Chapter 7

The sun was king; a common occurrence for the city, true, and one that was made all the more obvious by the display that had been put on to welcome the Council envoys. The tired limewash paint of the buildings was bathed in a soft golden glow. The blue of the ocean creeping behind them into the horizon seemed all the more vibrant by it, creating something that seemed more like a strange polaroid than reality.

Red-and-yellow flags lined the one avenue that climbed up hill from the port and into the Grand Plaza. Poles had been erected just in time for the great parade; if Ophelia squinted her eyes she could almost imagine some president's car slowly climbing up towards them. People stood to the side, a multitude of excited voices; there wasn't much to look at, other than perhaps the splendour of the carriages and the pomp of the soldiers guarding the committees, but life at the port was surprisingly slow and nobody wanted to miss another exciting opportunity for breaking the routine. It was a special Sunday.

It was expected that no participant wanted to be seen as lesser than any other: as the procession rode slowly towards the Grand Plaza, the carriages and its entourage boasted of their countries' fortunes. There were three major groups, if one were to leave the host nation aside for the moment: the Kushites, decked in deep blue, the two other Free Cities Philistia and Latil sharing the same red-and-yellow colours in different shades and motifs, and in an iridescent sky blue the small but striking carriage of the Elysians. While everyone else decided to show off their splendour through elaborate golden decorations and richly coloured fabrics, the latter had decided to opt for simplicity: the design of their vehicles and clothing seemed almost spartan in nature, only awe-inspiring by virtue of the strange shimmer that seemed to pervade anything that wasn't their own bodies.

The weight of their influence dawned on Ophelia: who could get away with that level of disregard for the old game of show and tell if not someone who just didn't have to play it at all? She wondered if Phobos was still in the city, and if he was watching the procession now. Would this be a call for action on his part? Would he make good on his oath to kill any Elysian he saw?

She prayed that nothing would happen. Hyperion had been given, as per the arrangements, a special seat amongst the city preceptors, and she, being one of the translators waiting to be called, was behind the row of notable men (and some women) watching the proceedings with what one could call a newborn's interest.

An argument had ensued after Hyperion had so liberally enlisted her talents for the committee's benefit. "Why would you say that I can speak elysian?" she demanded, remembering Phobos' distrust of the merchant's character. "You know I don't want to be anywhere near them."

"I thought you had said you were not running away from anyone," he remarked casually. "And, when you have something to hide, it is better to do it in plain sight."

"How altruistic," Ophelia made no attempt to hide her bitterness.

"I don't play to make losses, princess."

The atmosphere between the two of them became tense after that. It was an unavoidable fact that Hyperion hadn't built his empire on charity; equally true was that she was an extremely useful pawn to him. She'd thought that their arrangement had a clear sight of what the mutual benefit would be, but employment contracts were not in fashion in that world at that time, and even if they had, she knew there would be little difference with the sort of expectations previous managers had had with her. Commerce tended to brew a certain level of contempt for the employee, she'd found; she imagined that Hyperion would be the kind to demand attendance even in the face of a snowstorm – in England, of all places.

The argument had soured her slightly; as it was with any dissatisfied employee, she begun to think of her exit strategy. The jasmine-scented gardens at the villa and the initial charm and splendour of her new exotic home became just a little bit grating, in the way that things that one previously favoured become reminders of disillusion. As she learnt more about the world she'd fallen in, its politics and idiosyncrasies, she became more and more independent; once the time was right, then, she'd walk away.

As the envoys of the Council met with the city preceptors, the translators were called in. Hyperion hovered behind the Lord Protector, and she was ushered to serve as their interpreter. Kushites, Philistians, Latilians and Elysians all gave their greetings, exchanging the same inane phrases in different variations, each one testing the ground for what was to come. For all its pomp it was a rather bland affair, which made Ophelia wonder if the same could be said about any international conference back in her own world.

It wasn't until later that evening, an hour before dinner was held, that things took a turn for the interesting. She was sitting in one of the galleries that surrounded the many courtyards of the Arqan palace. Its architecture was grand and reminiscent of the grand kingdom that had once dominated the coast in that region; all the Free Cities had been part of it. Elaborate swirling designs decorated the wooden panels that lined the walls, an art that was at the brink of being forgotten; just like at Hyperion's villa, the gardens seemed eager to crawl into the buildings, with complex arrangements of flower beds and thorny bushes decorating the sides of the walls and the centres of many rooms. Ophelia was intrigued by the look of the place, and so had wandered at will for a bit while the envoys were shown to their sleeping quarters and settled in.

At some point a servant had approached her to ask if she required anything, and knowing that Hyperion had supplied the palace, she asked for some mint tea. She idly watched the courtiers and servants walk around as she enjoyed the beverage, knowing it was a luxury that few could afford in that time and place.

Her peace, however, wasn't meant to last. At some point she noticed a man standing on the other side of the garden, alternating between shooting glares at her and gesticulating wildly at his companion. He tired quickly of the one-sided conversation, and soon set out in her direction. His scowl gained more and more wrinkles as he got closer; by his appearance he seemed to be part of the preceptor elite of the city. Dressed in a fine emerald silk tunic, he had a prominent beard peppered in white and black hairs, and a bald head.

"Young lady! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?!" he shouted. "Who's she with?"

His companion caught up to him with a worried expression, and gazed at Ophelia with a confused look. "I don't know. There's no emblem on her clothes. Lady, can you understand us?"

