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TO&FQ: Book 3: Chapter 17 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-08-06 14:11:40 +0000 UTCChapter 17 - Loyalty
Loyalty and devotion lead to bravery. Bravery leads to the spirit of self-sacrifice. The spirit of self-sacrifice creates trust in the power of love.
- Morihei Ueshiba.
Morning in Meridian slipped across the sky in shades of pinks, all fresh light and blush. On a quiet street where a crooked arch threw a blade of shade across the stones, Seraphina sat with her knees together and her easel squared to the water. A Serenelle drifted past, the ferryman’s pole kissed the canal bed and rose again, leaving rings that widened and forgot him. The young girl had taken this time to simply get away from it all, a fragment of peace all for herself.
Her Knights and the corrupt Captain Fanzazino of the City Guard made sure of that, cordoning off this small section of the city.
She dabbed into a blob of paint on her palette, stirred and softened it until the color lost its raw shock. Meridian’s water was never one color, she had learned; it was a quarrel of tones—olive where weeds braided the stone, wine-dark beneath shadowed bridges, bright where the sun spilled gold. She mixed until the quarrel on her palette looked honest, then drove a clean line along the canvas where water met quay. The brush whispered the truth that she saw.
On the other side of the canal, laundry hung from a balcony in squares of faded blue and yellow. Somewhere, someone cried out for something. The sounds came thin and far on this street; Meridian did most of its shouting elsewhere. Another Serenelle returning from the dawn markets, stacked with green bundles that smelled of fennel, scissored past. The ferryman doffed his hat at Seraphina, not so much a greeting, but as an acknowledgement of her beauty.
She did not smile. A smile would pull her mouth and tilt her hand and send the line astray. She breathed instead, slow and sure, and let the breath dictate the stroke: in for the length of a bridge, hold to gather, out for the curved belly of a hull.
One of her flower arrangement instructors had once told her that painting, like shaping line and space with flowers, lives in the small breath where intention settles into harmony—or some nonsense like that. Seraphina had laughed then and diplomatically called it a poet’s beautiful lie. Today, with the canal so peaceful and the sun’s light still soft and kind, she wondered if it were true.
Her fingers moved with a care that had nothing to do with fragility as the hours and minutes passed. Precision was not gentleness. She turned the brush and shaved a shadow along a mooring ring, then broke it with a flick so it looked lived-in, like something that had simply been for a very long time.
“Pretty.” The word came from the small Fae fluttering about her. Her curiosity had elbowed out Seraphina’s explicit instructions for silence.
“It will be, if my brush behaves,” Seraphina murmured, not looking away. She laid in a wash for the far bank where bright awnings flared and slumped, then dragged the heel of the brush through it to suggest the crooked smile of a brick line.
Distracted by a butterfly, Tia left Seraphina alone for a few blessed moments. Had Tia been human, the young girl would have thought of her as one of those with addled minds… what did the Americans and Westerners call them? Ah, yes—autistic. On a certain spectrum of craziness. The countries in the West seemed to produce them on an almost industrial scale, and she wondered if it had something to do with all the chemicals they liked to put in their food.
“Tia, don’t fly too far away,” Seraphina said absently. “There are fish in the canals that eat ducks.” The Fae paused for a bit, looking cautiously down at the canal's edge.
Seraphina added a bead of white to the water where the Serenelle’s prow should cut its own reflection and smiled at her own skill. On the opposite quay, a man unrolled a strip of net to mend, hands like knotted wood moving an efficient grace; his wife sat beside him shelling beans that dropped into a pan like green rain. Seraphina put them both in with three strokes; the idea of a fourth she denied herself. Too much truth was as bad as none. Art was more than that.
The water changed before the sound reached her. A long, heavy ripple shouldered the lesser waves aside. She looked up, brush paused above the canvas. Around the bend came a Serenelle painted the color of dry ash, moving faster than fashion allowed. No flowers on its prow. Only her would-be rival, the Saint of Silver, was all by herself with a grey hat low over her eyes. A picture of false serenity so easily shattered.
