zuziee

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.

A little brunette pupil greeted Josefina in the skies with a warm smile, "Now we wait for the rest." Philippa spoke, turning back to the ground below.

The author, Circe herself, fan girled over Cassandra.

Penned by Her Highness, Circe Mareno On the 11th of Tobia’s Bounty, 2042 · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · TO THE NOBLES AND CITIZENS OF THE EMPIRE; This day marked a moment of great festivity within the heart of the realm, for it was the formal commencement of the Imperial Theodosian Court’s year of unity. A year passed, and the august court of Theodosia proclaimed its summons to all lords and ladies, to heirs and scions of every noble house, calling them to embrace their charge in tending to the flourishing of the Empire. In response, this grand celebration was ordained, not merely to honor the diversity of culture among the vassals of the Crown, but to display the strength of the bonds that weave those cultures together into one enduring whole. Yet, beyond this display of unity, the summons bore with it a sacred duty: to serve as a rite of passage for the noble youth of the Empire, between the summers of fifteen and twenty-five, granting them their first formal introduction before the Imperial Court and into the society of the realm at large. It is in such ceremonies that the Empire’s future is revealed, for here its heirs step forth into public life beneath the eyes of both their sovereigns and their peers. For the benefit of those unable to attend, I have here recorded the families presented, the heirs and daughters introduced, and the reception each received at the hand of the Crown. The day’s proceedings were held before His Imperial Highness, Prince Maximillian Caius, with Lord Haythem serving in the solemn duty of calling forth each family in turn. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · THE HOUSEHOLDS THE PRINCIPALITY OF MYRINE; THE HOUSE OF MARENO | ✶ The first noble lineage summoned to the dais was the House of Mareno, Princes of Myrine, who were themselves escorted and presented by Their Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Myrine. Lady Selyne Amador was the first to be brought before the Imperial court. She advanced with the tranquil dignity befitting a maiden of her station, her bearing calm yet assured. She was arrayed in silks woven in Myrinish looms, their shifting tones of opal white and Amador blue glimmering like waves beneath moonlight. These colors played strikingly against her flame-red tresses, lending her an air of sea-born majesty. Upon her brow rested a kokoshnik of unadorned form, plain but noble, a probable heirloom recalling her distant heritage. Reaching the dais, she sank into a deep and practiced curtsy, her eyes lowered in reverence. Thereafter was presented Mistress Andromeda dey Medford, who came with a gentler step, her countenance meek but radiant. Her gown shimmered in bold folds of emerald and rose, each hue catching the light as she moved with measured composure. Atop her curls lay a hood edged in fine threads of gold, from which a veil of gauze fell like morning mist, trailing softly down her shoulders. Though her hands trembled faintly, her poise never faltered as she curtsied beside Lady Selyne, bowing her head with quiet reverence before the Imperial presence. The court then beheld Prince Caecilius Mareno, whose stride was confident and commanding, the very image of his House’s repute. Flowing behind him was a long oceanic cape, richly embroidered with golden trim, moving as though it were the tide itself. At its center gleamed the sigil of the Mareno line, the proud Marlin, stitched with care by his mother’s hand, a symbol of resilience and strength. Upon reaching the dais, he lowered into a bow of gravity and grace. In his wake followed Prince Calias Mareno, heir to Myrine, walking in solemn harmony with his father, the Prince of Myrine. His steps were measured and unyielding, a mirror of the patriarch he one day will succeed. There was in his bearing both the weight of duty and the poise of youth, tempered into a steady solemnity. When all had been presented, His Imperial Highness rose and declared before the courts: “You have led my mother-house with devotion, and here you have shown forth a new generation who will be steadfast pillars of the Empire. Those noble families who ally themselves with your House shall indeed count themselves fortunate.” THE PRINCIPALITY OF IVORIA; THE HOUSE OF KEEN | ✶ Summoned thereafter was the House of Keen, Princes of Ivoria, their procession graced by the matriarch herself, Her Highness Cassandra of Briar, Princess