2412, Rab 31, Reshpe

Sera stretched his legs, balancing his chair on its hind legs as he propped his feet on his table. It was a slow morning, and without the Ember Chronicles, he had an entire afternoon off. A thought nipped at the back of his mind. Was this Darmer's scheme? Did his mechanic friend want Sera to take a break so much that Darmer had to torch the studio?

Plausible, but it's Darmer they're talking about. Sera would never understand what goes on in that sprite's head in a million years.

He glanced at the open windows, watching a strip of clouds crawl across the blue sky. Maybe he should be doing work on the Crown Prince front. Oh, right. All of the reports were stalled because of Adviser Yerhon's meddling. It'd take a week before those reach the Potentate's office, and Sera really needed action on most of them. That's the government for him.

Something black darted in his periphery, followed by the loud batting of wings. In his haste, Sera flung his legs off the table, forgetting he hung in a balance. His world blurred as his form crashed backwards. The back of his head slapped the rugs.

"Ow," a groan escaped his lips.

A distinct caw took his attention towards the window. A heartridge tittered, talons clinking against the sill as it hopped around as if the rock's on fire. Oh, it was just the bird. Which meant...

Sera crawled on all fours towards the window before bracing the sill to heave himself up. The bird skipped sideways to give way to his fingers. He got up to his knees, becoming eye-level with a strip of rolled parchment tied to the bird's leg. A message? From who?

He stilled the bird and untied the twine. With a squawk, it hopped off his hold and flitted into the open air. Well, there went the trusty messenger bird. If not for the random fowls he was able to tame all those years, he wouldn't have means to contact his friends outside the territory. So...who was it this time?

The chair grated against the rug when Sera righted and sat on it. His fingers unfurled the parchment, and Ariden's familiar handwriting glinted on the surface. It read:

Aprikoon? Never heard. They sound dubious to me, though. Fake companies do exist. Beware of them. They usually use these names as a front for illegal activities. Why? Have you encountered one?

The note ended on an open question, prompting Sera to reply. He poised a pen over a new strip of parchment, scrawled his quick answer just to terminate the conversation and ease his friend's worries—if that brickhead ever bothered—and summoned a new heartridge. Most of them feasted on the rhenne fruits on the palace's courtyard, and if not for Sera fighting to keep them there, they wouldn't have a peaceful home.

When he sent the bird and his message forward, he retreated back to his seat. Fake names, huh? If he could trace this Aprikoon company in the local records of those who did trades inside Lanbridhr over the years, what would he find?

He snapped his fingers, striding out of his room with a new goal. The records room was the same room where he saw the scribe under Adviser Pinthe. Instead of the front desk, however, he stalked towards the next door on his way in. No one was inside, and it only sank in that it was lunch time when he entered the archives and found no one there.

Looking around quickly, he shut the door behind him with a final click and flicked the lock shut. Futile, maybe, but it's better to be safe.

"Okay," he breathed, bracing his hips. Arrays of metal shelves and stacked crates greeted him inside the small-ish room. Only one window accompanied him, betraying a shaft of sunlight from the outside world facing the west side of the palace. The mounds of bound parchment and towering leather tomes might look intimidating, but he'd manage. He always had. This was nothing.

Or at least, he thought.

By the time he was through the first shelf, snot dripped from his nose for sneezing so often. The dust stung his eyes, his throat—everything. Still, he turned page after page of the records, skimming columns and rows for something resembling Aprikoon. Why would the local records ever sport something close to that? It's not like he expected the perpetrators to be fire sprites. Finding their traces here would be like scouring the entire desert for a drop of water.

But...where else was he supposed to find it? The registered partners in trade? Yeah. Seemed like a plan.

He shifted shelves, perusing the labels nailed at the niches' rims. Finally, he arrived at a specific niche and snatched the first tome. The same process followed, until he turned a random page and, right there on the top, sat a familiar assembly of letters.

Aprikoon.

