Bellavere remains anchored in its past; much like the psalms they read their way of life is committed to memory and rarely diverges from the text. Although usually solemn in its ecclesiastical ways, this nation-wide death is different.

In alcoves and quiet rooms people whisper. Consult with bishops who guide them through their grief. The king’s absence gouges a hole in their lives; and nothing Moira offers can rectify it. For her; grief is a knobby youth, awkward with feelings of being out of place.

She avoids these quiet moments because they clash with the raging emotions swirling inside. Each crying whisper, ‘why him?’ stabs deeper in her heart. Once again, she’s walking an empty hall along with murderer who walks among them.

She knows how this path unfolds; and she’s adamant that Kipling answers for his crimes. She’ll mop the blood he spills with his scalp and present his head on a spike for the world to see. Only then will she be free. Free from the fear, the nightmares, of the flames and screams.

But what of Margaret, the widow queen? The snake dressed in diamonds and gold. Zander’s justice reaches us all, she mumbles to herself. But that’s for another day. She searches the popular areas for Eclipse and Sara. Knowing what she knows she wished she didn’t let them out of her sight.

He’s all she has; she can’t let the monster take him too. But he isn’t there. Her feet head to the nearest hallway, then a flight of stairs and travel downward until she enters a silent floor. Last time she visited she pushed past nobles as they wait for an audience with the king. His private study is near by, but there’s no one around.

She finds a room left ajar and slips inside hoping Eclipse brought Sara there. It’s the classroom where instructors teach Nicole her lessons. Chalkboards line one wall while several desks are set up around the space. Some have stacks of books, a taxidermy dog and owl, paint, and canvases.

Beside the fireplace is a wall of paintings depicting grassy landscapes. Suspended from the ceiling on wire is a skeleton of a Swanbon. It swims through the air and the frail bones of its tails appear to fly. A heavy slam vibrates behind the wall, and she hears a shrill yell from beyond the fireplace.

She can’t make out the words but she searches the fireplace for its source. Her finger pushes a flower carved into the mantle, a small click, and a painting beside her swings open. Interesting. Behind the painting of a pleasant afternoon picnic is a narrow tunnel cut into the stone.

The voice is louder and she decides to follow it. Crawling past the cobwebs and dust she reaches the end a barrier blocking her way. It’s a thick material, she pushes her finger against it and meets a flexible resistance. Canvas? It must be another painting. There’re transparent blotches in the paint where she makes out the shapes of two people in the room.

Margaret sits in her late husband’s desk with a man sitting across from her. She can’t see his face but his fingers tap the armrest of his chair impatiently as Margaret continues.

“The casualties are more than you predicted, I thought you said it was an easy victory?” He begins to speak but she cuts him off, “and what is this I hear about you killing our own soldiers? That was not what I ordered!”

“You ordered me to get them ready for combat. I did. Now whether your stomach is too weak for my methods is not my problem. I did what we agreed on, so enjoy our victory.”

“Enjoy? What victory?” She stands and the sound of her irritated heels click across the floor. “Is it a victory when my resources wasted so fruitlessly? Do you realise our target outnumbers us? I can not afford to lose men on a whim.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” But Moira doesn’t believe his sincerity. She doubts he convinced Margaret either. She unleashes a harpy like screech in his face. But he doesn’t flinch, obviously he's accustomed to her rage.

“We have a concern,” she’s calmer now and speaks in measured tone. “Diamond’s illegitimate brat is becoming a nuisance. He is harassing the court of Lords for an investigation into his father’s disappearance. I ordered the castle gates closed to keep him from making a scene. But he still finds a way to speak to my court; inviting himself to meals, hounding them in the street life a rabid dog. Filthy mongrel.”

“I insisted on discretion. But you chose to hire the penniless rogue. But no matter, if you must deal with the kid, I suggest you offer him a distraction.”

“Distraction?” The irritated clicking stops.

“Plant the seed of conspiracy. Someone killed your husband, throw them names, and let the hounds fight over who killed who. While they are distracted, we will carry on as planned. Do not fret, My Lady, we are on track.”

“I have come too far to lose now.”

“I will not waste this opportunity.”

“If this attack fails Kipling, your head goes on a spike next to the other one, do you hear me?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

She ignores his tone and storms from the room. He remains sitting, she can’t see much from the paint splotches but he mumbles something to himself. Already her knees hurt from the stone and her muscles are desperate to move. He ponders alone for a moment or two before finally standing and exiting the room. Her heart pounds with each departing step. When its quiet she presses against the painting and creeps from the tunnel.

Its hard to believe the room that once fostered story retellings from distant lands became this. A war room for murder and treachery. At the center of it is the queen. She feels sick, listening to them plot the death of a beloved friend and much worse.

Her heart believes what she heard. Somehow, she’s misunderstood. She notices a stack of envelopes on the desk and goes to investigate. Eclipse always chides her for her curiosity but she needs to know more. The top one had no name only addressed to 'R'. The paper has a red tint and stands out from the rest.

“Who are you?” A man wearing a military uniform blocks the doorway. “This wing is off-limits to—” recognizes the Opal staff in her hand, “Forgive me, Mistress Mage. I thought you were a commoner.” He’s taller now that he isn’t sitting, and he approaches her; glancing at the letters on the desk.

