CHAPTER 37: INFORMATION
The Solar Eagle's fiery wings had barely finished scattering into golden embers when the Emberlyn training grounds erupted into coordinated motion.
Rena was the first to reach Hania. She strode over and planted both hands on her hips. Her gold-flame sleeves were still smoking from the sparring session with Lusha, and she didn’t seem to care. Her amber eyes, the exact shade of Leonarth’s but sharper somehow, swept over Hania’s bandaged hands and the golden sphere bobbing at her shoulder.
"If that glowing ball of yours starts acting up at the palace," Rena said, her grin splitting her soot-streaked face, "point it straight at Jareth. The brat still owes me money from a bet three years ago." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Tell him Aunt Rena sends her regards. Preferably with flames."
"Aunt?" Hania echoed. "I’m not an Emberlyn."
"Didn’t you bite your father hard enough to draw blood when you were six months old? That’s Emberlyn behavior. You’re an honorary member." Rena clapped her on the shoulder gently, for an Emberlyn, which meant Hania only staggered slightly. "Also, my grandfather says so, and no one argues with my grandfather. Trust me, we’ve tried."
Collin jogged up behind his aunt, a sheaf of parchment notes fluttering wildly in one hand. With the other, he pushed back his messy red hair—a gesture so familiar it took Hania a moment to place it. Right. Kofery does the exact same thing when he’s panicking about something. Collin was just Kofery with fire magic and marginally more social skills.
"The Marquis of Sisilic," Collin said, slightly out of breath. He thrust a crumpled note toward Hania. On it was a surprisingly detailed sketch of a man with oily hair, a too-wide smile, and hands covered in jeweled rings. The sketch was annotated with arrows and tiny handwriting: left hand gestures = lying, right hand tapping = changing subject, cough = about to propose something unfair.
"I made notes," Collin explained, seeing her expression. "I’ve been attending trade negotiations since I was twelve. The Marquis is… slippery. Lots of hand gestures. Lots of fake smiles." He tapped the sketch. "If he starts talking about ‘fair trade’ or ‘market accessibility,’ just mention that the Tower’s research is ‘not for open market speculation.’ He’ll back off. He’s afraid of looking uninformed in front of the Archmage."
"You made me a dossier on a merchant noble?"
"I made you a dossier on everyone who’s ever tried to audit the Tower’s resources." Collin produced a second sheaf of notes, this one significantly thicker. "It’s organized by threat level. Green tabs are annoyances. Yellow tabs are potential problems. Red tabs are—"
"Collin." Rena’s voice was fond but firm. "She’s seven."
"Seven is old enough to know who wants to destroy her family’s economic independence."
Hania took the dossier. It was heavy. This is the most useful thing anyone has given me all day. "Thank you, Collin."
Collin’s ears went pink. "It’s nothing. I just… I have a lot of free time."
"Kofery says the same thing."
"Who’s Kofery?"
"My father’s assistant. You’d like him."
Before Collin could process this, Myra approached. Her violet fire had dimmed to a faint glow around her fingertips, and she walked with the grace of someone who had spent years correcting her own footwork.
"Keep your weight centered," Myra said quietly. She demonstrated, shifting her stance almost imperceptibly. "Palace floors are polished marble. The main ballroom has a slight incline near the throne dais—intentional, to make petitioners feel off-balance. If you stand with your feet too close together, you’ll look nervous. Shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of your feet. It projects confidence and keeps you stable."
Hania adjusted her stance. Myra nodded once.
"Good. Also, the third step on the main staircase creaks. Don’t use it if you’re trying to move quietly."
"Why would I need to move quietly?"
Myra’s violet eyes were unreadable. "You’re a Noctis. You’ll find a reason."
The twins arrived in a tumble of limbs and sparking flames. They were identical, but their fire gave them away. One burned amber, the other gold. Hania still couldn’t remember which name belonged to which flame.
"If it gets too stuffy," said Amber-Flame, grabbing Hania’s unbandaged hand with surprising gentleness, "just make something small explode."
"Nothing dangerous," Gold-Flame added quickly. "Just… a distraction. A little firework. We do it all the time at boring dinners."
"Last winter festival, we set the centerpiece on fire."
"It was a strategic accident. Aunt Rena was losing an argument about grain tariffs."
Rena snorted. "I was winning that argument."
"You were about to flip the table. We saved you from a diplomatic incident."
"I didn’t need saving."
"The table was already smoking, Aunt Rena."