"I speak your language," Ophelia arched an eyebrow. "But I don't understand you."

Her accent seemed to rile up the old man even more. "You're an Arqan, then! You should know better than to act this brazen!"

"I didn't grow up here, so unless you explain it to me, I'll have no idea what you're so angry about."

"This area is restricted to men only," the companion explained, now looking even more confused. "Companions to the envoys should remain in the assigned quarters."

"Oh, I'm not with the envoys. I'm a translator."

"A woman?!" the old man spit at her feet. "What is the lord principal thinking, allowing women to seat on the table with the council?"

Ophelia felt irritated enough to fight back. She heard voices behind her; it seemed like the commotion had attracted an audience.

"I wasn't aware a translator required the gifts only a male body has," this only served to anger the old man further as her gaze went downwards. "What does that bit do? Does it speak, as well?"

"Arion, call the guards!" the old man shouted. "This harlot is desecrating this place!"

The man's younger companion looked hesitant; a slap on his arm from the older man was enough to sprung him to action. He turned around, looking to go back from where they'd come from. Ophelia sipped her tea; the old man kept shouting at her. "To words spoken without sense one should only gift deaf ears," she said at some point, interjecting between his sentences.

Arion returned with two guards by his side; by then, however, someone in the audience had decided to step in.

"What is the matter?"

Whoever it was, it seemed like he had some sort of authority in the palace. He seemed to emerge from the centre of a small retinue of men in shimmering light blue tunics; all of them watched his movements with the zealousness of a lover who is obsessed with the object of their affection. The others reacted, as well, in a peculiar fashion: the servants and the courtiers, and the old preceptor and poor Arion suddenly seemed to shrink into themselves. If they'd been dogs, Ophelia would've been able to see their tails looking to hide between their legs.

"Just tiny trouble, my prince," the preceptor said, trading anger for sickeningly sweet appeasement. His voice came out slowly, with a heavy accent and the clumsiness of someone who had a very limited vocabulary. "I sorry very much; our bickering should not be."

"Bickering," the man repeated, stepping closer to Ophelia, "is something that would require two people. Now, speak. What is the source of your anger?"

"The lady," it seemed like the old man had trouble calling her as such, "she can't be here."

"Apparently," Ophelia interjected, raising an eyebrow. As her words flowed naturally and eloquently, the old man's ears flared red with embarrassment. "But it's also a problem for his lordship that I'm here as a translator. He seems to be of the belief that men are uniquely positioned to speak multiple languages, which he demonstrates in his perfect use of this one."

"You're a translator," it was more a question than a statement, but the phrase lingered ambiguously in the air in a way that made Ophelia think she had made a grave mistake. "Are you from the empire?"

The man's eyes turned to her, and it made her feel so self-conscious she had no choice but to look down. "I'm not. I spent part of my childhood there."

"You look the part."

Ophelia gave the man's companions a side-eyed look. She realized then who she was speaking to and berated herself for not having realized it sooner: clearly smaller in size, and with a slightly duller look in their hair and eyes, they were the Elysian envoys. As Felicia had remarked at some point, they were indeed a race unlike Phobos', Hyperion's and even the Arqans.

"I'm on my way to meet Lord Latil, translator. It seems like an appropriate time for you to make an exit so that these Arqans can enjoy their superstitions in peace."

Seldom one could've had experienced someone disregard any need for the platitudes of requests the way that the Elysian man had just done. There wasn't even an explicit order, as if somehow it was understood that any perceived need from his side was meant to be catered by everyone else around him. It would have been slightly annoying for Ophelia, if it wasn't for the savage insult that he'd also levied on the preceptor. For that alone she followed behind him when he turned to walk towards the main palace. The two Arqan men were left to their own devices, forgotten as soon as they'd appeared.

She later learnt, through the Elysian's conversations with the envoys from Latil, that the man's name was Aegyr, and that he seemed to be a very prominent member of the Elysian aristocracy. Throughout his conversations he emerged as quite the peculiar character: would only speak at the right times, and would only say as much as he needed to. Whatever came out of his mouth was always witty; even when he relayed straight facts, it always seemed like he was reminding the other their station in life. Ophelia decided, past the initial half hour of conversation, that he was a very annoying man, but was also infinitely entertaining to hear.

Her fascination didn't quite end there: it was important to mention that Aegyr was very pleasant to the eyes. He had black hair of a slight blueish tone and blue eyes so clear that they almost resembled liquid silver. He was tall, more so than Hyperion but smaller than Phobos. Something in his demeanour was decidedly martial, which reminded her of the Phrygian prince. But he lacked a certain warmth that was present in the latter's eyes, even when he was serious and focused on his enemy. Phobos, once past the initial impression, was quite approachable; Aegyr, on the other hand, gave the impression that one would find only a husk if one were to dig deeper into his character. But she understood why he drew the stares of even his enemies; and knew that the dinner to come would be an experience.

And she was right. Although the dinner had begun fairly cordial, the concerto of wines that were paraded as gifts around the tables soon did away with most of the envoys' diplomatic ability. Formality slid off men's tongues, leaving a mocking sort of honesty in its wake. She traded some looks with the other translators, which were brought together in unison as if on orders from a higher sentience; they all recognized the need for dire intervention from their end, and acted accordingly: insults became dry remarks, long-winded arguments transformed into a civilized negotiation.

