Eoscan Palace was in an uproar, flustered shouts echoing through its halls. With a crippling bang, the left wing of the Great Hall exploded. Bright shards of white-hot stone screamed through the air. Councillors ducked for cover, some too slow to avoid the torrent of fire lashing in all directions. Walls smoked beneath the relentless barrage; the shadows of victims burned onto their faces. Shrieks of fury rebounded, slicing high across roaring fire and cracking stone.

At the heart of the mayhem, Fayne glittered with wrath. She flung her arms out, ringed fingers awash with flame, and redoubled her efforts. The remaining Councillors leapt for refuge in all directions, throwing up shields of air, water, rock. She ignored them; she wasn’t targeting anyone, specifically. She was simply venting – and none dared attempt to halt her tirade.

Standing guard at one side of the hall, a grizzled Gryphon Knight hefted his shield to block a ball of fire that eddied in his direction. He made no other movement, remaining stoic, but the flash of steel reflecting firelight caught Fayne’s eye. She paused in her diatribe.

“Sir Jeddrin!” she barked.

He leapt to attention, marching to stand before her. She snuffed the flames that swirled around her – though her green dress smoked, some of the dreadful heat left her.

“As it please, Majesty,” he growled, saluting her with a fist over his heart, “How may I serve?”

Fayne flopped onto her Throne and bounced a fiery ball in one hand, pouting as she considered. Sir Jeddrin paid it no mind, keeping his attention riveted to the face of his Queen. Members of the Council peeked around their magic shields, waiting with bated breath to see if he would be incinerated.

Fayne unleashed a theatrical sigh. “I appear to have lost several soldiers... They may or may not have been burned alive. Regardless, I find myself in need of more guards. See to it, please.”

Sir Jeddrin bowed low. “At once, Majesty.”

He left at a smart pace and the room breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared that Fayne’s tantrum was over – at least for the time being. The Queen extinguished her fireball and leaned forward in her chair. She cleared her throat, and the Councillors rushed to disassemble their makeshift shields and gather before her once more.

“Cowards, the lot of you,” Fayne grumbled.

She huffed her fringe out of her eyes and tapped her fingers on the elaborately carved arm of her seat, thinking. A soft, jingling melody floated from the collection of rings and bangles she wore. Fortunately, its music had a calming effect on the volatile Firekin. Unfortunately, she noticed something else which grated on her already agitated nerves. From her vantage, she could, through the great glass window on her left, see the growing shadow clutching at the edge of the sun. Luckily for those present, she was tired from her outburst. Sucking at her teeth, she shifted to sit sideways on the Throne – her back to the view and her legs thrown over the armrest.

“Is Nerys dead yet?” she asked acidly, of no one in particular.

An aged councillor, pushed forward by his fellows, answered with a tremor in his voice.

“N-no one has seen her, Majesty...”

“Do I not command an army of powerful Witchkin?”

The councillors coughed, cleared their throats. The one at the front affirmed – in a high, squeaky tone – that she did.

“You know…” Fayne rounded her lips in sarcastic surprise, “That’s what I thought!”

She pushed to her feet and every soul in the room cringed away, though each tried not to seem like they did.

“Why, then…” she continued, “…do I find myself still awaiting news of my Lat’Nemele?”

No one dared answer. With a sigh of resignation, she sat down on the Throne once more and snapped her fingers.

“Where is Galva’s acolyte?”

A rustle from somewhere in the crowd, and then a tall, willowy young man stepped forward – the same who had summoned the Queen to Galva’s deathbed. Fayne quirked a brow, her predatory gaze sweeping over him.

“If it please, Your Majesty,” he said, in a voice soft as spring rain, “Here I am.”

Fayne leaned forward, intrigued. A bright curiosity transformed her face from terrible to beautiful. Her voice dropped to a summery lilt.

“What is your name, Dreamkin?”

“I am Adimar Val’Ery, Majesty.”

Fayne surveyed him like a lion with a lamb. “You were apprenticed to Galva, yes?”

“Yes, Majesty. For the last six andoyears.”

