"Truly powerful women don't explain why they want respect. They simply don't engage those who don't give it to them." - Sherry Argov

Raven's Peak, Ardam 40

Trained to obey the Ardam crest, a guard moving to stop me quivers when he recognises it on my ring. Family portraits whip past as I march forth through the hallway. Seeing my father among them, his stern emerald eyes smiling down on me, crimson curls dancing - barely contained by the green ribbon at the nape of his neck, causes my step to falter for a moment.

"I will announce myself, thank you," my commanding voice echoes to another guard who dares to interrupt my purposeful stride as I arrive at the great hall's door. Frozen in astonishment, he almost topples over as I throw the massive door open.

Scowls and stares turn to the door, waiting to see who will be announced. The silence stretches on. More heads turn when the hush remains uninterrupted by the customary introduction of the arrived. Faces wriggle with disgust at the breach of social etiquette; lascivious gazes of lust and admiration latch onto me, and eyes with predator-like jealousy threaten my unwavering courage.

My graceful stomps echo through the hall as I study those seated at the main table. King Friduric, my father's firstborn, sits in the middle - on the chair that used to be my father's. With his fiery red hair he is Ardam Vaubadon's spitting image; his claim to the throne indisputable. Dark blotches of wine spill on the table as he clutches his silver goblet tighter with white knuckles.

A hollow feeling holds my breath hostage as my eyes move to Friduric's right and lock with Ferdaid's hollowed out olive green eyes. My second brother's shoulder-length jet-black hair smoothed backwards, is in stark contrast with his almost translucent skin. He was never as burly and stocky as Friduric, but he seems to have lost a lot of weight.

My heart misses a beat. No. He is too young to have the same thing that killed my father. Father was a skeleton before he died.

To Friduric's left is Queen Claira. She is three or so years younger than me. I did not attend Friduric and Claira's wedding. Claira stayed with us for almost a year before I left. She helped convince my brothers to grant me the necessary leave of absence. My brothers were not immune to her hazel eyes, faint freckles, and jovial personality. Her auburn hair, now tucked into a plait circling her head, used to have a slight kink that reached her hips whenever she let it rebel against the latest fashions. The crimson dress and ruby earrings accentuate her heart-shaped face.

With warmth radiating from her smiling eyes and the evident pride in her straight shoulders, she doesn't need the crown resting on her head to declare her position as queen. However, the crown of gilded leaves and rubies ensure that her claim as the people's sweetheart remains unchallenged.

A shiver runs down my spine as a marble woman with ice in her eyes studies me. Her blue gown, with its pearly hem, match her eyes. Even though I have never met her, it isn't difficult to add a name to the woman to Claira's left. Lady Catharina - Ferdaid's wife. Her hair, almost a midnight blue, hangs in a simple plait embedded with pearls. Now I understand why they call her The Lady Ice.

Lady Catharina bears a resemblance to the man on Ferdaid's right; an ambitious man I have met before. Lord Riann. Oh yes, she is his daughter. His power grab is working out well for him. Through his daughter, he is married to Ardam's second son. He shares an identical cruel twitch of his lips with his daughter.

None of the faces I recognize, recognize me.

At the last moment, someone to my left stands up. The elf is dressed in the characteristic blue I know so well - that of the Second Order. He meets my eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. His lashes, long and thick, hide his dark blue eyes. A silver browband - not decorated with gems, but with an intricate scene of the forest carved into it - keeps his ebony hair out of his face.

Perhaps Prince Eoghan Darkwood, heir to the Elderlight throne of ArBrae? Quite likely, but it is strange that he isn't seated at the main table.

I stare at the main table's occupants for a moment. There is an empty chair at the table. From the empty chair's place at the table, I know that it should be occupied by someone who is currently absent. It is not my chair. The placing is wrong for if it were mine.

The hall is eerily silent as I walk up the stairs and take the seat.

Friduric's face's colour matches that of his hair. Ferdaid is paler than snow.

"What is the meaning of this?" Friduric splutters.

