Pashar stepped out of Ranvir’s travel-space, the opening appearing smoothly. She was momentarily struck by the image of the shaky teenager, barely holding the space together as blood sloshed through the bottom of his space. She remembered straining to contain as much of herself as she could or risk undoing his work on accident.

Ranvir was no longer that kid. So much larger both physically and spiritually than the young boy who’d feared for his and his daughter’s life. Pashar hadn’t seen him much throughout the last few years, respecting his wish for distance, so it was a stark reminder that a lot could happen in such a short time.

Despite not even thinking to contain her presence, which had also grown since she’d last traveled with him, the space didn’t even quiver. Whether he’d improved its construction or simply grown stronger, she couldn’t tell. Both, she suspected.

The orphanage was surrounded by trees, providing a buffer between both prying eyes and listening ears. Amalia had told her it was a remnant of from when Elpir’s father had first built the estate. Though he’d been a ruthless man, he’d raised a daughter with a bleeding heart.

A gateway had been set up outside the entrance to the orphanage. Wide enough for two people to pass comfortably by shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s core construction was bronze, the metal of their god Apisaon, but had swirling details painted in the dark colors of blue, blacks, and purple, Nysea the Goddess of Night, Peace, and Home’s colors.

At the gate waited a young priestess of the Goddess, already smiling and greeting Frija. Vasso followed, with Ranvir taking up the rear. Pashar made a point of getting in line behind them, to discern them as two different guests of the brides.

“Welcome,” The priestess said, her hands hidden in the swathes of her dark chiton. The style was older and mostly worn for formal occasions, or if you were an old crone who couldn’t let go of traditions. “The Goddess is pleased to see you visit,” the priestess continued. “Which of the brides are you a guest of?”

“Elpir,” Ranvir said.

“Then you may take a seat on the right,” the priestess repeated her question to Pashar, who answered “Amalia,” and got seated on the opposite side of the others.

Walking into the gardens of the orphanage, Pashar was impressed with the amount of work that had been done. A frame of wood draped with cloth had been erected off to the side of the entry path.

She’d only glimpsed it briefly five days ago, while they’d still been laying out the materials and she’d had her doubts. However, the pavilion had come together beautifully. While it was a makeshift creation that could easily be torn down to reclaim the space and reuse the materials, it also provided just enough rigidity to seem more present than something as ephemeral as a tent.

Well done, Pashar applauded the two women in her head. With the cloth draping over the sides, it felt much more intimate than it would’ve had it happened in the open garden space.

The floor of planks that protected the feet from the writhing or rafting if the season hadn’t held. It was a pale wood reflecting the light back into the room, making it seem all the brighter for it.

Pashar only took a few moments to take the view in before making her way towards the chambers off to the side. Specifically, she was headed for the leftmost side. She stopped by the woman standing by the entrance.

“How’s she doing?” Pashar asked.

Theoni smiled, the move marking her eyes with crow’s feet. It was such a familiar sight that it put Pashar off a little. Amalia’s but a little calmer, tempered by age, where she was reinforced by vigor. “She’s nervous.”

“As she should be,” Pashar said with a smile. “Any word from Ione?”

Theoni shook her head. “Mother’s not shown hide or hair in days.”

Pashar nodded and walked into the small preparation chamber. Amalia stood inside, jumping from foot to foot lightly. Like the priestess, she wore a traditional chiton reaching floor length. The dark cloth was marked with embroidery of bronze. Traditionally, that would be the bride’s clothes, Pashar noted idly. She hadn’t been sure how they’d do it with two women. She’d considered one might take Apisaon’s role in the holy binding, but that seemed disingenuous to her.

“You look wonderful,” Pashar said as she stepped in.

Amalia startled, but smiled and patted down her outfit. “Thanks,” she sniffed then. “I better. Took too many trips to the tailor not to.”

Pashar held out a hand and Amalia took it. “They were very successful. You might have to worry Elpir won’t swoon the moment she sees you.”

“It’s not Elpir swooning I’m worried about,” Amalia confided with a nervous chuckle. Pashar decided not to respond and let the energy settle a little. Licking her lips, Amalia sobered up. “Is— did she come?”

