All Is Well

oots struck swiftly across polished white stone, each step answered by the muted jangle of metal. A brilliant green cloak moved behind them in sharp little sweeps, its hem barely touching the floor as the woman crossed the corridor and stopped before a heavy wooden door.
The guard stationed outside recognized her at once. He stepped aside, opened the door, and let her through.

“Your Grace.”

Across the chamber, a female Veyrin turned.

Long ears rose above dark reddish hair, one tilting slightly toward the interruption before the other followed.

“Ah. Wonderful. The Emerald Guard.” She glanced toward the bright morning beyond the windows. “I was almost about to have a peaceful day. Thank goodness you’re here to ruin it.”

“Apologies, Your Grace.”

A pair of servants were setting breakfast upon the small table near the window. The woman took her seat as though the matter had already concluded, reaching immediately toward a bowl of sliced fruit.

“So,” she said, selecting a piece, “what catastrophe have you brought to ruin my morning?”

“No catastrophe, Lady Bree. Only word that a paladin has entered Caerhaven.”

Bree stopped with the fruit halfway to her mouth.

“A paladin?”

“Yes, Lady Bree.”

The surprise passed quickly. Bree popped the fruit into her mouth and gestured for Sophita to continue.

“He is traveling with others. A dwarf, a mage of some sort, what looks to be two scouts, and a priestess. Perhaps a cleric. No word on what church. All fully armed. They brought in an injured elf. It resides in the grove with the druids at the moment.”

Bree reached for another piece of fruit without looking up.

“So weary travelers need mending. I am again robbed of a quiet morning tea without interruption. The sun still shines. All is well.”

“Escorted by Juna herself.”

Bree’s hand stopped above the bowl.

For several seconds, nothing moved except one long ear, which slowly angled toward Sophita .

Then she took another piece of fruit.

“Fascinating as this is,” she said, placing it into her mouth, “I fail to see how it is the business of a Provost.”

Sophita hesitated. “I assumed you would prefer I not bring the matter to the Black Guard, Your Grace.”

Bree looked up. The expression she gave Sophita lingered somewhere between disbelief and accusation. She slowly lowered the fruit back onto her plate.

“Gods.”

Sophita said nothing.

“Fine.” Bree chewed, one cheek still slightly rounded with food. “Who do we have in the south?”

Sophita considered it. “Wolfhart Rikaard is at the stables, I believe.”

Bree rose from the table and crossed toward the window. Morning had settled brightly over Caerhaven. Beyond the glass came the distant churn of the waking city—wheels over stone, voices from the streets, the faint clamor of trade beginning below. Her ears shifted independently toward the sounds, catching pieces of the city that the walls could not quite keep out.

“The Beastmaster will do. Have Mister Rikaard speak with the group.”

The soldier bowed. “Your Grace.”

“And Sophita .”

“Yes.”

“Subtle.”

“Yes.”

Bree turned from the window.

“Sophita.”

“Yes?”

“Absolutely no Black Guard.”

Sophita straightened.

“We do not frighten away one of the few paladins left in Aranthor, let alone his wandering pack of armed friends. If they came this far on their own, they are no weaklings or fools.” Bree glanced once more toward the city below. “There is a reason they are here.”

Her ears settled.

“Find out.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Sophita pivoted sharply and marched from the room, green cloak swirling behind her. The door closed, and the fading cadence of her boots disappeared down the corridor.

For a moment, Bree remained at the window. Then she returned to breakfast.

She reached into the bowl, pulled out a carrot, and stared at it.

One ear lowered.

She tossed it aside.