One of the high points of the night, however, was the moment that the topic of some extradition treaties was brought up. The matter concerned a number of agreements that the Elysians were keen on closing with the Free Cities. It was a not-so-subtle response to the worsening crisis in Phrygia, and some of the civil wars that they had a hand in: it was a secret sung out loud that the coastal cities were rife with political activity from different exiled figures. The Elysians hoped that their treaties would close off another avenue of dissent for the growing discontent on that side of the Atlantean sea, allowing to bring political rivals into Elysium for imprisonment.

"Might as well propose a new name for our alliance!" shouted one of the Latilian envoys in protest. "The slave cities, perhaps!"

"I'm sad to see that the intent of our proposal has been so badly misinterpreted, my lord," one of the Elysian envoys argued, clearly unbothered by the other's exclamation. "Our hope was to provide some support for the rising unrest caused by the movement of all these refugees. We're aware that many unsavoury characters are making the Free Cities their homes."

"Our definition of unsavoury might differ from yours, my lord," a Philistian quipped. "Why is it that we should let Elysium act as judge and executioner outside of their empire?"

Ophelia, who hadn't moved from her place near the Elysian envoys, heard Aegyr speak for the first time in the evening: "It's the natural order of things. Do you object as well when a father tells their son not to drink with so-and-so, or when a mother warns her daughter not to paint her face when in respectable company?"

She knew immediately that his words would only exacerbate the commotion. She looked at the Elysian envoys, and then back to Aegyr, who was waiting patiently for her to translate. "Are you sure…?" she asked, wanting to give them a chance to defuse the situation.

"There's no benefit on continuing a conversation on erroneous assumptions," Aegyr said simply, and let Ophelia carry on with the translation. The effect was instantaneous: even the Kushites, who had remained silent so far, joined in the argument.

"Is this was the Elysian diplomacy is like?" one of them remarked drily, "a half-hearted attempt to convince themselves of some pre-destined superiority?"

"The natural order of things is cooperation, my lord," an elder Philistian envoy said, levelling Aegyr with a steely look. "Not a forceful declaration of principles, or an attempt to blackmail your peers to get what you want. It's sharing common objectives and working towards them in unison, with a deep respect for the people who sit on the other side of the table."

The barrage of accusations and outrage had little effect on Aegyr, who seemed to listen to them as if they were the complaints of petulant children. The other Elysians were far more incensed, jumping in to defend their country and the honour of their leader. The shouting only increased, and with many speaking over one another in different languages, Ophelia started to feel light-headed, overwhelmed by the noise.

"We've gone past the need for translators now," she heard Aegyr speak, and she lifted her head to see that he had turned to address her. He nodded towards the men around the table, some of whom had stood up and were shouting at each other. "In the morning, once they're back to being men, we shall need you once again."

There was significant doubts as to whether the comment was a sign of kindness on his part, or if he simply wanted to mock his opponents. Regardless, it allowed her to excuse herself, and retire to her chambers.

The way back brought her once again to the garden the Arqan had tried to chase her off from earlier in the day. Relishing on some pettiness, she stepped in properly to admire the flowers and breath in the fresh, cool night breeze: her head was pounding, and she needed some respite in the silence. Her intrusive thoughts didn't let her rest, and she was reminded of the night of Phobos' leaving, and a similar chase through a similar garden… her face and her body flushed, memories surging in her mind that left her yearning again for that embrace.

She imagined that the hot-headed prince would've jumped at the commotion during that dinner, possibly bringing his sword out for a chat. She felt only slightly guilty that she made business with the Elysians, his sworn enemies, but she also knew he'd rejected her offer and had left her there to find her own way in the world. He'd made it abundantly clear his fight wasn't hers and she'd respect that.

In the silence of the night, the smallest movements felt like cacophonies: the rustle of tunics and the soft noise of sandals hitting the tiled floors warned her of a small group of men walking briskly in the direction of the envoys' chambers. She let the bushes and flowers of the garden hide her figure as she watched them; in the dark she thought it quite peculiar that their appearances were darker than the majority of the palace staff and the envoys, but not as dark as the Kushites. She was, of course, reminded of Phobos and Aristides, but she could not spot from that distance any of the markings of the Phrygian warriors she'd travelled with.

Thinking that perhaps they were running from the worsening argument happening in the palace, she followed in the same direction, and soon arrived at her chambers. That night, she slept soundly. She knew that she'd just been hit with a primer: the rest of the Council would surely progress on similarly rocky grounds, now that the gloves had been discarded. It would be an exhausting enterprise, and she couldn't wait to meet back with Hyperion to ask for a raise.

As expected, everything went downhill but not in the way she would've thought. She had just finished dressing up, and was about to sit down to enjoy some breakfast when one of her attendants came into her chambers with a serious look on his face. "Apologies for intruding, lady," the young man said, "but the Lord Preceptor has asked everyone to remain in their chambers and await further instructions."

"What happened?"

"Two envoys were murdered during the night."

"Who?"

"I don't know… I think it was some of the Philistians. I went pass their chambers and saw groups of people going in and out. There was a lot of activity."

Ophelia paled. Had the argument soured the envoys to that extent?

