Leaving a single nail, long and hardened enough to tap away at the wooden desk just right was the height of frivolousness—that was not sothing Sybrandt would waste his breath denying, for all it served him well. It was a thin line to be mindful of, between ensuring he retained the mystique most individuals had co to expect of him, and playing a character. A simple man could never have built sothing like this, after all—it stood to reason that sothing about him must have been special. Exclusive. Unknown.
That the couple before him was left squirming under his gaze was rely a side effect, their discomfort palpable as he continued tapping away for what must have felt like an eternity, ‘pondering’ answers he had decided upon from the mont they walked in. He smacked his lips, looking off into the distance. Their request must have reminded him of sothing, not that they would dare ask of what. Shaking his head, Sybrandt allowed himself a quiet mont of contemplation, eyes shut.
He took a deep breath before speaking, the movent rehearsed all the way to the exaggerated slump of his shoulders as he exhaled. “Marie, Jan, tell —have you thought of what would beco of this relationship were your dear friend to live again?”
“Pardon?” the woman asked—of these two, she had so far lacked a filter the most. Sybrandt liked that, not that he would say so. While he believed their intentions—and feelings—genuine, her would-be groom was much more reserved, and when it ca to matters of the heart, that simply would not do. Certain buttons needed to be pressed, for better or worse.
“Your husband, Claas.”
“Late husband,” Marie flinched even as she issued the correction, her body stiffening. Sybrandt could not help but be pleased—he could see it in how she stiffened. The sorrow, the yearning—the kind of mourning that never went away, being only ever suppressed.
“I am aware, Marie,” Sybrandt leaned forward on his desk. If there was one thing he missed from the days before he had started shaving his head, it would have been the dramatic effect a proper hair-flick could add to any interaction. All he could do now was clasp his hands, ever the picture of a solemn authority figure. “Nonetheless, your proposed contract is missing a clause for this.”
He refrained from pronouncing that part as similarly to the deceased man’s na as he was tempted to.
“He will not live again.” It was Jan who spoke this ti. Clipped. The man acted as if the re act of opening his mouth weighed on him, though the brief wetness of his eyes told enough of a story. Enough to ease Sybrandt’s concerns, small as they had been. Of course they both felt the sa way—a widow, and her husband’s lifelong friend. They both mourned him, both tried and failed to build for themselves a world in which they could have him back. Everyone always did.
But sooner or later, those without ans—those who allowed themselves to dream—realized it was beyond them. No matter how universal the potential for resurrection was ant to be, it never truly was so in practice. Not for the poor, and certainly not for mortals without connections. Sybrandt had no deeper agenda in acknowledging that fact of life, no true intent to do sothing about it. One man could not change reality like that. That was simply the way things went.
“The point remains that chances are not zero, and, therefore, it must be accounted for,” Sybrandt offered them a simple wave of a hand. “I will say, it need not be troubleso. Just a question of how you would handle it, if it were to co to pass. Devils know accusations of bigamy were abused enough in the past, that no one would hold it against you.”
The couple’s gazes snapped to him, examining him as if he had grown a couple additional heads. Perhaps the reference was more obscure than he expected, but it certainly was true. He was all too aware of many periods in history, within the limited scope of marital patterns, either because he had researched them or because he had made sure to be involved in as many social circles as possible. Nobility in particular had gone through a phase in which they developed the habit of resurrecting their enemies’ unwanted spouses purely out of spite, oftentis calling upon laws and regulations that criminalized multiple simultaneous marriages.
Was it a waste of accrued [Toll]? Obviously. It bordered on stupidity, nevermind that it turned literal lives into pieces on the board. Vindictive nobles were on a class of their own.
Still, his point remained—the precedent set by such stunts had led most countries to just create exclusions for such events, not bothering or outright forbidding the persecution of widowed individuals who remarried prior to their late spouse’s resurrection.
Would two random peasants normally have to worry about sothing like that? Absolutely not. Was Sybrandt in the mood to send so anonymous donations of mana to the fundraiser back in their village anyway?
Yes. Absolutely yes. His only regret would be that he would not witness their reaction firsthand, but such was the price of keeping the act to himself. Giving gifts was too much of a doubleedged sword for him to do so openly. Besides, it would be for his own amusent—their ignorance towards the matter only further cented his resolve.