of Ivoria, who led her family with stately composure. At the fore advanced Prince Conrad Keen, whose every measured step bespoke reserve and refinement. He was attired in a garment of deep blue, its folds swaying softly with his gait. Over his shoulders hung a weighty coat, embroidered with the broad heavens, drifting clouds stitched in masterful threads. Twin chains of gold, wrought in the likeness of the sun, rested across his breast, chiming faintly in rhythm as he moved. Upon his brow gleamed a circlet of silver, at its center a sapphire stone catching the light against the warmth of his brown locks. His appearance was princely and composed, touched with quiet artistry. Next followed Princess Konstanze Keen, the youngest daughter of the house, who glided with an elegance natural to her station. She was arrayed in a gown of powder blue, its lilac satin bodice imported from the distant cities of Li-Rien. The flowing skirts fell about her in soft ripples, like the mirrored waters of a tranquil lake. Her hair was raised into a high pompadour recalling the grandeur of the last age, and a delicate rouge upon her cheeks and lips brightened her youthful countenance. In her, noble grace mingled with maidenly charm, rendering her presentation pleasing to the court. Thereafter came Princess Heilwig Keen, whose presence was resolute and commanding. She was clad in silk of deep blue, her crimson sleeves bordered richly in threads of gold. Her hair was braided in long cords falling near her ankles, each plait adorned with beads and rings that shimmered as she passed. One sleeve was neatly knotted where her arm was absent, yet this did not diminish her bearing; instead, it heightened the strength and dignity she carried, a princess forged in quiet resilience. Her steady gaze and upright poise made plain a courage tempered by trial. When all had gathered, His Imperial Highness turned to Princess Cassandra and offered his words: “These children are truly fashionable, and the young heir I know to be reliable, a pleasing host indeed.” His Imperial Highness’s attention lingered notably upon Princess Heilwig, whose steadfast composure drew a thoughtful gaze from the Prince. THE DUCHY OF KVASZ; THE HOUSE OF LUDOVAR | ✶ From the Duchy of Kvasz came forth the scions of House Ludovar, their father, Duke Robert Ludovar, present in the room but strangely absent by their side. Instead, it was the heir himself, Heinrik Ludovar, who spoke in solemn voice on behalf of his house before the Imperial Prince. First descended Heinrik Ludovar, heir to Kvasz, flanked proudly by his sisters. His hands rested firmly at his back, his shoulders set square in noble bearing. A smile lit his youthful face, though it did not mask the mark of a nose once broken and stoutly mended. His attire was plain yet dignified, the only adornment being a simple aurum cross worn at his neck. Advancing with steady tread, he came before the dais, pressed hand to chest, and bent himself low in a deep bow, a gesture of homage given with conviction. At his side walked Lady Anastasia Ludovar, whose composure was measured and even. She was attired in a gown of emerald and pale green, golden trims glinting as she moved. Upon her ears shone earrings of emerald and gold, and her dark raven hair was bound tightly into a bun, secured by pins fashioned in the likeness of crossed swords, a subtle sign of her martial spirit. At the dais, she dipped low into a graceful curtsy, head bowed before rising to stand with hands neatly clasped, her eyes downcast in deference. Completing the trio was Lady Celestyna Ludovar, adorned in silks and lace of soft silver hue. Her gown was decorated with delicate ruffles, lending a gentle air to her stately bearing. Curls framed her composed face, her every motion deliberate and refined. Advancing with her kin, she lowered herself into a careful curtsy, bowing her head as a warm and respectful smile touched her lips. When their presentations were complete, His Imperial Highness offered his judgment before the assembled court: “Though it has not been long since your people and mine were joined beneath one banner, House Ludovar has already shown itself a line that breeds champions for the Empire.” Turning then to the heir with notable gravity, he added: “Blessings upon your house, Lord Heinrik.” THE MARGRAVE OF LEMON HILL; THE HOUSE OF SENNA | ✶ Thereafter was summoned the House of Senna, Margraves of Lemon Hill, their procession led by Margrave Ledicort de Senna, Hand of the Emperor, who with stately composure presented his daughter and heiress before the Imperial court. Lady Lorena de Senna, Baroness of Elena and heiress to Lemon Hill, stepped