The Crucible Kingdom

By Blair Bancroft

In this spin-off of the Blue Moon Rising series, the Crucible Kingdom, an obscure planet far, far away, is suffering from an ancient curse—periodic bouts of violent storms, earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, and wildfire. To break the curse, a widowed duchess and a starship captain from the disintegrating Regulon Empire (which her ancestors fled centuries earlier) are forced to work together. Although the duchess grudgingly accepts that the captain is highly capable in emergencies, she scorns the idea that a hard-headed Reg who does not believe in the power of sorcery can be helpful in breaking a curse. And then the captain comes up with an idea no one thought of, setting off a quest that turns out to be as dangerous as the curse itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Apr 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736799932

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Chapter 1

"How dare he?" Alora, Duchess of Kair, tossed an elaborately engraved invitation onto her desk, the colorful, heavily embossed crest at the top of the card glinting in the light of the glowglobes hovering overhead.

Who dares? her mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess of Kair, inquired, not looking up from the reading device displaying a novel salacious enough to have made its way to a far outpost of the Quadrant.

Joffre, Alora intoned with considerable disgust.

Joffre? Frowning, Nataliya Talikova paused her reading. Joffre, the King? she inquired faintly.

Yes, Joffre the King! Alora snapped. Joffre, the insensitive ass.

Gracious Omni, my dear, what has he done?

Invited us to a ball!

After a lengthy silence, the dowager offered, choosing her words with care, Although we both still mourn our dear Seryozha, it has been over a year now. In all fairness, the king is not being disrespectful when he invites you to court. You are, after all, second in line for the throne.

"But the ball is in honor of that Reg slimeworm—slimesnake, Captain Vankaam!"

The slimeworm who just saved us from the Nyx? In case her sarcasm had not penetrated her daughter-in-law’s ill humor, the dowager duchess added, The young man who did exactly what your own ancestor, Viktor Jubilan, did when he fled the Empire, leading the hardy souls who colonized this planet? Who named it Libertaria to emphasize their independence from the Regulon Empire?

It is not Libertaria any longer, Alora grumbled, determined to be difficult.

Which was true. Since the curse—szyrdák in the language of the planet’s native Tryll—most people now called it the Crucible Kingdom. And not without cause.

We must attend, my dear, Nataliya said, returning to the topic at hand. It is a royal command, and we have no excuse to refuse.

Vonkaam deserted the Empire when it needed him most!

"You know quite well Captain Vonkaam and his crew were not in Titan the day the rebels brought down the Emperor. And even if he had been, Dart is a destroyer, a puny tool to pit against the rebels’ massive fleet."

He deserted!

As did Talryn Rigel when he began the rebellion. And did we not all applaud his daring?

Vonkaam is an arrogant lout who is trying to usurp Prince Jory’s place with the king!

The dowager duchess heaved a sigh of resignation. Not a difficult feat, you must admit. The prince is not cut from warrior cloth.

He is heir to the throne!

Forgive me, my dear, but he will sorely need a Captain Vonkaam to keep him there, for a less imposing monarch I cannot imagine.

Natasha!

"It is true, and well you know it. Jory will collapse at the first sight of a Nyx warship, and there we’ll be, enslaved again. And by aliens, not our own kind."

As we have done to the Tryll.

The dowager duchess groaned. Not that again! Since discovering the Tryll, we have made great strides in sharing the planet. King Joffre has granted autonomy—

Granted autonomy to the people who were here before us, Alora spat out. How utterly magnanimous of him.

Alora . . . The dowager duchess shut off her reading device and stared, rather despairingly, at a far corner of the room, as if wisdom lurked in the shadows. How you could have been such a good wife to my son and harbor such rebellious thoughts . . . Ah! It is Kylla, is it not?.

"My friend Kylla, shaman of her people, and for whom I have more respect than any of the shallow souls that form Uncle Joffre’s court."

