frozen in place

His playfulness was contagious to Louisa. A smile tugged at the corners of her rosy cheeks: how long has it been since someone provoked her to a genuine smile? Too long, Louisa mused to herself. She watched Kieran as he moved out of the dark alcove to check if their pathway was clear. Her eyes wandered over the curves of his body, taking in the way he moved was like an art form; she admired his stance and his movements to a defensive stance were smooth and agile; like he was ready to spring into action at the moment of danger.

“I have no desire to meet with the Dawn Court,” Louisa scoffed sharply. “My Lord left me here to die. I doubt he’ll be worried about my safe return…” Louisa poked her head out, her body behind the brawn and safety of Kieran’s. She was only in the Autumn lands for a fortnight only two month back–how much of a lifetime ago that felt to her now. She never paid attention to the corridors of the castle before, she surly wasn’t going to get herself out of this alone. Louisa held out her hand for Kieran to guide her. “Can you get me to the stables?” 

.

Ah yes, High Lord Elias Wakefield. Kieran had yet to cross paths with Dawn’s new High Lord, but in just a month since he took the throne Kieran had already heard as many rumors regarding him as he had about other rulers who’d been in power for centuries. It didn’t surprise him that Wakefield abandoned the Duchess. It was the perfect way of trying to get rid of a Caerwyn while keeping his hands clean. Fortunately Louisa was stronger than the High Lord seemed to give her credit for. He briefly turned his head to look back at her, “Then perhaps a fool is ruling Dawn, if he does not see the value of a Caerwyn.” Kieran vaguely remembered his mother being fond of Dawn’s former ruling family. 

“Certainly, your grace,” He slid his sword from its holster, readying it at his side. Fortunately his relationship (a friendship of sorts, he supposed) with Autumn’s chief attorney meant he’d visited the castle enough times to be familiar with its layout. Getting to the stables would be no issue, even if they encountered opposition along the way. “Stay close behind me and you’ll be out of this madness in no time.”

They felt older, yet somehow, none the wiser. One would assume that time, distance, and maturity would steel them for life’s big moments. This, undoubtedly, being one of them. After all, how many could say that their beloved childhood friend had returned from presumed death? And yet, they felt almost like children. With their strained and clipped words, distant eyes, and the deafening silence. In retrospect, Jacqueline decided, she was wrong. The childlike versions of themselves were not as restrained or pitifully dejected as they were. Kieran and Jacqueline, Jacqueline and Kieran. They never opted for uncomfortable silence, or cherry-picked words. No, they spoke frankly and honestly. A rare time when the viper of the Night Court expressed herself so freely. It felt foreign to her now, as they settled onto the plush couch across from the fireplace. Where had that gone? But she offers the briefest of glances in Kieran’s direction, and wonders if it mattered. He was here. After lifetimes of believing that he was gone, that this part of herself was gone… He was here. Maybe, just maybe, that was enough. It’s an ironic realization, given the pride she held in her bitter heart. It’s what made her such a talented aficionado of politics and trade. Recent events; however, finally pushed the needle. And suddenly, the monster wondered if it’s truly what she wanted to be. Or what she made herself to be.

“And yet you did.” She murmurs in turn, brushing her fingertips along her hand, watching the flames as well. There’s something poignant about how they did not wish to look at each other, but gladly turning to a flame. It felt indicative of the warmth they yearned for, yet would not reach for. She listens intently, her elegant brow raising. It was some consolation, at least. The Night Court had devolved from a place of nightmares, to her greatest triumph. Kieran; however, found his own coming-to in the frosted land. She would feel ecstatic for him, had he not alluded to it before. The word content sound foul against his lips, though he masks it as he was so capable of. “You still do that unconsciously, don’t you? Run your hands through your hair?” Jacqueline offers, her tone a tad lighter, as she offers a conspiratorial smirk. It was a talent honed over the centuries, the power of conversation and endearment. This time, though, its used with responsibility. A way to settle into the conversation, without this prevailing awkwardness between them. “Knighthood isn’t something one goes into for safety, is it?” It’s not a criticism, but a fact. Her brother, a captain himself, indicative of that truth.

