Suraiya stood with her hands crossed under her bust, staring up at the portraits lining the walls of an immense office within her designated quarters. Her eyes were faintly narrowed, focusing on the hung paintings of men and women that had been dead for centuries, and attempting to discern some measure of connection between herself and them.


    “Do they trouble you?” Lycinia asked from her left side, her voice filled with a genuine interest that Suraiya couldn’t help but find endearing.


    “No,” she answered honestly, “but they do not inspire me, either. You say these are my ancestors, but despite some familiarity in features, I feel nothing here that connects me to them.”


    “Hm…” Lycinia responded thoughtfully, while turning her head back to look at the portraits herself.


    Suraiya frowned once more as she did the same, and tried to find something to inspire any shred of familiarity within her.


    Lycinia had woken her up the morning after her first night in Sanctuary, and had demanded she get dressed. When Suraiya noted she had not brought anything ‘appropriate’, Lycinia had simply smiled and told her to follow. Ten minutes later, she’d found herself deep within a veritable treasure trove of dresses, blouses, skirts—some of scandalous length—and something Lycinia called ‘jeans’.


    Ten minutes had turned into two hours, and Suraiya had lost herself in the absolute joy of simply experimenting with different looks. It wasn’t that clothing itself necessarily appealed to her in any way, but instead that she found satisfaction in finding the right combinations—in matching the correct pieces with their natural counterparts, and building the most ideal combination into a near-perfect ensemble.


    It was something she had been doing since her childhood, and beyond that, something expected of a Princess-Royal. She was not just an aspiring Knight, after all; she was the daughter of Royalty, and whatever her aspirations and open-mindedness about Sanctuary, she doubted she would ever lose the pride and purpose that had motivated and defined her since infancy. Her mother certainly hadn’t, and Suraiya saw no reason to defy that particular example.


    It had taken her nearly the entire two hours to find enough different options that appealed to her, and by the end she had settled on a particularly enjoyable high-collared ivory-dyed bodice with loose sleeves, which flared upon reaching her wrists. Gold threading was woven in and along its surface, and Lycinia had been gracious enough to tie it for her at the back.


    A skirt of soft fabric fell from her high waist downward, its front hem shorter than its rear and showing off her legs just above her knees. It had been scandalous to Suraiya, but Lycinia had encouraged her to go with it, and she had felt somewhat daring. The rear hem fell to below her knees, and the entire skirt was trimmed in gold.


    Most importantly, the Tollarius symbol was emblazoned over her left breast in literal gold, and settled into the fabric with magic.


    Lycinia had already been wearing what she called a ‘himation’ in white, cinched at the waist with gold, and complemented by a pair of shin-high golden sandals. It made Suraiya feel faintly overdressed, in truth, but Lycinia had assured her that she would learn the trends of the patrician families of Sanctuary in short order.


    Suraiya couldn’t argue. She probably would.


    From there the redhead had all but marched her through the various rooms of her quarters and into the office where Suraiya now found herself.


    “It isn’t that I don’t see resemblance,” the Princess said finally, after giving up and shaking her head. “I just don’t feel connected to any of this. It doesn’t feel like mine. I feel like an outsider trying to fit some sort of expectation, without even understanding the basis of that expectation in the first place.”


    She sighed and stepped backward, turning toward the vacant desk.


    “I just got my mother back, Lycinia, and I am realising that after all these years, I…” she sighed and bit her lip. “I don’t even actually know her. She vanished when I was still just a small child.”


    “I can imagine you must be feeling a myriad of frustrations,” Lycinia ventured.


    “Yes, as if sobbing like a baby in your arms wasn’t proof of that.”


    “Oh please, you aren’t the first person to break down in the world, Suraiya, and you won’t be the last.”


    Suraiya sighed at her ‘cousin’ when she spoke, and turned back to the beautiful redhead. “I know that, I’m just feeling lost here. This, all of this, should evoke something in me—I can see that. I can see the resemblances. I’m hardly blind, I just…”


    “Don’t feel a connection to any of it,” Lycinia ventured helpfully.


    “Yes!”


    “Do you think your mother did?” her cousin continued.


    “I don’t know. My mother is the Adamantine Maiden. I’m sure she rolled through Sanctuary like she was born to it,” Suraiya said, while ignoring what she knew to be contravening evidence Lycinia herself had already provided.


    “You know that isn’t true,” Lyncia chided gently.


    Suraiya bit her lip again and her hands sought her biceps and gripped them in the way she often did when stressed. It was an old habit, but one she’d had since childhood. When things built, truly built, beyond her scope of control; she always sought her own physical power for reassurance. Even after the Desolation, the horrors and the trauma, the darkness she had faced—even still, she found safety in her own martial strength.


    It didn’t matter that she was still a Novice. It certainly didn’t matter that she had only survived because of Ser Gilbert and the rest.