Natasha breathed a long sigh. "I cannot argue your point, but that is no excuse for not attending the king’s ball. You are a Jublian and a Taliakov and must uphold the honor of both families. The dowager paused, eyes gleaming with a new thought. And now that the subject has come up, you must also go for yourself. It is time you rejoined the world, my dear. It is not right that you hide yourself in this rocky fortress, cut off from society. Cut off from eligible men. You are too vivid a creature to live life alone—"

Stop! Alora gulped a breath, hung her head. I beg your pardon. As much as I despise the thought, I know you are right. But to attend a ball that honors someone lower than a Mizarian maw-worm . . .

A new gown, Nataliya declared brightly, ignoring her daughter-in-law’s continued bad temper. New gowns for both of us. We will positively dazzle the court, show them that the Duchy of Kair is second to none.

Alora’s face twisted in disgust, but she forced a murmur of agreement. After all, someone had to keep an eye on her cousin’s place as heir to the throne. Poor Jory. That overly ambitious slimesnake, Captain Rynavius Vonkaam, backed by the firepower of a Regulon Fleet destroyer, was not only breathing down his neck but a menace to the survival of the Jubilan monarchy itself. So she, Alora Jubilan Taliakova, would go to court, meet the Beast in Hero’s Clothing, and do what she could to save the kingdom Viktor Jubilan had founded with a combination of daring, determination, and hope for a better life.

Chapter 2

It was eighteen hundred kilometers from the Duchy of Kair to Jublian City, capital of the Crucible Kingdom. Alora would have preferred to cover the distance in her personal custom cruiser (PCC), but since King Joffre’s invitation seemed more in the nature of a royal command, the dowager duchess proclaimed that protocol must be observed. They would travel in state in the duchy’s shuttle, with proper pilots, servants, and enough garments for three changes a day for the full five days of their visit.

Therefore, instead of enjoying the freedom of soaring high above the mountains, forests, valleys, and farmland of the Crucible Kingdom in her PCC, Alora was spending the flight in the shuttle’s luxurious lounge, brooding about her Uncle Joffre’s motive for such a summary command to two women barely out of formal mourning. Despite Natasha’s counsel, Alora was far from ready to plunge into a whirlwind of gaiety. Then again, it was a good opportunity to talk to Jory and discover what he thought of the brash Regulon captain who had exploded into their midst, commanding a starship with ten times the firepower of any ship in the Crucible fleet. A Regulon destroyer capable of interstellar flight, a technology the Crucible Kingdom had allowed to lapse.

And as much as Alora hated to admit it, within a single moon-cycle the heroics of the runaway captain from Regula Prime had propelled him into the high command of Crucible’s defense forces. No wonder the king had given him Seryozha’s command. But it hurt. The very thought of meeting him, of being forced to smile, be polite to a representative of the Empire her ancestors had fled . . .

Alora peered out the shuttle’s window. Was that a wisp of smoke above Mount Yindan? A bit of mist surely. According to Kylla, the volcano on the eastern edge of the duchy had been dormant for a thousand years or more. Dismissing the odd gray spiral, Alora pressed her nose to the heavy plastiglas window as the shuttle angled south and a vast mining complex came into view. Geronium was the most valued mineral in the Quadrant, and happily, the mine below, the largest in the kingdom, belonged to the Duchy of Kair. Geronium was the reason the kingdom had never felt the need to develop space technology of their own. The Quadrant, eager for the vital mineral, came to them, filling the skies with merchant ships anxious to haul away as much geronium as possible before szyrdák closed the skies above the Crucible Kingdom. Geronium was the also reason the Nyx kept attacking. (Not that they needed an excuse. Seryozha had always claimed the Nyx fought for the love of fighting.)

Which brought Alora’s thoughts back to Captain Rynavius Vonkaam, who had so effectively wormed his way into the heart of the kingdom by defending Crucible as if he were a native, born and bred. Usurping the duties of Admiral Sergei Taliakov!

Who, being dead, could no longer carry out his duties.

Alora shot a few pithy words at her more sensible inner voice, settled back, and closed her eyes, feigning sleep for the remainder of their flight.

After twenty-five years on the planet the founders grandly called Libertaria, Alora’s ancestor, Viktor Jublian, had decided to build an elaborate palace that would be a showplace demonstrating the planet’s success. This would-be dazzling edifice was little more than a foundation when the szyrdák struck. And even though one of their own had created it, the Tryll were as terrified of the curse as the immigrants from Empire-controlled planet, Caroli.