“Though I doubt that’s the only factor in that.” He had alluded to as much, at the mention of his birth father. She purses her lips, debating the question silently. Finally, she turns her eyes to him, unflinching at the directness of their eye contact. “It has it’s benefits, to be sure. Positions of power and influence often do.” She blinks, her lips pursed into a knowing line. “You could say I am… Content, as well.” The use of the word is purposeful, as if to allude to what he did. That fulfillment was as far from her reach, as his. A similar dejection, muddled with a silent bitterness. “But perhaps there’s hope yet.” It was the first optimistic thing she said, and it was in reflection of what had changed for her. “I have done many things to get to where I am. I enjoyed most of it, admittedly. But when I look at my life, I realize that it’s the monster that’s won. Not the woman behind it. Only the terrible survive, and you and I… Well, we have survived, haven’t we?” There’s a melancholic reflection to it, as she grazes her hands over her knee. “Maybe it’s time I find a way to live.” She curbs the instinct to say ‘we.’ A fault from the last conversation, of her presumptions, coming to light. “Though if you accuse me of going soft, I may have to brush out my Machiavellian tactics again.”

.

And yet you did. Her words echoed in his head. Kieran still wasn’t entirely certain what he was doing there. What was he expecting to happen? Answer more of her questions? Earn her forgiveness? He refused to acknowledge that he had really just wanted to see her again. To not have the last time they spoke be in the form of an argument. He felt like he owed it to their old friendship, his old self, to part on good terms with Jacqueline. If tonight was instead the last time they spoke then the least he could do was give her a bit of closure about what happened to him. It wasn’t an easy topic to discuss, nor something he really wanted to talk about, but if she asked he would do his best to answer. Even if he kept some details to himself, he’d still answer anything she asked honestly. Kieran could lie to anyone else — not her. Jacqueline was once the person he could always confide in and trust to keep his secrets. No matter no much their friendship faded over the years spent apart he still felt that deep rooted connection to her. 

“Evidently old habits die hard,” Kieran chuckled when she pointed out his action. He used to only run his hands through his hair when he was stressed, though now he had a tendency to do it whenever he was in thought. It was just something to do with his hands other than keeping them in his lap or at his sides. He was almost surprised she remembered that about him, but Jacqueline had never been someone who forgot things easily. “And here I was thinking you had abandoned hope,” He smirked, recalling their previous conversation where she’d expressed her belief that hope was feeble. For a moment they felt familiar again. The whisper of a smile on both their lips. She provided him with a unique sense of comfort from her mere presence that he hadn’t found in anyone or anywhere else. It made him wonder if she felt the same, or if he was a stranger to her now. No, she regarded him with too much familiarity for that to be true. 

Kieran’s amusement fades quickly. Monster. That’s what he was. Jacqueline believed herself to be one as well, but it wasn’t the same. She donned the mask of a monster to protect herself and get what she wanted. Behind the mask there was still a person who wanted to be better deep down. If she had made herself monstrous, it stood to reason that she could change again. Kieran, on the other hand, was a monster others had made. Moreno twisted his mind, Estelle broke his heart, and Kazmer remolded his body. He did not believe himself capable of redemption, nor did he want it. He’d been a good person once and the world spat on him for it. Why would he want to go back to the weak boy he once was? His only ‘way to live’ was how he already was. Any alternatives seemed too far out of his grasp to achieve. “That would depend on how you define ‘survived’,” Kieran’s eyes flickered back over to the flames. ‘Survivor’ was a word he’d never found to be applicable to himself. It implied that he made it out — lived on despite the difficulties. But Kieran wasn’t sure if all of him had survived. When he watched his mother die he felt a part of himself die as well. And when he realized that his father was just as uncaring as the man he’d just run from, part of himself died again. Kieran was made up of broken, jagged shards of himself that could never fit back together. Not when there were pieces still missing. Jacqueline’s jest of using her cunning against him if he spread any rumors of her going soft did little to lighten his mood once more. “Even if I did I doubt anyone would believe me. You’ve built up quite the reputation,” He scoffed, but it sounded half hearted. 