Pashar shook her head. “Ione hasn’t shown herself yet,” then she winked. “But I’ll get her out here, don’t worry!”

Amalia smiled, but wasn’t relieved. “It’s alright. I didn’t really think she’d come.”

Pashar’s heart stuttered, then she felt the anger. First, as tension in her teeth, then as heat in her stomach. She smiled through it, projecting confidence. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the best person on it.”

Amalia frowned, and a little smile played on her lips. “What does that mean?”

Pashar winked. “Don’t worry about it. I just told you.”

Stepping out, she briefly touched Theoni’s hand as she guarded her daughter’s preparation room. Pashar shot immediately for the guardian of the other room, sensing her goal beyond it.

The woman was taller than average with a powerful physique, not to mention the veritable mountain of power she contained.

“Kyriake, right?” Pashar said.

The woman nodded. She was dressed in a formal Sentinel’s uniform, though hers was embellished in a frighteningly rare muted green. She wore it better than Ranvir did as well. The carefully designed uniform evoking respect and authority, which only further cemented as her as a person of note.

“I am,” Kyriake glanced across the room. “I saw you going into Amalia’s room, so you’re not coming in here.”

“I know,” Pashar said. “I need to speak with Ranvir. He needs to get someone.”

“Is it important?”

Pashar nodded toward where she came from. “To the bride.”

Kyriake looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. Before she could step in, Ranvir came out. “I heard her.”

Though the two were ostensibly wearing the same uniform, only the muted colors of their trim being different, the contrast couldn’t have been more stark. On Kyriake, the uniform was a bulwark, emphasizing the weight of her political and physical presence, not to mention how it seemed to wrap into her mountainous presence as well.

Ranvir wore his like a shell. Even after his shave and properly cleaned hair, it sat like a rock on him. Kyriake looked in control, comfortable, and receptive. She’s someone you’d hate to fail because you’d hate to disappoint her. Ranvir looked stiff, cold, and austere, someone you’d hate to fail because he already hates being there.

“Daddy,” Frija appeared around his leg and the entire attitude melted into a caring father. “Can Menace have a snack? He’s being so good.”

“Once the ceremony starts. Okay, Firehearth?”

She smiled and nodded before hopping back into Elpir’s preparation chamber.

“We need you to go talk with Ione,” Pashar said, dispensing with the preparatory talk. “Amalia wants here.”

“I heard,” Ranvir muttered with a nod. Frowning, he looked towards the crone’s manor and disappeared with a slight breeze of wind.

“Him?” Kyriake asked. “Not to disparage Ranvir, but he’s not diplomatic at the best of times. Do you really think he can convince the old bitch to come?”

“Yes,” Pashar replied, looking out over the slowly assembling crowd. At some point, Kasos had appeared, sitting on Amalia’s side, behind her family. “Ione’s a diplomat. If she recognizes or even thinks she recognizes the techniques taught by those kinds of people, she won’t respond to anything. She’s spent too long in the courts, trained too long to let that instinct go.”

Kyriake shot her a look. “That’s pretty good, you know?”

“Yeah,” Pashar replied. “I’m sort of a diplomat too.”

“Emphasis on ‘sort of’,” Kyriake said with a snort.

Pashar almost asked if Ranvir had spoken of her, but instinct and training held her back. If he hadn’t, then she would only confirm Kyriake’s speculations and she would show her nerves to the older woman. In the end, it mattered only as a measure of Ranvir’s trust in her. That Kyriake recognized her as a spy could be attributed to a multitude of other reasons.

It could simply be her sheer strength, allowing her to peer deeper into Pashar’s spirit. How didn’t matter nearly as much as what happened afterward? From what Pashar had found, Kyriake was old, older than anyone else in the room by a fair margin. The stories went far enough back to stretch the credulity of her and Elpir, being aunt and niece. Kyriake might be her father’s aunt and took up the title again as a simpler cognomen.

Pashar dismissed the routine thoughts from her head, realizing she’d fallen back into old habits. Sighing, she licked her lips and nodded farewell to Sentinel and found her own seat next to Kasos.