Markus rested his paws behind his head and breathed out a deep, shivering sigh, just to draw back in another lungful of the sweet summer air immediately after. The enclosing walls of the manor house about the courtyard meant that wind rarely swept its arms down in here, and when it did it tended to swirl around the center green instead of buffet the trees or open hallways around the extremities; he held to the pleasant shadows here, pacing his steps along the tiled floor, trying to still his own thoughts against the gentle tk-tk-tk of toeclaws on stone.

That had gone better than expected, truthfully. Some discussion and thought had led him to consider it would be a better decision to take the suggestion to Aurelia instead of his mother; as mistress of the house her input would weigh heavily on the matter against the Countess's final choice, and besides, he thought he could sway Ellie a bit more reliably.

It hadn't been hard to find some suitable clothing for Lura – or Elijah, as the two had decided the previous night. The small otter excelled at acting the part of a downtrodden yet eager servant, as Markus had taken him to Aurelia and suggested he be hired on to help out at the manor, citing skills and interactions all somewhere between truthful and complete fabrications. He's great with his paws, he remembered saying, somehow managing to keep a straight face, and quick on his feet. We could have him run messages to the guardhouses along the city exits, or have him help out in the library. He's had an education, actually: he can write and read, truly a valuable commodity to have here within the house – and I know the servants' quarters have an open space…

The wolfess had looked him over, spun him back and forth, judged his muzzle, his posture, his general fitness, and then finally nodded, against Markus's pounding heart. “I shall bring him to Her Excellency," she said, and then nodded over her shoulder. “Elijah, your name was? Come with me." And Lura had passed a quick grin to his co-conspirator, there and then gone again, before bowing his head to the proper degree and intoning, in a suitably deferential voice, “thank you, my lady."

And now it was done. Plan formulated, developed, and executed, all in less than a day. Upon reaching the far side of the courtyard Markus leaned back against one of the pillars and sighed again, anxiousness warring with excitement inside of him. That easy, he thought; it was that easy, and one she says yes, which she has no reason not to, Lura will live here. With us. With me.

And as a servant I can reasonably have him along when Mother inevitably sends me to Leyo for Rhea, and she'll be none the wiser…

Lura had accepted the idea quite easily. Markus had prepared all sorts of apologies for him regarding the apparent drop in position and social standing, but the otter had taken in all of it with grace: “it's alright, don't worry," he had cooed, “you know my story by now. I've had my experience living that way already. Besides, now will be better, as I will always have you, Markus…"

“Markus?"

His eyes flashed open, and his nose twitched. A swirl of scent, dry, a bit musty, tinted with the depth of the cloth and leather bindings of books, the cool warmth of ink, the oddly savory ping of vellum. Mercutio stood before him, the full fox looking as slightly uncomfortable as he almost always did.

Markus took a moment to clear his thoughts and refocus himself. He cleared his throat. “Yes?"

“Mother wants to see you."

Suddenly his heart juddered again. He scrambled to push his mind to other places, to avoid tinting his scent with the panic and worry. “Oh. Oh? What – what about?"

Mercutio tilted his head, confusion evident in the pitch of his ears. “Lord Strade, she said?"

Another beat skipped. She can't know, he told himself. He was there at the ball, and then… she hasn't seen him again. Right? They never spoke. They hardly spoke. They… He cleared his throat another time. “Who?"

“I thought you would know. In my studies, at least, I've never encountered mention of a House Strade…"

“Right now?"

“You know as well as I do how she is."

“Her office?"

The fox dipped his head. “Do you – would you like to spar, after?"

He can tell, Markus thought. He reached up, folded his ears back with a paw, let them swing upright again. Of course he can tell. Gods, it's a pain having a brother.

“Yeah," he answered. “Yes. I'll, um – thanks."

As he stepped away he tried to keep his pace even, yet again going through the deliberate, measured breathing exercises that had been bored into him for his swordplay. Inhale, hold, and exhale: steady my focus, find my center. I am in control of my own body and my responses. Still his footsteps sounded painfully loud in the halls, even as he tried to pretend as though he were sneaking around as the Ghost, just to give himself something on which to focus.