How easy would it be to seize this opportunity… to end this here and now. But a whisper stopped her, not one of guilt or conscience, but of purpose. Este Lize still had her role to play, and your enemies were the whetstones you used to keep your claws sharp. Besides, Seraphina was not entirely sure she would be able to get away with such an act in broad daylight.
Their eyes met, but it was Este Lize who pointedly looked away, like a child caught where it shouldn’t be. Why? Was that fear? Had the blonde girl’s campaign of indirect, ‘focused pressure’—she would never admit to it being bullying—been so effective? Either way, she enjoyed that look. Savored it as one would a snack between courses.
However, a small part of her was disappointed. Was that all it took to break one of my creations?
As the Serenelle turned another corner and disappeared from view, the girl suffered another intrusion into this, her carefully cultivated private moment. She heard Miriam’s tread from behind her. The girl could almost hear her maid’s hesitation and worry.
The young noblewoman set her brush down, careful as if she were laying a child to sleep. She would finish this painting from memory, like many other things, later.
“What is it, Milly?” Seraphina asked, folding her hands in her lap as she closed her eyes, as if steeling herself for another round of banal incompetence.
“It’s about the training program, milady…” Milly’s voice wavered, thin as paper in the wind.
“I do hope you're coming to me with a solution and not more whining,” Seraphina murmured, her tone clipped and cold. Her eyes remained shut, but her voice sharpened like the edge of a whetted blade. “I would be most disappointed if the next words out of your mouth were anything but helpful.”
The maid hesitated, but only for a breath. Duty demanded that truth, however bitter, would be spoken. “With the schedule you have set, there simply is not enough time to bring recruits to that level of competency. Not even, I must add, with all the incentives.”
Miriam winced and braced for the storm, eyes shut tight. But when the silence stretched on too long, she dared to take a peek.
Seraphina had not moved. She sat in thoughtful stillness, brow drawn in a furrow of contemplation.
“Could we extend the training period?” Seraphina ventured, encouraged by the quiet. “Perhaps relieve them of their factory shifts? Give them time to focus solely on—”
“I’ve already accounted for that, milady,” Miriam said flatly, cutting her off. “But humans, regrettably, require a certain amount of sleep. There just are not enough hours in the day.”
Seraphina tsked softly, shaking her head with something like disappointment. “Then we shall make hours in the night.”
Miriam blinked. “I... I don’t understand, my lady. That isn’t…”
The young noblewoman sighed, a long breath laced with theatrical weariness. “We will simply have them study and train while they sleep.”
Miriam stared. “In their sleep? How would you go about doing that?”
“Lucid dreaming. The legacy of Al-Lazar,” Seraphina clarified, the glint in her eye returning. “We’ll increase their Dust allotment. A stronger blend, enough to induce a hyper-real dreamstate. There, they can review their lessons, repeat their drills. Time flows differently in the dream… we could see their training progress at a truly incredible rate.”
Indeed, this was one of the training methods Seraphina had considered using to gain a few attribute and skill points. However, it meant suffering an addiction to the Dust of Al-Lazar, which had many, many drawbacks—especially for a mage. Namely, the risk of falling deeper into one’s Path.
“But the expense…” Miriam protested, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Do not interrupt me,” Seraphina snapped, her gaze flashing. “This is entirely feasible. The dreamscape from the Dust will serve as a crucible. They will become better than they ever could be with just normal training methods.”
“You would have them train even in sleep? Will you allow them for no rest at all?” Miriam asked quite aghast.
The girl played with her hair, imagining grand things. “It is a noble thing,” Seraphina said calmly. “To better yourself, to strive endlessly toward perfection. I think they should all thank me for presenting them with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for self-improvement. Or do you dare disagree, Miriam?”
