Each breath came out ragged, a cloud of steam in the cold air. Fatima's lungs burned as she darted between trees, her boots splashing through mud and leaves slick with dew. The ground trembled under the serpent's colossal weight; its obsidian scales shimmered like oil in the filtered sunlight. Every lash of its tail shattered old trunks into splinters, sending showers of bark and dirt raining down.
If I keep dodging its attacks, it'll obliterate the entire forest, she thought, ducking just in time as a massive tail whipped past her, slicing through the air with a thunderous crack. The shockwave knocked her backward, slamming her shoulder against a tree. Pain flared. I'm already running out of trees to bounce from… I can't remain on the defensive forever. Her muscles ached, every nerve screaming for rest. Sweat and dirt smeared her face, and strands of silver hair clung to her damp skin. "I'm exhausted," she panted. "I need to end this… in one shot. But how?"
Her eyes darted frantically through the devastation around her. Broken branches. Fallen trunks. A weapon… anything sharp and sturdy enough would do the trick. A sudden gust swept through the clearing, scattering leaves in a wild dance. Her eyes caught movement—a tree still standing tall and unscathed amid the chaos, its branches humming faintly with life. "There!"
She sprinted toward it. When her hand closed around one of its branches, it felt alive—warm, thrumming, as though the tree itself had been waiting for her. The bark pulsed under her palm, then solidified, shifting and hardening until the rough texture turned to smooth metal. She gasped as she looked down to find not a branch, but an iron spear glowing faintly with green energy. It felt impossibly light when she picked it up, perfectly balanced.
Incredible… Her pulse quickened. If I drive this through its skull, it'll die for sure. But… how do I reach that high? The serpent coiled, its fanged maw parting with a guttural hiss that made the ground quake. Its eyes glowed crimson, fixed squarely on her. Then— something brushed against her ankle—soft, sinuous, playful. She looked down and blinked. "Vines?"
Before she could react, they slithered around her waist and legs, tugging lightly, almost teasingly. "Wait—! What is happening? Where did all these vines come from?" Fatima laughed despite herself, momentarily forgetting the danger around her. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed leaves. The vines pulsed again, more insistent this time. She caught her breath, realization dawning.
"Oh… I see. You want to help me." She smiled faintly, brushing the vine as if it could understand. "Very well—let us end this before anyone gets hurt." She stepped back, bracing herself as the vines stretched taut like a bowstring beneath her. "I'm ready!" she shouted, voice steady despite her pounding heart. The forest answered with a low groan. The vines snapped forward with a surge of force, hurling her into the sky. Wind roared in her ears, whipping her hair into a silver halo. She twisted midair, planting her foot against a gust of wind that coalesced beneath her like a shimmering platform.
"Now!" she cried. With all her strength, she launched the spear downward, the object slicing the air as it descended with full speed. The tip pierced through the crown of the serpent's head and burst out through its lower jaw with a wet, echoing crack. The monster shrieked—a sound so deafening the air itself seemed to warp. Its body convulsed, then crumbled into a thousand shards of black smoke that dissolved into the sky.
Fatima landed hard on the ground. The spear clattered beside her, reverting back into an ordinary branch as if nothing had happened. The wind quieted. The forest, battered and broken, seemed to sigh in relief. She rolled onto her back, staring at the dark clouds that had begun to gather beyond the torn canopy. "…It's over," she panted, her voice trembling with exhaustion.
**
"The noise appears to have ceased," murmured one maid, clutching her apron as she peered out the manor's window. "Thank goodness." "Whatever it was must have run away," said another, nervously twisting her hair. "Did you see anything when you went outside, Amie?"
Amie paused at the doorway, her face pale. She swallowed hard before speaking. "When I heard the commotion, I went to check on the field hands. But what I saw…" Her voice faltered. "By the saints, it wasn't an animal. The ground shook like thunder. There was light—green and gold—flashing through the trees, and then… it was gone."
The others exchanged uneasy looks. "Perhaps a bear fight," one suggested halfheartedly. "No wonder it was so loud," said another, forcing a laugh. "We should report this to His Grace when he returns." Amie's gaze lingered on the forest beyond the fields, where the mist hung unnaturally thick. Even from here, she could sense it—the faint hum of something ancient and alive.
