When the door to the Doyen Lord Visor came with a knock, Arlou had not expected it to be Lady Sahturna, thick dark hair running down her spine. The royal escort was in her human form, clouding the minds of those who had lurched at any sight of braced faes. But the healer had loathed such imprisonments and the stampede of the Chonerin guards gaining her wake.

“The prince is needed,” her voice like a fiddle in minor chord. She had addressed the Masters of Lore and Civics. “And you Masters.”

Like a hurricane, the three of them were swooped away to the inner courts of the palace. They had to leave Mihca and Malrow to the rest of what was left of Arlou’s original guards. With light steps, the uncertain golden eyes of the Lady beside him were planting worries in his mind. Trailing behind him, the Masters were silent as the dozen pairs of soldiers flanked and guarded their stream of hurried pacing. Both students and teachers hid away back into their rooms or escape corners as their parade garnered awe and sneers across the hall.

Barely catching a breath, he had to ask, “where are to, Lady?”

“Your father,” Lady Sahturna replied, not a glance to the collapse of Arlou’s face. The last time he had been with his father was when they had sent her sleeping sister away. Away to the mausoleum.

And it was like that very same day. Crowded amongst roseta, the thorny red bushes slithered the very pavilion to where his sister had now slept. The arc entrances that slowly rose as they walk were opened to the morning breeze of the palace’s many gardens. As they went in closer, the gravel road now a petty convenience to its guests, crunched loudly when the Chonerin guards had come to disperse at their arrival. The sergeant of the gasoline guards, Arlou did not know who, stood beside his father. Their toxic dark tinges, the ancient armor did not shine against the bright light of Torion’s. Arlou had his eyes on the Chrovesteran guard when one of the Masters behind him spoke.

“You call for us your grace?” It was Mistress Clanadrin, her scholar cloak billowing with the early autumn wind.

His father’s back did not respond, but the Doyen Lord Visor at his left spoke for him. “Yes. His grace requires your word on the matters that will follow, Masters. The King wishes to know where and when have you last seen the Princess Alvedaima.”

Arlou had expected their immediate answers, but no responses were drooled. When he came to favor his teachers, the two of them had only stood in silence. Mistress Clanadrin’s brows were drawn but Master Monterpelagious was calm as the Chairon grand lake.

“I am not fond with the dark arts.” The dark note of the King’s jolted Arlou’s split hands. “Nor with capturing the power of a god.” His father twisted to the Master of Lore, his face red with checked anger. “You had dare stepped into my lands when all has been lost already. You were always late Bapistimiaga. And will always will be.”

“At least I was not drowning in sorrow to see.” When the Master strode to the King, the blue guards and their blades had loosened from their scabbards, the sound of steel echoing the parameters of the garden. Arlou looked over his shoulder and saw the scattered crossbowmen and their bolts. Fighting mages with their own eth were only seconds to the afterlife. But number and steel tossed the chuk coin more rapidly in the air. Frustratingly, the Master did not even flinch. “Or was I making mistakes. I was just late.”

They had a stare down. The King glowering above his head to the taller sneering Mage. Whoever truly was the Mage, with his father’s ire on the brim stoke Arlou’s worst fears. Who was this man to anger an Acolyte of Enthah?

“The men had found no strands of Tarmorein curses, Chonerin.” The gasoline sergeant spoke. It had bothered Arlou to find the helmed man had not even embellished sword or guard for the king’s threat. He had been standing there, stiff, for the entire time, looking at the entrance to his sister’s grave doors.

They were open. Arlou lumbered to the egress. The heavy-set marble doors were pushed inside and the stench of decayed flowers escaped its crock. The King and Mage had reacted to the sergeant’s report and were all well silent as he added, “But Enthah was there. She left her there.”

As the sergeant said this, footsteps echoed from the door as a pair of gasoline guards tromped out with the very awake Alve on toe. Her toothy smile numbing Arlou’s very bones.

Lady Sahturna’s sharp gasp flowed into Arlou’s ear.

“Thravadin, protect us.” It was the principal.

Alve was still beaming at the protective ward of the venom knights when she had finally noticed the very tension of the crowd before her. “Alve…” he whispered from afar. The small ivory figure amongst the dull warriors turned to him with her large grassy jeweled eyes.

“Big brother!” She cried in glee as she burst to him like she had not forever slept one spring ago. Arlou caught her little form and he tightened his hug as if to convince himself of her presence. She was awake, and she was healed. And Enthah had blessed her new life…