A Delicate Darkness | AZRIEL (ACOTAR)

xv. this is a happy house

THIS IS A HAPPY HOUSE

Seven moons after A Court of Silver Flames

Being Autumn's only seaport and a straight shot across the seas from the Continent, Vanvoda Harbour always teemed with merchants, sailors, and visiting dignitaries. The smell of brine and the pang of salt-laden air was always potent, which, along with the fresh fish, the sizzling meats, or the imported perfumed powders of the markets, made sure the harbour was nothing short of a bustling invasion of the senses.

Over the centuries, Vanvoda grew from a minor seaport of Prythian to a great rival of Summer's port city, Adriata, thanks to the financial prowess and business mind of its Lord Paramount, Malachi Vanserra. The fox prince was known to spend most of his time at his sprawling seaside estate a few miles from Vanvoda, when he wasn't at Orchard Bank leagues away or occupying his post as Autumn's financier at the Forest House.

And hardworking as he might be - a princeling deserving of his place in the proud Vanserra dynasty - Malachi could never deny an invitation to drink his heart out, waste his hard-earned fortune on rounds of liquor, and end his night with empty loins and a female between his legs to lull him to sleep.

Such was the precarious position one of his men found him in, rushing into his private chambers. The female who'd warmed his bed for the night - and whose name eluded his memory altogether seeing as he'd plucked the first attractive and fawning female from the party when Marjorie Napier denied him a second round - screamed and covered her bare chest with his duvet to save her dignity, hurling insults at Malachi's guard all the while.

"Alright, alright, sweetheart, I'm sure Pontius is as equally scarred," he chuckled. "What is it?"

Pontius' face was pallid as he breathed out, "Royal Hart, my lord."

The tavern-inn was likely the oldest building in Vanvoda and its proprietors claimed it had been favoured by the last Bernardi High Lord. That was, before Malachi's ancestor betrayed his longtime friend and stole his throne. Suffice it to say, Royal Hart was as important to Vanvoda's identity as its seaports and markets.

"What of it?"

"It burned down last night. Casualties in the dozens and its owners are demanding justice."

Fighting down nausea and slapping his cheek hard to wake him up, Malachi was hardly in the right frame of mind to deal with a tragedy of this calibre. He realised that Pontius' report was no exaggeration when he could not see Royal Hart's six-story silhouette upon the horizon as he descended the hill into Vanvoda. His horse kicked up dust as he rode hard and fast to the port, ignoring the bouts of nausea from two consecutive nights of partying.

The site where Royal Hart once proudly stood had been reduced to a flattened dumb of ashes and splintered debris. The nosy crowds parted for Malachi's steed; his men were already at the scene, cordoning it off, and sacrificing two of their own to deal with the irate owners.

Dismounting, the smouldering ruins crunched beneath his feet. Blackened bodies disappeared into cinders and wisps of ash in the wind, hints of furniture in the wreckage - edges of picture frames, melted copper doorknobs, half-standing fireplaces. All around the property was destruction, nary a room saved.

Malachi knew at once why he was called - why Pontius looked frenzied and pale. This was not the doing of a match and some stimulant. No, this was the controlled handiwork of a fae who wielded flame, who made sure every inch of the place burned the ground rather than leaving it to chance with a natural flame.

Immediately, a list of known fire-wielders was drafted in his mind. Mother's family the Marrones, his own family, and even some wood nymphs could summon a small amount of fire... But there, of course, were also foreign visitors, who passed through Vanvoda in the hundreds every day. Any one of them could be responsible.