Revival [ Kingdom-building]

For perhaps the first time in living memory, the sea itself seemed to answer a single invitation.

From the northern ports of Morevethal, from the cultured harbors of Toscana, from the gray stone quays of Northvale, and from the windswept walls of Eastwatch, noble vessels unfurled their sails beneath the colors of ancient houses. Merchant captains gave way to heraldic banners, while dockworkers paused long enough to wonder why so many of the kingdom’s greatest women were suddenly traveling toward the same distant shore.

The destination surprised everyone.

Not the royal capital.

Not one of the great duchies.

Avalon.

Only a year earlier, few outside the southern marches would have considered the old house worthy of such attention. Avalon had always been respected, always honorable, and always ancient, yet it had remained comfortably distant from the games played by dukes and princes.

Every port was suddenly full of stories.

Roads had become the passion of Avalon not only at the levy station but it seems in the south as well.

Rumors of glass, the like of which was more transparent than still water.

Workshops turning out more than it had been thought humanly possible to produce in bulk.

A whisper of a manor, stretching up from where manors ought not to have been possible to build.

Every single seaside tavern was telling some variety of miracle tales.

The amazing thing that every single one of these traveling vendors maintained was that, in fact, it was completely true, and maybe underpraise it.

The invitations had only deepened the mystery.

They had arrived wrapped in polished blue paper sealed with white wax bearing the ancient tower of House Avalon, and inside rested not only the invitation to the Matrons’ Council but also an exquisitely detailed watercolor unlike anything most recipients had ever seen.

That painting became almost as famous as the invitation itself.

Every noble household admired it.

Every artist studied it.

Every collector quietly wondered whether Avalon intended to commission more.

None yet realized that no two paintings were exactly alike.

…

The royal vessel Crown of Morning cut cleanly through the calm northern waters, its three white sails carrying the colors of House Morevethal high above the sea. Bronze fittings gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, while polished railings reflected the movement of waves below.

Princess Celestine Aurelia Haldrith stood at the bow with one gloved hand resting lightly upon the carved railing.

At seventeen, she carried herself with the confidence expected of one of the kingdom’s three princesses. Although she stood well outside the direct line of succession, nearly every noble family still measured their manners carefully in her presence.

Behind her approached Dowager Duchess Priscilla Morevethal.

Time had silvered the older woman’s hair but had failed to diminish either her posture or her reputation. She had advised two kings, outlived one husband and three political rivals, and remained one of the sharpest minds in the northern court.

“You’ve been studying the horizon,” Priscilla observed.

“I’ve been examining my expectations.”

“And you changed yours?”

“They have only multiplied.” Frustration was clear in her voice.

Priscilla smiled faintly.

“The South has become remarkably fashionable.”

“So everyone is telling me.”

Celestine turned toward her grandmother.

“I have spent the last month listening to nobles praise Avalon as though civilization itself has suddenly migrated south.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think enthusiasm spreads faster than reason.”

The Dowager Duchess nodded approvingly.

“A cautious answer.”

“It is the only honest one.”

She reached into the leather portfolio tucked beneath one arm and carefully removed her invitation.

The watercolor remained every bit as beautiful as when she had first unfolded it.

It depicted an elegant white bridge arching gracefully across a broad river lined with flowering trees. Beyond the bridge rose terraces of pale limestone crowned by towers and gardens, while lanterns reflected upon perfectly still water beneath a crimson sunset.

It looked less like a painting of reality than an artist’s dream.

“I still believe it impossible,” Celestine admitted.

Priscilla accepted the invitation and studied it once again.

“It is certainly ambitious.”

“No city in the South resembles this.”

“Not presently.”

“Nor could a noble estate.”

Priscilla folded the invitation carefully before returning it.

“The painting makes no claim.”

“It implies enough.”

Celestine looked toward the sea once more.

“I will reserve judgment until I see Avalon with my own eyes.”

Her grandmother’s smile broadened.

“That is why you will someday become a remarkable stateswoman.”

“Because I doubt artists?”

“No.”

“Because you doubt yourself before you doubt everyone else.”

The princess laughed quietly.

“I shall try not to ruin that reputation before we arrive.”

…

Farther down the coast, another vessel sailed beneath banners of deep emerald and gold.

Unlike the royal ship, the Silver Lark seemed almost alive.

