The thought of being tied to a stranger through matrimony still seemed sureal.

In his room, Heron found concrete evidence of it. On the nightstand rested a white tunic, a tie cravat, black trousers, and a coat that ran from shoulders do knee-height. The whole plied. Above the white fabric of the tunic was a silver pendant of The Trefoil of Souls: the image of the cycle of souls as they pass through the three Great Vessels — The Orders of The Origin, The Physicals, and The Shadows — each Order occupying one tip of the trefoil.

The door of the room flung open. Lomeon stepped inside.

He watched Heron defiantly, as if promising a duel. He was furious, Heron knew. And the reason for the silence was unmistakable. If Lomeon spoke right away, his words would destroy. Counterproductive if he was determined to amend their relationship.

"We have been waiting for you in the main room for a while," he managed.

"Give me a moment to dress and I will join you right after," Heron said.

"Your first political meeting and you cannot be bothered to do the bare minimum." After all, he opted out of taming his irritation.

Heron realized he'd forgotten the taste of fatherly anger. The sneer sent him back to his ten-year-old self, sensing he was half a misstep away from entering a territory he'd rather avoid.

Two years. Heron sighed. Two years and nothing but formalities between father and son. And threatening his political plans seemed to be Lomeon's limit.

Heron— who first had his eyes averted from his father because it simply was easier— now held Lomeon's gaze. He aimed to hurt. For a moment, he asked himself why. Wondered what it would accomplish. It didn't matter.

"You ever planned to tell me how mother actually died?" He waited one second, the moment to see the shock on his father's face, his neck bones moving with a gulp. Then he turned his attention to his clothes. "You see, don't you? What it means not to care about certain things. Or rather, certain people."

"This is not the appropriate moment." Good his tone was humbler now.

"Of course, it's not," Heron said. "Would there ever be any?"

"Now, the Regency of Owynis is waiting for us. You can come to the courtroom when you wish—" he trailed off, "if you wish to discuss other subjects."

Lomeon was inviting Heron to cross the impassable bridge they had built between them? "I certainly will," Heron said. He wasn't ready. He was acting out it spite. It would suit him alright to let some of the corrosive anger out. If Lomeon was the one to take some of it, even better. "Now, since I have to attend to urgent matters apparently." Heron had already tackled his tie-cravat, twisting it into a rough knot. "Would you?"

Lomeon's feet shifted on the tiled floor. "Have the decency to offer sincere your excuses." Next, the door thudded shut.

There wasn't even time to bathe. Heron dressed quickly. After a night in the forest he didn't smell like gardens. So he halted by the bathing rooms to rub a perfume-infused cloth on his armpits— All Grace to The Ancients there were no servants at sight.

Strange he only thought of his hair when he stood in front of the double doors of the main room. It was good enough that a quick ruffle through the black strands came out leafless and dirtless. But he knew he didn't look like a man on his way to court his future bride. He shouldn't bother— even if he had any interest in her, stakes bigger than romance would assure the marriage happened. Still, his vanity had a strong hold on him.

He traversed the room with steps as rushed as one could manage with a wounded leg.

With glaring lights of white crystal dust pouring in all directions, the room revealed to Heron to its last details. Walls, ceiling and lanterns seemed alive with carved patterns and round shapes. Furniture sculpted from dark wood, with glowing with a sheen, embraced pillars and walls of black rock in an imitation of a petrified forest of sorts.

His father sat beside Master Salmior, facing the bride-to-be. By her side were the Regents: a couple with limpid expressions, wearing white clothing made out of silk, ironed to the last fiber. Both seemed surprisingly young for their position.

In the space between Ceri and Owyni sparse bottles of liquor, fine bora and a few delicacies dotted the table. He'd forgotten how hungry —... and aching for liquor he was. A Tholosian honey-flavored beauty of a bottle stood at the center of the table like a tower. Ancients, he would go hungry to have a pour of it at the company of a naked stable boy right now.

At the extremity of the tables sat the writers of the decree: the Ceri superior Wiseman and an Owiny Lawmaker. Very faithfully to the insular traditions, he was clad in black, a square hut atop his head. Both handled piles of papers of their own, next to ink pots filled to the brim. They had to draft, clean up and present a final version of the Union Decree by the deepnight, all while making sure no clauses infringed any of the laws of both nations.

