"Apologies for the rush, Lady Lindbergh. Time is not my ally on this day."
Prince Orwellin strides swiftly along the long, marbled passages of the Royal Palace, Aribelle follows close behind, clutching her dress as she struggles to keep up.
They reach a pair of towering doors, encrusted with golden foliage and secured by two Royal Guards. With a wordless nod, they step aside and pull the doors open.
He leads Aribelle into the chamber. Opulent, yet overwhelmingly organic. Long wooden beams arch like the branches of a tree overhead, multi-coloured leaves blooming from their knots and twigs. A sun-drenched bed slathered in golden silk rests beneath a cascade of soft light that pours through an intricately detailed lattice of open rafters. Carved wardrobes line one wall, and an extensive collection of artwork, artifacts and tomes fills the other.
Silently leading her past all of it, he pulls open a door at the back of the chamber and gestures for Aribelle to step inside. "This way."
She steps inside and he follows, locking the door behind them.
They enter a private study. Books line every wall. Sunlight leaks through a small porthole high up on the walls, the rest of the room lays under the dim flicker of flame crystals scattered about. A curved desk of living wood sits at its center.
"Please have a seat." Prince Orwellin says, pulling back a chair.
"Thank you." Aribelle nods, setting down gently as she smooths out her dress.
"I'm afraid word of your involvement in the expedition's misfortune has reached the nobles. The people will soon follow. The Church and Guild will no doubt use public opinion to turn sentiment against you."
"What can we do?"
"We must get ahead of this. Every detail of the incident, no matter how small, must be recounted." The Prince states, slipping into a chair behind the desk.
"As you wish, m'lord."
The Prince pulls out sheets of parchment and magic quills. With a whispered incantation, they rise, ready to transcribe.
"You may begin."
Voice trembling at first, Aribelle goes on to detail the events of the night. Every word spoken from her lips etched onto parchment by dancing quills.
"... and then, I threw the sphere. It hit the construct. There were sparks and smoke. I don't remember much after that. I was taken, bound and woke up in the throne room. Before you."
The Prince slips a glove from his hand. He slides back the hair framing his forehead, releasing a long sigh as he rubs at his brow.
"I've had the area scoured thoroughly. Not a single trace of what you mention."
"They've buried the evidence." Aribelle whimpers.
"Without a doubt. What about your research? Have you anything that could be of use?"
Aribelle thinks hard, pondering through the mountains of papers and articles that occupy her messy office at the Guild's Verdant Studies laboratory, east of the capital, bordering the Glades of Goddard.
"I would need access to my office at the Guild. All my notes are there."
The Prince scoffs. "It's already gone. No chance the Guild hasn't cleared it. Anything they wouldn't know about? Something hidden?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid."
"Unfortunate. Then we must look elsewhere." He leans forward. "What of the men in the cellar? Anyone familiar?"
"No, m'Lord. No faces. Shadows and hoods mostly."
He sucks his teeth.
"But…: she hesitates, "there was a Magister. I think he may have been in charge."
The Prince's eyes harden. "Anything else you can recall?"
"His voice. Gravelly and sharp. Like my uncle after a day on his pipe."
"Six Magisters remain in the capital. I'll have them investigated. We'll find the one involved."
Aribelle nods with a smile.
"It seems I still have a moment to spare. Join me for lunch?"
"I would be honoured… Orwellin." Aribelle blushes.
The Prince smiles, his ears twitching with amusement. "Progress."
The pair stroll through hidden passages of the palace, arriving at a lush garden. In a clearing, a table is adorned with delicately grilled slices of boar, glazed roots and a medley of berries, served with honeyed cream.
Under hanging vines and whispering willows, the Prince brings up various topics of discussion, trying to bring levity and candidness to their discussions, but Aribelle remains stiff and quiet.
She slips slices of meat into her mouth, smiling softly at the Prince as he speaks on topics of justice, politics and fundamental change. She nods, adding in an occasional word of affirmation.
"... which is why," He concludes, "I wish to implement a system of representative government. The people deserve to be given a voice. That is democracy."
"It sounds like an ideal solution, m'Lord." Aribelle responds softly, just as the Prince's expression shifts.
