Maeve paced outside the office. She could burst in; her grandmother wouldn’t begrudge her, but she wasn’t about to act spoilt. She was one of the few people the old monster would tolerate such an interruption from, and the more she leant on that, the more she would feed into the idea she was the ‘favourite.’

  Peggy sat on her shoulder, watching her. Of course, that meant her grandmother knew Maeve was out there. She’d know Maeve was here even without the raven; at Mithril, her senses could probably track every person in the keep. The raven was a signpost, a way of showing she was aware.

  Maeve had awoken from her breakthrough in a washroom, still in her outfit from the wedding night. If the dress hadn’t been ruined before, it certainly was now. Black ooze soaked out of her, with a bucket of water, her new armour, and fresh clothes awaiting her.

  The sludge had been unspeakably grim. The stench would live with her for a lifetime. While she’d stayed mostly free of impurities, like any cultivator, she’d picked them up simply by living. It was terrifying to imagine it could have been worse!

  At Iron level, she was now a Knight, having moved beyond the Squire of Bronze. The armour waiting for her was resplendent, shining full plate in Albion style, meaning it covered more than most and was split into many parts. It was probably the spoils of the battle. Although mostly unadorned, she noticed her pauldrons were etched with ravens, a subtle pattern of feathers spreading across the rest of the armour.

  Was it meant to be a gift, or had someone added the etching during her breakthrough?

  Food had been left for her, alongside a missive instructing her to remain within the keep until her grandmother returned. She was to spend the time solidifying her cultivation.

  Her governess had been waiting for her. Together, they helped her don the new armour while Rensleigh brought her up to speed. Maeve had always been limited to just one gift—the gift of blades. It was stronger than anyone else’s, and she rarely felt the lack of flexibility that having two gifts would have offered. However, putting on the new armour made her feel the restrictions keenly. After the first time, a storage ring could handle the task, but it had to be done properly at least once.

  Rensleigh was back to her hawk-like self, explaining that the breakthrough had taken five days, an astonishingly long time. It reflected her struggle to push through it. She’d been stuck there for five years. Reaching peak Bronze at thirteen had marked her as having once-in-a-generation levels of growth, only for her to hit a bottleneck and wait.

  The Twins had been sent home, stripped of their cultivation privileges until they could prove they could move forward without being spoon-fed by the family. Their teachers had been changed, and the plan was to put them through the wringer. A heavy review of the family’s practices in guiding the younger generations was underway. Grandmother had not been happy.

  On a larger scale, the wedding massacre was the first beat of the drums of war. The Divine Cultivators were up in arms, and the true cultivators of Euross found themselves keenly aware of just how deeply they’d allowed the creeping corruption to spread. Small skirmishes were said to be breaking out across the many kingdoms. Armies were slowly forming, preparing for battles on a scale not seen in centuries.

  Over the next two days, Maeve solidified her new rank. The rise to Iron had turned the glamour in her Hearth into a liquid. A drop of perpetually burning oil sat within her core, a haze of misty glamour surrounding it. It gave her far more raw power to work with, and her body drank it in.

  At Bronze, her muscles and bones had been at their peak for a human. Not the peak for an average human—every part of her had seemed copied from the best mortal examples. The muscles of the warriors from the Land of Woads, the eyes of the sailors from the Thousand City Sea, and the bones of the herders from the Flower and Flood Lands. Cycling glamour could push those traits to heights no mortal could touch. Now, those levels were just... there.

  Maeve had asked to go out and search for the body of her former betrothed, but Rensleigh had shot her down harshly. Any corpse would be long gone, and Maeve was commanded to remain in the keep and wait. The discussion was out of her hands.

  That led her to this moment, standing before her grandmother’s study, growing steadily more frustrated. Surely, it wasn’t such an imposition to let her go out with an escort to search for one lone body? They were deep in their territory, after all. She paced, feeling the numerous knives strapped to her humming with a faint, impatient edge. She batted the sensation away, using her new intent.

  The door opened with a flick of glamour, and a booming voice called out, “Enter.”

  Maeve stepped in to find her grandmother in a relaxed outfit: a long tunic befitting the head of the house, black with an iridescence that matched the ravens she so loved.

  “Thank you for being patient, Mads.”

  “Gran, I thought I asked you not to call me Mads?”

  “You’d tell me what to do, whippersnapper?”

  “If not me, then who else?”

  “Ah, trying to usurp Peggy, are we?” Her grandmother grinned as the bird croaked. “Now, tell me—how did it go? Quite the dramatic breakthrough! I always knew you could do it!”

  “It went well. I’m now a Knight, and my cultivation hasn’t suffered. I’m looking forward to refining it moving forward.” Maeve felt a smile rise, a bubble of pleasure at finally being able to say those words aloud.

  “Will you indulge this old lady with your Intent?”

  “A blade in the right place at the right time will strike success.” As she spoke, the drop of liquid glamour at her core quivered and danced. Her knives shivered in their sheaths. Her grandmother leaned back, mulling the words over.

