Is she even human? Emeric wonders as he tries not to stare. He’s heard wild tales about Lady Vatusia and her kind. They call themselves the Vibría. The stories say that they were born of the magician’s race, casting spells and conjuring just like the rest of their ilk. Their ancestors began experimenting with fringe magic and inadvertently transformed themselves into something otherworldly. The tales say that no one outside of the Vibría, the magicians, and the king knows exactly what strange abilities this new race of beings have. It is a closely guarded secret—one that Emeric has never felt any desire to know.
Though the Lady Vatusia speaks not a word as she leans closer, Emeric feels a frozen hand wrap around his spine, locking him in place. Waiting helplessly, he watches from the corners of his eyes for Lady Vatusia to pass through the doors. Sidling up to Emeric’s side, she carefully turns his face until his eyes are forced to meet hers. Trailing one finger down the frightened man’s cheek, her smile grows as she winks her right eye, drawing attention to her otherworldly features. When Emeric visibly shivers in response, she saunters away with a soft chuckle.
Lady Vatusia takes her place opposite of the king’s position, a seat that should be reserved for the queen. The fact that she takes this chair without argument speaks volumes. Compared to her, the other lords merely play at being powerful. They are children with wooden sticks, rocking horses, and straw armies when compared with the Lady Vatusia.
Alaric does not fail to notice Lady Vatusia’s entrance. Though he’s made overtures to her many times, she’s always declined his attentions. Now, seeing her take the seat reserved for his queen, Alaric’s temper flares. She means to provoke me. Oh, she revels in the knowledge that I burn for her, doesn’t she? One day…one day.
Rather than finish the thought, Alaric’s voice roars out his frustration as he opens the meeting, “We know our enemy has found the Ddraigs at last, and—”
“I still think you should send us back over the mountains. We can finish what we started,” Lord Gregoire interrupts, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his chin from their last attempt to overtake Cassè. “The people are weakened. They will be easy targets now—”
“They were sitting ducks the last time you went over, and yet they are still there!” Lord Destry shouts, pointing an accusing finger at Lord Gregoire. “Your kind only managed to weed out the weaklings. What’s left over there are the Ddraig’s riders and a few lucky survivors. It’s the strongest of the enemy that remain, you fool.”
“What do you propose then?” Alaric growls, wiping blood off his knuckles. A dull ache burns in his busted joints, but it only fuels his simmering rage.
“Send my armies over,” Lord Destry exclaims, his eyes growing bright at the thought of an impending battle. “We can take them by brute force. We’ll sneak over and rally around the major houses and Omphalos. Then we’ll—”
“None of these plans will succeed,” Lord Xanti interjects, his voice growing monotonous as his eyes cloud over in their unfocused, dreamlike state. His powers pull his mind into the future, where he watches each of the other lords’ proposals unfold. “The Windwalkers cannot defeat those of Ddraig blood without assistance.”
“Hmph,” Lord Gregoire huffs, slumping in his chair as Lord Destry grows smug.
“The armies of men will fall against the Ddraigs as well.” Lord Xanti’s voice grows until it is a booming thunder, an unending pressure that seems to reach into each listener’s ear and pound on the walls of their minds. “A leader has arisen among the Ddraigs, this you know. She is far more dangerous than meets the eye, but I cannot see what it is that makes her such a formidable foe. Do not underestimate what you cannot understand.” Lord Xanti’s shoulders droop as his vision returns to normal. He casts a wary eye on the king, adding, “I’m sorry, sire. That’s all I see. I’ll keep trying, but right now, there is nothing more that the spirits can tell me.”
“What about sending spies?” Lord Balere pipes up, his voice soft as he fights sleep from his drunken stupor.
Before the king can respond, Emeric opens the war room doors once more. “Apologies, sire. But there is a man from the Devil’s Spine outposts asking to see you. He says that he has met with the future king of Cassè.” Emeric shifts on his feet, uncertain how the king will respond to his news. “The man who claims to be the future king wants to make you an offer.”
Alaric folds his arms across his chest, considering his options carefully. To respond too eagerly to this meeting would give off an air of desperation. Yet such a meeting can not be missed. It might even provide a means of infiltrating Cassè and destroying it from the inside out, if Alaric plays his hand well. “Very well.” Alaric’s voice echoes through the room as his decision is made. “I will meet with the guard from the outposts and see what this so-called king wants. If it is fruitless, we will reconsider the option of sending spies into Cassè.”
As the king rises from his seat at the head of the table, all of his council members fall over themselves to follow suit. Only Lady Vatusia manages to move with predatory grace, gliding over to stand beside the king. “I will come with you to meet this stranger,” she hisses, her voice as wispy as the final swirls of smoke from a doused fire. Yet despite her fragile tone, her words are not a request.
Even Alaric does not protest. Holding out a hand to her, the king replies, “Of course, my lady. I would not have it any other way.” Together they drift through the corridor on the way to the throne room.
***
A pair of glittering scarlet eyes