She tried questioning the attendant, but he didn't have much to offer other than some hearsay. People were pointing fingers to the Elysians, given that they'd initiated the argument with their treaty proposal, and their long history of using intimidation tactics to increase their influence. But no one had seen anything and the murder weapons were not even anywhere to be seen; all that had been left were the bodies of two of the men Philistia had sent with their throats cut while they slept.

She spent an uneasy morning, wondering how things would go from there. Back in her own world, she'd expect that the Council would be cancelled and everyone would be questioned by the police, who would cordon off the scene of the murder to gather evidence. She doubted that somehow the science of forensics was as advanced there, and she imagined it'd all rely on witness testimony and pointing a finger at whoever seemed to have a motive. More importantly, if the murder was truly political, what was there to say that it wouldn't happen again?

"I'm sad to find you with such a deep frown in your face," Hyperion surprised her with a visit near midday. Dressed to the nines in colourful overlaid silk tunics, he looked more masculine that she'd ever seen him: his long platinum hair had been tied in a simple ponytail, and he'd traded the long, dangly gold earrings he'd used at the Caudiceum brothel with smaller gem-encrusted ones that she'd learnt were customary for Chaldean men.

"It's been a tense few days," she said, and invited him to sit down in the chair opposite her.

"I heard yesterday's dinner was fairly entertaining," Hyperion begged the question that Ophelia then proceeded to answer with a simple recount of what had transpired during the event. "I'm glad to have missed it," he said afterwards. "I don't enjoy the company of loud, argumentative men."

"You'd enjoy the company of the Elysian leader, then. He's quite the character."

"Oh?" an eyebrow was raised. "He's a handsome man, as well. For that alone I'd sit down for a chat. How does the princess like him? Should I feel jealous?"

"He certainly hasn't whored me out to get some favours out of the city principals," Ophelia bit back, reminding him that she hadn't forgotten that they weren't on the best terms. "But he says a lot of entertaining things, even if he's insufferably arrogant."

Hyperion's eyes flashed for a second; Ophelia didn't know if it was anger, an emotion that she'd never associated with the merchant, or something else entirely. He certainly took note of her comment: "I can see a future where your tongue tires of complaining and it's your byzantine gifts that will let me know of your frustration towards me. I'm a better man for learning that."

Ophelia was confused. Was the man implying she had just threatened him? "What are you saying?"

He stood up and took her hand in his before dropping to his knees, laying a kiss on her open palm. "I should know better than to try to grab you by your elbow when you offer me your hand; that's all. Do not be mad at me; I shall not make the same mistake again."

Ophelia blushed at the gesture and took her hand back, holding it against her chest. "I'll take your apology."

Hyperion smiled and went back to his seat, happy to see she'd been mollified. "That's great to hear. I wanted to spend today at your tail, now that things have taken a turn for the interesting."

"And not because you missed me?"

Hyperion laughed. "If I say that, you'll accuse me of being improper."

Later on, an attendant appeared to summon Ophelia with the rest of the translators. They had to assist the judges during the interrogations, which lasted the whole day. The Council's activities were postponed by another two days, while the Arqan authorities tried to sort out the whos, wheres and whats of the assassination that had taken place.

"What a difficult picture that's emerging," Hyperion commented as the last witness of the day, an attendant that worked at the Philistians' chambers, made his exit. Nobody had made a single comment as to why he was there, something that Ophelia partly attributed to his influence and partly to the general chaos that reigned in the palace. 'Investigation' was a loose term; it was more like the different judges and personalities of the city tried to gather as much information as possible, finding very little leads outside of what the hearsay and rumours were pointing out. People often had to leave one chamber to go to the next to explain for yet another time what they'd been doing the night before; it would happen as well that on the way back to their normal activities they'd be once again stopped to be taken to another chamber, for another interrogation. It was all madness and bureaucracy, and little method; Ophelia didn't know if this was something specific to Arqa or if it was like that everywhere else.

"What will you do, my friend?" Hyperion asked the Lord Preceptor as the older man grabbed his head, lost in thought. By virtue of his closeness to the merchant, the three of them had ended up in a chamber together, going through the various witnesses.

"It's all too obvious that no one had any motive to attack the envoys other than the Elysians, particularly after the nasty accusations thrown last night," the Lord Preceptor said. "But pointing fingers at this stage will put us all in a very precarious position. Nobody heard anything, saw anything. If they really were behind the murders, it begs the question of what are they trying to get out of it? Certainly not an increased friendship with the rest of the Council."

"Lord Scipio being here is not making it any easier, as well," he continued. "Everyone's aware of the kind of tricks he's known to pull. He'll be looking for any excuse to spark conflict and bring his Knights over; yet I don't think an outright assassination like this is his style."

"It's clear that whoever did this wanted to interrupt the Council's activity in some way or another," Hyperion mused. "Your best bet is to carry on; if the Elysians did this to avoid the negotiations and force your hand, it will become evident with the passing weeks. If it was someone else, it'll give you more time to find them while you avoid shifting the blame on the Elysians. The worst you can do is let them all twiddle their thumbs, concocting conspiracies to get revenge."

"You're right," the governor nodded, rising from his seat with renewed energy. "I'll make the announcement, then. Let's pretend we have no suspects as of now."

When he was gone, Ophelia sank into a reclining couch, feeling the exhaustion of having to face dozens of individuals the entire day. Hyperion also chose to take a seat, looking for a space at her feet.

"This could get worse," she said. "There's no telling if there'll be any more murders."

