Fellfire Summer

By Blayre Delecour

When Commadont Alaric Monteval is asked to emigrate from his homeland of Vasque to neighboring Orexa on a long-term diplomatic mission, he thinks the move tantamount to retirement from his soldiering days and resigns himself to a quiet—and assuredly boring—life among the clouds atop the airborne country’s luxurious Holds.

However, he quickly finds himself wishing that the most intimidating hurdles he might be faced with were the opulent Oresian galas and the fickle moods of his new Holdmaster, Everet of Eizenthley, as he’s drawn into helping investigate an assassination attempt prefacing a coup d’etat.

Now the newly minted ambassador and his host must work together—a difficult task at times—to unravel the murderers’ plot before their world comes quite literally crashing down on their heads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blayre Delecour
• Release date: Oct 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311989796

Blayre Delecour

Just a M/M fantasy enthusiast who, after being inspired by so many great stories and playing in others' sandboxes for ages, finally decided to add her own worlds and characters to the melting pot. She lives in a tiny high-rise in Tokyo with the world's cutest and fluffiest cat-shaped distraction.

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FELLFIRE SUMMER

Blayre Delecour

Copyright © 2015 Blayre Delecour

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This book is free-to-share but may not be redistributed through any means, print or electronic, for-profit without permission from the author.

To New Year’s resolutions and to job interviews that didn’t pan out,

without which I might never have gotten off my butt and written this.

CHAPTER ONE

The pigeon was dead before the sound of the blast even reached their ears, its tiny body obliterated in an explosion of feathers and smoke quickly dissipated by the brisk morning breeze washing over the hunting range.

As you can see, the gunsmith drawled with a satisfied grin, extending his hand in demonstration, With birdshot, you really don’t need the accuracy of a rifled barrel—you can achieve just as sure a hit using your standard hunting musketoon or barrelbuss, avoiding entirely the hassle of attending a Weapons Faire off-dale to procure arms.

Alaric struggled to stifle a yawn—then winced when a sharp elbow jabbed into his side as his Second hissed through teeth clenched in a tight smile, Hardly appropriate for the Commadont to display his boredom so openly. That’s the third time since the demonstration began. She flicked him a reproving glance out of the corner of her eye, adding, I don’t want to be forced to sit through another tribune’s lecture simply because you couldn’t manage to disguise your disdain.

"You know as well as I that Her Grace won’t be dipping into public coffers to buy birdshot; we’re wasting this poor fool’s time as much as he’s wasting ours, Alaric reminded pointedly. I may be several seasons off the line now, but I don’t recall the Ruzian front lines being populated by peacocks."

And a long several seasons it had been; while his contemporaries and fellow officers still deigned to call him Commadont, an arduous recovery from near-mortal wounds meant he hadn’t formally held the rank in the field in nearly a year, and he likely never would again. His shoulder no longer ached insistently, but it did tend to throb whenever a storm rumbled in from the gulf, a sore reminder that all it took was a mistimed step or an unlucky stumble into a foe’s swiping cut to end a career. He was starting to think he might have been better off having perished on the field in the heat of battle, or succumbed to illness and rot in the days subsequent. At least then he might have gone relatively quickly and been spared this slow, languid death by boredom as the gunsmith continued to drone on and on about shotseed diameters.

But he hadn’t died on the muddy, blood-soaked fields of Zircoda’s sweeping plains—despite his best efforts to that end. No, he’d survived the lacerations and severed tendons that had rendered his sword arm useless and somehow managed to refrain from insisting the surgeons just lop the limb off at the shoulder, so unbearably itchy had been the blankets of bandages. He’d come out the other end of that final surge in one piece, unlike many of the men and women under him—but his career had ended on that field as surely as if he’d given up the ghost.

Which left him here, standing on a broad windswept plain listening to a visiting gunsmith up from the coast trying to pass off gravel-and-powder cartridges as proper ammunition—a hard sell at best, given the times they lived in. For his part, Alaric didn’t approve of the shift over the past decade or so from an army of hard steel and gloved fist to one tainted with the chill of cold iron and burn of black powder. The swift march of time and technology was overwhelming, though, demanding that he submit and consent to be carried along by the flow or be caught in the undertow.

The demonstration broke up, Faire representatives and munitions traders alike approaching the gunsmith, and Alaric leapt at the chance to make himself scarce. Altavio fell into step beside him as they headed for the waiting carriages, smiling with a shrug. Oh I don’t know—perhaps someday there’ll be tales of a great rout by Vasque forces sending the Ruzian high command fleeing back across the Izador with arses painted red by our friend’s fine shot.