“Kipling, I presume?” She steps back; his signature blade at his hip repulses her. He’s older than she remembers with broader shoulders and a lean muscular frame. A head of unruly coal coloured hair tops a face of small, pointed features. He assesses her with his sharp emerald eyes which prickles her skin.

“General Kipling.” His voice reminds her of the grave; cold and unmoving.

“And you are?”

“My friends call me Moira.”

“Be assured, I am no friend of yours,” she trembles under his gaze, “do I frighten you Mistress Mage?” Her blood pulsates; demanding payment for the blood debt. But her body remembers the last time she faced him and freezes like the terrified child she was. “Now if you will, you are in my way.”

He reaches for the letters at the corner of the desk and his arm brushes against hers. Before now she can convince herself he’s a phantom. But his coarse tunic grazing hers, makes him as real as the floor under her feet. Her stomach sinks as she fights the reality crashing around her. He steps back and motions to the door.

“Your purpose in this room is an overstep in social decorum. I will give you the benefit of the doubt to your intentions. With that said, it is time for you to leave.” He points to the hallway. Her knees wobble, but she forces herself out the door with him close behind her.

The rumours are wrong.

Her throat tightens as he closes the door behind them. He looks at her like a stranger; he’s oblivious to the pain he caused. His eyes are burned into her memories; his laugh and mannerism. She thought (hoped) he was dead.

But here he is, in the flesh. A ghost reincarnate. He points her towards the stairwell she came from. If she looks back; he’ll see the tears welling in her eyes. But his gaze remains on her; watching her as she forces her feet forward. Don’t run, steady Moira.

The stairwell spins and darkens at the edge of her vision. But step by grueling step she climbs; a deep breath as his footsteps echo from the opposite direction. She counts each stair to keep her mind from remembering.

But they claw past the barrier and seep into the present. Her heart slams against her chest and her body loses all composure. It trembles as her mother’s blood drip on her shaking arms. In the distance those eyes pierce the flames and his laugh fills the room. Its all she remembered before the incandescent light engulfs her. The manic sound sends shock waves over her body, her throat tightens preventing the sobs from escaping.

She’s on the steps, pushing her hot cheeks against the cold stone wall. Eclipse said she was safe. But he lives. She pulls her knees to her chin and holds herself. They’re wrong. She gulps the air but her body convulses. A laboured wheezing sound escapes her mouth. Flames. Screams. Green eyes. A deep breath at last. Dragon Haven. A valley of ash. Never again. She hears her name but can’t make out the voice but a head of black fur pushes into her face.

“Are you hurt?” he sniffs her hair, skin, and clothes, “remember your meditation.” He walks her through the breathing techniques she learned at the Academy. Inhale and fill her lungs. You are safe, she tells herself before the exhale through her mouth.

He coaches her until her breathing is regular and she’s calm. Tears and snot run down her face but he rubs against her arm and she starts to focus on him instead of the visions. When she regains her composure, she recounts the conversation she overheard. Its silly, now when she says it out loud. Their interaction was brief, he offered no threat or insult, from an outsider it appeared a normal. But Eclipse knew better.

“And you are certain it was our Remo Kipling?” he whispers eyeing the stairwell for eavesdroppers. “She’s planning to attack who?”

“I dunno. If Dragon Haven is any indication of their intentions, I can’t imagine what he plans for someone else.”

“The last time he commanded soldiers he eliminated hundreds of people.”

“We can’t take on an army.”

“Not alone, but there may be a way. Alexanderia is the best option.”

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else?”

“Moira, we are not choosing an inn to sleep. Alexanderia is the capital. Who else do you recommend? The Council?” He scoffs at the thought of the Mage elders doing anything outside their best interests. Not like they’ll believe her anyway. Even if the Kingdom of Ancients wasn’t so far away, they’ll leave her to die in the desert before they grant her entry again. But then again, even dying of thirst is preferable than Alexanderia.

“There has to be another option.”

“Why are you against this now? You already agreed to take the twerp there, this way you get two birds with one stone.”

“I agreed to drop Sara off at her aunts and leave. Not speak to the king. One is an inconvenience the other is a death sentence.”

“You are being melodramatic. We must prevent Kipling from repeating the travesties he committed, the Oath commands us to act.”

“The Oath says a lot of things,” she murmurs.

“I was conversing with a lord from the Privy Council who confided in my that Margaret declined her invitation to Lollardum’s Trade Conference. King Avalon attends every year to keep public faith in the Treaty between the kingdoms. Although according to our new friend Avalon and Castellan’s comradery is strained.”

“Are you suggesting we go to Lollardum instead?”

“Meet Avalon in Lollardum, he has no authority there, you can say your peace and leave with (hopefully) little fuss. Then we drop off the twerp.”

“And never set eyes on Alexanderia again.”

“I will not go that far, but it seems like a compromise.”

“The only problem is Lollardum is too dangerous, especially with Sara.”

“We are running out of places to go, we survived Lollardum before we can again.” He places his forehead against hers, “now is not the time to allow fear to win. Be strong my Mage. And keep this among us; if Nicole knows our plan, she will tell Margaret.”

“I don’t like this,” she sighs; relinquishing herself to fate. “I hope you know that.”