2412, Strilaxis 26, Daleth

The birds flitting outside the windows caught Cyrdel's attention more than the pressing issues being discussed around him did. His rear had frozen long ago, even against the cushioned seat of the Council room. Voices died down and heightened, reasoned and countered, but everything faded into a bland buzz in his ears.

What was the point of discussing anything else when not even three days ago, most of them were lying on cots trying not to die?

It amazed Cyrdel sometimes, how fast these people could bounce back from such horror. Three days ago, he and Ravalee departed the Temple of Souls after setting free the stolen shadows from his maximizer. They still didn't know who was responsible for causing the deaths of at least a thousand people and hurting uncountable souls, but it is enough to prove that there was a war brewing and it would not spare Alkara and Penleth and everyone who lived in it.

They shouldn't be here, discussing mundane things for the next week like they did when there wasn't anyone knocking on their doors demanding their allegiance. But they were, and there was nothing Cyrdel could have done to curb the flow of the discussion.

The birds outside, glowing pink and green against the bright afternoon sun, flitted out of the glass window's scope, filling him with a different kind of melancholy and loneliness. Surrounded by adults with blurred priorities, it's not impossible for him to realize he's the only one who seemed to be thinking straight in this room.

"What about the appeal we received from Synketros?" Cyrdel prodded after the silence between the calls for motion on the next inventing fair rolled around. Heads turned to him, confused looks peppering his faze. Why were they even this confused by his question? It's a territorial issue, so why were they keen on pretending it wasn't? "When will we get to that? Or are we planning to get to that at all?"

"What do you want us to do, Crovalis?" Master Philiine fixed him with a sharp glare. "Up until two years ago, you wouldn't have wanted anything to do with the proceedings. What's the rush?"

Cyrdel's fists curled over his lap. Maybe because two years ago, the only thing he thought about were fixing crop problems and uprooting fungi networks under the ground. He had grown since then. He wasn't the same irresponsible kid obsessed only in defying his calling, because now, he's the only one who really knew what's going on. These so-called adults denied the war's existence even if it had already touched their borders once.

"As for the appeal for partnership," Master Nerira picked up where Philine left off, folding his hands over the polished wooden table. They couldn't even call it a 'demand' like these organizations were known to do. "I'm sure they would be more polite if we show we're not a race to be pushed around."

It didn't work like that. Nobody thought they're above Synketros and Cardovia and lived without a scratch. They continued seeing the urgency of this issue, and for as long as they did, Alkara, Penleth, and the rest of the Brownie population stood as something to lose.

"I understand your plight, Crovalis," the King, his father, finally leaned away from the cushioned backrest of his chair and leaned his elbows against the table's rim. His amber eyes flashed with authority and steel. "But we are not planning on ever dipping our crowns into whatever this is. In honor of the principles our predecessors have left us, my decision is to abstain from this matter. I hope we can finally put it to rest."

Cyrdel opened his mouth to reason out once more, but a stern look sent him crumbling over his seat. He'd rather not make a spectacle out of himself and the tension with his father in the middle of a Court meeting. Not when he had already done enough two years ago.

The meeting resumed without a hitch, this time, venturing into securing the taxes from the interterritorial companies opening up shop in Penleth. He had to listen to advisers argue whether to keep the rates the same as those who were owned by Brownies. The argument rushed back and forth, making Cyrdel wish they'd have this ferocity towards the fate of their people too.

But, much to his dismay, the meeting ended and nothing he wanted solved was. What's the use of having a crown on his head and being called Crovalis if a cleret had more power to command attention? His father's chair grated against the floor in a sharp grit. No one might leave before the King and his heir, so Cyrdel took that opportunity to pull his father aside, without anyone to interfere.

The shadows in the ornate corridors outside the Council room shrouded their forms as Cyrdel stood straight to face his father for the first time in his life. If not for the fear of what these evils were capable of doing, he wouldn't have. The situation simply called for it.

"Father, please," he started. "I need you to hear me out. We need to pick a side. We can't avoid the war forever."

The King's eyes narrowed, the shadows making his amber eyes glow like terznite ores in the mines. His silence could be taken as a sign to continue speaking. "We don't have to pick Cardovia or Synketros. There's a third side in this war. The Virtakios'. "

Cyrdel smoothed the hair out of his forehead. "It's fine if you have no idea what the Virtakios is, but I've met her, and she's willing to help," he said. "We can ride this out on her side. Just that...we can't abstain on this matter any longer. I don't think anyone would let us."

"My decision remains the same," the King answered. He hadn't heard a single word out of Cyrdel's lips. "Alkara will not join any wars. We will not waste our time, resources, our people, for something as trivial and pointless as a dying man's attempt at realizing his legacy."

