All's Fair in Love and War

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱.8 | 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔬𝔶

A/n - that says 'Envoy' :)

__

Everything was too real. The oppressive heat, the echoing of her rustling movements in the space. Each dent and nick in the wall seemed to pulse. It was like she could feel the pull of the world.

Zephyr shuddered. Whatever had happened when she'd died, some part of her hadn't come back. "I'm ready."

Drakkot nodded sharply, ornate hair swinging forward. The lord had gone ahead, rushing to prepare the throne room while Zephyr dressed. The uniform she now wore, the sleek tactical black tunic, fit like nothing she'd ever worn. Zephyr had never felt more at home behind a mask either, the bone harsh and comforting against her features.

"Let's go. Hopefully, you won't have to talk," the Second snarked, grinning at her, as though he was testing whether she was 'back to normal'. Zephyr didn't have the heart to do anything except smile back.

"One can only hope," she sighed dramatically. "But I do have a twenty-page address prepared, should you require it."

"Someone's been doing her homework," Drakkot laughed.

"Really? Who? You need to introduce me, I'm failing hard," Zephyr mocked, widening her smile. Drakkot's gaze fell to her mouth, brow furrowing. She quickly turned away, hiding her teeth again. Before he could inquire after the pointed canines, she changed the subject. "This meeting was urgent, yes?"

That seemed to do it. "Right, you're really holding up the show," he mocked, giving Zephyr one last look before sweeping from the room, leaving the Overworlder to follow.

The walk wasn't long, and soon they were in the throne room. The space quickly became cavernous, the arching ceilings strung with banners. Many, Zephyr noted, were from long fallen kingdoms and cultures. The largest banner of them all was black, a wither skull emblazoned upon it in so dark a blood-color that the thing seemed near monochromatic. Many had fallen to that symbol, she realized. Now, she bore it, embroidered into the fabric of her cloak. The thought brought a dark slither of satisfaction.

The throne seemed to draw up from the dark stalagmites that rose from the polished brick, forming into a melded mass of glowstone and magma. Lord Technoblade lounged upon it, legs cocked out confidently and arms laying on the rests in the picture of leisure. He looked so regal it was almost staggering. Something must've shown on her expression, because the Lord caught her eye and grinned beneath the mask. Zephyr's lips twitched up, and she took her place to the right of the throne, the last in a line of piglin warriors.

No sooner than Drakkot had assumed his stance directly to Technoblade's right–Fenrir on the left–did the Overworld nobles enter. Zephyr forced her body to still, smothering every twitch and tremor just as she would at any ball or banquet. The Grand Duke Tullon entered first, sweeping ahead of Zephyr's sister in a resplendent green tunic embroidered in the complementary pastels of the nation. His form was round as ever, beady eyes set far into his face, nearly swallowed by the fat. His balding head was hidden by a velvet hat, its sloped brim hung with an assortment of emeralds and sapphires, presumably from the Duke's personal mines.

Behind Duke Tullon strode Crown Princess Sylvia Vivienne Roran, her blonde hair swept into lushious pinned ringlets, a few curled locks framing her delicate pale face. She was Zephyr's opposite in every facet, the jewel-like eyes of the Crown Princess hung in deep viridian rather than Zephyr's pale gold hue. Sylvia's dress was a salmon-pink silk, lace-embroidered floor length and voluminous thing. The white and gold stitched roses climbed to the bodice in pristine spirals, and the sleeves were off-the-shoulder lace cuffs in the most recent Overworld fashion.