Alaric laughed again, shaking his head. “I think I’m betrothed to her sister, then.”
Another sound stirred from the main hall beyond the partition—glass clinking against a tray, followed by the low hum of more arrivals. Irashe’s brow furrowed, the line between irritation and something more thoughtful etched just above his eyes.
“Look at them,” he said softly, gaze tilting toward the room they’d left. “Once, their scholars at the College of Leycraft rivaled Kaer’Vosh. Before the Sundering, their mage-lords ruled beside kings. Their towers floated.” He took a measured sip of wine. “After everything collapsed, they convinced themselves it could all be solved with rules. Orders. Prohibitions. Iron bars around a shattered mirror.”
Alaric studied him over the rim of his own glass. Bold words. Especially here. Especially to a stranger. Speaking about the arcane in Edrathen was like walking barefoot over frost-rimed glass.
Irashe glanced his way, eyes gleaming with a very specific desperation. “Tell me, friend—does it gall thy spirit as it does mine?”
Alaric sighed, rolling the stem of his glass between thumb and forefinger. “The truth,” he said, “is always far less tidy. Before the Sundering, Kaer’Vosh and Edrathen were equals. Equally ambitious. Equally reckless. Equally enamored with their own cleverness. They didn’t fear magic. They wielded it like empire.”
Irashe nodded once, then leaned back on the velvet cushions. “And then Kaer’Vosh panicked. They cast the Void Tear. A spell meant to stabilize the arcane bedrock. It backfired spectacularly. Tore the Dravaryn apart. Their capital sank into the abyss, and the crater still hisses on every map.”
His brow furrowed, gaze drifting to some memory only he could see. “What was the name of the rite…? They used a mechanism to harness the power. A Circle of Binding?”
Alaric pondered scratching his chin. “Hmm… yes, I believe so.”
Irashe gave a quiet hum and crossed one ankle over his knee. “And we still live with the echoes. Have you ever seen the Dravaryn?”
Alaric shook his head.
“I was there once, years ago. Business with silk merchants.” He gave a small sigh, not quite fond. “They’re very selective about who they let past the border. Even if you have all the documents the station can still turn you back. The air still tastes of something… scorched. Yet somehow, they rebuilt.”
Alaric’s gaze darkened. “Edrathen watched. And panicked in turn. But instead of risking another cataclysm, they buriedtheir own arcane experiments. Called it heresy. Now they wrap themselves in sanctity and tell the world they’ve always been clean.” His voice lowered. “They hunt magic like it was always foreign. As if the sin belonged to Kaer’Vosh alone.”
“It wasn’t righteousness that changed them,” Irashe murmured. “It was shame. And the unspoken need to never be compared to Kaer’Vosh again.”
Irashe swirled the last of the wine in his glass before speaking again. “Then long story short—they built themselves a new identity. The Treaty of Ashenfell. The reformation of the Doctrine of Orvath. They recast the very bones of their society. Education, law, worship… all restructured to restore order. To give the illusion that balance had returned. And they’ve clung to that illusion ever since. They pride themselves on restraint. No wars since the Sundering.”
“With an army that size?” Alaric muttered, reaching for a date. “And iron flowing out of their mountains like wine? Some would call that restraint convenient.”
Irashe inclined his head, the motion elegant. “Of course it is. Fear is more efficient when it remains theoretical. Some kingdoms rule by action. Edrathen rules byimplication. They don’t need to draw the blade often. Everyone already knows it’s there.”
Alaric made a low, thoughtful sound. “And every time Kaer’Vosh so much as breathes sideways, it’s held up as proof. That they’ve forgotten the Sundering. That they still chase power through magic.”
“And that Edrathen,” Irashe finished smoothly, “remains the wiser, the purer….”
“…above the sinful temptations of magic.”
They said the last part in near-unison.
Irashe smirked. Alaric let out a long breath and leaned back, chewing slowly. “Looks like we studied the same scrolls.”
The man’s expression softened. “There’s no better way to tell a story than through conversation.”
Alaric nodded and plucked another date from the dish. The sweetness hit his tongue just as Irashe sighed beside him.
“I assume you’ve had enough of those for a lifetime.”
“Yes, well.” Alaric gave a wry glance toward the hazy room behind the screen. “It’s challenging. But I hope it’ll be worth it.”
“Thy mean the princess?” Irashe wiggled his brows in theatrical mischief.
Alaric hesitated, the date halfway to his mouth. “No. Yes. Both. Depends on the day.”
Irashe chuckled and raised his glass in an informal toast. ““Then may fortune walk beside thee in both pursuits.”
He took a slow sip, his eyes not leaving Alaric, who had just set his goblet down. The dim light caught the edges of his signets.
