These Ivory Swords

| Chapter Ten |

There was nothing more primal than splitting wood.

Or, at least, that's what Sorein believed the Fae of Solraidas decided while they lifted their axes and cut down tree after tree. The Wyving platform deposited both him and Jeremy near the outskirts of a village surrounded by open fields. While cattle grazed through the remaining grass, he couldn't mend his disappointment about the country's falling agriculture.

"How do we find Elive or Seinen here?" Jeremy muttered, glancing around. "Everything has changed."

Indeed it had.

Sorein straightened his back and scanned their surroundings.

His second rolled his neck and stretched each arm out after their Wyve. Better than the bulletwire, Jeremy's complexion wasn't pale and airsick. Either he'd gotten over his fear or was just so restless, his Captain didn't care.

Fully armed—both of them wearing militia grade utility pants and gray jackets with Azurian embroidery—they were given their weapons back.

Despite his ability to summon his sword, Sorein appreciated the minor conveniences of the two daggers strapped to his belt with a few other tricks he carried. With mana infused into certain objects, he could transfer his magic longer distances than most Fae. A skill he learned from Taeori his last visit.

Jeremy kept patting his sides, reminding himself he was in fact equipped.

The spanning fields were overwhelming. With little in sight, a shack with cracked beams and ivy coated walls was their best shot at directions.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Sorein strolled toward the bay house with a level head. The Fae working the docks were dirt slicked and straining, loading cargo from their ports. The smell of spices and herbs were wafting over them.

At least it wasn't fish.

Two sailors spoke a few feet of way, the latter stalking off to finish a begrudging task, evidently.

"Excuse me," Sorein asked the larger man, a smoke hanging from his lips. "Do you know where we'd find Seinen Ravellier?"

"Ravellier? What ya' want with that sorry sod?"

He fought the urge to huff a laugh. "Want? Nothing. Ezre Ravellier sent me."

"Ah. What's a Prince doin' takin' orders from another man's king?"

Sorein's hands clenched against the fabric of his pants. "Mutual interest."

The sailor scoffed, jutting his chin north. "'Bout five miles north, you'll find a brick 'ouse with some old fencin'. Elive discarded that sack of skin the minute he left his girl. Good luck getting anything outta 'em."

"His girl?" Jeremy asked, brows furrowing.

"The Princess of course," the second man said, throwing a crate down between them. "Some father."

"I have a question," Jeremy muttered. "Queen Destry claims Solraidas opposes Iliya Dalminai's birth. What do the courts say?"

The first man—clearly a boat captain or manager—snorted. His flicked a dismissive hand at his charge and waited for the youth to leave.

"Certain 'ouse's do. Turrien's have a bone to pick about everything, Alvero's too. Mochaini's are a mixed bag. But Elive ain't puttin' up with none of it. Solraidas acknowledges the youngling."

Jeremy hummed with narrowed eyes, shooting Sorein a look.

One he could read clear as day.

Destry's plans were much broader than any had anticipated. She'd trained Iliya from birth an entire county–and entire people hated her. Then masterminded a world where her daughter lived in isolation.