Musicians rested their fingers under a canvas embroidered with flowers at the stern, serenading the afternoon with lulling strains, while the painters arranged their easels on the deck-rail, the canvases taking on all the shifting colours of the sea. Stewards passed with such elegance in and out of little decorative pots scattered on the decks, that you almost imagined that a garden, unanchored, had drifted out to sea.

Lady Isolde Bellacor leaned over the railing with unconcealed delight.

“I had forgotten how beautiful the sea becomes once spring truly arrives.”

Lady Marcella Bellacor, her mother, smiled without looking up from her correspondence.

“You say that on every voyage.”

“Because every voyage proves it true.”

Across the deck, thirteen-year-old Lady Talia Bellacor chased a gull until both her mother and three servants ordered her to stop at precisely the same moment.

She obeyed just long enough to avoid immediate scolding.

“Mother,” Talia announced, “I have solved the mystery.”

Marcella sighed.

“I suspect I shall regret asking.”

“Each invitation is different. When I wrote to Lady Lisette to thank her for the invitation, she told me more about the place we are going and hinted at a secret in the invitation.”

Isolde looked up immediately.

“What do you mean?”

Talia hurried back, carrying two folded invitations.

“Look.”

She spread them across the table.

The first showed a magnificent terraced garden overflowing with roses, surrounding an elegant fountain carved in white limestone.

The second depicted a broad harbor crowded with graceful river barges while children played beside crystal-clear water.

“They aren’t the same,” Isolde whispered.

Marcella accepted both invitations.

For the first time since receiving them, genuine surprise crossed her face.

“They truly are different.”

“I told you.”

“I assumed another artist had simply painted mine.”

“So would I.”

Talia folded her arms triumphantly. “I am brilliant…occasionally!”

“Very occasionally.”

That earned the expected laugh.

Isolde studied both paintings again.

“If every invitation is different… then what if they all show real places?”

Marcella considered the question.

“That would require Avalon to possess an extraordinary number of beautiful locations.”

“It might.”

“It might also require an extraordinary number of talented painters.”

Isolde smiled.

“I hope both are true.”

“I hope the gardens are.”

Talia leaned closer.

“I hope the fairies are.”

Marcella closed her eyes. “We have discussed this.”

“They’re real.”

“Even Lady Lisette writes about them.”

“So the stories claim.”

Talia looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“You’re going to apologize after you meet one.”

Marcella chose not to answer.

Experience had taught her that arguing with determined thirteen-year-olds rarely benefited anyone.

Much farther north, where rocky cliffs gave way to deep natural harbors, the vessel carrying House Senecor sailed with considerably less music and considerably more books.

Lady Genevieve Senecor sat beside an open table covered with journals, maps, and copied passages from ancient texts.

Across from her, her younger cousin Lady Clara Senecor patiently attempted to read while the sea insisted upon moving every line.

Dowager Lady Elsbeth Senecor looked upon both girls with quiet satisfaction. “You’ve packed enough books to establish a monastery.”

Genevieve never looked up. “I wasn’t certain which questions Avalon might answer.”

“And you expect books to help?”

“I expect preparation to help.”

Clara smiled.

“Genevieve believes every mystery has already been written down somewhere.”

“Most have.”

“Even Avalon?”

Genevieve paused.

“No.”

“That is precisely why I am interested.”

One of the accompanying priests approached, carrying several sealed letters.

“Lady Genevieve.”

“Yes, Brother Matthias?”

“The invitations.”

She accepted the small bundle.

“Our copies arrived from the other northern houses.”

Clara frowned.

“Copies?”

“So we could compare them.”

Genevieve opened the first.

Then another.

Then another.

Her calm expression slowly changed.

“They’re all different.”

Her grandmother Elsbeth looked over.

“What is?”

“The paintings.”

She arranged six invitations side by side across the table.

Each depicted Avalon.

None depicted the same scene.

One showed an immense, sun-filled library.

Another portrayed a quiet lakeshore beneath glowing lanterns.

A third captured towering white arches carrying water across rolling hills.

The priest adjusted his spectacles.

“I had assumed ours represented the common invitation.”

“So had I,” Genevieve admitted.

Clara leaned forward.

“Do you think they’re real?”

Genevieve answered slowly. “I think…someone wanted each guest to expect something different.”

Elsbeth watched the young women studying the paintings.

She already possessed theories of her own.