There’s a startling intimacy to their surroundings, that prickled her skin. As children, they had clung onto one another, explicit in their terrors and hardships. They could share a cot underneath a tree, or she could show him the marks in the most indiscriminate of places – all without a whisper of shyness. Well into her prime years now, and Jacqueline had not adopted some demure stature. Quite the opposite, really. The French fae was proud of her body, and what it could do. The endless affairs with countless men and women, allowing her to be bold and shameless. Of course, she was far from the exhibitionist of the Dawn Court. But she was not shy, or some blushing princess. Yet there’s a tonal change, an awkwardness almost, as he enters the guest chambers. It was large and luxurious, with a comfortable spot for sitting and conversing by the fireplace. But the presence of her bed, rumpled by her tossing back-and-forth, and her collection of dresses around the room? It felt like a quick rush back into the intimacy and informality, that was once so easy for them. Age, certainly, made it feel different. They were no longer children, to be sure. But the distance as well, made such closeness feel strange. Fond, but strange. “No, I suppose not. Some mothers would have been aghast to find you in my bedroom, when we were children.” Yet the Duchess Dubois scarcely paid attention, as if the cruelty of the home turned her into a gargoyle. Stoic and unflappable, to all she had witnessed. “Fortunately, mine couldn’t have been bothered with that.” It was some consolation, that she could be with him so freely then.

Jacqueline gestures to the velveteen couch, as she leans down to collect the scrolls. Nothing of importance or sensitivity, but her messiness meant it had scattered across the area. She ties them in string, and places it in her trunk. “No, it’s alright. Come, sit.” She mutters, as she stands by her things. The Royal Advisor often personified the grace and nonchalant nature of her court, one nose firmly in the air. A discerning sort of fae, that could not be brought down to size. Yet just by Kieran’s presence, he achieved exactly that. She felt smaller, more seen – and what a painfully exposing feeling, it was. There’s a moment of regret that lives on, in the warmth of his presence. In the midst of the chaos, Jacqueline could only see him as a figment of her wildest dreams and her worst nightmares. Now, outside the tremor of the riots, she can see things clearly. The defenses, once removed by the stress of it all, came flooding back in. They linger in silence for a long and significant beat, as Jacqueline found her way to the seat beside his. How easy it was, to speak so freely, when lives hung in the balance. “I didn’t think you would come.” It was as definitive a place to start as any. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.” Jacqueline had done worse to the people she claimed (nay, truly) loved. What was to stop Kieran from being just like her? They were forged in the same darkness, were they not?

“I don’t enjoy small talk, unless its for some political purpose. Or for my own means to an end.” She reveals bluntly. Silence was an easy thing for the fae of the Night. But she loathed it now, as she felt herself turn into some timid, whisper of a woman in front of Kieran. Her small talk was not founded in being the savvy conversationalist she could be. Rather, a method to fill what great expanse lived between them. “I don’t enjoy talking about nothing’s.” She continues, before turning to him. She looks at him now, in the brightness of the room, and feels as close as she did far. It was not like Gabriel, whose face she had memorized forward and backwards throughout the years. Undoubtedly, Kieran still boasted the angular features of aristocratic background (however muddled the parentage was). With a small, raspy breathe, she shrugs in turn. “How are you truly?” It was not in her to ask such a sensitive question, but the ringing truth of their last encounter demanded it be asked. “Are you safe here? Are you…” Happy felt too illusive, for either of them. Instead, she settles with a sigh. “Are you alright?”

.