Amie said nothing. She only tightened her shawl around her shoulders and turned away from the window, though the image of Fatima standing against a monster several feet above her burned vividly behind her eyes.
**
The rain drummed steadily against her skin, each droplet cool and sharp, like a thousand little fingers massaging her weary face. The earthy scent of wet soil filled the air, rich and grounding, while the humid warmth of the ground beneath her felt oddly… comforting. Fatima blinked groggily, squinting up at the gray sky that swirled with heavy clouds. How long had she been lying here?
Her limbs felt like lead. When she tried to sit up, pain flared in every muscle — a deep, throbbing ache that made her wince. Ah, right. The giant snake. She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead. "That oversized worm nearly wrung me like laundry…"
It was only when she looked around that she realized something was terribly off. She wasn't in a field or a forest clearing — she was surrounded by walls of damp earth on all sides. Her brow furrowed. Wait a second… is this a hole? She shifted, feeling the soft mud squish beneath her fingers. The pit fit her body perfectly, almost like—Her eyes widened. A grave. They put me in a grave?!
"Shall we cover it up now?" came a familiar voice from above. Her heart leapt. It was Damian — the butler. His deep, usually composed tone sounded far too casual for someone about to bury her alive. "Could we wait just a little longer?" sobbed Ivy, her wails muffled by the rain. "She was… she was so young and brave and—" "Oh, for heaven's sake," Fatima muttered, pushing against the mud with trembling arms. "I'm not dead, you melodramatic muffins."
The muck clung to her hands and hair as she began to crawl upward, muttering curses under her breath. Above her, Clover's voice piped up, wary and confused. "Did any of you feel that?" "Feel what?" asked Damian, raising an eyebrow. "The ground—"
A hush fell. Then, a pair of muddy hands landed before their feet as Fatima crawled out of the hole like an angry, resurrected swamp spirit. Screams rang out in every direction. Ivy dropped the lantern and bolted. Clover crawled away on all fours. Even the ever-composed Damian let out a shriek that could have belonged to a startled debutante as he scampered across the dark forest, the shovel hauled on his shoulder.
Fatima stood there, drenched head to toe, mud streaking her cheeks and hair plastered to her face. She coughed, spat out a leaf, and glared at the fleeing group. "Well, nice to know how quickly you all move when I'm the one doing the scaring," she deadpanned, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Damian peeked from behind a tree, voice trembling. "Fa…Fatima? Is that truly you?" "No, it's your guilty conscience," she snapped, stepping away from the pool of mud at her feet with a squelch. "Now someone explain why you were about to bury me before I could even finish my nap!"
The rain continued to pour, washing the mud from her shoulders as Damian stammered for words and the others peeked out sheepishly from behind rocks and trees. Clover, still holding a handful of soggy flowers, murmured weakly, "In our defense… you weren't moving…or breathing." Fatima sighed, her exasperation fading into reluctant laughter. "Remind me next time to fake my death somewhere less dramatic."
The group stood awkwardly in the rain, the scent of wet grass and earth mixing with the faint embarrassment hanging thick in the air—while Fatima, drenched in rain and mud, decided that maybe resurrection didn't suit her nearly as well as revenge did.
**
The truth came to light like a blade drawn from its sheath—cold, gleaming, and impossible to deny. By dusk, the war tent had become a crucible of shame and fury. One by one, soldiers stepped forward, their faces pale beneath the wavering lamplight, voices trembling as they recounted what they'd witnessed since their arrival. Each word was another nail driven into Sion's coffin.
"At nightfall," one said, his voice hoarse, "when the monsters struck hardest, he sent squires to the front lines instead of our veterans." Another swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the dirt. "He—he ordered us to silence the wounded… to forge the reports. We… we buried our own."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The tent seemed to shrink with every heartbeat, the air thick with the metallic tang of sweat, steel, and the faint, acrid scent of burning oil from the lamps. Canvas walls whispered under the night wind, but inside, not a soul dared move.
Sion stood at the center, motionless. The faint flicker of firelight carved deep shadows across his face, throwing his features into something near monstrous. His pupils constricted; his jaw clenched until veins rose against his skin like cords ready to snap. The sound of his breath—ragged and uneven—was the only sign that he hadn't turned to stone.
