"The Council has been disbanded until further notice."
The sun had emerged from the sea victorious that morning, the sky bright and clear as if the smoke from the attack the afternoon before had never tarnished its deep blue. In the few seconds before her consciousness truly awoke, all was peaceful: the cool breeze promised a deliciously warm day and the waves breaking into the cliffs below the villa lulled her back into the feeling of an eternal summer. It was only in the slightly nervous looks from the attendants that she was able to find evidence of what had transpired; the native Arqans, after all, knew the whisperings of war very well.
Hyperion had come into her chambers right as she had finished dressing for breakfast. Her words had summoned silence amongst her attendants, whose gazes only grew darker. "Are the envoys being sent back?" she asked.
"No, they will remain here until they confirm the identity of the attackers," Hyperion offered her a hand, an invitation to walk together. "The city's guard has been called to patrol the streets, and enlisted men are being asked to join them."
Ophelia accepted the silent invite, and taking Hyperion's arm, they begun to walk towards the gardens. "What are they saying? Who are they blaming?"
"Depends on who you ask," Hyperion smiled. "The Elysians had a late night meeting with the Lord Protector, and showed him the bodies of the Phrygians who attacked us. As it is often the case, by morning everyone in the city knew about this. The Lord Protector now is edging between a wall and a sword, as the populace thinks the Elysians are making it up to find an excuse to bring their troops into the city. Yet, he knows as we do that in this case they don't seem to be lying."
"One would think the bodies would be enough evidence. Will they call us as witnesses?"
"I have yet to receive any missive, but when it comes I'll turn it away. A merchant taking sides in petty politics like these is a foolish merchant," Hyperion spied Ophelia's worried frown, and patted the hand that held his arm. "Fortunately the distaste towards my people runs deep, and it hurts many egos to have to ask me for favours. They will not knock on my door yet: they have still the testimony of those three servants that were next to us."
"It would be surprising if the servants said anything after the Elysians left them to suffer from their wounds like that."
"Their tongues and more importantly, their outrage, has a price."
Ophelia stopped, pulling Hyperion to the side. "I think they know about my powers," she whispered. "And if they don't, they will the moment they speak to those servants."
Hyperion leaned in towards her; it startled her for a moment, as it made her think he was seeking her lips. "Would you like some help from me, princess?" he asked, hazel eyes wide and inviting. She knew he was relishing the moment.
"I-I would," she stammered, walking a step backwards to take a breath.
He stood up with a self-satisfied smile. "I'd be more than honoured to help then."
"What is it going to cost me?" she asked, starting to regret it already.
"Oh, some of your patience, nothing more. Just play along when the time is right; I will take that indulgence as payment." That's how she knew it would cost her dearly.
They spent the next few days sequestered in the villa. Hyperion's wounds had been mostly healed by Aegyr; as long as he limited his movements before he strained himself too much he'd soon be back to full health. At the spacious hall that served as an office of sorts for Eon and the master of the house, they went back to their usual routine of receiving informants, traders and merchants. Ophelia knew from speaking to the servants that many folk had been turned away from their doors on account of the current political situation: different factions had sent representatives, looking for patronage or support of some form. It was clear that as much as the Elysians were a powerful political force, they had many opponents and their history had brewed much discontentment amongst the peoples of the Free Cities, and the current atmosphere seemed like an opportunity too good not to act on.
Hyperion had resolved to firmly stay out of it – at least, as much as he could. Their informants told them that in the old palace, the dead had been mourned and their funerary rites carried out. The Lord Preceptor had held a very symbolic ceremony amongst the ashes of the ruined hall, speaking to his audience with empty platitudes meant only to buy time. The highest of the judges of the city had been called and were savagely tearing through every nook and cranny of the building, trying to understand what had happened. The Philistians had also called in for one of their judges to come to the city, in account of the murdered envoys. The Latilians, instead, had decided that it'd be more productive to rally with the Kushites to push for an investigation of the Elysians, who for the most part were doing their due diligence to prove their innocence.
