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TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 20 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 04:55:50 +0000 UTCChapter 20 - Print
The press is our chief ideological weapon.
- Nikita Khruschev.
The trick with bad news was to get ahead of it. Frame the situation, and you controlled it. It was finally time to set Rashana to writing something that actually mattered. Or, in fact, to set Rashana to write something at all.
The distribution routes were already secured, with vendors in every major township across the realm. Each issue would be tabloid-size—though she would never call it a tabloid—designed for ease of reading. She wanted immediate, mass-market appeal across the entire population. And at only a single copper coin, the newspaper would be affordable to every walk of life and social stratum.
To think that, in the modern age, a precious resource like current news was being given away for free. Ha! she thought to herself.
***
Seraphina ventured forth with a singular purpose, determination adding steel to her stride as she ignored the carefully cultivated beauty of the gardens around her.
If Velens wanted it that way, he would have it that way.
She climbed the steps to the second-year dormitory. The corridor smelled of rosewater and varnish; somewhere, someone murdered the scales of a piano, or this world’s equivalent, with dutiful zeal. She rapped once on a door dressed with a tasteful tassel instead of a nameplate—the Al-Lazarian way.
“Enter,” came Rashana’s unhurried voice.
The room was curated calm—cushions instead of chairs, a low table set by the window, ledgers stacked with a merchant’s neatness, summer flowers drying from a cord. Sunlight glanced off the bangles at Rashana’s wrists as she set a book aside and looked up with that polite, appraising smile.
“My dear Seraphina,” the dusky girl greeted, “What a lovely surprise. How are you? You will forgive the current state of my room, I simply was not expecting you. Oh, do tell me—are you practicing your dance? I am quite looking forward to it.”
Seraphina’s answering smile was a small, wicked curl. “Apologies, Rashana, darling, but I come with news. As for the dance, diligently. With luck, my performance will not dishonor your mother’s culture.”
“How wonderfully confident of you.” Rashana’s amusement chimed as softly as her bracelets. “Now, that look of yours. News, you say? What storm do you bring me today?”
“The paper. It is finally time to put words into print,” Seraphina said, sliding a leather folio onto the table and untying the cords. “You will write. I will speak. And you will have the first exclusive of your very promising career.”
Rashana’s brows rose. She reached for a pen without being asked. “How thrillingly improper. Very well. Give me your lede.”
“Headline,” Seraphina said, taking a seat on a thick cushion. Rashana looked confused, but, not wanting to disrupt the flow of her words, the young girl decided to explain it to her later. “‘Declaration in the Gardens’ with the subheader, ‘Lady Seraphina de Sariens Announces Intent to Dissolve Betrothal with His Highness Crown Prince Velens de Barbierri.’”
The nib kissed paper; Rashana’s eyes brightened. “Intent,” she repeated, savoring the word. “Clean. Dignified. Tell me everything. This is delicious. But is it true?”
“It is,” the blond girl answered as she folded her hands, the very picture of refined composure. “In the Academy gardens, you know, near the little shrine. I had… a chance encounter. The Crown Prince and the Living Saint were together.”
Rashana didn’t look up, though her smile sharpened. “Together?”
“Unchaperoned as well. A very compromising situation. The Prince’s hands were wandering, if you get my meaning,” Seraphina added sweetly. “I offered my pleasant greetings and simply gave him some suggestions on the matter. In turn, he decided to insult and censure my house!”
The blonde girl got up and whispered some of the salacious details into the other girl’s ear.
“They did not!” exclaimed Rashana as her pen quickened. “Now then, direct quotes, if you please.”
Seraphina’s tone cooled, precise as cut glass. “You may attribute this to me: ‘Hear me, Velens de Barbierri. Whether or not our engagement is yet stamped upon parchment, you and I both know the promise that was made. If you persist in humiliating me, and by extension House de Sariens, then I will do what you refuse to do. I hereby dissolve our engagement.’”
She let the silence after it sit a heartbeat, as it had in the garden. “He said: ‘You do not mean that.’ I answered: ‘I do. As my mother and father before me, I will marry for love, and not just for the realm.’”
The young girl knew well enough to be liberal with the truth. It was the emotions behind the words that counted, not the little words themselves.
“Oh, that sings,” Rashana breathed, eyes sparkling as the lines took shape beneath her hand. “Setting aside the melodrama of young love, of course.”
“Of course,” Seraphina murmured. “Color, if you must to be a little bit racier. Add something, perhaps about the Crown Prince caught cheating. I’ll leave the wording to you. Attention-grabbing. You will not print the scullery remark.”