"There will be enough soldiers to guard everyone," Hyperion commented. "Why? Are you worried about your safety?"

Was she? She turned to lay on her back, and held up a finger. A spark of electricity flared out from the tip, not unlike the one she'd conjured the day she'd fended off that strange monster aboard their ship. Should the worst case scenario happen, she'd always have that little trick under her sleeve. It made her feel strange, almost detached from the situation: she could protect herself, and that meant that there would not be any shadows she'd shy away from as she made her way back to her chambers that night. Everyone else had to rely on a soldier, a mercenary; she, like the Elysians, she supposed, was free to live without fear in that mad, dangerous world of intrigues and violence.

"I suppose I'm not," she said. "Do situations like this make you afraid? Are you ever wary of getting involved in something you might not able to come out alive from?"

The merchant looked up for a moment, and pondered over her question.

"I used to be afraid, once. But once you've faced death enough times, you stop caring. The only thing I'm wary of is making a stupid decision."

He reached to his ponytail to undo it. His silken hair fell almost like smoke, settling on his shoulders delicately. "Moreover, it seems I've made my peace with a very powerful woman," his tone turned suggestive and he turned back to look at her, mischievous. "I hope she'll protect me as well."

"That'll cost you extra," Ophelia said drily, getting up. She waved him goodbye, wanting suddenly nothing more than some peace and quiet. Hyperion watched her go with some remorse: his quick tongue had got the best of him.

-

She turned around in her seat; a mob had congregated outside of the palace as the news had spread. In the wake of the attack, a triple dose of curiosity, chaos and confusion reigned supreme. The air felt all-too-warm, almost abrasive as the smell of smoke lingered over the city. The rumours of the Philistian murders had already sent tremors through the populace, as those who waited for a sign of something began to hope that this wasn't yet another false start. And although Lord Preceptor had not named any names, many had already begun pointing fingers towards the Elysians. Their enemies resided within the city walls; they clearly were stalling their swords in favour of wagging their tongues to get the Arqans on their side. And now, oh what a story they'd be able to pull together.

As the carriage took her and the injured Hyperion back to his villa, she felt oddly on edge, waiting for any sign of violence to come their way. Perhaps it was the phantom heat that she remembered ghosting over her skin; perhaps it was that something was brewing in the city and it was slowly reaching its simmering point. Whatever it was, she felt like her fangs were out the whole ride.

The timing had been a complete surprise. She certainly hadn't expected anything to go down that soon. Two days had passed since the Philistian envoys had been found murdered in their chambers, and as the Lord Preceptor had discussed with Hyperion, the Council had resumed shortly as if nothing had happened. Although the Philistians had been initially outraged, a closed-doors meeting with the Arqans had settled the matter: they had all agreed that they needed to assess if the Elysians were a threat or not, and how much they could stall to defuse any attempts to turn that event into a reason for hostilities to be started.

Earlier that day Ophelia had been called for yet another wave of meetings; some of them between envoys, others between individuals who sought to discuss this or that matter and, of course, socialize. It was then that Hyperion had waltzed around, lavishly presenting those he was trying to ally himself with with gifts, food and drink. The palace's hallways were busy with attendants bringing this or that to the rooms, chambers and offices that had been set up for the Council. The schedule for the evening included a performance at the amphitheatre where the city's most famous troupe would be putting on a drama for their entertainment. It seemed like the rest of the affair would be similar: discuss business, drink, eat and enjoy of this or that entertainment at the expenses of the Arqans.

But before that and as the afternoon drew to a close, a small ceremony was scheduled to be held in the main forum of the palace, where the city preceptors would normally gather for discussions. It was nothing more than a few words to address the elephant in the room – the deaths of the envoys – and let those in attendance know the security measures that Arqa would enforce from there on.

As Ophelia made her way to the forum she came across many a busy attendant clearing the rooms that had just been deserted. Two of them engraved themselves on her mind as they passed by, and by fortune of her eyes straying past she noticed the partial outlines of some familiar-looking tattoos that peeked out from underneath the sleeves of their tunics. She had stopped for a second, a half-thought forming in her mind to talk to them, but they were gone before she could do anything.

The memory of her walk through the palace gardens during the night of the murders came to her; unsolicited, yet strangely suggestive. Could it be that there were Phrygians working in the palace, and if so, was it fair of her to link them to the unrest they were experiencing? They were, after all, on a war path; and whatever chess play anyone could try, perhaps they were just brutishly aiming for the Elysian envoys and nothing more.

She parked that thought and searched for Hyperion, who she knew had gone in before her to the forum. She found him by one of the entrances.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, not failing to notice the bored expression on his face.

"Just the notables of the city proving once again that years of repeating the classics on rhetoric do not guarantee a single worthwhile word coming out of their mouth."

Ophelia laughed. "Are you attending the performance?"

"I was hoping I could attend it with you, actually."

She offered him a cheeky smile. "Still trying to get into my good graces, I see."

The man arched an eyebrow and leaned towards her, casually brushing her hair out of her face. "Is it working?"

Ophelia blushed, feeling self-conscious at his proximity, and tried to move away as she muttered some half-hearted reply.

What happened next would be remembered as a blurry collection of images and the sound of screams permeating the entire hall. It happened like this: as the address from the Lord Preceptor was about to finish, someone rushed in from the sides dressed in a shimmering light blue tunic. The hosts of the Council reacted immediately, bursting forth to restrain the man. Partially drowned by their grunts he'd screamed "Elysia aeterna!" and held up his open palm to the skies. Blue flames exploded from his body, engulfing him in a raging inferno.

