Camille VII: The Lady of the Lyrion Sea

  “Calm down,” Camille assured the young Duke of Condillac, shivering as the wind sliced through their cloaks. “I have a plan.”

  “You do?” Margot impertinently asked, having apparently not yet learned the virtues of silence, all the more so in a sensitive web of deception. “Because things seemed pretty dire. Didn’t Yse say that the Blue Rebels were spotted landing in Volartre, with Guy Valvert alongside them?”

  “Yes,” Camille admitted through grit teeth. I always forget how close they are. In her head, Ysengrin was her loyal spymaster and Margot her energetic stagière, but in truth they’d both known each other for years under the Malin occupation, connected by the then-absent Eloise. “But Guy abandoned his wife, which is certainly why the Count of Torpierre hasn’t joined his forces to theirs. And Volartre... such inexplicable folly is cause for celebration, not alarm.”

  The southern tip of ‘Empress’ Hermeline’s Rhanoir holdings, Volartre’s defensible position between the Rhan and the eastern coast of the continent made it a useful border fortress for any clashes with Micheltaigne or the splinters of Rhanoir on the Isle of Soleil, but little besides. During the War of Three Cubs, the first Hermeline had launched an assault on Salhaute in an attempt to bind the High Kingdom to her cause. She’d penned up the High Queen long enough to force a peace settlement, but only succeeded in pushing Micheltaigne out of the war entirely. Even Avalon had scarcely bothered with it, maintaining a token force to cut off Princess Mars and the Micheltaigne loyalists from any supplies by sea and otherwise focusing their attention on Salhaute.

  Still... If the Blues had truly given up and fled to exile, the edge of a warzone was hardly the place to do it. Perhaps they intended to raise troops from the Isle, drawing on Guy’s connection to the Lumières and Soleil, however tenuous, or sell their swords to Avalon in exchange for aid. If so, their threat could cling to life for years to come, a constant thorn in Camille’s side. The only other possibility she could think of would be even more damaging, however uncharacteristic of Guy Valvert it might be to do it.

  “But what if they’re allying with Avalon?” Margot asked. “What if Avalon draws on their other client states to oppose you, like Condorcet and Guerron? Can we really afford a two-front war?”

  Camille glared, trying to shock her into silence lest she shake étienne’s confidence in the Empire at this crucial moment.

  “Not to mention the prospect of Condillac joining against you. Didn’t étienne’s cousin Céline say she would fight his captors, no matter the cost? And she’s exchanged envoys across the water with Cédric Bougitte. If Avalon makes a move, Malin would be surrounded by enemies on all sides.”

  Inviting you to hear Yse’s report was clearly a mistake. Margot seemed so deft at politics—after years of tutelage from the very best—that it was sometimes hard to remember she was only eighteen, a novice still. “Once I am confirmed in my power, Lady of the Lyrion Sea and Torrent of the Deep, such earthly concerns will be crushed beneath my spiritual might.” That was the hope, anyway. In practice, Camille had reason to believe it wouldn’t be that simple, but it at least offered a path out of this morass of failure and defection. Handled right, it would offer her far more than merely that.

  “Do any of those spirits even like you?” the young Duke asked, clearly following Margot’s lead.

  “Power,” Camille answered dismissively, “is about more than merely being liked. Not to diminish the importance of that, of course, but alone it is insufficient.” Else I would have slain Aurelian Lumière where he stood instead of falling to his pistol. Mother had told her once that the firmest reality paled in the face of a strong narrative, but, if Lumière had cracked that idea, the rebel knights had nearly split it open. As potent as an image could be, the right leverage in the right place seemed to be more than capable of contesting it.

  That didn’t make it any less important to project strength to étienne, however. “I have made the right deals and inquiries to win a cadre of spirits to my side. Your own Corva, for example, still pines for her departed love, cruelly slain by an Avaline binder. I have vowed to retrieve the Gauntlet of Eulus, from Mordred Boothe or whomever might have snatched it from his corpse, and return it to her. Even if it should take me the rest of my life.”

  There hadn’t been a bargain, exactly, since Camille didn’t yet have the Gauntlet to give. If I’d managed to snatch it from Boothe in the first place, there wouldn’t be any uncertainty at all. Still, Camille was confident that it would tip Corva in the right direction when the decisive moment arrived, along with no small number of opportunists eager to back the victor.