Then the dam broke. A roar tore through him, guttural and raw, rattling the air. He lunged forward, boots scraping against the earth, and in one violent motion, wrenched his sword free. The weapon screamed from its scabbard, the polished steel catching the light like a flash of lightning in the dark.
In a heartbeat, he was upon Nathaniel. The edge of the blade pressed against the prince's throat, close enough that the faint scent of iron and blood mingled with the musk of leather and dust between them. Nathaniel didn't flinch. Amber eyes—steady, unwavering—met Sion's with unnerving calm. The lamplight danced in them, molten gold flickering over the cool restraint of a man who had seen storms far greater than this. His lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile more chilling than mockery.
"You've truly lost your mind, Prince Sion," he said softly, the words slicing cleaner than any blade. Sion's laughter came out broken—a crackling sound that reeked of desperation and too much wine. "Ha! Lost my mind? We'll see who's mad when you're choking on your own blood!" His grip trembled, knuckles white around the hilt. "You think you can undermine me in my own camp? You should've kept that noble mouth of yours shut—though that's the only thing you've ever been good at, isn't it?"
He stepped closer. The lamp's glow threw his shadow long and jagged across the ground, stretching over Nathaniel's boots like a creeping beast. The sword bit into skin—just enough for a thin, scarlet line to bead and slide down Nathaniel's neck. The droplet glimmered like a ruby, trailing to the crisp collar of his uniform. And then—A blur of motion.
Leonardo's gauntlet struck like thunder. His armored hand clamped around Sion's wrist, twisting sharply until his bone protested with a harsh crack. The sword fell with a ringing clang, scattering sparks of lamplight across the floor.
Sion staggered back, gasping, eyes wide with a cocktail of rage and disbelief. His breath came in ragged bursts; the color had drained from his face, leaving him ashen beneath the fury that still burned there. Leonardo didn't waver. His expression was carved from iron, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate through the very ground.
"Know your place," Leonardo said, each word laced with quiet, seething authority. "You've cost good men their lives—and yet you dare play the victim." He gave Sion a shove, sending him crashing into the table behind him. The wood splintered under the impact, scattering maps, ink pots, and sealed letters across the dirt floor. The sharp scent of ink and parchment filled the air, mingling with the stench of sweat and oil. "You made your bed, Prince Sion," Leonardo continued, his voice a measured threat. "Now lie in it."
Outside, silence reigned. But the silhouettes of the soldiers had shifted—rigid, alert, their faces unreadable behind the thin veil of canvas. Firelight from the torches outside flickered across the tent walls, each flare casting judgment in crimson and gold.
Sion stared at the ground, shoulders heaving, eyes unfocused. The enormity of what he'd done began to sink in, seeping into him like poison. His fingers twitched, grasping for a sword that was no longer his to wield. When the king's decree came, it carried the weight of an empire. "By my word," the herald's voice rang through the camp like a tolling bell, "Prince Sion is hereby stripped of his title and shall be imprisoned until he has repented his actions."
The words struck harder than any blow. Chains clinked as knights stepped forward, seizing the disgraced prince. The air around him seemed colder now, heavier—as if even the night itself refused to grant him warmth. As they dragged him from the tent, Sion's head hung low, but his eyes—those fevered, burning eyes—glimmered with something that wasn't remorse. It was the look of a man who had fallen but not yet broken.
**
A few days later, the camp pulsed with life—a symphony of steel and discipline beneath the pale blush of dawn. The air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of damp earth, burnt embers, and the metallic tang of weapons and sulfurous smell of gunpowder and explosives, the new addition to their arsenal. Courtesy of the latest results of Marquis Valentini's research. A low mist clung to the ground, curling around boots and tents as sunlight bled slowly across the horizon, painting the edges of the world in molten gold.
Nathaniel stood at the forefront of the assembled ranks, his navy cloak whispering against his armored greaves. The golden emblem of Alkaraz emblazoned on his chest caught the newborn light, scattering it like fire. His amber eyes swept over the soldiers before him—men hardened by campaign, their breath fogging the air, their gazes fixed on him with silent expectancy.