Those theories would remain private.

For now.

By sunset, four great vessels had independently reached the same conclusion.

Every invitation carried a different painting.

Every painting appeared to depict Avalon.

None of them knew whether any of them reflected reality.

Some believed they represented artistic imagination.

Others suspected deliberate symbolism.

Princess Celestine regarded the paintings as elegant exaggeration.

Lady Isolde desperately hoped every one of them proved true.

Genevieve wondered whether the paintings themselves concealed a message.

Young Talia simply wanted to know which garden contained the fairies.

Far beyond the horizon, where the sea narrowed toward the south, Avalon waited.

The invitations had already accomplished something remarkable.

Before a single guest had arrived…they had given every traveler a different vision of the same destination.

…

That evening word was on the air like wind, dispatch boxes bursting with reports and rumors that jumped from cabin to cabin, deck to deck, pushed by maids who tried not to gossip, guards who feigned not to hear, ladies whose astonishment seemed flawlessly concealed. Before the morning faded, every ship bound for Litus Solis sailed with its corresponding billet of summons, every house assessing the wares Avalon deigned to show in display, and deepening still all the enigmas

The royal invitation showed the impossible bridge beneath a crimson sky.

The Toscana invitation showed gardens overflowing with roses and water.

The Northvale invitation showed a lakeside library lit by lanterns.

The House Senecor had received a different image entirely, one of a quiet white chapel beside a pool so still that stars seemed to rest upon the water.

No one could agree whether the paintings were promises, symbols, or the work of an artist with a dangerous fondness for exaggeration.

…

Princess Celestine Aurelia Haldrith

Each possibility flitted across her mind’s eye. Princess Celestine Aurelia Haldrith stood under the dappled shadows cast by the Crown of Morning and surveyed the coast fading to a hazy blue on the horizon behind them. At her elbow, Dowager Duchess Priscilla Morevethal regarded a little bundle of hand-me-down cards with a sort of quiet diligence- a preference for facts over frivolity.

Lady Sabina Haldrith, Celestine’s companion and distant cousin, leaned closer than etiquette required.

“The Toscana painting is prettier.”

Celestine did not look up. “That is hardly a proper basis for judgment.”

“It has roses.”

“That remains an even poorer basis.”

“It also has fountains.”

Celestine turned one invitation slightly, allowing the light to catch the painted water. The tiny brushstrokes were exquisite. Whoever had created the image understood reflection, depth, and the difficult color of stone warmed by the afternoon sun.

“It is beautifully made,” Celestine admitted.

Sabina brightened. “Then you agree with me.”

“I agree that the artist is talented.”

“That is almost the same thing.”

“It is not the same thing at all.”

Priscilla watched the exchange with concealed amusement.

The Dowager Duchess had made no comment of her own about the invitations; she had merely asked questions, been answered, and requested a copying of each painting into her diary in miniature; which had seemed enough to Celestine that she thought there was something in them. 'And what about you,' asked Priscilla 'most vexed you?'

'The intention.'

'Not the beauty?'

'The beauty, is often the intention of such folk who really mean business of nothing.'

Priscilla’s expression sharpened with approval.

“And yet?”

“And yet these paintings are too specific.”

Celestine arranged the invitations across the table.

“It seems different houses received different views. The royal house received a bridge. Toscana received gardens. Northvale received a library. The priests received a chapel. If this is flattery, it has been aimed with care.”

Sabina tapped the painting of the garden.

“Perhaps Avalon simply wants everyone to feel uniquely greeted.”

Celestine looked at her.

“That is the sort of answer people give when they wish politics would behave like nursery stories.”

Sabina sighed. “You could have simply said no.”

“I could have.”

Priscilla set down her teacup. “Do you believe the paintings are false?”

Celestine studied the bridge again. “No.”

The answer surprised Sabina.

Celestine continued before either woman interrupted.

“I do not believe they are true either. Not yet. The South has always wrapped ambition in dust and poetry, but Avalon has become too frequently discussed by too many unrelated witnesses to dismiss entirely.”

“So you are becoming open-minded,” Sabina said.

“I am reserving judgment.”

“That sounds colder.”

“It is safer.”

Priscilla smiled.

“Then we shall allow Avalon the courtesy of being judged upon our arrival.”

Celestine folded the invitations carefully and returned them to their protective sleeves.