The maid shook her head quickly. “No, my Lady Seraphina. Never. Only… that level of Dust, taken continuously, leads to dependence. A most frightful addiction.”
“Exactly, Milly. Exactly. And we will be the only ones in the kingdom able to meet their needs,” Seraphina smiled, slow and pleased, as though her maid had just recited a correct answer to a riddle. “And what better anchor for loyalty? These are not common workers we are talking about. They will be embedded across Aranthia, in sensitive positions where betrayal would cost me dearly. Better they crave the Dust than betray me. You know what they say: hope for the best, prepare for the worst, etcetera.”
“Still,” Miriam said carefully, “you ask much of them. Attrition rates are already extremely high. And the ones you have—they are loyal, milady. Fanatics would be an apt description of them. You handpicked most of them. Even that crippled girl…”
The girl smiled like a fox. “She is doing well?”
“Yes, milady. And, I have heard, she even prays in your name. Thinks you are the Goddess made flesh.”
Seraphina rose to her feet, sunlight glinting off her hair. “Which is why she, and the others like her, must never falter. None of them must. A single moment of weakness, a single chink in their loyalty, is all it takes to unravel everything. But those bound by need—they do not waver. Not for coin, not for love, not even for power. A layered defense, Milly. That is how empires are built. That is how empires are kept.”
The young lady adjusted her dress before she addressed her maid. “If there is nothing else, I think I could do with some food. I do believe I am working quite an appetite, I will be having lunch in the city today. Find a nice place.”
“At once, milady,” Miriam murmured, bowing low. “I will that it is done.”
***
The restaurant, the Pale Moon, was one of Meridian City’s newer darlings: pale-plaster walls, brass-framed mirrors, and a long window looking over a slim canal where Serenelles slid past like dark stitches in blue silk. In the center of the floor was the grand mosaic from which the restaurant derived its name, depicting a night sky with a moon at its center. Young scions of minor noble Houses and well-heeled traders filled the room, murmuring over glass carafes of white wine and plates arranged with painterly fuss.
Her salad came in a shallow porcelain bowl: Panan leaves, like spinach, but a little nuttier, tossed with river-cress, and slivered moon-pear, crisp and sweet. There were ribbons of an orange root vegetable, sunroot—carrot’s analog in this world—pickled so they snapped bright on the tongue. Everything was glossed in a citrus-honey dressing with just enough salt to round out the taste of the leaves.
Still in a good mood, Seraphina gave her compliments to the chef.
Across from her, Sir Frest stabbed uncertainly at his plate.
“Just eat it up, Frest. It’s not poisoned, you know,” the young girl said with a smile.
Frest looked around uncomfortably. “This fare is just, well, very light, Lady Seraphina. No disrespect, of course.”
“I see what you and the other Knights eat, and you could do with some more greens in your diet. And it is just that a heavy lunch leaves me so sleepy in the afternoons, and I have much left to do this day. I need to speak to six or so other people this afternoon about potential promotions to certain important positions,” sighed de Sariens as if she bore the weight of the world upon her dainty shoulders.
“Also, pardon my impertinence, but is it exactly proper for a teacher to be dining with a student?” he added, looking around worriedly.
“I hope you are not implying that this is anything but proper, Sir Frest,” she replied archly.
“Perish the thought, milady,” he answered, dutifully shovelling down some greens.
Seraphina’s eyes narrowed, an irrational slash of jealousy crossing her. “And you need not worry about Miss Templeton. I do not think she is here,” she continued a tad crossly, eyes flashing.
“That was not…”
She clicked her fingers and one of the waiters rushed to her side.
“This man will have a pig’s head. I do believe it will suit him,” she said sweetly as she turned to her maid, who hovered behind her.
“Milly, settle things here. We will be leaving to see to those other six,” sniffed Seraphina primly as she stood up and made to leave. “You, Frest, will finish your lunch, or I will have you flogged.”
Miriam shot Frest a somewhat victorious look. “Of course, milady.”