"I'm here for my welcoming feast, of course," I reply sweetly.

"And who are you?" asks Lady Catherina with an obvious expression of disgust - and the cruel twitch of her mouth corners.

Great. I've already made her hate me.

Her question is echoed in the expressions of the others seated at the table. A spark of recognition flares in Ferdaid's eyes, but it quickly smothers as Catharina answers yet again through gritted teeth. "Who you are doesn't matter. Get away from this table, now."

A whirlpool of emotions bubbles up inside me. "Dear Catharina, you'll soon find out that I matter more than you could imagine."

Her eyes widen in recognition of my family crest as I tuck one of my curls behind my ear with an awkward gesture aimed at flashing the ring, and not rearranging my hair. "I need to leave you with something to gossip about."

My heart threatens to explode from my chest as I walk to a door just to the right of the platform. I enter a hallway and walk until I'm out of the guards' view.

I have been looking forward to seeing my family for years. Tears well up behind my eyes. They didn't recognise me at all. The heartwarming welcome, squeezing hugs, and joyous dinner with my family that I had hoped for, were as non-existent as fairies.

Wiping my eyes, I resolve to find comfort in the familiar. The world between the walls - a maze of secret entrances and caves that my father showed me when I was six years old - should offer me a way to escape my disappointment.

Perhaps I would be more welcome as a healer offering to save lives.

Without any hesitation my finger traces the rough outline of the symbol hidden on the wall, the familiar ridges brushing against my fingertips. As silently as the night, a hole opens in the wall as the secret entrance, tuned to the touch of the Vaubadon bloodline, responds to my touch. The complexity of magic was never explained to me by my father, yet I accepted his word without question. It is the same magic that allows my crown and family ring to remain safe in a box that only my family and I can open.

The narrow hole threatens to compress all the air from my chest as I squeeze through, tracing a different symbol to close the wall. My chest threatens to explode as the darkness swallows me. Sticky spiderwebs ensnare my hand as it wedges into a crevice. A sigh of relief escapes my pursed lips as my hand brushes against a smooth, cold surface. Golden light immediately seeps through the crack as I withdraw the ligtlob.

All the doorways into the walls have ligtlobes in crevices next to them. Ligtlobes are really expensive to buy, and you have to buy them from dwarves, but they are the best source of light possible. Using any type of flame inside the walls would be beyond stupid. I have seen that suffocation and being charred to a crisp aren't good ways to die.

The narrow tunnel leads me to a set of steep stairs. Following them up and then down almost immediately, I know that I have just traversed over a door in the castle itself. The wall paths are at the same level as the castle floors, yet have countless flights of stairs to provide passage over any obstacles in the main castle.

When I was smaller, I used to be afraid that someone using the wall path would fall through the stairs and onto my head. I couldn't voice my fears to anyone outside of my family, because only my family knew of the existence of the wall paths. One day I abruptly realized that no one in my family even used the wall paths. My fear disappeared instantaneously.

Before my father's death, I never had the urgency to use them but after he passed, the tunnels allowed me free access to the castle, the city, and information.

The only negative thing about being the only person using the wall paths is that I must brave spider webs and dust webs blocking them, but I figured out a way to deal with them. Years ago I placed sticks next to all the doorways. I use the sticks to clear the path before me.

Good job, past-Aebbé!

I pull my cloak tighter as the chilly wind numbs my fingers and nose when I exit at a desolate part of the castle gardens, wishing that I could see more of the magnificent garden. Perhaps another day - soon.

The city's main roads, lit by the soft yellow light of the lanterns, are filled with soldiers patrolling, and battle-injured men making their way home.

I arrive at the mountain and take the tedious steps up. There is a lift, but I remember that it only runs from sun-up to sun-down. The stairs consist of a narrow passageway creeping up the mountain. Previously the long climb winded me and left me gasping for breath in agony, but now I climb the stairs with ease, arriving in a large foyer, filled with beds and mattresses all over the floor. One look tells me that this is now occupied by citizens with serious day-to-day ails. A nurse is busy helping an old toothless woman drink water from a jug.

