Drakkar's rage left being anywhere near his office or his room nearly unbearable. The whole wing of the Eyrie in which he spent most of his time required a warming spell or a heavy cloak to navigate. Illyrian had opted for the latter after the second guard and third member of the Eyrie's staff came to talk to her about it. She had sought him out, braced for his cold distance and dismissal, and for once found she was not the cause of his fury. 

To his credit, Drakkar did his best to reign in his temper and grant his Queen calm. He even allowed her to sit with him and didn't pull away from her touch. Perhaps both most surprising and most concerning, he freely accepted her Craft as she helped soothe him through her Touch. Illyrian held great ability there, having always been able to offer a deep well of serenity to her bonded. But it only worked if they choose it to. She couldn't force him to calm. Accepting her offering was out of character for the leader of the Blood Seekers and as much as she enjoyed the connection, it left her uneasy as well.

When she asked if he wished to talk about it, the only thing he shared was that there was a traitor coming to Court. Normally, Illyrian would have pushed. She would have insisted he tell her, relentlessly going at him until she understood the situation more fully. But as she watched him cling to the bits of calm she was able to infuse him with, she knew it wasn't the right path. This was personal for the Warlord Prince of Askavi and Illyrian knew better than to interfere.

When the day arrived, she had given him his space. She waited to join his side until he sent for her. When he did, she pressed a kiss to Irinian's hair before disentangling her daughter from her lap and walked with intention and purpose toward the throne room. Guards fell in to join her as she went. She noticed the number and wondered if it was Drakkar or Renvar who had ordered their increased presence.

When she entered the throne room, the entirety of her focus was on her male. She moved toward Drakkar, the train of her backless pewter gown flowing behind her. Drakkar offered a proper greeting, befitting both her station as Askavi's Queen and as his Queen. She bowed her head in acceptance and exchange before turning to sit down on her throne.

Only then did she realize the number of people present. Her wings twitched, as they so often did when she was indoors, but she refrained from spreading them. Too many tempers were on edge. Even if most did not interpret it as an aggressive gesture, it only took one tightly strung Eyrien to set off the rest. As Drakkar's voice carried easily over the crowd, she reached out her hand to brush against his. *Steady, my Prince*. Her words breathed through his mind with the same gentleness her knuckles brushed the back of his hand, infusing him with her Touch. She pulled away again enough that it would not be obvious what had just passed between them, but left her arm resting where he could easily reach her hand if he needed to.

The doors opened and the small group was led inside. *Steady.*

1. Keep Protocol firmly in mind.

2. Don’t attempt to sleep with anyone’s Queen.

3. Be respect to Province and District rulers when meeting them, but don’t grovel. You never know when they might rise to rule.

4. Shut up and listen.

Lucky had met with Omid before he left for Askavi, the older male giving him some pointers on how to handle this situation. Together, they had done some research on the ruling forces within the territory and the Prince had showed him how to handle some of the likely situations he might find himself in. The preparation had made him feel confident on the way here, but now Lucky felt, well, terrified. Omid was the one who was supposed to meet others on Pruul’s behalf. He was the one that knew the delicate dance of Protocol. Lucky was just as apt to offend someone as compliment them with the same words.

So the two had run through some phrases he could say. They had organized a few gifts he could give them. Mocked up some scenarios. But Lucky was still Lucky. The brilliantly colored kurta shalwar he wore might hide that fact from the Eyrien Court, but it didn’t hide that fact from him. Still though. Eleanor believed in him. Fin believed in him. Some of his family did. Maybe he could make them proud. Lucky would even settle with getting out of here without drawing any blood.

As they waited outside, the Warlord Prince laid a hand on Fin’s shoulder, catching his eye. “I’m with you, Fin. If they challenge you, they challenge me.” Without the Warlord, who knew were Lucky al-Izar would be today. Probably underneath a large sand dune, forgotten. He would not let that debt go unpaid, even if his loyalty to Pruul and his loyalty to his friend warred with each other.

As the trio of Pruulians entered the large chamber, Lucky kept his eyes fixed ahead, appraising the pair sitting in the duel thrones. A Warlord Prince and a Queen. Fire and water. Not a full council, but similar to how Pruul had set up their territory rulership. The good nature of a Queen tempered by the hostility of a Warlord Prince. It just happened to be that this Warlord Prince hated his friend. Maybe, if he shut up and listened like Omid had advised, he could be of some use. Apparently diplomacy and fighting did not go hand and hand. And, despite Lucky's disbelief, there were situations were diplomacy was ever better than fighting. It seemed like this could be one of them.

Waiting for Kaderian to introduce them, Lucky bowed to the pair of rulers, met their gaze, and stepped back, careful to only make eye contact with the Eyrien Queen and not let his gaze fall down to her breasts. He was determined to make some semblance of a good impression. Well, as good an impression as a half-breed child could to these long-lived pricks.   

“Prince Estaroth. Lady Kriat. Lucky al-Izar, ruling Warlord Prince of the Pruulian Territory Council. Friend of Fin al-Sabbah.”

At least that was a phrase Omid and him had practiced, so if he fucked up here he could yell at his brother later.

If there was a later.

Gravesend’s majesty was unrivaled and its proximity to the sky made it an ideal place to hide a Court. Tavar had been through Snow Cliffs Province only once in his life, on the way to his first mission in Shalador during the Great War. Thinking of the jungle Territory made the scar over Tavar’s right eye tingle, and he smiled at the memory of the spear that had nearly taken his eye centuries ago. The smile was welcome, given that he’d had precious few reasons to smile over the past few days. Seeing Fayrian again had opened up unexpected wounds.

Coming home was a mistake, but one he could not undo.

Tavar recognized a few males from his youth here, but a small number. Most of them looked at him with curiosity or veiled anger, but the presences of Lucky and Abbadon had taken some of the attention off of him. He dressed much as the young men had, in the Pruulian fashion with soft slippers, dark breeches and dark brown tunic. His Purple Dusk and Sapphire jewels hung from silver chains at his neck, gifts from Shadya and Amira prior to his departure. He missed his nieces now, more than ever, but he knew what Drakkar would do to them if he ever came to Pruul. The image of Drakkar raping Amira until her jewels broke, of forcing Shadya to tend his men had stiffened Tavar’s spine. He adjusted the silver band on his wrist, the symbol of his fealty and membership among Clan Sabbah, and waited in silence to be called before the throne.

He had come to Askavi for one reason and one reason alone. It was time to get to work.

Tavar noted the placement and position of the guards. They were highly disciplined, for certain, but there were always those who took their duties less seriously than others. Tavar sought those men for a time, but did not find them at first glance. He resolved to keep his eyes open.

Lucky offered his support and Tavar smiled at the younger man. Despite the disagreement between them regarding the Mineborn Council, Tavar believed that the Warlord Prince spoke true. He was comforted that Mother Night had brought these brothers together and placed them both into his life. Both men would carry Pruul far, in due time, even if Tavar himself did not return. He also knew that they would take care of Shadya, Judiah, Amira, and Elenor if he fell here today. The comfort in that single thought let Tavar allowed him to cover Lucky’s hand with his own and nod.

