Part I: The Greyoaks' Estate
Dusk had bled into a deep, star-pricked night by the time the five of them were escorted into a private sitting room within the Greyoak manor. Alistair and Helena were waiting, seated on a plush velvet sofa. While Helena beamed at their arrival, Alistair was slumped, staring into a goblet of wine with a thunderous expression. Servants silently entered, placing trays of tea and delicate pastries on the table before vanishing.
Lyra and Faelan took seats across from their hosts, while Ingrid, Arthur, and Brimor settled on adjacent chairs.
"Ali, are you so unhappy to see us?" Faelan teased, trying to break the heavy mood.
Alistair looked up, his face a mask of weary frustration. "It's the nobles, Fae. The damn peacocks."
"They wounded his pride at the reception this afternoon," Helena intervened, rubbing her husband's back with a soothing motion. "Goaded him about the Greyoak legacy, the cost of the tournament… all the usual nonsense. So, in a fit of drunken one-upmanship, my dear husband vowed to pay for all of their party's lodgings for the week. And then he invited them all to camp on the estate."
"Poor lad," Lyra said, her voice dripping with a sarcasm that was lost on no one.
Alistair waved a dismissive hand. "That's our headache. Did you meet with Elias?"
Faelan nodded, producing the copies of the sketch from his coat. He laid one on the table. "This is the woman we're hunting."
Lyra, Brimor, and Alistair each picked up a copy, their expressions hardening as they studied the face of the savage warrior. The amusement, the frustration—it all evaporated, replaced by the cold, analytical gaze of the hunt.
"At least now our ghost has a face," Lyra said, her voice a low growl.
Helena, ever the gracious host, tried to steer the mood away from the grim reality. Her gentle eyes fell on Ingrid. "You must be Ingrid. Faelan has told us so much. I must say, you are even more beautiful than he described."
"Thank you," Ingrid replied softly. Helena's gaze then shifted to the quiet, dark-haired boy beside her.
"And you are?"
"My brother, Arthur," Lyra answered before he could. The name landed with a quiet thud. Alistair and Helena's eyes widened in shock, their glances darting between Lyra's crimson hair and Arthur's jet black. Lyra read their confusion. "A magical disguise. For his protection."
Helena let out a relieved sigh, followed by a nervous laugh. "Oh, of course! For a moment I thought… well, this house is free of judgment, in any case."
As the group began to pick at the food—a lavish spread of honey-glazed quail, savory meat pies, and sweet wine-poached pears—Alistair, having set aside his earlier anger, turned to Lyra. "So, what's the plan now that you have the sketch?"
"A plan requires a strategist, and ours is back at the Guild," Lyra replied, referencing Maeve. "Besides, having a face and knowing where to point it are two different things. This woman could be anywhere. Finding her could take months. Years."
"I was thinking we start in Bluemoth," Faelan interjected.
Lyra nodded. "I was thinking the same. The walls of that city must hold secrets."
"So you'll be leaving soon?" Helena asked.
"Not immediately," Faelan replied. "I need to get rid of this rust. The army is no substitute for hunting proper beasts. And," he glanced at Ingrid, "I have a promise to keep. I need to help Ingrid prepare for the tournament."
"Oh, you're participating!" Alistair exclaimed, his mood brightening considerably. "Excellent! We'll be sure to watch."
"I also need to ready Arthur," Lyra added, her gaze softening as she looked at her brother. "He needs to be able to survive on his own." She and Faelan shared a look, then turned back to their hosts. "Alistair, Helena… there is something we wanted to ask of you."
"Anything," Alistair replied earnestly.
"We want you to be Ingrid's sponsor for the tournament," Faelan said. "An unconditional contract. No strings attached."
Ingrid's head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief. She knew what they were asking. It was a gift of unimaginable value.
"Absolutely," Helena said without a moment's hesitation.
Alistair's weary face broke into a scheming, gleeful grin. The pieces were clicking into place in his mind. "Excellent!" he exclaimed, his voice full of a sudden, competitive fire. "Oh, the other houses will be furious! Our patronage will drive up the prestige, force them to look for their own champions… This is perfect!"
He had just found a way to turn this tedious noble posturing into a game he could actually win.
Helena, her smile as warm and bright as the hearth-fire, stood "Arthur, Ingrid, why don't you let me show you the grounds? Brimor, you'll join us?" The three of them nodded affirmatively.
The same guard who had once barred Faelan from entry now bowed low, showing them the way. Helena led them first to the stables, a magnificent building of stone and dark timber that smelled of fresh hay and expensive leather. At the sight of the horses, a flicker of the old light returned to Arthur's eyes.
"Do you two know how to ride?" Helena asked, her voice gentle.
"No, my lady," Ingrid replied softly.
Arthur didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on a snow-white mare with a proud bearing, the same breed and color as his lost Aethon.
