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Circe regarded the event with reverence, schooling her maids: "She said she wanted everything PINK. Why do I see BLUE? Paint the walls pink, PINK I said!"

Issued by the Principality of Myrine On the 3rd of Owyns Light, 650 A.A. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · A N A N N O U N C E M E N T O F R E G E N C Y With the recent passing of the Prince and Princess of Myrine, the Principality finds itself in a time of solemn transition. In accordance with the customs and stability of the realm, it is of the utmost importance that governance be entrusted to a steady and rightful hand during this period of mourning and uncertainty. Thus, it is hereby decreed that Her Highness, Princess Circe Mareno, youngest of the former Princely couple shall assume the regency of Myrine, holding full authority in stewardship of the Principality until the eldest child of her eldest brother, Calias II, comes of age and is prepared to inherit their rightful station. May her guidance ensure the continued strength, prosperity, and dignity of Myrine in the years to come. SIGNED, Her Highness, Circe Mareno, Lady Regent of Myrine, Lady Seneschal of the Celosian Court

Circe Mareno's lightless gaze read the news, an uncertainty knotting at the bottom of her guts. She recalled how she had stood frozen as a steer as the Emperor choked his firstborn daughter, scrutinizing her for being as... heartless as him? As cold as him? Her lips puckered, ever curious about how it had all settled. "Flowers must be sent..." she'd tell her daughter, Eirene. Then she remembered, muttering under her breath, "too much like him..." @sarahbarah

Circe spared rare tears at the tragic news of her uncle. All she had now were the memories, which she would cling to until her knuckles went white.

The bride’s dear cousin could not help but smile at the long-awaited invitation. Circe, who in her later years had taken to keeping quietly within the walls of Myrine, was certain to mark the date and make the journey. “Marcella should be surrounded by love,” she remarked.

A proud mother beams for a fleeting moment in quiet acknowledgment before her attention drifts back to the rolling waves beyond the window. She has not moved from her place. Her gaze lingers there, lightless.

The arrival of Eirene Mareno, c. 2064 @sarahbarah The outstretched vastness of the Empire made it one of the loneliest places to be. Often, one cannot make it from one end to the other in a day’s stretch. Circe knew this very well, and she frequently added to her isolation. She’d hide behind closed doors, moping for hours on end with no true goal in sight. The curtains of her seaside room were always half drawn, not enough to shut the world out entirely, but enough to suggest that she could in one single motion if she wished. On this particular day, the afternoon light slanted in through the tall windows and settled lazily across her chamber, catching on the carved edges of her vanity, the embroidered pillows on her bed, the faint sheen of polished wood that no one but the servants ever noticed. She sat perched on the edge of her bed, chin on hand, staring at nothing in particular. The house was always so quiet, so peaceful. The room smelled faintly of rosewater and old parchment, reminding her of all the duties she had been putting off due to her most recent lapse in mood. A single slipper lay abandoned on the floor where she had kicked it off earlier in a small fit of irritation that no one had witnessed. Her head tilted, her reflection now watching her from the mirror, all heavy sighs and distant eyes, her hair loose and unbothered, her posture resigned in the way of someone who had long accepted that longing was simply a permanent state of being. She was just beginning to consider the merits of flopping dramatically onto the bed when a sound reached her. Not a knock, not a voice, but a soft rush of air. A flutter. She turned toward the open window, and on her stone sill, a stork was perched. Not a metaphorical stork, nor a painted one from some foolish museum. This was a real, unmistakable stork, tall and pale and dignified, its long legs folded neatly beneath it. Its feathers were impossibly clean, as though it had never known mud or rain. Around its neck hung a thin ribbon, pink as early dawn. Circe blinked. - The stork blinked back. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Circe wondered if she had finally been driven mad. She considered waving her hand in front of her face, just to test reality, but before she could decide, the stork shifted and gently nudged something forward. A woven cradle. It was small, intricately made, the reeds braided with care and patience. The stork pushed it just far enough that it tipped into the room, landing softly on the rug at Circe’s feet. Inside was a bundle of pink, a blanket so large it seemed almost comically oversized for its occupant. The bundle moved, and Circe gasped. She dropped to her knees without thinking, hands hovering, unsure if she was allowed to touch what had so clearly arrived with purpose. The blanket shifted again, and a tiny face emerged. Strawberry blonde hair peeked out in soft wisps, catching the light. Dark eyes opened, wide and solemn, studying Circe as though they had been waiting for her specifically. The baby made a small sound. Not a cry, but a thoughtful noise, like a question. “Oh,” Circe whispered. The stork inclined its head once, slow and deliberate, then spread its wings. The rush of air stirred the curtains, sent papers fluttering from their spots, and before Circe could think to ask a single question, it was gone, leaving only feathers drifting lazily to the floor. Circe knelt there, heart pounding. She looked up, toward the ceiling, toward the skies beyond it. “Well,” she said quietly, “I suppose that settles it.” She gathered the cradle into her arms with reverence, lifting the child as though she were something holy. The baby fit against her chest with surprising ease, warm and solid and undeniably real. Circe laughed then, a small, breathless sound, tears already blurring her vision. She took this as a sign from God. Not because she was particularly pious in the traditional sense, but because there was no other explanation that felt sufficient. Lonely people did not simply receive miracles through open windows. Circe carried the child to her bed and sat down, cradling her carefully. She brushed a finger over the baby’s soft cheek. The baby blinked slowly, then yawned, utterly unconcerned with the magnitude of her arrival. “You’re mine now,” Circe said, voice steady with sudden certainty. “And I suppose I am yours.”