“Thank you, my friend. For everything.”

Finally, a member of the Guard arrived to escort them into the presence of the Warlord Prince of Askavi and his Queen. Kaderian looked ready to end this entire debacle and Tavar agreed with her. She would enter the chamber first, followed by Lucky and Abbadon, with Tavar entering last. He held the least status among all of them, as being the Voice of a Clan did not translate into anything that an Eyrien was required to respect. The badges he wore were decidedly less honorable to those arrayed inside the throne room.

Traitor.

Deserter.

Murderer.

Disappointment.

He watched as Lucky and Abbadon showed their skill and honor. Lucky sounded like a ruler. He sounded like a man who knew his place in the world and not a boy struggling to sound tough. He was proud of him, though he could not say so. Abbadon’s introduction was no less skilled, though Tavar noted the deep chill in the room as he watched the rulers of Gravesend. Lady Kriat was a beautiful woman and it surprised him to hear Abbadon said that they were meeting again. Drakkar’s shifted toward Illyrian, but then returned to the male before him, glaring daggers at the young man who claimed familiarity with the Queen of Askavi.

Only now did Tavar recognize just how different, and yet how similar father and son truly were. They both despised people as a general rule, though they could be tender toward those they claimed.

“Prince al-Sabbah. Prince al-Izar.” Drakkar said. “Welcome to Askavi. Your gifts are received. I am certain that this Court will have many, many questions for the two of you in the coming days.”

Vannevar stepped forward to collect both gifts from the foot of the throne, holding them gently.

Drakkar stood and walked down the steps from his throne to stand on the floor. He walked over to Kaderian and took her hands, offering the first real smile that he’d smiled in days.

“Before we continue any further,” Drakkar said, raising his voice for the assembled. “Lady Yrisia, along with Lord Dorma, Prince Attanis, and Prince Garos, should be commended for their dedication to duty and their bravery in the face of adversity. They put duty above personal desire, one year ago, to enter a world that still fears and hates us. They made this sacrifice to bring home the son of a hero. They sacrificed time with their families, time with their fellow warriors, their Queens, and in their own lives to bring home the son of one of our most-esteemed warriors, the Warlord Prince Valar Andros.

These people succeeded where even Lord Tavar’s father did not, returning him to his people after centuries away. Lady Yrisia and her companions are to be honored for their dedication and perseverance, even when the lives of our brothers were snatched away by the Jhinka.

We owe them a debt we can’t repay.” Drakkar said, before releasing her hands. He returned to his seat at Illyrian’s side and sat.

Only then did his attention turn to Tavar.

“Lord Andros.”

The words were filled with a chill that Tavar had never heard from another Warlord Prince. He did not flinch. Tavar stepped forward and offered a deep bow to Lady Kriat and Drakkar, infused with every ounce of diplomacy and Protocol he could muster. He represented Elenor and the Sabbah here. He would show them his quality.

“Lady Kriat. Prince Estaroth. Thank you both for your hospitality this day. My name is Lord Tavar Andros, also called Fin al-Sabbah, by the people of Pruul--”

“You will be called by your name here, Lord Andros.” Drakkar said.

Tavar wanted to snarl a challenge. He wanted to tell Drakkar that that name wasn’t for him to use, but he remained silent. This Court was filled with Drakkar’s supporters, making Tavar wonder at the dynamic here. He’d heard an unsettling rumor at Living Lake, one that he didn’t want to discuss in public. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and continued. “I’ve returned at your request, Prince, to address my absence and actions. I request a private audience with you and Lady Kriat to do so.”

Drakkar nodded, considering it. “At my request.” Drakkar said softly. Illyrian would feel his anger flare across their bond as he murmured those words.

“Well, thank you for returning at my request. Had I known that you’d respond, I would have requested that you return sooner.” Drakkar said.

“Your request for a private audience is denied. You will speak to all of us, or none of us, as Prince al-Sabbah and Prince al-Izar have done. A Blood Seeker can do no less.”

Fin’s expression darkened. This was going poorly. He looked to Illyrian, who had been silent thus far.

"And do you say the same, Lady Kriat?" 

Cassian was late to the gathering and knew she would be. Healing took its own time and did not bow to the arrival of guests or traitors, depending on how one saw Tavar Andros’s return as. When she was finally free of her duties, she slipped into the room as quietly as possible, meeting Queen Kriat’s eyes briefly and dipping her head in respect.

Court was already in session, judging by the tone Drakkar was using. Cassian found herself a corner and tucked her wings close as she looked over the contingent from Pruul. Winged, all of them, but not all of them like the Eyriens in the room. Tavar held himself with composure and calm, naming himself Fin al-Sabbah, a Pruulian name, but Drakkar reminded him of his birth name rather quickly. Dismissively. Cassian suppressed a sigh. Any hope she had fostered of Drakkar ever being gentle, like that conversation they had had while he had been healing, was quickly diminishing. It seemed all he wanted was violence.

She looked over at the two males who had come with Tavar. Even from here, she could tell they were Warlord Princes and Dark, but while one of them held himself like a man, the other held himself in a parody of a man. No, parody was not the right word. Youthful. Inexperienced. Why was he here? Ruling Warlord Prince of the Pruulian Council? Did that mean that this boy just entering manhood was in charge of a Territory?

How strange.

The other Warlord Prince, the even Darker one, intrigued her. There was something about him that radiated assurance and...other. Was he of a second Caste? She couldn’t tell at this distance but he carried himself with an air of something more than just Warlord Prince. Perhaps she imagined it. Either way, she hoped that she would get to meet him in a scenario where he wasn’t bleeding out all over the floor.

Keeping to her corner, Cassian listened with restrained interest. Drakkar’s tone boded ill for the trio in the center of the room. On a distaff thread to her fellow Healer, Cassian said to Kaderian, **You don’t think this is going to turn to bloodshed, do you? So many Warlord Prince crammed into the same room, wanting answers?** Wanting answers for things that had happened centuries ago.

If Eyriens were good at anything besides killing, it was holding grudges so that they had the reasoning to kill something in the future.

As a rule, Fayrian did not go to Gravesend. She didn’t like the place, nor the people (then again, Fay didn’t like most people who weren’t Landen or family or Vondar). Today though, she had even put on a nice pair of trousers and knee-high boots, and a button-down that wasn’t entirely covered in dirt stains, atop of which she had pulled on a soft sweater to stay warm during the flight over. Dalinar was playing escort because he, too, had a grievance in this. Tavar hadn’t just killed Fay’s husband and son, but his twin and nephew. The crime was the same but those who had been hurt by it many. Though she usually had trouble being in her Bonded’s presence, today she remained close to him, needed him not for comfort - there was none to be had - but to hold her back when the murderous traitor showed up in her sights again. She didn’t want to spill blood all over this floor without the consent of the Rulers of Askavi.

Still, Fay wasn’t subtle as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She might not be a ruling one, but she was a fucking Queen and she was allowed to not have to jump up and down, trying to get a good view of the drama unfolding from behind some brick-headed and tall male.

Dalinar stayed at her elbow, an arm around hers.

“Steady, Fayrian.” He said, as the Pruulian delegation walked in. She could feel the cold radiating from his hands.