The settlers did, however, have one thing in common with the rulers of the Empire: neither culture believed in magic. The newcomers coped with the sudden, unrelenting outburst of violent weather with stoic determination, and when the destructive forces of nature abruptly ceased some four moon-cycles later, they shook their heads, picked up the pieces, and got back to life as it had been before.

With certain vital exceptions. Viktor Jublian, being as wise as he was dynamic, suspected that where chaos had struck once, it might possibly strike again. Not that King Viktor, first of his line, believed the rumors that the spate of extreme weather was due to a curse laid by an ancient Tryll sorcerer named Yllyak, but over the years he’d learned the value of caution.

Dreams of a grand palace gave way to a sturdy fortress constructed of a rock so dark it was almost black. The walls were thick, the windows little more than slits—an architectural style that reminded Alora of tales in ancient books from Old Earth. Tales from a time called the Dark Ages when fighting seemed to be constant and protection far more important than beauty.

Not that Fort Taliakov was much better. Seryozha’s ancestors, building with more than a century’s experience with szyrdák, dared construct an occasional broad window that could be shuttered when the curse struck. But all in all, the home of the Taliakovs was as much a fortress as Fort Jubilan, aesthetics giving way to the necessity of protection from the elements. For it hadn’t taken long for the settlers to discover that Viktor Jubilan was right to be wary. Szyrdák was there to stay. Sixteen moon-cycles of normal weather were punctuated by four months of chaos. Year after year. Decade after decade.

If the immigrants from Caroli had been less stubborn, the mines less productive, they might have moved on. Instead, they chose to live inside fortresses lit by glowglobes, cut off from views of a glorious land of oceans, lakes and rivers, forests and towering mountains, broad plains suitable for farming. A land of great beauty and temperate climate, except when szyrdák struck, churning it into a crucible of chaos.

Alora scowled as her straying thoughts came back to the bane of her existence. Did the high and mighty Reg captain know about the curse? It seemed quite possible the king, always a wily one, had ordered silence on the subject, fearing Dart and her crew would immediately be off on a search for a more hospitable planet. Perhaps if she informed Captain Vonkaam of the extreme rigors of szyrdák—it wasn’t as if she’d have to exaggerate!—he would realize the wisdom of moving on, finding a kinder, gentler planet where he could play hero.

They were descending. Alora’s lips twitched into a thin smile. Perhaps this visit to Fort Jublian might be more productive than she’d thought.

Leaving her maid to unpack, Alora sought out her cousin Jory. After the death of her parents—drowned by a giant waterspout while returning a few hours too late from a lengthy cruise to the southern continent—Alora had been taken in by her father’s older brother, Joffre, suddenly finding herself at age twelve the wise older sister to a sweet but decidedly vague ten-year-old boy. Jory Gregor Jubilan, heir to the Crucible Kingdom.

And fifteen years later, little had changed, except Alora had grown up while Jory remained the same—charming, well-mannered, enthusiastic on subjects that interested him; vague, totally indifferent to all else. As much as Alora loved him, she found Jory’s lack of interest in the kingdom exasperating. She also feared for him.

Although Alora had prowled the fort’s corridors with Jory for years, she observed proper court etiquette, allowing a colorfully uniformed equerry to lead her up the series of winding staircases that led to the highest level of Fort Jubilan. He knocked on a door, waited. When there was no answer, he knocked again, calling loudly, Your Highness, the Duchess of Kair wishes to speak with you.

The door creaked open a few inches. A handsome young man peeked out. Upon seeing Alora, he threw open the door, seizing his cousin in a hug. ’Lor! Come in, come in. You’ve been a hermit far too long. The prince pulled her inside, seemingly heedless of closing the door in the equerry’s face. Forgive me, he murmured. I know you have been in mourning for Taliakov, but it is delightful you are willing to join us again at last.