Rashana’s shoulders shook once—silvery laughter smothered before it could be born. “Tragic, because it was wickedly funny, but not becoming of a daughter of a Great House.” She drafted a margin note and then crossed it out, obedient. “What of witnesses?”
“None officially,” Seraphina said. “You may write ‘several students nearby,’ which is, of course, perfectly true.”
“As you wish.” Rashana sketched a neat box: Sources: Lady de Sariens (on the record). Royal Palace (comment requested). “And the ring?”
“We never exchanged rings,” Seraphina answered softly.
In that rare moment of vulnerability, Rashana felt sympathy for her haughty friend. She reached over and touched Seraphina’s hand. It was enough for the girl to rally.
The blonde girl sighed. “We will do things properly. Include: ‘Formal communications to follow between Houses de Barbierri and de Sariens.’ It sounds civilized.”
“Lovely.” Rashana’s nib danced. “Motivation?”
“Dignity, of course. My personal dignity and that of my House. Mention that we have been stolid supporters of the Crown, etcetera, etcetera,” Seraphina continued, smooth as cream. “Mention something about that hussy threatening the stability of the realm. No one knows of her origins, right? Perhaps she is a spy for a foreign nation. What is known is that she is a puppet of the Church.”
“Are you sure you wish to antagonize such an… organization?” the olive-skinned remarked lightly.
Seraphina looked away for a moment. “Do not antagonize, but at least throw some doubt. Mention something about, despite the label of being a ‘Living Saint’, our dear Este Lize can not even cast a simple Heal spell. Suspicious, don’t you think? Also, there is the matter of timing. Those creatures she acquired for the Academy, and then shortly, there was the Dragon attack? The timing…”
The heir to the Sariens Duchy knew full well that in the realm of rumor and accusations, one must attack, attack. Then attack some more.
The half-Al-Lazarian girl nodded, briefly touching the long braid of her hair. “Hmmm… you are quite right. I can work with that. Insinuate, but do not accuse directly.”
“‘House de Sariens remains committed to the welfare of the Kingdom Aranthia’ might go down well, I think.”
“Prudent, saintly, unassailable,” Rashana murmured, delighted. “Do we offer balm?”
“A paragraph on charity,” Seraphina said. “House de Sariens is gifting the city of Meridian a considerable donation to help with the rebuilding effort of damaged parts of the city. Write that I encourage all Houses to match donations. And, this is important, thank the Crown for its continued attention to public order after the Dragon attack.” She paused, then allowed herself the faintest smile. “Gratitude reads better than grievance.”
“Mm.” Rashana drew a slender divider and began a column titled Clarifications. “And the Saint? We cannot pretend she wasn’t there.”
“We will not pretend anything. The truth is the sharpest of swords if wielded by those who matter. That is all, for now, I think,” Seraphina concluded.
“How very righteous of us.” Rashana’s pen skated to a halt. “Would you like a quote from you to close it? Something the readers can pin upon their wall and sigh over?”
Seraphina considered, sifting through lines until one fit like a glove. “Try: ‘In all things, let us choose duty without cruelty, truth without spectacle.’ Place it beneath my name in a sensible font.”
Rashana copied it carefully, then sat back, satisfied. She had the editor’s rhythm now: distil, sharpen, place. Words unfurled beneath her hand—measured and practiced. Seraphina stepped to her shoulder, eyes skimming with a studied restraint, adding her own suggestions here and there. A portrait, a semblance of the truth, resolved in the spaces: dutiful, magnanimous, untouchable.
“Good,” Seraphina said at last. “That frames me appropriately.”
“Anything for a friend,” Rashana replied, laying the pen aside to flex her fingers.
The words were light, almost idle, and yet they landed with a weight that made Seraphina’s thoughts pause. Rashana, so fond of barbs for sport, had yielded with suspicious grace. She had been amenable. No coy delay; only the memory of a promised dance and this sudden zeal to set type. Why? She had expected more resistance.
Seraphina let a pleasant hum veil the calculation beneath.
“I must say, how you do love to get ahead of things,” Rashana said, eyes bright again as she sketched the layout. “Now what were those things you mentioned? Headlines and whatnot?”
The blonde girl smiled pleasantly at her friend. “Well, I heard that when making a paper such as this, a headline is at the top of the paper, denoting some very important news…”
De Sariens continued with her explanation, Rashana just nodding. The half Al-Lazarian was a quick study, stopping Seraphina only when she needed a point clarified.
