Markus had spent relatively little time in the library throughout his time inhabiting the manor. He knew where it was, and passed through it whenever it afforded an optimal path to where he wanted to go: it stood in the midst of the back wing of the house furthest from the exterior walls, for peak climate control, and thus was on the way to nearly everywhere back here. A few attempts made over the years to figure out just what was so enticing about reading had brought the foxwolf back within the confines of this cozy, still space, the air tinted with the scent of ink and paper, the rest of the world dropping away behind thick velvet curtains of near-soundlessness as the scribes continued their never-ending work and the occasional servant bustled in to retrieve a tome.

Thick, plush carpet squished along his toes, further dampening the noise that was not there. He kicked at it a bit, enjoying the way that it molded around his step, how it flattened down and then slowly sprang back up, not unlike grass thick with dew on a cool spring morning…

“Ah. Here it is."

His ears perked. Mercutio bent low over a side table, a vast book spread out before him. Carefully yet comfortably he turned page after page, glancing briefly over the charts and tables and texts, before pausing, flipping back, and then settling there. He tapped at it with a claw.

“Come look at this?"

Curious, Markus followed. The two had returned their sabers to their proper places within the armsmaster's care, each having taken a practice blade for the sessions, and then began on their little journey, Mercutio chatting the whole while after Markus's questions. “It started with Caleb, nearly sixty years ago," and then “well, no, really it began far before that, if I remember right," with “actually, the entire tradition of naming a Spirit-aligned mage as royal adviser began as a Morai ideal, literally before written history…"

The foxwolf looked down over the pages. Sleek scrawl crawled down in rows, interspersed with sections of description and summary. Colored lines connected the sections across the pages. “What am I looking at?"

“Family history." Mercutio followed a red line with a forefinger. “More for my own curiosity, but…"

“Mercutio…"

“Right. Right, right." He flipped forward a few pages. “You want… the downfall. Right. Yes, here. This is recent history, understand; very near current events. See how the quality of the ink and sanding has changed? Actually, I think I recognize this handwriting, I-"

“Mercutio."

“Ah. Yes." The fox's ear flicked. He flipped one more page. “Right here. The final king of Mora. Our last king."

Markus was impressed. Where each entry held but a few short paragraphs of summaries and points, this one stretched across to the next page, with individual sections boxed off for clarity. Certainly there were more detailed histories on each of the prior rulers throughout the library, but even with his unaccustomed eye he could now pick out the Calador family name among the text, repeated again and again.

He frowned, and leaned in a little bit closer. “Romi?"

“Yes." Mercutio tapped the entry. “Romi Calador. Granted the throne upon the death of the prior king, who just so happened to be his best friend. King Elias was barely nineteen when he was assassinated, after ruling for a scant two years after the assassination of his father, Caleb. That's why I say it started there. Historians actually debate as to whether or not there was some sort of magical influence or foul play in that line of succession, but – that's neither here nor there." He ran his finger down a bit. “It doesn't say here, because this was likely recorded while he was still our king, but Romi was… not fantastic."

Markus recalled his mother's words on the matter. “So I've heard."

“Yes. Absent. Inattentive. Irresponsible. Um… delinquent is the word I hear used most often to describe him." The vulpine tilted his muzzle to glance at his brother. “Long live the king, right? And personal accounts show that Romi Calador was always like this, even in his younger years. He attended King Elias regularly, and for some unknown reason Elias chose him as his successor, even seeing, knowing, and recognizing all his flaws.

“Anyway. I also mentioned the matter of the advisor – you know how, when we were still a monarchy, our ruler always kept a mage at their side, particularly strong in Spirit magic, as their advisor."

Markus nodded. He had heard of it. “Father served that role for Scheherazade."

“It began here, and then spread over to Maldeth, Dorian, and Loria. Alenar only recently lightened the restrictions. But – Lucius, yes. For Scheherazade's initial term. Before… you know." Lucius was not Mercutio's father. The full-blooded fox had no link to the shameful family fiasco. “Mother has a small skill in Water magic. You have none, correct? Unless that's changed?"

