Luscia concluded that, like Noxolo, Captaen Marek Bailefore would never make her list, either.

It was one of the many reasons she’d struggled to accept him as a potential suitor, despite her father’s urging, and another example of the High One’s unfathomable sense of humor. In Marek’s shadow, other men rarely approached to make any intention beyond friendship known. Most Boreali women, of any age, would’ve been elated to be tethered to the redheaded warrior—after all, Marek was one of the more attractive bachelors in Roüwen. However, Luscia felt that a strong jaw and piercing gaze couldn’t compensate for his domineering tactics and unwanted opinions.

Fortunately, Boreal’s Clann Darragh hadn’t assigned his protégée and favored captaen among the Najjan as Luscia’s sole escort to Bastiion. For that, she would thank Aniell. Luscia was certain that, however much Orien Darragh beamed at the image of them together, her safety must have overruled any ceremonial agenda. Still, she’d long reconciled that a union with the captaen was inescapable. Luscia’s role as future Haidren to Boreal would require she not only make a match to preserve the line of Tiergan, but a powerful one within the boundaries of their reclusive society.

Rebelliously, Luscia wondered if enough crass joking might cause Marek to reconsider just how much nonsense he’d willingly tolerate, and perhaps seek companionship elsewhere. But, as he’d already implied with his pointed look, it was her responsibility to set the standard for decorum. So, instead, she settled for staring imperiously until he lowered his eyes. He would, eventually. The dogmatic captaen might be the head of her private guard, but he held no such sway over the al’Haidren herself, and in such moments, Luscia loved to remind him of it.

“It was probably just the lycran, Noxolo,” Marek stated with finality.

“Don’t blame poor Aksel for the grabby paws of men, Marek,” Luscia interjected as she packed the polishing cloth into her traveling case and stood to sheath her kuerre.

As if to make her retort more believable, the menacing wolx growled from his position at her side. Even sitting, his head perched well above her waist. At nearly two hundred pounds, Aksel was massive, even for an Orallach fox-wolf hybrid. His protective instincts had only heightened since crossing Boreal’s border and now showed in the way he bared his teeth at the captaen.

With pride, she clicked her tongue and chided, “Now, Aksel, we mustn’t lower ourselves to the beastly standards of others.”

It was petty, but she was incredibly bored. During the past fortnight of travel, the only occasion Luscia exerted effort to communicate beyond necessity was to stimulate her mind or distract it. Though there’d been no other sign of a threatening presence following them, excess boredom encouraged wary curiosity to drift into speculation about the patched gash down the side of her tent, or the dreams that still haunted her. Thus, being a perplexing product of logic and whimsy, with each trait warring against the other, she could only converse with herself for so long. If one virtue wasn’t fully engaged, the other would prevail, and Luscia wasn’t yet ready for whimsy to yield to cold pragmatism. Pragmatism inevitably sought answers—answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

Climbing into the worn leather saddle, she dipped her fingers into an inner pocket of the satchel and swiftly drank one of her aunt’s prescribed tonics while the men were distracted by their departure. Her condition having been concealed by family since puberty, she aimed to prevent her next episode as long as possible. Discreetly, Luscia dabbed a drop of the liquid from her bottom lip after the others began to move.

Watching the line of Najjan plunge into the wood, she again felt the crisp, sobering premonition each step toward the House of Bastiion incited. Lifting her chin, Luscia stared ahead, determined to ignore it.

“Noxolo!” she called with renewed cheer. “Tell us more of your sister’s muskrat. Our friend Marek here regularly enjoys game most tend to avoid.”

“Well, Deirdre uses a variety of techniques…”

With a satisfied smirk, Luscia trotted her horse past the successfully mortified Boreali captaen.

Humidity pressed against her skin like an unwanted kiss. It must have been the hottest day of spring thus far, and Lusica had long since done away with the magnificent fox fur she’d received upon her departure from Roüwen. Her northern brethren refused to waste any aspect of a kill, viewing each as a sacrificial gift from above, and Luscia was usually more than happy to be a recipient of their resourcefulness. Furs were often worn throughout the cool, damp springs of Boreal’s highlands, but the climate had progressively shifted as they descended into Orynthia’s lower elevations.

Jerking his coat off each arm, Böwen seemed to share her disgust for the weather. In a huff, he shoved the Boreali jacket into a saddle bag and pulled most his chin-length hair away from where it had begun to stick to his cheeks.

“I don’t understand how the Unitarians endure this soggy, sweltering pit every year,” he grumbled.

“Ana’Sere, will it be like this the entire summer?” Creyvan asked from behind.

“Wem,” she confirmed, “though worse, if I recall. However, my only visit was during autumn, to celebrate the prince’s Ascension.”

Unlike her predecessors, Orien Darragh had shielded his daughter from court life in Bastiion, relying entirely on Alora, the clan elders, and the Isle of Viridis to shape Luscia into their next al’Haidren. During her entire seclusion, there was one sole event in Bastiion that had demanded her attendance: the eighteenth birthday of Dmitri Thoarne, Crown Prince of Orynthia.

“Do you remember him much, Lady Luscia? Prince Dmitri?” Noxolo inquired, turning in his seat to glance back from the head of the party.

In truth, her recollection of the experience was vague and admittedly useless. At twelve years of age, Luscia had hardly been politically savvy or socially fluent. Faint memories painted Dmitri Thoarne as being a kind and considerate, if somewhat frail, young man. But he was no longer eighteen, just as she was no longer twelve. Luscia grinned at that. Six years could change a person exponentially.

“He was very gracious host,” Luscia said, aware of her ambiguity, but it wasn’t as if they’d been royal bunkmates at the time.

Clearly dissatisfied, Nox reluctantly faced forward, drooping his shoulders dramatically.

“What of the other al’Haidrens?” Böwen asked. “You must have met them during his Ascension ceremonies.”

“Introductions were made, though more for formality’s sake than the purpose of actual acquaintance,” Luscia began, attempting to answer their curiosity as accurately as possible. Like her, they too had lived in seclusion most of their lives. “The al’Haidren to Bastiion was pleasant, though often inebriated. Or missing altogether, allegedly seeking company in noble skirts.”