August pulled a dagger from his belt and began to clean his fingernails—a telltale sign the conversation had started to bore him. "Can I assume you think he knew all this when he made his grand reveal?"
"Of course, he knew. Why else would he do it?"
"I think you have a grave misunderstanding of our gallant hero." August's eyes slid to Monica's with a knowing look.
"And what would that be?" Randall, as brilliant as he was, had a blindspot regarding his treasured friends and family. He seemed lost, but Monica felt she knew where this was headed.
"Foster is incredibly petty. Monica asked him to discredit dear ol' dad, and he took the opportunity to humiliate him in front of the whole court—simple as that. A man after my own heart, that Foster Grey."
"Impossible; there has to be more to it than that."
Monica rolled her eyes at August. "He's right, Randall. While Foster can definitely appreciate the consequences of his actions, he is often a victim of impulsivity. The good news is that he's self-aware enough to recognize this and usually can keep himself in check just enough to avoid negative outcomes."
"He's always seemed logic-driven to me."
August bit back a chuckle, "Sure! Until you look at him the wrong way, and his hand ends up around your throat."
She turned on him, jabbing a finger at his chest, "It was one time, August, and we were still children. The Church had just rescued him from a slave caravan, and your pompous ass provoked him." Monica suddenly felt irrationally irritated with August—even if she knew what he was saying to be partially true.
"That may be, but that would not have happened if that part of him didn't exist."
"Oh, because you're such a rational thinker? Mister I'll-fuck-anything-with-a-hole. How many nieces and nephews do I have now anyway?"
"I use a protection spell; I'll have you know."
"…When you remember." Randall landed the killing blow, and August hung his head.
"Six…" He muttered.
Monica's jaw was dangling down by her knees—this was the first she had heard of this. She double-checked the sound-proofing spell before glaring at her irresponsible older brother, "You better be caring for them. I'll not have a dead-beat neglecting my flesh and blood."
He glared right back at her, "I'm a hedonist, not an asshole. All my kids are accounted for and well-loved."
"I take that to mean they receive regular visits from you at the very least?" She had opted to stop walking now, tapping her foot and crossing her arms. Randall, Zyph bless that giant, was a silent menace behind her, cracking his knuckles and emanating the signature aura that came before a Zyph body transformation.
August had the nerve to look angry, "This is why I never told you guys. What—Why— Oh fuck it, after the treatment I received—the treatment we received from our father and stepmother, how could you assume I would treat my children like unwanted byproducts of some sexual conquest? Is that what you guys truly think of me?" The emotion gradually slipped from his face as he spoke his hurt into existence.
Monica spoke frantically, "I—I'm sorry, August; I didn't mean to imply anything. I just—"
"Save it, I'm outta here. I'm going to go visit all the kids I'm neglecting." With his final cutting remark, August drew the Falchion at his waist, imbued it with spatial Zyph, and made a clean slice through the air before him. A rift in space opened where he cut, and he stepped through. Monica caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a desert oasis through the portal before it shut behind him.
Standing rooted in shame, Monica looked at Randall, "I think I was too harsh."
"We were too harsh," he corrected.
"You didn't say anything to him."
"I didn't defend his honor either. While our brother is undoubtedly a shameless womanizer, he is also a knight at heart. We may not understand, but he strictly adheres to his code and morals. You know he doesn't subscribe to the common morality of Ether—he lives his life on the road, meeting strange people with even stranger beliefs. Don't feel too bad. I'm sure he will come to understand that you had good intentions. He's even opened up about his kids—who knows? Maybe we'll get to meet them soon." That was the real Randall—calm, wise. Not the knuckle-dragger the court wished he was. How did he know all she wanted from August was to meet the newest family members—to have the little ones grow up knowing her as Aunt Nica? She hadn't even known that was what she wanted until stupid Randall went and rationalized her fury.
He smiled, calm and warm, "Now, I'd love to join you in the War Room, but I have a meeting with my advisors about our most recent political shift. Give Foster my regards—and don't fret too much about August, okay little one?" his giant paws patted her on the shoulder before taking enormous strides down the hall back towards his wing.