“I do not."

“Neither do I. Spirit magic is ancient, powerful, and… relatively unknown, for its rarity of occurrence and depth of potential. Detecting lies, uncanny sensory skill, some even say mind control. It's unclear. For this reason Morai royalty traditionally held the same advisor for three generations. I don't know why three, other than natural lifespan. Elias's advisor enjoyed his final generation then, and promptly and without forgiveness stepped down when Romi took the throne." Again he tapped another section on the page. “Romi named his younger brother Luca as his advisor."

“I recognize that name."

“Yes. Mother was personal friends with Luca in her time as Queen Scheherazade's head of imports, and I understand they exchanged correspondence regularly. But I don't have access to those records, unfortunately." Mercutio rolled his eyes. “Anyhow. Caleb ruled for some thirty years, and the public opinion is that these were our country's worst decades. Elias was woefully unprepared to pick up his father's slack, and met the consequences for that soon after. Then Romi took the throne. A new bloodline, a new hope; where Caleb fouled the throne of Mora, ideally Calador would restore it."

“But that didn't happen."

“And that's hindsight, isn't it? Romi was named king and then immediately was nowhere to be found, leaving Luca to do… well, everything. For all intents and purposes Luca Calador was King of Mora, and some more… progressive histories even refer to him as such. But that's not important here. I wonder if you can guess what happened to Luca."

Markus sighed. “He was assassinated?"

“Yes. Also three years into his rule. Well, his brother's. This was…" Mercutio peered closer at the page. “Ah, right. Romi took the throne of Mora the same year that Scheherazade initially inherited Maldeth. Lucius was named advisor upon her coronation, and I… believe that he and Mother were already in a relationship by then?"

“Mercutio…"

“Yes. I'm getting to that. Sorry. Luca was assassinated, and as Romi had basically abandoned the throne by that point anyway, that's where we see the seed of our current government. Some two years later, though, his good grace the King was found and forcibly exiled…"

“Exiled?" Markus leaned in over the book. “I heard that he was-"

“Executed. Yes. Right here. Though legally he was put into exile, the outraged citizenry dragged him back, along with his children and their mothers and then… ah…" The fox paused in thought, ears flicking back. “Executed them."

“Hanged, right?"

“It's…" He swallowed. “Well. Specifically? Yes. First they were hanged in the Ryalon city square. There's a grand fountain there – you remember when Mother took us? And then, and this is where it gets brutal, the, uh… the backs of their elbows and knees were slit, and… the blood drained out into the fountain. All five of them. It ran red for five weeks after. And then kind of brownish."

Markus tilted his head again, trying to read the text. He couldn't quite make out the handwriting. “It was… a wife, a consort, and two children, right?"

“Yes. Neither… interest knew about the other, naturally, and then a son and a daughter."

“What were the names of the children?"

“Ah… Mira was the daughter and Sola the son. Neither bore the Calador name, and says here that Sola was never told who his father was, so he had no idea."

Bit by bit the pieces began to fall into place, but Markus still felt the overarching key evading him. It didn't quite make sense. “And they were definitely killed?"

Mercutio slipped his paw beneath the cover and gently closed the book. It whumpfed and emitted a puff of dust from the untouched pages. “Oh, absolutely. They were a public spectacle for a few weeks. Then, of course, graverobbers – so to say – had their way." The slim fox grunted as he picked the tome back up, nestling it beneath his arm. “One interesting thing to note, though, is that King Romi never had a signet ring cast for his heir. That's part of the domain of the Spirit-aligned advisor: the rings are bound with a certain amount of the magic that-"

“Yes, I know. Let me guess this one, too: it was never recovered?"