"How many casualties from last night's watch?" His tone was calm yet resonant, cutting through the morning haze like a blade. "Five injured, and no reported deaths, Your Highness!" Captain Uler replied, snapping a crisp salute. The captain's oversized armor bore the scuffs and grime of a long night's patrol, yet his bearing was unshaken. Beneath his dented pauldron, sweat gleamed at his temple, and his clear blue eyes burned with determination.
"Very well," Nathaniel said, folding his arms behind his back. His voice softened by a hair's breadth. "Have the injured sent to the mages for treatment. The rest of you—refresh yourselves. You've earned it." "Sir! Yes, sir!" came the unified cry, a thunderous echo of loyalty that rolled across the mist-shrouded field. As they broke ranks, laughter and chatter replaced the earlier tension—boots scuffing wet grass, armor clinking, the scent of roasted oats and boiled tea drifting from the mess tents.
Nathaniel's gaze lingered on them. For all the grime and exhaustion, his soldiers moved with purpose. His eyes found Uler again, issuing orders with firm gestures, helping a younger soldier adjust his straps with unexpected patience. He's brimming with enthusiasm, Nathaniel mused, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his lips.
He made a mental note to pair Uler with Uwol that night—the sharp-eyed archer whose aim could split a coin at fifty paces. All four brothers had shown remarkable adaptability in recent drills. Nathaniel's chest tightened with a flicker of pride. Soon, they'll see real battle. It's time I learn what they're truly capable of.
The calm didn't last.
"Monsters approaching! Monsters approaching!" The cry tore through the morning serenity like lightning. A horn blared from the watchtower, deep and resonant, shaking the air. Panic rippled through the camp—soldiers abandoning their breakfasts, grabbing spears and shields as the rhythmic pounding of drums began. The clang of metal on metal filled the air, the acrid scent of alchemical smoke and conjured wards prickling the senses as mages took their positions. "Ready the cannons!" A soldier shouted over the din.
Nathaniel's pulse surged—not with fear, but focus, sharp and cold. His hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword, its familiar weight grounding him. "I dispatched Vice Commander Maddox and his unit at dawn." Nathaniel continued, his gaze flicking toward the distant hills shrouded in fog. "They should be able to buy us some time until we get there."
Leonardo's grin was wolfish. "Then let's make this quick." The drums grew louder, merging with the stamping of hooves as Nathaniel mounted his steed—a black warhorse that tossed its head, snorting clouds of mist. The morning wind tore through his crimson hair, carrying the electric scent of ozone and battle. His cloak flared behind him as he raised a single gloved hand.
"Forward!" The command cracked through the air, and the camp exploded into motion. Rows of soldiers surged ahead like a living tide, their banners snapping in the wind, sunlight flashing off their blades. The ground trembled under the thunder of their charge—the rhythm of war, primal and unstoppable—as Nathaniel led them toward the dark horizon, where the roars of unseen beasts beckoned. The storm had begun.
**
Inside the grand dining hall of the Iperian royal palace, the clink of silverware and the low crackle of the hearth filled the otherwise tranquil air. Chandeliers of crystal cast golden light upon the long mahogany table, where dishes of untouched delicacies had begun to cool. Prince Jonathin sat among his family—though the word felt hollow now—his gaze fixed on the reflection of the flickering flames in his untouched wine.
The scent of roasted pheasant and rich gravy no longer stirred his appetite. His mind was far away, weighed down by years of unspoken resentment. The polished laughter of his brothers earlier had already faded, leaving only a suffocating silence.
He exhaled, a heavy sound that broke the rhythm of quiet eating. Then, slowly, he set down his knife and fork, their metallic clatter echoing faintly across the table. "Father," he said at last, his voice steady but edged with exhaustion, "I wish to leave Ipera." The words struck like shattered glass, slicing through the serenity. Forks stilled. The air thickened.
King Cornelius's knife halted mid-cut above his plate. His grey eyes, sharp as winter steel, rose to meet his son's. "What preposterous balderdash are you on about now, Jonathin?" His tone was sharp, laced with irritation and disbelief. "Are you perhaps under the influence?" His brows drew together, creasing his stern features into something colder than fury—disappointment.
Jonathin forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No, Father. Quite the opposite. My mind has never been clearer." He could feel the old wounds reopening as he spoke—the sting of every word his father had hurled at him over the years. Useless son. Disgrace. Coward. He could almost hear them echoing through the marble halls again.