He skimmed the entire line. Founded in 2411. Registered in Desara, Carleon, and Peltra. Trades: minimal. Availability: Once a year. Schedule: None.

That's...strange. Why would a trading company which was registered a year ago have no schedule and so little activity? Sera learned from his trader friend, Neylan, that no one becomes a merchant without the goal of making money. Registration fees cost a lot every year, especially if the license was for several territories. If Aprikoon was in Lanbridhr, just the entry fee should have made the founder think twice about shelling out versallis while getting nothing in return, even if just the same amount they lose.

Which was why Sera was convinced this wasn't a real company, nor did they function as one. And if those heathens came underneath its banner, they really were here because of something else that's not trading.

Which brings Sera to another question—who was behind Aprikoon, and why did they order their people to destroy a specific building in the middle of the busy Calcan market? Also, what was that stuff they used to create an explosion in the building, the one with the baffling odor?

He shut the tome, disturbing a layer of dust stuck between the pages, sending its cloud to his face. A sneeze zipped off his nose, the sound rippling off into the hollow space in a loud echo. Oh.

A knock resounded from the opposite side. "Your Highness?" the voice asked. "Are you still there?"

Sera sniffed and shoved the tome into its niche. He scurried towards the door, flicked the lock free, and stepped outside. The scribe he had talked to before stared up at him with concern in his eyes. "Are you alright, Your Highness?" he asked.

"Just fine," Sera sniffed again, jerking his chin towards the archive's door. "This one needed serious cleaning."

The scribe gave him a small salute. "I'll request help from the servants' quarters."

Sera frowned, splaying his palms in the scribe's direction. "It's not urgent," he said. "I'd rather you tell me about what you know about the ghost company, Aprikoon. I just scoured the records, and that's all I came up with."

The scribe raised his eyebrows. "That's because you're looking at the wrong archive," he said before beckoning him forward with a wave of a hand. "Come on. I have more right here."

They rounded the desk the scribe sat behind the first time he wandered into this room. Underneath the desks sat another crate filled to the brim with more tomes. Not a trace of dust sat on their surface, which betrayed how this scribe worked.

"What's your name?" Sera asked, cursing himself inwardly for not doing so the first time they talked.

"Leran Sylda," the scribe answered, yanking the crate with a stringent scratch. He poked his gaze beyond the table's rim to level his gaze at Sera. "Yes, I am related to the Sylda dynasty. And no, I do not want the throne. Yes, I live with my mother. No, I am not a direct descendant. My lineage is from Xalmi Sylda's cousin, and we resolved to keep the name even though my mother's side married off into another family."

Sera blinked. "That's..."

"Sorry about that, Your Highness," Leran blew a breath and laid a tome on his desk on his way up. "You can imagine how tired I am with those questions having grown up with the same family name as a previous dynasty."

"No, it's...it's fine," Sera scratched the back of his head and gestured to the tone. "Is that it?"

Leran slid it over to Sera with a nod. "Aprikoon was somehow familiar," he replied. "It had to be one of the recent visits, or it's connected to one of our own."

Sera flipped to the first page. When he found nothing, he turned to the next. And the next. "By that, you mean...?"

"One of the workers in the Palace," the scribe said, retreating behind his customary desk and propping his elbows on the surface. "And it extends to the advisory Court and the noble houses."

Sera reached the middle, and on the next page was the name Aprikoon yet again. The same details greeted him, save for the name of the founder stated in the last column. A single name leaped out at him and clawed at his memory.

Ailun Carmesen.

"Do you know anything about Adviser Ailun?" Sera shut the tome and handed it back to Leran.

Leran cocked an eyebrow, dumping the tome back into its crate with no ceremony. The crate scratched against the floor the second time when the scribe's foot pushed it under the table. "Is he connected to Aprikoon?" he asked.

"I'd rather you keep this a secret from any prying souls," Sera warned. "But yes. Adviser Ailun is the registered name under the company. An inexistent one, mind you."