Fine shot, Alaric huffed derisively. It’s gravel and detritus he scraped off the beach; the rank smell’s probably more deadly than the impact itself.

Altavio barked a laugh and shook a finger at him, reaching for the grip to haul herself into their carriage with her free hand. I know better than to expect an unbiased opinion from a man who sprang from his mother’s womb with sword in hand. She collapsed onto one of the padded seats, shifting over to give Alaric room beside her, and sighed wistfully. Oh, but I would have liked to have seen the Fellfire shot demonstration!

Mm, Alaric agreed noncommittally. Though he wasn’t overly fond of the manufacturing revolution sweeping through Vasque that had her forges churning out all manner of fortified explosive weapons—cannon and musketoon and everything in between—even he had to admit the Oresians’ demonstration had been most impressive.

The Oresians were a funny bunch. Where Vasque and L’ruz had been at odds for as long as anyone could remember—generation after generation suckling on tales of murder and intrigue and torture and treachery as they bickered over taxes and resource rights—their mutual neighbor of Orexa had remained above the fray. Quite literally, in fact—as most Oresians had ages ago crowded atop vast tracts of land known as Holds and taken to the skies under power from a mineral they called Starfell. Details such as how it was refined and where the lodes were located remained fiercely guarded secrets—but one important point was clear: when exposed to flame, it burned bright and hard, producing Fellfire: lift powerful enough in quantity to hoist whole cities into the skies. On a sunny day at the border and with a fair set of oculars, you could just make out the lowest of the Holds, hovering leagues above the surface and all the problems plaguing the earthbound.

But the very mineral that was burned to power the huge furnaces keeping the Oresian Holds aloft also possessed remarkable destructive capabilities—which were now being used as a bargaining chip: a regular supply of Fellfire cannon shot, in exchange for land grants. Airborne strongholds necessarily meant a limited food supply, and when years of drought had sterilized her own lands, Orexa had been forced to turn to neighbors for aid. That they had approached Vasque before L’ruz for a trade contract was simply because Vasque bordered the rich gulf and had farmland to spare, where L’ruz commanded only rocky mountain passes and the great reichwood forested valleys.

Vasque would benefit substantially from the agreement, though, that much was clear; in exchange for leasing rights to untended farm fields that had lain fallow for years, they would be issued a munitions package that could, if employed strategically on a smart campaign, wipe L’ruz from the annals of history and win Vasque the bulk of the eastern continent inside a matter of seasons.

Everyone was understandably on edge with a mixture of both excitement and anxiety about the whole matter. Alaric didn’t envy the border agents working to deflect attention away from the upcoming parley sessions; if L’ruz caught scent of a union of this magnitude, they’d damn any fragile agreements with Orexa and march on vulnerable fronts straight away. They would have to; sitting idly by and letting the treaty happen would be tantamount to bowing one’s head before an executioner.

Alaric had been there for the Oresian representatives’ demonstration, attendance at which had been limited to the Veld Martiale and lesser leadership, and he could personally vouch for the power the shot provided. Their standard cannons at a quarter league could blow an oak to kindling and destroy the immediate surroundings with the resulting shrapnel—but the Fellfire shot, packed tightly into reinforced cannons under careful instruction, had wiped out an entire copse of reichwood saplings at threefold the distance, scoring a crater shoulder-deep at its epicenter. There was simply no contest; an army outfitted with Fellfire cannon would obliterate any challenger who dared stand against it.

L’ruz’s proximity to the Sontifer range and the ores mined therein made her a formidable enemy, especially for a nation such as Vasque with little in the way of natural resources fit for ammunition—as such, Veld Martiale Hadryan was eager to pull Orexa into their fold and hash out a contract between their peoples. Orexa would have the grazing rights and farmlands her citizens so desperately needed, and Vasque would build up stores of precious Fellfire shot, fattening the ranks of her army and navy and all but daring L’ruz to make the first move.

Perhaps, Alaric mused, he’d gotten himself discharged just in time.

So when will you be leaving us, then?

Altavio’s question, delivered with more grace than her usual barbed probes, called him back to the moment, and he grimaced as he recalled why he’d been asked to sit in on the Fellfire demonstration in the first place. End of the month.

Altavio nodded solemnly. Just enough time to get your affairs in order, but not enough to rally your troops to spirit you away to safety and spare you your sentence.

