[Imperial Palace—Eshkaran Empire—The Playroom—Later]
Seyra Veyrath stood before the enormous cedar doors of the imperial playroom with the expression of a woman who had worked for forty years without receiving a single day of paid leave.
Her little arms were folded across her chest, her violet eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, and the faint crease between her brows suggested that the entire Eshkaran Empire had personally disappointed her.
"Why do I have to mingle with those children?"
Captain Ishtar Khaelis, who had spent years facing armed warriors, political conspiracies, and nobles with considerably more ambition than intelligence, found herself struggling against a challenge far more dangerous.
A four-year-old with an opinion.
"My lady," she said patiently, "this is the age when children begin meeting others and learning to socialize. It is important for your development."
"Development into what?"
Ishtar blinked. "Pardon?"
"What am I developing into? A merchant? A soldier? A court official? If I need to learn something, surely there are more productive ways to spend my time."
She paused, considering the matter with the gravity of a royal adviser discussing the empire’s treasury.
"Like sleeping."
Ishtar pressed her lips together.
"My lady, making friends is also important."
"Why?"
"So you won’t be lonely."
Seyra stared at her.
"Captain, I have you."
Ishtar’s expression softened despite herself. "That is very sweet, my lady."
"And I have Papa, and the servants bring me sweets whenever I ask."
Ishtar’s smile began to falter.
"The gardens have birds; the kitchens have honey cakes." Seyra counted each item on her tiny fingers. "Explain to me, Captain, precisely where the shortage of companionship is occurring."
Ishtar opened her mouth but could not say anything.
She had commanded soldiers through three border skirmishes. She had once stood between the Azram and an enraged foreign ambassador, yet she was losing a diplomatic negotiation with someone whose feet did not reach the bottom of a chair.
"My lady, human relationships are more complicated than that."
"Then they sound poorly designed."
. . .
. . .
Ishtar smiled silently asking the ancient gods for patience.
’My lady is four years old. Four years old, with the soul of a retired grandmother who has lost faith in humanity and is considering moving somewhere quiet to grow medicinal herbs.’
Seyra released a long, suffering sigh.
If Papa wanted her to make friends, he should have arranged a diplomatic treaty. A few gifts, a carefully worded agreement, perhaps an exchange of valuable resources.
Peaceful relations established, no unnecessary conversation required. Surely the empire possessed an official procedure for this sort of thing.
Unfortunately, her father had apparently decided that the best approach was to throw her into a room full of strange children and hope she emerged with a friendship.
Barbaric...absolutely barbaric.
The cedar doors began to open, and Seyra’s expression darkened.
The playroom beyond was bright and spacious, its painted ceiling depicting celestial beasts and the ancient gods of Eshkaran. Bronze lamps illuminated colorful cushions scattered across the polished floor. Miniature wooden chariots stood beside shelves of clay animals, carved soldiers, and stuffed creatures fashioned from soft linen.
A group of children were playing near the center of the room. Some chased one another around the cushions, while others argued over a wooden horse. One little boy had apparently decided that a stuffed lion was a suitable replacement for a royal crown and was attempting to wear it on his head.
It was a perfectly ordinary scene of childhood chaos, and then the doors opened wide. Every child turned toward the entrance.
And there stood Seyra Veyrath.
A tiny girl dressed in ivory and gold, her violet eyes cold, her arms folded, and her expression so profoundly displeased that she looked less like a child arriving to play and more like a young ruler inspecting a territory she intended to annex before lunch.
Silence fell.
The boy wearing the stuffed lion froze with one paw-shaped ear dangling over his forehead. Another child slowly lowered his cup of pomegranate juice, as though sudden movement might provoke an international incident.
Seyra looked at them with dead eyes.
Her gaze moved from one child to another, assessing them with the detached interest of a tax collector examining a particularly disappointing ledger.
Behind her, Captain Ishtar felt her soul attempt to leave her body.
"My lady," she whispered urgently, bending closer, "perhaps you could smile for approachability?"
"I am approachable."
Ishtar looked at the children, several of whom were now huddled together as if a legendary monster had emerged from the palace dungeons.
Her expression looks like she had given the children until sunset to surrender their territories, and it made the children step back in fear.
Ishtar shut her eyes.
’No one is approaching my lady. The Azram can silence a hall of nobles merely by entering it. Apparently, his daughter can accomplish the same thing in a room full of children without even trying.’
And she had inherited her father’s expression, too. That same cold, regal stare. The same unsettling stillness. The same ability to make an entire room reconsider every decision that had led it to the present moment.