And who knew? Perhaps they would co crawling back to and the agreent once there were three of them. On that thought… yes, Sybrandt would be sure to convince them to start with a short-term contract. They were mortals, after all, and commitnts were troubleso, especially for people still in mourning.
He almost licked his lips, far too lost in his own reverie to notice he might have been pushing a bit much—not that it mattered. Within a second, the door to his office swung open, his overgrown assistant having not even bothered to knock.
“An urgent matter has co to my attention, master,” Calvin spoke, only sparing the couple the briefest of glances. Perhaps he would have paid more attention to him had he not nearly hit his head on the doorfra—seriously, Sybrandt still rembered when this kid could barely reach the height of his hands for a headpat, being one of the many children he fostered. When had he gotten this tall? “I am afraid I require your input, now.”
Sybrandt humd softly, resting his chin upon his arms. Slowly, he turned to Marie and Jan, not bothering to heed the warning. Through narrowed eyes, he addressed the couple. “I suppose I can part with so of my ti—convenient, is it not? I do believe you needed so ti to and your proposal, anyway—”
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Marie seed torn between a scowl and a look of genuine confusion. “No, we truly did not—”
“Ada!” Sybrandt called out, hoping the old woman was hiding behind the curtains, as she almost always was. He got the confirmation he needed as she slid out, bowing her head. “Right, Ada. Would you be so kind as to escort these dears to one of the guest rooms? I fear I must put our eting on hold, but I wish for them to continue their deliberations comfortably.”
“We really don—”
“One of the good restrooms, or the one out in front?”
“…Guest rooms, Ada. One of the guest rooms.”
“That makes considerably more sense,” the old woman gave him a serious nod, turning towards the couple. “If you would be so kind as to follow ?”
At the very least, the exchange had disard Marie enough that she offered no further rebuffs as the two of them followed Ada out. Once they were beyond earshot, Sybrandt exhaled. “Was that truly necessary? I do not believe I was playing a bad part.”
“Father. There is an ergency!” Calvin hissed out, his hands clasped behind his back. He remained standing straight, no hint of jest in his tone.
Sybrandt froze, blinking slowly. Then he slapped his desk with both hands, all but pushing himself up through the motion. “Wait, an actual ergency? Why did you not just say so?”
Calvin looked ready to strangle the older man, gaze hard. Without a word, he sped out the door through which he had entered, barely dodging the doorfra this ti around. His footsteps made considerable noise as even the fine carpeting of the hall failed to muffle them—probably the work of one of his abilities, knowing the man.
With a scoff, Sybrandt chased after him—despite the implicit seriousness of the matter, he struggled to stop and consider that there might truly be a problem. Perspective was a finicky thing, and most of his subordinates considered mild inconveniences to be crippling disasters. Such was the folly of children still lacking experience in life—one of the many reasons for which Sybrandt had started this organization. The young needed to learn before they overreacted and overcommitted to basically anything in their path.
Led into one of the backrooms—one he had visited recently—Sybrandt felt his blood run cold. Within, a loom flickered, threads shifting with a faint echo, their movents more closely resembling the strings of a harp.
The device was not the reason for the pit forming in his stomach—the woven words were.
ERGENCY. DO NOT IGNORE . YOUR MAN LAMBRECHT IS DEAD, OBIT GONE. CULPRIT APPREHENDED BY MYSELF AND AN EVENT GUEST. YOUR PRESENCE IS NEEDED. PERSONALLY AND IMDIATELY. I DO NOT JEST.
That final clarification was utterly unnecessary—the otherworlder on the other end had never been one to joke about sothing like that. Truly, that only worsened his palpitations. Sybrandt was no re mortal, to be shaking like this. No, this feeling… it was sothing he had not truly felt in a long, long ti.
And soone out there was about to, for the first ti in nearly a millennium, find out what it felt to have the Immortal of Rites descend upon them like the wrath of banished gods.
Unconventional as it was, the hollowed-out branch served as an excellent replacent for a straw, especially given their current shortage. One of these days, Khaiman would find out who was responsible for the disappearance of most conveniences normally available in the royal kitchens, but that would have to wait—Henrietta was in the middle of sothing.
