Fariah sat on a bench beneath the window of her chamber, watching the city crouched beneath a grey sky. The stone walls were cold. She had refused fire in the hearth last night. The cold bit into her shoulders, clearing the mind. Outside the balcony stood two Eirran guards, one on each side, silent and unmoving. The door to the palace hallway was watched under the same quiet verdict.
She was a prisoner.
No word had come from Gioden, nor from the V’Loraths. Every voice had fallen silent.
A servant had told her that the matter of her imprisonment had been brought before the Council. Gareth V’Renthor had demanded an explanation, but Prince Eirran had invoked his right to detain anyone suspected of treason.
Treason. The word gnawed at her. Unjust.
Eirran had passed the point of salvation. She saw it now, clear as day.
He might pull off his machinations, but he could not keep her in chains forever. He had no legal grounds to drag her before a trial. The Seventh would not allow it.
Her thoughts were broken by sharp knocks at the door. A single candle flame shivered, then steadied.
She rose and opened it.
A messenger from Win’Tarra stood outside, one she knew well. In his hands he carried a scroll sealed with red wax marked by blazing arrows.
Her heart quickened.
Gioden. At last.
“For you, Venna Fariah. From the Sechvenn.”
She took it without a word. With a steady hand she broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.
Gioden’s handwriting was familiar. Even. Stripped of ornament.
Dear Mother,
Due to current political circumstances and the need to strengthen relations between our House and the Temple, and in agreement with the Supreme Priest of Win’Tarra, I deem it appropriate that you assume supervision of the Monastery of Lanterns in Tretina. Its abbess passed last summer and they have struggled to find a suitable replacement. I am certain that your expertise in matters of faith and your unwavering discipline will serve as an invaluable asset in this post. To both our House and the Temple.
I expect notice of your arrival to Tretina within a fortnight. Lodging and escort will be provided.
Your son,
Gioden V’Asanii
She read it twice.
Written as an honor. Read as an exile.
Tretina, a fog‑shrouded principate with monasteries clinging like white teeth to black cliffs above evergreen forests. Politics there had the value of ash. The only thing that grew was time, settling like dust.
She clenched the scroll until her knuckles whitened.
“Reassignment,” she whispered, watching clouds roll over the sea. “Not banishment.”
But she knew Eirran’s voice stood behind Gioden’s quill. And she knew Tretina was far enough for the voices of Astochia to fade long before they could reach her.
“So that is where you want me.” Her voice was low, steady. “Fine. Let your will be done. For now.”
She lowered the scroll toward the candle and watched the flame lick the parchment edge.
“Begin the necessary preparations. Inform my son and the Temple that I accept the assignment.”
There was no anger in her tone, nor submission. Only the quiet promise of someone defeated, but unbroken.
And further in the east, harsh wind battered the naked ribs of the Antarrila garrison. Waves slammed the lower decks, white foam spilling over metal and salt‑encrusted platforms. Salt stung Eirran’s eyes and nose as he descended, sharp as a blade.
The Astochian branch of Antarrila had built its stronghold deliberately exposed to the elements. A testament to strength and resilience. Perhaps to divine favor.
Strong winds were good for training. He had learned that lesson young.
Below him, on the highest deck, bathed in soft golden light pressing through scattered clouds, stood those he had come to meet.
He knew them all. Revein, who commanded. Three Archangels who carried out the will of Heaven. Sareh, with grey feathers and old eyes. Nair, sharp‑sworded and high‑spirited. Ithrim, fast and eager like flame.
“Eirran V’Asanii, once Seraph and Archangel,” Revein called as he landed.
Protocol was as hard as the iron beneath their feet. Antarrila recognized no princes or noble houses. Only one master in Heaven and one on the mortal plane.
Eirran inclined his head. “Dominion.” Then he turned to his former comrades. “Sareh. Ithrim. Nair.” He greeted each with a sharp nod. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw Ithrim wince. Perhaps only the wind.
His gaze lingered on Nair. “You honor your brother well.” A pause. “His loss will be mourned. Always.”
Nair swallowed, though his face remained still.
“Terel’s feathers greyed in service to Ellevath. What greater honor is there?”
“Indeed,” Eirran murmured.
Revein cut in. “Enough. There will be time for sentiment later.” He faced Eirran fully. “You asked for audit, and you shall have it. Not as a prince, nor a former Seraph, but as a brother‑in‑arms. Speak. We will listen and judge.”
Wind rose, lifting feathers and tugging at cloaks. No one moved.
“Very well.” Eirran straightened. “First, know this. I did not come here to chew doctrine like yesterday’s stew. If you came to recite, recite and leave. I know the texts. I lived them. If you came to hear what the books don’t say, then stay.”
None spoke. None left.
“In the city,” he continued, voice level and clean, “my enemies used doctrine as a veil for an attempted murder. A child. You know the commands. Touch not the earth, mix not the blood, keep apart from clay. And you know the other. Have mercy for the innocent.”
He let silence breathe. Nair nodded.
“I believe you know I have a daughter. Half‑blood.”
The words landed like blades. Wind howled. Ithrim’s jaw tightened, fingers twitching. Sareh and Nair exchanged glances. Revein stood like carved stone.
“She is the child you’ve mentioned,” Revein said quietly.
“She is. And she is innocent.” His voice struck sharp on the last word.
Revein’s tone hardened. “And you seek us because…?”
Eirran met his eyes. “Because of your oath. You judge what stands behind your vows. If the Temple hides its sin beneath faith, that concerns you. I do not ask for sympathy. I ask you to choose what is right.”
Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screeched, sound distorted by the wind into something between hymn and a cry.
Revein gave a short nod. “I let you speak because I wished to hear your reason.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and turned to the Archangels. “The matter has already been decided. An order arrived at dawn from the Heavenly Steward.” He offered a small scroll. “A demonstration of power above Astochia has been commanded. He has granted you the honor of leading it.”
Eirran swallowed. Something in him loosened. His letter to Gioden had worked as intended.
“In that case,” he said evenly, “there is no conflict.”
Ithrim clenched his teeth but held his tongue. Archerseraphs instructions – Heavenly Steward’s instructions, were clear. Stay close to Eirran V’Asanii. Report of his actions. He wondered, more than once, why this task was entrusted to him, of all. Everyone knew he couldn’t forgive Eirran for turning his back on his vows. Or, perhaps, that was exactly why he was chosen.
Revein’s hair whipped in the wind. “What did you have in mind?”
For a moment the wind seemed to still.
“A reminder to the Temple and to all faithful – of who holds the Heaven’s sword.”
And, as the wind rose again, once again lifting his feathers in a dance, Eirran smiled.
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