“Because you were too busy preening?” Vesper teased with a flick of his tail.
Thistle interceded before the argument could escalate. “There’s no need to take another of Vesper’s nine lives. Let’s get the fire going and eat something that won’t talk back.”
Mav muttered something under his breath but crouched to strike the flint. Sparks caught, stirring flames to life. Heat licked against the encroaching dark.
Thistle unpacked a small pot and poured in a mixture of dried vegetables and herbs, filling the air with an earthy and comforting aroma. Vesper sprawled on a nearby rock, tail swishing in rhythm with the fire’s crackle.
For a while, there was only the soft clatter of bowls and the occasional sigh as someone stretched weary limbs.
Branrir cleared his throat, eyes glinting with familiar curiosity. “You know,” he began, “this forest sits on what was once the border of three old provinces, long before the council of five unified them under Avandria’s crown.”
Vesper groaned. “Here we go again.”
He ignored the feline. “It’s the perfect place to discuss the kingdom’s beginnings. The very roots of what we’ve built—and what we’ve broken.”
Mav rolled his eyes, but his mouth curved. “All right, Hindsight. Enlighten us.”
Branrir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knobbyknees. “The kingdom of Avandria was not always united,” he began. “It was forged by what was called the Council of Five—five brothers, each gifted with one of the higher magics: Time, Tether, Tempest, Tremor, and Twilight. Together, they conquered the scattered provinces and bound them into a single realm. Their magic was far stronger than the elemental crafts native to these lands—the magics we now know as the lower order gifts. With that strength, they reshaped the earth and people to their will.”
He paused, gesturing with one hand as if charting invisible borders. “Not all bent the knee so easily. The goblin clans and the troll tribes resisted conquest. The brothers, fearing open war with either would end in ruin, granted them sovereignty over their provinces—so long as they swore fealty and paid taxes to the Avandrian crown. It was a fragile peace, but one that has endured longer than any expected.”
Accepting a teacup from Thistle, Branrir continued. “Once Avandria was theirs, they divided the populace by order of magic. The higher orders became nobility, the lower relegated to serve. In their desperation to preserve power, the first four brothers took wives who shared higher gifts, believing it would ensure that their descendants were born as strong as they were.”
Branrir paused to sip his tea. “Magic, however, does not always follow bloodlines. It delights in rebellion.”
“As do most men with power,” Thistle murmured.
“Quite so,” Branrir agreed. “Another similarity of men in power…they also found it difficult to, uh, exercise restraint in their affections.”
“You mean keep it in their pants?” Mav offered with a cheeky grin.
Thistle’s hand shot out to swat his arm. “Mavromichaeli Bassiano! There is a lady present.”
Vesper chortled. “You’re no lady.”
“I meant Quinn, you bag of fleas,” Thistle chided, glaring.
“How dare you!” Vesper hissed. “I’ve never had a flea in any of my lives?—”
“Back to the topic at hand,” Branrir interjected, though his mouth gave a mirthful twitch. “Yes, well, the brothers’...enthusiasmled to numerous bastards. When several were born with lower magics—or worse, without magic at all—Edric the First, eldest of the five, flew into a rage. His fury escalated to madness when the youngest brother, Errin, a Twilight, fell in love with a Hands and swore to marry her instead of a noblewoman of higher standing.”
Branrir lowered his voice. “Edric cast him out, stripped his title, his lands, everything. Errin disappeared, and no one knows what became of him. Some say he fled into the western wilds; others claim he was slain by his own brothers. What is certain is that the remaining four were furious with Edric’s decree. They abandoned Avandria to found kingdoms of their own: Eamon the Tether established Kilstrand, Eryndor the Tempest took Orteaux, and Egran the Tremor raised Avilogne from the mountains.”
He spread his hands. “As siblings are wont to do, they warred for centuries over borders, trade, and matters of pride. Our history is little more than a long quarrel between brothers.”
My voice was tentative when I added, “The descended Twilights lived in peace among the others, until the fall of Kilstrand.”
Branrir nodded, the motion sharp enough to jostle his spectacles. “Precisely. After that, peace was only a memory. Edric’s descendants outlawed Twilights entirely, declaring them enemies of the crown. And though none of the surrounding kingdoms followed his decree outright, none have ever been truly welcoming either.”
Around us, the forest breathed and settled into stillness asBranrir continued sharing tale after tale; a lament for a kingdom built on conquest and brotherhood turned bitter.
Watching the glow fade against the dark, I wondered what awaited us beyond these woods.
Aurillion.
The city crowned in marble and shadow. The seat of a line that once divided the world by blood and gift. Would its king be any different from those who came before him? Or did the predilections of his ancestors still run in his veins?
I wanted to believe compassion might endure where power had long corrupted it, that mercy could outlast the memory of cruelty. Yet beneath my fragile hope, unease wound my stomach into knots. If this king truly held the power to break my spell, what would be the cost of my freedom?
