Daethron had always thought that Seterys made Mistress Caltheon meaning for statues to be carved in her likeness. Now, it was more apparent than ever.

With eyes like garnets and marble-smooth skin, her long sharp face betrayed no emotion. Not a strand hung loose from the braid she had put her waist-length white hair into and coiled at the nape of her slender neck. She sat as straight as only a Seto of her experience could, and in the traditional robes she had chosen to wear, she bore the visage of legends long past.

“As the captain of your guard, I cannot leave you at a time like this,” she said, “What if a blockade is attempted here?”

Beside her, Daethron tried his best to hold a face that was respectable while still approachable. He could scarce listen to the conservation over the hammering of his heart. Requesting he’d be sent to settle the conflict with the Caduceus Consortium as his final trial involved far less talking on his part than he had imagined.

“Your comrades will protect me.” Chancellor Varaleos gave her a smile.

She bowed her head. “They will try their best without their commander.”

Varaleos leaned forward and steepled his liver-spotted hands on his heavy oaken desk. “I’m certain you can find someone to fulfill your duties.”

Daethron stopped himself an instant before he would’ve pulled back. It was so strange smelling sour breath come out of a mouth of straight white teeth. Caltheon cleared her throat. Not a speck of dust could be found in Varaleos’ office, but it felt so… stuffy.

“Your Excellency, a moment's hesitation would allow an attack to succeed. I consider it unwise to put such pressure on someone unaccustomed to my position.”

“And that stripling won’t be the least bit nervous walking into negotiations?” Varaleos said dryly.

Daethron froze. He wanted nothing more but to move, to look away, and he couldn’t make himself do it.

He sensed it as vividly as he could see with his eyes, taste with his tongue. Irritation. It simmered off the walls and floor. Chancellor Varaleos was teeming with it. That was what thickened the air into a haze.

Caltheon laid a sinewy hand on his shoulder, and he almost flinched from it. “Daethron Daleris is ready. I’ve prepared him.”

Varaleos furrowed his brow at her. Confusion flared up the heat.

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“I took under my wing when he was four. He has sat by my side ever since and learned all I have–”

Varaleos snapped his fingers. “He is the Hearteater’s apprentice,”

“I’ve taught Daleris with his consent.” She pressed her lips together.

“Both of them have played crucial roles in my training.” Daethron broke in.

A laugh burst out of Varaleos. Caltheon’s fingers dug into Daethron. For a moment, they only stood there and watched.

“What? The Hearteater hardened your resolve by starving you?” He rubbed under one of his deep-set lilac eyes and a little powder fell out to expose a hint of dark circles.

The fear melted away as fast as ice under the spring sun.

“No,” Daethron jerked away from him and wrenched his shoulder out of Caltheon’s grip.

“He did by showing me how not to act, you drunk bastard.”

Silence fell upon them all.

Varaleos let out a sigh and slid back into his armchair. “I can’t say you’re wrong.”

…

“Unsheathe it.” a smile tugged at Caltheon’s lips.

Daethron pressed his together and slid the dagger out of the supple sheath. Light flashed on its wafer-thin blade, the clear blue of a mountain stream, and he knew. This was zaere extracted from the corpse of Seledin Stareyes. It glowed in his hand.

The crystalized blood of Seledin Stareyes, son of House Caltheon and Father of Orthodoxy, was glowing in his hand.

“I knew it’d take a liking to you.” she let the grin spread across her face.

“Don’t tell me this was from his skull,” he murmured.

Seledin had died almost a thousand years ago at the ripe age of ninety. The zaere that had pushed his eyes out of their sockets when he was only a few years old were growing to this day. His life force was yet to run dry. Daethron had endeavored to read each and every text he had written, from the foundational Tembyr to his final essays on governance and grace.

After all, how could one expect to serve as a Seto without a solid understanding of the doctrine?

“Where else would it be? This dagger is among many in my family,” she said, “I asked to have it, and my father told me he wouldn’t miss one.”

“Does he know you’ve given it to me?” Daethron murmured.

House Caltheon alone held claim to Seledin's zaere. It was customary that his descendants had wielded weapons carved from it... but not doctrinal, now he realized.

“By now, he’s forgotten that it existed in the first place.”

Daethron chuckled with her.

“See that band?” she pointed to the pale pure gold that wrapped around the dagger's handle just above the crossguard with a slender finger.

“It's lovely,” he said.

Caltheon smiled. “Your mother said that when I gave it to her as a ring after her wedding. She told me she would wear it always.”

“On her deathbed, she took it off and pressed it into my palm. She wanted me to have something to remember her by.”

“I kept it in a box for years.” she shook her head. “What folly. Her memory was dying in there, in dust and darkness. Now you get to bring it back to life.”

Daethron searched for words that wouldn't come.

"I... I'll try my best,"

Caltheon laid her hand over his. Both of their fingertips pressed into the gold.

"You will, my boy."