It was strange to see her in such a peaceful setting. Their initial reunion was surrounded by violence and shouting, but now the only sound in the room was the gentle crackling that came from the fireplace. There was no conflict to focus on, no goal to give him a definitive end to their interaction. It reminded him of their younger years. Nights where they would meet up simply for the sake of being in the comfort of the other’s presence and to talk about whatever came to mind. Those days were long gone, yet here they were. Standing face to face in her room as they’d done a hundred other times. A quick glance around the room informed him that she was just as untidy when stressed as she had been when he left her. Perhaps she hadn’t changed as much as she seemed to think she had. If he was being honest, the only thing about her that really felt significantly different was how she treated him. Jacqueline had always held within her a bitter heart and sharp tongue, but Kieran had never been on the receiving end of any negative emotion from her before the fight. Whatever fire was in her eyes that night seemed to have been extinguished as she spoke. Her words caused a low, bittersweet chuckle to slip past his lips as he thought of that time. The Night Court was rather rigid about their social standings and most members of the upper class hadn’t wanted their children hanging around Kieran. It didn’t seem to matter that he was the child of a Duchess, he was a bastard son and that meant he was to be disregarded. Fortunately Duchess Dubois never seemed to care enough about what her children did or who they spent their time with to intervene whenever Jacqueline brought Kieran into their estate.

A prolonged moment of silence as they sat next to each other. Uncertainty resided in the space between them. It seemed so strange that in the midst of chaos they had little difficulty speaking, yet in the tranquility of a private room they struggled to find something to say. Jacqueline proved to be better at conjuring words up than himself. “I didn’t think I would either,” Kieran admitted softly, keeping his eyes on the fire. Unable to meet hers. He’d made the decision to not visit her at least a dozen times, but he still ended up at her door. At the tip of his tongue was but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I never saw you again. So close to landing on his lips, yet they remained unspoken. Hearing Jacqueline discuss her dislike of small talk was no surprise to Kieran. As a member of the nobility she was certainly capable of it, but he couldn’t recall her ever enjoying it. Who did, really? What did cause Kieran’s brow to quirk upwards was what she asked him next. Not only was he not expecting it from her, he also had no idea how to answer it. How was he? In light of recent events, he was fine. Holding up far better than most in wake of the violence — at least physically. In general.... he was the same as usual. Not great, not bad. Just keeping his head above water by any means necessary. 

Kieran let out a deep sigh as he leaned back against the couch, “I’m treated better here than I was in Night, if that’s what you mean.” He ran a hand through his hair almost subconsciously, “About as safe someone in my position can be. And I’m... content.” The word was not spoken with the fulfillment of someone who felt satisfied with their life. Dejection clung to his voice, though he tried to shake it off. “What of yourself? I presume being part of Beaumont’s inner circle has treated you well over the years?”

Morana had helped a Nymph find her way out of the chaos, but the Duchess was determined to find other members of her court before she herself escaped. Regardless of how detached she acted from others, she was still a Winter Fae. They were intensely loyal to each other and she refused to leave until she discovered if the others were safe or not. One High Lord had already come close to death that night, she needed to find her own to ensure he didn’t suffer the same fate. Even coming across someone as irritating as Duke Aslanov would be a comfort to her in that moment. Unfortunately, in her attempt to help Amarantha she found herself once again lost in the maze of corridors that was Autumn’s castle. Winter’s ice fortress seemed to have a far more clearly laid out design, though that could just as easily be familiarity deceiving her. She didn’t need to grow up in the palace to know its frigid halls like the back of her hand by now.

Upon turning a corner Morana found herself face to face with three humans at the end of the corridor. At their feet was either a lesser Fae or a Nymph, she couldn’t get a good look at their crushed wings, slain and clearly the cause for the pride in all their eyes. She hated seeing blood shed on either side — senseless violence for a cause she believed would achieve better results through deathless means — but witnessing the crumped figure below them especially hurt to see. They saw her before she had a chance to backtrack, readying their weapons once more. One human wasn’t too difficult to take on. Two posed more of a challenge. Facing off against three felt a bit out of her league. Theoretically she could take them all on with ease, so long as none of them were hunters, but it would require her to lose the grip she had on her emotions and she wasn’t sure what that would look like. It had been quite some time since she last lost control of her magic and it had taken at least a day or two to suppress it again. It was a mutually destructive relationship — the more her emotional she became the stronger her magic grew, and the more magic that flowed from her the further she spiraled emotionally. 