The only difference was that Vaerun Veyrath wore his authority like a crown. Seyra wore hers like a permanent state of irritation.
"My lady," Ishtar murmured, "perhaps you should introduce yourself."
Seyra considered this suggestion with the reluctance of someone being asked to sign a treaty with an enemy nation.
Then she stepped forward.
"Good evening. I am Seyra Veyrath."
. . .
. . .
Silence.
Not ordinary silence, the kind of silence that descended when someone accidentally announced that the executioner had arrived.
The children stared at her.
"V-Veyrath?" someone whispered.
The name traveled through the room like a particularly unpleasant rumor.
"She’s that Veyrath?"
"The Azram’s daughter?"
"My father said we should never anger anyone from House Veyrath!"
A smaller voice piped up from somewhere behind a cushion.
"Does that mean she can make children cry, too?"
Several children immediately looked as though they were about to test that theory. Seyra stood perfectly still; her violet eyes moved from one frightened face to another.
"Looks like even they don’t like me," Seyra muttered, and then she turned around. "Captain, we should leave."
Ishtar nearly swallowed her own tongue.
"L-Leave?"
"Yes. We have completed the introduction. They know my name, and I know they are terrified of me. A remarkably efficient meeting, if you ask me."
"My lady, please wait!"
Seyra stopped and looked up at her with the weary expression of a tiny woman whose retirement had been denied for the third time.
"What now?"
Ishtar crouched slightly, lowering her voice as though they were discussing a matter of state security.
"The Azram specifically instructed me to make sure you have at least one friend."
Seyra stared at her, then her little mouth fell open.
"Why?"
Ishtar hesitated.
"Because—"
Seyra’s voice rose with every repetition.
"Why does Papa not leave me alone? First, he makes me come here. Then he orders me around and now he wants me to speak to anyone my age, as though I were personally responsible for the decline of the empire’s birth rate!"
Ishtar’s lips twitched.
"What is next? Will he order me to become best friends with the royal treasury?"
Ishta tried to laugh but held and hurriedly reached into her sleeve and produced a small embroidered pouch.
Seyra eyed it suspiciously.
"What is that?"
"Candies."
Seyra’s expression remained blank. "Are you suggesting I bribe them?"
"No, my lady! It is simply a gift. Children enjoy sweets."
"Children also enjoy screaming, throwing things, and putting questionable objects into their mouths. I am not convinced their judgment should be trusted."
"Nevertheless, sweets are an excellent way to begin a friendship."
Seyra took the pouch between two fingers. It was small, beautifully embroidered, and filled with colorful candies wrapped in thin pieces of gold-colored paper.
She stared at it as though Ishtar had handed her a weapon of questionable quality.
"How am I supposed to play with those children?" she demanded. "Do I throw a candy at one of them? Will that make them like me?"
"I sincerely hope you will not throw anything at them, my lady."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Approach them. Offer them a candy. Smile."
Seyra’s expression became even more exhausted.
"Smile?"
"Yes."
"I have not yet mastered the art of smiling on command."
"You smile quite often when the Azram brings you sweets."
"Because Papa loves me, and I love Papa."
Ishtar opened her mouth; no words emerged. For a moment, Ishtar considered abandoning the mission entirely, then she remembered Vaerun’s expression when he had given her the order.
Make sure my daughter has at least one friend.
The Azram had not threatened her.
He had not raised his voice; he had simply looked at her and said those words with the calm certainty of a man who expected the world to rearrange itself accordingly.
Unfortunately, Ishtar was beginning to suspect that making Seyra Veyrath socialize might be more difficult than conquering a neighboring kingdom.
"My lady," she said with renewed determination, "I believe in you."
Seyra looked deeply unimpressed.
"I shall remain here while you approach them."
Seyra tightened her grip on the pouch and groaned. It was a long, tragic sound, filled with the suffering of generations. Then, dragging her little feet across the polished floor, she took one reluctant step toward the children.
Behind her, Ishtar clasped her hands together.
"I wish you the very best, my lady."
Seyra did not look back.
"I hope you remember me fondly."
"My lady!"
And with that, Seyra Veyrath marched toward the most terrifying battlefield of her young life.
Friendship.
Across the playroom, a little boy stood watching the scene unfold, he had black hair that refused to stay neatly combed, ocean-green eyes, and the sort of determined expression usually worn by soldiers marching toward their first battle.
His name was Enlil Nabu, from House Nabu and the son of Kharan(Marquess) Naram Nabu and Eshara Nabu.
At present, he was engaged in a fierce internal struggle.
