Oona's chambers had always felt less like a room and more like a quiet declaration of power. The walls were lined with dark lacquered panels carved in winding patterns—dragons, waves, and old sigils worn smooth by time. Tall lantern stands glowed in the corners, their soft amber light catching on polished wood and the edges of heavy silk drapes. The bed was wide and low, dressed in layered furs despite the mild evening, while a long table by the wall overflowed with chests, scroll cases, and opened bundles still being sorted by servants. The air carried a blend of cedar, old incense, and something sharper—medicinal oils, perhaps.
Servants moved in a steady rhythm—bowing, placing, adjusting—while Oona directed them from her seat with ease.
"No, not there," she said without even turning her head. "Unless you intend for me to trip and die before supper. Move it closer to the wall. Use your eyes, boy—they were not given to you for decoration."
The servant scrambled to obey.
Miyo sat beside her, legs tucked neatly, a small table between them bearing grapes, plums, and pears. She reached for a grape, rolling it between her fingers before popping it into her mouth.
"How was your journey to the Grand Lakes, Grandmama?" she asked.
Oona plucked a plum but did not eat it, turning it idly in her fingers.
"Warm. Unreasonably warm. The sort of heat that makes you question your life choices and the gods responsible for them."
She sniffed. "Though I will admit, the springs did their job."
She leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel conspiratorial.
"The workers, however, were hopeless. One nearly poured bath oil into drinking water. I asked him if he meant to cleanse my insides or kill me politely."
Miyo let out a soft laugh. Oona finally took a bite of the plum, then added, almost lazily,
"Still… I do feel improved. Positively rejuvenated. If I wake tomorrow looking twenty years younger, do not be alarmed. Simply be jealous."
Miyo laughed again, more freely this time.
"Now," Oona said, clapping her hands once, sharp and decisive. "Bring the first gift."
A servant stepped forward at once, presenting a carved box. Miyo leaned in, her eyes bright. Oona opened it, revealing a neatly coiled prayer rope—fine wool threaded with strands of silk, small ornaments woven into its loops.
She lifted it and placed it into Miyo's hands.
"Blessed by a temple priest," Oona said.
Miyo examined it, turning it gently between her fingers. Her smile softened—polite, but faint.
Oona's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do not tell me you dislike it."
"I like it," Miyo said quickly. "I do. I just… I do not say my prayers anymore. Or recite psalms."
Oona clicked her tongue, then tapped Miyo's hands with her own spotted fingers—firm, not unkind.
"You will," she said, smiling thinly. "Even if only to keep the gods nervous."
Before Miyo could protest, Oona took the rope back and placed it neatly into the box.
"The next one," she said.
Another servant stepped forward, carrying a package wrapped in leather. Oona glanced at Miyo's face, catching the dip in her excitement.
"Oh, do try not to look like a widow at her own wedding," she said dryly. "You will like this one. I made certain of it."
She unwrapped the leather slowly, revealing a large, worn book. Miyo's eyes lit at once.
Oona held it out to her.
"A written work from the port of Sailmaker's Town. Traders there hoard stories the way misers hoard gold."
Miyo took it eagerly, her earlier dullness gone. "You traveled all the way to Sailmaker's Town?"
Oona let out a short, amused breath. "Absolutely not. I value my bones too much for such nonsense."
She waved a hand dismissively.
"I sent someone competent instead. A rare and expensive luxury, I assure you."
***
Torra's chambers were in mild chaos.
Servants hurried in and out, arms full of velvet cushions, lacquered chests, folded gowns, and framed mirrors wrapped in linen. Keturah's belongings dominated the space—boxes upon boxes, some large enough to store armor, though none contained anything so practical. Droha had long known his sister-in-law's appetite for finery. Torra himself had complained often enough.
"Come, Droha," Torra said, waving a dismissive hand at the mountain of possessions. "It may take a day or two before the servants finish unpacking my wife's treasures."
Droha allowed a small smile as they stepped out into the corridor.
"I trust the Grand Lakes were warmer this season?" he asked as they descended the stairs.