The sound of footsteps alerted Morana that someone else was coming. To her relief she spotted a High Fae running over to her. More importantly, an armed Fae. An eased sigh fell from her lips. She didn’t recognize the other, but help from anyone was welcomed. “I believe I will require assistance, if you are in a position to provide,” She called out before turning back to the approaching humans. 

“Yes, I can.” The nymph took a series of steps as shakily as a newborn foal. She would either learn to run or die. It was that sort of dire situation that breathed a new determination into the fragile nymph. Amarantha knew she must fight through the unbearable pain to live long enough to extract her revenge on the mortal who plagued. her. She groaned at the mere thought of him, his memory clung to her brain causing her heart to beat more quickly than it should. He had shaken her to the core and yet somehow she had lived to recall the atrocities he had committed. 

“The fragility of the hierarchy, There is a difference between leadership and Titles. High Fae sometimes forget that. When they lose respect, all they have is the allusion of a dominion to govern. True leaders will win out in the end because they do not command the respect but earn it.” Amarantha’s analysis was based entirely on her views of her Queen. “I know it is strange that a Nymph could be so opinionated on politics. They are a bore, but it seems that now they are relevant. These unruly humans are a product of the blind eye the courts have turned on them.”

.

Morana didn’t know her way around the castle well, but supposed it wouldn’t be too difficult to find an exit. Unfortunately when chaos erupted Morana had escaped in the first direction she didn’t see humans crowding and now didn’t know where exactly she was. For a moment she wondered if she should ask Amarantha whether she wanted to try to find other Nymphs or not, but that thought was brushed off quickly. Finding people would be a far greater task than finding a place, and she supposed that a group of Nymphs wasn’t the safest place to be in a brawl. Inhabitants of the Garden lacked much dexterity, being raised to navigate Astralis through sensuality.  That fact was more evident than ever as Amarantha took a few shaky steps forward. Morana hoped that they were far enough away from the epicenter of the fight to not run across anymore enemies — human or otherwise. She wasn’t worried about not being able to defend herself, but the Nymph was an easy target she had to watch out for as well.

“It is certainly unusual, though most of what I know of Nymphs comes from what I have heard rather than first hand experience,” Most Nymphs stayed within the Garden for much of their lives, only leaving to find their mate or out of necessity. Of those that did venture out, the bitter conditions of Winter were often too harsh of them so they seemed to avoid her court. Though Morana would admit that the vast amount of time she spent within her home undoubtedly played a part in why she hadn’t met many Nymphs. “I am glad to hear that some of you are keeping up with the politics of the courts, it is important to hear the perspective of those who are not directly involved in the conflict. Though since the Garden allied themselves with Night it does feel as though the Nymphs have chosen a clear side.” It had always been the seven courts bickering amongst each other while the Garden and Wild Hunt usually kept to themselves. Hearing the the Queen of Roses had married off one of her most prized nymphs to the King of Nightmares had sounded like an imagined rumor rather than fact when she first heard it.

There was a reason for the destructive results of Jacqueline’s terrible means. She was born into such unthinkable cruelty, forged off the blood of petulant and dangerous men like her father. It seemed that she and her brothers had that in common. A basic, first instinct to always choose the worst. Jacqueline, in some accounts, being the worst of the lot. For she did not merely inflict pain and betrayal on others, but herself. It was a talent, really. One that achieved the means and ends of the Nightmare King and their fiendish ambitions. But in doing so, she lit herself on fire. Often times, she did not burn. The hearts of men lesser than hers, crushing in her palm, without an after thought. The darkening in a so-called comrade’s eyes, as the sweet-talking girl evolves into a hell hound of her own making. Fire could not thaw her ice. Or so she believed. It came about, once in a century, but it was as devastating as any. She would build her deceit, and feel it crush on her own. The very heartache she still carried for Matthew, all but proved it. Jacqueline’s worst enemy, was ultimately herself. Joy, vulnerability, acceptance… It could be within reach. Ultimately, though, she chose destruction.