Arthur didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on a snow-white mare with a proud bearing, the same breed and color as his lost Aethon.
"That one's spirited, but she seems to like you," Helena observed. "Want to take a ride?" Before Arthur could second-guess himself, a stable hand had the mare saddled. Helena gave him a reassuring nod.
The moment Arthur was on the horse, a change came over him. His posture, once hunched with grief, straightened. His hands, which had trembled in Pip's shop, took the reins with a calm, familiar confidence. He urged the horse into a gentle trot, then a canter, his proficiency on full display. For the first time since the coup, a genuine, unburdened smile touched his lips as the wind whipped through his new, dark hair.
Helena watched him, her own smile touched with a deep, maternal warmth. She turned to Ingrid. "If you wish to learn, I can lend you a gentler mount. It could be a part of your training."
"You've all been so kind," Ingrid said earnestly. "Thank you."
Helena simply smiled, her eyes still locked on the sight of Arthur, a boy finally allowed a moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.
Part II: Time is of the essence
Back in the sitting room, the atmosphere was far heavier. Tea had been served, but it sat untouched.
"So," Lyra began, her voice low and serious. "The reception. What are the other nobles saying about the coup?"
Alistair sighed, the earlier frustration returning to his face. "They're agitated. Not out of any love for your father, but out of fear. A common-born commander replacing a noble king… it sets a dangerous precedent. They're muttering about taking the matter of Vorlag's ascension to the Confederacy Parliament, hoping to place a more palatable dynasty on the throne."
"Were any of the Magellan houses present?" Faelan intervened.
"Surprisingly, no," Alistair replied. "I imagine they're keeping their heads down until they see which way the wind is blowing. They'll likely surface closer to the tournament."
Lyra met Alistair's gaze across the table, a silent question in her eyes. Alistair gave a wry, knowing smile. "Don't look at me like that, Lyra. We've shared too many beds for me not to know what you're thinking. You wouldn't have brought your brother here if you weren't planning to plant a seed of doubt in Vorlag's legitimacy."
He leaned forward, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by the sharp mind of a politician. "But I don't think it will be enough. Let's look at the facts. Vorlag has the army. Arthur is a boy with no backing, no funds, and no popular support. To even start a motion against Vorlag in the Parliament requires a two-thirds vote. The bloc of nobles from the Magellan Empire makes up twenty percent of the Parliament's total votes—the largest share of any single kingdom. Vorlag now controls that entire bloc. He only needs to buy or bully another fourteen percent to kill any motion against him."
Lyra and Faelan absorbed the blunt, grim assessment. It was Faelan who looked at Lyra, a new, desperate idea dawning in his eyes. "Then we know what we must do."
Alistair looked between them, confounded. "What?"
"We have to rescue Tybalt," Lyra stated.
"Tybalt's alive?" Alistair was stunned. "I thought he was already dead"
"He was taken," Lyra confirmed. "If he's still alive…"
"Yes," Alistair breathed, the strategic implications hitting him at once. "Yes, that could work. The nobles know Tybalt. They respect him. He represented the royal family at the Parliament for years. His word would give them the courage to stand against Vorlag."
Alistair looked up from his wine, his mind clearly working through the political angles, a deep furrow in his brow.
"But keeping him alive… it makes no sense tactically," he mused, more to himself than anyone. "Vorlag could have executed him immediately. Blame the entire coup on the 'traitorous' Lord Tybalt. It would have cemented his image as the kingdom's savior. Why keep such a dangerous piece on the board?"
Lyra's expression was grim, her voice low and laced with a cold, ancient knowledge. "Because Vorlag isn't thinking about public sympathy right now. He's thinking about the Royal Treasury."
She let that sink in before continuing. "He thinks Tybalt is the key to opening it."
"And he's not?"Alistair asked.
Lyra shook her head. "The Treasury is sealed with old Elven blood-wards. It doesn't respond to a brother's blood, only to the blood of a living king…" she paused, "...or his true heir."
"I see," Alistair said, a new, chilling understanding on his face. Arthur was the key. Which made Tybalt, the false key, utterly expendable the moment Vorlag discovered the truth.
"Time is of the essence," Alistair warned. "Vorlag won't keep him alive forever."
He leaned forward, his mind now racing. "How do we do it?"
"I can't go into Bluemoth. I'm too well-known," Lyra said. "I'll have to send Maeve and the twins in first to gather intelligence. Information has been a trickle since the coup." She looked at Faelan. "Once we have his location, I'll need your sword."
"Just give the order," Faelan replied, his voice a grim promise.
Lyra stood. "We should leave." She looked at Faelan. "Be at the Guild first thing in the morning. Maeve and the twins leave at dawn. You'll join them."
"One more thing," Alistair said, his tone authoritative. "There is a grand ceremony here in ten days. I want you and Faelan to attend."