APPOINTMENTS IN THE IMPERIAL COURT Issued and averred by the office of the Imperial Chamberlain, Her Imperial Excellency, Valentiná of Asturias, Lady Chamberlain of the Imperial Courts 7th of Sun’s Smile, 631 Penned by Circe Mareno ✠ HEED, ALL LEAL SONS OF HOREN ✠ AVE IMPERIUM H V M A N I T A S I N V I C T A

Circe Mareno beamed with quiet pride at last, an aunt. She lingered over the crib, admiring the soft fall of the infant’s dark curls, the roundness of her cheeks, the smallness of her limbs. Alongside the marlin charm, Circe placed the child’s first pair of pearl earrings, delicate and luminous in their simplicity. Symbolic of the future she wished for the little one: grace, strength, and a life touched by beauty.

The skies darkened the day the Reuss last drew breath, bruised, almost. Philippa had smelled of river mud the first time she met the Countess. Her eyes fluttered when she was presented, shy before such effortless grace. Then, she believed herself an orphan. In time, she would truly become one. Both times, Esfir stood unshaken. On every road, at every turning, Philippa knew this was the woman she could have relied upon. Perhaps in death, they might both find peace.

Circe Mareno hummed obnoxious krugmas carols for days!

Circe had never witnessed death before. Her brows knit with horror as the old, bloated man collapsed against the stone monument, his face blotched red, sweat dripping down the folds of his three chins. She stood frozen, panic and revulsion rooting her in place. Amid the jagged quiet between her mother’s sobs, she turned to the redhead at her side and murmured, hollow and dazed, “He never even made it inside his keep…” @Parasolii

Circe Mareno pressed her lips together in a delighted smile, for she had been mentioned... three times! counting each with a little giggle. She was very proud of the authors and of her family name.

Her namesake pressed her cheek against the cold glass, watching as the men of Trident’s Peak solemnly lowered their banners to half-mast in mourning. Circe let her gaze drift away, settling instead on the worn teddy bear nestled at the center of her pillows like a sentinel of comfort. She grieved in silence.

Circe Mareno congratulated her brother and the troops as they returned home, a satisfied look across her visage.