"I will leave you to your father," Salmior announced. "I don't have any demands but to urge you perhaps spare the heart of a particular old man whenever you are tempted to put yourself in danger again." He nudged Heron's shoulders, ushering him out of the bushes to the palaces' grounds.

Stillness reigned along the way out of the grove. The tones of the surroundings were irregular whites of clustered mounds of frost, unyielding greens of dead trees, and the garish blacks of bark and dirt.

The trees were frozen into the form last left by the wind, all in stark contrast with the palace's grounds — humming with activity to erase prominent effects of The Chill.

Where tree trunks from the front line of the bushes hadn't buckled, the gardens were reduced to a mass of unrooted underbrush scattered on ice-layered, slippery terrains.

It was worse than two years ago. Hadn't he been familiar with each coin of the royal domain for the past eighteen years, Heron doubted he would recognize locations for what they were after the storm. In the city, the death toll had probably reached the hundreds.

Even in the royal domain, the extent of the havoc wreaked by The Chill prompted the summoning of villagers into the royal domain to help the limited work-force of servants.

Two laboring groups cohabited. The servants — legal residents of the domain — in dark green uniforms. They operated at the grounds at the base of the palaces. The villagers temporarily allowed within the ramparts erased the effects of The Chill near the grove. They distinguished themselves by their uneven, old clothing, with tones of white, bordering yellows and old greys.

At the ground, workers fought the ice with salt, rakes, and spills of buckets of hot water. Conducting horses in groups of three, drivers led carriages loaded with dirt-stained ice blocks and displaced underbrush outside the domain.

The newcomers' stares wandered to the square edifices of dark rock looming in the distance, four buildings standing three floors from the ground. The main chapel of the domain was a behemoth in its center : a wide column crowned with a dome of a blue stained glass, etched with patterns of The Ancients.

The villagers were properly kept away from the palaces. A line of bluemen watched them closely. Strange that even that didn't shake off the uneasiness Heron felt at their presence. Even when he turned to entrance of the palace, the first thing he looked for was a sign that a simple-blooded hadn't escaped the guard's watch to carry out the plans of the rebellion festering in the capital.

Past the grounds of the domain, on the courtyard, numerous patrols of guards galloped toward the barracks. With some luck, they hadn't been all searching for him. Maybe someone else shared his incompetence and had left the palaces during the storm.

Far ahead, Tor Lomeon stood at the grand entrance of the western palace, two superior guards by his side, both clothed all in black, with belts glinting with a succession of red and green gems.

A cruel knot gripped Heron's stomach all the way up the stairs leading to his father.

Lomeon stared directly at Heron, his lips a flat line amid a thick beard contoured squarely on brown skin.

After humble salutations and bows, Salmior spoke, "Lord, luckily, Lord Her Lomeon was within the ramparts."

Heron avoided his father's gaze until he spoke directly to him, "And where were you?" His voice was lower, perhaps even sadder than usual.

But what could be considered usual between him and his father? Servyna's death had created an impassable bridge between them. None ever brought up the subject. It seemed their cowardice was shared by blood.

By avoiding to dwell on the past, they avoided one another— far from ideal. But no matter how they approached his father's mistake, Servyna was dead. She would remain so. Despising Lomeon suited Heron best. So they kept a relationship of strict transmission of a Monarch to his heir. Master Salmior intermediated the process.

On the occasions the current Monarch spoke to the soon to be Monarch-in-Prospect, his tone was always firm, impersonal, bordering detachment. But now Lomeon was failing their unspoken agreement. By letting sadness through his words, the father was showing where The Monarch should be.

Master Salmior attempted a rescue again. "Lord, I'm more than sure it was the Ancients who kept the heir safe. He found himself shelter," he said with forced cheer, "inside the third chapel before The Chill broke through. With an unknown simple-blooded. It is a sign of the spirits," Salmior turned to Heron and said tenderly, "of how much he has to offer as the forty-second Monarch." Then he chuckled unnaturally, perhaps to loosen the atmosphere. "He believes he can make the simple-blooded his guard, and this way rescue him from apparent poverty. Young men these days."

"That is so?" Tor Lomeon regarded Heron curiously.

Unsure if it was a good idea to respond for himself, Heron turned to his Master. But Salmior was at a loss of words, staring back at Heron expectantly.