It was a strange performance; not quite a murder mystery, not quite a court drama. It became clear as time went on that the situation was evolving in such a way that truth began to lose its appeal. The advantages of what could only be called political fantasies began to dominate, and the insistence of the empire's envoys on proving their innocence through evidence turned out to be absolutely useless. What the Elysians truly needed to do, as Hyperion put it, was "to make friends with loud mouths". Not that they'd heed any advice he had to give.
This was made evident when, on the fifth day after the attack, Lord Scipio himself arrived at the gates of the villa. This move was so unprecedented, so bold, that Hyperion broke tradition: he would have normally turned him away, but as with anything that roused his curiosity, he was more than willing to entertain his presence there.
"It will be a marvellous sight to see," he insisted to Eon, who didn't quite agree with his master's disposition towards petty entertainment. "The Archduke of Elysium, asking for help from a mere Chaldean merchant."
"They play the game only because they don't consider us worthy opponents," Eon reminded him with a scowl. "They don't have to play nice; they only do so because they think it's beneath them to force themselves on others. But should they really need to, they will; and master, their hand will not tremble."
"Once again you're absolutely right!" Hyperion smiled at him. "But you should see then why it matters not if we entertain them or not – and while we can't use force like they do, we are at least more apt in the field of mind games than they are."
"So," he licked his lips as he covered himself in a heavy black and gold tunic to receive his guest, "let their arrogance drive them into a corner."
Ophelia had been more than happy to stay back in one of the adjacent chambers while Hyperion and Eon met with Aegyr. Her stomach was in knots, thinking about the consequences of the Elysian having figured out she shared their abilities. In the days leading to the envoys' arrival she'd informed herself enough to understand that Elysians were very zealous over their abilities, and lived under a very strict class system. Anyone born in Elysium to their noble families was expected to serve their empire in some way or another; there was very little regard to personal agency. As Aegyr had said, everything in Elysium had its place.
A few stories were shared amongst the ports, according to some of the servants, of an Elysian runaway. As such stories normally go, she was said to be a daughter of a noble family who had fallen in love with a Thracian, who escaped an arranged marriage for love only for them to be savagely hunted for weeks on end. When they found her, the Thracian was coldly murdered before her eyes, and in punishment for her audacity her legs had been broken and healed on the spot, ensuring that she would not be able to use them ever again. She was taken back to Elysium and forced to marry her former fiance; and to make an example out of it, those who helped her escape were put to death.
Ophelia feared for Hyperion. As much as he was sneaky and calculating, she didn't want him to suffer a similar end for having given her a place to stay. She hoped that, if the worst case scenario were to come true, that she'd at least be able to ensure his safety.
"My lady," one of the attendants emerged from the main chamber. "The master is asking for your presence."
As she uneasily stood up, a second attendant ran from the opposite side. Out of breath, she was carrying a bundle in her arms that she extended towards Ophelia. "Please… wear… this… master's orders."
She knew instantly that Hyperion was in the middle of one of his plays, then. Perhaps she wouldn't have much to fear. As she put the tunic on, she realized it was similar to the one he was wearing: black, embroidered in fine gold thread. The second attendant also handed her earrings and necklaces, and hurriedly helped her get them on.
The two of them did a quick job of dolling her up. "What is all this?" Ophelia asked, instinctively knowing that this much gold and this much jade were meant only for those in high offices. The attendants didn't know; they simply ushered her along. She wiped the frown from her face as she entered the chamber where Hyperion received his guests – as was usual for him he'd laid out chai and refreshments on a small table, while they all sat in plush couches made of dark ebony.
"Does this satisfy you, Lord Scipio?" Hyperion said, raising a hand to beckon her to his side. "Now you can hear the refusal from her mouth as well."
Eon was standing to Hyperion's right, watching Aegyr like a hawk. Ophelia would've normally stood next to him, but she followed the merchant's lead to take a seat at his side. Aegyr was sitting comfortably in the chair opposite of them, clearly having made no attempt to make good of Hyperion's hospitality. The moment she came into the room his eyes stuck to her form like there was nothing else worthy of his gaze in there.
"I must inconvenience you, darling," Hyperion said sweetly, raising her face towards him with a delicate gesture of his hand, "as Lord Scipio has been quite adamant he's only interested in hearing this personally from you despite my warnings that I was on explicit orders to relay this myself."