forth in the full dignity of her station. She was arrayed in a gown of golden silk, its fabric shimmering as if lit by candle flame, casting her in a radiant glow that drew every eye. A single curled strand of auburn hair slipped loose to brush her cheek, stirring faintly in the still air of the hall. With her arm entwined within her father’s, she advanced with measured grace, her chin held high, her gaze steady and resolute. Upon reaching the dais, she paused but a moment before sinking low into a curtsy of profound depth. Her head bowed, her eyes cast firmly to the ground, she remained unmoving in her reverence, never daring to raise her gaze to the Imperial blood. Only when leave was given did she rise, her composure still unbroken. When her presentation was complete, His Imperial Highness addressed the Margrave with a tempered smile: “I trust you have been well, Archchancellor. I hear your daughter is as diligent with her papers as you. Yet I hope you encourage her to spare time from her labors, that she may profit from the delights of the coming social season.” THE MARGRAVE OF SCHWYZ; THE HOUSE OF AUGUSTEN | ✶ From the lofty valleys of Schwyz, there entered the House of von Augusten, led by its patriarch, Margrave Konstantin von Augusten. With firm step and measured bearing, he ushered his kin into the Imperial hall, their procession marked by quiet dignity and the weight of venerable tradition. At the fore strode Viscount Sigismund von Augusten, heir to Schwyz. His chin was raised, his posture resolute, his gaze unwavering upon the throne toward which he advanced. At his side walked his twin, Lady Katarina von Augusten, and with them their cousin, Lord Godwin von Augusten, the three aligned in perfect order, their harmony a reflection of disciplined upbringing. Their grandfather, the Margrave, followed close behind, leaning upon his cane. Upon reaching the dais, Lady Katarina was the first to perform her homage. With a sweep of dark silk, her skirts fanned across the stone in a crescent as she sank into a deep curtsy. Her spine remained upright, her chin lowered in solemn reverence, every line of her form a portrait of courtly grace. Lord Godwin followed, bending from the waist with grave formality, one foot placed forward and arms straight at his side. His youthful face was composed, his bow measured, his head lowered nearly to the ground in practiced discipline. Last of the three, Viscount Sigismund performed his bow with precise control, his steps deliberate, his back bent low with the exactitude expected of an heir. When the household had rendered its homage, His Imperial Highness observed with measured tone: “I trust these young nobles will find great success, and may they cultivate an estate that endures, even should it be divided however many ways.” THE COUNTY OF TRIER; THE HOUSE OF DEVEREUX | ✶ From the County of Trier came forth the noble House of Devereux, presented in person by their matriarch, Countess Constance Devereux. First advanced Louis Devereux, heir to Trier. His steps were deliberate, each one measured with the confidence of careful training. He was arrayed in courtly finery of distinguished craftsmanship: a long, weighty robe that shimmered subtly in the house colors beneath the chamber’s light. Broad sleeves, worked in intricate designs, hung elegantly, while the shoulders were crowned with a collar of fine fur. A belt of deep blue bound the folds at his waist, and upon his breast rested a heavy livery collar, gleaming as he passed. Upon his brow sat the circlet of his father, a golden crown, encrusted with diamonds and emeralds, wrought with the image of the bipedal bear, the proud sigil of House Devereux. Following him came Lady Lucienne Devereux, her hands folded neatly as she advanced with maidenly composure. Her gown shone with dazzling tones of gold, cream, and emerald, its trailing hem fashioned in the elegant Auvergnat style. Golden ribbons lent brightness to her attire, softened by the delicate grace of netted gold at her collar. Upon her brow rested her mother’s circlet, an aurum band set with emeralds, crowning the fair curls of her meticulously styled blonde hair. Ruffles, bows, and the faint blush upon her cheeks gave her the radiant aspect of a doll, youthful, charming, yet dignified in her noble presentation. When their homage was rendered, His Imperial Highness remarked with a faint smile: “They are finely dressed indeed, I am certain my sister-in-law would look upon them with approval.” THE BARONY OF OWYNSBURG; THE HOUSE OF HELVETS | ✶ Thereafter, the House of Helvets was summoned, the Barons of Owynsburg, presented by Her Excellency Helaine of Owynsburg, Countess