SIXTH BOOK OF THE CHRONICLES OF FANTASILIA SERIES
𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥. 𝘕𝘰𝘸, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴.
Xanthiene Vivenca has to find allies and legendary objects of po...
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Seravel dragged his feet going to the fire sprite assembly who arrived shortly after the war was declared over. The fire potentate and his delegates rode down from Calca to meet with the Seelie Court to talk about things Seravel didn't care about. He was probably going back to Lanbridhr the second his father saw him. Then, he's going to spend the rest of his life stuck inside the Palace unless Xanthy thinks of an excuse for him. Not that he was hoping for that. Xanthy was busy enough already.
He reached the wide door leading to the set of rooms where the Seelie Court stashed the fire sprite nobles. A lump formed at his throat as he stepped forward, locating a common room where the nobles lounged on deformed chairs pulled from somewhere in the wreckage on the eastern flank of the Imperial Palace.
His father turned away from a set of maps scattered on a wooden table whose contents now littered the carpeted floor. Seravel studied the swirls embroidered on the rugs. Should he have taken needlework as an elective back at the Academy?
He could feel his father's burning gaze on his scalp.
"Seravel," Magren, the Potentate started. "What are you thinking?"
Seravel held his tongue as he was trained to do so since birth. If holding tongues were a sport, he would probably be the undefeated champion. He waited for his father to finish his statement with his signature line, you can speak. It didn't come. Father and son stared at each other, the latter patiently waiting, the former wondering what in Umazure was wrong with his son.
The Potentate sighed, bracing the table with both hands. The other nobles stared at Seravel like he's the cause of every hardship their leader has been through. "Going to war by yourself, sneaking under my nose, and actually going to Parkane," his father rasped. He seemed to think the table was his son. "Are you out of your damned mind?!"
Seravel flinched. There still wasn't the line so he couldn't defend himself. The best he could do was to step back. He angled his body towards the door so he could run if needed to.
"Sire," Ardi said after a while. "You have to say the line."
Ardi was probably the only one who could speak out of turn without losing his head on the process. The Potentate sighed and waved his hand. "You may speak."
As if by magic, Seravel's tongue unlatched from the roof of his mouth. "I did it to save our people," his tone came out defiant. Oh no. That's wrong. "You wouldn't have listened even if I told you because you're busy aiding the Heiress with our own soldiers."
His father's face reddened. Holy gods of Calaris. An image of a corpse-blessing ceremony flashed into Seravel's mind. It wouldn't be too long. "Don't think I have no idea what you're doing behind my back for years now," his father said in a grave tone. "I know it's you behind those cursed prints."
Seravel completed his step back, this time. The things he said on the weekly paper criticizing his own father's regiment would warrant him sure death in the courts. Oh, gods.