He didn't wait for Cyrdel to reason that the Sovereign and the Heiress were women, instead sidestepping his son and trudging down the halls of the estate until he was nothing but a speck in the distance. As the rest of the advisers piled out, Cyrdel picked up his bruised pride and carried on his way.

The door to his room slammed shut, startling the two women lounging inside it. Ravalee looked up from a game of cards she and Airene had picked up somewhere. The flimsy material and the fading print showed him numbers and primitive shapes of hearts and flowers. What's gotten your tool belt in a twist? She signed after he settled beside her on the floor. Across them, sitting on a patterned couch and leaning over to the low wood-and-glass table, Airene picked at the cards on her hand, a grim frown twisting her features.

"The meeting didn't go according to plan?" the older brownie asked, flicking a card towards the growing pile between her and Ravalee. His fiance gasped and glared daggers at her aunt. "What?" she asked her niece as if she couldn't fathom why she was receiving such ire. "I don't have anything from the other suit."

"I suppose it didn't," Cyrdel heaved a sigh and slumped his shoulders forward. The rigid plaits of his formal overcoat didn't help the tightness growing on his muscles. "I'll try again in the next meeting. Let's hope the Sovereign will be willing to wait that long before opening fire on us."

Airene lowered her arms, showing Ravalee her entire hand. Was it even part of the game? "We both know the Sovereign and the Heiress won't sit still now that they've got their eyes on the Brownies."

It's not a hidden mystery. When those witches wanted something, they made sure they announced it to the island and would throw a tantrum when they didn't get it on time. What sucked most was that there were always lives being put on the line with every iteration. "I honestly don't know what to do," he admitted. This room, and only this room, stood witness to all his barest thoughts and his most private inhibitions. "They're not listening to me."

Ravalee turned to him and signed, her hands flying in a flurry of words hidden in a secret language they created. If they won't listen, what's the point of staying here and waiting for the inevitable?

Cyrdel couldn't tell her how many times he thought of running away. It seemed appealing, especially when none of his thoughts and fears mattered to the Court and to his family. The only people who believed him were in this room, and unlike the rest of the Alkaran court, they had seen first-hand—they knew—what Synketros was capable of.

But he had always arrived at the same answer he's giving Ravalee now. "I have a duty to my people, and it's not something I can throw away no matter how much I hate it," he said. "If everyone was to run at the first sign of dissent, this island won't be able to stand."

To their credit, Airene and Ravalee didn't argue. The sentiment never faded though; it continued hanging over their heads like a dark cloud that would dump a storm if they fed it enough. And Cyrdel couldn't tamp down the feeling that someday, this sense of duty, this love for a race who wanted nothing to do with him—it's what's going to kill him.

That was, if the war didn't get to any of them first.

2412, Strilaxis 29, Velpa

Today's topic of choice was trade. Again. Cyrdel's leg bounced against the chair as he leaned close to the table to declare his intent to speak. None of the advisers, upon sensing what was on his mind and what he planned to bring to the table, didn't let a pause be more than a second too long. The minutes all included resolutions to past trade agreements, but none of those needed revising at the earliest convenience. Their economy has worked well over the past few years, even with these restrictions in place, so why would they improve them now?

He gritted his teeth and slammed his hands on the table on his way out of the chair. The voices skittered to a stop, the thoughts strewn with them dying into the stale morning air around them. "Are you really going to ignore it?" he asked. "Synketros isn't the type of organization to sit still and let us ignore them. The Sovereign is not forgiving of people who do not take her seriously."

Murmurs leaped across the line of Advisers. Cyrdel didn't dare look at his parents seated at opposite sides of the table. They would step in if need be, but seeing as both parties were as silent and still as chipped rocks, he decided to continue onto this approach.

"What makes you think you know more than us with this...errant organization?" Master Philine answered. She didn't bother to hide her annoyance now as she raised her twined fingers to her chin. Her long nails flashed like blades in the streams of sunlight bleeding through the glass. "Last I checked you don't venture into spaces outside your workshop."

Concealed snickers rang in weak clusters. Cyrdel balled his fists, but he could never hit anyone. No one was above the Alkaran law, and by it, no one may punch a fellow brownie without landing inside a prison cell for a while. He opened his mouth to speak, but his father beat him to it.

"As the Council of Varis has said, time and again, Crovalis," the King said, his words succeeding in getting Cyrdel's attention. If anything, the sad look weighing upon his father's features didn't feel right. "There is nothing they can do about it because the Crown already gave its decision. Unless I retract it, no one may bend it."

"As your heir, I have every right to challenge it," Cyrdel hissed. Gasps peeled across the room, the loudest coming from his mother.