Hyperion spoke to her in Drusi; Ophelia's small glance towards Aegyr confirmed that the other man had not understood a single word. By simple reaction she felt like asking why he was going all the way to act like that when the other man would not understand, but figured that if there was such a thing as method acting in that world, perhaps Hyperion was partial to it. "Speak, my friend," the merchant turned back to Iberian, a language he shared with the Elysian.
It seemed like neither of them were interested in sharing their conversation with the other. Aegyr said in his native tongue, "we require a translator we can trust. I came to ask for your presence in the proceedings at the Arqan palace."
"I'm honoured that you consider me trustworthy, my lord," she said, her words biting back at their conversation the day of the attack. "But there are more capable translators already hard at work under Lord Preceptor. I'm also very busy with other, more urgent work."
The last bit of her sentence earned her a scornful look. "Should I congratulate you on your nuptials? It seems like a few days ago when you were simply a servant under a rich Chaldean master."
She arched an eyebrow. It seemed that Hyperion was going to play the marriage card to shield her from the Elysians. "As I said before, should there be any falsehood, I would imagine it'd be in your capacity to reveal the truth."
Aegyr fixed her with a strange look. "I wonder," he said with a small smile, and suddenly Ophelia understood the fear that Elysians inspired over the other nations. It was that moment when the possibility of him escalating became almost palpable, and the promise of a swift, painful retribution made her almost back off. Almost.
"Every bone in his body, I could break it right now," he said, raising his hand towards Hyperion. The merchant did not react; he didn't know what Aegyr was saying, but there were few things more menacing than an Elysian noble pointing their finger at someone, and as apt as he was to control his expressions he simply played nonchalant. "I wonder, would that be enough for me to prove your lies? Or should I try to do as the Phrygians did, and witness first-hand as you do the same things you said you didn't do, but that others said you did?"
"I wonder what's stopping your hand, Elysian," Ophelia bit back. "Something tells me you're not as confident about your assumptions as you want me to think."
Something passed by Aegyr's eyes; an argument, a challenge to her words. It was clear that she was suspected of being Elysian, but something didn't quite fit for the other man, and that was enough for her not be dragged off from Hyperion's villa. She figured that the other knew what was at stake: an incident at the villa would mean that there would be no more open ears to the Elysian envoys; that the populace would definitely turn against them, possibly escalating the whole thing into hostilities against the Empire. Regardless of what would happen after that point, it'd be an embarrassing failure in diplomacy, and more importantly, a victory for the Phrygians who had instigated the whole thing in the first place.
"I'm not Elysian, my lord," Ophelia said, finally. "And to those that say I've done what I'm not capable of: some people will say what their masters want to hear. I hope you'd know better than to trust tongues that move out of fear."
A few seconds passed, in silence. When he spoke, it was again in Iberian, and he was looking straight at Hyperion, as if Ophelia's words had been so useless to him that they were worth no acknowledgement of their existence.
"I'm aware of your dealings in Caudiceum," he said. "As friendly of a city it is now to you, they are friendlier to being in my good graces. It will take one word from me to block you from landing any of your ships there."
Hyperion arched an eyebrow. "My, it seems like you're not happy with my intended's words."
Aegyr said nothing, his expression firm and unmovable. "Is this all so that I will translate for you?" Ophelia asked, incredulous. "Very well, I will do it. Are you happy now?"
"This is enough, for today," the Elysian said, standing up. "I will send a carriage for you tomorrow."
"There is no need," Hyperion was quick to say as he imitated the other man. "The empire's colours are quite contentious right now, and if someone were to try and express their anger against my intended, she would not have recourse to the sort of tricks you, my lord, have up their sleeve. I'd rather her association with you and this entire situation be kept as far away from the public eye as possible."
The Elysian sharply nodded; he cared very little for Hyperion's arguments. It seemed that he was satisfied that he'd achieved what he'd gone there for. As he turned back to walk back to the entrance to the garden, and the way out of the villa, he stopped next to Hyperion to leave him with a warning. "Mind what you say and do, merchant. You might be resourceful, but there's a clear limit as to what you can do. Don't try to reach out for what's not meant to be in your grasp."
