Legend of Ransera

If something was going to derail his wedding plans, he supposed an assassination attempt on two crown princes was a valid excuse. The medici and Assessors had done their work well, and his mind was largely whole after Thalya's attack. There remained an occasional echo, of course, and those would remain for a while, opportunities for him to exert his rational will over his less rational emotional responses.

Finn was going to have to petition for training to strengthen his mind against psychic attacks and, he supposed, other terrible things like torture. He didn't like to think of such things, but now he lived in a world where his beloved had a target painted between his eyes, between his shoulders. Just as Aoren had been used as a lever against Talon, Finn knew he could be used as a lever against Arvælyn, and now that his family seemed keen to abide near him, they might be used as a lever against him.

But he couldn't let that bother him. The Umbrian throne and the Silver Sentinels would protect them just as they protected him. Safety was an illusion; one simply did the best one could.

And Finn was going to do the best he could to be the red right hand of Zalkyriax Zalkyrialis. It would surprise those who knew him even passing well that a desire for mortal revenge had burned in him, then cooled into something almost reptilian. There were those who deemed him too soft for the Vigilia, too soft for Solunarian politics, and perhaps he had been. If so, they had hardened him, tempered him with training, and Thalya's assassination attempt had finally plunged the white hot steel of him into the water.

He wanted to slit her throat and offer her hearts-blood to the Divine Twins. He wanted to use the same bloody dagger to excise her name from monuments. A little part of him admired her ambition, but that little part was drowned in the depths of his own. Arvælyn was the centerpiece of his own hunger, and he would be sated.

All this went on within him, roiling like Mount Sorokyn's magma. Those outside who deigned to look upon him while His Exalted Majesty held court would see a face as still as stone, limpid blue eyes gone opaque. He didn't judge; it wasn't his place. Whether the attack on Arkænyn had been ruse or real, he didn't know, but he wondered if they wouldn't be better off under the sole leadership of the platinum dragon, god-emperor of the dunes.

Arvælyn looked on in stony, stoic stillness but for a faint sneer painted upon his lips as he looked down upon his Luxian counterpart kneeling before the base of the daïs.

With jaw set and teeth firmly clenched, Arkænyn slowly rose. Though Drævyn grasped his upper arm, he brushed it off with an angry snarl and regarded the rival king.

“As a subject of this attempt, Exalted Majesty, allow me to say that we are in accord. My heart was turned from Thalya and steeled against her the moment I realised what she was up to. She thinks herself clever… she thinks me dim, and yet her agents who griped my face and would gripe my throne assailed the wrong mark. In failing to slay me, they have made of me a zealous nemesis. As I have proclaimed before all in my Consilium, I shall before Your Exalted Majesty renounce my fealty to my mother.” He turned his back on the daïs to address his closer cousins of the Luxium:

“Since Her Divine Radiance abandoned our realm, it has been my hand at the rudder. I urge you all to join me in renouncing fealty to Thalya and embrace me, no more as Prince Regent, but as your gods-anointed Starlit Sovereign, fated to be the first in centuries to assume that title. Though she be a feckless renegade, hers is the blood of the Founders and mine is the pure pedigree of our unbroken line. The portents are clear. The era of the Deiori is upon us, and I shall harbinge the coming of the Supreme Elven Race.”

A pregnant pause pursued Arkænyn’s proclamation as looks were exchanged. By and by, Everyl Princeps Prætor, Master of Laws, raised his gaze to the foot of the Argent Throne.

“With Your Exalted Majesty’s leave, I shall call the Conclave of Electors into session to discuss these grave and lofty affairs.”

“Splendid.” It was Cithæra who replied, “I shall look forward to it.”

“…Your Serene Highness?” Everyl arched a brow.

“Am I not Princeps Sibylla of House Sol’Aværys?”

“You are whatever the Umbrium deems you to be, since Gens Phædryn swore fealty to the Zalkyrian Crown. You have renounced your place in the conclave.”

“On the contrary, Serene Highness. I remain the Materfamilias of House Phædryn Sol'Aværys and thus a voting member of the conclave. If you look to the letter of the law, you will find that my allegiance does not come into it so long as I remain a citizen of Solunarium, which I very much am.”

“With all due respect, if that is so it is merely due to a lack of foresight on the part of our predecessors who could not have anticipated the Exalted Dynasty might assert a claim that would split the realm…”

“Are you not the Keeper of the Laws, cousin? The law is written. I will expect your invitation to participate in the coming conclave in the role blood and duty demand.”

“So be it.” Everyl inclined his head, then glanced to Arkænyn who stalked close to him to growl.

“Consider well what I have said and remember the precedents that favour me as you recall those that favour her.”

“Enough.” Bellowed Zalkyriax, “You may fill your own halls with discord. I dismiss you hence from mine.”

Arkænyn and Everyl turned to offer bows to the Crownwyrm, before turning on their heels to march hastily toward the rear exit, as the others in their party rushed to follow them out.

It was not Finn's place to speak here, merely to quietly observe and play the part of His Exalted Highness' betrothed. The calm, unified front of the Umbrium made the Luxian bustle seem almost piteous as they tried to maintain their aplomb. Finn hadn't a dragon's blood, nor even a Founder's, and so he found himself trying to mimic Phocion's stoicism. His superior in the Vigilia Argenti and Custodes Deorum had a standard poker face that was as difficult to read as if his veil was up. Finn admired that.

While most eyes were upon His Starlit Highness, his work as a Sentinel had trained him to look for the less obvious details. As such, he found himself looking upon the Keeper of Coin as Arkænyn proclaimed himself some sort of Messiah. Finn had studied, but was more focused on Aværys than the so-called elven master race. Aværys had transcended his elven birth and didn't seem as sold on their supremacy anymore.