Around the corner, up the stairs, turn again, towards the far wing. The guards stood at attention as he approached, nodding their greeting; he ignored them and shouldered his way through the heavy wooden doors. Naturally his mother the Countess's chambers were more grandiose than his own, initially designed by none other than His Royal Highness Lucius Kalla ef Leyo Alenar, King of Maldeth.

At the time, Markus thought, peering around at the decorative columns, the high ceilings, the hanging portraits. He knew that behind no fewer than three of them lurked other hidden passageways, one of which opened within a disused farm shed along the southern terraces, and another which circled down into a safe room adjacent to the wine cellar downstairs. Now commonly recognized as the worst king Maldeth ever had. Mother says she loved him and always will, and yet here we are, in Mora instead…

“Markus?" Her voice from the other room pulled him out of his thoughts. “Is that you?"

He bit his lip and sighed. “Who else would it be, Mother?"

“In here, please."

As Countess it only made sense that she had her own office, and it also made sense that it was about half the size of Markus's entire wing of the manor. Many times throughout the past the younger foxwolf had sat in here watching his mother go about her daily work, Aurelia stepping in and out, organizing the rest of the household under Azura's watch. As a pup Markus certainly hadn't understood the importance of the wolfess's position, other than how she acted as a sort of second mother to himself and Mercutio, but now he could at least recognize what she did for House Oryon. In fact, it had likely been Aurelia who had informed Mercutio to fetch Markus.

And for some reason, that infuriated him. He tapped his claws against his hip, balled his paw into a fist, squeezed, and let it go, just before he stepped into the office. It was just the two of them, himself and his mother. That means she doesn't know about Lura, he thought, right?

In the middle of the room sat her broad desk, carved from heavy wood imported from the forests of Loria to the northeast; only the best for Lucius's Queen. A broad window set into the far wall cast warm midmorning light down over the Countess's work, stacks of documents, records, treaties, other such nonsense. Markus had always wondered if the people of the city envisioned this as how their ruler spent the majority of her time.

The vixen looked up at him, couldn't help a sway of her tail, and nodded to the chair by the window. “Take a seat, please."

Markus frowned. That was where he sat when he was a pup, and had put deliberate effort into avoiding it now that he was older. He crossed his arms, shifted his weight, and waited for his mother to look him in the eye. “What did you want me here for?"

Azura tapped the quill against the desk blotter, bright eyes dancing back and forth across the next document in line. Markus understood that out in Solm to the east – the capital of Maldeth, the grand, endless desert hub country of the entire continent, technically his birthplace – as Queen she had had an entire council for this type of work, having ascended from holding one of those council seats prior to Lucius's taking of the throne. But where each and every trade agreement saw at least half of its constituent steps passing through the Glass Pillars, apparently risen from the desert sands by the magic of some desperate king long in ancient history, the only word to be heard of Oryon here came from those who enjoyed the regional taste for bayshoot tea.

Couldn't avoid the stuff. Hell, you can see it from here, Markus thought, glancing out the window. It's all we have. Can smell it on the air. Sweet and cool even in summer…

“Markus…" Azura took in a breath, held it, then sighed, mixing with the sound of the paper as she set it down. She rubbed at the side of her snout, smearing soft black into dusty brown fur. “Do you think you can tell me…"

He felt his hackles stiffen and rise. Here it comes…

“…why you're… friendly, with the deposed crown prince?"

Outside the wind blew. There was a thump from somewhere downstairs. Markus remembered that his brother had asked him to spar after this. But whatever his mother had just said, simply bounced across his head and rolled off somewhere else, unimportant, nonsensical. He frowned, opened his mouth-

And his mother continued. “Upon meeting him at your engagement ball half a month ago – Lord Strade, I mean – I had Aurelia look up the history of the house. I was born here, and grew up in a merchant family, as you well know, but I can't expect to have done business with every notable house in the country."

It's fake, Markus suddenly thought, with a pang. Isn't it? But why in the world would he-

“It exists," the vixen went on, “or at least, it did. It was declared defunct."

