Rhianelle’s home. The jewel of the southern coast where the Wiolant bloodline has ruled for over twelve millennia. This is where she was born and learned to sail.
Fountains sing at every corner, their water systems a marvel that would make even dwarven craftsmen nod with respect. Libraries dominate the skyline, towering over everything else. There are five of these temples of learning visible from where I stand, their spires reaching toward the sky. Floor after floor of books, scrolls, and maps, the accumulated wisdom of a civilization that prizes knowledge above almost everything else.
The city hums with life around us. Docks creak under the weight of the morning catch. Children dart barefoot between traders’ legs, shrieking with laughter as they play. A song driftsfrom an open tavern door, fiddles and voices raised in harmony accompanied by clapping hands.
Real joy, uncomplicated and genuine.
It’s so different from the capital’s careful politeness and its measured responses. Here, life is lived loudly, proudly, without apology.
I walk several paces behind Rhianelle, maintaining the respectful distance that protocol demands while allowing myself the exquisite pleasure of watching her move through the place that shaped her. She wears simple traveling clothes today, a gown of sea-green silk that brings out the lilac in her eyes rather than the formal regalia of state. No crown weighs down her silver hair.
Here, she doesn’t have to be anything but herself.
And the transformation is remarkable.
The careful monarch who bears the weight of unified Aelfheim on her shoulders has given way to something lighter. She stops to greet vendors by name, accepts a flower from a shy child with delight, and laughs at a joke shouted from a second-story window.
The people know her. More than that, they love her. Children trail behind her like ducklings, vying for her attention. One offers her a blue carnation wrapped in twine. She tucks it into her hair with a smile.
This is who she could be all the time if the weight of the crown didn’t press on her. Coral prances alongside us, her scaled body gleaming in the sunlight. She’s no longer a secret hidden away in the Clayborne estate or Rhianelle’s room. Here in Völundr, she moves freely through the streets.
Instead of fear or disgust, the people treat her with curious affection. A boy runs past carrying a pale blue ribbon. Coral obligingly dips her head low enough for him to tie it around her horn. Children run alongside the young wyvern, laughing as sheplayfully headbutts them with her snout. She is careful never to use enough force to hurt.
Coral is not a fae monster here. She is Rhianelle’s creature and that is enough to make her welcome.
“The people aren’t afraid of her,” I observe quietly when Rhianelle falls back to walk beside me.
“Völundr was sovereign once before we were united as Aelfheim. We’ve always decided for ourselves what to fear and what to welcome.”
She reaches out to touch my hand briefly. A public display of affection that would cause scandal in the capital but barely raises an eyebrow here.
“After we retrieve that old map of islands and reefs from the library, I need to discuss war strategy with Rainer.” She glances at me. “Will you come?”
“Yes,” I say. For her, I’d sit through a thousand boring council meetings until my bones turned to dust.
Her knights follow at a respectful distance, loosely and without the rigid formality they maintain at court. Even Eyepatch, who rarely smiles, has a softness to his expression as he watches children swarm around Coral.
Rhianelle doesn’t hide me here. She introduces me to shopkeepers and dock workers without hesitation or shame.
Ships of every size and design crowd the docks—sleek naval vessels built for speed, broad-bellied merchant ships heavy with cargo, and smaller fishing boats that have belonged to the same families for generations. The Völundr flag flies from every mast. A silver stag leaping over cresting waves, proud and unbowed.
“These ships travel farther than anything I’ve seen,” Red explains to Eyepatch, pointing to a cluster of vessels near the far dock. “Völundr’s innovation. They’ve been perfecting them for decades.”
“My uncle’s design,” Rhianelle adds with unmistakable pride. “Rainer’s inventions have saved all of Aelfheim more times than the capital likes to admit.”
As we walk along the docks, a young woman in naval uniform approaches, saluting sharply. “Your Highness! The Wave Dancer is ready for inspection, if you wish.”
“Later, Lieutenant Senna. Has the Sea Witch returned from patrol?”
“This morning. No sightings of anything unusual in the northern approaches.” The lieutenant hesitates. “Though Captain Thorne requests additional scouts. With the... situation, he wants eyes on every league of coastline.”
“Approved. Tell him to take what he needs from the reserve fleet.”
The easy authority in Rhianelle’s voice reminds me that she’s not just visiting home, she’s one of Völundr’s rulers even if her primary throne sits in the capital now. These are her ships, her people, her responsibility.
Völundr’s mighty fleet gleams in the morning sun. The hulls are reinforced with metal scales and the decks bristle with weapons that have made this city’s navy legendary. I recognize the steam-driven mechanisms, harpoons tipped with what must be runic enchantments designed to pierce seadragon hide.
“Rainer insists that Völundr must always stay one step ahead of its threats,” Rhianelle says, following my gaze. “He says the sea gives life, but it also takes it. We must be ready for both.”