of Dover, who, with gracious care, escorted her niece before the Imperial dais. Lady Theodora Helvets advanced with soft and serene composure. The train of her gown, woven of crimson silk with velvet’s deep undertone, trailed behind her like a banner of her house. A few paces before the throne, she paused, then, with practiced poise, she placed one foot behind the other and descended into a deep curtsy. Her head bowed low, one hand pressed gently to her heart, a gesture that spoke equally of reverence and quiet devotion. When her presentation was complete, His Imperial Highness turned to the Countess with words of measured praise: “Countess, it seems you have an eye for social matters, as I suspected before. If your hand guided her preparation, then you have done most excellently.” THE BARONY OF ISLES; THE HOUSE OF WINBURGH | ✶ Next was summoned the House of Winburgh, Barons of the Isles, their procession led by Baron Larkin Winburgh. At his side moved Lady Viktoria Winburgh, her steps graceful and precise, each motion bearing the air of long and careful rehearsal. Upon reaching the dais, she sank into a smooth curtsy, her chin dipped low, the arc of her dark skirts spreading in a crescent across the stone floor. Her demeanor bore all the polish of practiced training, and with a quiet nod, she affirmed the introduction of her father. On the other side, Lord Magnus Winburgh followed in tow. When their homage was rendered, His Imperial Highness addressed the family with tempered acknowledgment: “I am glad you keep alive the traditions our families share. May fortune find you in the days to come.” His words were courteous, though his gaze lingered little upon the heirs themselves. THE HOUSE OF BRUGES | ✶ Next called was the noble House of de Bruges, whose presentation drew a particular attentiveness from His Imperial Highness, who regarded their entry with greater care than most others. The honor of introduction was given to Geoffrey de Rouen, heir to the Archduchy of Drusco, who stood with measured dignity beside his kin as they advanced. Arm-in-arm came Lord Antoine de Bruges and Lady Lecelina de Bruges, aligned in contrast yet united in bearing. Lord Antoine walked with the firmness of martial discipline, his purple-and-white striped garb draped by a black overcoat that lent his form a severe, steady gravity. His grip was firm upon his cousin’s arm as he guided her forward, his manner plain but resolute. Upon reaching the dais, he lowered himself into a deep bow, head bent in dutiful reverence toward the Imperial throne. By his side, Lady Lecelina moved with softer grace, her every step measured and serene. She was clad in crimson silks that caught the light of the hall, their sheen heightened by Savoyard gems sewn into the fabric. About her throat hung a rosary, its sun emblem gleaming brightly, drawing the gaze as a mark of piety and station. Her chin remained held aloft with quiet poise, and when she neared the dais, she sank into a distinguished curtsy, her head bowed low, one hand pressed firmly against her breast. Though her fingers glittered with jewels, they did not tremble; her composure was still and dignified, a portrait of noble serenity. When their homage was complete, His Imperial Highness turned to address the court, his words carrying both admiration and weight: “Young Lord, your cousin is surely the brightest diamond of our Empire. And you, too, have done her credit by announcing her, displaying with pride her prestigious Ashford line.” THE HOUSE LEOMONTE | ✶ Last to be summoned was the venerable House of Leomonte, their lineage presented by its matriarch, Lady Paramount Anacleta Leomonte. At her side walked Miss Xiomara Leomonte, her composure calm yet resolute. A solid gold corset gleamed beneath the folds of her crimson gown, catching the chamber’s light as she moved with steady, deliberate steps. From her shoulders hung the proud cloak of her house, its insignia boldly emblazoned for all to see. Her braids trailed neatly behind her, each one a mark of care and tradition. Upon reaching the dais, she gathered the corners of her gown and bent into a deep bow, her eyes closed, her head dipped low in reverence. When she rose once more, her bearing was upright and steadfast, a single strand of red hair falling forward to match both her gown and the crimson feathers of her house. With quiet poise, she brushed it back into place, her gaze set forward with unwavering dignity. When the moment was complete, His Imperial Highness addressed the Lady Paramount with solemn courtesy: “I trust your people are well. Know that, should they ever require it, it is the role of the Empire to render its aid.”