Heron managed a nod. "Yes, Father," he said, bracing for the disappointment.

Lomeon's misconduct ruled him out as a sound moral authority to Heron. Still, when that sadness of having missed an objective surfaced, it pained Heron viscerally. All in a frustrating disconnect between what he felt and what he valued. Or thought he should value.

Strangely, the disappointment didn't surface this time.

"Within two seasons, The Ancients allow, we will witness your Ascent to your position as the Monarch-in-Prospect, son. Your Master has guided you to the best of his ability. But we will be unfair to you if we did not allow you some liberty. If you wish so, I give my blessing. We should all be allowed to burn our knuckles to learn what fire is," he said. "Now, will both of you give me a moment?"

"Certainly, Lord," Master Salmior conceded.

Then Lomeon turned to Heron with an inquisitive expression.

"Of course, Father."

Lomeon muttered something unintelligible to the guard standing beside him. A stiff nod of the armed man followed. And the other guards around recoiled several paces away from them, leaving the entrance of the palace isolated for the three.

"We have news from Regency of Owynis. A black pigeon brought a letter the watchtower this morning. The Regent of the Island has finally issued a decree allowing us to mine the mountains on their southern coast," he said.

Heron fought the urge to sigh. All his duties were closing in around him like a hunting trap.

Grief striking right at the moment he had reached the age to enter military school had saved him from the army— delayed the process really. Because there was no escape from his Enlistment this Drought. And now the deal for his marriage had been concluded with the former Ceri colony.

"The Wisemen we consulted on the matter believe that the mountains of the Island have potentially the largest deposits of Raya and Oru in the Eastern Continent. Interest on the electric minerals has been increasing in the North. If our Wisemen have done their job properly, we'll soon carry out tests to arm the Blue Guard. Then the Green Guard in the city. All the excess will be traded with."

"Marvelous news, Lord," Salmior said. "I was convinced Lord Rytheo was determined to cut all ties of the former colony with us and trade exclusively with the Eastern Continent. I cannot help to wonder what led him to reconsider."

"Without Ceres, they are isolated. Owynis will be seen as a Ceri colony for the hundred years to come still. Given how they hate us in the east, it sets them for a bad start. Rytheo is an idealist who doesn't see yet that island should have remained Ceri. They have gained the independence but have been struggling externally and internally. The Regency of the Island is weak in the eyes of the people. Eastern countries have no qualms invading weaker nations. Having one of his daughters in the Ceri government is a measure of precaution. If they are attacked, they hope we can intervene to help."

"Will we, if that happens?" Heron asked.

"You'll be the one to answer that question, Son," Lomeon said. "I issued your marriage decree with one of the daughters of the Regency of the Island. We'll give Rytheo what he wants, and get our part of the deal. They certainly don't know they have large deposits of electric stones. We'll disguise our mining of the Raya and Oru with mines of copper, and will import our labor there."

"Lord, I suppose the approval of the decree calls for a reunion of the Ruling Council," Salmior said.

"I have taken that liberty. We'll fulfill our part of the deal," Lomeon said. "Heron will marry one of his daughters. They'll send her within days."

"Lord," Salmior's tone was humbler, "The Clergy and the Brigadiers of the Guards and the People's Elected should have a say on the matter, as integral parts of the Court of the capital. Even if only as a formality. I speak specially for the People's Elected, given the anti-order manifestations that have been occurring in the city."

"I respect the formalities as much as you do, Sir Salmior. But I'm certain both Jallon and Kerm want to arm their soldiers to the best of their ability. Even if The Clergy and the People's Elected disagreed, the agreement would remain in the majority. Though I'm sure you don't intend to oppose my decision."

"Of course not, Lord."

"That amounts to four against one vote in the worst scenario. Lord Rytheo is in an unstable position. We cannot risk the Regency negating us access to the mountains because of formalities."

Lomeon turned to the main tower as a messenger black pigeon crossed the sky. "The bird will reach the Island within days," he said. "We count on you to make the marriage happen, Heron."

Both Salmior and his father knew he wouldn't marry if he had the power to decide so. But he was the heir to the Monarchy before he was Heron. He owed an heir to come after him. He nodded, in spite of the wrongness of it.

"Yes, Father."