They were cousins, last of Viktor Jubilan’s line, and remarkably alike in many ways. Both were above average height, the aristocratic sculpturing of their faces framed in golden blond hair. But where Alora’s violet-blue eyes sparkled with interest in the world around here, Jory’s faded blue gaze came to life only for a few chosen people and for the hobby that consumed his life. And their temperaments were diametrically opposed. Prince Jory’s soft, rounded face marked him as willing to let the world flow around him, not even the most dire events allowed to disturb the even tenor of his days. While Alora, in a burst of genes descended from Viktor Jubilan himself, would always fight for what she thought right, and the devil take the hindmost.

You must see my latest collection, Jory burbled. "The last earthquake—the really bad one—split a cliff up north, revealing millennia of fossils. Astonishing. You would not believe the size of the teeth on some of the creatures." He grabbed Alora by the hand, dragging her toward a display case.

You are right, she declared with genuine sincerity, as she stared at fossilized teeth the length of her hand. I can only hope such creatures are long extinct.

Jory chortled. That’s what the experts tell me, but I admit to a nightmare or two.

Did you find these yourself?

The prince heaved a sigh of disgust. The fossils were in a lake that formed at the base of the canyon when the rock split. Father would not let me dive. I had to stay in camp and wait. This last said with considerable bitterness. Not for the first time Alora felt sympathy for the cousin who would one day be king.

Jory recovered quickly from his pique, offering Alora a broad grin as he turned toward another case. I’ve added considerably to my gem collection. You always liked that, remember?

And your rocks and crystals, Alora offered. Your collections are truly magnificent. And your knowledge equally astounding, she added, her smile fading as she tried to find a way through her cousin’s obsession with his collections to the problem of Captain Rynavius Vonkaam. Since subtlety usually failed when dealing with Jory, after several minutes of oo-ing and ah-ing over sparkling gems and colorful, highly polished rocks, Alora took her cousin by the hand and led him to a brown leather sofa placed in front of display cases devoted to birds and flying insects.

Jory, Alora said, looking him in the eye, demanding his attention. I need to know what you think of Captain Vonkaam. A puzzled frown was her only reply. She stifled a sigh. Jory, do you like him? Do you resent him? Are you afraid of him? I need to know.

Afraid? Of course I’m not afraid of him. He saved us from the Nyx.

At this simplistic answer, Alora bit her lip, but no sense arguing; Jory, smart as he was about what interested him, simply did not understand affairs of state. He has become a hero, Jory. So much so I fear he may be a threat to the monarchy.

No, no, Father would never allow that!

Alora groaned. "But when your father is gone, Jory—when you are king?"

Lor, Jory groaned, that is when we would need the captain most. Everyone knows I will never be a warrior. Taliakov was supposed to be my right arm, but with him gone . . . The prince shrugged. Captain Vonkaam was sent by Omnovah to be our savior. About that I have no doubt.

Alora stared at the stone floor as her cousin’s clueless words churned over her head. Seryozha, it’s all your fault. You were supposed to be the buffer between our prince and the world, surrogate ruler of Crucible. But you got yourself killed and landed us with this—this deserter from the Empire.

Keeping her head down, Alora grimaced. As much as she loved her hapless cousin, it was now clear that he would be no help in preventing the fall of the Jubilan dynasty. She was left to battle the Beast from Regula Prime on her own.

Forcing a smile, Alora said, After supper you must tell me what dances are currently popular, perhaps practice with me so I will not appear totally ignorant at the ball tomorrow.

Jory chuckled. I look forward to it. He stood, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. Lor . . . He kissed her on both cheeks. You have no idea how good it is to have someone my own age to talk to again."

Alora, as always, felt exasperation as well as compassion for her cousin, who should have been a university professor instead of heir to the throne in a kingdom of unceasing turbulence. Until tonight, she murmured, squeezing his hand before finding her way back to her room and gathering her courage to face the formality of King Joffre’s dinner table. And her first meeting with Captain Rynavius Vonkaam. The Beast.

Well? Natasha demanded the moment Alora walked through the door of their suite.

"He likes him, Alora spat out. Jory actually likes him. Thinks Vonkaam is going to protect the kingdom while our prince goes his merry way, collecting Omnovah alone knows what and paying absolutely no attention to governing his people!"

