Reminder: Atlan invasion & the betrothal ceremony happened 1675. The "current"/ 'after' timeline is 1690. This chapter takes place six years before the invasion.

"Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires."

—From Macbeth,
By Shakespeare

MORDANIA CASTLE,
MORDANIA
YEAR 1669

DEEP, WHITE SNOW blanketed the castle, transforming man's attempts to carve out civilization—stone walls and tiled roofs and cobblestone roads—into vast, blank, untrammelled territory. It had been snowing, without ceasing, for a month, as it did every year at this time. That was why most Mordanians held celebrations during the coldest month of the year, to lift their spirits: coronations, festivals... and weddings, like the one that had taken place earlier today, on a much grander scale than the little peasant weddings with their bare-bones ceremonies.

All weddings had the same rudimentary Mordanian rituals, no matter how grand or frugal the ceremonies were. There were three important customs: the first battle between the couple, the first private skin-to-skin touch since becoming engaged (usually a kiss for the more risqué, and a simple handhold for the more modest), and an exchange of weapons, typically a dagger. Since they would have already sworn their oaths at their betrothal, the couple would merely say a few words of their own choosing before it was time for the reception—or, if the couple was really destitute, they would proceed straight to the wedding night.

Ilyas thought of that wedding night now as he paced the corridors, watching through the arched windows as more and more of it fell, hiding the castle from view... and hopefully, shielding his schemes from plain sight. Far from peaceful, unlike the pastoral scene before him, the ballroom echoed with raucous shouts and rowdy voices. Strains of string music grew louder as he strode toward the ballroom. Bright laughter and excited conversation drifted into his ears. He could smell the aromas of wine and rich food, floral perfumes and musky colognes as he made his way into a hidden passageway behind the ballroom.

Ilyas pushed back a tapestry—coarse wool, deftly woven with a pattern of crossed swords and drops of blood—and peered into the room. The queen was waltzing in the arms of the king, both of them looking happy and flushed. He saw Adaira Dusang throw back her head and laugh. Candlelight shone on her dark hair, and two spots of colour were high on her pale cheeks. Her face and neck were bare, the usually wavy locks pulled back into a strict bun that was adorned with two ebony pins with teardrop-shaped rubies cascading from them. She was the queen already, fitting into that regal role like she was born to it, not like she had clawed her way into it and sunk her talons into any man willing to be used by her.

Ilyas recalled the first time he had seen her, when her last name was still Donnedieux. Donnedieux. That was not even a noble surname but a common one, meaning 'gift of the gods' — only those who had many children would attempt to justify those lives in such a foolish, superstitious manner. A surge of anger, of jealousy, rose up in him, almost breaking through his calm. He swallowed it down as others might liquor: feeling something burn in his chest at the sight of her, hoping to wash away the emotion with numbness. She could have been in his arms, in a different life. This could have been the eve of their wedding night.

But no—they were the same; just as power-hungry as each other, unable to tear themselves away from that quest of ambition, that thirst and hunger for control. Neither of them loved each other more than they loved power, he had thought. Until she married the king and he realized that in fact, he loved her more than he could ever love ambition. Still, there was time enough for his plans to be carried out—not those to annul the king and queen's marriage, of course—he had made too many promises too many people for that—but he would spite Michel Dusang forever with the event which would take place tonight.

"That which you have requested has been brought to you, my lord," Henri, his trusted servant, informed him cryptically.

"Thank you, Henri," he replied, letting the curtain fall across the window again, and leaving them in darkness. "Bring me to it."

They walked through the castle's stone walls, and despite the extensive network of hot springs heating Mordania's capital city, he saw frost forming beneath his fingertips as he trailed his hand across a wall. Candles snuffed out as he passed them, and he curled his fingers inward, digging into his palm. Every one of his senses felt sharpened, more attuned to the elements around him: he could scent smoke from the just-flickered torches, could taste iron and salt bitter on his tongue. The moment he drew blood, the Atlan powers receded, lying dormant once more—he was Mordanian once more.

Since making the bargain with the current king of Atla, he'd received a share of the man's elemental magic through a potion he had to drink every month, but it seemed to be tied to ice and snow alone. Of course, there was scarcely time enough in this country where he could test out such magic on crops or rivers—it would be treason to do so anyway. Elemental magic was banned in Mordania, the land of blood magic. The land of cold and war and frost; land of armour and weapons and wind.

"We have arrived, my lord," Henri spoke up, opening the door for him to step into the study.

"Good evening, gentlemen." The king of Atla, Connell Thorne, sat on a leather armchair, wearing the face of Michel Dusang. Connell stood when he saw Ilyas. "I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now, let us see if you can fulfill yours."

He noted that the Atlan king's characteristic green eyes were now brown; his distinctive, ash-blond hair now dark chestnut. The resemblance was too great, with him even clad in the Mordanian king's clothes, that Ilyas had to resist the urge to punch him. They had the same build as well: stocky and tall, made of brute force and muscle-bound strength. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding against each other, and nodded instead.

"Evening, Your Majesty." He clasped his hands together behind his back. "I see that Rochelle has accomplished her task."

Rochelle Bourdieu was one of Mordania's sorceresses for hire, looked down upon by most of the magical community in Mordania for selling her blood magic services to anyone... Mordanian or even Atlan. Ilyas had paid for her services before, but never for a job so large. There may have been sorcerers with better skills, but there were none with more discretion than she, which was key in a plot as large as this.

"She did, and quite spectacularly so." The king of Atla crossed one leg over the other, wearing the face of his enemy. "Why, I almost think this outlandish scheme of yours will come to fruition."

"It most certainly will."

///

"YOU WERE MOST definitely not supposed to be so forward, King Kaiden. While I appreciate that the queen needs a heavy hand and some... coercion in order to tame her willful spirit, I disagree with your lack of subtlety." Ilyas paced the armoury, wishing that rulers were less like obdurate children and more like the biddable pawns that they needed to be.

King Kaiden Thorne adjusted the leather jerkin that matched many a Mordanian soldier's, his red hair the only standout thing about him amidst the dull browns and greys of his attire. His grass-green eyes bored into Ilyas's grey ones, with a sort of petulance that seemed out of place even in such a youthful face. If he had to give the man an archetype he would call him a spoiled, entitled child, used to getting whatever and whomever he wanted. "Why should I be subtle? Subtlety is for women and courtiers, not for kings."

"And too much boldness is foolishness, which kills men and kings alike, King Kaiden." Ilyas folded his arms across his chest as he leaned against a shelf of helmets, his gaze surveying the room and landing everywhere except on Kaiden Thorne's sullen face.

"I lead a life of excess and grandiosity, Lord Regent. One can expect no less from me," the king said, sitting on a stool and crossing one leg over the other. "Is it not better, more honourable, to reveal one's true self rather than to deceive others?"

"If only you knew who your true self was, Kaiden." He stood up straight and stared directly into the younger man's striking eyes. "If only any of us did."

A chilly wind blew through a crack in the door, howling, and rattling the racks of armour and weapons. Both men looked at each other, silent. Waiting. Outside, he could hear the clashing of swords and clatter of feet against cobblestones, the thud of bodies against the ground as soldiers sparred. There was a war going on, not just the minor squabbles in the training courtyard but also on the entire content of Mirela, which encompassed Othar, Mordania, and Atla. And this moment felt heavy as if an entire war could have its tides turned by it.

When Kaiden said nothing in response, only looking pensive, Ilyas Durand spoke no more, and instead, he turned his back on the king and walking out the armoury door.