The Vampire & Her Witch

At first, Micheline thought that someone had entered the Imperial Box while riding a horse. It wasn’t until three heartbeats later that she realized the man leading a quartet of newcomers into the box was a horse. Or at least, he had the lower body of a horse.

Not a strong, powerful warhorse like the ones her father’s knights rode, but a lean, graceful breed meant for speed.

Only this horse was a man. A tall, graceful man with long, dark hair and delicate, refined features. The styling of his tunic, if the garment could even be called a tunic, was strange, without buttons or visible fasteners. Instead, it looked like the rich, azure blue silk with its silver brocade had been wrapped around his torso, then folded neatly before a wide, silver sash tied at his waist secured everything in place.

The room stilled the moment he entered. A few of the lesser lords and ladies in attendance bowed, though all of them looked uncertain about the etiquette. A Lord of the Blood, in theory, stood just below the empresses, and this one ruled over a vast territory that would have rivaled any of Gaal’s duchies...

Or perhaps, a few conceded, it would have made Gaal’s duchies feel quaint and provincial.

”Welcome, Dirar,” Ashlynn said smoothly, striding forward to greet the newcomers as if she were an ordinary housewife welcoming guests at her door.

”Your Dominion,” Dirar replied in a voice that felt as smooth as water flowing through a mountain stream. He bowed slightly, touching the tips of his fingers to his heart and pulling back one foreleg to lower himself, but the gesture was brief, and it held none of the submission that the King of Gaal would have demanded in a display from one of his highest vassals.

”I trust that your preparations have gone well?” Ashlynn said, looking at the trio who had followed Dirar into the Imperial Box.

”Very well,” Dirar said with a light smile. ”There was some competition among my people for the honor of representing the Southern Steppe in these duels. The champions who emerged are worthy of the name, and they are well prepared to face whatever you have in store for them,” he said, turning to the first of the figures beside him.

”You already know Rastlan, Captain of my Stone Guard,” he said, gesturing to a shorter, feline figure next to him. Though, if Micheline were honest, the word ’shorter’ only applied in the context of the quadrupeds accompanying him.

The man with the feline features and the flowing, golden mane stood as tall as many of the knights who were present, and the silk of his tunic stretched across a chest that was broad and powerful. That tunic, made from an inky, black silk and studded with gemstones that marked out patterns of familiar constellations, would easily have outclassed most of Prince Henri’s finest formal wear, and from his attire alone, Micheline would have taken him for some kind of exotic prince... But instead, he was simply the captain of Dirar’s guard?

Just how much wealth did the Southern Steppe possess?

”Your Dominion,” Rastlan said, bowing deeply with the tips of his claws pressed over his heart. ”I owe your Hemlock Witch a debt,” he said, scanning the crowd of nobles until his eyes found Isabell and offered her a bow that was almost as low as the one he’d given Ashlynn.

”I allowed my pride to best me at the gates, Master Isabell,” he said. His whiskers twitched slightly as he spoke, and his golden eyes narrowed as he straightened. ”I’ve taken your lesson to heart, and I will not underestimate my opponent tonight.”

”I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered from your injuries,” Isabell replied, adjusting the silver-rimmed spectacles on her nose as her gaze swept over the feline champion. ”I would hate to think our spat at the gates might cause you to lose to Commander Aspakos,” she said.

Her words were polite, but Micheline couldn’t mistake the cutting edge in her tone for kindness, and from the way his mane bristled, it seemed like Captain Rastlan couldn’t either.

”What happened at the gates?” Micheline whispered to Morwen. ”Is there some kind of feud between them?”

”Not exactly a feud,” Morwen said, leaning close enough to whisper in Micheline’s ear. ”It’s Eldritch custom for a visiting lord to offer a tribute to their host. Dirar presented a fine chariot to Empress Nyrielle, intending it as tribute for both empresses, but it happened outside the city, and Empress Ashlynn didn’t know about it.”

”So when Captain Rastlan announced Dirar’s arrival at the gates,” Morwen explained. ”Master Isabell asked what tribute Dirar offered to the Mother of Trees. It led to a small clash. Captain Rastlan tried to destroy the gate with lightning, and Master Isabell defended it. Then, she transformed the poles of his banners into spears and hurled them at him, shattering his chariot and pinning him to its wreckage.”

”And this was a small clash?” Micheline said, trying to imagine a battle where someone conjured lightning to destroy a gate or a chariot was shattered by spears, and how it could be considered ’small.’

”From what I’ve heard, it was very polite,” Morwen said. ”Dirar apologized for it by offering Her Dominion her choice of one of his palaces, and Rastlan received healing in time to join everyone for the feast that night... It, it seems like it wasn’t that large of a matter.”

”If it wasn’t important, then why mention it now?” Micheline asked, returning her attention to the group by the entrance.

Clearly, Rastlan was implying that his upcoming confrontation with Commander Aspakos wouldn’t go the way the clash at the gates had gone, but was there more to it than that? He’d said that his pride bested him at the gates, so was he trying to imply that, had he not made mistakes, he would have bested Master Isabell too?

Micheline didn’t know, but she didn’t have much time to think about it as Dirar turned to introduce the next of his three champions...