Ali, you know how we feel about those events," Faelan groaned.
"This isn't for your enjoyment," Alistair retorted. "If you manage to rescue Tybalt, it's the perfect stage to reveal him to the other nobles and rally them. If you fail… it's a chance for you to scout for allies yourselves. To see which houses might be turned to Arthur's cause when the time comes to let that seed of his survival bloom."
Lyra met his gaze and nodded. "We'll be there. Thank you, Ali… for everything."
As Lyra and Brimor prepared to leave, Helena returned with the two children, their faces flushed with the evening chill and a newfound excitement.
"You're leaving already?" Helena asked Lyra, a genuine, pleading disappointment in her voice. "I was hoping you would stay the night."
I wish I could," Lyra replied earnestly. "But there's work to be done."
Helena pouted. "Too sad. But visit more often. We suffer withdrawal symptoms from your absence."
Lyra smiled. "I will."
Brimor stood by, stoic as ever, but the easy, intimate conversation confounded Arthur and Ingrid. They watched, oblivious, as Alistair and Faelan followed Lyra to the door.
The group departed, leaving Faelan once more in the warm, complicated, and comforting sanctuary of the Greyoak manor.
Part III: Lovers in arms
Once the others had departed, a comfortable quiet settled over the manor. Faelan, Alistair, and Helena made their way back to the master bedroom, the heavy burdens of the day finally set aside. Helena turned to Faelan, her fingers already working at the laces of his tunic as he began to unfasten her gown. Alistair, ever the thoughtful host, had gone to fetch a pitcher of water for the night.
"So," Helena murmured, her lips brushing against his collarbone, "you leave for Bluemoth in the morning?"
"It seems so," Faelan replied, his own lips tracing the line of her neck.
She pulled back slightly, a flicker of genuine worry in her eyes. "I know you are more than capable, my love… but Bluemoth is a viper's nest now. Be careful."
Before he could answer, she pushed him gently onto the bed, her mouth finding him with a familiar, practiced heat. Her saliva was a warm, slick coat as her tongue began its slow, wet path, her hair a cascade of gold over his thighs.
Just then, Alistair returned, placing the water pitcher on a nightstand. He looked at the scene, a soft, fond smile on his face. "Oh, you've started the party without me." He shed his own robe and slid onto the bed, his body fitting perfectly against Helena's back. As he lodged himself inside her, she let out a soft moan, her mouth never breaking its rhythm.
The three of them moved together, a familiar dance of shared pleasure. Alistair leaned forward, his face close to Faelan's, their breaths mingling.
"Fae," he whispered, his voice a low murmur between thrusts. "A thought… I didn't want to say it in front of Lyra."
Faelan met his gaze, kissing him softly. "What is it?"
"Arthur," Alistair replied, his hips moving in sync with his wife's ministrations. "I believe he should also participate in the tournament."
"Why?" Faelan asked, his fingers tangling in Helena's hair, guiding her with a firm, familiar pressure.
"Think long-term," Alistair explained, his politician's mind never truly at rest. "If the rescue mission fails, Arthur will have no one to rally the nobles. But at the University of Lumina… he could build his own network. Forge his own alliances with the sons and daughters of the great houses." He paused, his thrusts deepening as Helena gagged softly, her eyes fluttering. "And besides… he and the girl, Ingrid. They could be a support for each other there. A familiar face in a strange new world."
Faelan raised Helena's head for a moment, giving her a deep, wet kiss before letting her return to her task. "Your logic is sound, Ali. But that's a conversation for Lyra, after the rescue."
For the first time, Helena pulled away on her own, a look of fond exasperation on her face. "You two," she sighed, her voice slightly hoarse. "Always plotting. Can't you let them be children for one night? They've earned at least that much."
Both men smiled at her, a shared look of affection for her caring heart. Faelan kissed her again, while Alistair pressed a trail of kisses up the back of her neck.
"What?" she asked, her gaze on Faelan.
"Nothing," he smiled, before whispering, "Want to change positions?"
Her eyes glinted with a seductive light. "Who with whom?"
Faelan gave her one last, deep kiss. "Ali takes your place. I take his. You take mine."
The shift was a fluid, practiced motion. Alistair's tongue found his wife's clit as she leaned back against the headboard, her fingers threading through his hair. Helena's lips locked with Faelan's in a passionate kiss as he, in turn, entered Alistair from behind, his thrusts drawing low, pleased moans from his old friend.
The world outside, with its conspiracies and ghosts, ceased to exist. For the next hour, there was only the heat of the bed, the comfort of familiar bodies, and the shared, gasping breaths that marked their climb. It was a dance of slick skin and tangled limbs, a conversation spoken in sighs and the press of lips to flesh, ending not with a crash, but with a slow, shuddering release for all three—a shared descent into a warm, sweat-slicked peace. Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms, a tangle of contentment.