“You too.” She growled back under her breath.

They both remained still, but those golden eyes were fixed on Tavar as he said empty words and tried to get out of sight of the accusatory crowd like the sniveling, sheep-fucking, desert backwater coward that he was. Fay nodded in approval as both Drakkar and Illyrian refused the request, her opinion of them rising from ‘I don’t give a shit’ to ‘I’m ignoring you.’

Then her attention snapped to the fucking Healer.

A hiss passed her lips. What the fuck did Askavi care if they pissed off a single Pruulian Clan? What did Pruul have that Askavi needed? Sand? Fuck them. What did it matter that Tavar’s Queen was open to trade if she was Darkness made for a monster like the one she had thought to be a friend. She would either be a blind idiot or a horrible creature and neither would benefit Askavi.

But she held her tongue… mostly.

“Dalinar, would you send a psychic thread to the Queen of Askavi for me? Stating that I, too, have a grievance to bring before the Court in regard to this male and would like to be worked into the schedule.”

Dalinar was going to add ‘please’ to the end of the request. Usually, Fay would have been annoyed but her annoyance levels were already at max.

She took comfort in daydreaming of Tavar’s screams of agony as his blood coated the floor of this room today. That made her smile, even though she wasn’t holding her breath. Justice was never that…. just.

"Enough." 

Her voice cracked like the single lash of a whip. Sharp and sudden, but over and gone just as quickly, only the sting of a Queen's displeasure left in its place.

Silently, she stood, her wings spreading slightly and adding to the formidable sight of an Eyrien Queen in her element. "This is my Court. I have ruled here for nearly two millennia. And you will observe Protocol appropriate to this meeting or you will have the respect to silence your voice instead of opening your mouth and proving your ignorance."  Her wings snapped shut with a sound of finality and settled against her body.

She turned toward Kaderian. "Lady Yrisia. You have long been away from Askavi and have returned a hero. Your exuberance to complete your mission is admirable. It is why I am forgiving your words without consequence and letting them fall from my mind. But if you ever stand in my throne room and tell my Court what to do again, I will be neither forgiving nor forgetful."

Without waiting for her answer, she turned her focus sharply to Lucky al-Izar. "For a guest of this Court, you handle your life rashly. You rush to negotiate before sentencing when we haven't even heard evidence of wrong doing. You offer 'one last thing'  before judgment when we have not even begun. Do you think us monsters incapable of reason? So blood thirsty there is nothing but immediate slaughter?"

"You are young. And you are new to this land and our ways. I wonder if you even see now what you have done. If you can feel the tension of those around you. Do you realize the insult you offer your Queens? Their service in perpetuity to a foreign land in exchange for some small show of mercy to this Warlord? Do you think so little of their Craft? So little of their place in the Darkness?"

Her eyes narrowed as she continued. "You are male. You have no rights to the Gifts of Queens. You will not trade them like trivial commodities. If they wish to come here and make such offerings, they have that right. But you, Prince, have no right to offer anything of a woman's body to anyone. Whatever it is like in Pruul, Queens will be respected here."

Illyrian's hand came to rest on Drakkar's shoulder. Her Touch ran through her fingertips, seeping into his skin. "So that there are no more interruptions or confusion. Tavar, you will stand before this Court and all will hear what you stand accused of. Already I have had petition for others who wish to speak." Her eyes met Fayrian's and she nodded in acknowledgment. "After they have spoken, then Tavar and others may offer explanations and defense. Prince Estaroth is the leader of the Blood Seekers and the Warlord Prince of Askavi. He will be shown the respect of his station."

Illyrian let her gaze fall on all those gathered before she settled her wings tightly against her back and resumed her seat on her throne. "Please proceed, Prince." At this last, her voice was soft, almost gentle, as she handed her Court and absolute trust into Drakkar Estaroth's hands.

Lukevar watched as it quickly became evident that the hearing wouldn’t be a simple situation.  From his position at at side of the room, he took note of how quick the onlookers’ anger became a palpable thing, that would only need one thing to bring the tension to a head.  Guards, Blood Seekers, and others were in place to protect the onlookers, although with the way things were seemingly headed, Tavar Andros would need to be protected from them.

The thought of leaving Askavi, and abandoning his people, was one that Lukevar couldn’t understand.  While he sympathized with him for being a part of the Red Queen’s war machine, to leave his homeland where his people counted on him to defend them, was unthinkable. Tavar’s attempt to move the hearing to a private location was met with open scorn on the Prince’s face. Initially, he’d hoped that Tavar Andros would be honorable enough to admit his crimes and accept his punishment, allowing those wronged to find closure.  It appeared that instead, it was going to be a much longer hearing than he anticipated.

He tuned out the litany of grievances, and instead turned his attention to the Pruulians that had accompanied Andros out of the desert into Askavi.  The younger of the Warlord Princes seemed too young to rule.  What sort of ruler would trade the services of their Queens for a Warlord who committed atrocities against his own people, and then fled?  If they had Queens to barter, how could they not have one to rule the Territory? Why would an seemingly untried youth be allowed to lead, rather than an more experienced male if their Queens weren’t able?

That the Red Jeweled Warlord Prince also bore the Black Widow caste gave him pause.  Black Widows were known for their fierceness, and combined with the skills of a Warlord Prince, would make for a deadly opponent indeed. For now, he simply remained alert to the mood of the warriors around him, and hoped that things could be resolved with few deaths for Gravesend’s people.

She listened to the toll of Tavar's crimes with a fairly straight face.  She'd tried to explain all of this to his damned Queen.  She'd tried to put the weight of it on the child, but no.. someone like her wouldn't understand.  She didn't understand that 'what happened centuries ago' mattered to people who were thousands of years old.  She couldn't understand that Tavar killing his men meant that he had widowed wives, or taken children from mothers.  Sons and brothers and loved ones stripped away from their families not by an enemy's blade, but by the turned edge of a traitor.

She had tried to explain to Elenor Lirion what Tavar had done, and the Queen in her Bond had not been able to grasp the weight of it.

The petty part of her wished the Queen was here to hear the charges - to put herself in Kriat's position and wonder at how she could have been so naive as to think that this desertion could be forgiven.

The part of her that still loved her sister, and always would, could not wish the pain of watching a Bonded get injured or dead on a Queen.  There was a reason she was so grumpy most of the time.

Her eyes turned to Fayrian as the Broken Queen enumerated her pain.  The Queen was within her rights to demand death - that Kaderian would have to try to prevent it was a damned shame.  But she had given her word.

So she waited until there was a pause, and then she flicked her wings.  Her eyes settled on Drakkar, locking gazes with him.  "I gave my word to his Queen that I would do all I could to make sure he survived.  I stressed to her that he would have to pay a Price for his crimes, of which there are many as we have obviously heard.  Provided that death is not the Price you seek my Prince, Lady Kriat, then I will not stand in your way."

Her head finally turned, taking in the faces and attitudes around her.  "I have Healed many of those in this room.  I know what it is to you, to look at a former Brother and know that it could have been your neck he cut.  Believe me when I say that the anger you feel has been burning beneath my ribs since I found him."  She took a deep breath, closing her eyes.