"It’s not a sentence, he reminded stiffly. It’s an honor to be asked by Her Grace to represent our country among her new allies. Besides, I’m no good on the field anymore, so I suppose I should be grateful she still thinks me useful."

Altavio rolled her eyes, reaching for a waxnut from a bowl bolted to the carriage door as they jolted along. You’ve always been her favorite Commadont. It’s why no one likes you.

The Veld Martiale likes me; that’s enough. It was a bold boast, but not entirely unfounded—which was why Altavio just scoffed, no further retorts left to make.

I suppose I can’t argue with that, but— She raised a brow. I’d be careful if I were you; you know what the Veld Martiale does with her favorites. You’ll have your balls chopped off and be made a member of the Council before you know it.

Oh will I now? he grinned. And will she be storing my balls in the same place she stashed your breasts when you traded them for a commission in her army? He winced as Altavio chucked a waxnut shell at his head. Peace! You want me meeting the Oresians outfitted with an eye patch?

You’ll regret that remark and be wishing you had me at your back when you find yourself taking a long walk off a short cliff in a fortnight’s time. Alaric chuckled at this, then directed his gaze out the carriage window in an attempt to distract himself from the uneasy reminder of his upcoming mission.

A contract of any sort between two nations necessarily required representatives be present to work out details, discussing the parameters of their agreement and outlining in no uncertain terms how each party would be expected to conduct themselves. This whole process became a great deal more complicated, though, when one of the parties involved was Orexa.

Perhaps because they’d lived apart from the surface for so long, neglecting any historical alliances or friendships with their neighbors, Oresians were notoriously insular and wary. Trespassers over her borders—not that there was all that much left to loot—were dealt with swiftly and without mercy, and all trade and business with the Holds was conducted through their sole remaining link to the lands far below: a bustling trading post called Layton. Most of the merchants fortunate enough to have business contracts with Layton had been grandfathered in, as new contracts were hard to come by when customers were as vigilant and untrusting as Oresians.

When talk of the trade agreement had first begun circulating, the question on everyone’s lips had been the same: where would the summit be held? The idea of an Oresian delegation daring to descend from their sky palaces was laughable, in light of their infamous paranoia, and Orexa would sooner crash the Holds en masse than allow foreign boots on her soil. But one way or another, they would have to bend their rules if they wanted this contract: and bend they did, squarely in Alaric’s direction.

A single representative had been the compromise: Vasque would send an ambassador, authorized to exercise the Veld Martiale’s will in carving out an agreement between their nations—and in return, that ambassador would remain in Orexa, permanently confined to her Holds. An emigrant, never allowed to return home, removing all worry he might carry back word of the wonders he would no doubt witness.

He’d been told, in fawning, obsequious tones, that he’d been the Veld Martiale’s very first choice—a decorated Commadont who would throw up a brave front and represent Vasque as a strong, formidable ally that would bring the Oresians flocking to their side. Alaric suspected it was less his prowess on the field that had earned him the appointment and more the proximity of his family’s lands to the Oresian border, giving him a smattering understanding of their language, along with the pleasing terms of a treaty he’d brokered three winters prior when his unit had crushed the Northern Hartsvåel’s ice-locked defenses. Leagues from the Capitole and with Hartsvåel warlords demanding to treat with him instead of a diplomat, he’d had little choice but to act on his own conscience. The Veld Martiale must have been pleased with his work, for she’d promoted him on his return instead of discharging him outright for insubordination. With his useless right arm now, he was of no more use in the field and a second son who wouldn’t be missed as an heir—and so his appointment had been sealed.

He supposed if Vasque was to be hobbled with only a single delegate, then they would be wise to send someone both expendable and whose solo work in treaty brokering they’d witnessed—and been satisfied with—before. But the Hartsvåel warlords had been honored to hash out terms with a man they respected for fighting in the thick of it with his troops instead of commanding from his tent; Alaric doubted the Oresians wanted him for similar reasons.

Altavio seemed to follow his thoughts, cracking a nut husk in her teeth before asking, Don’t you find it the least bit suspicious that they won’t tolerate more than one man on their Holds and yet refuse to come down and debate contract terms with us themselves? I don’t buy this drivel about weight distribution management and risk evaluation. She waved. Not that I understand what that even means, to be honest.

Suspicious? Of course. He shrugged. But what choice do I have? I’m Her Grace’s Man, I go where I’m sent. More to the point, both Vasque and Orexa needed something from the other, so it was in their mutual interest for both sides to play fair.

