She did overlook Torben in the darkness of her room, at first. The movement of his shadow in the corner made her heart seize in panic, but only for a half-second before reason kicked in. To her credit she didn't show her fright, merely paused in stillness unless it'd passed. Reija closed her eyes as the silence fell, and she let her senses sweep outward, "listening" to the presence of the guards.

The soft click of the letter opener touching the dresser's top caused her eyes to open again. It was a more difficult gesture than it should have been, and she only then realized she hadn't so much been listening for those past few seconds, but had been on the verge of dozing.

Reckless, he called her. She drew herself up from the heavy lean against the door, and before she ever answered aloud, the furrowing of her brow told him that she hadn't cared for his comment.

"I wasn't reckless; I hit what I thought I was aiming at," she countered, thinking his comment had something to do with the letter opener and the broken glass in the other room. She rubbed at her brow with one hand and silently cursed the vigilance of the guards. She wanted so badly to lay back down. She didn't need them to be vigilant now, anyway. It would've been nice if the great number of coins she was paying them had enabled them to be vigilant ten minutes ago, when the local field hand (he wasn't a field hand but she couldn't be bothered to figure out what he actually did at the moment) had beaten them all to her side when she'd been in distress.

For a second time, no less.

She scowled, an uncommon expression on her normally tightly-controlled features.

"He's not leaving," she murmured, annoyed and impatient. "Go through the house instead of the courtyard. Just avoid the study, Volk is there. If you're quiet you shouldn't be noticed."

The leaves were blooming on her tiny fig tree. It was the newest of her collection, untended and unkept before. That is why she had taken a rather aggressive pruning to it, the wreckage of someone else’s work strewn on the table. With the leaves cleared, the tree’s small branches could receive more light and they could begin to grow in the intricate shape of the wire Kaels had attached to it. Sometimes trees needed a frame to cling to until they were strong enough to grow in that direction themselves.

Sometimes people needed that as well.

Humming to herself, the Queen wiped her hands on her deep olive green jumpsuit and checked the sun overhead. She wanted to go and check on the orphanage before the new curfew for the Light Jeweled of Sallo would shut her inside. There was still time to give herself to the land here though. It had been a few weeks and Meya had noticed the laps.

Taking off her gloves, Kaels called in a long intricately etched dagger. Her father had carved it for her before she had received her Birthright. It had been the last gift he ever gave her and the Queen cherished it. With hardly a sound, she cut a long diagonal slash across her palm, the blood weeping out like tears. Even before it hit the ground, Mikaela could feel the land call to her. She could feel it sing with joy. Smiling, she kneeled down and pressed her palm into the damp soil, sending her Gift not only to this greenhouse, but all throughout the Valdis Estate. It raced through the land, underneath the feet of the Circle members, the servants, the animals and green shoots blossomed forth. She would have to prune back most of the shrubs and summer vegetables later, but she would let them bask in their desire to grow for a few days first.

Standing up, Mikaela spied a man far across the gardens. She could not see him clearly, but she could feel the Darkness creep closer to him, attempt to seep into his body. Intrigued, the Queen brushed a bit of dirt from her face and guided the Darkness forward, across the stones, over the vines, and into the pulsing energy of the Warlord Prince. If he needed peace, he would feel the calming embrace of Mother Night envelop his large form, settling his heart, and pressing in on him like a weighted blanket. The Priestess Queen’s Craft infused with the meditation, opening up the Abyss to join with his meditation. There, he could feel the reverberations of his breathing, the slightest movement of his muscles. It was Mikaela’s favorite place to meditate, because it provided the amplified focus one needed to quiet anxious thoughts.

Perhaps, after he had enough time to center himself, she would join him.

Not meaning to, Rafe couldn't help the way that he studied his Queen. He'd already decided that the more he exposed himself to her, the more that he wouldn't be able to forget her, the more that she would sink her hooks in and the more difficult it would be to put her out of his mind. But the way that she affected him wasn't something so easily ignored once he was already experiencing it. Mikaela wasn't shy about sharing her presence or even that intimate Touch. They were strangers and already she'd shown him. In his mind, she was trying to prove something.

There was some science on the effects of these women and known ways to avoid inevitable sorrows caused by unwanted associations. Rafe might have gone about things more intelligently before becoming too embroiled but well, it'd been a bad day already. He'd had the run-in with her meddling man... and Meya wanted the world delivered to her door before breakfast, his temper was already flaring, his discipline paper-thin and his Queen was hiding a spirit as bellicose as his own and calling it her duty. At least he called his sins by name... fed them well, brought them in at night, and let them lay by the fire.

Muttering curses, Rafe sighed and looked down to see a spot of blood quickly soak and spread among the woven fibers of his shirt. Claws on the little thing? He was truly taken by surprise. A little emasculated that of the two of them, if anyone, she'd drawn first blood.

"Kitten," he protested, a scold on his tongue, but she spoke next before he could, effectively ceasing whatever efforts he had been putting into further discourse.