Once he was gone, Hyperion's calm facade crumbled, and his irritation seeped into his expression as quickly as blood turns water red. "I underestimated him," he said, making a gesture towards one of the servants to get him a glass of wine. "He made you walk into it, princess, and you fell for it."
"What are you talking about?"
"You can't give in the moment someone tries to apply pressure," Hyperion admonished her. "He knew you'd be scared to be mistaken by an Elysian; so he came here with the pretext to get you as a translator. He then threatened me, making you trade what you'd think is the lesser evil, thus giving him what he wanted. Your identity was never at stake in this conversation."
"And what would you have me do instead? Let him actually use his powers?"
"If you'd let me, I would've reminded him that Caudiceum's main export is cheap glassware, which they owe in part to the Alexandrian sand brought in by our little network of traders. I'd have loved to see the back and forth that would ensue from trying to block the one thing that props up their economy."
"So I should've just let you handle all that?" Ophelia was exasperated, and a little hurt. It felt like she was being told she was useless.
"You wanted my help, did you not?"
She looked away, feeling like her emotions would soon explode. She was frustrated at Aegyr, at edge because of his threats; worried over Hyperion, and mad that he was telling her she'd made a mistake. Incapable of containing it, she slightly veered off topic:
"What was all this about nuptials?"
"It'll make it more complicated for him to try and snatch you away, if that's what he's looking to do while you're in the palace, if everyone else believes we're to be married."
Ophelia closed her eyes, rubbing the space between her brows. "It's only been two months, yet I'm already on my second fake husband."
"Fake?" asked Hyperion in mock confusion; Ophelia's dirty look sent him into hysterics. Eon, next to him, seemed as dismayed as her at the idea. "You wound me. My concubines are all very happy with me."
The rest of the day, Hyperion chased off his bad mood by ordering his servants to bring about the sort of jewellery and clothing that was traditional for Chaldean brides. She was made to wear a silk dress that wrapped around her shoulders, embroidered in flowery patterns and the crest of Hyperion's family. "It's meant to be passed down in the family," he said, "but my mother's dress was taken by creditors when my family's fortune withered."
"So I made this one some time back, as a way to attract good luck," Hyperion stood up, examining Ophelia as the attendants brought what seemed to be at first multiple necklaces entangled together. When they were laid on her chest she was able to appreciate that they were intricately woven, forming several rings around her neck, with chains, beads and precious gem stones arranged in swirly patterns.
"Where I'm from, it's bad luck for grooms to see their brides dressed up before their wedding," Ophelia said as the intense staring from the Chaldean was making her blush. Arm bands and hand decorations were given to her; as she put them on, one of the attendants finished arranging her hair: braided around her head, with twin floral hairpins showing shyly from the back.
"Oh, this is not the wedding dress, fret not," Hyperion seemed satisfied with her attire, and smiled at the attendants to show his approval. "The month before the wedding, the bride has to wear different dresses; each one more elaborate than the next."
"Goodness gracious, it must be expensive," Ophelia said, looking at the delicate chains that decorated her hands. "It's all to show off wealth, isn't it?"
"They are the wealth. Dresses and the jewellery are both the bride's dowry."
Ophelia sat down; she examined the rich fabric of the dress, admiring the little details that had been sewn in. "It's sad you don't have your mother's dress. That seems like a lovely tradition."
"It's very rare for them to be actually passed down through generations," he observed. "Fortune is very fickle for us. Families tend to be large, closely knit together… and someone's vices, or bad luck, are enough to bring the whole lot down."
"Is that what happened in your family?"
"Partly, yes. My great uncle squandered the family fortune; then my father built it up again. One of his concubines, while my uncles were away at sea, poisoned the entire household, and murdered him, my mother, and my siblings. She had conspired with her lover, a member of the local patrician family, and they both took our wealth, our cattle, even our servants. When my uncles came back to ask that justice be made, they were driven to exile, on account of our race."
He'd said it so casually that Ophelia almost didn't really register it, but when she did, she thought about it for a minute, in silence. Racism meant something different in her world, it had a very specific look; it had words attached to it, a social context very different from the one Hyperion lived in. Yet, despite the distance, both in perceived time and place, she couldn't help but feel like something of her reality had seeped into Lygeum. It was disappointing to come to terms with the fact that nobody could escape human nature, even in that dream-like world.