"Darling!" she warned. The Queen rarely spoke out in these meetings, choosing only to admire her crown and her dresses, but this particular time, she's out of her chair in the same stance her son adopted. "That's enough."

It was clear why. By attempting to challenge his father's rule, Cyrdel might have said he wished for his father to die so he could assume control. It wasn't—

"Gwyne, do not bother," the King splayed a hand in the Queen's direction. "Our Crovalis has started to grow horns in all the wrong places, and it's our duty to cut them down before they grow too sharp and hurt him."

Cyrdel opened his mouth but a different voice filtered out from it. "My, what strict parenting," a feminine voice crooned from the doorway. He whirled to the source to find a woman with mahogany red hair sauntering past the doors as if she's supposed to be here. The white streaks across her dark brown skin stood out in the morning sunlight, framing the rows of white teeth bared through her cocky grin. Light green eyes scanned the rest of the Council before finally settling on the King. Her gaze softened in a mocking smile. "You would hurt your son?"

You have no idea what he does to me. The thought flared from the back of Cyrdel's head, begging to be blurted out. It took all his willpower to tamp it down to the recesses of his unwanted memories. He shouldn't be feeding into this woman's manipulations. Because even though he didn't know who she was, he had half a guess to give.

The Sovereign has arrived.

The King whirled to her upon standing up from his chair. The fixture scraped against the marble floor yet again. "You! Who are you and how did you get past the guards?" he yelled. Cyrdel resisted the urge to roll his eyes behind his father's head. Who would yell and solve the problem just like that? He had to make it seem like their house and their government didn't have any dissent from the inside, so he fixed his face into a passive but determined stare.

As an answer, the woman put a hand on her chest. Her smirk never vanished from her face. "I am the Sovereign, Your Majesty," she said. "And I must say—your security needs improvement."

The Advisers started sputtering, throwing excuses when the King whipped towards them. Something along the lines of we didn't know she's coming, we didn't know who this woman was, and the guards are being sent on rotation—what more could we have done?. All of them were pathetic, because it's not the guards nor anyone who were the problem. The Sovereign was merely a person they couldn't trifle with.

As if a million burning nails pierced his skin, he squirmed out of the rigid stance he pushed himself to hold when the Sovereign turned to him. Dressed in a simple, hooded cloak over a brush of olive dress, she was like a traveling con more than a leader of Synketros. "I should commend your Crovalis," she said, the syllables of the ancient form of his title rolling off her tongue in a guttural scratch. It sounded like the primitive growl of the people down south rather than their usual northern drawl. "He seems to be the only one who noticed the urgency and essence of our appeal."

"You have kept me in the background, reducing the value of my mercy to mere spectacles," she continued, spreading her hands. "I am not known to extend such kindness as to personally visit the territory who so dared shun me. But I admit," she bobbed her head as if she was convincing herself rather than an entire court of Brownies. "I am the one who has a need for you and your people, and I have come here to beg for it."

The Sovereign turned back to the King. "So, what would it be, Your Highness?" she tilted her head to one side like she was talking to just another one of her soldiers. "You have delayed your answers long enough. And would you like to know something?" she leveled her gaze at Cyrdel's father, driving all the hairs on his arms up with how it dripped with malice. "I do not beg."

Cyrdel's fingers reached into his toolbelt, glad he listened to Ravalee and brought it along. They stood on uncertain ground in the middle of uncertain times. It's only proper to stay equipped all the time. His palm brushed against the edges of the maximizer's improved model, this one already brimming with an explosive spell. The Sovereign has come to start her threats. Peace has abandoned them a long time ago.

To his credit, the King only stood taller. "I will give you the same answer I gave my Court and my heir," he said. "Alkara will not be joining this war."

The smile on her face vanished, wiped away by a dissatisfied frown. "I see," she said in a tone so flat, it could have rivaled the floor. "You should know: not choosing a side is still taking sides, Your Majesty."

She turned to go, and Cyrdel wouldn't let her. Not when he had the chance to make her suffer for her haughtiness. The maximizer flew out of his belt and arced into the air, blazing with the rysteme spell he cast into it days prior. The bronze gadget slammed into the floor, activating the mechanism. A huge explosion burst inside the room, stirring enough wind to make the sheaves of parchment on the table flutter and crinkle.

Through the smoke and pieces of the marble floor uprooted by the spell, Cyrdel squinted and tried to make out a corpse or something. No one could survive such a deadly blast at close quarters. It's a risk he took, knowing full well he and other people were inside. But it's a risk he's willing to take as long as it provided him a chance in dealing with the Sovereign before she dealt with them.

The plumes cleared. Not a scorch mark colored the ground where she stood. The Sovereign was gone even before the spell hit her.