· · ────────────── · · “No one can be angry with me if I’m alone.” The words slipped from Katya’s lips like honey, spoken lightly as she sat at the cottage table beside Elara, absently licking the last of the birthday cake frosting from her fingers. Elara only shook her head, her attention fixed on the stack of dishes before her. Katya frowned, mistaking the silence for dismissal. She could never read her teacher; Elara’s expression was always carved in stone. With a sigh, Katya rose from the narrow dining table. She gathered her plate and fork, carrying them to the counter with delicate care before setting them down near Elara. Then, turning on her heel, she drifted toward the front door. Today had been her eighteenth nameday, marked in snatches of joy between long shadows of grief, the kind that pressed her to the floor, leaving her to curl tight and beg for some unseen mercy. On most nights, Katya would patrol before bed. She’d light a small lantern and push open the cottage door. The cool air met her at once, carrying the mingled scents of earth and pine. She pressed her toes into the cushion of moss blanketing the forest floor and began her quiet circuit of the wagons and pens. She lingered by the chattering feasels first, then moved on to the bulls, cows, and sheep. The peacocks stirred restlessly in the moonlight, the fox blinked at her from its den, and last of all, she stooped to stroke her favorite companion, her scrappy little cat, Moldy. On her way back, lantern light swaying in her hand, Katya paused at the mailbox. Her fingers tightened around the handle, hope prickling sharp in her chest. She opened it with bated breath, only to find it empty. A hollow ache spread through her as her heart dropped like a stone to the pit of her stomach. · · ────────────── · · From her new room on the third floor, Katya sat listening to the strange, unrelenting wind that rattled the shutters outside her door. She missed the hum of the earth and the faint tread of footsteps overhead, comforts her old basement bedroom had always offered. Up here, in this high perch, the house seemed too still, the silence broken only by the storm’s mournful howl. It was midday, yet every room around her stood empty. Somehow, everyone else had found something to do, even though the blizzard outside had brought most outdoor activity to a halt. Katya knew it wasn’t that she had been deliberately left behind. All she had to do was open her door, walk down the stairs, and step into the rhythm of the household. But she lingered in her solitude, stubbornness keeping her rooted. She hated having to ask to be included; it felt like admitting she didn’t belong. Her brothers never seemed to struggle. Martin could stride into any conversation and claim it as his own, laughter following wherever he went. Viktor, on the other hand, was reserved, but his silence never seemed misplaced. Katya lived somewhere between the two, caught in an awkward middle ground, always second-guessing when to speak and when to keep still. More often than not, her choices fell flat. From the depths of the house came a baby’s cry, sharp and plaintive, carrying up through the floors until it reached her. Katya, seated on the wooden floor with her back pressed against the far wall, let out a long groan. Wearily, she pushed herself upright. She knew the crying would fade soon; it always did, but its persistence had become part of the house’s daily rhythm. · · ────────────── · · But that moment belonged to another life, six years gone now. Katya had to remind herself she was eighteen, tucked far from civilization and surrounded by the uncanny creaks and calls of strange, half-wild beasts. She closed the mailbox with a heavy frown, disappointment tightening around her heart like a fist, wringing it dry of whatever hope still lingered there. Even Linde had forgotten her nameday. And not just any, her eighteenth. The anger rose quickly, sharp words gathering on her tongue, venomous retorts she could imagine unleashing against them all. Yet the more she indulged the thought, the worse she felt, spiraling until she caught herself, sullen eyes drifting to the line of trees. She knew the truth. This exile, this silence, was her own creation. A prison built of stubborn choices. A coward’s retreat. But first, she had only been a child, and even now, though nearly grown, she still longed to hide. In the forest’s hush, when the only sound was the hollow hoot of an owl, that longing returned with painful clarity. And in this new place, whenever people asked about her past, she wanted to vanish. For there was nothing in it she wished to share. In every reflective surface, still pools, windowpanes, the shifting glass of wine, she saw her mother’s face staring back, pale and ghostlike. She