"It's exhausting, isn't it?" she said finally, "no matter how hard you try, some people will make you feel like you will never belong."
She stopped herself; Hyperion didn't quite know yet that she wasn't from that world. She'd wanted to tell him that in her native London, multicultural London, diverse, eclectic London, she had been chased multiple times by the ghosts of that very same prejudice that he'd faced. A comment incited by her looks, by her heritage; the bullying of a classmate who had been raised with the idea that in their country only certain kind of people belonged.
He noticed her silence, but didn't press her on it. "I'm very petty at heart," he said, instead. "I like knowing that the worst injury I can give them is my indifference… and of course, my successes. Taking power away from the unjust, that's how you deal with it."
"How did you survive?" Ophelia changed the topic, eager to learn more about Hyperion's past. "And what happened after your uncles went into exile?"
"As I was the first-born son of the legal wife, I had been sent to study with a scholar in Palmyra until I came of age. I was only ten when it happened. My uncles took great debt to try and revert the family's fortunes, and because they didn't want me to be within their creditors' sights, they cut off all communication with me. I was left to fend off the world on my own… which was not easy as a boy. I became a bit of a troublemaker," Hyperion smiled boyishly as he said it. "By fifteen, my tutor had had enough of me, and threw me out. I decided to try my luck, and travelled east. The rest is history."
"What about your uncles?"
Hyperion sighed. "Both of them were murdered by thieves on the road."
Ophelia patted the merchant on his arm. "Your life hasn't been easy, yet nobody would be able to tell by looking at you. But I suppose that's where all the wisdom comes from. You're not an easy one to trick."
"There is no evil that begets no good," the man chirped. "My bride has been very curious about me, I wonder if she'll let me ask questions of my own."
"Not tonight," Ophelia arched an eyebrow. "But I will tell you, sometime."
The man stood up, and walked towards her. Without uttering a word, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead before taking his leave. "That is my payment for letting you ask about my past," he said with a wink.
The next few days, as had been arranged, Ophelia travelled to the palace in Hyperion's carriage. The Arqan officials who'd seen her during the Council had taken note of her appearance. Her dress and the attendants who followed her were the words in Hyperion's story, forming together the sentences that soon raged as rumours throughout the palace: the translator was now a bride-to-be. There had been objections as married women, or women soon to be married, were not allowed to work in Arqa; but as there was no money exchanged for her services, she wasn't technically working.
Aegyr said nothing to her throughout the proceedings; if he still thought it was all a charade, he kept it to himself. It did feel, however, that the entire Elysian delegation was on edge around her, knowing that something was in the back of the archduke's mind. She didn't mind the forced silence: it also gave her an excuse to hurry back to the village every evening, on account of their cooling relations.
This back and forth, however, ended up proving to be a mistake.
It was the third day on a row that she went back to the palace. Aegyr had taken to tell her the previous afternoon whether her services would be needed or not the following day. The evening prior, however, he'd also told her the Elysian envoys would be meeting the carriage before it reached the palace, near the border of the city guild's neighbourhood.
"Some undesirables might be planning something," one of the Elysians had told her. "A translator was attacked by a mob outside the palace yesterday."
The news, understandably, put her on edge. She didn't say anything to Hyperion: on one hand, she didn't want to worry him, on the other, acknowledging her worries made them seem more real than they were. And, of course, she had recourse to her abilities if worse came to worse. She'd been practising in secret, afraid that another tragedy like the palace fire might catch her completely off-guard.
Hyperion's carriage took her as far as the main street of the guild neighbourhood. It was considered a relatively safe part of the city, given its proximity to the palace, with wide streets and imposing stone-built three-story buildings that house the myriad of guilds that operated in Arqa.
By the entrance of a tavern next to the shoemaker's guild they were stopped by two men in dull brown tunics, both of whom were wearing their hoods up, concealing partly their hair and faces. She knew them, however: they were some of the Elysian envoys that she'd been translating for.
"From here," one of them said as he helped her step down from the carriage, "you'll ride with us."