He pushed his chair back, the scrape loud and defiant. "Prince Kazein has finally accepted me as one of his own. Therefore, I no longer wish to be part of this family." His eyes flickered with something dangerous—hurt masked by mockery. "Isn't this good news for you all? The stain on the royal bloodline is finally removing itself. This calls for a celebration."
The room remained deathly still. The queen's delicate hands rested motionless on her lap, her face an elegant mask devoid of emotion. The other princes exchanged cautious glances but said nothing. Only one pair of eyes burned with feeling—Prince Caleb's. The youngest. His fingers clutched the tablecloth so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You're lying," he muttered, voice trembling. "You can't mean that, Jonathin. You wouldn't just leave."
Jonathin's laughter erupted suddenly, startlingly loud against the quiet. It was raw, cracked, and bitter, echoing off the marble walls. He slammed his fist against the table once, twice, thrice—each strike trembling with the effort of keeping himself from breaking. "Oh, but I do, little brother. I should've done it long ago."
Caleb flinched, his lower lip quivering as he fought to hold back words—or tears. Cornelius leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing with disdain. "Do as you please," he said coldly. "The crown prince will dispose of you soon enough once he realizes you are merely a useless fool with nothing to offer."
Jonathin's laughter faded, leaving only the sound of the fire hissing in the hearth. He looked down at his cold plate, then at his family—each one a stranger behind a royal mask. "Family," he whispered under his breath, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "What a cruel joke."
Then he rose from his seat, the legs of his chair scraping the marble, and without another glance, turned toward the gilded doors. The hall seemed to hold its breath as he walked away, the echo of his boots fading into the silence he left behind.
**
The great doors of the dining hall swung shut behind him with a hollow boom, sealing in the stunned silence he'd left behind. The air in the corridor was cooler, sharper—tinged with the faint scent of polished marble and night-blooming flowers wafting in from the open windows. Moonlight spilled in through the tall arches, turning the golden tapestries into pale ghosts of their daytime splendor.
Jonathin's boots struck the floor in a measured rhythm, though every step felt heavier than the last. His chest burned—not with rage, but with a hollow ache he had long mistaken for it. For years, he had thought if he shouted louder, behaved more erratically, perhaps his father might see him. But all it earned him were the words failure and coward.
"Jonathin!" The call echoed from behind. He froze, shoulders tensing, before turning slowly. Caleb stood in the doorway, breathless and trembling, his hands gripping the frame as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
"Go back inside," Jonathin said quietly. His voice was rough, scraped raw by too many swallowed words. Caleb shook his head, eyes glistening. "You can't just leave like this. You didn't mean what you said in there. Tell me you didn't."
Jonathin's gaze softened, if only slightly. His little brother—still too young to understand the cruel gravity of their world—had always looked at him with a kind of blind loyalty. It pained him more than his father's scorn ever could.
"I meant every word," Jonathin murmured, turning his face away. The lantern's light painted his features in shifting gold and shadow, highlighting the exhaustion beneath his composed exterior. "There's nothing left for me here, Caleb. Nothing but pity and contempt." Caleb took a hesitant step forward, his voice breaking. "Then I'll come with you." That drew a short, bitter laugh from Jonathin. "You're a fool," he said, though the word was gentle. "You belong here. You still have Father's favor… and a future."
Caleb's jaw tightened. "A future built on watching him tear you apart? You think I want that?" Jonathin turned fully now, his expression tightening. "Don't make this harder than it already is." "Then stop pretending you don't care!" Caleb's voice cracked through the corridor, raw and desperate. The lights flickered as if recoiling from his outburst. "You think walking away will erase what they did to you? You'll just let them win—again?"
Jonathin's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, anger flared beneath the surface. He took a step forward, his cloak whispering against the marble. "I'm not letting them win," he said softly, each word laced with steel. "I'm freeing myself from their game entirely. This place has taken too much from me, brother."
Caleb's breath hitched. The fire in his brother's eyes was unlike anything he had seen before—steady, resolute, and heartbreakingly lonely. "Goodbye, Caleb," Jonathin said at last. His tone was final, almost tender. "Take care of yourself. And… stay strong."