Her son let out a sigh. “That…" So he didn't lie to me. “…makes sense. He told me that – that all he inherited from his father was the title. That his father was the one to squander the name and nobility, that he lost their fortune, the land, and-"

“Three generations ago, Markus," Azura interrupted him. Pinching the bridge of her muzzle, she looked up at him. “His father would have had no title to give. Not of that sort, anyhow." She reached over for the next document in the stack, though thankfully continued speaking as she did so. Markus was thankful for the lack of opportunity to think. “You know, I certainly hope, that we as Morai no longer have a king. We haven't for-"

“Two decades…"

“Oh, so you do listen in your lessons. Yes. It happened some years after Scheherazade's first coronation in Solm, and your father's position as her advisor." She scrawled something across the bottom of the page. “At that point we had moved well past our… business arrangement. You wouldn't have been born for another year…"

“Mother-"

“But when I heard about the revolts," pointedly, “I furiously wrote home. Luckily Oryon here was, and is, far from the epicenter of the unrest. Ryalon was razed, and-" Again she paused. “You don't need to hear this. You know this story. The fact of the matter is, the ex-King Calador was hunted, captured, and hanged, as were his wife, his consort, and the two children-"

“So it can't be Lura. You just said so yourself."

“-the two children of which the public knew." Ink dripped slowly from the quill's nib, splotching across the text. Azura waited for the span of three breaths. “King Romi Calador was… irresponsible. Short-sighted. Self-involved, unreliable, driven by what he wanted for himself, over what his country and his people needed. Over the next decade the people systematically sought out his bastard offspring and had them slain as well."

“And of course the people are never wrong, right? So then it still can't-"

“The royal signet," Countess Oryon went on, “was never recovered. I don't expect you to know this, Markus, but each and every one is reinforced with magic binding it to the bloodline for which it was cast. Your father oversaw and performed the binding for Scheherazade's as well as his own-"

And where's that one? Markus wanted to ask, for the dramatic effect. But he knew, and could in fact see it from here hanging from a chain within the Countess's dress, weighing forward between her breasts, glimmering silver.

Hanging from a chain…

She leaned back in her chair. “It's Spirit magic," she went on, softer. “We entrust our Kings and Queens with an advisor skilled in, or least capable of, Spirit magic for its peerless uses, and usually those advisors are the only mages known who can wield it. Lucius was powerful. Our…" Here she paused. “His apprentice, even more so. Spending so much time with them, with him, communicating and… speaking, and thinking, and… do you know how it works, Markus?"

“How what works?"

“Magic. The Weft."

The foxwolf frowned. To him it was like something from a storybook, a myth. Look closely, he thought, and there's nothing there.

“It's like… music," his mother decided. “All of these different instruments, weaving together into some greater thing. As you listen and learn more, you begin to be able to pick out those individual voices. That's the magic itself, the Fire, the Water, the Air, the Earth. The melody they follow – that's the Weft, the unifying… force, I suppose, binding it all together. But the actual rhythm? That's Spirit magic. It's always there, and we know it's there, we hear it, we feel it, we can directly observe its impact. But those of us blessed to be able to play one of those instruments, most of us can't guide the rhythm. It comes to us from somewhere else, and most of the time, we don't even think about it: our task is the instrument and the melody, not the rhythm. That part emerges naturally.

“The Spirit magic woven into each royal signet ring," now said with a paw resting over where she kept the Kalla's, “gives it a certain signature. My time with your father gave me just a bare whisper of sensitivity to it. So I can say beyond any doubt that not only do I know a royal signet when I see one, but I can also feel it, without needing to see it in the first place. Like standing near a fire with your eyes closed, and knowing it is there from the heat given off." She waited until Markus met her eyes again. “And I think you know as well as I do where the lost Calador signet is, don't you?"

For a moment he was speechless. The way Lura hid the ring, how he nudged it underneath his shirt whenever he saw Markus looking… “But that's – I – he – that's not evidence! He's a thief! How do you know he doesn't-"

“I wish you would have told Aurelia that when you invited him into our house. Markus, it would literally burn through his skin wherever it touched him, if he did not bear Calador blood. Have you touched it?"

Markus searched through his memories of the past few weeks. There had to be at least once, for all the times he had undressed Lura…

“And then," she just kept on going, “he also uses magic to change his appearance, doesn't he? Thin lens of Air and Water to change his eye color, yes? Far more delicate than someone of my skill could ever hope to employ." Azura returned her attention to the document before her, and clicked her tongue at seeing the inkblot. She shook her head. “Under your father's reign as well as Scheherazade's I worked directly with the ambassadors, and when you first wandered back into the ballroom with him at your side I could have sworn that I was seeing the ghost of his uncle Luca Calador."