I move through the dimly lit foyer to the next room also occupied by citizens.

The soldiers start in the following two halls - the ones with minor injuries: cuts large enough to warrant stitches but not life-threatening; broken limbs (with the bones inside the body); and other less serious injuries.

The next hall bustles with activity; a group gathered off-centre seem to be the main attraction.

"My people also need these things," a man with a warm voice that immediately makes me think of a bubbling fountain in the sun asks. His curls are the brightest thing in the hall. It reminds me of a field of wheat illuminated by the sun, or maybe the sun would be the field of wheat illuminated by his hair.

I give a giggle at the thought.

He is taller than those gathered around him, but not by much.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the stock tally has to count up or the Master will have our hides," a nurse answers.

"I can recompense you," he draws his hand through his golden curls

The nurse's shoulders slump. "It's not about us, sir. We want to help you, but we cannot give out stock. Master has his orders from the King."

"So your king expects us to fight your battles, but he doesn't want to take care of my injured soldiers?" the man asks with an icy voice that chills me to the bone.

Someone mumbles an unintelligible reply.

The man turns around and meets my gaze. His eyes lock with mine. For a timeless moment, I am unaware of anything except his intense blue eyes. Blue eyes are not uncommon in Ardam Land, but his eyes are different. I can see the sea in them. They are a deep, ocean-blue with rays of sunlight travelling through them. A desire to jump into a pool and swim is awoken in me.

His eyes are sad, though. As if he has seen too much sorrow to ever laugh again. Even though his eyes are so sad, they are the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. I decide that something in his past must haunt him and that immediately quirks my curiosity. I like mysteries, and he immediately poses a lot of questions I need to answer.

He is dressed in a simple white shirt and a beige coloured pair of trousers. A large golden brooch, shaped like the sun and decorated with small blue sapphires, pins his blue and golden cloak to his shoulder. His scabbard has an elaborate golden hilt peeking out.

"You should not snicker at my people's need for supplies for the care of their wounds."

My breath hitches. I have no desire to have his wrath directed at me.

"I wasn't snickering about anything like that. I was giggling at the thought that your hair looks like potential food," I say and then slam my hand over my mouth.

He looks at me with a frozen expression, and then a warm, rumbling laugh erupts from his stomach: "I have been described as handsome with eyes bluer than the sea and hair the colour of the sun and as the most charming in all of Ligtland, but never as potential food - although many women have told me that they would like to bite me."

He rewards me with a smile that even outshines Captain Ouliuiu's as he walks towards me with confident strides, extending a hand with elegant fingers and bulging veins. "I am Caith."

The name rings a bell. "Lord Caith, Lord Commander of the Second Order Caith?" I have heard a lot about this Lord Caith: a human, with no known family name, that has been promoted to the highest position among elves. The man is a legend.

A slight blush creeps up his cheeks: "Again a beautiful woman knows of my existence before I know of hers."

My blush is even more noticeable than his. "What supplies do the elves need?" I ask instead - knowing that focusing on something I know would lessen the chances of me embarrassing myself.

"My people need a list of things, but the most important would be poppy juice, bandages, stitches, and ointments to prevent infection."

"I can help with that."

"I doubt you can. The incompetent King has given orders denying us the use of supplies on anyone not from his army or his order."

I shrug and address the nurses: "Please help Lord Caith obtain everything he requires."

"I cannot do that, ma'am."

"Because you fear Elan's wrath or the king's?"

"Master Elan would have our hides."

"Pfft! He likes to have everyone think he is dangerous, but he is no more than an old puppy."

Their eyes widen.

"An old puppy?" Lord Caith asks.

"I will deal with his so-called wrath."

I see their hesitation and take my family ring off: "Here, take my ring if you still fear the king." I hand my ring to a slouching nurse.

She immediately recognizes the ring, even if she has no idea who I am. "Yes milady. We will give the lord everything he needs." She hastily hands the ring back to me.

Lord Caith looks amused.

"There you go."

