2412, Iclis 8, Reshpe

Sweat never stopped dripping down the sides of Marin's face. A warm blast of wind hit her skin, carrying with it a storm of scratchy particles. On the way here, she had spat those annoying grains out of her mouth and dusted them off before they infected her eyes. The sentries flanking her forged ahead, barely blinking and flinching at all the things Marin did.

She should never have worn black.

Lanbridhr glared down at her like an oppressive sheet of beige, sepia, and sienna. Everything was a tint or shade of those three colors, and Marin stood out like a siphood out of the sand. Since she stepped out of the shadows at the outskirts of the palace, she had gotten weird looks from the merchants, the fire sprites, and everyone else who weren't used to seeing such a bold color parading around.

Not that Marin minded. She came here to do her job, not conform to whatever insane fashion standard they have.

Marin wasn't one to pry, but the rule about these specialty vests being handled like trophies by the Potentate was stupid at best. But if those vests served other purposes in the background, then it's actually genius. The Potentate might have just created an unfair system of merit for his citizens. No wonder they're unhappy, and he's scared he'd get deposed sometime soon.

Hence, the Heiress sent Marin to go talk. With the High Queen's recommendation, she was granted audience with the two remaining spritean territories. As of the moment, the Heiress told Marin to not worry about Desara and Falkirta. Those territories were, in their own ways, under Cardovic rule.

Marin knew better than to ask questions, so she packed her supplies and created a portal into the untouchable desert wasteland that was Lanbridhr. Not that it's bland or anything. It has its own allure, its charm and hidden attractions. But it was just so hot. If not for the natural advantage they have over normal keijuis, fire sprites wouldn't survive here either.

Why? Because nothing grows. Nothing lives, except maybe those fluffy lemper-like animals being herded across the streets of Calca. But that's only possible inside the oasis. Those clouds of wool would probably drop dead should their shepherd decide to parade them across the expanse of shifting dunes.

In essence, Lanbridhr sucks.

Not that she'd say that to the Potentate's face, but judging from the frown coloring his features as he slouched on his visibly uncomfortable slab of a throne, he agreed with that sentiment—even if he's not aware.

The sentries, together with Marin, stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the raised dais. Thrones of different ornamentation littered the platform in a square-like formation. Both wings included two rows of vested officials whom Marin identified to be the court of advisers. Beside the Potentate, two more thrones populated the line connecting both parts. The Queen's, and...someone else's. Did they have a Crown Prince? Was he named Seravel or something?

Marin shoved her thoughts to the back of her head, bowing to the Potentate instead. In her black clothing, she looked as if she's announcing the death of someone dear to him—which might have lent to the man's sour mood at her approach. Oops.

"Thank you for granting us an audience, Your Highness," she said in the loudest notch her professional voice could muster. Still, she felt as though the high ceilings, the cavernous room, and the thick walls of stone closing her in swallowed her words. To be regarded as someone speaking while muted was not on her agenda for today. "My name is Marin Draswist, and I have come with a proposition."

A cloud of murmurs floated above the court's places. The Potentate glanced at them before gesturing for Marin to continue. So, she did. "The organization I belong to is in need of strong and capable soldiers, and Lanbridhr is the best source of that," she said. "The Heiress—that is, the leader of said organization—is extending her courtesy for us to enter into an agreement about the division and hierarchy of command."

The Potentate's face remained stony, but he fixed his posture. "How would you like to divide the army?" he asked. "And I am willing to relinquish all commanding authority over that fraction if you listen to my terms."

Marin stuck a lip out. That's good. This Potentate was quick work. "The Heiress proposes a fifty-fifty division, but you are more than welcome to add or subtract from it," she said. "And what are your terms?"

"Lanbridhr will remain to be mine and under my authority," the Potentate said. "This Heiress can do whatever she wants with my soldiers, but I want assurance of my place on this throne."

It occurred to Marin that the entire court had dwindled into mute observers, unable to do their jobs and advise their Potentate. To her, that's a win. That's one less aspect to worry about. The Potentate seemed easily convinced, him being the simpleton he was.

"I'm sure the Heiress can accommodate that," Marin said. It needn't be true. She just needed confirmation that this Potentate was willing to do everything it took to hang on to what he was promised. Like Marin, he's going to be put on hold in the Heiress' long list of prayers to solve. Let him hope, because hope would be his undoing. That hope would be the last thing he'd have as the world fell apart around them.

She cleared her throat, driving the point of the conversation. "Of course, there is still the matter of their travel to Cardovia's abode—"

"I can arrange that," the Potentate interjected. "Even the soldiers I'll be providing, I need it to be by my choice, and my choice alone."

Marin bobbed her head to signify she's able to follow. "And do you have other sources than your sentries here?"

"I have a prison full of lives I can put on the line," the Potentate said. "They will not willingly fight for their territory, but I assume you have methods of putting people in line over there?"

Marin grinned. The Potentate knew how to speak the Heiress' language. "We have enough, Your Highness," she said. "And the prisoners? Are they built for battle?"\

"That can be arranged," the Potentate answered. "I just need to find young people and invent ways to prosecute them. We have laws for that. You should have your portion of the army by the next two months."

He leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin stretching his already thin lips. "In exchange, I need you to strengthen my dynasty's hold on the Temple, the economic aspect, and finally, in the public's image."

"That's oddly specific," Marin said. "Anything I should know about?"

The Potentate crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a flower-child whose candies were snatched during the haze of the Jered Hyngtis festivities. "A brand of prints has been a thorn in my side lately," he said. "I don't know how they're doing it, but they got most of the public sentiment to turn against me. They even succeeded in making the entire city stop working. And it's annoying—how they always seemed to dig up every plan and move before they went public."

A rebel group in the heart of a tyrannical territory? Whoever was responsible for that, they sure got guts.

"In short, you want Cardovia to find and dismantle them?" Marin scratched the side of her face, stirring the trails of sweat on her skin.

The Potentate shook his head. "I want you to kill them," he said. "Make sure their roots are nothing but ashes, so they can't rise again."

Marin bit the inside of her cheek. "I will speak to the Heiress about it," she said. "Try to not stir up a coup in the meantime."

At that, the Potentate threw his head back and laughed. It felt great. At least, Marin wouldn't leave the Potentate with a reason to sulk. Damn it. She should have just become a jester in the Cardinic court.