"A Price must be paid.  But Askavi should not be willing to go to war over a Deserter, or even a traitor.  He isn't worth it.  We have lost enough brothers, husbands, and sons."  She turned her eyes back to Illyrian, finally settling her gaze on a woman she frankly despised.

Whether the Queen could ever fix that was yet to be seen.  "I apologize for stepping in, Lady Kriat, before.  I am too used to the tempers of males in the Camps, and not at all used to Courts.  As the leader of those who sought Lord Andros, also knows as Fin al-Sabbah, I ask that you weigh my request against the need for Justice.  I do not ask that he not be punished.  I left home to seek him with five others.  Three have returned with me, and two were lost to Jhinka in an effort to bring the deserter to you alive.  I ask for no reward for myself, other than that Lord Andros, Fin al-Sabbah, continue breathing after his Price is exacted.  If I must escort him back to Pruul myself, I will do so.  I gave my word in an effort to not put our Territories at war, and I... hope... that will be honored."

Her eyes slid to Fayrian, head inclining more deeply.  "Lady Avilor's suggestion in place of Death seems more harsh to me, anyways.  To live without either of those things seems appropriate."  And Fayrian would know, wouldn't she?  Without her Jewels, and yet still able to hear the scream of the land, it was a marvel she was sane at all. 

*You’re right. Askavi…it is not how I imagined it.* He did not say anymore to Abaddon, but his brother would feel his disappointment resonate through their thread. They were so filled with hate here. Hate for landens. Hate for half-bloods. Hate for the short-lived. Lucky had not realized it before, but Pruul, despite it being a desert, was just so much more filled with life. They had their problems, but many of them were not made by the draining hatred the Mineborn felt from this place. Perhaps Fin had been right. Perhaps Askavi would never feel like the home Lucky wanted it to be.

In a way, he felt pity for them. Pity that they could not experience the culture he had come from. It was this pity that allowed the Warlord Prince to simply quirk his brow at the Queen’s outburst. “My apologies, Lady Kriat. I meant no disrespect.” He offered a slight bow, his back straight, in reconciliation. A show of his deference to her lead. “We shall revisit this during sentencing.”

And they would.

His body bristled to defend Pruul, but he restrained himself, remembering Omid’s advice. But they were not a weak territory. They had withstood the Eyriens even during the Great War. She had blatantly disrespected Pruul’s Queens with her words. Elenor and Vashti would not appear in an unknown land to make their offer, just as Lucky was sure the Queen’s own males would caution against such a move. How truelly stupid could she be to suggest such a thing? Instead, like any sensible Court, they have sent him as their proxy. If she couldn’t accept that, well, it would be her fault her people did not have two viable Queens once a year to feed their starving people.

No wonder Askavi was dying.

What really bothered the Warlord Prince was the woman’s assumption that Pruul’s Queens were so inept that they did not know the consequences of their decisions. They were not children. They were not slaves. Just because Pruul was a short lived territory did not mean it’s Queens were idiots. The fact that she treated Elenor’s and Vashti’s decisions like those made on a whim spoke of the arrogance Lucky had refused to believe underlined Askavi. One life was no more important than another in their culture, but clearly it was not the same in this territory. Clearly she considered a few weeks out of her life each year too large a Price to pay for the life of one of her male’s.

*I wouldn’t want her to be my fucking Queen. If she considers the lives of male’s so insignificant compared to herself.* He shot the words at Abaddon as he listened to the petitioners enumerate their complaints against his friend. He did not smile if anyone noticed him. He just stood there, his hands at his waist, waiting. He did not emanate anger, just the unbounding energy that signaled a Warlord Prince was always ready. It did not matter to Lucky what crimes Fin had committed. Nothing he could have done centuries ago would undo the service he had done to all of Pruul. To him. To his family.

Tavar's words were difficult to hear. Perhaps more than most, the High Priestess of Askavi understood the minds of Eyrien Warriors when they were focused on their fierce need to conquer and claim. She had spent centuries of working in the War Camps to help ease the ruts of the males and protect the unsuspecting females who would fall prey to their vicious desires without some kind of barrier. She had been that line, the boundary that would not be crossed. She had encouraged them to take out their needs on her, using her carefully trained Craft to both smooth the edge of particularly violent ruts and to strengthen her own Chalice before then offering herself to a Healer's well trained hands.

She had never doubted that the destruction of their enemies had involved the rape and breaking of foreign women. Perhaps other Eyrien women lied to themselves about that, but Celebrian didn't have that liberty. She knew the darkness within men's souls.

But to hear it spoken about in this way caused her teeth to set firmly against each other and press until her jaw muscles ached and threatened to crack enamel if she continued. Tavar's words struck a painful chord within her. The Sapphire Priestess never doubted Eyrien superiority, at least not outside her most silent prayers to Mother Night. But if he spoke true, the son of her child's namesake, then this hearing just became significantly more complicated.

Golden eyes burned like molten metal when Drakkar spoke of their son. It was known that they had lost a child together. But that did not stop it from being a private thing, a personal thing, and not one she was comfortable having openly discussed in front of all those gathered. But it was Tavar's next words that tore the breath from her throat and left her feeling like she had fallen while flying, hitting the ground hard enough to collapse her lungs.

Another son?

Drakkar had... another son?

His shock came in the form of fury as he stormed forth, closing the distance between himself and the young Warlord Prince with a spider's nature. Had he not called for her to come forward and verify what had just been learned, she might have simply stood where she was and stared. This close together, the resemblance was striking. Even the snarl similar. But she had a duty to honor and a task to perform. She moved forward quickly, placing herself close to both Warlord Princes. Irritation rolled off them both, thick enough to choke on.

"Prince Estaroth," Celebrian said, her voice a familiar tone she had often used to soothe him when he was riled. She placed a hand on his shoulder and moved down his arm. She called in a small ritual knife and held it to the back of his skin. She looked at Abaddon. "I do not know the ways of Pruul. In Askavi, blood is needed from both of you. Are you willing?" When Abaddon responded that he was, Celebrian didn't hesitate, her blade immediately cutting across the back of Drakkar's forearm. She hadn't asked his permission. He had known what would be entailed when he called for her to verify the claim. He didn't even look at her, so focused on staring down the Pruulian male before him.

Blood spilled in thick drips onto the stone floor of the throne room. She reached for Abaddon's arm next, but waited for him to offer instead of just touching him as she had done with the Warlord Prince of Askavi. There was a stillness in the room as everyone waited to see what would happen. Abaddon shifted his gaze to the High Priestess, looking at her and only her while she drew the blade across his skin. When she looked up into his eyes, she was struck by the intensity of his gaze.

Sapphire Craft swelled as Celebrian softly chanted the words of the working. Blood flowed from both men's arms, pooling next to their feet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if that section of stone was suddenly tilted, the blood began to flow rapidly toward the middle. It glowed softly with Celebrian's Craft and soon there was a pool of shimmering crimson forming before her. One pool, one blood.

She glanced to Drakkar. There was so much emotion in that one moment, the entirety of their history present with them as she silently confirmed what she was about to announce.