To the shouts of "careful! Dorian fire!" the Arqan preceptors that had been wrestling with him tried to move away, but true to its nature it only became hungrier the more it consumed. Three men screamed in agony as they flailed around, falling to the floor in a vain attempt to extinguish the blue flames. The more it touched the more it evolved, but although it was intense and ravaging it soon began to change – still blue as it burnt the self-immolated Elysian, but growing increasingly more yellow and red the further away it was from its origin. It was as if the magic disappeared, leaving behind the same pedestrian fire that anyone else in the audience could easily spark.

People began to run; some of them stayed behind to try and help those who were struggling with the fire, somehow looking for a way to stifle the growing flames. The chamber, which had been decked in large woven tapestries representing the emblems of all the participants, seemed like the perfect nest for a budding inferno.

"We need to run," Hyperion grabbed Ophelia and followed the mass of people heading for the exits. In the centre, the corpse of the man who had immolated himself could have been easily confused with a pile of burnt logs; he and the Arqans who had tried to stop him were long gone, but the blue fire kept on raging, as if born from their ashes. The wooden rafters were at the mercy of the increasing tongues of fire, which were growing taller and hotter by the second.

Ophelia heard more screams from the mob in front of them: in their desperation, and because of an unlucky misstep, a crush had begun. Folks fell on top of others, causing the exit to be blocked by a mass of desperate people.

She grabbed Hyperion and pulled him back, and then looked behind them. They were trapped. The smoke was heavy, quickly filling the room and limiting their visibility. She thought about her options all in the span of a second: she could try to open an entrance by sheer force, but the sudden influx of fresh air might cause an explosion. She could try to control the flames, if such a thing was possible, but it seemed like it'd take her some time to figure out how to do it, if it was possible at all. The only option, it seemed, was to remove the blockages obstructing their exit, and do it fast.

She spotted one person at the top of the crush and willed him to move. He screamed, but she pressed on: there was no time to lose. An unseen force moved him out of the way, and with that she could try another two, three. It was like a macabre, desperate game: get as many out as possible without injuring them.

The smoke made it difficult for her to fully understand what was happening, and she moved the smoke here and there to keep digging at the pile of bodies. She soon realized someone else was at it as well. Bodies were flown out with less care than she was giving, and between them they were able to clear the way quickly enough.

Once the outside was more or less visible, she began pushing the bodies outwards, rolling people towards safety, outside the chamber. On the other side preceptors and servants were helping pull out those who'd been trapped, receiving those she was throwing out.

"Let's go!" Hyperion shouted once the way out had enough space for someone to run in. Ophelia pushed him, then ran after him. Inside, the screams had quieted, and only the voices of the Elysians could be heard, moving those who still remained inside to safety, and trying to keep the fire at bay with their own abilities.

Outside, the attendants were trying to put out the fire using buckets of water. There was no running water in Arqa, no systems of open canals like in Caudiceum; all water was provided from wells and underground reservoirs which meant that fire fighting was reduced to its most basic form. Ophelia, although still coughing and trying to rub the smoke and heat off her eyes, was so full of adrenaline that she didn't stop to think about what she was doing: she noticed the closest well to the main chamber, which was surrounded by gardens, was only twenty feet away from its walls. She stumbled towards it, slowly regaining her breath as she spit out black humours from her mouth.

Hyperion shouted after her. "We have to stop it before it spreads," she said, voice hoarse, and braced herself to the well, looking into its depths to spot the watery surface at the bottom. Three men were next to it, frantically filling and refilling the buckets that servants would carry to and from the building.

She said nothing to them, and they didn't bother saying anything to her. Everyone was panicking. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and then raised the water from the bottom of the well. It emerged first as big bubbles, the size of the buckets the men were filling, and slowly curved into a stream that directed itself towards the chambers.

"Elysian!" one of the men exclaimed, as he fell backwards. The three of them stopped immediately to witness the miracle, eyes full of wonder. A part of her mind that remained in her old world thought it was almost like a large scale sprinkler; she moved it from side to side, trying to douse as much as she could in the cold water. Black smoke began to rise upwards, big clouds forming as the fire was forced down.

She heard someone else shout "there's an elysian there!" in the distance. It meant nothing to her then; so focused she was on dealing with the fire, nothing else mattered. It took her a full minute to realize it had been spoken in Phrygian.

But once she did, the scene quickly changed. She opened her eyes and spotted two men dressed like servants running towards her. Her mind rebelling against the idea of changing focus, she failed to realize why they were coming to her. Hyperion, however, was faster to react as he noticed the long knives they had in their hands, similar to the ones Phobos and Aristides carried with them.

"No!" Ophelia shouted, and her control on the water stream slipped; suspended in mid-air, the water fell like rain onto the garden.

Hyperion jumped in front of her, grabbed an empty bucket and flung it with incredible accuracy at one of the Phrygians. It struck the man below the knees, causing him to fall forwards towards the ground. There was no reaction from his friend, who kept running at them, quickly closing the distance as his comrade fell behind. Hyperion, who was on the way, barely had time to do anything as the Phrygian's knife came slashing down through the air. It was then Ophelia who jumped to action, panicking: without measuring her strength, she threw the Phrygian backwards. The body collided against a tree with such force that blood began to fall from the man's nose as soon as he touched the ground.