“Correct again. It was nowhere to be found on Romi's body, or in the possession of any of his known peers. It's not like anyone could get away with wearing it, though it is clearly theorized that he, uh, sired other bastards that evaded history's keen eyes. They're laced with Spirit magic, too, and Spirit only. It's unique among the types for how it can't be perceived by someone who can't use it themselves-"

“-unless they've had extended, intimate contact with a user," Markus interjected, striding alongside his brother as he moved to replace the book. “Such as our dear mother."

“Really? I had no idea. Magic is, as you know, a constantly evolving science. I understand that to the knowledge of the Ryalon academy, Lucius was the last known Spirit user to come from the entire western coast of the continent. And he was Alenari, not Morai." Mercutio shrugged. “So. I'd say who knows, but the answer is probably nobody. Why the sudden interest, though, Markus? Preparing for your upcoming marriage?"

The heavy wooden library door creaked open at both brothers' insistence, slipping them back into the close, cozy quarters of the interior halls outside. Early afternoon light filtered in through the windows set high up into the walls above; the nearby guard shifted and straightened up, nodding a greeting to them.

“I suppose so," he answered after a moment. “Thank you."

“Of course." Mercutio smiled, and behind him his busy tail swayed above the floor. “If you'd like to know anything else, I'm always around. I'm glad to see you starting to step up into your role."

“Yes…" the foxwolf murmured, glancing down the hall first one direction and then the other. “Of course. If you would excuse me? I've got – something I need to take care of…"

And off he went, before he could hear his brother's response. First all Markus could hear was the tak-tak of his claws across the tiled floor, occasionally muted by the plush rugs laid throughout the halls; then the longer he searched, the more his breathing interjected itself as well, sizzling at the back of his throat and stirring in his lungs. Twice he had to wave off a guard for inquiring what was wrong, and only afterwards thought to run back by his mother's office to ask after Lura's whereabouts from Aurelia, thankfully able to avoid another confrontation with the Countess as he did so.

Mind roiling, thoughts stirring, Markus finally found the slim, smallish otter in one of the hallways, carrying a stack of towels before him around which he precariously leaned. His rudder dragged along the floor behind him and he looked a little bit winded, but otherwise from this distance, familiarity notwithstanding, the foxwolf would not have given him a second thought. Lura fit the role-

-and played it well. Markus slowed, paused at the corner, took in a breath, held it until he felt his neck start to throb, then let it go and stepped forward. By this point the otter had gone down the hall and turned the next corner, but in a few quick, wide steps Markus caught up and stepped around him.

Those peculiar grey eyes brightened, then hooded again. Lura bowed his head, visibly struggling to hide an affectionate smile. “My lord," he murmured, similarly nailing the proper deferential tone, “it is good to see you this fine afternoon. Is there anything with which I may assist you?"

“Yes, in fact." Markus grasped Lura's wrist, knocking the otter briefly off-balance. The tower of towels teetered but remained up right. “I need you to come with me."

“But – my lord, I really should-"

“No, you shouldn't. There's something that we should talk about." The foxwolf pulled him forward, peered both ways down the hallway, and then cut across towards what he knew to be a storage room, complete with exits in the rear for the servants' passages around to the nearby rooms. Lura likely wouldn't be trusted with those until he had been under the family's employ for a while, provided he didn't know about them already.

Once there the foxwolf released his wrist and fumbled with the door itself, while Lura sidled up beside him. “Oh, yes?" the smaller male rumbled, sly interest shimmering in his grey eyes. “Well, of course I'd be delighted to… talk with you, my lord. Take all the time you need."

“I intend to." The door opened soundlessly. “In. Please."

That was when he could tell that Lura first picked up on what might be going on. The otter's brow furrowed and he frowned as he passed Markus by, with his step carrying less bounce, less energy, while he moved to drop the towels. That done he turned, rubbed his paws together, and blinked against the dimness when Markus closed the door behind them.

Once there, once wrapped within their own space, the guise of the dutiful servant dropped. Just like so many nights before it was instead Markus and Lura, here, together, each feeling the sweet, simmering tension of being so close to the other, the familiarity and affection burning right there, trembling like a string drawn taut. All it would take to make that string snap was one of them reaching forward, closing the distance… the countess's son crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back against the door, taking the moment to draw in another breath. He could smell Lura's presence begin to slowly fill the room, the warm, musty, comfortable aroma that he had already spent so many nights learning.