“You are so young…” Fayne smiled. She beckoned for him to come closer, well out of the stuffy crowd of Councillors.

“As I’m sure you are aware,” she continued, “I find myself suddenly in need of a new Grand Master of Dreams, to stand as my permanent advisor.” Her lips curved, languorous. “I think you would do nicely.”

As he blushed crimson and muttered his gratitude, a muffled protest filtered out from the Councillors. Fayne’s head snapped in its direction like a snake.

“Someone wishes to contend my opinion?” she asked. Her voice dripped poisonous honey.

The crowd parted, and an older man was thrust forward, into her line of sight. He wrung his hands, licking at his lips.

“M-Majesty,” he croaked, “I have no wish to contend anything! Only... the Order of Dreams usually select from within their own ranks… who will be the next Dreamkin to stand as Grand Master at the Palace…”

Fayne leaned her chin in her palm.

“Are you suggesting, Tadber, that I am not of the appropriate insight and intelligence to make a proposal as to the next Grand Master of Dreams?”

“N-no!” he gasped, his cheeks turning liver beneath his agitation. Belatedly he added, “Your Majesty!”

Fayne’s patience escaped her. She turned to command her personal Angel of Death to attend this man, but faltered as she came face to face with an empty space. The words never left her lips, escaping her on a silent rush of air instead. Of course, she had no more Lat’Nemele... And she’d lost Galva, too.

She was running out of useful allies, and fast.

She composed her face into a simpering smile. “Of course, Tadber, you make a valid point...”

He heaved a quiet, yet hearty, sigh of relief.

Fayne cocked her head. “...The Queen does not interfere with the election of Grand Witchkin within the Orders – that is a private and personal choice for each school of magic.” She leaned back in her chair, conceding demurely. “I was simply suggesting, due to Adimar’s diligence and devotion to his duties, that he should perhaps be considered. After all, he was training directly under Galva herself, even if he is yet young... Perhaps the Dreamkin will consider my words?”

“Of course, Majesty!” Tadber all but fell over his response, “Very wise, very wise…”

Fayne dismissed him with a wave of her hand, not bothering to conceal the roll of her eyes.

At the entrance, the chink of armour distracted her. She lifted her gaze as Sir Jeddrin and six Knights approached in double file. They jogged to a halt in front of the Queen, and she surveyed them critically. All were young and attractive – strapping examples of what Fayne expected a Gryphon Knight to be. She nodded her approval at the four men and two women, and Sir Jeddrin barked an order for them to take up positions around the room.

“Thank you, Sir Jeddrin,” she smiled, “As always, I cannot fault your efficiency.”

She got to her feet and floated down the dais steps, coming to run one finger flirtatiously down the steel of his breastplate.

“Tell me, Sir,” she purred, “How many Knights do you have under your command?”

“Three thousand, Majesty,” he growled, staring straight ahead.

“And Karkadann?”

“Seven thousand, Majesty.”

“Remaining forces?”

“Twenty thousand foot soldiers, ten thousand Skur Riders, six thousand reserves.”

“Excellent,” Fayne smiled. “Call them all to arms.”

“Majesty?”

“You heard me. Every. Single. One.”

Masking his surprise, Sir Jeddrin saluted and strode away to see it done. Fayne returned her regard to Adimar. She appraised his handsome copper face, noting the intelligence, the adoration, in his almond eyes. Yes, he would do nicely. She twirled towards him, stopping inches from his position.

“Grand Master or not,” she purred, “I have a particularly delicate task for you, Adimar.”

He puffed himself up. “Of course, Majesty! Name it, and it is done!”

Fayne’s smile widened. She swept her gaze condescendingly across the ranks of stuffy, aged individuals leaning in with keen ears, and further closed the gap between herself and the young Dreamkin.

“I need you to pay a visit to an old friend of mine,” she crooned, running one finger across his sculpted jaw. “We will need her help if we are to remove that bloody dragon from the field.”

She leaned in, slid her tongue playfully up the side of his neck, and whispered her instructions into his ear.