Heart thumping, Markus strode over to the chair and sank down into it, the well-molded material sinking up around his rump, pressing against his back. He looked out the window yet saw nothing out there, neither the broad sky, nor the distant shadows of trees and mountains, nor the blocky terraces of the fields. A lie, he thought, but…

“But what does it matter?" he said, as much to himself as to his mother. The scratching of a quill across paper paused. “It's not like-"

“Yes," she rumbled, “it is. I saw how you two looked at each other. I smelled him on you, and vice versa. Your life and your love are your own, Markus, as they should be, but… you need to learn how to behave yourself. You're engaged to the daughter of a viscount."

“So what?" He leaned forward and swung his arms out to the side. “Afraid we're gonna have another bastard kid? Lura and I?"

“That's not-"

“Besides, isn't a crown prince better than a – a viscount's daughter? Rhea doesn't even like me." He crossed his arms and threw himself back. “And I don't even like her."

“You will."

“I don't want to."

“You have to."

“Why?"

“It's your responsibility, Markus, and-"

“I don't want this responsibility! Can't you see that?"

“Be that as it may," and Azura once more dipped into the inkwell, “you swore an oath. To your people, to yourself, and to Rhea. That's binding regardless of your wants or intents. Do not disrespect yourself or her by going back on that."

“Why do you care, even? Why would she? Isn't it just like 'noble heritage'," said with his paws in the air, “for us to – go outside and mess around? It's an arrangement, Mother. You married Father for love. And didn't you yourself still-"

Azura slammed her fist against the desk blotter, but when Markus managed to meet her eyes, his ears flat against his head and his hackles tingling, she effortlessly held his gaze with flat, smooth coolness. She wasn't even breathing heavily, and not a single muscle in her muzzle had tensed. She took in a breath, wet her lips, swallowed, and let it out without flaring her nostrils. When his mother spoke next she kept her voice soft and low, so that he had to strain to hear her.

“I loved Lua," she murmured, “as much as Lucius did, and in all the same ways. I still do. I always will, and still I grieve for them both. But your father and I were foolish in our approach of the matter. You know that I believe love can and should be free, Markus, but that's not what this discussion is about. You misunderstand me. I have no qualm with your relationship with – Lura."

“So then what…" He had to clear his throat. “What's the issue, then?"

“This arrangement with House Thorn wasn't made on a whim. They are a well-known, respected family name throughout southern Alenar – your father's homeland. Unfortunately following Lucius's… mistakes, House Kalla has lost considerable ground in Maldeth." Azura steepled her fingers. “But House Oryon here in Mora has reclaimed some of what we lost there. I learned more than I can properly communicate as Scheherazade's head of imports, and as your father's Queen. You, Markus, are both Kalla and Oryon. Politically, they – the ever-elusive people – expect you to display the worst of both. Marrying you to a Thorn, and wrapping Alenar's capital as well as their name within our little family empire? We'll be more powerful than even when Lucius held Maldeth. And not just for political sway. Things will be safer, better, for you and Mercutio, for your and Rhea's children… for everyone to come. Our own family, and all of those over whom we rule. Your father's downfall was in how he considered himself first and foremost."

“So…"

“So you are the first step on that path. The marriage will go through, Markus. Eleven months, now, roughly. You don't have to love Rhea. You don't have to like her. It's a business arrangement, so if you'd like, treat it as such. But it must be solid, peaceful, and faithful – and that doesn't mean you can't hold anyone other than her." Azura finally took the quill back up. “Even as a business relationship, it's still a relationship. Treat it as such. Discuss it with her."

“She's miles away in Leyo! I'm not about to write her a letter."

“So then close that distance. Besides… these things take you by surprise. You may like her more than you expect, once you spend some time together. Gods know that once I married your father, I never expected to fall in love with a second wolf…" The Countess sighed and turned back to her work. “That is all. Thank you for your understanding, Markus."

~ ~ ~

Markus kept his paw pinned against his lower back and dove forward, ducking low to evade the slashing swing of his brother's blade. There was a gentle tink, and another, and another, and he dodged to the side, pulling into a swift roll before springing back up and easily parrying aside the incoming point.