Altavio threw another nut his way, and this time he caught it, peeling it before popping the meat into his mouth. She smiled, "With that attitude, you’ll stay her man and no one else’s."

Alaric considered this for a moment. I see it more as, so long as the Veld Martiale holds my balls in her grasp, then I run no risk of another getting hold of them. He then leaned forward and grabbed a handful of waxnuts for himself as the carriage rumbled on, musing darkly that this might be his last chance to enjoy them.

❖

"Monteval, you really ought to hold on to the reins with both hands—we don’t want to hand you over to the Oresians concussed because you couldn’t keep your seat between language studies and dusty research." A chorus of chuckles from the rest of the escort cut through the dead, quiet air as their troupe plodded along, and Alaric cut Altavio a warning glance.

Three weeks it had been, now, since he’d received his emigration assignment, and he’d finally been ordered to put boot to dirt and march out. He could have made the journey alone, but his superiors had insisted he take a small squadron with him. After three days dealing with their commentary, though, he was beginning to wish he’d ignored those orders.

My knowledge of Oresian presently consists of price haggling and inquiring as to the health of a herd of goats. I think Her Grace would like me a bit more well-versed in the local language and customs before I start this mission.

By all means, Commadont, called Zuria, a sub-letenant he’d worked with since the man had been a green recruit. Perhaps you ought to begin with the wedding vows?

This instigated another round of laughter at Alaric’s expense, and he grumbled, That’ll be enough of that, Sub-letenant; I may not be your commanding officer anymore, but I still have favors I can call in. Zuria ducked his head, still flushed with amusement. The teasing was starting to get out of hand—but they were three days out of the Capitole with another week at least of hard road ahead before they even reached the Oresian border, so it was important to keep spirits light. To this end, the current topic of interest seemed to be the fact that, to seal his immigration, Alaric was going to be folded into an Oresian household, something which generally only happened through marriage or adoption.

He supposed it was to be expected; as a foreigner, they’d want to keep him under close watch, and it could only help his assignment to surround himself with native Oresians, acclimating to the language and culture far more easily than he might have otherwise. But he was a private man who wasn’t looking forward to being gawked at and placed on display, gazes trained on him wherever he went. The curiosity would likely die down within a few months—but there would always be that undercurrent of suspicion, and for someone who’d worked hard to earn the trust of those around him over the years, the realization that he’d now have to start building relationships all over again was proving difficult to accept.

Out of deference—or perhaps pity, Altavio shifted the conversation to discussions of upcoming faires and how harvests were going and whether it was going to be a good summer or a bad one for sweet gourds, and when they gathered around their fire that evening, their party’s Cartograph Felippe produced a set of reedpipes. The invitation was quickly met with demands for this ditty or that soldier’s tune, and Alaric drifted off to the sound of his comrades-in-arms still making merry well into the evening.

The journey dragged but was not overly difficult, with the only foul weather being a short early-summer shower sending them scrambling for their slickers. Alaric wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed when they finally reached the stretch of dried-up riverbed that formally marked the border between nations.

Passing from Vasque with its expansive farmsteads and bustling towns into the barren emptiness of Orexa was like crossing from day into night, and as a group, they stifled a chill of unease as they guided their mounts forward. It was more than a little unnerving, as they trod further and further into foreign land, to realize that if they found themselves stranded—or if one of them came down with something or a horse went lame—they would find no aid from helpful ranchers or innkeepers. The Oresian landscape stretched far and empty, and Alaric felt their little entourage to be very small and very vulnerable.

Seeing the barren gold plains for himself, Alaric could no longer blame the odd Oresian for stealing over the border to raid Vasque larders. The land felt dead as old bone, wild and rough and unwilling to cooperate, and the sight stirred in his breast a renewed drive to ensure this contract was sealed. This was a land in dire need of a swift injection of new life—Vasque merely wanted new weaponry.

As they traveled, now and then the quiet would be interrupted by a stir of excitement when they neared a settlement, but most seemed utterly abandoned, clearly not having seen human habitation in years. In the early afternoon two days after crossing the border, though, they caught their first glimpse of one of the Holds, and their troupe as a whole halted a moment to take it in.

Zuria scrambled for a pair of oculars, but from this distance, they hardly needed any. The Hold hung suspended in the clouds, impressive even from so far away, and Alaric suppressed an uncomfortable churn of his stomach knowing he’d soon be standing atop one such structure, looking down on these same plains they now trudged across.

