The morning after the confrontation, a new and unfamiliar quiet settled over Common's estate. The air, usually buzzing with the industry of merchants and the clatter of the Storm Brigade, was still. In the main hall, Common and Serala Rogare shared a breakfast that was a study in contrasts.
Common ate with a focused energy, his mind already plotting the day's political maneuvers. Serala, meanwhile, picked at her food with an elegant detachment. Her violet eyes, when they weren't staring into the middle distance, would occasionally flicker with an intensity that had nothing to do with the present company.
"Where is your mistress?" Serala inquired suddenly, her voice as cool and clear as a mountain stream. She glanced around the table as if noticing the absence for the first time. "The one with the Swan name. Does she not break her fast with you?"
Common paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He had expected many things from his betrothed, but not this direct, almost clinical, curiosity about his concubine. "Johanna? She takes her meals in her own chambers. It is… simpler."
Serala considered this for a moment, then gave a slight, dismissive nod. "You need not make special gestures on my account. As long as you do not disturb my research on fire magic, you may indulge in as many mistresses as you desire." She took a sip of water. "In truth, their presence is irrelevant to me."
Common was momentarily at a loss for words. This was not the jealous rage or sullen silence he had been prepared to navigate. It was a declaration of utter indifference, which was in its own way more disconcerting.
Noticing his silence, Serala pressed her lips together. She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for a difficult alchemical experiment. "Rest assured," she said, her tone shifting to one of utmost seriousness, "once we are wed, I will carve out time to bear you offspring. I promise you this."
Common nearly choked. She made it sound like a tedious but necessary item on a list of chores: acquire reagents, transcribe scroll, produce heir.
He set his bread down, choosing his words carefully. "All right, then. One every two years. Shall that suffice?"
Serala's beautiful brows furrowed in genuine calculation. She weighed the time commitment against the political necessity, the drain on her research against the security of the alliance. After a long moment, she gave a resolved nod. "Very well. It is acceptable. My brother has impressed upon me that the Rogare family still requires your support, and that you will be my reliance in the future. I shall heed your wishes in this."
"What else did Sanorio say to you?" Common asked, his curiosity genuinely piqued by this strange, transactional woman.
"He also mentioned that I ought to bear more sons," she replied, her voice flat. "The more sons, the more secure my position will be. It seems a logical, if biologically cumbersome, strategy."
Common could only purse his lips in response. In the world of feudal politics, her brother's advice was brutally sound. Yet, hearing it stated with such detached logic was utterly surreal.
It was then that he decided to take the initiative. He was dealing not with a traditional noblewoman, but with a scholar, a mage. He would speak her language.
"Your research on fire magic," he began, leaning forward slightly. "It fascinates me. Tell me more."
The effect was instantaneous. Serala's entire being transformed. The aloofness melted away, replaced by a vibrant, almost feverish energy. Her violet eyes locked onto his, sparkling with an inner light.
"You have an interest in the higher mysteries?" she asked, her voice gaining a new, animated timbre. "It is not as ethereal as my brother claims! The power is there, waiting in the air, in the blood, in the deep bones of the world. One must only learn to speak the words of ignition."
Before he could respond, she excitedly grasped the knife beside her plate. "My research has made progress. Let me prove it to you."
She closed her hands around the hilt, her knuckles white, and began to recite an arcane incantation. The syllables were guttural and ancient, twisting in the air. Silence descended, heavy and profound. Nothing happened.
A faint blush of embarrassment colored Serala's pale cheeks. "The phonetics are… precise," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
"Try again," Common encouraged, displaying a patience he rarely showed his merchants or soldiers.
Undeterred, she took a steadying breath and repeated the spell, her concentration absolute. For a second, nothing. Then, with a sudden whoosh, the steel of the knife erupted in flame. It did not glow; it burned like oil-soaked cloth, a brilliant, hungry fire.
Serala gasped, more in surprise than fear, and dropped the blazing knife onto the linen tablecloth. Instantly, the fabric caught fire. The conflagration was sudden and alarming.
Hisss-BOOM!
From his perch by the window, Igoras let out a roar of pure, unadulterated excitement. The young dragon, drawn by the sudden flare, scrambled toward the table, his tail lashing wildly and knocking over a chair.
The hall erupted into chaos. Guards rushed in, their eyes wide at the sight of their master's table on fire. Shouts for water and sand filled the air. It took several frantic minutes and a ruined tablecloth to douse the magical flames.
When order was restored, Common looked at the charred, blackened ruin of his breakfast table. He then looked at Serala, who now stood with her hands clasped primly over her abdomen, the picture of contrite dignity, the ghost of a satisfied smile on her lips.
"I apologize," she said, her voice returning to its usual cool tone. "I shall have Lysandro replace the table for you."
Common could only pinch the bridge of his nose in resignation. "No need," he waved dismissively. "It is merely a table." He managed a wry smile. "Your magic, however… is truly remarkable."
For the first time, he saw a genuine, uncalculated smile touch Serala's lips. It transformed her face from merely beautiful to radiant. In that moment, Common understood their alliance perfectly. He would give her the resources and freedom to pursue her arcane passions, and she would give him the legitimacy and heirs he needed. It was a cold contract, but for the first time, he saw a flicker of something warmer within it—a shared, burning curiosity for the impossible.