assume your entourage that escorted you here is loyal and trustworthy?”

“Very much so,” Quelos said, finally speech-capable once again “On my life, these men are dependable. These men will follow me to the ends of the earth.”

“Good,” Anisia said with a faint smile.

“Then we won’t have many loose ends. I assure you, none of us will be implicated.”

With a tap of her cane she continued.

“After the unfortunate demise of the fat Algrod, as agreed, we will aid your family in wresting control of the Balgrodovian leadership. Once you have secured yourself as patriarch, we ask only one thing: that whoever takes Algrod’s place on the Educational Board allows my son”—she placed a gentle hand on Mikhil’s shoulder—“to pursue greater studies.”

“I will see to it, on my wor—,” Quelos started.

“And I will even extend my son’s hand to your daughter,” Anisia interjected.

Kalsev, Palgrin, Mikhil, Cirina, and Quelos slammed their gazes on a clam Lady Anisia.

“Come again?” Quelos inquired.

“My son, your daughter.” Anisia repeated.

Quelos and Cirina turned towards each other and at the stone faced the Opetlevian matriarch.

“Oh, spare me,” Anisia said with a faint, dismissive wave of her hand. “You know as well as I do that your daughter’s prime is fading. Not many princes with better options would even consider taking her hand.”

“Pardon me, but what exactly do you mean by that?” Cirina demanded with restrained noblesse.

“Woman to woman, my child,” Anisia replied, leaning in slightly with a suppressed smirk. “You’re what—28? Some people your age are already grandmothers.”

Cirina shot to her feet, her hands crackling with bolts of lightning, fury etched across her face.

Before she could act, Quelos grabbed her firmly by the shoulder, pulling her back into her seat.

“You cannot be serious, Lady Anisia. This is no joking matter—” Quelos began, his voice rising with irritation.

“I mean, just look at my child,” Anisia interrupted smoothly, gesturing toward Mikhil. “Young, recently come into manhood. Charming, strong, and brimming with vigor.”

Mikhil shifted in his seat, his gaze darting between Kalsev, Palgrin, and Anisia, confusion plainly written on his face.

“Accept his hand,” Anisia continued, “and align our families in matrimony. The Opetlevs will forever be willingly indebted to your service.”

“I will nev—” Cirina began, but she was silenced by a firm wave from Lord Quelos.

“I will have to consider this,” Quelos said, scratching his chin.

“By all means, take your time,” Lady Anisia replied smoothly. “But remember, if my son’s hand remains free when a better suitor comes along, he will not hesitate to take it.”

She turned toward Mikhil with an expectant gaze.

“Right, son?”

Mikhil nodded awkwardly, his discomfort evident.

“Err—yes. I… I would be honored to wed your daughter, Lord Quelos. Erm… yes.”

Cirina’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the chair. Her lips pressed together, forming a thin line of barely-contained berserk rage.

Quelos, however, raised an eyebrow. “Quite the enthusiastic proposal,” he muttered dryly, eyeing Mikhil’s fumbling demeanor.

“Indeed,” Anisia chimed in, her tone saccharine. “My son is eager to make alliances for the benefit of both our families. Such a dutiful young man.”

Mikhil blinked, glancing at his mother. “Yes, duty… very important,” he stammered. “I’ve always admired... the Balgrodovs’… erm... traditions?”

Cirina snorted, unable to contain herself. “Traditions? You wouldn’t last a day under our traditions.” She crossed her arms, sparks of residual lightning still crackling faintly around her fingers.

Anisia ignored the exchange entirely, her faint smile growing as she addressed Quelos. “See? They’re already getting along. I can already imagine my grandchildren.”

Quelos sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If this is what getting along looks like, Lady Anisia, I can’t wait to see them as in-laws.”

Cirina turned to her father. “Oh, yes, Father. Let’s seal this deal with a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?”

Anisia leaned back in her chair, her smile unshaken. “Ah, the playful banter of youth. Nothing builds a strong foundation for the future like a little spirited rivalry, don’t you think?”

Quelos groaned, shaking his head. “This is going to be a long negotiation.”

Mikhil turned toward his mother for potential answers, who met his gaze with a smile—one that, for once, reached her eyes; yellow with a sinister glint.

In the unspoken silence that followed, Mikhil gave the faintest of nods. Straightening his posture, he regained his composure.

Lady Anisia then turned back towards expectant Quelos and declared.

“Our ascension shall be paid in blood, let us ensure it is not ours that is charged.”