Stop.

It was only a word but it struck him hard enough to change the topic. Rafe fell instantly still except that he idly rubbed his fingers together on the hand of the arm held loosely now behind her back. His breath sounded loud and hot, hissing from his chest though he held himself in perfectly controlled measure. Maybe he'd deserved that unsportsmanlike lick of Craft, but... she could have had the same fucking results had she just agreed to leave him the fuck alone as asked... and he was about to fucking tell her so.

(NO HE WASN'T.)

She dove deeper, not satisfied and not finished. There was more still to come and no amount of Jewels, shields, webs, training, or anything else slowed her from slipping into to the deepest wells of his psyche and arresting control of everything.

"Mrrrrnnnf... Urrrgh!" Rafe went slack for half a second but caught himself in an act of sheer willpower. It cost him, though, the strain showing in the way his face contorted. Stretching his neck, he pulled his head back, the muscles in his throat so taut that they looked as though they could tear. He appeared to fight a very real weight as he sought to remain on his feet. What he felt... she... It was indescribable. Encompassing. Overtaking. And all of that was before she yanked the fucking leash... fashioned a noose out of it and kicked the chair out from under him.

Eyes rolling into the back of his head, the strength and finesse left Rafe's body and he dropped, crumpling as his long body went down. His head lolled errantly bringing his chin to crack hard on the edge of the desk, wood splintering at the point of impact as his skull bounced backward. What was left of his consciousness sought to brace himself further, but ineptly so and it wasn't imperative, there wasn't much further to fall.

Blood seeped over his bottom lip onto the carpet and as his eyes focused, he realized that he had the same pattern in the room he was staying in. Not an awful choice, either. Nice colors. He'd meant to inquire about the house it'd been acquired from. Maybe one day he'd redo the townhouse.

A sharp ringing peal pierced the center of his skull and felt as though it ricocheted within. All of the pain receptors that had momentarily been rushing to attend their posts were now fully employed and screaming. One by one, each of his senses returned, intense, bombarded and surly as hell about it.

He was on the floor, of all places, the resting place of people who lost fights. With his sight still drawing into focus, he didn't try to stand right away, but the disgrace of having fallen at all was already tearing a little more of his soul with every passing second. He was folded up like a woman who'd lost the heel of her shoe. Vulnerable. Shoulders slumped, head bowed, his body appeared to have conceded. Vomitous, pitiful man.

It wasn't true.

Flexing his jaw, he stopped midway, snarling in pain as he lifted his head. Pieces of hair trailed in blood and stuck to his skin as he tried to wipe it away from his face. If he stood up, he was going to drip blood down his entire suit. If he didn't... he was on his knees now in front of her. No matter what happened, he was leaving the room battered. No matter what, he lost face.

Surprisingly, for a woman who eschewed pretty much anything that remotely resembled a loss of control, Solstice kept quite a few bottles of hardy liquor on the premise. Or maybe that had been the Master of the Guard who insisted on keeping it, in case he and his men needed to forget a hard battle. Whatever the reason, when Inheritance cornered the first servant and barked out her mission, she was taken to a cabinet tucked in one of the many receiving rooms. With a turn of a key, five shelves of liquor were opened to her. With an annoyed flick of her hand, Inheritance dismissed the servant and set about inventorying what she had.

Fifteen bottles of wine. Three bottles of whiskey. One bottle of something flowery but absolutely disgusting. Five bottles of scotch. Two small unopened kegs of some sort of ale. Four bottles of some sort of liqueur. Two bottles of some clear alcohol that burned her mouth.

After a cursory glance at the vintage year, Inheritance popped up one of the bottles of wine and took a heavy swig straight from the bottle. She set it down and retrieve a glass. After plopping down into one of the plush couches, she swirled the dark red liquid around in the glass, watching the centrifugal force of the action with mildly mesmerized expression.

She really shouldn’t have been alone and drinking but that’s how it was going to be.

Since there was no one to distract her, naturally her thoughts returned to her mother, going over every slight and argument as though reviewing it for the dozenth time would fix the outcome. At least her mother wasn’t a despot, like some leaders could be. Cold, yes. Oppressively cruel? Not…to others.

But the solution Inheritance was seeking didn’t lay in the past, no matter how far back she delved. As the wine switched from bottle to bloodstream, she began to wonder what they were really going to do about this situation. Surely the Province Queen knew what was going on. Was she mounting a rescue party or cutting her losses and looking for a new Queen to rule? Shit that Inheritance didn’t really want to care about but here she was – caring.

This was how Repose found her, reclining on the couch with a glass of wine, staring at the ceiling as though it held the answers to the dilemma in front of her. The Queen of alcohol and no fucks given. And, because she hadn’t expected to be interrupted (which servant thought that she was supposed to be in charge?!), when Repose walked into that receiving room, Inheritance, blatantly ignoring rank and Protocol, blurted out, “What the fuck do you want?”