Naively, she always imagined it would be different with Kieran. They were younger fae then, and the wounds and touches of her father were fresh on her skin. The notion of heightened friendship or even romance, far from a thought. Not unless it was in service of her diplomatic duties as Gabriel’s advisor. Truthfully, it seemed senseless to shroud their longstanding friendship with such malice. It was not a desire, nor a curiosity. All the same, she had likened Kieran to a rarity  where her impulse for chaos did not win. A considerable feat, that neither of her brothers could say for themselves. But perhaps it was the centuries in between, adding blurred lines and hardened features on them. Or the way she had devolved, despite his thinking otherwise. Parts of her existence may have thrived, such as the existence of companions and the comfort of a home. But she traded pieces of herself in, until something else entirely prevailed. It was quick and daunting, how her impulse shot back the silent impulse to coax his saddened words. Jacqueline need only think of this as a con, and she could spill honeyed words of understanding into his lips. Even her kiss, would be tempered with a practiced softness of lovers past.

Yet she is entirely herself, and Kieran lets it be known. A cross expression, mirroring her own, as he evoked his own righteous rage. How she wished she could soften. But stubbornness, and perhaps narcissism, kept her from doing so. And perhaps, most frighteningly, a fear that she could do so with such ease. Was her slow yet poignant change so flagrant, that it made her putty by the sight of a long lost friend? An attack had been made on both her High Lord, and her land, and there’s a distinct need to be herself. Isn’t that how they thrived all these years? “Well, I would be more than capable of it. How shall I get started? Inflict a dreadful nightmare until he beseeches, and draw out his death into a fortnight? Until his blood pools on the marble of his gaudy estate?” There’s a heavy dose of bitter sarcasm as she says it, yet she feels herself meaning it. She had done away with her own father in such a way. A long, tormented death as Nate coaxed her along.

“Or shall we call for more theatrics, and start a long yet delightful con? I have taken down greater men than the Duke, or your father. It would be of grand delight.” There’s a protectiveness, buried beneath her satirical and manic response. Even a laugh of true, unadulterated madness – the weight of his reappearance, and her High Lord’s passing showing its affects. When the world closed in on her, it seemed to be the only path forward. “Do not mistake my frustration at how this had come to be, with apathy. I worshiped you. I mourned you. And the more time passed, the more I recognized that grief to be false. You would never die so easily. Not you.” He was a survivor, like her. Capable of withstanding even the most disturbed of events. “Forgive me for needing a fucking minute.” She hisses, but there’s another shift. Amidst the stages of grief, came a silent acceptance of sort. Jacqueline clings onto the silence for a moment longer, studying his features intently. “Perhaps its been one century too long.” She finally recognizes, her brittle fingers coaxing along the silk of her dress, in impervious thought. A glance down the hall, where the rest of her life (a life forged without him now) was devoted to.

.

Kieran truly did not know what to make of the woman who stood in front of him. As much as he had changed over the years, so had she. It would be foolish to believe otherwise. In his younger years Kieran had believed himself to be nothing more than a victim, but Jacqueline Dubois was always a survivor. That fact had become most clear to Kieran when told him of her father’s murder. In that moment, as much as he wanted to feel otherwise, he’d been jealous. Happy that she would no longer be crushed under the thumb of her abuser, but painfully wishing he was capable of doing the same. Even if he couldn’t go to the fatal lengths Jacqueline and her siblings did, he still wasn’t able to get rid of his stepfather in any capacity. Not without risking the loss of his mother’s happiness or his own wellbeing. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t dreamt of one day putting the Duke through twice the pain he’d forced Kieran to endure. Hearing Jacqueline detail how she would terrorize both Moreno and Kazmer admittedly redirected some of Kieran’s anger back towards both the father figures in his life. From what he’d heard of her power and the conviction in her voice he had no doubt that she was capable of following through on her words. Well, at least with his stepfather. He wasn’t entirely sure how well she’d fair against his mercenary father. She didn’t even know his name, let alone the full extent of his brutality. Kazmer was what had turned Kieran from victim to survivor. What forced him to get stronger and fight for his life when all he wanted to do was let his body collapse one last time.