Great Omni, child, Joffre’s not a day over sixty. We’ll not have to worry about Jory as king for decades.

Giving the traitor ample time to take over the kingdom!

My dear, just because Seryozha was suspicious—

That’s not . . . Ah, I beg your pardon. I am an ill-humored witch! Alora unclenched her fists, took a deep breath. I shall go to my room and attempt to compose my temper before we go down to dinner.

Alora . . . ? Warned by the dowager duchess’s tone, Alora paused, turned, eyeing her warily. Except for Queen Giana, you will be the highest ranked female at dinner. Natasha paused as she saw her daughter-in-law grasp the point.

Oh, no, Alora breathed.

Yes, the duchess returned firmly. It is entirely likely you will be seated next to Captain Vonkaam. And it is imperative you remember that you were born into royalty and married into the wealthiest and most influential duchy in the land. That you were taught proper manners and diplomacy at your mother’s knee, and that you are expected to uphold the honor of both the Jublilans and the Taliakovs, no matter what your personal opinion of Captain Vonkaam.

I know you are right, Alora murmured, "but that man—"

Alora!

I will try. Head hanging like a scolded seven-year-old instead of a duchess two decades older, Alora slunk into her bedroom, gritting her teeth as she exercised enough restraint to close the door softly behind her.

Chapter 3

Shadowed violet-blue eyes—once warm and glowing with life, now cold and determined—gazed back at Alora as she examined herself in a full-length mirror. How very odd that one could look so fine yet feel so perfectly horrid. She had, however, achieved the desired look: elegant enough to please the king but somber enough to remind him she was recently widowed. But the cut of the gown . . . Alora’s lips curled into a grim smile. The shimmering black gown was designed to draw all eyes, tease the most jaded palate. To flaunt her assets and proclaim the power of Alora, Duchess of Kair. To demonstrate to the kingdom, as well as to an upstart Reg captain that there was a spark left on the Jubilan family tree.

Alora twitched her hips, eyes gleaming as the panels that flowed from the minuscule bodice of her gown shimmied, swirled, settled softly into place, once again falling into a modest cling that skimmed her hips and fell all the way to her ankles. Arms out to her sides, she spun in a full circle, lips curling in satisfaction as the panels flew out and up, revealing . . . Her feet froze; color rushed to her face. How fortunate the gown came with a pair of high-cut shorts trimmed to match the bodice.

As the panels settled back around her, Alora inspected her décolletage. The gown’s bodice was its only visible decoration. Covered with tiny beads of obsidian interspersed with sparkling brilliants, it was designed to draw the eye, and it certainly did. Her ensemble was completed by a diamond and obsidian bead necklace and matching earrings that dangled all the way down to her shoulders. Her long hair was swept to the back, looped, and fastened with an intricately wired design of obsidian beads and brilliants that emphasized the golden perfection of her hair.

Once again peering into the mirror, Alora practiced her social smile. One last shimmy of her panels, a peek at her slippers, the toes also embroidered with beads and brilliants. Oh yes, she would do. Outwardly and inwardly, she was as armored against the Reg deserter as she could possibly be. She picked up her evening bag and started toward the door.

With her hand on the doorknob, she paused, suddenly stricken. What in the name of Old Earth was she doing? Upholding the Jubilan pride at Court—the king’s niece determined to be second to none in style and dress? Or perhaps the pride of the Duchess of Kair? Or, quite shamefully, had she turned herself into a fashion-plate—with overtones of a siren—for her first meeting with that miserable slimesnake Vonkaam?

And why not? Somebody had to defy the Reg interloper.

Carefully wiping all traces of animosity from her face, Alora joined Natasha, who was waiting in their sitting room. The dowager duchess, though long past her fiftieth birthday, was a strikingly handsome woman, if built on less statuesque lines than her daughter-in-law. Her proud carriage proclaimed her the very model of an aristocrat, one whose warm brown hair had never been allowed the least hint of gray. The duchess and the dowager duchess made a proud and striking pair as they descended to the dining room where, for the first time, they would meet Alora’s bête noire, the arrogant, overly ambitious fugitive from Regula Prime who, she was certain, was a greater danger to the Crucible Kingdom than a Tryll sorcerer’s curse.