He pointed towards the two horses that had been tied to the hitching post behind them. "Do you prefer to ride with Leein, or me?"
Ophelia had no chance to answer. From the alley that separated the guild's building from the tavern a group of twenty men emerged: they were all incredibly tall and large. Their bodies were obscured by their heavy linen robes; even their faces had been wrapped in scarves. She heard someone mutter "elysians" with such level of spite that she was surprised her two companions were not physically hurt by it, but it was clear that that's where things would soon head towards.
She didn't really think about what was happening; she simply took one of the man's hands, and tried to move back, away from the gang. It wasn't a thing, however, for Elysians to feel intimidated by numbers or brawl. They simply did not budge: there was nothing dangerous for them in that situation. Or so they thought: swords were drawn without much fanfare, and the men attacked.
There was no monologue, no explanation; they could only assume these were the same men behind the previous day's violence, and that they were of the same mind of the regular populace, that blamed the Elysians for all that had happened in the Council thus far. Leein and the other envoy looked bored at it all, and Ophelia didn't know if she should feel happy that they thought they could control the situation or exasperated by their arrogance.
Two in the gang swung their swords at them, and were rebated by a flick of the envoys' wrists, who made the men change direction as if controlled by an unseen force. There was, however, only so much that two could do against twenty, and even in spite of the fight growing progressively bloodier, with swords flying in the air slashing through scarves and robes, they soon began to be overwhelmed by their opponents.
Ophelia moved back. Her hands were tied, to a certain extent: she could not intervene without exposing herself to the envoys, but she could do small things here and there to ensure that there were as few casualties as possible. Without realizing it, she began to back into the alleyway as the fight raged in the street – more and more people congregated to see what was happening, which made it more difficult for her to act.
It was clear that the victims had no sympathy from the crowd, which shouted mostly in Arqan. "Show us your miracles now, Elysian pigs", "Where's your blue now?" and "you should've left Arqa when you could" were amongst the common expressions coming from the mob that seemed excited and incensed by the onslaught brought about by the masked gang. It felt like at any moment more would join the fray.
When a bottle flew at Leein's head, making a clear, nasty hit that took him down, it seemed like true madness had exploded. Ophelia tried to take a step forward to try and help the two envoys, who were now in serious risk of being murdered by the mob, when she felt a pair of hands grab her tightly by the arm to pull her violently back into the alleyway.
She was dragged away by someone in the same robes the gang had been dressed in. "Wait!" she shouted, trying to fight back with her normal strength. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"Hush, I'm taking you to safety," said a familiar voice, and she froze, letting the man take her to where his horse had been left waiting for him. From the saddle he took a scarf, that he went on to wrap around her head and face before he mounted her onto the animal.
"What are you doing here?" Ophelia said as they galloped through the backstreets in the opposite direction to the palace. "I thought you were gone from the city..."
He tightened the hold on his reins, which made her fall deeper into his embrace. The feel of her back against his torso brought back memories of the last time they'd seen each other, and she couldn't help the blush that took over her cheeks.
"The Council was too good an opportunity to pass up," Phobos explained. "And some things had been cooking for a long time."
Ophelia noticed that they were heading for the outskirts. The stone buildings had long ago given way to timber structures, and they progressively got smaller and more precarious as they neared the fields and the forest that surrounded the southern side of the city.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To a safe place," Phobos didn't offer much in the way of an explanation. Ophelia asked him why he wasn't taking her back to Hyperion's villa instead, and he replied: "So that he can sell you on to the Elysians again?"
Ophelia tried to argue, but he hushed her. "Not now," he whispered in her ear as he willed the horse to slow down into a light gallop. They were approaching what seemed to be a large farmstead. The main building was built around a spacious courtyard, in the middle of which resided a well. On the sides there were hitching posts, stacks of hay and large stone basin with water, which a young lad was currently refilling with a bucket half his size. As they approached, Ophelia could spy a cluster of four or five small houses in various states of disrepair behind the building. A forest surrounded the entire area, but scattered around there were small fields which would've given produce enough to feed the inhabitants of the complex but not enough to sell. They were all abandoned as well, except for some smaller plots, which had been turned into vegetable gardens.