Jacqueline was an ocean of emotions. He’d realized that the longer he watched her. A massive wave of anger crashed one moment, telling her to lash out, and the next it was receding back and her voice softened. She was entirely unpredictable and he genuinely wasn’t sure if he could trust what came out of her mouth. Reckless words flowed from her lips, seemingly formed out of instinct rather than forethought. His temper slowly faded with hers, a steady simmer beneath his skin that could flare back up at any moment. Kieran almost wanted to laugh as she tried to justify herself. He understood that she was going through a whirlwind of emotions over the past hour, but that didn’t justify her actions. “Frustration? Is that what you call what you just did? Well forgive me for not realizing that kissing someone right after you fucking slap them is just run of the mill irritation for you, ” His expression was stern as he spoke, anger still evident in his tone. But his eyes? They held within them a deep rooted sorrow that he could never shake. “Take all the time you need, Jacqueline, but if you’re going to ask questions don’t treat my answers like a load of bullshit just because it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.” Kieran sighed as his stony façade faltered for a moment, “Yes, perhaps it has.”

“Therein lies the trouble of politics.” Amarantha carefully considered her words. They were wise indeed. Her insights shed light on the innerworkings of her mind. Amarantha noted the philosophy, put it away for later contemplation. Even on the brink of uncertainty, the nymph still clung to her thorny nature. Filing information away on every person she met. Amarantha was a wealth of knowledge that very few could comprehend. This Duchess of Winter, Morana Norskov, had struck up a curiosity in the nymph. If not for the pressing matters at hand, she might have indulged further into the mind of this ice faerie. Perhaps if she survived to see the dawn, she might plan a trip to more thoroughly thank this unconventional savior. 

“A king cannot rule without a fist. There cannot be law without punishment. There is a fine line drawn in the sand. Both sides throw stones at each other. I prefer myself to walk the line between the two. You see much more clearly how the puzzle fits together.” Amarantha prided herself on her keen observations and lack of bias toward one court or another. She always felt set aside from the world, living in it but far from being a part of it. It was her greatest asset in becoming a thorn and yet her greatest weakness when it came to building lasting relationships. “I can assure that I will be left standing when they are all ripping each other apart. Will you stand with me?”

.

Morana considered herself to be rather neutral when it came to politics. It was what made her such a great asset in diplomatic matters as a Duchess. Her allegiance would always be to Winter, but her loyalties didn’t keep her from seeing other points of view. It appeared that Amarantha was of the same mindset, carefully navigating the alliances and tensions between the courts. Nymphs typically didn’t get involved with the seasonal and solar courts — only sending out Thorns when they wanted to keep tabs on the rest of Astralis — which made The Garden’s recent alliance with Night all the more curious. If anything it signaled that a war between the courts was truly to come.

Even with the help of her magic dulling the pain of the nymph’s wounds, she was surprised by how much Amarantha was able to talk. Her words rang true, but were clearly still strained. “Unless Winter falls, I will stay standing,” Morana wasn’t sure what would happen to her if Winter lost to one of the other courts. If the Valentina’s mighty fortress was brought to its knees. Would she be taken as a prisoner of war because of her title, or executed as a statement? She supposed her fate would depend on which of the courts overtook her icy kingdom, but that was not a situation she believed it best to dwell on. “Now,” The Duchess clasped her hands together, “we cannot stay in this hallway forever. Are you able to walk?”