“Markus. What is it?"

He sighed. “I… spoke with my mother."

“Yes? And?"

This is awful, he thought, struggling to keep his ears upright and his tail from pinning between his legs. I've never had to do anything like this before. “And…" It felt like the words escaped him. He imagined it there in his head, expected the conversation, knew what he was going to say, but some vital connection just misfired, over and over again. “We… she…"

Then a sudden flash and spark – followed by another – followed by another. Startled, Markus thumped his head back against the door, recoiling from the little spurts of liquid fire leaping from Lura's fingertip towards the sconces along the walls. Fire magic, too? Is there more he hasn't told me?

“I… it's just…" But now he could look him in the eye, and at least feel like he really was looking at him. Even though now he knew that those eyes were not Lura's own. “You're… the king's son, aren't you?"

The otter froze. The pressure in the room changed slightly, one candle remaining unlit; whether that was the sensation of a prepared spell fizzling away, Markus couldn't tell. Lura, or whatever his name might have been, bit his lip, glanced away, turned his back, paced around the room, heaved a sigh of his own.

“It doesn't really matter now, does it?" he answered finally. “All that name will get me is a slow death from the more radical – not even that, from the more levelheaded and respectable Morai. The monarchy's been buried for twenty years. Leave it there."

“So it's true, then?"

“What do y-? Markus, who cares? Are you going to tell your mother?" Lura paused. “No – she's the one who told you, isn't she? I've heard about the things she did with and for your father. I knew I should have been more careful…"

“I care." Markus tapped his chest. “Why didn't you tell me? Didn't you think you could trust me?"

The otter pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation lancing through his posture. “It's not that," he sighed. “It's a part of my life that belongs in the past. I'd just as soon forget about it."

“But you can't, L…" The foxwolf trailed off, realizing the depth of his words. He blinked. “So I was – falling in love with someone who doesn't even exist," he finished, daring the otter, the Calador, to look at him. “Lura Strade. Nobody had heard of you because there's nobody to hear of."

“What are you talking about?" Lura turned again and faced him, arms out, eyes wide. “Markus, I'm right here. Of course I exist. Lura is who I am now, and it's who I want to be. Who I was before does not matter, and while I recognize that there's plenty of people who won't let me change where I came from, the best I can do is make a name for myself as who I am now. And that name is Lura."

“But it's-"

“No," Lura went on, taking another step towards the foxwolf. Markus shifted away from the door. “It's not. You don't understand. I was barely on my feet when my father was captured and executed. I don't even remember what he looked like, but I can tell you that he was a sleazy, slimy pile of offal, and Mora and the rest of the world is far better off with him gone."

He had never heard him speak like this before. Again Markus's ears pinned back, the small otter suddenly seeming so much more imposing.

“And do you think he cared for my mother at all? Do you think he cared for me? So pardon me for wanting to eliminate that past chapter of my life, Markus Kalla. Where I came from guided but doesn't define who I am now: I'm heir to a kingdom that no longer exists, I was forced into a royal title and name which both draw ire instead of respect, I learned how to live with not a single coin to my name. I truly, truly would have been better off born some nameless peasant, if Romi hadn't taken advantage of my mother.

“You met me as Lura, you knew and know me as Lura, and until – what, earlier today? – you had no idea that Miska Calador had ever existed. Nobody did. Nobody should." A short finger jabbed into his chest. “And you were just fine with that."

“But you still lied to me! I-"

“Did I? By not telling you about someone I neither wanted nor ever had the chance to be? I lied to you?"

Markus blinked, mouth agape. If anything, Lura's pushback had just further fueled the flame simmering in his chest, this knot of disbelief, outrage, and… something else, something distasteful and sour, swelling out further. It was simple question. A simple response. Why does it have to be like this?