  “Well, that’s a genuine surprise. Don’t get many of those at my age. I’d say it doesn’t fit you, given how impatient you’ve always been and how stubbornly you’ve stuck to your own path. Still, your current success shows it’s a perfect fit.”

  “I think it’s something I’ve been learning slowly and then understanding all at once.”

  “I’ll say that was a masterstroke against the Twins. I was scared for a moment that you were about to cover for them again.”

  “It was the right time.” Maeve locked in the thought. She could’ve—and should’ve—acted earlier, but those were mistakes of her past self. To live up to her Intent, she had to judge her actions based on her current time and place, not dwell on missed opportunities.

  “It’s a good Intent—blades, timing, positioning, striking, success. All are excellent elements to carry forward.” Her grandmother was about to say more when she looked into the distance and cursed.

  “Of course, this is when they turn up. Mads, we’re about to have a guest. Only tell the truth to him or remain silent. I’m expecting this will touch upon your reasons for being here as well.” Maeve saw her grandmother shift from ‘Gran’ to Grandmother Chox, the matriarch of one of the great Houses of Renown. Maeve barely had time to wonder who could be forcing themselves upon a Mithril-level cultivator before the doors burst open.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Framed in the doorway was a man Maeve knew only by reputation: Pellinore Artoss, the Shadow Lion. Or, at least, it had to be him—if it wasn’t, someone else had decided to deck themselves out in Artoss black and silver, complete with void-dark hair. Unlikely, as Pellinore was now the sole bearer of this appearance, having recently slain his father to take control of the house.

  The Artoss were allies in theory. Pellinore had taken poorly to his father’s dithering over the Divine Cultivators, killing him when the elder Artoss refused to act. According to her grandmother, Pellinore was only a ‘theoretical ally.’ Their goals aligned, but he couldn’t be trusted to work as part of a team. Such as when he’d been outright hostile to the Chox for ‘bedding the enemy,’ ignoring all suggestions to stay quiet and let the house set its trap.

  “Matriarch Chox.” The man’s face bore a striking resemblance to her former betrothed, their kinship clear in the sharp lines of their features. Pellinore wore a younger man’s face, appearing mid-twenties at most. That was unusual; most Mithril cultivators preferred an age closer to their physical peak. His appearance was handsomely detached, as if someone had commissioned an artist to carve the most idealised figure possible. It lacked identity beyond its aesthetic appeal.

  His entrance came with a roll of glamour, one that her grandmother brushed away with ease. It was like watching a gale dissipated with a single wave of her hand. With that, some of Pellinore’s bluster faltered.

  “Patriarch Artoss. You do not have an appointment. I assure you, you did not have to rush to offer your apologies for your insults to our house.” Her grandmother didn’t rise, instead pointing him to a seat by her desk.

  “I need no appointment, nor do I aim to offer apologies. You’ve killed one of my kin. I request answers.” The man didn’t sit but tempered his tone.

  “We did no such thing.”

  “Regus Harkley was the son of Gwendolyn Artoss. I had been clear that I was looking to reclaim all my family auctioned off like chattel by those bastards.” His voice carried genuine anger, the weight of his words like distant thunder.

  “I still fail to see where we killed him.” Her grandmother watched him with the same expression she used when dealing with the youngest members of the Chox lineage—surprisingly good with toddlers.

  “I assume this is Maeve, who was betrothed to him? I expect she’s here to say she didn’t kill him, that all is forgiven, and it was this thrice-damned curse?”

  “This is my granddaughter Maeve. Maeve, this is Pellinore Artoss, Patriarch of his house. Would you confirm his claims?” Her grandmother’s tone was almost lazy. Maeve schooled herself to reply, trying to recall the proper etiquette for addressing another family head. She barely opened her mouth before Pellinore cut her off.

  “I don’t need to hear some child speak. You killed my kin when you dragged him into this. I won’t ignore your success, but I made myself clear in my edict. There are more I must rescue, and this sets my efforts back. There must be recompense.”

  “Here’s the fundamental problem with your request. The son of Gwendolyn Artoss is alive.” Maeve’s head snapped toward her grandmother, whose grin was broad and feline. A rare expression of genuine satisfaction. Maeve choked down her questions, striving to maintain decorum.

  “Seriously?” Pellinore’s voice lost its thunderous undertone. Her grandmother nodded.

  “Ah, faeries dance on me this day.” Pellinore stomped over to the chair and dropped into it. “I take it, from that grin, that this is going to make me look an even bigger fool than I already do?”

  “You do play the fool well. Maeve, please take a seat as well. This is Pellinore; I actually enjoy his company.”

  “Only because you can get me chasing my own tail at a moment’s notice, you old monster. So, how was their creature? Frothing with that Harkley nonsense, I assume?” Pellinore asked, materialising a full glass of whiskey before him.

  “I—well, Patriarch Pellinore, I…” Maeve stumbled over her words, feeling as though she’d been struck by a lance at full tilt. Unseated and confused, she fumbled for something coherent. Her grandmother cackled, slipping back into her ‘Gran’ persona.

  “Relax, think of him like Eyeball,” she said, referring to the raven. Her grandmother now also held a whiskey glass and offered one to Maeve, who refused. She didn’t need to be drunk around two Mithril-level cultivators.

