"She’s here already? Good lord, did she ride a pegasus down from the estate? What is she, a homing missile? Just tell the kitchen maids to brew a pot of black tea. Put out those salty biscuits she likes, too. The ones with the powdered sugar."
Caldrin didn’t move an inch toward the bell-rope. "Your Grace, Lady Evelia did not come here to sit politely, nibble on biscuits, and sip tea."
"Well, she should," Lioren grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest like an aggrieved toddler. "It’s good for the digestion."
"She specifically demanded to see you immediately," Caldrin added, his tone carrying the dark, hollow resonance of a tombstone being dragged across gravel. "And by ’immediately,’ I mean she was crossing the courtyard when I left the foyer."
Lioren stared blankly at the ceiling moulding, shaking his head. "I knew it. I knew that peaceful morning was a trap. God forbid a guy eats a fried egg and signs three supply requisitions in peace without the universe dropping a boulder through his roof."
Before he could even finish his quiet complaint, crisp, hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, sharp heel-clicks that sounded suspiciously like a war drum beating a death march.
Therin glanced toward the open doorway, his pale face draining of whatever tiny bit of color it had left. "She’s coming," he whispered softly, stepping back toward the bookshelves as if trying to blend in with the leather bindings.
BANG.
The heavy double doors didn’t just open, they bounced off the interior brass stoppers with a crack that shook the chandelier.
Standing in the doorway was a woman Lioren knew far too well.
Evelia stood there with the sort of expression that immediately made his eye twitch.
She was tall, as always, with long raven-black hair pinned neatly away from her face. Not a single strand seemed out of place despite the journey from the estate, which Lioren found mildly offensive considering he could barely keep his own hair presentable after sitting at a desk for an hour.
Her maroon dress was still perfectly arranged, the long skirts falling neatly around her as she stepped into the study.
Her dark eyes swept the room, instantly bypassing the two frozen men and locking straight onto Lioren sitting behind the desk.
"Oh," Evelia said, her voice dropping into a smooth, dangerously quiet register. "Here you are."
Lioren didn’t even blink. He stacked his parchment papers into a neat little pile, rested his elbows on the desk, and offered her the most innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth smile imaginable.
"Hi, Evelia," Lioren chirped. "Of course I’m here. I’m working. Hard, actually. Very busy stuff. Where did you expect me to be? Off fishing?"
Evelia glided further into the study, her skirts swishing against the rug as she looked him over from his green hair down to his boots. She stopped a few paces from the desk, her lips curling into a tight line.
"My, aren’t we cold?" she purred, tilting her head. "I suppose becoming betrothed to an enemy prince turns one into an arrogant little sovereign overnight."
Lioren’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. He leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. "Oh. So... you heard?"
Evelia gave him a look so laden with sheer, scathing contempt that it could have withered an oak tree at twenty paces. "Did I hear? Lioren, anyone in this capital with functioning ears and half a brain cell heard about it before midnight! The entire nobility is currently having a collective nervous breakdown, and you’re sitting there asking if I heard?"
Therin quietly stepped forward from the shadows, bowing his head with immaculate, practiced deference. "A pleasure to see you looking so well, Lady Evelia."
The dark storm on Evelia’s face melted away for a brief, shining second as she turned to the advisor. "Ah, Therin! Always a delight," she said warmly, her tone shifting seamlessly into high-society grace. "I see you’re still working for this lunatic. My heart truly bleeds for you."
Therin offered a faint, melancholy smile. "It is... an adventurous employment, my lady. How was your journey? May I offer you some tea and cake in the drawing room?"
"How thoughtful of you, Therin," Evelia sighed, smoothing down her maroon sleeves. "And I will gladly accept that cake, after I have finished dealing with this creature."
She whipped around, her long, slender finger extending like a loaded pistol, pointing straight at Lioren’s nose.
Lioren ducked his head slightly, squinting at the offensive digit. "Hey! What’s with all the pointing? If you’ve got something to say, just say it with your mouth instead of waving at me like I’m some common thief standing trial in a magistrate’s court!"
"Oh, I have quite a lot to say to him," Evelia hissed.
Before Lioren could even register her movement, she rounded the heavy mahogany desk with the lethal agility of a mountain leopard. Lioren went to scramble backward in his chair, but he was far too slow. Evelia lunged forward, snagged the collar of his tunic with one hand, wrapped her forearm squarely around his throat with the other, and dragged his head down into a vice-like, brutal headlock.
"ACK...! Hey! What the hell?!" Lioren sputtered, his voice choked off as he immediately began flailing like a landed trout. "What are you doing, you stupid...ugh! Let go of me, you brute!"
"I am trying to shake some sense into that thick skull of yours!" Evelia snapped, hauling him upward and ruthlessly noogying the crown of his head with her knuckles. "Though heaven knows why I bother! We’ve attempted this exact procedure million times over the last decade, and your brain remains as hollow and foolish as a dried gourd! But miracles happen, so I might as well try again!"
"Let... go... of... my... head!" Lioren wheezed, his face turning an impressive shade of pink. He flailed his boots against the rug, trying to find leverage, but his sister had spent her youth wrestling northern war-hounds and was surprisingly terrifying for someone in a maroon ballgown.
Desperate, Lioren managed to free his right arm. He blindly reached out and began slapping her around the waist, trying to poke her ribs so she’d break her hold.
"Don’t you dare touch me with those filthy, ink-stained hands!" Evelia shrieked, tightening her forearm around his neck until Lioren’s eyes practically popped out of his sockets. "You’ll ruin the silk!"
"Therin! Caldrin!" Lioren choked out, flailing his free hand wildly toward his two aides who were standing near the fireplace. "Get...get my sword!"
Therin and Caldrin didn’t move a single muscle. They didn’t even reach for their belts.
"I don’t think we can do that, Your Grace," Therin said calmly, adjusting his cuffs with terrible composure.
"Besides," Caldrin added, crossing his massive arms and watching the struggle with a critical, clinical eye, "Lady Evelia probably would just hit you with it."
"You traitors! You absolute, spineless Judas... OW!"
Evelia didn’t even acknowledge the aides’ commentary. She just squeezed tighter, her black hair coming slightly loose from its pins as she yelled into his ear. "How in the world did someone like you end up as my brother?! You used a royal favor! On an enemy prince?!"
"He saved my life from a pastry!" Lioren bellowed, his fingers frantically clawing up her arm until he managed to catch a fistful of her dark hair. He yanked it hard.
"AARGH! You little rat! You pulled my hair!" Evelia shrieked, unleashing a volley of sharp elbow jabs into his ribs.
"You’re strangling the ruler of the Northern Border, you psycho!" Lioren yelled back, yanked her hair again while trying to twist out of the headlock, his face thoroughly flushed, his green hair sticking out in ten different directions like a startled hedgehog.
In the middle of the sunlit study, the grand warlord who had conquered the vanguard was currently being aggressively choked out by his sister over a desk. Papers were scattering across the floor like autumn leaves, an inkwell was dangerously close to tipping over, and the high-stakes politics of the Werestian kingdom had devolved into an absolute, unholy brawl.
Therin let out another long, quiet sigh, glancing over at Caldrin. Caldrin reached into his tunic, pulled out a small leather pouch, and silently tossed a single silver coin into Therin’s waiting palm.
"Told you she’d go for the chokehold first," Caldrin muttered.
"I had faith in the hair-pulling," Therin replied mournfully, pocketing the silver as the Grand Duke of Roscaire continued to scream under his sister’s elbow.