“Yes,” she said. “We shall see whether the South has painted dreams, decorations, or evidence.”

The wind shifted above them, pulling the sails taut with a low groan. Somewhere ahead, beyond the horizon, the sea road bent toward the southern city of Litus Solis.

Celestine looked south and told herself that curiosity was not the same as anticipation.

She was not entirely certain she believed herself.

Far behind the royal vessel, a lean ship bearing the gray and bronze colors of Eastwatch cut across the waves with the practical confidence of a blade drawn from its sheath.

The Iron Gull was not beautiful in the Toscana sense, nor elegant in the royal sense, but it moved with purpose. Clean lines from fore to stern,rigging in order,and a crew so drilled that theLadies ofqualityon board seemed to be more like military in nature than in celebration..

Lady Maerwyn Ravellius of Eastwatch planted a hand on the worn salt-stained timber of the forward rail. The sixteen-year-old looked as if she’d grown up in coastal ports, with armed men striding past all day and all night and men who said ‘weather and battle’ with equal intensity.

Her guardian accompanied her, her aunt, Lady Octavia Ravellius, who, as a widow, had already abandoned the frivolities of fashion, as though it had been out of fashion the previous day. It seemed that a dark traveling gown had been both simply enough and well enough designed to impress.

"You’re scowling at the sea," Octavia remarked. "I’m wondering if the invitation was a lie. That’s an awfully dark thing to suggest of that quality of stationery."

Maerwyn’s gaze flickered up to his aunt.

“You have taught me that stationery has a worse reputation than sailors for falsehood.”

“Sailors lie constantly.”

“Usually with less elegance.”

Octavia’s mouth twitched.

The Eastwatch invitation lay open upon a nearby chest. Its painting showed a white road crossing a green valley between tall lantern posts, with drainage channels, stone markers, and a procession of wagons moving in perfect order toward a distant hilltop manor.

To others, the image might have seemed charming.

To Maerwyn, it was alarming.

“That road is impossible,” she said.

Octavia followed her gaze.

“Because it is too beautiful?”

“Because it is too useful.”

“That is an unusual complaint.”

“The stones are graded. The ditch lines are correct. The wagons are spaced properly. Even the marker posts make sense.”

Octavia looked more closely.

“You noticed all that from a painting?”

“Whoever painted it understood roads, or whoever described it did.”

“That troubles you?”

“It interests me.”

“That is the same expression you use when something troubles you.”

Maerwyn folded her arms.

“The roads in our lands are mud six months of the year. We spend months having engineers fight over where culverts go, which bridge foundations can support them, and how high the grade should be. If there’s a real road like that somewhere under those hills at Avalon, then they either discovered a lost art, or somebody in that family is a lot more sensible than what we heard.”

Octavia studied her niece carefully. “You expected foolishness.”

“I expected vanity.”

“Because the invitation was beautiful.”

“Because every rumor is beautiful.”

The older woman did not answer at once.

Lady Octavia had her own set of questions, of course; like the other matrons who made up her contingent and indeed all the traveling mothers bound for Avalon. There were a lot of questions. Questions about southern approaches and supply chains, military logistics, and whether an old house that was unambiguous and dependable could shift so quickly before being noticed. Such questions were discreetly nestled into the amiable features of an aunt accompanying her niece to a meeting.

Maerwyn suspected some of them.

She knew better than to ask too early.

“What have you heard of the Avalon sons?” Octavia asked.

“The heir is absent.”

“A disappointment?”

“For many, perhaps.”

“For you?”

“I would rather inspect the road.”

Octavia laughed.

“Your mother would despair with that comment.”

“My mother despairs almost on schedule.”

“And the second son?”

Maerwyn looked back at the painted road.

“The Soulbound one.”

“Yes.”

“I have heard he is clever, fragile, polite, and doomed within three years.”

"That is a vilely cutting and candid profile."

“It is the summary that people keep offering.”

“What do you think?”

“I think clever people are rarely as fragile as their enemies imagine or prefer.”

Octavia’s smile faded into something more thoughtful.

“That is worth remembering.”

Maerwyn touched the edge of the invitation.

“If this road actually exists, then someone in Avalon thinks like a quartermaster. If that someone is the second son, then people are dismissing him to earliy.”

The ship crested a swell, and for a brief moment the horizon opened wide before them.

Maerwyn watched it without speaking.