"Blood calls to blood. Tavar Andros speaks true. This man is the son of Drakkar Estaroth."

The Queen of Askavi rose from her seat as Drakkar stormed from the room. She did not turn to watch him go. Whatever he needed in that moment, she was unable to provide. Even if the Touch of his Queen had soothed his rage and hurt both, she was in no position to place his needs over the entirety of her Court and the trial that was in progress. While he had been taken off guard and plunged into torrential storm of emotion, she held a responsibility to see this through even if he could not.

True to her intent, Illyrian had remained a silent observer of the proceedings once she had reclaimed control of the throne room. The voices that rose to tell their story painted a damning picture. No one seemed to doubt that Tavar had killed those he was accused of killing. But Tavar's defense cast a dark shadow over the brave warriors he was accused of cutting down in cold blood. It was one thing to look the other way while the Red Queen's forces had pillaged and raped their way across Terreille. But if what Tavar spoke was true, was this an actual case of desertion? Or merely one of self defense?

Was he truly a traitor at all?

And then came words that Illyrian was as shocked as Drakkar was to hear. She could feel it across their bond, the startling dismay soaked heavily in disbelief. The slightest flicker of hope flared to life before it was shoved down with the brute force of Drakkar Estaroth's considerable will. It stole her breath, as if the very act of his denial landed as firmly as a punch to her belly.

Illyrian watched as rapt as the rest of the gathered witnesses as the High Priestess served the Warlord Prince of Askavi in a capacity that was actually fit for public consumption. It was a nice change. The tension in the room was palpable. Illyrian watched the Warlord Princes, seeking some resemblance between them. Whether she found any was irrelevant. Lady Eodan captured the attention of the entire room with her announcement. Tavar spoke true. Abaddon was Drakkar's son.

And if Tavar spoke true of this, what else did he speak true of?

The silence was deafening. And yet Illyrian held. She waited. Everyone waited. She could feel the maelstrom within Drakkar tearing through him. Disbelief. Fear. Rage. Shock. The Summer Sky Queen did not move, did not each twitch her restless wings until Drakkar turned and strode away, leaving Tavar seemingly speechless in his wake.

"This Court acknowledges that Abaddon al-Sabbah is the son of Drakkar Estaroth." Abaddon was a man grown. It did not hold the weight that a claim of paternity would have earlier in his life, but the High Priestess had proven the relation and the Court of Askavi would officially acknowledge her verification.

Illyrian did not waste time on that new found knowledge. All that was offered was a glance filled with warmth and understanding to the Black Widow Warlord Prince who she knew better than anyone in the room likely realized. And then the moment was over and she was pressing forward with the matters at hand.

"In Prince Estaroth's absense, this trial shall continue under my guidance. Tavar Andros, you offer reasoning for your actions, but do not deny them. By your own admittance, you are guilty of slaying those you fought side by side with. While the cause of your actions does not change your guilt, it can change the sentence that is to be passed. Your explanation shall be weighed, as well any testimony offered on your behalf. If there is anyone present who wishes to speak for you, now is the time for them to do so."

             
Abaddon did not feel any pity for the loss of Lucky’s boyhood dreams. He understood what they were rooted in. Anyone would have built up something better in their mind’s eye for where they came from, if they were stuck in the Geiba’s Mines. His half-brother had been beaten by overseers, and worse, manipulated by the Spider’s Black Widows, and very likely more. These were not excuses for some of Lucky’s less savory behavior, but they were reasons. Abaddon knew that the younger man had to learn, and at the very least, there were lessons here to absorb. *No place is ever how we imagine. My entire life was built on a lie. Imagination is sometimes as dangerous as ignorance.* Askavi was exactly as Abaddon had seen. Lucky did not have the benefit of Abaddon’s sight, nor did he have the dreams of Drakkar Estaroth to reference as he did. The Black Widow Warlord Prince had flown at least a league in his Father’s wings. Even when the subject of his dreams had been faceless, Abaddon had known who it was, and after his snake-tooth came in, and everything seemed so much more sharp, so much more—everything, those dreams became a sort of comfort.

His Father was drenched in violence. It lived in every fiber of his being, it radiated from him in abrasive waves that put Abaddon’s teeth on edge. He had fought and ripped, torn and killed alongside the ephemeral dream presence of his Father, touching on the Eyrien’s memories or his dreams, and they had soothed him. How many faceless enemies had fallen beneath his blade and his Craft? How many lovers were lost? The violence was punctuated by tragedy, but it was clear that Drakkar had been fighting all of his life, a sword unsheathed for hundreds of years, and now no one knew how to put up their swords, least of all Drakkar. Now, he had Lucky’s anger to deal with, misplaced as it was. He felt it roll off of his brother, combining with Drakkar’s, and now he ground his teeth together so hard, he was sure Fin could hear it. Abaddon tilted his head slightly at Lucky’s final message on the Queen’s call to order, and he gave the slightest shake of his head. *I do not think you listened, Lucky. You heard only insult. If you were a thousand year old Priestess, her stance would be the same. Here, in this place, a true Queen rules. Here, no man has such control over the will and use of a woman’s body. Without meaning to, it was you that offered insult. It was you that ran headlong into a culture you know only little about. Cool your ire, or embarrass Pruul.*

Abaddon’s thoughts fell silent as he listened to Fin defend himself for being the honorable warrior every Eyrien claimed to be. He listened, and he felt. He felt the intention and emotion behind the words, felt the story of Fin doing battle with a Father the he knew, he felt the pain of that threat on his family, and on his new life. A life that ultimately included Abaddon. When Fin told Drakkar that Abaddon was his son, he did not quite flinch. His lips did twitch just a bit, and his grip on his own forearms, as he clasped them behind his back, tightened. He had expected the revelation, just not in this particular context. He almost chided himself; imagination indeed. Abaddon had not even realized he had built up any expectations around this moment, but he clearly had. A brother, another brother, but any joy that might have caused was swiftly dashed. The anger magnified from Drakkar, blossomed like someone had blasted sand at him in an attempt to scour the first layer of his skin from his body. It curled his lip. Drakkar was so eager to kill Fin, so eager to deny an abandoned son, that he called for the Priestess immediately. Abaddon didn’t know whether he should feel elated that it would be proven, or angry that it was so easily dismissed. It would be easier to kill everyone. His eyes, golden and growing harder by the second, cut to Illyrian, and he stopped thinking about the Webs he could cast in this room (the Webs he had), and the destruction he could wreak—violence would not rid him of his feelings, only hide them.

Drakkar approached him, and the Black Widow Warlord Prince absorbed his rage like a sponge. He did his best, for a moment, not to reflect it back, but he knew that he failed. He could not restrain it, not when the man stood so close, not when their anger became like a living thing between them. Abaddon felt his snake-tooth twitch, and his eyes almost rolled up into his head with the need to DO something, to act on all the fucking emotions that swept through him like the Purge had swept through everything. It scoured his nerves, left him raw and sensitive, and wanting to tear into something, anything, but he knew that was a bad idea. He knew that would gain him nothing. It would be so simple, so easy. Had they been more concerned, had they considered what it was they were letting into their Court, they would have kept him out. The Priestess, beautiful, patient, even gentle asked for his blood. Abaddon growled the word, ”Yes.” And there was a world of feeling in that one syllable, along with a world of danger. The test was done. The truth revealed. He felt no triumph. He met the eyes of his Father--his Father--and waited. He did not look away first, but he did not break the silence. He stood there, hands by his side now, his shoulders back, only increasing the resemblance in profile between himself and his sire.