longed instead for her father’s features, but the truth was inescapable: her face was her mother’s, more and more so as she edged toward womanhood. So, faced with the raw fact that no one had reached out, Katya resolved to act for herself. That evening, she sat with pen and ink, drafting and discarding letter after letter, disgusted with her false starts. At last, after hours bent over the page, she found words that were simple, polite, and, if not entirely bare, at least honest enough. In the act of writing, something within her loosened. A single thread pulled free from the tangled skein of her heart, releasing with it a fragile breath of relief. The next morning, beneath a cloudless sky, Katya fastened the letter to a hawk and watched it vanish into the blue. She still wanted solitude, her quiet cocoon of forest life, but perhaps now she could carry it with a lighter heart. Perhaps she could stop punishing herself. 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ༄.°

Issued by the Principality of Myrine · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · On the 1st of Harren’s Folley, 2041 ON THE TENTH YEAR OF CIRCE MARENO; By the Blessing of the Tides and beneath the watch of the Moon’s silver path, the House of Mareno proclaims a day of festivity and delight. Upon the eve of her tenth year, Her Highness, Circe Mareno, cherished daughter of Their Princely Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Myrine, doth invite all subjects of the Empire of Man, noble and common alike, to gather within the vaulted halls of Trident’s Peak, jewel of the Northern mountains. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · I T I N E R A R Y THE OPENING ADDRESS & DANCE | ✶ Within the Grand Ballroom of Trident’s Peak, The Lady Circe herself shall offer words of greeting to her assembled guests, and in celebration of her natal day, shall invite everyone to take to the floor for the first dances ever in the newly minted ballroom. THE GAME OF THE CONCEALED GUEST | ✶ When the music wanes, the company shall take to sport in the ancient and merry pastime known among mariners as The Game of the Concealed Guest. In this, one chosen player shall slip away into the keep’s winding halls to hide, and each seeker who discovers them must join in their concealment. Thus, the hiding-place grows ever more cramped and the mirth ever greater, until the last seeker stumbles upon the whole laughing company. THE BALL CONTINUED | ✶ Following the sport, the dancing shall resume in full measure, with music enough to stir the most sea-worn sailor to join the reel. A table for tokens shall be laid, that those who take their leave may bestow a parting gift upon the youngest scion of House Mareno. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · I N V I T A T I O N S His Imperial Majesty, Tiberias Horen, Emperor of Man, and his Imperial Household His Highest Majesty, Tar-Anorhil Carandin Arthalion, of Idunia, his Kingly Household & Noble Subjects His Princely Highness, Coenraed van Aert, Prince of Blackvale, and his Princely Household His Princely Highness, Philipp Keen, Prince of Ivoria, and his Princely Household His Princely Highness, Erwin Barclay, Prince of Reinmar, and his Princely Household Their Royal Highnesses, Edward and Cecily Alstion, Archduke and Duchess of Alba, and their Royal Household His Royal Highness, Roger de Rouen, Archduke of Drusco, and his Royal Household His Highness, Adrian d’Asturias, Duke of Asturias, and his Noble Household Her Grace, Mirabella Rostova, Duchess of Eredmar, and her Noble Household His Grace, Martin von Kanunsberg, Duke of Kanunsberg, and his Noble Household His Grace, Robert Ludovar, Duke of Kvasz, and his Noble Household His Grace, Duncan Baurch, Duke of Valwyck, and his Noble Household The Most Honorable, Meili Altwegg, Margrave of Avistra, and her Noble Household The Most Honorable, Konstantin von Augusten, Margrave of Schwyz, and his Noble Household His Imperial Excellency, Ledicort de Senna, Margrave of Mount Santa-Lorina, and his Noble Household The Right Honorable, George Aldersberg, Count of Dover, and his Noble Household The Right Honorable, Elis d’Amaury, Countess of Rhoswood, and his Noble Household The Right Honorable, Juan Triunfante, Count of San Andriano, and his Noble Household The Right Honorable, Peter Rovare, Count of Stirland, and his Noble Household The Right Honorable, Vindelion von Zwei, Count of Zweiberg, and his Noble Household The Right Honorable, Constance Devereux, Count of Trier, and her Noble Household The Honorable Oswald von Strumweber, Viscount of Wesenburg, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Charles Halcourt, Baron of Artois, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Ludolf von Brandthof, Baron of