You know what the king’s up to, right? Commander Gayne Appolon eyed his captain and best friend with a mix of wariness and resigned good humor.

Matchmaking. Ryn lifted his chin, fastening the top two buttons of his brand new dress uniform, complete with all the stars and stripes signifying his rank in the Air Force of the Crucible Kingdom.

So we’ll stay here, settle down, fight their battles . . .

We’re already at the edge of the Quadrant, App.

Quadrant’s a big place, plenty of room to roam.

Ryn eyed his First Officer with a flare of surprise. We just won a war, this ball is the equivalent of being given the keys to the kingdom, and you want to leave?

You’re all right with the matchmaking? Gayne Appolon had been watching Ryn avoid entanglements since their Space Academy days. That he would tolerate King Joffre’s efforts to see him wed was way out of character. Then again, youth was fifteen Reg years behind them both. They were so far from home they had reached the outer boundary of the known Quadrant. Maybe it was time to think about things like posterity. And no getting around the fact that Omnovah had made a world where humans, no matter how far they strayed from Old Earth, could only reproduce in pairs. Which meant, if a male showed no sign of finding a match for himself, someone would inevitably do it for him. Pok, dimi, and fyd!

Just curious about what the old boy will produce, Ryn muttered.

You’d think he’d be concentrating on matching his own instead of us, Gayne grumbled.

Ryn turned toward his First Officer, a quizzical expression on a face that usually displayed absolute control, no matter what the circumstances. Joffre knows as well as everyone else that perpetuating Prince Jory’s bloodline is not likely to save the kingdom from the Nyx. Or from this stupid curse thing, whatever that is.

So we stay, Jory becomes king, and then what? He’s going to play with his collections while we run the country?

Nothing wrong with us looking over the old boy’s offerings—

Sacrificial lambs!

Bait! Ryn shot back. It’s no secret Joffre wants us to stay. So smile, App! We turned back the Nyx. We’re heroes. The women love us. Rynavius Vankaam, captain of the destroyer Dart, slapped his long-time friend on the back and headed for the door. What a liar he was. He’d rather face a sky full of Nyx warships than a roomful of women looking at him like he was the dessert.

Alora thought she was prepared. She was not. The moment she and Natasha entered the anteroom where everyone gathered before dinner, Queen Giana swept forward, her effusive welcome immediately followed by leading them across the room to meet the guests of honor, Captain Vonkaam and Commander Appolon. Alora saw only the primary Reg intruder, whose head not only rose several inches above every other man in the room but exuded a power she had not expected. Not just Reg arrogance but the commanding presence of an admiral. Or a king. Dimi! Not good.

Although Alora was above-average height for a female, the captain towered over her. His perfectly straight hair was classic Reg blond, his blue eyes as brilliant as a cloudless summer sky. His well-muscled frame and arrogant stance were also Regulon Empire to the core. If she didn’t hate him so much, she would be forced to admit that he was ruggedly handsome. If, that is, a woman liked a man cut from stone, one who showed not an iota of interest in the lesser mortals flitting around him.

Gayne Appolon leaned close to his captain’s ear. Look at that gown!

Ryn hadn’t seen anything else since the woman began her walk across the room. Well, maybe one glance at her face. After that, his eyes were fixed on the panels swirling around her ankles, flaring out, revealing a glimpse of sparkling slippers, long legs, and was that a flash from some kind of undergarment . . . ? He swallowed hard, shutting down a sudden surge of lust before he could disgrace himself. Starship captains did not do lust. At least not in public.

Duchess, Honored Dowager, Queen Giana purred, may I present Captain Rynavius Vonkaam? Captain, Alora, Duchess of Kair, and Nataliya, Dowager Duchess of Kair.

Ryn’s stoic military façade wavered. This was the Talikov’s widow? Grateful for all his years of strict training in court etiquette, Ryn executed the deep formal bow required for an introduction to women of such high rank. Carefully,