Thirteen years ago

The Honourable Eireann O’Brien, eldest daughter of The Viscount of Airondale, led her latest suitor, Baron Ottocon, heir to The Earl of Fykington, on a tour of the garden. As the premier garden in the O’Brien family seat, it contained both the wild species found around the domain and cultivars bred for aesthetics.

The well-groomed path meandered around the variety of plants. Each artfully placed to amaze the amblers with dazzling colors, spectacular shapes, and graceful swaying in the breeze.

Or at least, it should have.

Baron Ottocon, however, seemed to have eyes only for her shapes and her swaying. As if staring at her could burn away the simple yellow dress that blocked him from his prize.

As a young girl, Eireann had grown familiar with–but never accustomed to–the predatory gaze of boys and men. She was lucky though, that the authority embedded in her father’s name and title persuaded most to hold to their best behavior.

She supposed it was better now, since at sixteen, she at least looked like a woman.

They arrived at a dead-end in the garden. The intentionally isolated patch was absent of flowers and foliage. Lacking also, the sounds of birds and insects. A quietness enveloped the place, as if a glass dome separated it from the rest of the garden. Mushrooms carpeted the shaded seclusion. A light layer of fuzz lay on top, as if a pastry chef had livened up the place with a sprinkling of powdered sugar.

“And here we have the pièce de résistance of the garden: a cluster of Sleeper Shrooms. The only cultivated cluster in all of Mireland.”

She extended her arm out to one side and bent towards it, forming a straight line between her fingertips and waist. Sidestepping towards the other side, Eireann imagined herself as a master of ceremony. She pretended to pull back the curtains from the main exhibit without blocking the view of the audience.

Eireann had developed this little routine some years back. The combination of a secluded location and the danger ahead of them had spurred many suitors to attempt a grab at her waist. They would make a show of saving her from succumbing to the somniferous effect of the spores. But she knew it was a thin excuse for simply taking advantage of what they thought was her lack of escape.

So she did this deft dance to escape unwanted attention without appearing to reject it. For nothing angered arrogant and entitled men more than showing disapproval of their graceless attempt at possessing her.

As Eireann scuttled to the side, out of reach of Baron Ottocon’s outstretched hand, she mentally sighed. As predictable as ants swarming a cake.

“Notice there, a mouse caught in a dreamless sleep from the spores of these mushrooms.” She pointed with her hand while still bent over, pretending she had not spotted his attempt to touch her.

“Oh, my word!”

Instead of the peaceful slumber many expected, she showed them the reality of a Sleeper Shroom victim. The mouse lay on its side, with several baby mushrooms growing out of it. They had burst through its skin, with the blood leaving dried streaks of dark red on the caps. At the bottom of each stalk, a chaotic jumble of rent flesh revealed white filaments of mushroom interspaced with the dark brown of dried muscle fibers.

As if popping a zit did not clear the skin, instead causing the stuff inside to gain sentience, growing and bleeding.

The occasional twitches from the mouse’s whiskers and paws suggested that it was still very much alive.

Scenes like these typically quelled whatever amorous fantasies her suitors had been building in their minds. When one of her suitors had become visibly aroused by this, she had quickly excused herself with some fake emergency and informed her parents of her hard veto.

Yes, she had become adept at navigating the minefield shaped by men’s desires. So different from four years ago, when she had debuted in society, announcing her availability for marriage.

Back then–at the age of twelve–her rare-grade Core Card had not yet evolved. [See the Unnoticed] could highlight when merchants short-changed their customers or help find a hairpin that had dropped while riding her horse. But she found it lacking for the responsibilities that would fall to the lady of a major house.

Nothing like her mother’s [Calculate the Odds] ability, which had made her parents’ marriage more like a partnership of equals, from which respect and love had unfolded.

But despite her general uselessness and her ungainly mess of long limbs, her pretty face had drawn a hungry fixation from the menfolk. While she theoretically knew she was prettier than average, she had grown up among her father’s men, who treated her as their own daughter.