Heron remembered he needed to excuse himself. "Lord and Lady the Regents, Lady Elana, may you, please excuse me for my tardiness. As you can see I'm not on my best. I've been wounded while training."

"Welcome among us, Lord," sang the Lady the Regent. Every word in Ceri sounded softer, more agreable from the mouth of an Insular, as if they modeled their speech after the birds that flew in the Island. "I propose we start, Lord the Monarch."

Lomeon spoke for a long time. About the long history between the two nations. And the decision, ten years ago, the Island had made to become independent from Ceres. With an enthusiasm Heron had long forgotten, he dwelled on the perspective of reestablishing the ties between both nations through this marriage.

"As we have expressed in our correspondence to date, the condition for this marriage to happen is that the Regency concedes to Ceres the right to mine the southernmost mountains of the Island with our labor completely imported there. And all rights to keep the funds gained from the commercialization. That includes the possibility of opening commercial routes that will be exclusively Ceri even when the exports are shipped from Owyni soil. Other than the general clauses that have already been agreed upon, I ask you, Lord and Lady Regents of Owynis to add an equivalent clause to the Union Decree."

"We have no objections," said Lady The Regent, speaking to her Lawmaker.

"My Lady," the Lawmaker said. It surprised Heron he didn't wait for permission from the regent to carry on. "We should precise now that mining will be subject to the Landlaw, thereby no Owyni territory is subject to foreign law. That means The Regency will in no occasion give up its land. A permit of mining and trading will be issued. Nothing more."

"If you allow me, my Lord," the Ceri Wiseman now spoke. Faithful to his manners, he carried on only after Lomon conceded. "Owynis Market Laws impose a contribution to the local funds up to a third of profits for foreign nations. We should make clear this is not what we seek. There will be no contribution from our mining to the Owyni Regency."

The back-and-forth continued, with Wiseman and Lawmaker speaking directly to their superiors only, who in turn discussed matters. Lomeon had an ease with both Ceri and Owyni laws. He spoke confidently, the Wiseman nodding all along. And he was unshakable. His position never faded: the location of our mines will remain Owyni territory, but they will not fund Owynis through taxes. After failed attempts to persuade Lomeon otherwise, and accepting her weaker position, Lady the Regent conceded.

"A derogation to the current contribution laws will be issued then," she said. "Any more demands, Lord?"

"Not one," said Lomeon.

As the Ceri Wiseman and the Lawmaker of the Island scribbled, Heron alternated his gaze between the chandeliers welded on the walls behind his soon-to-be-woman and the set of dishes and cups strewn on the table. When his eyes met hers, she gently pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled in a way that told Heron she was as bored as he was.

Master Salmior had not overestimated her beauty. Her wavy strands of hair were charged with a deep black color and appeared to flow down to her shoulders, reflecting the light of the candles in the room like a fountain at night. Her eyes were clear, but Heron couldn't discern the color from the distance.

When the writers finished, the Regent began, "We have been clear with our daughter Elana that her marriage intervenes in the context of a new treaty between our nations. We have had our quarrels in the past. These are not in our best interest today.

"We believe it is important we start building new diplomacy based on transparency and the honor of our progeny. Before we start our requests, it should be clear that we are not forcing our daughter to marry the soon-to-be Monarch-in-Prospect Heron Her Lomeon.

"We have discussed the stakes and let Elana Her Rytheo choose this union freely. It is important for us that both profess their statement of free will. Otherwise, this union should not take place."

Elana stood readily, as if she'd been waiting for her cue. The plies on her white scarf vanished as the fabric straightened to fall limp at the sides of her body. "I have freely chosen to marry soon-to-be Monarch-in-Prospect, Lord Heron Her Lomeon."

It was his turn now. Heron had forgotten the insular people valued self-determination for the individual. Free will over tradition. He had never considered there was a way out of this union. A negative say and this marriage would not happen.

"We are waiting, son." Lomeon's tone was a mutter, giving orders to Heron now would defeat the purpose.

Heron stood. Scanned both Regents and spoke. "This marriage wouldn't happen if I hadn't conceded it," he said. "I did concede."

"In this new diplomacy, we want Ceres as political allies most of all." The Regent turned to the Wiseman writing the decree of the marriage and spoke to him directly. "By that, we mean that Ceres should be willing to render help if political intervention is required in Owyni soil."