Rashana looked over her notes. “I’ll fair-copy this after supper for the compositor. The headline will look very fine above the fold. Those are the correct terms, right? By the way, have you thought about the name of this… paper?”
“Newspaper,” Seraphina corrected quickly with a small toss of her hair. “Thank you, and yes, those terms were otherwise correct,” the young noblewoman added, allowing sincerity to warm the words. “How about the Aranthian Times? We need something that will lend a certain veritas to what we put out. Something to do with one of the Pillars of the Kingdom?”
The other girl nibbled at the feather of her quill in thought. “Yes, that name does sound nice, but it could do with something… Seraphina, how about ‘The Oracle’? I daresay it will add a certain weight to the words once printed.”
“You are a genius, Rashana! That is absolutely perfect,” the blonde girl smiled warmly, glad that her friend had walked down a pre-prepared path. People were more willing to accept suggestions when they thought they were their own.
Seraphina had not forgotten how her “friend” had maneuvered her into dancing the Dance of the Seven Veils. Though only she would know it, this went some way toward evening the score.
Rashana set her quill aside, bracelets chiming softly. “Truly, anything for a good friend. Now, there is another matter I wish to discuss.”
“Oh? What is it?” Seraphina asked, arching a brow with practiced poise.
“Wait a moment, I have been a poor host. I will prepare us some tea.”
“There is no need; I was the one who burst in unannounced.”
“One offers water to those who need it,” Rashana replied with a gracious smile.
Rashana lifted her chin and called out, a lilting phrase in Al-Lazarian.
The door slid open at once. Two servants in pale blue livery entered with a lacquered tray between them, their steps almost soundless. They set a low table before the two girls, laid a narrow runner of patterned weave, and placed a brass kettle upon a small spirit brazier. Porcelain cups ringed with filigree followed, a waste bowl for the first pour, a dish of sugared almonds, and a plate of thin dates split and jeweled with walnuts.
Rashana smiled as she moved with practiced grace. She warmed the cups, poured once to season the leaves, tipped that amber away, and glanced up through her lashes. “Sweet, or straight?”
“Sugar,” Seraphina said, settling with a rustle of skirts. “For life, as of late, has been a bit too bitter.”
“As you wish.” Rashana tasted first, a host’s courtesy and quiet reassurance, then filled Seraphina’s cup in a thin, unbroken thread that sent steam curling between them.
“To sweetening this bitter life,” Rashana murmured lightly, setting the tea before her friend, the scent of it filling the air between. “Now… about that other matter.”
The girl cradled her cup, her eyes soft and mellow. “Now that, the Crown Prince is no longer your betrothed, there is a match I would have you consider. My elder brother, Marwen. He is…” she took a small breath. “...attractive, intelligent, unfailingly kind. Refined, well-mannered. He would treat you as a treasure, Seraphina,” she declared, ticking off her brother’s virtues on her slender fingers. “Remember, he would always give you gifts. He treated you as family whenever you came to visit.”
Seraphina listened, sipping at her sweet tea. “All of which is true. He is a fine man,” she allowed. “He would indeed make a fine husband.” She set the cup down. “There is only one small problem.”
Rashana’s smile held. “And what is that?”
“I do not believe I could make him happy.”
A beat passed. “Why not?”
Seraphina shook her head once, almost regretful. “Because your brother prefers men.”
The smile snapped, then flattened into something brittle. “How dare you… I mean, how could you possibly know—”
“Rashana,” Seraphina said gently. “My mother is an Oracle. Do you not think she would have considered your brother as a match?”
Understanding struck; Rashana gave a short, bitter laugh and looked away to the window. “Of course. Your mother.”
“I intend to marry for love,” Seraphina went on, tone even. “Anything else would be a disservice to Marwen and to myself. Your brother deserves a life that fits him. So do I.”
Rashana’s throat worked once. “You will keep this… confidence?”
“Of course,” Seraphina replied with a friendly smile. “We have already kept this confidence for many years now. I have no wish to see your House embarrassed by idle tongues. I hope you understand that, above anything, that we are friends, Senior Rashana.”
Rashana exhaled, some tension bleeding from her shoulders. She smiled weakly back at the blonde girl. “You are… considerate.”
Seraphina smiled, all sweetness over steel. Internally, she marked the knowledge and cataloged Rashana’s reaction. This was but one more arrow in her quiver, should her designs require it.
Comments
Mesa
It's almost time for the classical trope in any Academy arc.
Saber Saurus
That's right Seraphina. You only have one true love. Yourself! And by that I mean Eloise who happens to look like you!