  Fernan’s account of the prior convocation painted a portrait of staid spirits, to the point of near-indifference. All but a few had fallen in behind Flammare and his doomed war of extermination, only to shift their loyalties to Gézarde before his metal corpse was even cold. Once Camille proved that she was destined to win, to seize the power of her erstwhile patron and turn it, perhaps for the first time, towards truly benevolent ends, the remaining spirits would fall in line.

  étienne frowned in disbelief. “She truly promised to back you?”

  I didn’t say that. Even nodding would go against her nature, now. Instead, Camille leaned on a delightful loophole. “Would I be here if she hadn’t?”

  “That’s just one spirit, though,” Margot unhelpfully cut in once more. Perhaps I set her off on her own before she was ready. The younger Clocha?ne was little like her elder sister, Camille had found, which had historically been naught but cause for celebration. At the moment, though, a bit of Eloise’s comparative restraint would have been appreciated. “Who else did you get behind you?”

  “If Her Verdance didn’t come, I’m assuming that means you had no luck with Verdure or Feuillance.”

  “I doubt they’re even coming,” Camille admitted. Her Verdance had begged off the whole affair, showing about as much interest in the balance of spiritual power as she had in ruling the Arboreum. Some High Priestess she is. Nor would most of the numerous woodland spirits who coexisted in the Great Northern Forest have any particular interest in which spirit ascended Levian’s watery seat. “But Cya has been a collaborator before, and her domains are closest anyway.”

  “Cya’s dead,” étienne contended, confused and wrong. “Do you have Teruvo and Eulus behind you as well? Or Voleur and his floating fortresses? Soleil?”

  “Well, I’ve been directing offerings to Gézarde for years,” Camille answered, “A sun is a sun, as some say.”

  “Who says that?” Margot asked, genuinely curious.

  I did, just now. Perhaps in time it would become ancient spiritual wisdom; more likely it would have little purpose beyond her own rhetoric in this particular moment. It didn’t particularly matter. Camille glared, trying to admonish Margot with her expression without giving anything away to étienne, a rare challenge.

  Instead of answering, Camille continued. “Glaciel has reason to be grateful to me as well, after my help in her war effort. Corro and I already had a working relationship from my time as Luce’s Spiritual Liaison, and I shared intelligence reports with them about the movements of Volobrin and the Sundéré army. Further, I invited the spirit Peauvre into Sundéré to wreak havoc among the enemy ranks, a favor to her and Glaciel both.”

  In truth, Camille had hoped to win Sundéré as an ally against Avalon, but reinforcing her spiritual power came first. As the Hearth Spirit—apparently due to the combat prowess of Laura Bougitte, of all people—Camille had little to offer him spiritually, and if Glaciel prevailed in their war, she would doubtless consolidate control over the veterans of Volobrin’s army. Further, she would have just as much reason to ally against Avalon, if not more, now that Camille had helped lead her to victory.

  And Volobrin is just one spirit, while this way, I can get three behind me. Too small for a majority, to be sure, and not a cohort that would be particularly persuasive to the other spirits in attendance, but Camille had another plan for that.

  “We’re here,” she announced, feeling the heart of Levian’s domain beneath the water. Their boat was of Lyrion make, a victim of their usual tendency to prioritize low costs above safety or efficacy, but here, in the heart of her domain, Camille had seen no reason to fear it. And taking a Lyrion boat had allowed them to travel north by train, eliminating any risk of the Avaline navy catching a glimpse of them hugging the coast, let alone sinking them wholesale.

  Nor had it gone amiss to meet with Horace Williams, the elected President of the Lyrion League. A farce of a title if ever there were one. Even Condorcet did not stoop to naming their executive title after that of a joint-stock company. The indignity alone was galling, all the more farcical for the fact that Horace Williams was the brother of Beckett Williams, the Binder Dominant of Avalon. How any of the assembled Lyrion states could possibly trust him eluded Camille, but he must have made a convincing argument for his own commitment to their independence somehow.

  Greeting Camille outside the walls of Lyrion at all was statement enough of that, with the offer of a ship only further evidence. The Countess of Dimanche, Williams had regrettably told her, was away in Ombresse, seeking to negotiate their entry into the Lyrion League. He seemed hopeful at the prospect, but Camille knew all too well how the denizens of the moon had turned on their Duke and torn him limb from limb after the siege was broken. Some said they’d even eaten him. After months of disorder and starvation, most Ombresiens had welcomed the arrival of Avaline soldiers marching into their city with precious victuals.