What was even the point? he thought, for what must have been the tenth time since leaving his mother's office. Why even bother telling me? Just so that I know she knows? Another slash, another dodge, and he twisted his stance and thrust forward, catching Mercutio on the shoulder. The full fox stumbled back, laughter bubbling along his lips, and righted himself for another match. Each brother took up the proper form, bowed, swung their sabers off to the side, and slid easily into their preferred stances: Markus tended towards a flashy, showy display, the kind more often employed on a theatre stage than in an actual fight, while Mercutio preferred a much less impressive but much more practical posture.

“Ready?" his brother called, swinging his footpaws apart. “You seem like you're out of breath."

“Well, look who's talking!" Markus shouted back as he did the same. “I know I've been busy, but someone's been neglecting his practice, hasn't he?"

And what of all this – crown prince business? That's huge. Why would she bring that up and then just drop it? I guess it doesn't count for much here anymore, but – he tucked into another roll, dodged to the side, and then had to throw himself back away from Mercutio's stabbing blade, just barely avoiding it – why didn't he? Why wouldn't he? I'm also a deposed prince, technically. Mother was a Queen. And we still hold those to our name, because they're important, they're a part of who we are. It's not something we can change; when the people see her, some of them see the ex-Queen of Maldeth first and then the Countess of Oryon second, and-

And his footpaw caught along an uneven root and he stumbled, sword clattering to the side, breath rushing out of him when his rump impacted the ground. The world spun around him for a moment, a sharp yet dull pain vibrating up through his back, and then he lifted his head at the touch of cool steel nudging underneath his chin. Mercutio grinned down at him as only a fox could, then extended a paw to help him up.

“I'm catching up to you," the younger brother said. “That's two for me and three for you."

“Hah. Yeah. Don't remind me." Markus shook his head, stretched his arms up, then tapped his practice saber against the ground, still caught in thought. “Break time?"

“Yeah. You seem preoccupied. What'd Mother have to say to you?"

“Ah, just…" What even was that about? 'I know about your illicit paramour, but I don't care, but still tell your arranged fiancée'? What's the point? I get the feeling Rhea doesn't want this marriage either.

“Count-to-be things?"

“Yeah." Markus motioned over towards one of the support columns along the back of the manor house, slowly walking his brother over there. The fields back here sprouted away from the path around which he had taken Lura that first night at the ball, and looked out across the very same things that Azura's office had: the same countless bayshoot terraces framed by distant mountains and woods.

Mercutio sighed. “Some days I envy you, and then… you know, some days I don't. I'm just an Oryon. But you're a Kalla too! Ruling is in your blood!"

“Some days I wish it weren't. Most days, in fact. I just don't understand."

“Well, yes. You never actually sit down to study." Mercutio nudged at his shoulder. “But then, I mean, if you were to name a certain fox with whom you grew up as your advisor…"

Markus leaned in against the pillar, dropped his sword to the ground, and looked up to the sky. His brother sidled up alongside him, followed his gaze, looked back to his muzzle again, then shrugged and sat down against the next.

“Markus…"

Why keep it a secret in the first place? Does he not know that I want – that we… I'd rather have him than Rhea. Isn't that worth something? He knows I'm the Ghost. Everyone knows that I'm the son of the dreaded King Lucius. Lucius, who usurped the great Scheherazade and then later got what was coming to him. And so what? Why is that such a big deal? Why would…

“What's bothering you?"

The foxwolf blinked, saw his brother sitting there, and tilted his head. Mercutio's ears splayed apart; his tail flicked, curled around his footpaws underneath him. So Markus inhaled, bumped his head back against the pillar, looked at the sky overhead cloven by the overhanging roof, and sighed.

“What do you know about the Caladors?"

For a moment Mercutio didn't respond. When Markus looked at him again his brother was staring up at him.

“The… as in, House Calador?"

“The royalty."

“Ex-royalty. Yes. Um. Well, it's… not around anymore, and neither is it royal."

Markus frowned. “No longer royal? How does that happen?"

“It's… long a story…"

“What about the survivors?"

The fox shrugged. He reached over, picked up his saber, and rested it in his lap, tapping his claws along the flat of the blade. “Also a long story?"

Markus looked over his shoulder towards the rest of the house. A servant passed by one of the windows. I wonder where Lura is now…

“I've got some time."