“No, Tolek, I don’t think it’s a wise idea for you to stand bareback atop Astania.” Cyph’s exasperation brought a much-needed smile to my face. I watched my shadow dance across the stone streets ahead of my boots, one arm looped through Santorina’s, indulging in the comfort of the bickering.
“I don’t know, Cypherion. I’d like to see him try.” Erista adjusted the bronze-and-amethyst headband sitting among her curls, dark skin radiant against her matching necklaces.
“Don’t encourage him,” Rina told her.
“I think she should,” Vale chimed.
“Tol, even if you do survive the ride to the tavern, you’d have to take Astania back to the stables by yourself and then join us,” Cyph said.
Tolek considered that argument, head tilting to one side. “I’d rather someone ride me instead,” he muttered.
Rina and I snickered as we wound through an alley, Esmond smirking on her other side.
This was what I’d wanted to show the minor clans. A family. More than a group of young warriors. More than the hard exteriors and honed muscle we had to offer. We were people, as they were, composed of reckless dreams to fight for and wrenching sorrows to avenge. We were truths buried beneath smiles, secrets masquerading in passion, grief and love tangled in aching bonds forever tying us together. We went deeper than what they saw on the surface, in ability and heart. It was time it was acknowledged.
Spirits, I’d even allowed Jezebel to talk me into a dress for tonight. Though somehow she’d slipped away soon afterward. I hadn’t seen her all afternoon.
Regardless, I found I didn’t hate the outfit. With a powder-blue silk skirt, thin straps twisting over my shoulders, and a plunging neckline, it was finery I once would have shirked. But I found myself enjoying the pampering now and then, given that I was allowed my official leathers.
“Has there been progress with the Mystique Council?” Rina asked.
Quickly, my eyes flitted to Esmond on her other side. I didn’t want to reveal every detail of my council meetings, but I also didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything. I needed his support.
Choose your words carefully.
“They’ve taken the delegate program well.” They’d prodded the plan with questions, actually, wariness blatant on a few of their faces, but they’d agreed. “And none argued with my institution of apprentices.”
“How will that work?” Esmond asked with eager eyes, his accent smoothing out his harsher consonants. Laughter rained down from the highest windows, thrown open to the night. Starlight bounced off terra-cotta tile roofs and sandstone walls, the city a beacon of hope that strengthened me.
“We’re rebuilding our infrastructure from the ground up, planting roots to give a larger representation power. I asked the councilors to get to know the young Mystiques migrating to Damenal to prepare for their own Undertakings and form branches.”
To avoid dissent. To stop the uprisings mumbled about acrossthe territory. To distribute the weight of work so more were directly involved.
“We have a similar structure in our territory.” Esmond’s deep voice rolled into the night as we crossed through narrow alleys. I pictured the lush land of the Bodymelders, sprawling hills sprouting every herb and flower imaginable for their healing practice. “A leader of each small village who reports to the government in the capital.”
“Larcen, our Master of Trade, proposed something similar. He’s hoping to establish councils in every major city to manage imports and exports.”
To repair the damage Lucidius had sown throughout our territory—and others. Though, we no longer had a Master of Communication responsible for ensuring external trade among clans. The last to hold the position had been Malakai’s uncle, Akalain’s brother, before his death over a decade ago. Larcen had shouldered the responsibility since, the strain of two titles evident in the dark circles always framing his eyes.
“He’s eager for the assistance.” An understatement. “Missyneth, the Master of Rites, already has a team of temple acolytes. And the Master of Weapons and Warfare thought it a wonderful idea.”
Danya, the warrior who had trained Malakai and I often on trips to Damenal as children, offered steadfast support. The eager glint in her eye had told me she already had an idea of who to appoint.
“And Alvaron?” Santorina asked. Bulbs of mystlight hovered above front doors, throwing her profile into a medley of shadow and light as we passed between them. Cheerful voices and rowdy music grew louder as we got closer to the plaza.
“He agreed, surprisingly.”
“Why is that surprising?” Esmond asked, sidestepping a small boy running down the street with a wooden sword in hand and the girl who followed.
“Alvaron is the most traditional member of our council. Besides Missyneth, he’s held his title the longest.” I didn’t add that I’d feared the same complaints about my age and experience that I’d faced in the Rapture.
From his tight-lipped nod, I guessed Esmond understood. “It seems you’re already earning the support for your title, Ophelia.”
My heart swelled with the sentiment, the subtle hint that he might be recommending that support to Brigiet, as well. It bolstered me as we crossed the crowded Angentia Plaza, approaching the Winged Horse, our favorite tavern.
Shouts bounced off the stone walls, the wooden tables and bar packed to bursting. Warm mystlights hung in iron chandeliers, a crackling fire and string instruments filling any lulls. The sights, the sounds, even the smell of spilled ale and liquor—it filled me with the kind of promise I missed. The one that meant our world was repairing itself, our people flourishing once again.
Hoursafter we settled around a long table in the Winged Horse, Jezebel and Malakai arrived. He slid into place beside me, quiet solitude wrapped around him, an aura telling anyone who approached that he wasn’t prepared to discuss what he’d done tonight.