Hania watched the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match. So this is what a functional family looks like.
Phenopa’s voice cut through the noise. "Enough."
Everyone stopped. Even Rena straightened slightly. That’s real power, Hania thought.
"Stop overwhelming the child," Phenopa continued, moving through the cluster of Emberlyns with calm authority. "Rena, secure extra escort flames. The border wards are already activating, and I want our people visible at every checkpoint between here and the capital. If the Emperor tries to claim we’re hiding something, I want documentation of exactly how many Emberlyn guards were present and cooperative."
"On it." Rena snapped off a salute and strode toward the stables, already shouting orders at the waiting soldiers.
"Collin and Myra—final ward checks on the carriage. I want three layers of reinforcement and a contingency teleport anchor keyed to the estate’s inner courtyard. If something goes wrong at the palace, I want them to be able to retreat in under three seconds."
"Got it." Collin tucked his notes under one arm and grabbed Myra’s sleeve with the other, pulling her toward the carriage. Myra went without protest, already murmuring something about anchor stability ratios.
"Twins." Phenopa fixed them with a look. "Behave yourselves and stop encouraging explosions. The Princess is a guest. If she wants to cause chaos, she’ll do it on her own terms."
The twins exchanged a glance. "That’s… actually fair," said Amber-Flame.
"We’ll be good," said Gold-Flame. "Unless someone’s rude to her. Then we make no promises."
Phenopa’s lips twitched—the closest thing to amusement Hania had seen from her. "Acceptable."
She turned to Hania, and her expression softened into something almost maternal. "Come along, dear. The healer is waiting in your guest suite. We’ll get you properly prepared."
The walk through the Emberlyn estate was a blur of corridors and courtyards, each more impressive than the last. The main house was built from warm golden stone that seemed to glow in the afternoon light. Its architecture blended Southern elegance with practical fortification. Arrow slits had been converted into windows. Battlements now held flowering vines. The Emberlyns, Hania realized, had been wealthy and powerful for so long that they no longer needed to look defensive, yet the bones of the old fortress remained.
Phenopa walked at the front, her red braid swaying with each purposeful step. The twins flanked Hania like an honor guard, occasionally pointing out features of the estate.
"That fountain used to be a fire pit," said Amber-Flame.
"Great-grandfather converted it after the Incident," added Gold-Flame.
"What incident?"
"The one where Uncle Bilark accidentally set the guest wing on fire."
"It wasn’t accidental. He was proving a point about insulation."
"The point was proven. So was the fire."
Hania filed this away. Emberlyn family gatherings have a body count. Or at least a property damage count.
They passed through a courtyard where a massive oak tree grew straight through the center of the paved stones, its branches spreading wide enough to shade the entire space. Wind chimes hung from the lower limbs—dozens of them. They caught the light and scattered rainbows across the stone.
"Battle trophies," Phenopa said, noticing Hania’s gaze. "Each chime represents a significant victory. The glass ones are from the Dragon War. The metal ones are more recent."
"There are a lot of them."
"The Emberlyns have been fighting for two centuries. We’ve had time to collect."
They display their victories in their courtyard like wind chimes. This family was terrifying in the most aesthetically pleasing way possible. Well… they once ruled a kingdom, after all.
The guest suite, when they finally reached it, was breathtaking. Double doors of dark wood inlaid with gold opened into a room that was somehow both grand and welcoming. Deep crimson drapes framed tall windows. A four-poster bed dominated one side, piled with layers of silk sheets and embroidered pillows. A full dressing area gleamed with mirrors, racks of clothing, and several attendants already waiting. Steam rose invitingly from the attached bathing chamber.
"Bath first," Phenopa declared, clapping her hands twice. The attendants sprang into motion. "The healer is already inside. Then we dress her properly."
Hania was gently but firmly herded into the bathing chamber. The warm water was a revelation—scented with something floral and vaguely medicinal, heated to exactly the right temperature. The Emberlyn healer was a quiet woman with gray hair and steady hands. She checked Hania’s ribs with gentle pressure, murmured something about "remarkable healing speed," and changed the bandages on her hands.
Throughout it all, Hania kept touching her forehead absentmindedly. The crescent moon mark had vanished when she collapsed after the whale.
It’s itchy. She pressed her fingers to the spot.
The golden sphere floated over and bumped her shoulder comfortingly, as if it could sense her unease. Its warmth seeped through the thin robe the attendants had wrapped her in.
"Thanks," she whispered. "For comforting me."
The sphere pulsed once.