The sound of livestock made it clear that, in spite of the decay, people were still living in there. Two women came out as they arrived, with baskets of laundry under their arms. Children ran around them, after them, some of them carrying bar of soaps. As they passed them by, they respectfully bowed their heads to Phobos and shot her strange looks. Ophelia was struck by how tall they were, how bright their ginger hair was. They were Phrygian women.
Phobos took her by the arm and led her into a staircase on the left side of the building. She could hear the shouts of men and women inside and outside the building; they all spoke in Phrygian.
"Is Aristides here as well?" she asked as Phobos took her through room after room. They came across other Phrygians, mostly women, who would all repeat the same sign of respect towards their prince and would shoot her equally confused looks.
"No, I've sent him along to Philistia to meet with some of our supporters."
They finally arrived at the room he was searching for: a simple affair of a single bed, a table with a chair and a chamber pot, and a jug of water with a glass cup. It was clean, but it was clear that nobody had been using it. Phobos closed the door behind him, and asked her to take a seat.
"Phobos, will you tell me what is happening?" Ophelia asked, somewhat frustrated after being dragged all the way there with little explanation. She changed her mind as soon as the words came out of her mouth, and decided instead to not skirt around the issue: "I know it's the Phrygians who murdered the two Philistian envoys and self-immolated at the palace."
Phobos' entire body tensed. He clearly had not expected her to say that.
"How…?"
"I saw them in the palace the night of the murders, and then I was there when the fire broke out. When I was trying to put it out, two Phrygians came at me thinking I was an Elysian, and tried to kill me."
The exiled prince ran his fingers through his hair, a distant look on his face. "Strange times have called for strange tactics… for what it's worth, I am sorry you had to see my people behaving like that. Even today, I am not convinced of this plan…"
He sighed, and grabbed the chair to sit in front of her. "The rebels that received me here have been preparing for months… they've been feeding the anti-Elysian sentiment in the streets, and prepared this plan to sow discord in the alliance, foster distrust between the Free Cities, the Kushites and them. If relations are broken, Elysium will lose trade with the near east, which will put pressure on the routes that go through Phrygia to lower their taxes to make up for it. This will sour their relations with our kingdom, and will give us an opening to move in. At least, that's what the plan was…"
"These are the types of tactics that I've been brought up to despise, if I'm honest. A stab in the back, hiding our true identities to frame someone else… it's a weasel's war," he took her hand in his. "But you're unharmed, yes? I did hear the two of them died."
Ophelia nodded. "I killed one of them by accident, I think. The other set himself on fire. Hyperion was wounded."
Phobos slightly smiled. Ophelia smacked him in the arm. "He protected me!"
"At last!" he exclaimed. "What was he thinking, sending you to translate for the Elysians in the Council?"
"Part of his play with the Lord Protector…" Ophelia sighed. "I wasn't too thrilled by it, either. But that's that. I was hoping after all this madness is over to part ways with him. But now… Lord Scipio suspects me. Some of the servants saw me fight off the Phrygians and put out the fire. I thought his request for me to continue translating for them was a way to keep me in check."
Phobos smiled cheekily. "Soon they will be too busy trying to find their way out of the city to worry about you. You will have your chance to escape."
The prince laid a hand on her knee. She abruptly looked up, slightly inching forwards without meaning to. "I've told the rest that the Chaldean forced you into a corner, and that you had no choice but to translate for the Elysians. Stay here for a few days; watch as it all blows up, and then leave."
He moved closer, and when he spoke, she felt his breath ghosting over his cheek. "The people here, they will be wary. Try not to give them any reasons to suspect you, and you should be fine. They trust my word, but they know I'm not infallible."
Ophelia moved back, inching closer to the wall. She put a hand over the other's mouth, showing him her reddened face. "You're too close," she said.
The man laughed and abandoned his chair, moving in to climb on top of her. Ophelia's back collided with the mattress, as her hands kept their place to keep him at bay. "You can't just give me a warning then act like this!"
Phobos moved her hands away, smiling cheekily at her. "I missed you," he said, while one hand wandered away and towards her hips. "I wanted to say hello this time."
Ophelia pulled him down, and into a kiss. It was long and passionate, a sure way of telling him he'd been on her mind, too.