And then Drakkar left.

Abaddon’s golden eyes went flat and hard. Ice formed beneath his feet and all around him, and his rage swelled such that it pushed against everyone standing near to him. There was a mixture of fear and eagerness around him, and he swallowed those feelings whole. Let them be afraid. They should be afraid. He growled low and steady at the back of his throat, his fists clenched by his side, and he meant to put every ounce of that anger into his words, and he stalked the stones in front of Fin, moving back and forth in front of the raised dais like a tiger caught in a pit trap.

”The Court acknowledges that Abaddon al-Sabbah is the son of Drakkar Estaroth.”  And with the words came Illyrian’s Touch, and Abaddon stopped his pacing and turned to the Queen.  His eyes closed for a moment, and he tried to accept every drop of comfort, every ounce of that feeling of being home, every tiny scrap of peace he could find in it...and he stepped back from the precipice, his muscles relaxing only a touch, even as his mind continued to boil.  The Warlord Prince called Renvar Yatskaya unexpectedly took the floor.  Abaddon did not expect to find an ally in anyone but perhaps the Queen.  It gave him additional time to focus his mind along with his anger, to take those short moments to fully accept the Gift that Illyrian had offered him.  Renvar spoke hard truths that only supported Abaddon’s line of thinking, and no one could ever accuse them of having conferred, though he doubted that would matter.  For many, he was an abomination with strange powers; perhaps he twisted Renvar to his purposes.  He felt the tempers rise, and while none of them compared to Drakkar’s incandescent intensity, all of them contributed to blunting the balm the Illyrian’s touch should have been.  He offered the Master of the Guard a nod of respect, and perhaps even gratitude, before he rolled his shoulders in an effort to remove tension from his muscles.  An effort that failed.

Abaddon’s enunciation was sharp, clipped, as if he were biting every word off at the end. ”This is not the first time Drakkar Estaroth has turned his back on me.” He faced the Queen now. ”I will speak in defense of Fin al-Sabbah, the man you call Tavar Andros.” The statement was clear and just as clipped in tone. ”History cannot be rewritten, as Prince Yatskaya has made clear. The war turned many of your warriors into monsters. Your rapacious conquest is well known throughout several Territories, the remnants of your half-bloods are proof enough of that. Did Drakkar Estaroth rape my Mother? Did he fall upon her in Rut? Was he perhaps seduced? What am I owed for whatever truth is correct?” His shirt vanished, yet the gorget remained, revealing the scars on his back, ”What am I owed for my wings being shorn before I was even aware I had them? And make no mistake, unlike the Purge, which Fin is not responsible for. Drakkar Estaroth is responsible for this.” He almost spat the last phrase, ”History cannot be changed, neither can truth.” His eyes turned to the Priestess, the first time that any gentility reappeared in his gaze.  ”She has seen what men can do. I read it in her reaction to Fin al-Sabbah’s words. She knows the truth of it, even if she will not speak it here. Even your Queen called a woman’s body sacred, unavailable to the whims of good or vile men.”

He lifted his eyes to Illyrian, his back to the rest of Court, the scars atop the subtle muscle mounds upon his back were obvious. The wounds were clean, expertly done, taken from him by surgery, not battle. Abaddon’s hard gaze softened slightly, and he took a slow, deep breath, the rage abating only a little. ”Fin al-Sabbah, Tavar Andros, had a hand in raising me, and while he did teach me how to fight Eyriens, without ever saying as much, he never taught me to hate them. He could have planted that seed easily. He could have brought me here and used me as a weapon to secure his freedom, he had the means to manipulate me, and I have the power. He could have asked me to make Lady Kaderian and her men disappear, and I would have done so.” He growled, ”Easily.” He regained his focus, ”He could have taught me to hate Drakkar Estaroth. He didn’t.” Abaddon gazed into Illyrian’s eyes focusing on her in an effort to make the rage recede, ”You have the means to check for lies. We stand in a bastion of Black Widow knowledge and wisdom, and even in my relative youth, I can think of half a dozen ways to verify the end of Tavar Andros’ ‘military’ career.” The anger continued to abate, ”For attempting to stop the unlawful assault of a woman, he was forced to fight his peers, his brothers in arms. I do not think that was easy. It is easier to look at him and call him a traitor, when every heart here knows the truth. Such long lives. Such short vision.”

Abaddon kept his eyes on the Queen, ”What is he guilty of?  Did he swear to be a villain or a soldier?  Do Eyriens still understand what honor means?  Where is the honor in the abuse of the conquered, where is the honor in --”  HIs eyes flicked to the Priestess, and he chose to gentle his words.  ”--the assault of a defenseless and beaten woman?  Am I to infer that anything goes if the Eyriens of Askavi are expanding their borders?  That honor in battle only has meaning here, in this place of history?  That Blood Law is meaningless because it is inconvenient to your collective memory?”  He growled, ”What choice was Tavar left with?  Kill more of his brothers?  Wounding his heart every time, or leave the land of his birth, because it was no longer the land he remembered.  You heard the threats of his own Father; where is the honor in that?  No one was murdered.  They were engaged in battle, and they died, because fate found them wanting.  Is it desertion when the war had already lost its way?  It was The Purge that stopped the Conquest, not Tavar Andros.”

He spread his arms wide, tense muscles rippling across his chest and abdomen, in his arms coiling and uncoiling.  A growl laced the same harshly bitten words, ”It is all easily proven.  Every. Word.”  His lip curled, ”If Fin al-Sabbah, Tavar Andros, and his party must accept these ‘stories’ as gospel, then it stands to reason that Lord Andros’ words must be taken at face value as well.  Either everything is verifiable and true—“  He was so angry and so wounded, but he was also a Black Widow and all of his words were fangs.  ”—or none of them are.”  Abaddon’s hands were once again clasped at his back, and the ice beneath his feet had faded away to steam, but a cool breeze continued to emanate from him.  ”This is not about justice.  It is about punishment.  Punishment because the war did not go as Drakkar Estaroth wished.  Punishment because it did not go as your Red and Bloody Queen wished.  Punishment because no one here can admit the truth to themselves; that there is no crime here—that this man, this man who made a thinking warrior of me, is no different from Prince Yatskaya and dozens of others that turned their back on folly.”

Abaddon growled, and turned around to address the assembly, ”You are petty.  You cannot fill your bellies with your own harvest, but you will feast on bile and bitterness and the lies you tell yourselves.  Gravesend is a sanctuary for your culture, a wellspring of what is possible and what could have been, an untapped resource that you refuse to avail yourselves of.  All because you look back over your wings and see greatness in a red and bloody lie.”