  “That is both a great offence and a significant compliment. If it helps, you can call me Pell.” The Patriarch’s tone turned almost absurdly casual, adding to the insanity of the situation.

  “In that case, Pell…” She stuttered slightly over the name. “Can I answer you when Gran tells me what she means by ‘he’s not dead’? The last I saw him, he was bleeding from the eyes.”

  “Ah, I was looking to put off my embarrassment a moment longer. Do tell, Morgan,” Pellinore said, sipping his drink calmly. Maeve blinked at the rare use of her grandmother’s name, which only added to her confusion. That name was used only by those her grandmother permitted, and that list was extraordinarily short.

  “Well, two things first. He had a way out of the curse. Unique to him, but something that gives us hope for others.”

  “He survived it? Damn. Here I thought he’d be just another cultist toady. That means he’s alive, and yet he’s not here?”

  “I had Peggy checking on my granddaughter; she followed him. It’s rare we get to witness the blood curse. When she saw his survival, she was prepared to extract him, but she was forced away. See, during the festivities, my granddaughter here fell in a lake. Artoss Junior helped her and apparently caught something’s attention.”

  “What do you mean, Gran?” Maeve frowned. There was no fae in the water that her grandmother—or even Peggy—couldn’t handle. Pellinore let out a barking laugh.

  “The Lady got him? Did she take an interest in the kid? Why?” Maeve’s eyes widened at Pellinore’s words. The Lady of the Lake was the face of fae power in Euross. The seasonal courts rarely interfered with mortals, leaving the Lady as the voice of the Fae living in the mortal realm. What had she seen in him?

  “I think it’s time Maeve informs you just what your long-lost family member has been up to.” Maeve cursed inwardly as their attention returned to her. She should’ve known her grandmother would push this onto her.

  Pellinore listened intently as Maeve described her betrothed’s actions. His cryptic words, his evident satisfaction even as the curse overtook him, and his rescue of her from the icy waters all painted a complex picture. She still wanted to know more about his miraculous survival, but her grandmother had shut down that line of inquiry for both her and Pellinore.

  He laughed hard when Maeve revealed that her former betrothed wasn’t even a true Harkley by blood, his mirth so intense her grandmother had to dampen his glamour to keep it from overwhelming her. When the laughter subsided, Pellinore’s interest deepened, his relaxed demeanour giving way to something more focused, almost predatory.

  “That changes things,” he said, his face losing its earlier frivolity. For the next hour, he asked probing questions and parsed through every detail Maeve could recall. Her grandmother remained quiet, her sharp gaze flitting between them.

  Eventually, Pellinore agreed to launch an investigation. Though publicly, the story would remain that the boy was dead, Pellinore’s personal interest in finding him was undeniable. He left after a final exchange of words with the matriarch, clearly pleased with the information he had gleaned but unwilling to fully disclose his plans.

  As silence settled over the room, Maeve found herself burdened with questions. Her grandmother, however, offered little comfort.

  To distract herself, Maeve focused on the other puzzle: Pellinore himself. “What was all that about? With the Patriarch.”

  “He’s our idiot,” her grandmother replied with a grin, taking another swig of whiskey.

  “Pardon?”

  “I gave him what he needed to kill his father. I agreed to treaties to ensure we wouldn’t attack him while he built the power to stand equal to his rivals. Part of the deal is that I have him running around, a brash, unpredictable hothead who keeps everyone on their toes.”

  “But who is entirely in your pocket.” Maeve nodded in understanding.

  “It’s not a new strategy, but he’s so good at playing the role that people believe it completely. That’s why he barged in—had to look good and pissed. When he realised I wasn’t playing along, he dropped the act. It requires finesse, but the whole family works like that. There’s been a string of ‘disobedient commanders’ who ‘ignore’ his orders and conveniently help us out. All of them make it look like genuine conflict.”

  “And him coming here rudely just reaffirmed his image.”

  “And mine as incredibly patient with morons. A useful reputation as I step into the role of moderate, noble leader of the anti-divine faction. I want people saying, ‘If Morgan Chox can put up with Pellinore, I can put my grudges on hold too.’” Her grandmother grinned. Maeve knew there were likely a hundred more reasons behind her actions, but even lacking full context, the statecraft was impressive.

  “So he is an ally, then?”

  “Yes, but not one we can treat like one. It’s safest if we act independently. That’s why I need you to quietly search for your wayward paramour in our territories.” Maeve choked on her drink, regretting accepting the glass of whiskey.

  “But the Lady—”

  “The Lady is not unknowable, not if you’ve had centuries to observe her. He’ll be about somewhere. She isn’t a fan of the Divine Cultivators and loves poetic justice. Turning a single drop into a tidal wave is her style—elevating an unknown cultivator to strike a blow against them.”

  “This is stepping into destiny, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me to avoid getting involved with the fae?”

  “Until you were Steel, yes. But like it or not, you’re already part of this story. Better to act than to be swept along in destiny’s wake. Now, let’s talk strategy.”