The Caliphate historians do not like to admit it, but every Angelus that now acts as Patron to their own land appeared first in Narvonne, during the early Cataclysm. Indeed, we have records in Aurelius’ diaries and the writings of Titus Nasica attesting to the fact that both Isrāfīl and Saint Hafaza the Guardian were present for the negotiation of the Accords. Epinnoia blessed Queen Eltantia, who was with child at the time. It is only after the accords that seven Angelus left Narvonne and went south, to Maʿīn.

* François du Lutetia, A History of Narvonne

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2nd Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Not long after Sir Trist and his wife had left the solar, Baroness Arnive took Sir Guiron off to have his wounds seen to, and to rest. Baron Urien, obviously too unsettled to sit, paced the room. “We’re well and truly in it now,” he grumbled, then shot a look to where Ismet sat near Lionel. “Can we count on you and your troops, still, General?” the older man asked. “The situation has changed.”

“I came north to fight daemons,” Ismet said, though of course that was not the sole reason she had accepted General Shadi’s offer and left Maʿīn. “I have no orders from the Caliph on what to do in the event of a civil war in Narvonne.”

“Baron,” Lionel said, “might I have a moment to speak with the General alone?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Urien bowed, took three steps back, and then turned for the door. Sir Bors swung it shut and then stepped to block anyone else from entering without his leave, remaining at attention.

“Please tell me that you won’t abandon me now, Ismet,” Lionel said, and she was shocked to see how his shoulders slumped the moment they were in private.

“I do not wish to abandon you,” Ismet said. “Lionel, I am in a precarious position. General Shadi was sent north to force the pass and destroy Adrammelech. I do not think anyone - well, not most - would question me for allying with your forces against a greater threat, during the battle south of the pass. But that is the end of the mission given to the General, so far as I know. We were never meant to travel further into Narvonne.”

“A general in the field is given some measure of discretion,” Lionel said, and rose from his seat. “At least, here in Narvonne. I would think it much the same where the Caliphate is concerned - it is the only way to deal with changing circumstances in the field.”

“Supporting you in regaining your throne would be far beyond my mandate,” Ismet pointed out. “The Caliphate officially maintains the position that your monarchy shows a lack of reverence for the Angelus, and would be better for all of us replaced with another Caliphate.” She watched Lionel go to a cabinet against one wall of the solar and remove a bottle of the fermented cider so popular in the mountains around Falais.

“Officially,” Lionel repeated, setting out a glass and pouring. “And what do you think? That we are all impious, heretics, too arrogant to humble ourselves before the Angelus?”

“I think,” Ismet said, rising, “That I have found far more good men and women in Narvonne than I had been led to expect.” She crossed the solar in a few short steps, then reached out and placed her hand on the bottle. “I do not, however, approve of using alcohol as a crutch for your feelings of grief.”

“It is forbidden in Maʿīn,” Lionel recalled, looking down into the glass of cider.

“For good reason,” Ismet argued. “It leads men into all manner of sin and intemperate action. It causes even friends to quarrel, and men to abuse their wives and children.”

“I would never do anything like that,” Lionel said, raising his eyes to meet hers. “I just - I cannot grieve for my father right now. I am not only a son, now but a monarch, as well. My kingdom needs me to be strong. I need to show the Barons nothing but determination. Even the slightest weakness would only shake the confidence of my men, cause them to doubt me.”

“And are any of your men in this room?” Ismet asked him. She lifted the bottle, walked back over to the cabinet, and replaced it. “I see only Sir Bors, whose honor would never allow him to speak of what you say or do in private, and myself. You have just now learned of your father’s murder,” she continued, turning away from the cabinet and walking back over to the new King of Narvonne. “If ever there was a time for you to feel it, this is the moment. You are safe in this room.”

“You understand how ironic it is for those words to be spoken to me by a Caliphate General,” Lionel pointed out, his hand still on the glass of cider. Ismet took it as a minor victory that he had not yet brought it to his lips. “Our people have been enemies since the Cataclysm.”

“I was taught,” Ismet said slowly, choosing her words carefully as she went, “that the Narvonnian Kings did not submit to the Angelus because they were power hungry, and jealous of an Exarch’s blessings. That they were all drunken louts, given to excess and rage.”

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“Do you fear now that I will live up to those stories?” Lionel asked her, looking down at the glass of cider once again.

“No, I do not,” Ismet said. The words came easier now. “I do not fear that, because I know it is not true. It is not you. I watched you pick yourself up out of the wreckage to face your death with nothing but a dagger in your hand.”

“I was thinking of how to get away,” Lionel admitted.

“Of how to get away, so that you could rally your troops?” Ismet smiled beneath her veil, and placed a hand over Lionel’s. The glass was cool where her fingers touched it, but his skin was warm.

Lionel chuckled. “Aye. And how I should have listened to my father and given him an heir before getting myself killed.”

“So,” Ismet pointed out, “faced with the Great Cataclysm itself, the Sun Eater that destroyed Etalus, your thoughts remained focused on the good of your kingdom. And I seem to recall, you screamed something noble and defiant at it. ‘Come at me then, was it?”