He turned once more, walking down the corridor until the light swallowed him whole. Caleb stood frozen in place, fists trembling, until the echo of footsteps faded into nothing. Only then did he whisper to the empty hall, "You already were more of a king than any of them will ever be."
**
The midday sun poured its golden warmth through the tall arched windows of the Kartier estate, spilling across the polished marble floors and the soft folds of parchment on Emilia's desk. A faint scent of blooming lilacs drifted in from the gardens below, mingling with the crisp tang of ink as her quill glided and paused over the letter. Her brows knit together, lips tightening with every word she wrote.
Dear brother, it has been five long years since you left for Lithiar during which we spoke very little. My first born, Cadhiel, is turning four in a few months, and my daughter Abrielle has just started taking her first steps. You have missed all the precious moments in my life and theirs. How could you, of all people, do this to me?! The war ended nearly a year ago, yet you insist on lingering in Lithiar under the guise of participating in the restoration project. Don't tell me this has to do with a woman.
The sharp scratch of her pen punctuated the air as she pressed harder than she meant to. Ink pooled at the tail of her exclamation, bleeding into the fibers of the paper. Emilia sighed and leaned back in her chair, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Outside, laughter broke her brooding thoughts. "Fati! I want to pop it! Can I please?" The childish voice carried through the open terrace doors, light and bubbling like a brook.
Emilia turned her head toward the sound. Through the glass, she spotted her son Cadhiel sprinting across the sun-warmed terrace, his golden curls bouncing as he chased after her. Fatima had changed much in the five years that had flown by. Gone was the frail, uncertain girl who once walked on eggshells around her. In her place stood a woman of quiet radiance, tall and lithe, her silver hair cascading down her back like spun moonlight, catching the sunlight in glints of white and pale blue. The once-softness in her features had refined into something poised yet gentle. Her crimson eyes, vivid as garnets, shone with mirth as she laughed.
She darted around the stone balustrade, her long skirts gathered in one hand, the other holding a large iridescent bubble that shimmered with hues of blue and rose. "Young master, I can't let you do that—it will hurt!" Fatima panted between bursts of laughter, dodging his small, outstretched hands. "It won't hurt! I promise!" Cadhiel insisted, giggling as he stumbled and nearly collided with a potted rosemary bush.
Emilia's irritation softened despite herself. Her gaze lingered on the two—her son's bright joy, Fatima's flushed cheeks and breathless grin, the sun lighting her silver hair like liquid moonlight. It's like watching two children play together.
A smirk tugged at Emilia's lips. "She hasn't matured one bit," she murmured to herself, twirling the quill thoughtfully. Then, with a glint of mischief in her eyes, she dipped it into the inkwell once more. Oh, I know… Her pen began to dance again, the words curling neatly across the page: It appears Fatima is pregnant, and as such, we took care to change her living arrangements out of concern for her unborn baby. We suspect that Tomario, one of our recently hired gardeners, is the father of her child, though we haven't confirmed it yet. Anyway, I hope you come back soon. I miss your resting angry face. —Sincerely, Emilia Reva Kartier.
She sat back with a satisfied hum, the corners of her mouth curving into a knowing smile. "That ought to do it," she said, folding the parchment with care before sealing it with the red Kartier wax stamp.
Outside, Cadhiel's laughter rose once more, followed by Fatima's startled yelp as he finally caught the bubble and it burst in a splash of soapy droplets. The scent of rosemary and citrus wafted in through the terrace doors. "Your Grace?" came a voice from the corridor. A maid stepped in and curtsied. Emilia handed her the sealed letter. "Summon Butler Damian for me on your way out." "Yes, Your Grace," the maid replied, bowing again before hurrying off with the small envelope.
As the door closed behind her, Emilia's eyes drifted back to the window. Fatima was kneeling now, helping Cadhiel wipe the suds off his face, her soft laughter mingling with his delighted squeals. The duchess's gaze narrowed slightly, a calculating glint flickering in her blue eyes. "Let's see how he reacts to that little piece of news," she murmured, setting the quill back in its stand with a click that echoed in the quiet study.
Beyond the window, the sun burned brighter, casting a golden haze over the terrace—warm, deceptive, and full of unspoken schemes.