“Brödre, I know you are tired, but our journey has just begun. We have spent the past two weeks sleeping in the dirt for this night. We will not waste it, like the Unitarians waste their coin. We will not misuse our potential, as the Pilarese misuse their pulpits. And we will not forget our calling, like the Darakaians have forgotten their own.” Inclining her head to them, Luscia added, “Se’lah Aurynth.”

Finishing the hallowed proverb with one voice, they professed, “Rul’Aniell.”

As their horses’ hooves trotted through the city’s streets, paved in interesting patterns of Old- and New-World stone, an anthem of mismatched notes filled the air to announce Luscia’s arrival in Bastiion. Arrival to a life where whimsy could have no reign; just the remote stillness of reason and resolution. To prevail, to protect the sacred, Luscia needed to bind whimsy away, along with her longing to run back to the land of mist and myth.

It was the smell which first met Luscia when passing into the Proper. Inhaling shallowly, she tried to rationalize that an entire civilization couldn’t possibly stink of rotting fish, and that by traveling along the west docks, they’d invited the stench. Choosing this route had been wise, considering the port was essentially unoccupied. Perhaps trade simply didn’t occur on the west side the bay.

While the other corners of Bastiion corralled her inhabitants, the inner walls appeared less guarded than Luscia remembered. However, her prior visit had been contingent upon the judgment of Emiere, the captaen of Alora’s guard. He’d brought them through the extremely fortified southern gate, which served as Bastiion’s formal entrance.

Even still, she considered, only foolish yancies would leave such a weakness in the palace’s defenses, vacant ports aside.

“Noxolo, I swear if that reek is coming from you, I’m going to shove kheflre root down your throat to finally clear you out,” Declan swore through a clamped jaw.

“We’re riding beside fishing vessels. Don’t fault me for what we all must suffer,” Nox shot over a shoulder at the ginger Najjan’s implication.

“I wasn’t sleeping next to a fishing vessel for the last two weeks!” Declan barked.

“Enough.”

Though her rebuke was but a whisper, each man immediately lowered his chin and murmured an apologetic, “Ana’Sere.”

Luscia forced her body into a posture of poise as they approached the palace gates. The evening merriment bathed the heart of Bastiion in a gluttonous glow. Tall spires threatened to pierce the underbelly of the black sky, each crowned with a shining, domed cupola and positioned at alternating heights around the exterior of the palace, like giant torches dotting a grand temple. The hazy warmth painted the structure in a shimmering polish, showcasing a glorious medley of quartz, limestone, and byrnnzite. An organic composite of petrified ash, wood, and Old-World metallics, byrnnzite was a testament of Orynthia’s recovery after the land’s immeasurable destruction.

Bastiion’s most precious jewel: the palace that had sheltered the line of Thoarne for nearly five hundred years. And Luscia’s new home.

Marek trotted ahead to speak with the handful of royal sentries grouped behind the western gate to the royal grounds. Luscia straightened to her full height as they silently weighed her features against his words. After a few hushed directions and a clipped argument over the colossal wolx tracing her steps, two high-ranking officials escorted their company to the guest stables. With seeming reluctance, a sentry expressed in rushed Unitarian that a row of stalls had already been prepared for the al’Haidren’s party.

Upon entering, a slew of stablemen dashed from the halls and began removing their gear from the pack horses. Luscia dismounted and searched for her captaen’s face in the shuffle.

“Marek, my things,” was her only directive before an emerald cloak whirled to delegate the relocation of her possessions. She spoke a faint “tadöm” without looking his way again, knowing that Marek’s northern ears would hear her thanks above the clamor.

A stable boy with stunning ocher skin guided her mare into a nearby stall. Luscia was about to relay the horse’s tendency to kick strangers when she heard a loud crash from the stables across the pathway. Another team of attendants ran in the direction of the commotion, only to result in further shouting.

When Luscia asked the boy if everything was all right, his eyes widened with genuine terror as he exclaimed, “That Andwele stallion is from the Depths! He injured two hands just this week.” In fluent Unitarian, she hurriedly offered her condolences and gave an emphatic warning about her own mare’s temperament.

Exiting the stall, Luscia froze.

At the stable entrance, her kinsmen held a defensive formation around an imposing man outfitted in Orynthian military garb. His belted navy tunic was embellished with enough bronze to discern his station was one of great significance. But it wasn’t the man’s livery, his stance, or the outfit of sentries at his back that had put her Najjan on edge. It was the expression he wore.

The man turned his sour grin toward Luscia, but his feigned pleasantry didn’t extend above the lower half of his face, battered and dark, like burnt cacao. The skin around his eyes tensed combatively as he addressed her guard.

“I am Commander Kasim, Haidren to Darakai. Your presence will be tolerated in Bastiion, but that tolerance does not extend to your weaponry. Because of Boreal’s greed, the Peerage has decided that it is unsafe to permit your witchiron on the royal grounds. Therefore, abiding by this new legislation, it will now be confiscated.”

The commander’s excuse for a smile broadened at their troubled silence. Though they held their position, Luscia could feel the Najjan watching her reaction to the Darakaian’s instruction in their periphery. Her men would mirror their al’Haidren in this initial test of her character, even if the commander refused to acknowledge her directly.

Not for the first time, Luscia wished her father hadn’t sheltered her so thoroughly from Bastiion. For unbeknownst to her, this new legislation could be completely valid, and she was here to keep the peace between Boreal and the rest of Orynthia. So, though it chafed her to comply, Luscia reluctantly removed the sheathed kuerre from her side. As she set it on the ground, Luscia kept herself from glancing at the set of carved bone riding her knuckles, or from betraying any hint of the consort daggers hidden beneath her surcoat.

“I knew you’d understand,” the commander said smugly. “Place the witchiron in this cart, and General Lateef will see that your contraband is locked away.” He motioned to his right, where another mature Darakaian stood beside a small wagon draped in tarp.

“And to ensure the proper handling of Najjani craftsmanship, one of my men will accompany him,” Luscia interjected, keeping her voice steady and pleasant. The commander jerked at the sound, finally turning his head in her direction. “He will bear witness as the general delivers the key to the compartment into royal hands. For as you stated, Commander, taking my property is for the safety of us all, is it not?”