Cassian watched from her corner of the room, her arms folded over her chest and her wings loosely hanging behind her, as first Kaderian and then one of the Pruulians known as Lucky stepped forward to address Queen Kriat preemptively. Lucky. What sort of Eyrien name was that? Did they name Eyriens differently in Pruul? That seemed...unlikely and odd. Surely Eyriens in Pruul knew enough about their heritage to remember the naming conventions.

It didn’t matter anyway. What mattered was the whip crack of Illyrian’s voice telling the Pruul contingent to hold their tongues. Even Cassian flinched a little at the anger in a Queen’s tone. But when she chastised the young Eyrien male who had prematurely offered his Queen’s Gift, Cassian almost smirked. Men always seemed to offer up things that weren’t theirs to offer or sacrifice.

Drakkar called forward those who wished to lay Tavar’s crimes at the public’s feet for judgement and Cassian listened without interest as voice after voice denounced him as a traitor and a coward.

Cassian actually didn’t blame him for leaving. Askavi had seen so much war that she often wondered if she would be better off doing the same. As she thought of her defection, she shifted uncomfortably and when someone shot her a quizzical glance, she muttered, “Sorry. Feet hurt.”

The Broken Queen Fayrian seemed to have the most effect on the proceedings, stating her case without shedding a tear, and afterward sobbing into the embrace of a male Cassian assumed was hers. That made her shift uncomfortably again. A Queen’s testimony lent great weight to this trial. But Cassian did not agree with the suggestion that Tavar be shorn of his wings. That was...cruel to do an Eyrien and since Cassian would likely be called to seal the wounds left from that torture, she quietly thought a little less of the Queen that had suggested it. Suggestions like that were why Askavi still fought so ruthlessly, the blinded striking out to blind another because of hatred and revenge.

She shouldn’t really be so surprised.

Finally, it was Tavar’s turn to speak and Cassian was now interested to see how he would defend himself from these accusations. He told a tale much like every Eyrien she knew -- blood, death, violence, destruction -- even at the cost of family and friends but his tale turned down a path she hadn’t expected.

Had he just insinuated that the wingless Red Jeweled man from Pruul, the one bearing the scent of a Warlord Prince and more, was Drakkar’s son?

Lady Eodan, the High Priestess, stepped forward to claim blood from both men. Every breath in the Court was held during that spell until finally, she stepped back and declared, "Blood calls to blood. Tavar Andros speaks true. This man is the son of Drakkar Estaroth."

Cassian’s eyebrows raised. And then went higher when Drakkar Estaroth left the room without another word.

Should she go after him?

No, they were not friends, no matter how hard he tried to befriend her. She had no connection to him other than a Healer serving in the Court and she planned on keeping it that way. Besides, his temper was most likely volatile and Cassian had no love for being on the receiving end of that. Ever.

So, she remained and watched as Illyrian took command once again. Now it was the other side’s turn to speak in favor of their friend. But no one had been to Pruul to see Tavar redeem himself with these actions. They had only the words of strangers.

Still, even those strangers, particularly the one called Abaddon, son estranged of Drakkar, caught Cassian’s ear. She found herself agreeing with them. What good would killing Tavar do for Askavi? Nothing. Those who sought blood to compensate for those they had lost were doomed to never been satisfied. These newcomers sought peace, a goal Cassian could get behind.

As her observant gaze shifted back to their Queen, she wondered if Illyrian felt the same.

Cassian could not stop the gasp that passed her lips.

In the sudden hush of the room, as Illyrian delivered her sentencing, that gasp sounded thundering. Cassian’s hand flew to her mouth to cover it, far too late to do any good. If there were other reactions to their Queens’ decree, Cassian didn’t note them.

Tavar could keep his life. And his wings. But his Offering, that dark Sapphire that had protected some and betrayed others, was forfeit. Being a person who feared shattering her own Jewels, she could not imagine the great loss of wearing the depths Tavar did.

Now, Cassian suppressed a violent shudder.

Would have it been better any other way though? Ending a life, that was retribution. There was no learning, no atonement, no remorse to be gained from that sort of path. Taking his wings or his Jewels -- either of those were a far more fitting judgement, even if they put Cassian at unease because it wasn’t the sort of pain she would have wanted for anyone. I’m a Healer to my core, she thought bitterly, wrapped up in her promise to do no harm.

Who would do the harm though? On whose shoulders would this burden of breaking fall? Looking around the room, she could only name a few. But it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be her doing the breaking but she would be doing the care afterward. That thought helped her compose herself -- going over what she would need to care for a Broken patient. Her hand came away from her mouth, wrapped it around her other one, and began wringing it softly, methodically, as she mentally made her list.

**At least,** she said quietly, with great remorse, to the other Healer in the room, Kaderian, **it isn’t death.** At least Kaderian wouldn’t have to go back to Tavar’s Queen and explain how she had failed. At least...at least there was that. Tavar would have a difficult life from here on out, more than he had before, but at least it would be a life.

Cassian finished composing her list of things to gather and then began wondering what sort of quality of life that would be after today.

Shock and anger radiated from Tavar in the wake of Drakkar’s abrupt departure. Drakkar waited centuries to drag him before their people, list out his crimes, and judge him...only to walk away? Genuine anger made him take a step forward. He nearly demanded that Drakkar come back and face him. Tavar stopped himself. Many people in this room hated him. Others were indifferent. But Tavar had made promises to others, promises endangered by ego and personal grievance.

He’d promised Elenor, Shadya, Amira, and Judiah each that he would return to them soon.

He promised Omid that Lucky would return home to his siblings, including the Red Prince whom Tavar knew cared deeply for his brother, despite the rift between them. And he’d vowed to see Abaddon to manhood so that he could choose his own life and his own path, free of the Old Spider’s influence and treachery. The longer Tavar stood there, however, watching as Lady Kriat took control of the hearing and called for people to speak on his behalf, the more he realized that he’d not thought through his return to Askavi as much as he should have.

He would break his word today.

When Prince Yatskaya stood up to speak on his behalf, Tavar was surprised and somewhat honored. The Master of the Guard’s explanation for his own absence and return to Askavi was surprising, but one that the Sapphire Warlord understood completely. Given that his daughter was missing, even today, Tavar wouldn’t have blamed the man for leaving again. The protection of one’s family, however, could drive a person to endure pain and horrors that would shatter others into dust.

Tavar bowed respectfully to the Master of the Guard when he ended his speaking. No matter what happened from this point forward, he had to respect Renvar Yatskaya for speaking his mind in a room that was clearly hostile to that point of view.

Abaddon spoke next. His initial condemnation of Drakkar’s abandonment of him was a barb that he would not have advised, but the Black Widow Warlord Prince deserved the opportunity to speak his truth and say his part to the assembled. Word would get back to Drakkar and, for once, Tavar hoped he heard it. He’d always remained puzzled about why Drakkar would leave his son behind. Drakkar did not abandon his duties and family had always been most important to him.

It felt strange, then, to listen as Abaddon recounted their personal history. Tavar had never seen it as raising Abaddon, but as helping to shape a man who would always deal with being two men in a single form. The Black Widow, whose temper and insight sometimes worried even the man himself and the Warlord Prince who was a born weapon and possessed of a rage that could level Territories if he chose. Tavar couldn’t take away those burdens or undo the horrors that the Old Spider did to his mind, so he gave Abaddon the tools to know himself. He was proud of the man Abaddon became, though Tavar knew that he was a flawed teacher.