"They were," Torra replied with satisfaction. "Warm enough to make a man forget he owns responsibilities. You soak long enough and begin to believe you have nothing to worry."
He let out a booming laugh. Droha smiled faintly.
"But nothing is better than family," Torra continued, swaying slightly as he walked. "It is good to be around men again. At the Lakes, if it is not Mother scolding a servant for breathing incorrectly, it is Keturah complaining about the air, the water, the food, the arrangement of clouds—someone is always displeased."
"Well," Droha sighed lightly, "you know Mother."
They descended the outer stairway into the inner court. The courtyard was alive with motion despite the deepening dusk. Torches flickered against stone walls. Carpenters hammered into scaffolds. Smiths shaped ornamental fittings. Stone masons worked carefully around the towering figure of the Painted Lady, their goddess rising in pale grandeur above them.
The statue was nearly complete. Only the finishing strokes remained—fine chiseling around the eyes, smoothing the folds of her carved robes. It will be done before dawn, Droha thought to himself. He guided his brother toward a quieter corner where they could observe without interrupting.
"Miyo has grown," Torra said after a moment. "Quite a lot since I last saw her."
"Yes," Droha replied. "She has."
"And I hear Mehra will soon begin her labors?"
Droha's expression softened. "Yes. Very soon."
"Thanks be to our Lady," Torra said, nodding toward the statue. There was a pause. Then Torra spoke again, lower this time.
"Do you think it will be a boy?"
Droha did not look surprised. He had heard the question many times, in council chambers, in quiet corridors, in the careful phrasing of nobles who pretended not to pry.
"I hope so," he answered evenly. "I pray so."
Torra nodded, satisfied with that. "If it is, you will finally have a true heir. A son. It will put Hagoro's words to shame once and for all."
That made Droha turn. He stared at his brother. After careful thoughts, he spoke, "I will not spend the Season's End here."
Droha's voice came steady, but it carried enough weight to still the moment between them. Torra turned to him, brows knitting.
"What?"
"The Taalon King—my father-in-law—has invited me to White Warren," Droha continued. "Mehra wishes it. It has been long since she has seen her home."
He paused briefly, then added, "We leave after tomorrow's celebration."
Torra stared at him now, confusion plain on his face. "And Miyo?" he asked.
"She goes with us."
That did not ease him. Torra's gaze sharpened. "Does Mother know?"
"I will tell her," Droha said, giving a small, assured nod.
Torra scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "You will tell her? Droha, Mother will not be pleased. I doubt she will agree to this at all."
Droha's expression hardened.
"Listen, brother," he said, turning fully to face him. "I have made my decision and will not seek anyone's permission."
Torra's jaw tightened.
"I am telling you," Droha went on, "because I want you to rule in my stead while I am away."
"No," Torra said immediately, shaking his head, the word came out like a gasp, "No, Droha. You know I cannot do that."
"You can brother,"
"I cannot," Torra insisted, more firmly now. "You know the law. I have been stripped of that right. Publicly. Officially. You were there."
"I was," Droha replied. "And I remember why, but it is only as Lord Regent."
Torra's expression flickered—just for a moment.
"And if not you," Droha continued, "then it will fall to Mother."
"Of course, she is in the right to rule, as she has done before." Torra argued.
"You know how she governs," Droha said. "Decisive, yes. But never without… troubles."
Torra let out a dry laugh. "It is still the law, Droha."
Droha stepped closer, his voice lowering.
"And what are laws, if not the will of a Lord?"
That made Torra look at him again. Droha pressed on.
"I was anointed in holy oils and named by the gods themselves, set above to bear the weight of the realm. Who, then, shall question the hand they have chosen? I know what must be done for the good of crown and country, and I alone will name those worthy to act in my stead."
Torra's shoulders shifted uneasily. "You ask much of me."
"I ask what only you can give," Droha replied.
A silence settled between them.
Torra looked out at the workers, at the nearly finished statue, at the men laboring under orders.
Then he sighed. "You have already decided," he muttered.
"Yes."
Another pause.
Torra shook his head slowly, though there was less resistance in it now. Torra huffed, almost amused despite himself.
"…I will think on it," he said at last.
"That is all I ask."