Legend of Ransera

"No, Your Highness," he replied, eyes downcast.

While he had never managed to truly connect with his father, he remained his father. He knew of no other Len'Myren relatives, and most people had considered his father a bit of a rakish roustabout. His mother had never said an unkind word about him, but then, she hadn't stayed with him. Laurevere had been the only other person to show any sort of regard for the deceased Len'Hytori, but Sivan had assumed that were he not part Siltori, he never would have taken such a shine to Sivan himself.

"Yes, Your Highness. Destynrael's clan was decimated by the Zaichaeri, and he settled here, though his settlement is tenuous. I think he only comes back because of his handful of friends here. He is like me in that... we are not greatly ambitious, but seem to stumble into strange acquaintances. I do not know whether Talon Novalys' bequest was out of a sense of noblesse oblige or because he recognized that we were more likely better stewards for the seed than anyone in his employ.

"It grows but slowly, required draconic fertilizer, and even with my skill at sembling I haven't divined its full nature and purpose."

"The Draegir has been problematic," Laurevere interjected. He, at least, had spent some time in court, though as an elf of mixed descent, he hadn't been put forward overmuch. "Quickly vanquished by—I believe—a joint operation between Zaichaer and the Gelerian Imperium. Enslaved like any other Kathar. Questionably released. He spends time cavorting with the desert apostates, perhaps currying favor with the power-mad twins recently released from their prison. There are grumbles even here in the city where he grew up beloved that his grasp of justice is tenuous."

His impressive jawline clenched in deep-seated racial animus.

Sivan was quiet through this. Politics were not his bailiwick, nor the divination of divine intentions. Should Rhydian turn his Rune upon him, he would allow at least a surface scan. There were layers upon layers of mental wards surrounding some things, however: trade secrets; the Kindred.

Both of the elves-in-exile bowed their heads in response to Rhydian's summation. While the high elf looked thoughtful, Sivan considered his garden. He was proud of it, proud that his work had afforded the spirits and the flora and fauna a safe place to flourish despite the trials and tribulations of the world outside. And the modest cottage he had rented, he now owned, and it had grown with the help of Geb and several other spirits, keen to enlarge the sanctuary for themselves and for Sivan, their beloved steward.

"Your Highness..." Sivan ventured, apropos of his thoughts, though it might seem of nothing to those there present. "Do you know aught of the mercenary group, the Sparrowhawks?"

Gold-tinged platinum eyebrows rose in mild surprise, the only flag that Laurevere was surprised by the tangent.

"Their sign is an arrow bound by a circle, all in gold," Sivan continued. "A few years ago, my home was burglarized and the only real clue was a scrap of paper with a few words and their symbol. Strange it should be left among the wreckage when they didn't seem to truly steal anything. The Sky Guard never did come up with anything."

"And that was why I taught you the art of the blade, young Sivan," Laurevere reminded him urbanely, trying to steer him away from things no prince of Sol'Valen should know—not yet. "Your Highness would be impressed. In less than three years, he went from novice to a blade even your august family might take into their service." His smile was fond, and a touch proud. "Between your blades and your arcane skill, you ought have no fear of hired thugs, whatever their reason for targeting an up and coming Hytori elf abroad."

Laurevere thought it best that the prince's summation cast the blame back toward Karnor. There were countless times he had wanted to tell Sivan everything, pull him into the secret and give the unknown Sol'Miaren agency in bringing his House back to life just as the proverbial Phoenix. The decision was not his to make, however. He realized he wasn't doing such a good job making Sivan look like any old Len'Hytori, but Sivan was, to his mind, exceptional.

Alas.

Sivan looked thoughtful, a touch frustrated. This was an old puzzle he occasionally came back to, but as Laurevere had oft reminded him, whoever had been behind the mysterious, suspicious break-in, they hadn't come back.

"With a Val'Kor prince!?" escaped him before he remembered himself. "Pardon, Your Highness." He glanced to Laurevere, then back. "I do think I have learned quickly, but Laurevere oversells my skill. He still wins the majority of our spars..."

"I need to start stalking you so you will remember to keep your blades on you at all times," Laurevere observed, mostly to himself, possibly joking. Sivan's blue eyes slit; he wasn't so sure about that.

"If you wish it, I will oblige, Your Highness. Please moderate your expectations, though, and I will attempt not to shame my blademaster." He dipped a shallow bow, shallower than he had upon greeting. "I had probably ought to get more practice and more varied practice, though. When we spar here... well, I know the terrain like the back of my hand, and the spirits... like to help."

Sivan smiled reluctantly; while he had met potentates in Kalzasi, they didn't rank on such a knee-jerk level as Val'Hytori in his garden.

"That is not my worry, Your Highness," Sivan assured him wryly. "I will attempt not to bore you."

"The Avialae certainly fight differently," Laurevere noted politely.

The younger elf was quiet, remembering the silhouettes of winged Hytori in Silfanore. But here, they were Avialae first; in Silfanore, they were Hytori first.

"There have been times, Your Highness," he admitted. "In the weeks following the assassination of the Shokaze, when the shadowspawn arrived in the city. Thankfully, my business partner has a source for illumite. We were able to weaponize that, as well as alter lamps to create safe areas. Or safer areas." He smiled at what might become an ongoing joke, though he didn't suppose he would ever encounter the prince of Aerion again after he quit Kalzasi.

Sivan answered more questions. He showed the prince inside so he could see IX, the defunct Awoken that predated the Sundering. He still hoped to revive his old friend, who had entered into his service when their master, Tavári'nar Val'Gwairil, had died. But IX was more than an artificed automaton, had a soul along with his alchemical blood. There were still a great many things lost from the days of yore.

The meal passed pleasantly enough, and when Sivan returned home, he was actually a touch excited to spar with the prince. But once Laurevere was alone, he shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and murmured, "Fuck."