The Hold followed them the rest of the journey, a great black blotch against the sky, and in another two days, they spotted a second, higher still, shadowing the first. With his oculars, Zuria exclaimed with great enthusiasm that he could make out four in total. They look so very fragile, though, just hanging there… He let the oculars fall away, squinting into the distance. Like the slightest breeze could blow them over. Alaric didn’t much appreciate the comment and gruffly ordered them along—they were coming up on Layton and had a schedule to keep to.

The town wasn’t difficult to find, standing out stark with life and activity against the backdrop of Orexa’s dead golden plains. The remaining settlers had long ago abandoned their ghost towns and congregated around this point of trade, few daring to stray too far from the lifeline connecting them to the floating cities above, and what had likely started life as a few storage barns and a water trough had since blossomed into a veritable oasis.

To Alaric’s surprise, Layton didn’t strike him as terribly foreign-looking at all. Granted, he didn’t know much about Oresians to begin with, but he’d been expecting something just a bit more exotic and was almost disappointed. Aside from the coloring of the locals—swarthy complexion rich as caramel with flaxen hair—the town itself could probably have been lifted from any of Vasque’s holdings, though clearly less prosperous than most.

As their troupe strode in through the main thoroughfare, all in full dress and packhorses laden down with their travel kit and Alaric’s belongings, it became clear they’d been expected. The gawking was apparently going to start well before Alaric set foot on a Hold, as men ducked out of the way to watch their entrance warily from the shadows while young children openly gaped in wonder until shuttled away by fussy mothers. Trading post though Layton may have been, surely none of them had ever seen soldiers marching through. The town was laid out in a rather straightforward fashion, and in short order, Altavio pointed out a side street that fed into a plaza fronting the grandest structure around—what had to be the town hall.

Word of their arrival seemed to have already spread, for they were hemmed in by a growing crowd at their backs which made their mounts restless and Alaric equally so. They were spared an uncomfortable mangling of Oresian by the timely arrival of a harried young man scrambling down the steps of the hall to meet them, waving away the crowd and reprimanding them in a rush of Oresian. Alaric didn’t quite catch the particulars, but the tone made it clear he meant business, and soon the crowd had thinned enough to allow their party to advance.

Come, come! the young man beckoned with sweeping arm movements. Welcome!

Thank the Lady someone here speaks Vasque… Altavio muttered, relief in her voice, and Alaric shared the sentiment—though not without a twinge of guilt that his own linguistic studies were lacking.

Alaric was the first to dismount, wincing from the long days in the saddle as he strode over to deliver formal greetings. He executed a curt salute out of habit before starting in with a lavish introduction he’d been working on since crossing the border. I, Ambassador Alaric Monteval, bring greetings from the court of Her Grace Veld Martiale Hadryan of Vasque. Her Grace extends her most sincere gratitude to His Oresian Majesty Reinhart for allowing our delegation into your lands, and she hopes that this will be the beginning of a long, fruitful alliance between both our peoples.

The young man blanched at the onslaught of Vasque, fumbling for a reply before finally managing, Yes. We—yes, thank you. Serr Monteval. We welcome.

Alaric nodded slowly, confidence flagging, and kept his grin as wide and white as possible as he leaned over to the still-mounted Altavio with a whispered, How much of that do you think he actually understood?

She looked the attendant over, calculating, then offered, Well, clearly your name. Zuria and the others snorted softly behind them, and Alaric cut them a glare. Perhaps you should have ridden double with one of us and studied your books a bit more closely on the journey over.

The attendant’s gaze flicked uneasily between them, and he forced a nervous smile as he bowed sharply and excused himself. Just a moment! He then disappeared through the tall reichwood doors flanking the entrance to the hall, returning only a moment later with a portly man who carried himself with the air of someone in charge. Serr Monteval! the excited young attendant announced with a flick of his wrist, as if Alaric were a traveling act he’d been charged with introducing, and the man Alaric now took for the town’s mayor scuttled forward, bowing in greeting and clasping Alaric’s hand in his own with a smile hidden beneath the bristles of a thick mustache.

Serr Monteval, Serr Monteval! the mayor continued breathlessly.

Alaric groped for an appropriate response, before realizing anything he mustered would simply fall on deaf ears. Er, yes—quite. It’s a pleasure to meet you…

The attendant rushed to his master’s side here, gesturing to himself. I am called Henrick. I know Vasque a little. I will help. He gestured to their horses. Yours?

