I exhaled a charming laugh even as my fingers twitched toward the hilt of my sword.

Fooled by the pleasantness of my expression, Count Flirien continued, “His Royal Highness’ lack of eloquence is a major concern, your Highness. I know spouses tend to believe only praise of each other — I certainly think my countess is the most brilliant woman imaginable — did you know she discovered a solution to the blights plaguing my village’s cornfields for two generations within a single year of our wedding? — but it is always wise to be prepared. His Royal Highness will not hold the rank for long. He is a poor choice, and I do not know how we will be able to follow him.” By the tone of his voice and the look on his face, he presumed my agreement to his slickly delivered words alongside the approval of all six nobles who stood with us.

Curling my lips into a sweet smile, I answered, “My husband is not fond of court, yes, but that does not matter, Count Flirien.”

He blinked. “No?”

I let a hint of the bloodlust for which my birth-family and -nation were so infamous emerge in the cast of my gaze. “I will be present at his back to ensure every fool knows his place.”

The nobles winced, unable to entirely control their expressions, while Count Flirien stared, pale skin blanching as horror mixed with the shock in his eyes.

I raised a brow.

He visibly swallowed and dipped a reverence, understanding what point I had made.

Retaining that ruthless expression, I inclined my head and walked away, easily ignoring the pressure of the nobles’ gazes. Instead, my eyes caught on the approving smile worn by my mother-by-marriage as she and her elder son dealt with another group.

Beneath the façade of my unshakable confidence, the little girl desperate for parental affection that I still was squealed with joy. Particularly since the memory of Queen Edana’s disapproval of me as her son’s consort remained all too vivid. She had only begrudgingly agreed to let me marry him when she realized my skill in sorcery and weapons-craft compensated well for my being of a different kind.

It was not kindist sentiment, not entirely at least. Because magic was matrilineal, the identity of a person’s mother determined what type of magic her children were likely to possess — whether wish or arms or no magic at all, and often the degree of strength as well. Queen Edana preferred her sons to marry from among the Mutharrim because such women were more likely to bequeath powerful wish magic to the next generation of Koroma’s heirs, like she herself had. That was why only the news of my own powerful magic, and less so my prowess in battle, had placated her.

And now, it seemed, my defense of her son, though hardly Koromic in its execution, added to my prestige in her eyes.

I would always defend him. Always. For what he had done for me, there was no recompense.

Shifting my stride into a walk reminiscent of a lioness’ prowl, I approached the next cluster of courtiers. Even as my mind dwelled, as it so often had these last months, on how blessed I was that he had chosen me. 

My birth-nation held two reputations: the first, our war-craving nature, as seen in how we had incited half of all conflicts since the Quest of Light’s founding, and the second, the fierce sisterhood of our ruling family. The matriarchal Shehenzahak house treasured their daughters over jewels, wind, rain, harvests, and the crimson drops of their rivals’ blood. Even the daughters of the few sons born in the family were prized, like stars bestowed by the divine.

Or so was their renown. For, since my birth, that sisterhood had changed.