Just like that, they stranded Monica in the middle of the palace. She didn't like being alone in this place, preferring the warm halls of the War Room or her office and lecture hall at Winthrope Academy. She rushed off to her wing; she was at least more comfortable there than in the sterile halls and calculated displays of immense wealth that called the governance quarter home.
~~~
Monica soon found herself standing before an ornate set of mahogany double doors. With but a thought, they opened to reveal what could be mistaken for an entirely different building. Sure, she preferred this place to the rest of the palace, but not by much. Her wing carried many memories. Memories of a little refugee boy looking awkward in aristocratic clothing. Games of knights and witches, with broomstick wands and swords. A mother with soft, warm hands and a loving smile. A cold, dead body and hands slick with blood—she really hated this place.
Monica began to storm through her halls. The servants stayed out of her way. Good. She didn't want to be pandered to right now. The argument with August already put her in a rotten mood, and then the two of them left her alone in this wretched place. They left her, they left her, they left her, they—
"Oh, don't make that face, your highness, you'll get wrinkles." The weathered voice of a crone reached Monica, and she was immediately twelve years old again. Countless smile lines ran deep crevices across her tan face, framing her lively brown eyes. She was short, the hunch not helping, and she walked with a gnarled old walking stick—smoothed from decades, perhaps centuries, of calloused fingers.
Though she was head maid of both Monica's wing of the castle and the War Room and the previous lady-in-waiting to Monica's mother, Baba Anai wore the traditional garb of the tribes of the Alkuthban Alzujajia, known in Etherian as the glass dunes or the glass desert. The galabeya fell in loose pleats of rough cloth all the way to her ankles—simple and modest. She was a talented shaman contracted to a powerful aridic spirit, and though she never achieved a Zyph body, she was skilled enough to live well into her third century. Mages generally live longer than non-mages, resulting from housing higher-than-normal amounts of Zyph in their bodies. As a mage harbors more and more Zyph within themselves, the body begins to use it to perform more and more life-sustaining processes, allowing a longer lifespan.
"I can't get wrinkles, Anai. I don't age, remember?" Monica attempted a pleasant smile.
Apparently, she failed because Anai stepped forward and rubbed her back consolingly, "Keep your head up, your highness. Melancholy doesn't suit you."
She huffed a breathy laugh, "Melancholy rarely suits anyone, I reckon."
"It suits the king just fine, always brooding and frowning—the man practically lives under a gray cloud." The crone laughed at her own comment, a sound full of life and youth. It brought Monica a slight but genuine smile—nothing like a little light treason to lift her spirits.
"You should be careful, Baba; Sebastian is in a particularly foul mood today." Monica didn't hide her amusement.
The old shaman smirked, "Ohh? Do share, Your Highness, do share. I'm in need of a little pick me up."
"Well…" Monica told her of morning court and all the fine details of Sebatian's fury. The old lady was all for it, soaking up the gossip like a schoolgirl. Her jubilation nearly wiped the memory of Foster's soul mutilation, "…and when I checked for damage, his soul had huge cracks in it, centered on the two vows." A shadow fell over Baba Anai.
"That idiot boy, always trying to show off in front of his girlfriend. It's your job to keep a leash on him, Your Highness."
Monica didn't have words to describe the heat in her face and the churning in her chest. "I think that is hardly relevant," she said.
"Oh-ho, is that so? Then tell me, Your Highness, why are you blushing up to your ears?"
Oh-ho, is that so? Then tell me, Monica, why are you blushing up to your ears? The voice of her mother overlapped with Baba's in her head. Baba knew what she was doing. After all, she'd been there when her mother confronted her about her little crush some nine years ago. Her mother's voice was as clear and melodic as ever, even in her memories.
"Thank you, Baba. I think I needed that." Using the moniker the royal siblings coined for her as toddlers, Monica lowered her head in respect of the kind elderly head maid before excusing herself and setting off for the warp circle to the War Room.