of in the cold food of out hot eat the food

If Grian were to make one thing clear in the future, it was that riding on horseback was not for him. Unfortunately, it seemed his sponsor did not care for these tastes, nor many others, as Grian realized as he picked his way through Wayscliffe, a bumbling portside town near the southernmost tip of Gilded Helinthia. 

Two nights prior, Grian had been rustled from bed to a dim room near Ascendant’s lowest floor. It was there that Sir Martyn ordered that he travel to the now-distant Mythland, as the country’s newest ambassador. It was necessary, the Duke had insisted, that even after Mythland had fallen from Helinthianism and broken the Sunlit alliance, that friendship must be maintained. And, Grian, born ambassador for the Cod Empire, was simply the perfect choice for such a task.

As he sat atop the cliffs for which the town was named, Grian heaved a sigh. He had voiced his confusion that night, to no avail. Why now was he being sent, when King Sausage had fallen dark nearly a decade prior? Sir Martyn had narrowed his eyes slightly, cocking his head, before pushing through instructions for the other man’s coming travel. Enforcers shortly led Grian to a horse with a pre-packed saddlebag, shoved a map in his hands, and told him to beat it. 

The sea winds picked up as sunset finally faded over the horizon. Grian could feel it well tears in his eyes. Though he loathed being sprung out of court as he had, he had missed this view of the ocean. He picked his way into town slowly, eyes open for the inn Sir Martyn had so kindly circled on his provided map. Yet, he couldn’t stop staring off to the ocean, its churning, frothing motion enchanting him as waves battered the shoreline below. He’d have to bring Pearl out here one day, he thought. Maybe that would cement their long-fought alliance between Gilded Helinthia and the Cod Empire. Maybe they would go fish, and he’d change her mind on the salted water and the life beneath it. 

Maybe he would have if he were still at court. For now, it was an idea filed for later. Grain turned his horse towards the inn he now stood before, taking in its sagging wooden frame. 

Just for a little while, he thought, tying his horse to a stake out front. Just one visit to Mythland, one attempt at friendship, and I will return. 

Unease crept over him. He walked through the doors, wood creaking uncertainly beneath as he stepped. The innkeeper bowed his head from behind the reception desk, an action Grian took as confirmation to continue inside. 

It was nights like this that made Gem long for home. A damp, humid heat had penetrated the stone walls of the Ascendant Castle, coating her palms in a tacky film. From her perch atop the room’s wooden rafters, she found herself distracted, glancing out the windows for any glimpse of evening falcons or the city’s nightlife. 

Shaking herself, she attempted to refocus on the space in front of her. Faint light drifted under the door from the Queen’s bedchambers, barely flickering as the air hung still and quiet. It was a bad time to be distracted. In the past three weeks, the Queen had been the target of several disturbing events. First was the man who jumped in her path on the way to dawn devotionals, then one who was removed from the Great Hall for screaming during the Queen’s Audience of Grievances. His ravings had cast a shadow for the rest of the day, with groups of farmers slowly leaving rather than pile concerns on the aggrieved queen & council. 

Then, things escalated. One man snuck into the castle, masked and carrying a knife, making it to the base of Sol tower before guards apprehended him. Another intruder shortly made their way even closer to the Queen’s quarters. Gem had dealt with them, leaving the body to be found the following morning. Listening carefully, she figured that she may have to do the same tonight. 

Unpracticed footsteps in the hallway creaked against wooden floorboards. Sir Hills would be on the other side of the tower, at a lull in his rounds. Gem let her eyes adjust to the darkness of the antechamber, rising into a crouch. The last would-be assassin had been so young – just a few years younger than herself. The memory of a body on the floor, once full of promise, plagued her vision. The door from the hall opened a crack, enough for one person to slip through. 

For a long time, the air was still. This cutthroat was more cautious than the others, waiting for a chance to move. When Sir Hills resumed his rounds, moving towards the bedchamber once more, he moved. One hand opened the door, the other unsheathing a blade at his side. As he moved, so did Gem. 

Her bare feet hit the floor, soundless. As the cutthroat crept into the Bedchamber, Gem caught him. Covering his mouth with her hand, she drove a blade of her own through his ribs. 

The cutthroat writhed in her grasp. Gem held tight, careful to not let a drop of blood fall on her. As the body stilled, she lowered the body to the ground, pulling back the cloth covering his face. 

He was no one she knew. His face still held the roundness of boyhood. Muddy-brown eyes stared at the ceiling. She sighed, crossing his hands over his chest, before retreating to the shadows. 

The ocean was a place of reverence in the Mezalean Empire. Sea-borne breezes swept across the coast and over the walls of the capital city, sustaining life inside as surely as the Mother Tree. Windmills and balloons harnessed the gales, along with the farmers who trusted them to bring much-needed rain to the green kingdom. 

Yet, the sea was no place for a royal. The walls had been constructed for a reason – this was the same ocean which once eroded the cliffs upon which Mezalea now stood. Waves rose tall and crashed hard, filling the coasts with tidepools of sloughmud. The few ports of the kingdom were located shores away, in the few coves which could withstand the might of the ocean. The walls kept Mezalea safe. There was no need for a royal to exit them. 

Joel couldn’t help it, though. Ever since he was young, drafts of salt-scented air wafted through his windows in the Matral Palace, calling for him. He had spent years perfecting the art of inching out of his windows and climbing down the treacherous cliff faces, all to visit the coasts bathed in moonlight. Tonight was really no different. 

He had spent the last few hours with a pit in his stomach. He’d be expected to return to the palace tomorrow, having finished the first stage of training as a Sanctarian. He hadn’t seen his family in nearly five years, focused only on his instruction in the Houses of Knowledge. Joey would be nearly 30 now, heir apparent to the terracotta throne. It would be the first time he’d face his brother not as an equal, but as a subject. The routines of the Windward house had helped steady Joel some, dinner at the mess followed by a sparring session with BigB, yet he still found himself in his bunk, unable to sleep. He listened for footsteps in the halls, air rustling through the bamboo screens that divided up the sleeping quarters. When he was satisfied that no one remained awake, Joel slid out of his bed, climbed through the window, and dropped quietly into the sparring grounds. 

Wandering through the Old Quarter, Joel squinted against the darkness. The lamps in the other Houses had been extinguished, leaving the Mother Tree as the only source of light. Its slight purple glow allowed for him to make his way to the wall. He murmured a quick thanks before scaling the wall down to the sea. 

It was here he felt most peaceful. Picking his way across the rocks, he found one to sit on and watch the tide whirl in and out of the gullies along the coast. It had a melody to it, faint as mist above moss, lilting and pleasant. He began to hum along, finding shells that would fall from the waves as they came in. 

Suddenly, the tide shifted. The steady breeze that had been blowing in picked up to a tempest. Joel was blown off of the rock he’d been resting on, scrambling to find his footing. As he stood, he saw the ocean in a fury, whipping up waterspouts and whirlpools. Lightning arced across the dark sky. Joel heard bells tolling in the city proper, a warning to take cover. 

The wind whipped through his hair, tearing at his clothes, shivering as sea spray pelted his skin. He sprinted toward the wall, finding handholds as rocks skirted away under his feet.