She had no affection for southern exaggeration, no patience for ornamental politics, and very little interest in young lords described more often by tragedy than accomplishment.

Yet the road in the painting bothered her.

Not because it was lovely.

Because it was correct.

By late afternoon, the sea lanes had drawn the first vessels close enough for banners to be recognized without spyglasses.

The Silver Lark of Toscana had fallen into step with the royal flagship at a considerably decreased clip, its musicians briefly mute with the thrill of this proximity. Talia Bellacor was at the ship’s rail, her greeting to it somewhat too effervescent, until her mother pulled her back from the edge with one slender hand.

“You do not wave at a royal vessel as though greeting fishermen,” Lady Marcella Bellacor said.

“I was not waving at fishermen.”

“That observation does not improve the manners.”

Talia lowered her hand with theatrical dignity. “I was waving in a refined manner.”

Isolde laughed behind her fan. “It was a very enthusiastic refinement.”

Talia accepted that as a compliment.

On the royal vessel, Sabina waved back when she thought Celestine was not looking.

Celestine saw, of course, but decided mercy was sometimes less tiresome than correction.

Before long, their respective captains signaled an intended visit in formal ceremony with flags and horns and more superfluous grandeur than even the nobles would deem strictly necessary. The nobles were pleased to think of a voyage as suited to their strictures of propriety, but the crews all knew that it was only the sea that was obliging when she was inclined.

As evening descended the ships had eased their pace and lay near enough one another to perceive the smaller boats, that flitted between them carrying mail and entreaties and delicately selected libations. Princess did not go aboard the Toscana’s vessel, nor did Lady Isolde go so far as to insist on such an arrangement, but correspondence flowed quickly enough for communication through written word.

Talia found this intolerably slow.

“Why can we not simply visit?”

Marcella continued reading the royal reply.

“Because one does not simply visit a princess upon open water.”

“Why not?”

“Because rank exists.”

“Rank would still exist if I crossed in a boat.”

“It might not survive your arrival.”

Isolde covered her smile.

Talia leaned against the rail and watched the royal ship with bright interest.

“Do you think Princess Celestine has a different painting?”

“Yes,” Isolde said.

“What do you think hers shows?”

“Something grand.”

“Bigger than our garden?”

“Probably.”

Talia frowned.

“That seems unfair.”

Marcella looked up.

“Royalty often is.”

That comment earned a sharper glance from Isolde, but Marcella had already returned to the letter.

A moment later, she passed it to her daughters.

“The Princess confirms her invitation shows a bridge.”

Talia read the line twice.

“A bridge?”

Isolde leaned closer.

“A white bridge over a river, with terraces and lanterns beyond it.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

“Most bridges are beautiful when artists remove the mud,” Marcella said.

Talia ignored that entirely.

“What if all the paintings fit together?”

Isolde paused.

Marcella did as well.

Talia looked pleased with their silence.

“I mean it. What if the bridge, the gardens, the harbor, the library, the chapel, and the road are all parts of the same place?”

Isolde slowly lowered the letter.

“That would be astonishing.”

“It would be excessive,” Marcella replied.

“Perhaps Avalon has become excessive?” Talia asked.

The three Bellacor women turned toward the sea, where the royal vessel moved in stately silence beneath the lowering sun.

For once, Marcella did not correct her daughter.

Farther north, aboard the Senecor vessel, Genevieve had reached the same possibility by a much less direct path and with far more notes.

She had arranged copies of the paintings’ descriptions in a careful pattern across her desk. At the same time,e Clara watched with the patience of someone who loved her cousin enough to endure scholarly obsession at close range.

“The road could lead to the bridge,” Genevieve said.

Clara rested her chin upon one hand.

“It could.”

“The bridge could lead toward the terraces.”

“It could.”

“The terraces might overlook the lake shown in our painting.”

“They might.”

“The chapel could stand near the lake.”

“It could.”

“The gardens could surround the manor.”

“They could.”

Genevieve looked up.

“You agree too easily.”

“I am agreeing because you are probably correct.”

“That is not like you.”

“I am tired.”

Dowager Lady Elsbeth entered with Brother Matthias and Father Oren behind her. Both priests looked as though they had been engaged in a quiet disagreement for some time and intended to continue it as soon as manners permitted.

'We have a solved Avalon then?' said Elsbeth.