“And besides," Lura went on, as if he hadn't said enough already, “even if I had lied to you, what makes it so that this is the lie that matters? Because you imagine yourself as the one at the other end of it, when who I used to be has nothing to do with you, never has, and never will?" By now the otter had spread his arms out, his eyes wide, his little ears up. It was hard to believe that this was the same Lura who had caught his eye from across the ballroom, who had drawn him aside with words and a voice as soft and sweet as woven sugar. “What about the lie you're telling Rhea, then?"

“I don't-"

“No? And how about all of those innocent travelers and townsfolk, your people, who have suffered at the end of-" Here Lura waggled his fingers. “-the Ghost of Oryon? While you're wearing the mask, why don't you go and tell everyone you encounter, oh, I'm Markus Kalla, son of Countess Oryon – that's lying to them, isn't it, then?"

“Lura! You're overreacting!"

Those eyes glittered. The otter's muzzle twitched, mouth still open, and his ears flicked back – and then he visibly took the effort to draw in a breath and sigh it back out. Then he did so a second time, and a third, and a fourth, slowly gathering himself together; he dropped his face into a paw, halfway turned away from Markus again, and looked up at one of the dancing candle flames. Markus listened to the beating of his own heart, and their shared, heightened breathing.

“…Maybe you're right," the prince finally conceded. “Maybe I am. We don't get to choose the circumstances of our birth, and I'm just trying to do the best I can with what I was given. But bearing my old name, my family crest? Even this signet ring?" It dangled off of its chain, held between a forefinger and thumb. Candlelight glittered off of it; as it spun Markus saw the stones again, warm green fading to red like a rich watermelon flanked by citrus orange. Lura wrapped it in his paw, and there was no smoking of fur, no searing of flesh. “There's nothing there for me. I gain nothing out of it, and in fact, it'll only make things harder for me. So I'm begging you, Markus. As far as history's concerned, Miska Calador is dead. He never existed. Let him stay that way."

The foxwolf reached for the door, paused, and forced himself to look at the otter across the room, shadows dancing across his short muzzle and playing with the color of his eyes. Grey, silvery, but still not quite. Markus tried to look closer, tried to peer through that delicate veil, and yet could not figure out how.

“I…" Yet again the words refused to come. Annoyance, frustration, insult raged inside of him. “I just can't help but wonder. If that, then – what else could you be hiding from me? I want to trust you, I really do, but… you've only confirmed that I don't know who you really are."

Lura's jaw fell open. He said nothing for a moment. “I – you – wh- this is who I am. Lura Strade. Here, now. Somehow a servant within your house. Which, speaking of, I need to be getting back to work, my lord."

“Yes. You're right. You do." Markus clasped his paw on the handle, turned it, and threw the door open, blinking against the flood of brighter light. “I'm… I'll have to take some time to think. I'm sure you understand."

“I don't think I do." Lura turned to slip his arms underneath the stack of towels again. “But you said I'm overreacting, and maybe I am, and I just can't see it from my own limited viewpoint. Right? Because gods forbid it's the son of the countess who doesn't know what he's talking about." He shouldered past Markus, giving the foxwolf a whiff of warm, familiar scent, suddenly tinged with a bitter aura. “You know where to find me, when you're ready to talk. I am, quite literally, at your every whim."

Down through the hallway echoed the sound of small toeclaws tapping across the floor. Markus leaned back against the wall, door hanging open beside him, and listened, and listened… until that sound faded into the quiet hum of the daily business of the manor. Emotion welled up inside of him, hot and bright and sharp and bitter, and yet he couldn't quite pin it down to a single word: his fist balled at his side, his jaw clenched, his ears flicked back, his tail wrapped tight around his leg.

What happened? What went so wrong? What did – what in the world did I do? I… 'love him' came next, but as soon as it did so he shrugged it away. That can't be right. It's hardly been two weeks. I don't even know who he is. And… I suppose he doesn't really know who I am, either.