Leran scratched his chin. "I'm not sure if you're part of the prying souls you warned me about, but are you aware of the rumors surrounding the adviser?" When Sera shook his head, the scribe continued. "He is said to be doing extraneous work outside the palace, being a member of some shady organization or something."

"Does that organization have a name?"

The scribe's gaze flicked up at Sera. "Cardovia," he said. "Or at least something that sounds like it. Your Highness?"

He must have noticed the color draining from Sera's face. Sera's not a good actor, really, and this connection shook him albeit only a bit. "I'm fine," he cleared his throat and pushed his hair off his face. Particles of sand flicked past his eyes. Ugh. There's never a time when it didn't happen. "Thank you for your time. I truly appreciate your help."

"Anytime, Your Highness," Leran said.

"If anyone asks, I haven't been here," Sera stalked towards the door of the records section.

Leran smirked. "Yeah? What's in it for me?"

The gall was new, so Sera narrowed his eyes as he swung the door open. He made it a point to look over his shoulder as he answered, "Your life." Before the scribe could react, Sera shut the door behind him.

Silence followed him, along with the gravity of the only promise he couldn't fulfill, at least not any time soon.

2412, Xavem 21, Jyda

Harsen's voice flitted behind the door to Sera's room, early in the morning. "Your Highness?" she said. "I have a package from the gates addressed to you."

Sera rolled out of bed and bustled to the door. The hinges' whines pulled the sliver of sleep resting on his eyelids. A huge gust of wind wafted across his form as he yanked the door open. "What?" he said, his tone still thick. He was not a morning person these days. "I told you to never wake me up this early."

The maid's face remained passive. Her years of serving snappy royals and demanding nobles trained her for this. "The messenger insisted you get this package," she said. "That is why I am here. This is urgent."

He knitted his eyebrows, a frown mudding his features. Urgent? When did he order something that's urgent? He was about to tell Harsen to flit off and stop bothering him when the smell of freshly-cooked nalda hit his nose.

"What in Murco's name is that?" He jabbed a finger at the rectangular case resting on Harsen's arms. It's where the delectable smell curled from. "Why do you have one?"

The maid shoved the box towards Sera who fumbled to get the right grip. What the—

"That is the package, Your Highness," Harsen said despite the beginnings of a smile playing at the edge of her lips. "Looks like someone is concerned about their prince not missing breakfast."

Before Sera could process what she meant to the full, the maid turned tail and walked away, leaving him standing awkwardly by his door and holding a steaming box of nalda. What just happened?

Left without a choice, Sera shut the door to his room and trotted to his desk. He undid the latches and propped the lid up. As expected, two rows of nalda wraps still fresh from the cauldron enticed him with their aroma and their sparkling coat of sugary crumbs. When did he order this? He hasn't been craving for the delicacy lately, considering it's his excuse to get those articles out there without having to leave the palace, and...

Wait.

Wait.

With his heart pounding, he transferred all of the wraps into the lid, and using the tip of the letter opener he always had on his desk, he pried the box's false base. As if by some miracle, the base popped. No way. The only person who knew these boxes existed was...

No way.

He removed the false base, and a single sheet of parchment lay inside the compartment. His hands shook as he picked it up, dreading the contents he would face. When he turned the sheet over, a series of signatures greeted him. Blazes, Kindle, Bonfire, and Flamma. Even Darmer. All of them were here. That meant...

They're alive, and they're sticking together.

Relief flooded Sera's limbs so much that his knees gave out and sent him crashing to the ground. It's enough proof. They're alive. There's still hope.

He wiped at the tears pricking the corner of his eyes. Feelings should come later. Now, it's time for action. He returned the false bottom and the nalda wraps which had gone cold. With a rush of his synnavaim, the sheet proving his friends' status burst into flames and blew off into the wind as a stream of ashes.

The door to his room flew open, and he passed Harsen's shocked stance when he dashed out. His footsteps echoed in the vast halls of the palace, taking him closer to the gate. Then, he came across the palace courtyard and a sea of sentries dressed for war met him.