Oh—yes, yes. Alaric pointed to the packhorse at the back. That rear one’s carrying most of my things, and the cart will have the rest. Henrick nodded his understanding, for what it was worth, and immediately snapped orders to a trio of rough-looking men who scrambled to make quick work of unloading the horse and cart. He’d tried to pack lightly—which hadn’t been an easy task, given that this would be a one-way trip. His wardrobe he’d reduced to the bare essentials, though, confident he’d be able to supplement it in time. He winced at the rough handling of his uncle’s trunk, which had seen him through more hard campaigns than he liked to recall, and was about to urge them to take care with it, when Henrick’s hand on his arm stilled him.

They load everything—you, all, come sit inside.

With a reluctant glance at the trunk and a silent prayer it remain in one piece, he motioned for the others to dismount and followed the mayor and Henrick through the reichwood doors after a pair of stablehands relieved them of their reins, drawing the horses away to refresh them.

The hall was dimly lit with reichwood finishing and ornate carpeting and upholstery that looked just this side of threadbare, and Alaric and his party were quickly shuttled into a parlor off to the side of the entryway. The mayor motioned for them to be seated, and while Alaric didn’t want to muss the furniture with their road dust, to refuse would likely raise offense, so they obliged. Chilled juice from a vine Alaric didn’t recognize and delicate meat pastries were laid out for the Vasque entourage, and while his troupe took advantage of the hospitality, Alaric reiterated his gratitude and compliments. Your city is fine, Master of Layton. My Veld Martiale appreciates the hospitality you’ve extended us as foreign visitors to your hall.

Henrick relayed his remarks in a whisper, and the mayor inclined his head with a smile before gesturing toward a back door leading into another area of the building, sending a waiting servant scurrying. We wait for your baggage to load. Meanwhile, we have…ah, gifts? Henrick’s voice shook with nerves, and even in the cool of the shaded room with a rare breeze passing through, his forehead beaded with sweat—clear signs that he wasn’t at all confident in being the voice of his leader to a foreign ambassador and overwhelmed with the importance of his first job interpreting. Soon, you will travel to Eizenthley Hold— Alaric was definitely going to need to hear that one pronounced a few times before he got it. —Under care of Holdmaster. Eizenthley is—good? Fine Hold. Not high. But fine.

Henrick held his hand up above his head, indicating the altitude with a weak smile, and Alaric wondered if this was some attempt at reassurance—he recalled distantly that the Oresian hierarchy was measured in altitude, with the Crown Hold sitting highest in the sky while the lower Holds flocked below. That’s…good then. I look forward to meeting the, ah—Holdmaster, was it? Henrick nodded with a relieved smile, evidently pleased his meaning had gotten across.

Now—oh! Yes, yes. Here. Henrick squirmed in his seat when the servant who’d slipped out before returned with a small coffer in hand, passing it gingerly to the mayor. A gift! From your Holdmaster.

The mayor gently placed the coffer on the table between them, unlatching the hasp facing Alaric and lifting back the lid to reveal its contents. There, tucked securely into a velvet bed, lay a ring—a handsome argentine band of swirling vinework filigree studded with a dark violet stone that iridesced in the lamplight.

With a questioning glance up at the mayor, Alaric reached for the ring, palming it and studying it further. At his side, Altavio leaned forward, her shoulder bumping his, and he could hear the grin in her voice as she asked, "Are you quite sure you’re not marrying into this Hold?"

He wasn’t entirely certain the answer was still no, with this new development, but Henrick hastened to explain, This is a Hold ring—all members of Hold must wear it. Eizenthley Hold’s ring. He pointed to the gemstone set in the center. Eizenthley Starfell.

This—this is Starfell? Truly? The others crowded around him now, curious for their first glimpse of the mineral they’d only heard tales of. Holding it in his hand like this, it felt so…well, rather ordinary. All this fuss, over a rock. A flashy bit of rock, to be sure, but no more precious on first glance than any other gem, for all its beauty. Looking at it, one would never presume it capable of blowing an armory to dust when combined with the right catalyst. And I’m to wear this?

Henrick nodded. A gift, from your Holdmaster.

Yes, you mentioned that already. He frowned; it was a fine piece, if a bit a gaudy, but Alaric was a soldier and had never been one for jewelry. This was a token from his new Holdmaster, though; to refuse to wear it might constitute some gauche breach of protocol—especially if everyone else would be sporting one. He glanced back at Henrick, checking the man’s own hand and noting, You don’t wear one.

Henrick followed his eyeline, then brought his hand to his chest, clutching it close. "No! Oh, no. I am not of a Hold. I am Henrick of Layton.