Little mercy could be afforded to the attacker when her benefactor was on the ground. Ophelia kneeled by Hyperion as the three servants piled on top of the remaining Phrygian to restrain him. The silk caftan had been slashed from shoulder to waist; around the ribs the knife had made contact with flesh, slicing through with the precision of a scalpel. She took off her outer tunic and bundled it to press it on the merchant's belly to contain the bleeding.

"Stay with me, please" she murmured apprehensively as the Chaldean reclined back. His usually composed features were distorted in pain and covered in soot and sweat; his hands grabbed at her and at the cloth that was quickly turning redder and redder.

"Always, princess," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Ophelia was about to ask for help when she noticed the Phrygian, who was large enough to require three Arqans sitting on top of him to keep him from moving, looking at her. A similar look of hatred had been sent her way when their prince had first witnessed her abilities; and just like then, it seemed not a threat, but a promise. The man mouthed something, and then closed his eyes: as he did so, the same blue flames that had engulfed the earlier attacker emerged from his body. They raged with the same violence, catching in their embrace the three servants that were holding the attacker down.

She saw them jump away, screaming, and knew that she would not be able to bear any more tragedy that afternoon: behind her water raged from within the well, and fell like angry rain on all of them – the Phrygian, the servants, herself and Hyperion.

"Help," she shouted weakly, arms still pressing down on Hyperion's wound to stop the bleeding while the fallen men in front of her writhed and moaned on the floor, suffering from various degrees of injuries. The Phrygian was gone; charred beyond recognition by the strange, intense blue fire that had been brought forth from his body.

She heard steps coming from behind: she prepared to fend the newcomers off before she recognised some of the faces she'd been translating for during the previous evenings. Light blue tunics, partially scorched and covered in soot, swarmed around them.

"What happened here?" one of the Elysians asked, perturbed, as he eyed the chaotic vision before him: all of them drenched, three burn victims, a charred corpse, and not far from them another body lying in a small puddle of blood. Hardly a scene that would suggest any coherent narration at first glance.

"Please help them, they've been burnt with that strange blue fire!" Ophelia said in her distress. A man kneeled next to the corpse; his companions tended to the injured servants. His long black hair was messy, but it was recognisable enough.

"Dorian fire?" Aegyr asked, his hands hovering over the corpse, forcing it to move on its own to allow for a quick examination. "How…?"

He turned back to look at Ophelia. His eyes moved to her hands, and as he took in Hyperion's pained face, it was clear that a thought had formed in his mind. "Remove that cloth; I need to see the wound."

Ophelia frowned but did as he commanded: a strange, vacant look took over the Aegyr's features, and she watched as the gash on Hyperion's stomach closed, or attempted to do so. It was difficult to tell exactly as the muscle rejoined itself and the skin grew anew, as there was so much blood pooling around it. At least the bleeding had stopped, yet it was clear that the injury was still there, only less fatal.

"Have them check for poisons," the Elysian recommended. "Blades can be coated in more than a thirst for blood."

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath, but once she released it, she felt almost feverish. Small tremors ran through her body. "Thank you," she breathed, resting her face in her hands. They were stained in Hyperion's blood.

There was no change in Aegyr's demeanour. Ophelia had the sudden thought that he'd only healed Hyperion to be able to ask her questions. "Who was that man? What did he try to do?"

"There were two of them. Over there is the other… they came running at us, holding knives. Hyperion shielded me, and was stabbed. We fended him off, and he hit his head against the tree. The other was held down by the servants, until he began to burn, and then all of them were engulfed in flames…"

"But the flames… were put out?"

"Yes… I threw water at them."

"The blue flames were put out?"

"Well, they were only blue on that man."

Aegyr incorporated himself, looking pensive. His clear blue eyes were fixated on her, moving around her face as if he was trying to commit every detail to memory. More likely, he was trying to ascertain how truthful she was being.

The moans from the injured caught Ophelia's attention. The Elysians were examining them, making no effort to heal them as they prodded their bodies. "Careful! What are you doing?" she shouted at them.

"They're servants," one of the Elysians stated, as if it was the most obvious response in the world. "This wasn't done by Dorian fire," he said, turning towards Aegyr. "They might have had some powders to make a fire that bright, and to colour the flames to make it seem that way."

"Did they speak to you, translator?" one of the Elysians asked her. "Were they speaking our language?"

"T-they shouted something that I couldn't understand," she lied. She knew full well by then that Phrygians had staged the whole thing – that somehow they had entered the palace as servants, carrying something that could produce a violent fire, ready to self-immolate to cause some chaos. But admitting it to the Elysians would certainly make matters worse for them, and despite the look of hatred she'd been gifted and the almost near-fatal attempt on Hyperion's life she felt strangely protective over them. Perhaps it was foolish of her to be so sentimental, perhaps she was making too many assumptions, but something in her gut told her that these were the same folks Phobos had crossed the sea to find, and that this was part of his fight. And although he had refused her help, she would still aid in whatever way she could: it was what felt right to her.

Aegyr approached the other fallen attacker, who was still unconscious. The Elysian turned the body over with his powers. Ophelia couldn't help but recoil at the way it moved, like a rag doll. "What happened to him?" he asked, looking back at her.