  Tearing them away from Avalon would be no small feat, but removing that furthest southern holding from their grasp would only be a boon to Malin, so Camille had sincerely wished them luck. Better a motley assembly of fractious plantation owners and merchants have it than Avalon. As soon as King Harold’s body perished, his spirit would travel to his son, a king in his own right rather than a mere Prince Regent.

  And what bloody vengeance he’ll seek on Malin with the might of the world’s most powerful nation behind him...

  The United Lyrion League had less to fear from Avalon, with deeper cultural ties and beneficial trade relationships, but Camille had not forgotten the rebellion Simone Leigh had raised against Lyrion’s erstwhile suzerain, and King Harold wouldn’t either. Avalon colonists had fought and died for liberation from their overlords, halted in their wrath only by the successive actualities of Levian’s attack and the Treaty of Charenton. That enmity could be prodded at in the way a loyalist nation never could be, all the more so if the hated Prince of Darkness continued occupying Charenton.

  Or perhaps, once I am confirmed in my powers, I will obliterate them, as they obliterated the native Lyrionaise. Simon’s research had been clear enough about that. Instead of contenting themselves by starving the population they occupied into oblivion, then-Avaline officials had documented all of it themselves, noting which regions, which neighborhoods, which groups of which blood would eat and which ones would starve. In their arrogance, they hadn’t even disposed of the documents, though few seemed willing to speak of it openly. Even now they made a mockery of their atrocities, limiting their ‘universal’ suffrage to only those with Avaline blood, aside from ?le Dimanche. As absurd as this ‘democracy’ was in the first place, the Lyrion League had somehow managed to make it worse.

  Rejuvenating her energy after conjuring the storm above Malin would be the least of it. The entire continent was crying out for better leadership. Camille stepped onto the rail of the boat, beckoning her retinue over to the water. “Now, we descend.”

  As a courtesy to her air-breathing companions, Camille created a staircase from the waves, a tunnel to the seafloor not unlike the channel she’d once used to send Levian his sacrifices. Ice coated the top of each step, allowing their feet to find purchase on it. Camille had traveled underwater in similar fashion many times before, to impress courtiers or safely transport Lucien and Annette; Yet somehow, in this moment, she couldn’t help but slip her feet into the sacrifices’ tracks.

  The deep of the Lyrion sea was the very heart of her domain—her blood flowed dark blue with its salty waters. So why couldn’t she shake the image of that final, doomed march into the sea? The sickening inevitability of Levian receiving his due?

  I haven’t even sacrificed anyone for years. Jacques Clocha?ne and his guards had been the last, at least where humans were concerned. But that hadn’t been any kind of ritual, nor was it where her mind felt stuck. Jean of the Harbor. He was the last true sacrifice, his life merely a prize to be snatched out of Lumière’s hands. He’d faced his death with nobility far above his station, confident that his family would be provided for.

  Camille kept calm as she flowed through the water, étienne de Condillac and Margot descending through the tunnel of air she’d left for them. Margot shouldn’t really be here, in truth, but she’s the best hold I have on Condillac right now, and she ought to learn how this is done. Her elder sister had a basic, self-serving cleverness, but it wasn’t in Eloise to plot, simply to grasp at whatever she saw in front of her. In her own fashion, that made her more straightforward to deal with. Reliable. But Margot was capable of more.

  Including today; she might be the only human down here who isn’t a sage. Even the sages were thin on the seafloor. The Convocation looked to largely comprise a smattering of lesser ocean and river spirits, perhaps every seventh or eighth spirit accompanied by a single sage. Camille recognized Fenouille and Aude, of course, along with the twin forks of the spirit Rhan. By custom, the High Priestess of the Norforche was appointed by the Rhanoir ‘Empress’, while the High Priest of the Sufforche was selected by the Temple itself. Yet neither were in attendance now.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The Northern fork is easy enough to understand—Hermeline has her hands full balancing her sovereignty with Avalon’s demands. Losing one of her most powerful supporters on a date that Avalon might ascertain could have proved disastrous to the fragile independence she’d carved out for her Rhanoir. The other High Priest had doubtless stayed behind as well, to keep things balanced.

