The three women Mydea had spotted earlier by the fountains joined them at the table, filling up the seats next to Vivyan. Counting the princess, that was half the table accounted for.

“A good evening to you, my ladies,” Mydea began as she introduced herself to the Marcherwomen, and they offered their names in turn. There was the pudgy Sara Shells, and shy Lanna Thorne, and Lady Miryam Bludbolt—thin, toned, and hard as a whip. She looked every bit the lady from a house external with the sword at her hip and a dress she could duel in.

“Is that an heirloom?” Vivyan asked, scorn coloring her tone as she eyed the bronze sheen of its hilt.

Miryam narrowed her eyes at Vivyan. “Just a regular sword.”

“How quaint,” Vivyan said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bronze sword before.”

Any knight would’ve preferred runesteel if given a choice, but bronze was still better than plain steel. In a fight, how well your sword channeled magic mattered just as much as your swordsmanship. Mydea would bet on Lady Miryam over frail Vivyan a hundred times over in the war yards.

Miryam offered Vivyan a smile as sharp as her sword. “Perhaps you’ll have a closer look in the days to come.”

Vivyan fell quiet. She was never the surest sword in a fight, having spent her days in the athenaeum on other pursuits.

A gentleman in heels and two ladies were the next additions to their dozen. The ladies were like day and night; one a fair-skinned brunette with a prominent aquiline nose, the other a Dunelander of pure stock judging by how her skin was darker than even Princess Mirah’s. Both were dressed exactly like her too, though the fabric was cotton, and they kept thin, needle-like dueling swords at their hips. The man, Mydea suspected, was kin to the brunette given they shared the same look.

The Dunelander introduced herself as Larah Fleetfoot of the Marblepass, while the other two were Adamm and Lilith Morne, the children of the Grand Captain of the Gatekeepers.

The Marcherwomen eyed the new arrivals with open suspicion. As the ones seated across them, the Mornes bore the brunt of it, though Larah faced her fair share of dark looks besides Miryam.

“That’s a lovely dress you have,” Lilith said to Mydea. Mydea’s dress was a woolen, form-fitting thing with a lining of sabretooth fur for the winter months or mountain flights on Snowscorn. It was one of her simpler garbs, with little in the way of frills compared to theirs. “It’s not the current fashion, I know, but one has to be practical out on the border I suppose.”

“It isn’t the current fashion anywhere,” Vivyan said beneath her breath.

“As you say,” Mydea said, tilting her head. “I’ve never seen the point in mimicking others. Dreadfully uninspired if you ask me.”

Lilith’s smile turned tight. She chose to engage with Vivyan in a conversation about Deeplander fashion instead—and though the two tried to prick at her feelings, it was nothing so overt that she’d be forced to respond to it. Unlike last year, the Pleonexians were no longer fond of sable according to Vivyan. Mydea was inclined to trust her over such matters.

Next to join them was Lady Abygail Abelle in a gown of cloth of gold with exquisite stitching of rams locking horns. The House Principal of Abelle was many leagues from the southernmost reaches of the Deeplands, but even Mydea recognized their most ancient sigil. Yet, more eye-catching was Lady Rene who looked sculpted from white jade in her loose clothes with long, large sleeves and an even longer, embroidered skirt. Wrapped around her arm was a silk scarf. The style looked entirely foreign to Mydea, and if she had to guess, it was inspired by something from across the Sundered Sea.

“All rise for Her Excellency,” a herald announced, “Princess Mirah Syngian of the Syngian Empire, accompanied by the Honorable Prince Cleo of Pyria!”

Mydea stood dutifully with the rest of the guests, ears picking up on fervent whispers all around her. She had never met anyone who’d visited that far off mountainous land to the west, beyond the Vaynish Plains, sandy dunes, and the Empire’s edge. It was fortuitous to meet not just any Pyrian, but their prince at that!

The man who linked arms with Princess Mirah was toned and tanned, with gold bangles clasped around either wrist. He wore a plain white tunic made of wool, draped diagonally across one shoulder and ended at his knees. A belt fastened itself just below his breast, keeping the excess fabric from spilling out. To top things off, he wore a broad-brimmed hat and open-toed sandals.

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Mydea might not have given him a second glance if she did not know he was some foreign prince, for he did not look the part at all.

Surely the princess was not considering giving her hand away to this man? She’d recently turned twenty, and no doubt had a sea of suitors, but it was still uncommon to marry the year one became of age.

