“And this is before I’ve had my morning tea,” I agree, and take a sip of my own drink. Sitting beside her feels right, still. The dream lingers, still. Gavik’s dead. I know she had no love for her uncle, but I can’t bring myself to tell her. In doing so, I’d have to tell her I can see things from Varia’s eyes. And I know Fione would ask me to reason with Varia, to beg her to stop it all. I know she would.

It would be giving her false hope, after I’ve given her real hope.

“Greshoir étta.” The old sage croaks the Helkyrisian greeting as he enters, little arms full of books that Lucien instantly lunges to help him with. “Your Highness, I can—”

“Just Lucien, please,” the prince insists, piling the books on the table.

The sage sighs. “Very well. I hope you all slept decently.”

“As well as can be, Elder.” I smile. “Any news?”

“Unfortunately.” He nods, settling in an armchair by the fire and cupping his chocolate eagerly with knotty fingers. “I’ve contacted the Court of Five Violets with the news of Princess Varia’s decision. They’re moving to post the western armada along our shared border to monitor the situation. The rest of the fleet is mustering in Silvanitas, and every trade caravan from Braal to Trinito has been rerouted there.”

“Translation?” Malachite looks to Fione and Lucien in turn.

“Helkyris’s airship armada is the only one of its kind in the world,” Fione says, voice even. “Limited by the fact their engines fail over seawater. The unrefined white mercury they run on doesn’t react well to large amounts of salt vapor. But their intercontinental prowess is tremendous.”

“Translation for the translation, anyone?” I ask.

“They’re gearing up for war,” Lucien says. “Consolidating their resources over the capital city. Pulling the armada in from all over the country communicates they aren’t even considering being open to negotiations. And that they’re viewing Cavanos as the only threat worth their attention.” He frowns. “All of their attention.”

“Which leaves the cities on the western coast almost completely defenseless to Qessen pirates,” the sage mutters. “Not to mention the Feralstorm.”

“All this for the valkerax—”

“This is the bare minimum preparation for the valkerax,” the sage interrupts, waving his hand at the books. “I’ve pulled every Old Vetrisian tome on the subject I could find. There is, unsurprisingly, very little humans can do to prepare for a valkerax attack.”

“You’re not badly defended here in Breych,” Malachite grunts. “Sheer mountain faces on all sides, no paths up. It’s not like the valkerax can hitch a ride on the airships.”

The sage traces a book cover. “The tomes say they can fly.”

The room goes deathly quiet, the fire crackling as he looks up at us with his wrinkled eyes.

“Is this true? Have you seen it?”