What was I thinking?

~ ~ ~

The night passed slowly. Markus spent the evening wandering the streets of the town, greeting and chatting with whoever had time for him, slipping away at the first lull in the conversation. The thought of his mask and saber back home hung heavily about his shoulders, but every time the image pushed itself to the forefront he recalled Lura's words, and shoved it right back again.

He didn't know what to expect when he returned, and the house simmered underneath the gentle, cozy warmth of a sleepy evening. His footpaws shuffled across the floor; the guards about the halls nodded their recognition; he threw open the door to his quarters, knocked it shut behind himself, started in at the fastenings of his shirt and pants, and went into the next room to find his empty bed waiting for him.

Sleep evaded him at first, then escaped time and time again throughout the night. Lura never slid in alongside him, never nuzzled in underneath the foxwolf's chin, never wrapped a small, soft arm around his midsection, never wrapped his rudder around one of his legs.

The following morning would be the first time in weeks that he had shown up for breakfast, the smells of the meal wafting around the far wing of the manor, drawing him further forward even as exhaustion and strain weighed him down. Mercutio was there of course, his tail wagging as his brother took his spot across from him; the Countess nodded her satisfaction, gestured over to the guests at the table – as the head of the local county, the Oryon manor always housed some visiting diplomat or other honored guest, this time being yet another winemaking family from further south – and resumed the conversation.

Markus heard none of it, offering nonplussed grunts, nods, and shrugs at times that seemed appropriate. He really could not make himself care, as this was neither his domain nor his interest; instead what held his attention was the sleek otter sidling in and out of the room, bearing further course in or swiping empty plates out, eyes downcast, ears back, posture sharp and proper without being proud. And, naturally, he noticed his mother watching him watch Lura: try as he might to catch the otter's eyes, still glimmering flat grey, he truly granted him the same attention that any servant would for their superior.

And then he was gone, without another word. Markus glanced over to his mother; Azura held his gaze, blinked, and then looked back to the guests, nodding her head in assent to some comment or another. It wasn't until he made his way to her office again after another session with Mercutio that she spoke to him. He waited before her desk, paws behind his back, tailtip swishing near his ankles, growing more nervous by the moment.

Finally she glanced up at him from where she bent over the desk. “Markus?"

“I – thought about what you said," he began, then broke off. A moment passed. “What we talked about. With…" Him. The prince. The otter. “Lura."

“Yes?"

“And I would… like to…" It had seemed like such a solid plan when it had first come to him, lying there in bed at some hour of morning, sleep feeling equal parts nearby and far beyond his grasp. Markus took in a breath. “Arrange for travel to Leyo, to… spend some time with my fiancée." What is it she wants to hear? “Maybe I should… get to know her better." But at least it will give me some time away from here, away from him. I can't think when I know he's around. It's like he's taunting me.

And she just stared at him, letter forgotten in one paw, quill in the other dripping ink to the desk. One of her ears flicked; Azura blinked again as if suddenly back in her own body, nodded, and once more dipped into the inkwell.

“Finally learning responsibility, then?" she asked. “Yes. Of course. I'll have Aurelia bring up a carriage for you before the evening is out."

No questions, no complaints… usually his mother pushed back against nearly everything Markus tried to do or say, and the lack of that resistance here made him falter. But he tried not to show it.

“Is that all?"

“Um… yes."

“Wonderful. I'm proud of you. Oh, and Markus?"

“Mm?"

The vixen brushed the back of the feather across her lips. “What about Lura? House Thorn is well stocked enough that you will have your every need supplied by the workers there." Here she paused, as if waiting for him to fill in the gap. “You will not need an escort."

Markus was halfway to the door already. “So then leave him here," he said over his shoulder. “I don't really care."

And then he was gone, too. It felt good to walk out like that. Markus kept his head high as he strode down the halls back toward his quarters, deliberately keeping his focus forward, ignoring whoever passed him on the way.

He wants to be difficult? I'll give him difficult. Come and get me.