"No, here I stand."

It takes me a moment to register his joke. I smile.

"If your people require anything else, please feel free to ask either me or Master Elan. We both have a debt to repay to your people."

"And whom would I ask for to find you should I require anything?"

It seems that there is a reference to something that I should know of, but it evades me.

"I will be here. No need to find me."

His eyes narrow for a moment.

"It was an honour to meet you, Lord Caith. The elves never stop talking about you - even if half of them are jealous of you and the other half only feels contempt at your existence."

My eyes widen as I register what I said.

"I should not have said that."

He grins: "Do not worry. I know all of that."

Smiling, I turn around. I walk through the hospital, inspecting it and taking note of the soldiers and their injuries. One of the nurses is hunched over a soldier. She looks worried. I walk to her. One look tells me this soldier immediately needs surgery.

"Nurse, what is your name?"

"I am named Marilla." Her strawberry blond hair is tied neatly at the nape of her neck.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen," she says beamingly.

"Marilla, how long have you been working here?"

"Since my birthday - almost a month ago. The Master has strict rules. No one under the age of fourteen may work for him."

"Is this what you want to do?"

She nods enthusiastically: "My mother was the village nurse. She taught us what she knew."

"Us?"

"My sister and I."

A sad look takes root on her face: "But my sister has passed since."

I give her (what I hope is) an empathetic smile.

"Marilla, would you please get two of your colleagues to help us?"

The three nurses and I carry the soldier to an empty room. I wash my hands. Marilla is helpful and answers my questions. She chatters forth as we work to save the soldier's life.

A few hours later the soldier is stable and I am up to date with all the gossip in Raven's Peak, the course of the war, and stories from Marilla's youth.

I'm sewing the last stitches when I hear a familiar voice booming: "I heard there is an imbecile who is taking over my hospital."

I turn to Master Elan - a tiny mouse of a man, bald with white straw hair blown in every direction that the wind blows, with a red blot of a nose. His hair used to be dark grey.

"I completely agree that you are inept as hospital master."

Marilla stares at me with wide eyes.

He squints at me: "I might be old now, but I am not inept."

"You, old? You're ancient."

I finish my stitch.

He grins. "And you are still a baby."

"I'm eight years older."

"No, Twit, eight years wiser."

I scrub my hands clean: "Is that not the same thing, Master?"

He embraces me. I grin and hug him tightly.

He orders a nurse to bring us tea and leads me to his office. It might previously have been used as a closet of some sort, because Elan's table and the two chairs have been squeezed in, barely leaving room for the stacks and stacks of paperwork that threaten to conquer the room.

The man always hated the administrative aspect of his vocation, relying on me to sort it out for him.

Gathering the pile of papers from the nearest chair and stack it on top of a paper mountain on the table. I sit down. The moment I do so, exhaustion crashes into me. I yawn.

"Pfft. If you can stand all night and kill my patients, you can stay up and tell me about the past eight years."

"I saved him, you nitwit."

He grins.

"So? Was it as I said it would be?"

"Your version was untrue."

He looks at me in disgust.

"It was even better than you said it would be."

He grins.

"The Palace of Healers was magnificent. It is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. The palace at Ligeia does not compare to its beauty. It is enormous - as you said it would be. I think it is larger than the whole of Raven's Peak."

I am lost in nostalgia for a moment.

"The elves were stiff and unfriendly, though not impolite. They were too polite."

"Yes, they resent our presence."

"And they resented me even more."

"Because you are not a man."

I shrug and launch into the condensed version of the past eight years: "I arrived in Inwir City with your letter of recommendation, a copy of my father's will with an emphasis on the part where he requested that I continue my learning as a healer from you and from the elves when you deemed me fit, and a letter from my brothers."

"They wrote that letter grudgingly, if my memory serves me," Elan says pensively.

"Yes, they did not approve of sending me away for seven years, but as it was one of Father's dying wishes they could not refuse. Before King Ardam's will was read they wanted me to send me to Da-Nel - for what reason I have no idea."