Chapter Text
“Minister Lyla.”
Lyla turns, stifling her surprise, to see a familiar face and an even more familiar smirk.
“Milo. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Do I need a reason to pay a visit to my favorite Saint?”
“Don’t let your master hear you say that.” Lyla rolls her eyes and turns back to her experiment. The gem of crystallized magic in front of her glows a deep, saturated purple. It is powerful, yes. But not yet powerful enough to blast through a stone wall, nor to move the corpse-like doll that is laid out beside her. Lyla ignores Milo, relishing the silence, until she can feel the other woman’s eyes narrow at her back.
“Fine. I’ve a report for you.”
“Concerning?”
“Medina Alliam.”
“Who?” Lyla blinks, but recalls quickly. “Ah, our star student. Has she done something inappropriate?”
“Worse. She ran away to join the Wolffort boy.”
Lyla stiffens. She turns to face Milo once again, but this time, with her full attention. “The Wolffort boy? Serenoa? That means— Milo, have you infiltrated Castle Wolffort!?”
“Yes.”
Lyla draws in a sharp breath. “That could be considered a sign of war! If Minister Idore knew what you’d done—“
“He was the one who commanded me to do it.”
Lyla blinks. “I— I see.”
Milo saunters over to a table and picks up a large, less refined but equally concentrated gem, nearly violet in color. She gazes into it. “What would happen, Minister Lyla, if I activated this right now?”
Lyla eyes her warily. “We would both be torn to bits in the resulting explosion. As would the patients in the next room, and all of my research. Idore would be furious.”
“Hm,” says Milo, and lifts it up higher. For one sharp second, Lyla’s hands twitch on her staff. She considers stopping Milo’s time and snatching the gem away before the dancer dooms them both. But Milo does not make any sharp moves; merely sets the stone down with the grace she puts into everything else.
“Wolffort’s army is strong. They may be few, but they are fearless and perceptive— both the hawk rider and the small woman in the shadows came perilously close to spotting me. In a way, I was lucky your Medina was there providing me with a distraction. I took the opportunity to break into Lord Serenoa’s office, and I’ve identified their next course of action. They plan to protect Roland against the entire Aesfrosti legion led by General Avlora.”
“They’ll be destroyed,” Lyla murmurs. She can’t stop a hint of sadness from sneaking into her voice. Medina was a wonderful girl. Young and bold and determined to help people— the way Lyla was once, herself. And now, to be caught in that castle alone amongst enemies, facing General Avlora…
“You never know,” says Milo. “The young lord seems to have a plan. His study contained a directory of supplies and a carefully annotated map of the town’s aqueducts. I’d wager he has a backup option, just in case the battle doesn’t go the way he wants. Oh, and Minister Lyla, you’ll never guess who else was there—“
This she knows. Lyla lifts her head high and interrupts. “Corentin.”
“—your old assistant, Coren— wait. You knew?”
“I suspected that was where he went.” It’s a pity, and all the more so that he’ll die by the morning. He and Medina— they have no hope against Aesfrost’s best. And even if they survive that, they have no hope against the weight of the world. They’ll end up like Lyla soon enough. Innovation shackled by the chains of greed and ambition— and blackmail. Or dead before they can make a change, like… like Plinius.
But what if things end up differently for them? What if she’s wrong— goddess above, she hopes she’s wrong; hopes fervently that Corentin and Medina end up on a different path.
For that matter, what if things had been different for her? What if Lyla had realized where she was headed and left it all like they had? What if Idore had let her? What if she’d stayed in that peaceful village where she’d left her— no, no, she can’t let herself think about what she’s lost; ignoring it is all she has left to keep herself from drowning.
“A coin for your thoughts, Minister?” Milo says, sultry tones dipping low as she sidles in beside Lyla.
Lyla shrugs the other woman off. “My thoughts are worth far more coin than you could ever spare,” Lyla retorts, working to keep herself as impartial on the surface as she can. “Leave, lapdog. Go back to your master.”
Lyla misses the flash of disappointment, and perhaps something else, that makes its brief debut on Milo’s face.
“If that is what you wish,” the dancer says, stepping away.
Lyla watches her go, but Milo turns just as she’s nearly through the door and her mouth to speak. She stands there, silent, for nearly half a minute, mouth opening and closing as she debates with herself. When she finally does speak, her voice has lost the seductive overtones Lyla is so familiar with.
“For the record, Minister Lyla, you weren’t the only one who knew them,” Milo says evenly, at a near whisper. “And I’m certain you aren’t the only one who hopes they’re still alright.”
Her steps fall silent amidst the fountains and stone as she leaves.