    Her power was her shelter.


    It gave her a sense of agency, even amid the madness that was her current situation.


    “Even if it isn’t,” she responded to Lycinia finally, who had simply observed her patiently while she ruminated. “The fact remains that my mother is a stranger to me. I am glad to have her back, I am thrilled to be able to finally learn about her—everything, whatever I can, and then some… but outside of the people I came here with, Lycinia, my only friend in this place is my horse!”


    “What am I,” the redhead asked in a tone of amusement, “offal?”


    “Oh gods,” Suraiya said with a widening of her eyes and a rapid spin to look at the other woman, “Lycinia, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean—”


    Lycinia laughed and waved her hand airily, “oh relax, Suraiya, I am merely teasing you. I am not offended by your lack of overnight infatuation with me. I would consider it suspicious if you didn’t keep me somewhat at arm’s length. Your mother refused to so much as smile at anyone for the first year of her time here, so I hear it.”


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Suraiya searched Lycinia’s eyes for a moment, and though her Empathic Link skill was useless at that moment—due to its specific requirements—she could not see any sign of lies on the Elysean woman’s features. That, at least, was a relief against the sudden upsurge of guilt she felt for her careless words. She would need to be markedly more careful in future, in order to avoid a social faux pas that could alienate her.


    Normally she was, in fact, far more cautious about what she said—and who she said it to.


    The last few days had rattled her, and while Suraiya understood the why of it, her lack of decorum felt incredibly frustrating. It was like she was letting herself down, not to mention her earnest wish to learn more about the people of Sanctuary.


    “Would you be willing, perhaps, to tell me more about Sanctuary?” she asked instead of continuing the previous discourse, and while forcing herself to settle her hands on her hips to project confidence. “I would much prefer to discuss that, than to continue waffling on about my, ah, mother issues.”


    “Hm…” Lycinia said thoughtfully while peering at her “...I suppose I could, within reason. You did have a fair amount of questions, and I did not have a chance to answer you when you asked.”


    “Thank you,” Suraiya said sincerely, and moved to one of the largest paintings in the room. “This one,” she said while gesturing to it, and looking over as Lycinia joined her, before turning back to the picture. “This woman here. It says her name is ‘Selucia’? She looks stunning, and I know you bear her name—and this plaque says she was ‘Imperatrix’, but I know nothing else. Tell me about her.”


    “Selucia Tollarius? You picked a loaded first question,” Lycinia said with a quiet laugh, and shook her head. “Where do I begin? Selucia was everything I aspire to be. She was powerful, brave, visionary, wise, and from what records and Charlemagne tell us: she was the single most iron-willed person of her age. Even the Imperator thought twice about crossing her.”


    Suraiya raised her eyebrows and peered up at the painting of the radiant, golden-haired imperious beauty with a surge of curiosity. “What made her so powerful?”


    “Selucia reached Seventh Temper, and became one of the only Ascended in the history of the Empire,” Lycinia explained while resting her right hand on her hip, and cocking it in a casually salacious manner that Suraiya found herself envying. She had no idea how the woman was so effortlessly confident.


    When her mind caught up to what Lycinia was actually saying, her focus snapped back to the tale.


    “Seventh Temper? That’s… that’s imp—”


    Suraiya cut herself off before she continued, and pursed her lips. Impossible? Was it? Was it really? She had always been taught that such a feat was reserved for only the most pious, the most divine, those directly selected by the Nine. Her theological tuition had insisted that no one had been granted the power to ascend beyond Grandmaster since the father of the Ascendancy, Justinian the Uniter, had vanished.


    “You’re learning, at least,” Lycinia said with a smile of approval, and then gestured back up to Selucia. “To hear Charlemagne tell it, it was Selucia that created his Echo, Selucia that came up with the plan to summon the Nephilim—a Calling, they named it—and Selucia that laid down the wards and enchantments that protect Sanctuary to this day.”


    “Seventh Temper…” Suraiya said with wonder, awe, and some healthy-but-hidden doubt as she looked up at the portrait of a woman that barely looked a decade older than her. “If she was so powerful, though, how did she die? Surely she could have resisted?”


    Lycinia shook her head and turned back to Suraiya with a serious expression, one which sent a small chill down the Princess’ spine.


    “Your skepticism is understandable, but your ignorance is showing, Suraiya. Compared to today’s scale of power, Selucia was a demi-goddess,” Lycinia explained in a matter-of-fact tone that seemed intent on conveying the importance of her words.


    “More than that, she was fighting a force bolstered by Avatars, Chosen, and the Grand Ascendant himself—the Archtraitor, Justinian. Selucia is not just our last Imperatrix, she is one of those that people here hold in the highest reverence. Discussing this with me is fine, but you must be careful not to voice your… skepticism… outside of my company.”