On one side stood his curiosity and the other stood the collective wisdom of every adult who had ever warned him about House Veyrath.
Curiosity, unfortunately, was losing.
He watched Seyra approach with the candy pouch clutched in her tiny hand. The other children scattered and within moments, the space around Seyra had become suspiciously empty.
Enlil swallowed.
’They are all afraid of her but...I am not.’
He had heard stories about House Veyrath, too.
Terrifying stories.
Stories involving the Azram’s cold stare, his ruthless authority, and the extraordinary ability of Veyrath family members to make grown adults reconsider their life choices.
His father had been particularly enthusiastic about passing this wisdom down to him. In fact, he could still remember the conversation from earlier that morning.
His father Naram had crouched in front of him, his blue eyes unusually serious.
"Listen carefully, son. There is one thing you must remember when dealing with House Veyrath, never anger them."
"Why?"
"Because they are the most dangerous household in the empire."
His father had gripped his shoulders.
"If you ever meet someone from House Veyrath, you must be respectful. Speak carefully. Avoid provoking them, and, above all, never do anything that might attract the Azram’s attention."
The little boy had nodded solemnly.
"I understand."
"Good. A sensible boy knows when to stay away from danger."
Then—
SMACK!
A sharp slap landed against the back of his father’s head.
"OW!"
The Marquesses Eshara with green eyes stood behind him, her expression positively murderous. "What exactly are you teaching our son?"
His father clutched the back of his head and turned around.
"D-Darling! I was simply giving him some useful advice!"
"Useful advice?" she repeated.
"Yes! I am preparing him for the realities of the world!"
"You are teaching a child to be afraid of another person!"
"I am teaching him to be cautious!"
"You are teaching him to hide behind furniture!"
"Furniture is remarkably effective cover in certain situations!"
His wife stared at him, he stared back and then, apparently deciding that honesty was the only way to survive the conversation, he added, "Especially when the Azram is involved."
Another slap landed against his back.
"Stop making everything sound like a military campaign!"
"I am not!"
"You just told our son that approaching a little girl requires battlefield strategy!"
"Because it might!"
His wife took a deep breath. It was the sort of breath a person took before deciding whether murder was worth the paperwork.
Then she turned toward their son.
Enlil stood between them, looking from one parent to the other with the solemn expression of someone who had just discovered that adults were not nearly as intelligent as they pretended to be.
His mother crouched in front of him and gently straightened his collar.
"Listen to me, sweetheart. You can be careful without being afraid. The Veyraths are powerful, yes. That does not mean you should treat every member of their family like a monster."
Then she smiled at her son.
"I heard the Azram has a daughter around your age. If you want to be her friend, you can approach her. You can speak to her. You can even ask her to play with you. Just be polite and be yourself."
The little boy’s eyes brightened.
"Really?"
"Of course."
"But Father said—"
"Your father once apologized to a chair because he bumped into it while thinking about the Azram."
His father’s face turned crimson. "That chair was in the imperial audience chamber!"
"And?"
"It was an expensive chair!"
His wife ignored him.
"Remember, sweetheart. Courage doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid. It means you do the right thing even when you are."
The boy considered her words, then he nodded firmly. "I understand, Mother."
She kissed his forehead.
"Good boy."
His father leaned forward, looking considerably less confident. "And remember to remain polite. Very polite. Excessively polite, if necessary."
His wife slowly turned her head.
"Dear...do you want another slap?"
The little boy watched his father retreat with a thoughtful expression, now he is standing here in front of Seyra with brave heart.
Seyra was standing alone muttering, "I don’t understand, I brought gifts. Why is diplomacy failing?"
The little boy’s heart was thumping and he curled his fingers into fists. His stomach performed what he could only describe as an extremely aggressive somersault.
He took one step forward.
’I am the son of a respectable household, my father once apologized to a chair...I can approach Azram’s daughter and be a brave kid.’
He drew in a deep breath and clenched his fists tighter, then he lifted his chin and marched toward Seyra with all the courage his tiny body could muster.
He was going to approach the daughter of the Azram, he was going to speak to her and he was going to become her friend.
Enlil froze.
For one terrible moment, every word he had ever learned abandoned him. His mother’s encouragement, his father’s warnings, and every carefully rehearsed greeting vanished from his mind.
Then Seyra smiled. It was a small, perfectly composed smile that failed to reach her violet eyes.
Enlil’s heart nearly stopped.
Seyra tilted her head, studying him with the solemnity of a queen who had just discovered a particularly troublesome problem with her kingdom.
"I need a drink."