"Hyperion hit him with one of the buckets," she lied. Fearing that her thoughts would show on her face, she tried not to dwell too much on the possible consequences of Aegyr finding out her real origins. "His head went back, and hit the trunk of the tree very hard."

"What a surprise, that a Chaldean should have the same strength as a Thracian…" Aegyr commented as he tore open the man's tunic. The tell-tale pattern of a dog slithered its way down the biceps into the forearm of the fallen man, and the story of how the attacks had come to be began to unravel in front of the Elysians.

"Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky…" one of the envoys, the one closest to her, said. "Who would've thought the Phrygians had it in them?"

"Well, with the way they've been backstabbing each other as of lately, it's clear it's not all about waging war and facing their opponents head-on anymore," another one replied. "It makes sense now; they're trying to frame us."

"It might be not just them; we have plenty of enemies in this city."

Ophelia decided to let them figure out their political woes while she tended to the injured. Hyperion seemed to be doing better, although didn't have much energy to speak. She gave him a nod which he responded, and then left him to lie for a bit on the grass. The three men had been moved to one side; two of them were unconscious, having fainted from the shock and the pain, and the third one was still moaning softly. She took one of the water buckets that had been left next to the well, which was half-full with water, and carried it with great effort to the side of the injured. The only thing she could think of to do was to try and bring down their body temperatures with some cold water, and so she began pouring it all over their burns.

"Yuri," Aegyr called one of his subordinates. "Perhaps the translator might be able to answer the question that brought us here in the first place."

"Yes," Yuri stood to attention and turned to her. "Was it from this well that the water that put out the fire was called forth?" Ophelia nodded as she continued with her task. "Who did it?"

"I would've thought it was one of you."

It was clear her answer wasn't satisfactory; Yuri seemed to be about to press on, but a single gesture from Aegyr silenced him. The leader of the envoys took a step forward towards her, and levelled her with a gaze so intimidating that she would've recoiled if she had met his eyes.

"I pray that at some point during your stay at the empire you heard this at least once, translator: all things belong in their rightful place, and sooner or later, fates must converge."

Ophelia raised her eyes. "I'm afraid I don't follow, my lord."

"Lying is a choice only for the present; make no mistake that we'll know in the future if today you spoke the truth or not. I would dare hope that the consequences are worth it for you."

She stood up, walking towards the man who was clearly trying to intimidate her. The act seemed to be slightly scandalous for the other Elysians, who protested against it; she took no note of it as she stood in front of him, separated only by a few inches. "Thanks for your advice, my lord," she said. "But it's a strange one; one would think that if you had any problems with my words you'd be more than capable to address them. Unless, of course it's outside of your fate entirely to do so."

She turned back and saw that a few Arqan preceptors had been nervously watching their interaction from afar. She gestured at them to come closer, and as she caught more people's eyes, she pointed at the three men that were still in need of medical attention.

She felt a hand grabbing her by the arm, and was turned back towards Aegyr, who seemed none-too-pleased with her behaviour. "Speak the truth, are you from the empire?"

"I'm not," she said, her patience growing too thin for her to even take caution. "I've never been to it. Now, let me go."

He released her, making a gesture towards his subordinates. The five of them gathered in a group as the Arqan preceptors arrived to demand an explanation for what had happened. As other attendants and servants arrived to take care of the injured, she took Hyperion, and the both of them made a silent escape.

"Holding your own against Lord Scipio, princess, what a beautiful sight to see…" the merchant said once they were in the safety of his carriage. "It makes a sick man heal."

"Hopefully he will be too busy to be asking after me. Did you catch any of what was said about the Phrygians…?"

"Yes," Hyperion closed his eyes, and manoeuvred himself so that his head was resting on Ophelia's lap. "You don't mind, do you? All this commotion makes a man seek some simple comforts."

She sighed, but couldn't fault the man after his heroic rescue. "You did protect me against those men."

He looked up at her with a cheeky smile. "It's been a long time since I was that gallant. I'm quite proud of myself. Although, it is hard not to try and be a bit braver when you're around. You make the impossible possible, and that makes one feel a bit daring."

Ophelia chuckled, "that is the most genuine compliment you've given me so far. I'll take it."

The man closed his eyes, his smile easing into something that made him seem like he'd just been transported into heaven. Only the movement of the carriage would elicit some painful grimaces here and then.

"Do you think this will make things difficult for Phobos?" Ophelia asked.

"Hmm...Will it?"

"Well, the Elysians know now they orchestrated the whole thing to frame them. They might have even been the ones behind the murders of the Philistians. This is just going to turn public opinion against the rebel Phrygians."

"You'd be surprised, princess, of how little truth matters when politics are concerned. Even if they were to show their evidence in every public square in Arqa, those who hate them will continue to blame them."

"I thought Arqans didn't want to start a conflict with the Elysians."

"Arqan politicians don't want it. Their people, however…"

The carriage finally arrived at the palace gates. She'd never thought she'd experience a traffic jam in that world, yet she'd underestimated that in some aspects things changed very little. They hadn't been the only ones to try and seek refuge from the attack outside of the palace walls; they were certainly some of the first ones to leave.

As they went out, they witnessed the hungry, curious faces of the mob shout questions at them. Guards had been stationed to help ease their transition, but they were grossly outnumbered by those who were looking for news as to what happened inside the palace. She drew the curtains of the carriage shut, and closed her eyes.

It would be a long ride.