    Suraiya glanced back at the portrait, and then returned her gaze to Lycinia.


    “Is it truly so dire?” she asked with wariness and moderate confusion.


    “For a woman raised in a theocratic dictatorship, you are remarkably unaware of the idea of reverence, Suraiya. What if someone had doubted the Sun God openly within Stormharrow?”


    Suraiya’s mind flashed immediately to Jacques du Valais and Commander Elenoir, and she grimaced.


    Lycinia simply nodded in grim approval.


    “Precisely. While we are not nearly that insane here, consider if you will the ramifications of you, the leader of our newest band of Godsworn adoptees, questioning the validity of our last ruler’s legacy.”


    Suraiya bit her lip at Lycinia’s words, and nodded once.


    “I suppose you are right,” she admitted, “that would very much be—”


    “Monumentally foolish,” a new voice cut in suddenly, in a feminine alto Suraiya recognized all-too-well. Her spine stiffened, her heart thundered in her chest, and she turned toward the speaker. “Which, given you are my daughter, would look terrible for me as well.”


    Lycinia turned with her, and subtly placed her left hand on Suraiya’s elbow, squeezing it once in support before taking a tactical step to the right.


    “Patrician-Paramount,” the redhead greeted Vasilia with a respectful bow of the head and upper back.


    Suraiya’s mother was dressed in an attire much akin to Lycinia’s, albeit with more finery. Her arms were banded by three golden rings along her biceps, between her shoulder and elbow, and her chest was additionally covered by a purple sash—one emblazoned with a gilded sword atop golden scales.


    She radiated power, grace, and unstoppable momentum.


    Just as when Suraiya had first seen her, Vasilia Tollarius was a force of nature.


    “Dispense with that rubbish, Lycinia,” the Adamantine Maiden said to the other woman with a derisive snort. “I deal with enough bowing and scraping outside the Blood. I do not need it from my own people. I thought you knew that.”


    “Protocol, my lady. Suraiya does not yet—”


    “Suraiya was raised in a palace, Lycinia,” Vasilia said while shaking her head, and settling her gaze on Suraiya’s own. The princess felt her breath hitch, and she forced herself to calm—meeting her mother’s imperious stare steadily. “My daughter has forgotten more about etiquette than anyone in Sanctuary has ever learned. Being Elysea’s inheritors does not mean we have the monopoly on civilisation, no matter what Charlemagne and the Consul prattle on about.”


    Lycinia sighed openly at Vasilia’s words, and reached up to rub her forehead.


    “You really should learn to mind your tongue, my lady. One of these days it will—”


    “Why are you here, mother?” Suraiya cut in with a surge of focus, and a quiet promise to apologise to Lycinia later. “I do not mean to sound…” she trailed off, took a breath, and then continued, “to sound displeased, but I was learning from Lycinia, and I—well, I expected a summons, not an… not this.”


    Not her strongest opening, but, Suraiya found herself proud she’d managed it at all.


    For her part, Vasilia simply appraised her for a long moment, and then grimaced.


    “You really are just like me,” she half-stated, half-muttered loud enough for Suraiya to hear. The statement sent a childish thrill of warmth and happiness through her, mixed with a confusing ensemble of pain, regret, and… resentment.


    “That does not answer my question, mother.” Suraiya responded as calmly and as regally as she could, while trying to ignore the thunderous pounding of her heart. The traitorous organ was probably quite audible to the two other women in the room, given their Tempering levels, and Suraiya desperately tried to ignore that fact.


    “I suppose it does not,” the Adamantine Maiden said, before approaching with a languid, preternatural grace that revealed the true might of her Tempering, and the immense fine control she possessed over her body. “I came, daughter, to speak with you—and to rip off the proverbial bandage, before things become too complex.”


    “My lady, are you sure that is wise?” Lycinia asked with a sound of genuine concern that warmed Suraiya’s heart, and simultaneously twisted her into a malaise of self-recrimination at how weak Lycinia must have thought her.


    “What bandage?” Suraiya asked, before Vasilia could respond to the redhead beauty.


    “Well, the blowhard already revealed it—” Suraiya’s heart hammered in her chest with greater potency at Vasilia’s words “—when you sought your petition, and I see no reason to let the wound fester. I know you must be feeling any number of ways about what he said, Suraiya, and I confess I am…”


    Her mother paused, scarred features twisting with momentary guilt, and then grimaced and pressed on—just as Suraiya knew she would.


    “...not good at this. I became a Queen, but that was a title. What I am, Suraiya, is a warrior—and I see that same stern conviction in you. I know you have questions, I know you have anger, I know you have pain.”


    Suraiya took a steadying breath, preparing herself for what came next.


    “But I think it’s time we addressed the proverbial dragon in the room,” Vasilia said finally.


    “It’s time to meet your brother.”