So the raw lust from the boys and men at her debut had paralyzed her.

Her mother had called off the debut even though they had received decent offers for her hand. It had paid off a week later since her Core had evolved to [See the Unseen].

To the delight of Master Huffenbrow, in charge of animal husbandry, she had seen what ailed the animals under his care. She had become popular with the healers too, since even though people could say what was hurting, she could better discern why they were hurting.

Most importantly, she had identified individuals infected with the plague and prevented its spread into their household. While she could not help Mireland at large, nor even their own domain of Airondale, she at least had protected those closest to her.

But her proudest moment had been spotting the missing little boy, Patrick, in a pit dug beneath a house. Her personal guard had ferreted her away after she told them. So she had not witnessed the guards storm that house and mount a rescue. But days later, the family had thanked her profusely, moving her to tears. He was just a commoner’s son, but helping him had mattered more than she could imagine.

While Father had his doubts about withdrawing her from society at first, he came around after several months. As tales of her beauty had spread–coupled with her accomplishments–his peers, the other noble houses, had started visiting their estate. Whatever reason they gave, they had all traveled along with their heirs, young men of marriageable age.

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And thus started a period of growth for them. Under managed circumstances, she had learned to interact with men and manage their libido. At the same time, her parents had signed many alliances and agreements with other houses. Though many had expressed an interest, Mother had held off on any marriage contracts, gambling on the next evolution of Eireann’s rare Core.

The bet had paid off again, as her Core had progressed to [See the Unseeable] two years ago. The most important “unseeable” were Cards.

With applicability in politics and deal-making–as long as the other party was unaware of her abilities–her parents had changed the plans for her re-debut. Instead of a public event, her father had written letters to specific families with oblique hints at her uniqueness. Old families with land and power.

They had taken some of the money set aside for her dowry and held a birthday celebration in happiness, donating the rest to the Church in thankfulness. Her mother had been overjoyed, because it allowed Eireann to marry someone of higher social standing, as she had.

Eireann had been less sanguine about marrying into a more prestigious house, uncertain if they would treat her as a person instead of a political tool to be called upon and shared. That had changed several months later, in the spring following her fourteenth birthday.

She had met the Baron of Byzantia, heir to the Duke of Sumani.

Eireann had not known if it was love, not having experienced it before. But in his presence, her heart had pounded in her ears and her typically eloquent tongue had found itself dumb, stumbling over simple words. And parting with him come nighttime, she had wished the moon would speed up its sojourn across the sky so that she may gaze upon the shining beauty of his face again in the morning.

Very different from how she avoided looking at Baron Ottocon, who–at this moment–was stealing furtive glances down her bodice in her bent position. She kept an arm across her bosom, a scant protection against his lecherous gaze.

In fairness to Baron Ottocon, though, he was decent enough as suitors go.

Ample farmland in the northwest, away from the war. Full set of teeth, strong jaw, bright eyes, and well-defined musculature. She should probably not gauge his worth as if he were a horse. But in all fairness to him still, it would be a closer comparison than shaming him through comparison with Alexios, as the Baron of Byzantia had insisted she call him.

‘As fine as a horse’ was a decent compliment, given her love of horses. How would Baron Ottocon react this afternoon when, instead of riding side-saddle like a proper lady, she planned to show up for their ride in skin-tight pants?

Her form, unhidden behind layers of dress, had scandalized all her past suitors. But she refused to let them take away her greatest joy. They had to understand that her role as their future wife was not only reciting the Cards she saw or hosting tea parties. She liked the parties just fine, but tea and pastries could not compare to the sheer exhilaration of a good gallop.

Father had disapproved at first. But as the marriage proposals under discussion became more generous after the heirs had spent an afternoon riding with her, he had relented.

The last time she had seen Alexios, they had been on horses too. She had escorted his entourage to Airondale’s borders, not wanting to part with him back at the castle. The last image was of him turning around and waving to her, regal atop his brown mare, as if posing for a painting.