He was a flawed teacher, but Abaddon had turned out well, in his opinion.

Lucky offered his statements and, if Tavar felt uneasy listening to Abaddon’s account, then it showed in the slow flexing of his wings that Lucky’s account was harder still to absorb. He’d never considered his actions as something worth discussion; they were simply the right thing to do for those who’d been wronged. He’d guided Abaddon in his youth, but Lucky’s suffering at the hands of Adramelech and the Geiba was a crime that Tavar had been unaware of until the details were spilled out before Pruul. He should have known, before then, what was happening. He should have removed Abaddon from the Old Spider’s care and then torn control of the Sabbah from Adramelech’s cold, dead fingers. Maybe if he’d done that, the True Sabbah wouldn’t exist now. Maybe Elenor’s rule wouldn’t be fraught with peril.

The Mineborn and Clan Sabbah deserved more from him, and he’d not given it because he feared being labeled a tyrant. But his inaction had given the Sabbah the same.

He was glad that Lucky finally understood his reasons for voting against the Council. The burdens of leadership were not easily set aside. He’d wanted Lucky and his siblings to lead full lives and see the world. So many people never left their homes, instead remaining inside the bubble of their personal experiences. Challenge and growth existed where one wasn’t comfortable, where one did not have all the answers.

He was proud to see that Lucky understood that.

He appreciated the words of all who spoke for him. He would find a way to tell them that, if it was the last thing he did. When Lucky fell silent, though, Lady Kriat spoke once more.

"Tavar Andros, also know as Fin al-Sabbah. Are you prepared to hear your sentence?"

Tavar straightened his spine and walked forward to stand before the Queen. He would not show fear. He would not beg for his life. They would say, from start to finish, that he held his head high and that he showed respect to Askavi’s Queen. He walked forward and stood before Illyrian and then knelt before her throne to hear her words. His heart raced. His throat was dry. Had he been called on to speak, he would have embarrassed himself.

“Your life will be spared, as will your wings.”

His heart tried to escape his body through his throat. He’d feared maiming, feared re-learning to live without his wings. Flying was his greatest joy, the one way that he could be free from the world when it tried to hold him down. He would live to fly again. He was so focused on that, that he missed the rest of what the Queen of Askavi had said…

Until he heard his Price.

"I have heard testimony that you have been a father, uncle, and guiding force for Pruul. It is time you were such for Askavi as well...you shall swear your service and loyalty to Askavi and remain here, in your homeland. You shall swear your service and loyalty to Askavi and remain here, in your homeland. That is the Price of your desertion.”

The words nearly drove the breath from his lungs. Elenor needed him. His nieces needed him. Judiah needed him and she couldn’t wait forever for him to return. If he couldn't find a way out of this in a year, then the Sabbah might tear itself apart. If it took decades, or a century...then he’d just seen his Queen, his nieces, and his lover for the last time. Judiah would never be welcome in Askavi. Shadya and Amira would die waiting for him to keep his promise.

Elenor would rule the Sabbah alone.

“And the Price for the lives you claimed, as even you do not deny doing do, is your Sapphire."

He'd asked his wife, Farrah, what it was like to lose both of her jewels, years after the fact.

It’s like having two arms, but knowing that you can only use fingers at any given time. And you never know which of your fingers you get to use on a given day.

Farrah became e a shell of her former self after losing both of her jewels. Sometimes she grew frustrated and short when she couldn’t access the Craft that had been second-nature to her in her youth. Other times, she hid herself away and sobbed when she thought he couldn't hear.

Even Judiah, his beautiful courtesan, missed her Opal. Now they wanted to take his Sapphire as part of their judgement.

He heard the gasps of surprise. Worse, he heard the murmurs of agreement with Lady Kriat’s ruling. The warriors, most likely, who needed blood and suffering in order to avenge the lives he’d taken. His people had fallen so far that they were willing to take any victory, rather than a meaningful one. Would he agree with this, if he stood among them? He didn’t know.

All he knew was that, today, he would break his word to his family. Fin's heart sank. As long as Abaddon and Lucky could leave this place without issue, then he hadn’t failed completely. He held onto that thought, his final words tasted like bile as he spoke them.

"Lady Kriat, I--"

Abaddon stepped forward, stopping Fin mid-sentence.

Abaddon's words hung in the air. The assembled warriors turned to each other as a low murmur rose. It was a trap, and a beautifully executed one. Knowing that Abaddon al-Sabbah was the Warlord Prince of Askavi's son without knowing Drakkar's thought or feelings about that knowledge before he had stormed from the room was enough to cause pause. No one warrior stepped forward to claim the dubious honor of fighting and potentially killing the child of the leader of the Blood Seekers.

And yet after a moment, restlessness or the promise of blood drawn caused the warriors to grow bold. Celebrian knew it was only a matter of time before someone was stupid or callous enough to claim the challenge. She reached for the familiar feel of Drakkar's mind. She knew he couldn't respond to her, but it didn't change the need that roared to life within her like a wick set to flame. She needed to tell him what was happening and he needed to stop this madness.

*Your son demands trial by combat. They’ll kill him, Drakkar.*

They were not easy words to speak, even in the intimate privacy of a single distaff to spear thread. The High Priestess was still reeling from the revelation and her own confirmation that this dark and powerful male was the son of Drakkar Estaroth. Abaddon couldn't be more than a few years older than her son would have been had he lived. Is this what Valar would have looked like? Obviously Valar had wings, and she was his mother, not whatever foreign witch Drakkar had carelessly spilled his seed inside, quickening within her belly to create the man that stood before her now.

But still, she could see the resemblance between Abaddon and Drakkar. Would Valar have favored his father? Or would he have looked more like her?

A guard entered the room and distracted her from her thoughts. Her focus sharpened as he approached Lady Kriat, but he spoke to her softly enough that she could not make out any of what he said. Whatever he shared with her, the Queen held her own counsel, offering no betrayal of her thoughts or feelings to those gathered. They did not have to wait long to learn what the guard had conveyed.

"Prince al-Sabbah," Illyrian's voice directed the entire room to the Red Jeweled Black Widow Warlord Prince. "Prince Estaroth accepts your challenge." Whatever sound might have erupted at that moment was silenced by a simple raise of the Queen's hand. Despite the Sapphire at her throat in its gorgeous, diamond laden setting and holding the highest rank a High Priestess could, Celebrian still felt a pang of envy every time Illyrian so easily commanded a room.  "You are to meet him at Shatterspine Falls. Our guards will escort you."

The Queen nodded and the guards took up positions around the two Warlord Princes and the long lost Warlord. They were not intentionally threatening, but Celebrian could feel the tension ripple through the room as they fell into place.

Oh Drakkar, what have you done?

The Queen's voice rose once more. "The Warlord Prince of Askavi has asked me to tell you one last thing. The trial by combat will begin in exactly two hours, which leaves you one hour and fifty-nine minutes to decide if this challenge is worth your life.”