  Yet their absence could deprive Rhan of vital support. Did the twin forks of the river think they didn’t need their sages to succeed? Were they truly so confident?

  Despite herself, Camille smiled. Humans, at last, have learned to stop underestimating me. Spirits, on the other hand...

  Périplage of Paix Lake had neglected to bring her sage as well—Marianne d’Artre, if she still lived, though perhaps it would be her daughter now. That much was less of a surprise; the balance among the spirits and nations bordering the lake was perilous enough without the sage at the center of it choosing sides in conflicts on the other side of the continent. Bernard Aureaux had likely stayed out of it for the same reason, though as he wasn’t High Priest, perhaps he simply hadn’t been invited.

  Probably for the best that no sages from the lake showed up. Between the Condillac business, intervening in the war between Glaciel and Volobrin, and the Red Knight’s ventures into Micheltaigne, Camille’s relationship with that particular wobbly table of a region was... strained.

  She recognized a few of the other sages from distant childhood memories, more from the context of their patron spirits than because they could truly be recognized after more than two decades. Lady Caroline Aigle’s family had once hailed from the southeast coast of Micheltaigne, but been driven to exile after Volobrin seized their lands in the Winter War. Alfred de Mérignac and the Peychotte sisters had much the same story. Once, they had spent their exile in Malin, but as far as Camille knew, all of them had scattered after the Foxtrap, mostly among the Rhanoir.

  That was better than Camille had hoped for, in all honesty. Their patrons were lesser spirits of the Coulée Verte, less than potent in the strength of their domains, but each with a vote at the Convocation nonetheless. If even a few of them could be peeled off from Rhan...

  I should speak with them now, Camille resolved, trying to figure out how best to present herself to a group of sages she scarcely remembered, none of whom had lifted a finger to help the King who had once taken them in. She didn’t make it halfway before all thoughts of the Coulée spirits fled her head.

  Standing on his own in a large bubble of air, with no spirit nearby, a familiar face was there to greet her. His hair and beard remained grey, almost blue, but his face hadn’t aged a day since last Camille had seen it.

  “Uncle émile?” Camille failed to keep the incredulity out of her voice. I thought you were dead. She narrowed her eyes, taking in the uncharacteristically smug grin he was greeting her with. And perhaps you are.

  “Camille. I wasn’t sure if you would come.” His tone was too flat, expression lacking in emotion.

  “Lucien said you helped Guerron against Glaciel. Then you disappeared.”

  “I did.” He smiled. “You seemed to have things under control, by that point. And I’ve been helping you in ways you weren’t aware of, too.”

  “And it’s really you?” Perhaps she was being paranoid; perhaps she simply couldn’t believe it after five years without so much as a word of his whereabouts... But then, perhaps not. “Beneath that visage, are you really émile Leclaire, brother to my mother Sarille?”

  “Come now, Camille!” He waved his hand dismissively. “Would I have journeyed here to help you if I weren’t?”

  A question is not an answer, but it lets you direct the conversation as if it were. Camille had taken to the technique quickly once she’d become a spirit, for it was her greatest tool at maintaining her aptitude for deception. The apparition before her, no doubt, thought it was the height of cunning.

  “Perhaps, or perhaps not. I would be surprised if you were truly here to help me, Lamante.” She’d admitted performing émile’s alleged heroics in Guerron, which meant her uncle had likely never made it back to the city at all. Dead, just as I’d always feared. “You dishonor his memory, making such pathetic attempts at deception while wearing his face.”

  Lamante’s eyes flashed with indignation and rage for an instant, then rapidly smoothed into the same self-assured expression. “I had anticipated this possibility, Leclaire, hence my aversion to exposing this face to you. Deceiving you was far from my primary purpose in wearing it today.”

  Likely as not, she needs the power of a sage of Levian to survive on the seafloor. If so, that knowledge would prove useful very shortly. “Were you there when he died?” Camille couldn’t help but ask, though the answer would carry no tactical benefit.

  “I was. He died thinking only of you,” Lamante offered, though nothing about it was comforting. “I promised him I would grant you one wish in exchange for his face. And now here you stand, an immortal spirit, beholden to Levian’s brutality no longer.”

  And you expect me to believe you had anything to do with that?