As protocol dictated, Princess Mirah was the first to be seated, followed by her honored guest, then the rest of them. She removed her gloves daintily, laying them over her lap, and those with similar garb followed suit. Like clockwork, liveried servants descended upon them with glass teapots and cups.

The water in the teapots was brought to a visible boil, then a full minute passed before the herbs were dropped in. The color of the infusion shifted to a pale yellow over the course of the next seven minutes, before they were poured into double-layered glass cups that made the drink seem like it was floating.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this blend before,” Lady Abygail said from besides Mydea. “Is it green tea?”

“It’s white,” Mydea said, taking the time to breathe in its faint scent of grape. It had a delicate taste to it, slightly sweet, and without any of the bitterness found in a black brew or burned tea. She rolled her eyes as she spotted Vivyan in her periphery pouring milk and honey into her cup without a care. Tea was truly wasted on that girl. “Try it first to see if it’s to your taste. I drink mine with a squeeze of lemon sometimes, but it doesn’t need much else,” Mydea said to Abygail.

Abygail took a small sip, and nodded. “You know your tea well, Lady Mydea.”

“It’s a hobby I picked up from my mother,” Mydea said, eyeing the three-tiered trays.

The assortment of foods on display competed with the flowers in both scent and color. Starting from the lowest tier were the savory foods: deep fried eggs with a crisp coat of sausage and breadcrumbs, chilled cubes of geese, skewered with grape, celery, and apple, and an assortment of finger sandwiches topped with smoked salmon and cucumber, or shrimp and egg with dill to name a few.

“You are from House Kolchis, are you not?” Abygail asked. “From the northeast?”

“Our fief is nestled along the Aigean Range,” Mydea said.

She paused for a moment in thought, the dimples on her cheeks showing. “It’ll be snowing there soon, won’t it?” Abygail asked.

“It’s as you say,” Mydea said. “The first flakes had yet to fall when I left, but it can’t be long now.”

“It must be nice to see such things,” Abygail said. “It rarely snows back home, save for the coldest winters.”

“Winter means raiding from the savages, doesn’t it?” Lilith asked from three seats away, though it sounded more a statement. Mydea squashed down on her surprise, scarcely imagining a woman bred and bled in the Imperial City would bother to know such details about her home.

Abygail’s brow rose. “You face war during the winter? Have the savages no sense? The harvest is long over, and the herds culled. What shall they steal?”

“Steel,” Mydea said, tapping the hilt of her sword with a finger. “They take what they cannot make themselves. Should they chance upon a flock, they will take that too, but it is never the point of their attacks.”

“But would it not make more sense to strike some other season then? It is difficult enough to move an army once winter settles,” Abygail said.

“Difficult for us, but not for the Tuskar,” Mydea said. “In pitched battle, they do not stand much of a chance, so they avoid it whenever possible and use the snows to hamper our movement. Hard places do not make hard people.”

Vivyan smirked, taking a dainty sip of her too-sweet tea. “Is that so? What’s one to make of the Battle of the Barrens then?”

“You pluck one defeat among countless victories, and call that proof of anything?” Mydea said. “That would be a most narrow accounting of history.” Her grandfather’s expedition beyond the Aigean Range was an overreach in hindsight, and Kolchis continued to pay for the bloody debt that battle had incurred.

A lull fell over the table as they helped themselves to the tray’s second tier containing slices of an airy sponge cake displaying a chequered pattern of blue and orange and topped with berries, a fine pastry parcel stuffed with currants and a non-negligible amount of butter, and thin, flaky tarts with a gooey, caramelized filling. Mydea was on her second cup of tea, and it was kept at exactly the right temperature by the teapots despite the passage of time.

Princess Mirah remained engrossed in a lengthy discussion over the subject of botany, while Prince Cleo expressed surprise that a member of royalty—or indeed any aristocrat—would sully their hands with work of any sort. The Pyrians had queer notions of what work meant if they counted hobbies as work in Mydea’s opinion. Meanwhile, the three Marcherwomen continued to share words amongst themselves.

The top of the tray held only two options: candied citrus peels with a crunchy chocolate shell, or scones studded with cranberries and a zesty lemon glaze generously drizzled to top it off. Both struck Mydea as too sweet by far, so she nibbled at a piece of peel and left it at that.

That peace reigned for but a moment.