The tail of his Petravian horse, reaching almost to the fetlock, had waved in the light breeze as if saying her own goodbye. She had known that beautiful tail intimately, having spent copious time combing it. As she groomed, she had dreamt of running her fingers through Alexios’ hair instead.

He had taken with him Eireann’s heart and a copy of the marriage contract. And he had left her with a promise. To get preparations ready at home and return, as fast as he could, with his wedding party. She knew the speed at which he could prepare.

He had revealed that while his common-grade Core appeared useless, [Restful Nap] allowed him to feel refreshed with brief naps. Since sleep did not rob him of his time, he had almost two sets of servants seeing to his needs and could dedicate many hours to readying the city of Byzantia for their matrimonial celebration.

Eireann found it fascinating the subtle nuances present in Core Cards and how it painted the portrait of a person. Alexios became the most skilled, the most knowledgeable, the most ‘everything’ person she had met because he could take naps.

Whereas, while Baron Ottocon’s Core ability seemed so similar to hers, his behavior left little doubt now what his [See the Hidden] skill applied to.

As Eireann guided him back toward the garden proper, walking ahead of him, she thought about feigning illness and excusing herself. She tried to convince herself again that he wasn’t so awful of a suitor. That they needed him.

Worry loomed large in her mind that, nowadays, Baron Ottocon represented the best match she could get.

For the war had come back to Mireland. Although her Core ability offered great advantages in the Game of Houses, politics became an afterthought with a horde of angry barbarians at people’s gates.

Nowadays, too, their peers regarded her as bad luck. As if her engagement to Alexios almost two years ago had somehow inspired Petravia to launch a surprise attack against Byzantia.

Byzantia, one of the wealthiest cities in Mireland, arising from its commercial position in the confluence of two major rivers. Byzantia, a trade hub of strategic importance between the three neighboring countries of Mireland, Petravia, and the Central Kingdom. Byzantia, of tactical importance at the nexus of the resupply routes for Mirelandic military forces.

No, it was somehow her fault. Eireann had beguiled the shining star of Byzantia, who stood so far above her station, thereby forcing God’s wrath as punishment. It was as good of an explanation of the attack as any to most people.

Back then, people regarded war as something that happened elsewhere. Not even her mother had foreseen the possibility that the Petravians would send forces so far behind the war front to sack the city. And in making sense of this tragedy, people had settled on divine judgement against her, since they could not imagine the Baron of Byzantia deserving it.

By all reports, Alexios had led the defense of the city bravely and tirelessly. But his preparations for a wedding celebration had not accounted for the band of killers and lunatics known as the Lost Boys of Razzad crashing it. His overseeing of their wedding regalia had not equipped him for his dance with the Butcher of Byzantia, who had torn him apart, along with half the city.

With one attack, the enemy had taken the best of them. Had destroyed the brightest exemplar that Mireland nobility had to offer, cut down before his prime.

Courtship rules did not specify a formal mourning period for engagements, but Eireann had grieved Alexios for real. Grieved for the shearing of the love blossoming between the two of them. Mourned for the loss of a happy life together with their shared joys of reading, riding, and dueling.

That spring, she had lost her joy and naivete, as much of Mireland had. Food turned to ash in her mouth, presaging how villages and cities had burned that summer. As the months passed and winter arrived, Eireann became not exactly better, but numb.

While no longer overwhelmed by grief, little things would still spiral her into depression. She couldn’t even ride, as the sight of her beloved horse had brought up painful memories and caused her to shake uncontrollably.

But she became functional. Ready again for duty, if not for love.

As she came back to the world, she discovered it had changed as much as she did. Their peers no longer formed alliances for influence and trade. The currency of power was now denominated in knights and fortifications. Beauty and knowledge, which she had in abundance, now counted for little.

Little. Just like the dowry her father managed to amass over the last year and a half.

Eireann steeled herself. She smoothed her face, took a deep breath, and turned, uncrossing her folded arms. “Can I interest you in riding this afternoon, Baron Ottocon?”