Having practically folded over herself, the Prince’s chest was pressed against her knees as she sobbed. Perhaps a gentle touch could have improved her mood, but the Foremost of all Saints did not actually feel close enough to the woman to justify the approach. In truth, she did not even know if it would be properly comforting—she should call in one of the old governesses that attended to their line. Surely, one of them would have a better idea.
Not now, though. She would let the woman vent, and have her mont. It was understandable, even if Khaiman struggled to empathize with the display. All he would do was wait, unobtrusively, downing her drink—
The Saint drew in air. Annoyance flooded her instantly, and she shook her cup, soon repositioning at an angle to drink the last drops of the imported fruit juice.
Huh? Since when had Henrietta been staring at her like that? The Prince was looking up now, brows furrowed. It was probably a good thing that she had straightened a little, seeing as too much ti crying in that position could not possibly have been good for her back, even if all discomforts would be temporary for soone so deep into the Tree Veins.
“Khaiman,” Henrietta called.
“I am still here,” the Saint confird, swirling the makeshift straw around. “Are you done?”
Silence lingered for a mont, the room growing tense enough that even the Foremost could feel sothing in the air, before Grēdôcava’s newest Executor rely groaned and rubbed her temples, those faint traces of emotion that had leaked through her magic fading with her voice.
“Yes, Khaiman, I am done.”
That was good, no doubt. Even Khaiman’s patience was not endless, and while she would never keep soone from expressing how they felt—even if it all amounted to weeping—the truth was, she would have inevitably gotten quite annoyed if she had to keep listening it for hours. “Good, good. I told you it would do you good to just let it all out. I am proud—stress can get to the best of us, but you aren’t letting it crush you. You are doing an excellent job, Henrietta—it is perfectly understandable to feel overwheld.”
“Overwheld is one way to put it,” Henrietta sighed, gritting her teeth. She nearly screwed her eyes shut then, and for a second, the Saint feared she might have been about to start crying again. Instead, she let out a low whine. “Oh, Devils. I am terrified, Khaiman. What if he is dead? What if sothing befell him? For him to prove untraceable, despite our best efforts… what if my nephew is dead?”
More accurately, the boy was her cousin’s son, but Khaiman offered no such correction. Not to ntion, calling any of their actions so far anyone’s ‘best efforts’ bordered on offensive. Hiring adventures, sending random noblen out—even a whelp half as competent as Theodosius could have run circles around them with this much ease.
“I never would have expected it to take this long,” Khaiman spoke truly, mostly because she had assud the boy would co back running once he realized how hard it was to strike out on one’s own. If she had known his choice to run away would lead to his father’s death and borderline destabilization for the Executor’s court, she would have never turned a blind eye to his escapades. “Perhaps we should rethink our approach?”
And the word ‘our’ might have been doing so heavy lifting there, but Henrietta did not complain or refute it, instead shaking her head. “I know not, Khaiman. All I feel is that I am failing him—and if I cannot do well by my own nephew…”
Oh, please… Woman, you have been Executor for the blink of an eye! Khaiman wanted to hold on to the Prince’s shoulders and start shaking her. Any showcase of weakness could be an opportunity others could abuse.
A Second was ant to choose their Executor’s successor—they were not ant to actually beco the Principality’s next ruler. What they had pulled off, by circumstance and convenience, was nothing short of unorthodox, and only the absolute chaos Adalhard had left in his wake had served as safeguard against most of the backlash. But as soon as matters grew less hectic… Henrietta would be vulnerable.
And Khaiman had not gone through this much effort to put an Executor she liked in power, to be thwarted this far into it. Never.
“Tell you what, Henrietta,” the Foremost smiled, setting the cup down. It hit the ground, as she had failed to actually place anything other than these two chairs in their shifting eting room, but she paid it no mind. “I will personally select a team of Saints, and I will have them look for the boy in my na.”
Henrietta gaped at her. “Saints? Are you mad?”
“Yes,” Khaiman nodded. “They would not dare disappoint , would they?”
Incredulous as her initial reaction had been, the Executor tipped her head. Her expression went slack before she steeled herself—a hint of resolve had made its way back, after all.
“…Tell more.”
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