Cara froze at the bar, terrified. Ser Dalimont strode into the room with his sword drawn. A group came in through the rear of the tavern.

“W-who are you looking for? The young lady has done nothing more, Ser Knight—”

The man stammered. Dalimont ignored him as he stared around.

“The man at the bar. Not the girl! Where did he go? He was—”

He stared around. Meltain ordered the others to search the street. But Feren was gone. Nowhere to be found, no matter how hard they searched.

Cara was let go after being asked for clues on who the man was—but he had said nothing about where he was going or his plans. She returned to the inn and Violetta’s shared room, shaken. But mostly drunk.

She didn’t know the context, and woke up Violetta tripping over the bed.

That was her night, which rewarded her with a splitting headache and little memory of what had happened except for deep regrets and Violetta’s reproachful attitude over breakfast.

The next day—Grishen arrived.

And the banquet began.

1.12 P

Seraphel du Marquin met Duchess Grishen, traded the customary kiss of greeting, and then the old

[Duchess] took Seraphel’s hand and nearly broke it in a handshake. She caught the [Princess] wincing, and her hand tightened further.

“You’re rather fragile, Princess Seraphel. Well, a few years in Noelictus will see you toughen up or buried. Calanfer, eh? Good sunlight. Too much of it, for my tastes. Can you throw magical light? Got any auras?”

The [Princess] stared down at the old woman. To describe Duchess Grishen was to make inevitable comparisons to leather, granite, or something tough and unbreakable. Much like the spiked mace she carried, actually.

“Excuse me? I, ah—don’t have a strong aura, Duchess Grishen. And I can’t cast magic. I’ve been taught of course—”

She tried to remove her fingers before the old lady broke them. Grishen had white hair; she was in her eighties, but she walked without help. And she had apparently ridden all the way from her estates in a single day with an escort of twelve.

“Shame. Well, it’d be too much to ask for a [Battle Princess], wouldn’t it? And you, Lantal, what are you doing letting a Rhir-forsaken [Necromancer] muck about? I’ve brought three of my best [Scouts] and

[Trackers] with me—they’ll bring down this spellcaster, and we’ll plant his head on a pike like the old days.”

Grishen turned away from Seraphel and began abruptly castigating the much younger [Lord]. Seraphel massaged some life back into her fingers as she stared at the old woman.

Duchess Grishen treated everyone like children. And the children like adults. She scrutinized Sasi, who gave her a very proper curtsy and Culin a bow.

“Looks like you’re growing like a weed, Lady Sasi. Good, good. And you, Lord Culin?”

“It is very nice to see you again, Duchess.”