Brandthof, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Josef Galahar, Baron of Ghastenwald, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Arturas Whitewood, Baron of Silasia, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Gaspard Winburgh, Baron of the Isles, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Leonid Othaman, Baron of Valles, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Alistair Treuberg, Baron of Treuberg, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Bastion Zenher, Baron of Zenher, and his Noble Household His Lordship, Leopold Helvets, Baron of Owynsburg, and his Noble Household Her Ladyship, Dame Lorelei Enswerp, Baroness of Rethel, and her Noble Household Her Excellency, Devana vas Ruthern, High Steward, and her Honorable Household Mister Niccolo di Rosavena and his Honorable Household Squire Haytham and a guest of his choice & Circe Mareno’s family and close friends Her Highness most EARNESTLY encourages her guests to come bearing gifts in her honor. SIGNED, His Princely Highness, Cassius Mareno, Prince of Myrine, Lord of Trident’s Peak Her Princely Highness, Madelief of Blackvale, Princess of Myrine, Lady of Trident’s Peak, Master of the Imperial Wardrobe Her Highness, Circe Mareno Lady of Myrine

Issued by the Principality of Myrine · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · On the 10th of Tobias’s Bounty, 2041 nto all noble houses, lords, ladies, and loyal subjects within the boundless realm of the Empire of Man, Be it known and proclaimed, under seal of Our Most Dutiful House, that upon the thirteenth year of his age, Calias Mareno, firstborn son of Their Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Myrine, shall be named and anointed as Heir Apparent to the Principality of Myrine, with all rights, dignities, and honours thenceforth pertaining. The solemn investiture and ceremony shall be held within the Great Hall of Trident’s Peak, upon the Month of Sun’s Smile, in the Year of the Empire 2041, under the watchful eye of the Imperial Standard. By this writ, all who hold allegiance to Crown and Empire are graciously bidden to bear witness to this most momentous occasion, wherein the bloodline of Mareno is set fast for generations yet unborn. SIGNED, His Princely Highness, Cassius Mareno, Prince of Myrine, Lord of Trident’s Peak Her Princely Highness, Madelief of Blackvale, Princess of Myrine, Lady of Trident’s Peak, Master of the Imperial Wardrobe His Highness, Calias Mareno, Heir-Apparent to the Principality of Myrine

Katya, the eldest daughter of Dima, gripped the missive until her knuckles ached. For months, she had mourned the loss of both her father figure and her mother, a grief that gnawed at her daily. But now, there it was. Her mother’s name, her signature, scrawled across the page. The sight churned her stomach so violently that she lurched to the nearest bush and emptied it.

Issued by the Principality of Myrine · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · On the 9th of Harren’s Folley, 2040 he House of Mareno, ever steadfast in their patronage of learning and the noble cultivation of young minds, hath made a most generous endowment unto the Prince’s Institution. In this present season, Their Serene Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Myrine, long devoted to the advancement of education within the Empire, have bestowed upon the Institution a playground, that the children who gather therein may learn and grow both in wit and in play This honourable gift is rendered in especial support of the Prince’s burgeoning seat of learning, wherein Her Highness the Princess of Myrine doth serve as a learned professor. The gift standeth also as a token of joy, for the younger scions of the House now walk proudly among the enrolled, attending their lessons with diligence. The playground itself, with its form and design, was designed by the hand and mind of Lady Circe Mareno, a student of the Institution, and daughter of the noble house. May this place of mirth and motion serve many generations henceforth, in honour and hopes of decades of learning. SIGNED, His Highness, Cassius Mareno, Prince of Myrine, Lord of Trident’s Peak Her Highness, Madelief of Blackvale, Princess of Myrine, Lady of Trident’s Peak, Master of the Imperial Wardrobe Lady Circe Mareno of Myrine ❖≔﴾═══════ﺤ

Katya Kortrevich, the author's cousin, was busy going the fully naturalistic route but found time to admire Linde's practical engineering.

The poet’s sister was among the first to receive a copy. She took it back to her room to read, but couldn’t make it past the first page, not because the writing lacked beauty, but because it struck a painful chord. Katya had never tried talking to Martin about their father, but maybe that was what she should have been doing all along.