'It's not solved,' said Genevieve. 'It's organized.'

'That sounds like it would be less of a worry.'

Clara grinned. 'That sounds less like a good time.'

Genevieve indicated the notes. 'If they link together, then Avalon didn't just issue charmingly phrased invitations, It sent fragments of a whole.'

Father Oren leaned closer.

“Or symbols of virtue.”

Brother Matthias raised a brow. “A road, a bridge, a chapel, a library, a garden, and a lake might denote civility, movement, prayer, knowledge, growth and quiet contemplation.”

Clara blinked. “It all sounds so taxing.”

Elsbeth’s eyes twinkled. Genevieve’s eyes, on the other hand, darkened in consideration. “The symbols need not contradict reality.

” “No,” Father Oren chuckled. “They very seldom do.”

Elsbeth looked at the invitations.

“What does that make Avalon?”

Genevieve did not answer quickly.

Outside the cabin windows, the evening sea darkened into blue glass.

“I am not certain yet.”

“That is unlike you.”

Genevieve smiled faintly. “That is why I find Avalon interesting.”

The Dowager Lady said nothing more, though her expression suggested she had hoped for exactly that answer.

As night approached, the sea road became a scattered procession of lanterns.

Silently, without so much as a whisper of an order being spoken, the royal ship took its position at the very heart of the formation. Toscana had settled on their port side and they were able to catch a faint melody over the water even after supper. Northvale held rigid station far off their larboard side, their lamp-light a clean, steady illumination against the water, Eastwatch skulking in their wake and betrayed solely by a flicker of dull bronze from their stern-light and the echo of their crews' orders across the dark water.

From each vessel, young women looked toward the same horizon and imagined different futures.

Princess Celestine found herself wrestling with an unexpected question. How was she supposed to judge a house the kingdom had regarded as honorable, dependable, and thoroughly unremarkable for five centuries, when that same house had apparently transformed itself into one of the most dynamic forces in the realm in little more than a year? Somewhere between those two truths lay the real Avalon, and she intended to discover which one deserved to be believed.

Lady Isolde hoped the paintings were in no way an over-statement. If Avalon's gardens were even half as pretty as they'd looked on the invitation cards, Lady Isolde had a mind to draw every nook and cranny of them before going back home. And if Avalon's music was as good as all that, she may well be inclined to stay on indefinitely.

Lady Genevieve no longer searched for evidence of a Avalon having reacquired lost knowledge. The question was, would the family members ever acknowledge what they had actually managed to surround themselves with. An ancient fact seemed nothing much at all to the family which lived all around it on a daily basis.

Lady Maerwyn was much more interested in roads than in any gardens. Her question: how did Avalon organize manpower, how did they supply her workrooms, and how they kept several undertakings running at the same time? Wonders were wonderful to be sung by poets, while, she knew it was logistics that transformed kingdoms.

Young Talia Bellacor paid no interest to all the thoughtful discourses at all. IfLady Lisette knew about faeries, somebody would sooner or later let her be introduced to a one of them, and until then Talia Bellacor held it the single biggest aim of the entire journey.

With unfeigned stillness, the matrons regarded their daughters, their daughters’ daughters, their nieces and their wards. All had come willingly, accepting Avalon’s invitation for reasons they themselves knew best and, league by watery league, the waters drew nearer to demanding their resolution.

None of them spoke those reasons aloud.

Not yet.

Near midnight, the first mate of the Crown of Morning bowed before Princess Celestine and her grandmother.

“We expect to sight the volcano north of Litus Solis just after nightfall.

Celestine looked toward the dark water.

“And the other vessels?”

“They are keeping pace.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, Princes, they are all in sight.”

Priscilla Morevethal stepped beside her granddaughter.

“The sea gathers us neatly.”

For the first time since the invitation arrived, Celestine allowed herself to consider that the painting might not be an work of art alone.

It might be a warning made beautiful enough that everyone mistook it for a courtesy.

She looked south into the darkness and let the thought settle.

“I will reserve judgment,” she said again.

Priscilla smiled beside her.

“Of course you will.”

The Princess heard the amusement and chose not to respond.

Ahead, beyond the black seam where sea met sky, the city of Litus Solis waited.

Beyond the city, waited Avalon.

If the paintings were even partially accurate, a house in Avalon that transformed ambition into a welcoming feeling was waiting for her.