  “I’m pleased to say that I no longer owe you anything.” She smiled, stretching émile’s mouth further than he ever would have done himself, especially to accompany a statement like that. “Convenient, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want my hands tied when it comes to selecting who should fill Levian’s seat.”

  I take it that you don’t plan to endorse me, then. Alone, that was nothing unexpected. The new Arbiter of Darkness was no Khali, nor even her daughter Lunette. Slaying a spirit and stealing their seat doesn’t mean that you can fill their role, you upjumped thief. Camille would argue as much when the time came for the domain of darkness to hold its own convocation; for now, it wouldn’t do to get ahead of herself. The greater issue was Lamante’s influence over several of the other upstart spirits, Gézarde foremost among them.

  Yet he wasn’t here at all. “I notice that the Sun Spirit isn’t with you.”

  “I’m afraid that our fair Gézarde has lived too long beneath the earth and sky, and failed to account for the venue. His power is sufficient to burn the waves away and manifest himself for the Convocation, but doing it even a minute earlier than he needed to would be a considerable waste of his power. He might have considered as much before having his High Priest make the long journey from Guerron, but our Gézarde has never attended the Convocation of a water spirit, and isn’t much one for planning besides.”

  Fernan is here? Camille tried to think about whether that would disrupt her plans or not... “Will Sire Montaigne be making an appearance?”

  Lamante barked out a laugh, a crueler echo of émil’s own jovial chuckle. “Even if Gézarde’s High Priest could somehow survive long enough to make his case for him, the water would surely blind him, smothering the flame in his eyes. In its own way, that’s a shame. Montaigne has proven more inspiring than Gézarde ever could, but he’ll have to content himself with waiting on the shore, lamenting the fact that this Convocation tore him away from his precious Commune for nothing.” Despite her words, she didn’t seem particularly shaken up about it.

  Probably because that leaves the duty of orating Gézarde’s position to her instead.

  Camille managed to tear herself away from the ghoul wearing her uncle’s stolen face, forcing herself to focus on gathering the allies she needed. More than half of the spirits present weren’t even willing to talk to her, let alone to hear her arguments out with an open mind. Rhan seemed to have collected a potent bloc around themselves, drawing in myriad spirits from waters all across the continent, and several from the Great Northern Forest. Even Tauroneo, Bull of the West, had ascended out of a rocky cavern to show his support. Camille had heard that the East Wind, patron spirit of the Micheltine sages, was behind Rhan as well, but she was nowhere to be found.

  Right now, that’s a benefit, but it concerns me to imagine where she might be instead. What could possibly be so important? Miro Mesnil had never made any mention of her helping directly with the Micheltine resistance, nor was Princess Mars her sage. And yet now, with the Blue Knights landing in Volartre...

  There’s no time to waste on considering this. Not until after the Convocation. Shaking her head, Camille moved on to the spirits willing to speak to her. Aude had traveled separately, to avoid any appearance of deference to Camille, but she was sure that her Acolyte was behind her in spirit. Fenouille, on the other hand, was unwilling to make any direct commitments. “There is no greater crime for a sage than the slaying of their own patron spirit. You have never dealt in bad faith with me, young Camille, but the Lord of the Lyrion Sea must treat fairly with all the waters of Terramonde, and you have yet to show yourself worthy of that honor, nor potent enough to defend the domain. In a few centuries, perhaps.”

  That was close enough, Camille judged, to count him among her allies, though he certainly wouldn’t be voting for her today without the right push. Corva was similar, willing to believe in Camille’s commitment to rescue the gauntlet but dubious about her assuming Levian’s mantle permanently. And I can hardly blame her when I haven’t given her anything yet. Who would accept payment in promises?

  Gézarde was a spirit she’d actually helped directly, but he wasn’t here to talk to, nor was Fernan Montaigne. Nor did Camille have the power to stop him from casting a vote against her, if he so chose. Nothing for it but to hope my words can convince them, she resolved, then moved on to the other spirits.

  Miroirter was the most pleasant surprise, acknowledging Camille’s suitability to fight ‘the direst threat laid before the spirits’, and even offering to help her make sense of her Levian dreams. Which I never even mentioned to him. It wasn’t clear how a spirit of reflections—a shimmering rabbit with the skin of ten thousand mirrors and crystal fangs but no bubbles or gills—was surviving beneath the water, but Camille was certainly glad he was here.