“Something like that,” Lionel admitted.

“Stories that feature a brave prince, devoted to his people, have rather a different character than the histories we are given to study at the University of Maʿīn,” Ismet pointed out.

“I do not know if I can keep it up,” Lionel admitted, his voice soft as Pārsan silk. “It hasn’t stopped, Ismet. And it isn’t going to stop so long as a single one of these daemons walk the world.”

“Then if you cannot do it alone, I will help you,” she said, even though she knew it was a bad idea. The proper thing for Ismet to do was to march her army back south, or at least south of the pass and to send a report back to the Caliph for orders. Her mission was accomplished, and General Shadi was dead. Her men called her General, but in truth she was no such thing: the Caliph had never appointed her to the position.

And yet, she had spent her entire life training to fight daemons. Now that the battle was here, was she going to turn away, simply because it took place in Narvonne, rather than in the lands controlled by the Caliphate? Could she turn away and let the good people she had met over the past weeks face that evil without her at their side, and perhaps die?

“Ismet, you just told me that you could not,” Lionel pointed out.

“I told you I would be exceeding my mandate,” Ismet corrected him. “I am an Exarch, Lionel. My purpose is to protect this world from daemons. Should I abandon you all now, simply because the fight is happening on the wrong side of a line drawn on a map?”

“Your Caliph may not agree with that,” Lionel observed.

“I will deal with that after the daemons have been defeated. That is the priority, and I do not think that I could live with myself if I abandoned you all,” Ismet admitted. “I try to think of how I would feel if, sitting in a garden in Maʿīn, I received a letter from you telling me that Sir Trist and his young squire had died in battle. Or from Baron Urien that you had been killed, without me there. And I think that I would die inside if that happened.”

“Ismet,” Lionel said, and raised his other hand to her veil. “You are extraordinary.”

For a moment, she froze. There was no sound but the pounding of her own heart, and the rustle of wings somewhere in the back of her mind. She was suddenly very aware of Lionel’s hand beneath hers, on the glass, and just how close to each other they stood. She had never felt this way in the presence of Nasir al-Rashid.

“Don’t,” Ismet gasped, and stepped back before Lionel could touch her veil. “I cannot you show my face. It is not proper.”

“You are not in the Caliphate,” Lionel reminded her, and stepped forward to follow her away from the table, the glass of cider now entirely forgotten. “You are in Narvonne. No one here believes that a woman must hide herself away from the sight of men.”

“My own soldiers do,” Ismet said. “What would they say?”

“Forget about your soldiers for a moment,” Lionel interrupted her. “You said yourself we are safe in this room. What do you want, Ismet? Have I understood you, these past weeks, or have I been mistaken? Do you not feel what I feel?”

“I respect you a great deal,” Ismet said. “I believe I have made that clear. You are a good man, and a good leader. I am grateful it was you in command here, at the pass. I have enjoyed working with you.”

“Is that all?” Lionel pressed on. “Because that is not all that I have felt. You are the brightest part of my day. I look forward to every meeting that I know you will attend, no matter how monotonous the work. And I hope I have not imagined that you feel the same. Whenever you lean towards me at the feast, I want to take you in my arms.”

“That would not be proper,” Ismet protested.

“I know it,” Lionel said. “But you are the only one, today, to care what I was feeling. Not as a Prince, but as a man. As a son. Tell me that is only professional interest, between a general working with a king, and I will set my feelings aside and never speak of them again.”

Ismet’s words stuck in her throat. Had she not left Maʿīn to avoid precisely this situation? There was little difference between the son of a Caliph and the son of a King, after all. Both men had been born to positions of power, where they could expect to be given anything they wanted - including the hand of the woman of their choice in marriage. She had no more desire to be Queen of Narvonne than the wife of the next Caliph of Maʿīn.

Why then, did this feel so different? Whenever Nasir had trapped her in a room for some sort of confession of his feelings, she had wanted to escape as badly as an animal gnawing its own leg off to be free of a trap. Nasir could not truly force her into a wedding, but he could make it exceedingly difficult to refuse. When General Shadi had offered her the chance to flee Maʿīn and escape his reach, it had been like a cool night breeze after a long, baking day in the Magreb Waste.

Instead of wanting to run out of this room, however, Ismet found that some part of herself desired nothing more than to relent, and allow Lionel to pull her veil aside. The men of Maʿīn, including Nasir, had always spoken of her beauty, but would the King of Narvonne find her pleasing? She was ashamed that she hoped so. What was the difference between the two men, that she should feel this way?

Ismet tried to imagine Nasir al-Rashid facing down the Sun Eater with nothing but a belt knife in his hand. The image was laughable.

“You are not wrong,” she admitted. “I am fond of you, Lionel. But I will not put aside the traditions of my home. They mean a great deal to me. And I will do nothing to bring shame to the soldiers who follow me, or to my father.”

“I never wish to bring you shame,” Lionel told her.

“Then give me time.” With that, Ismet turned and left the room, before she could do anything she might regret.