In any case, the paterfamilias of gens Danaan was too keen a politico to reveal his true thoughts, but Finn knew he had a platinum son, young and undergoing certain trials to finish his education. He wondered whether he had any plans for his son that would counter Arkænyn's bid. Certainly, he must—contingency plans, at the very least. Were his platinum child a daughter, she would likely already be wed to the Regent.

But what did Finn know...?

When the last of the Luxians had fled the room, he waited a few beats, and then allowed himself a slow inhale through the nose and exhale through his lips before he glanced up to gauge Arvælyn's reactions. Not for the first time, he was glad that he was on the good side of Cithæra and her draconic partner.

He didn't truly wish ill upon Arkænyn, but from what he had seen, the elf wouldn't make the most stable of monarchs, superficial markers aside. It didn't seem meet to climb up to Arvælyn's level without permission, especially not with the Crownwyrm present, but he took the few steps to Raithen's side.

"What do you reckon?"

As the Solar Court departed, the Zalkyrians rose from their seats in unison to converge upon their eldest kinsman at his Argent Throne. Arvælyn stood a beat after they, and Cithæra stepped up to their level of the daïs as her Moonborn children moved just the step below their betters.

"They will yield unto our ultimatum. That much is passing plain." Cithæra observed in quiet candour.

"They would be mad to do otherwise." Arvælyn offered.

"And that is almost a pity. I would not have been loath to expand your inheritance, had they given me just cause." Zalkyriax snarled.

"The question now is who will sit the Radiant Throne at the end of the deliberations?" Valæra mused, "The Regium Consilium is clearly ill at ease with Arkænyn, but he is not wrong to play up the Platinum precedent. Sanguinists are nothing if not reverent of tradition, and his position is portentous as the Starborn son of a sitting Solar Sovereign."

"...A queen gone rogue." Phocion interjected, "That takes a bit of wind out of those particular sails, I should think."

"Supposition. There is no more to be gleaned this day. Our Princeps Sibylla will report regularly on the goings on at the Conclave of Electors. Phocion, Valæra... I hereby create you members of the Consilium Draconum. You will attend our sessions henceforth to advise on these and other affairs."

Phocion seemed visibly taken aback, whereas Valæra's ætherite eyes displayed no signs of surprise or gratitude, as both elves bowed in acknowledgement and acceptance of their new assignments.

"Dismissed." Zalkyriax declared, rising from his throne and stalking down the steps of the daïs with no further ceremony, promptly pursued by a procession of his draconic siblings.

"Valæra, to me." Cithæra commanded as they, too, descended the daïs, leaving Phocion and Arvælyn at the top tier with Finn and Raithen positioned a few steps down and off to one side. The honour guard surrounding the platform remained in place.

"What a way to start the season." Phocion offered, cracking a smirk. "And your wedding mere days away..."

"Indeed..." Arvælyn's eyes trailed to Finn, where he was in conversation with Raithen. "And for a few moments there, this gathering was nerve-wracking enough to overtake my anxiety over that... But thank you for reminding me, frater."

"Happy to help."

"We could certainly invite him," he said, then fell silent as he listened to the powers that be discuss what had occurred and what was yet to come. Whatever happened, Finn quietly celebrated that he was on the side that would be victorious. Zalkyriax Invictus, he murmured near inaudibly to himself. He had never anticipated a father-in-law who would be quite so intimidating, even though they continued to develop a sort of rapport.

When the greater powers had departed, he caught Arvælyn's eyes and smiled.

To Phocion, "Salve, Consiliarius," by way of congratulation. "Would you and my beautiful beloved like to join Raithen and me for a drink?"

Finn assumed Phocion would decline per usual, but he always made the offer lest the least readable of Cithæra's sons want for socialization. And Arvælyn was always invited; he was so busy with princedom that Finn was ever eager for whatever time he could secure with the man. Of course, soon they would have their nuptial holiday, but that was a once in a lifetime situation. He intended to make the most of it.

They hadn't exactly decided on a locale. Anything their palates might desire was likely available at the palace, and while he knew Raithen enjoyed the night life, Finn would have been equally content sharing a pot of tea with the brothers.

Phocion parted his lips, but it was Arvælyn’s voice that pierced the silence pursuant to Finn’s invitation.

“We’d love to.” He accepted with a smile. Phocion’s jaw snapped shut and he pursed his lips as he executed a stiff, perhaps reluctant nod. It was rare that this particular cohort found themselves in the same place with free time to exploit, and Phocion was content to push past his initial hesitation to fraternise with his brothers and impending brother-in-law. Phocion was also keenly aware that their mother would chide him if he failed to facilitate and encourage new bridges being forged between the two winged ones.

“What did you have in mind?” Phocion inquired, the answer to which would certainly impact his level of enthusiasm about what was to come. Or, if not enthusiasm, at least how uncomfortable he was like to be.

Arvælyn began to descend the steps of the daïs, with Phocion following close behind.

“That was all very exciting.” Arvælyn began, making conversation. “Though I do wish Thalya would have done us the boon of waiting until after our honeymoon to make an attempt on my life. As if wedding planning wasn’t stressful enough, she has to go a throw assassination into the mix.” He managed to sound more inconvenienced than confounded, for the sake of gallows humour.

“I suspect she might say the same about your father’s interruption of her centennial jubiliee…” Phocion observed, “In light of that, it seems rather more of a quid pro quo, I should think.”

“Heh…” Arry pursed his lips, “Fair enough.” As they reached the archway leading out of the presence chamber, Arvælyn stepped aside and gestured for Raithen to lead their little procession as their uncontested impromptu event planner.