  Despite her hopes, however, the sages of the Coulée refused to speak with her. Caroline Aigle literally turned her back rather than face her and Alfred de Mérignac hid behind Tauroneo’s massive stone chest, while the Peychotte sisters at least had the decency to look apologetic. But in the end, it amounted to the same thing. Camille had no choice but to group them among the problems to be dealt with. Lamante, obviously, was much the same.

  Glaciel, on the other hand, was vocal in her gratitude, which only made sense. Soleil had always been the most potent enforcer of peace between the spirits, and it had only been with his death that Glaciel had attempted to seize power by scattering the Convocation and ensuring a replacement could never be chosen. And I’ve seen glimpses of what it looked like before, when spirits clashed against each other directly to seize control of their domains, tearing Terramonde apart with the destruction of their fighting. Camille’s plan might skirt the line of that peace, but it wouldn’t break the letter of it, which was the most important thing for a spirit bound to truth.

  “I never put much stock in Peauvre’s mischief,” Glaciel conceded. “But between her sabotage and the arms my thirteenth-ring descendant has sent my way from Avalon, we should be able to mount an assault on Serpichon before summer’s end, and drive that arrogant snake back to hiding inside his volcano.”

  Glaciel has an agent inside Avalon, sending her guns? That was definitely worth following up on, but Camille didn’t have the time, so she simply thanked the Spirit of Winter for her support.

  Her partner Corro was more vexing. “I am the spirit of corruption, of ignoble ends. It is my nature to see spirits through to the fate that awaits them, but your moment is not yet come, Camille Leclaire.” She’d tried cutting through with follow-up questions, but his answers had been just as cryptic. Still, he was Glaciel’s consort, and liable to support her in her decisions, so Camille kept him in the same mental group as her allies.

  Tenuous allies, she couldn’t help but acknowledge. Not one of them has promised to support me. And the trick Camille had planned would likely only work once. In the future, she had to consider gathering a faction of spirits behind her more formally. If the existing ones didn’t serve, that might mean elevating others. Something to think on for later, at any rate.

  But it was clear that she’d done what she could, made what connections were available to her as a spiritual pariah. There was nothing left now but to make her play and hope that they fell in line. There wouldn’t be any other way to keep her hold on Levian’s domain, no other way to amass enough power to solve her political problems by force.

  “Let us begin!” she called, earning a vicious glare from Tauroneo as she cut off his conversation with the southern fork of the Rhan. “I, Camille Leclaire, Lady of the Lyrion Sea, Empress of the Fox, and High Priestess of the Waves, call to order this Convocation of the Spirits.”

  Maddeningly, most of them ignored her, then turned back to their discussions. I know you find it customary to wait for weeks or months before deciding things, but the Empire can’t afford my staying absent for such a lengthy period of time. One might have hoped they’d have learned something from replacing Soleil, but apparently not.

  “Attention, Spirits of the Waves,” Camille attempted again, making sure that her voice flowed from her mouth as smooth as a stream. “The time has come to begin the Convocation, and choose a successor for Levian’s seat. As the heiress to his power, last scion of a line of sages stretching back more than six centuries, I invite you to make your choices in my domain.”

  “Rhan,” began the bull embedded in the earth. Nothing I can do about that one, really. But he would soon be outnumbered.

  “Rhan,” echoed Lamante, putting an unbearably smug expression on émile’s face.

  Those two were only the beginning. Stretching around the circle after them were all three spirits of the Coulée, followed by Périplage, then the twin forks of Rhan themself. They’d have a majority before a single vote was cast in Camille’s name.

  Camille smiled. I invited you into my domain, and now that invitation is revoked. She clasped her hands together, then ripped them violently apart, flinging water and spirits in every direction. As soon as the spirits realized what was happening, Camille had already frozen them in place, far from the site of the Convocation.

  She’d burned all but the last scrap of Levian's energy to do it, and every one of these water spirits would be able to free themselves in time, but by then it would be too late.

  Save for the stone bull, only Camille’s allies remained. Fenouille looked bewildered, Corro implacable, and Corva annoyed, but Camille had the numbers now. Victory was within her grasp.

  “Leclaire,” Glaciel voted, letting out an uproarious laugh. “Well done.”