He moves. Leaping from his seat, he vaults the table and leaps towards a frozen Aribelle..
His arms wrap around her and the pair crash into the edge of the table, launching food, plates and cutlery into the air as they slam into the ground.
"Orwellin!" she gasps, just as four crossbow bolts splinter into the tree behind them, zipping across the space where Aribelle had sat.
"Shh!" He responds as he lay, splayed on top of her, pushing her into the ground. "Assassins. Can you protect yourself?"
"Yes."
"Shield yourself. Now!"
Aribelle nods. She shuts her eyes tightly, chanting incantations in her mind. Thick roots and vines coil up from the ground, twisting and weaving themselves into a living cocoon around her. As the dome closes, she sees the Prince looming above her. He gives a terse nod as he draws a longsword from a glimmering glyph in his palm.
A flash of light bursts deep in the garden, hidden by thick brush. Orwellian twists through the air, dodging a lunging basilisk.
It rears its head, hissing. The beast's long body slithers about the garden clearing, the tendrils of his mane stand erect as scales flutter and pulse in odd patterns about its body, shifting in color.
The Prince, sneering, bursts forth.
The beast opens its jaws and releases a column of corrosive venom. He leaps, twirling, as he clears the jet of acid.
Blade bursting with blue-green flames, slips along the creature's body, cleaving his sword across its flesh, rending scales asunder.
It shrieks, thrashing about, spraying blood as it recoils into the thick brush.
The Prince watches, listens. Stalking his prey as he scans the vegetation surrounding him.
It bursts from a bush, launching at the Prince, mouth wide, venom-dripping fangs pointed at his head.
He counters. Tooth meets steel as he braces against the beast pushing him back. He struggles to contend with the immense power of the creature. Until their eyes meet.
Reaching deep into the monster's mind, the Prince breaks it, and it slumps to the floor with a whimper. His sword pressed into the top of the creature's skull would swiftly end its life.
Gasping, he walks over to Arienne, still covered in roots.
"It is safe, m'lady. You may come out."
The roots slowly recede. Arienne pokes out her head and surveys the scene. Blood pervades the clearing, the creature lay slain in its center and the Prince stands before, coated red.
"Apologies for the mess." The Prince says, wiping his bloodied hand on his pants leg. "We must return to the palace posthaste. It's clear now that they see you as a threat. Things will only escalate from here. We must prepare."
Aribelle lifts from the ground. The Prince quickly grabs her hand and rushes her back towards the palace.
"Prince, are you hurt? Let me heal you."
"I'm fine." He scoffs, wiping his blade across the tail of his coat. "Scrapes mostly. That was a high-level summon, definitely someone from the Guild."
"Summoning magic is rare. Very rare. We should be able to narrow down involvement."
"Yes. But first, your safety is paramount, m'lady."
They race back to the palace. Guards and attendants scramble about as Prince Orwellin shouts orders, demanding answers for the breach in security. He leaves Aribelle in her room, locks the door behind him and storms down the hall, huffing, his eyes ablaze with fury.
The sounds of marching boots soon pervade the palace as squads of guards and knights are brought in to bolster security and reinforce every perimeter.
Aribelle falls onto her bed, exasperated. "Where are you Arienne?" she whispers, clutching at the pendant. "I need you."
She crawls deeper, slumping onto a pillow and pulling it into an embrace. Something scratches at the back of her hand. She investigates and finds a folded piece of parchment half-hidden under the covers.
"Love, Luna." She reads with a smile.
Unfolding it, she reveals two pages. One details an equipment order from Guild headquarters for the night of the expedition's departure. It concludes that all requested items would arrive at the Palace in the afternoon. Transported on two wagons.
She flicks open the other page. A guard log from the Palace entrance. It notes three wagons entering on orders of the Prime Magister for the expedition's departure.
"Luna!" Aribelle yelps, bolting upright. "You genius!"
She quivers as she tightly clutches the parchment, realising she holds in her hand hard evidence of the Guild's misdirections.
Slumping into her pillows with a vindicated sigh, she basks in the warmth of new hope.