Heron could see the smile at the corner of Lomeon's mouth. He'd known from the start. If he'd been determined to bergain, he could have made mines Ceri territory. Now even the self-determination they Regency claimed to so value seemed like a sham. The Regency were giving their daughters to a foreign nation. The Owyni felt threatened by war while the Ceri were simply trading for ressources.

"We allowed ourselves to quantify things. The proportion of Ceri soldiers deployed in Owyni territory shouldn't be lower than a fifth of our current military forces," she delivered. "Need I to repeat?"

Unsure, the Wiseman writing the decree stared at Lomeon.

"Write as Lady the Regent says."

The Regent nodded in satisfaction. "In that same vein, our initiate to the Army should be allowed scholarships for instruction in the High Military school of Anuteh Region. The yearly numbers can be the subject of decrees to come. For now, we ask only for that to be taken into account in the final marriage text."

And so was written.

Salmior, the leader of the clergy in the capital, had a say too. His agreement to the marriage was added to the decree. On the other hand, no religious figures had survived the establishment of the new Owyni government after the former colony gained its autonomy. Even though the Regents bowed in reverence to The Ancients when the occasion demanded, even saying "The Ancients pay you" once Master Salmior uttered his agreement, Heron knew. They were acting like all nobles learn to act since birth: appropriately. Because their words were devoid of belief. The independence had corrupted the Island that much.

Lomeon stood. "As the writers take our demands into account for a final joint decree, we may occupy ourselves in various manners. I, four one, believe a visit to the courtroom and our splendid library are a must." He looked at Heron. "Lady Elana Rytheo will be in better hands than mine. Lady and Lord Rytheo, if you will follow me."

The Regents trailed after the Monarch, the clergyman and writers following behind. And they were left alone.

"Your father is a charmer," Elana commented. Heron couldn't have imagined a voice that would have better matched her countenance. It was soft like a pillow. She looked at him curiously. "You're itchy?"

He realized he had been scratching his elbow. He laughed nervously. "No. I—," his words failed him. "I'm quite terrible at this."

"What's this?"

Heron stood there awkwardly. Elana looked his age, but the intensity of her stare could be paired with that of a woman in her late twenties.

"Being social," he said. "It's to blame on—uhm..." he wanted to say, being sheltered. A strict religious education that took most of teens. The rebellion biting off the rest of the liberty he had left. His mother's death. "It doesn't matter."

She stood and looked around the room. "There's no one but us here," she said. "See, people usually begin by introducing themselves to each other. Elana yma da." She spoke with a clean accent.

"Heron ymae di," he said, a smile escaping despite himself. "I am pleased to meet you." Right at that moment, he wasn't lying. Still, somehow she seemed to sense he wasn't being completely truthful either.

"You are?" Before Heron could respond her gaze was wandering about the room again. "This is where you dine? Quite old-fashioned." She started towards the lanterns welded on the walls. Heron followed. "I like it. My brother wouldn't. He firmly believes there should be no appreciation for anything coming from colonizers." She touched the silvery metal of the candle's structure as if she was caressing a pet.

"You have a brother?" Heron asked, unsure of what to make of her comments.

"And one sister," she said. "He's two years older than me. He's destined to be Regent. And my younger sister and I, to be bystanders, until we're courted by noblemen who would give us noble children with some more influence than the average noble. When we could be ministers," she sighed. "We have done a lot to counter the traditionalist Ceri ways. Unfortunately, our traditions regarding the role of women in the government have remained quite faithful to yours." She peered about the room. "I wish we'd kept the architecture instead," she shrugged, "but alas."

Heron wasn't sure he could — or was supposed to — keep up with all information. Perhaps it was intentional. Given Heron had proved unable to make conversation of any interest, Elana was taking charge of that. "But your mother is Regent."

"Co-Regent, although she was the one with the royal blood," she said. "She was an only daughter, mind you."

"Still you came here to marry me," Heron said. "It's no different than getting married to a nobleman in your land?"

She laughed for a good long moment. "You will be Monarch of Ceres," she said as though the words were evident enough. "Monarch of the Northern Region, most powerful region of a milenary nation paired only by Ukewus in all Southern Continent. You realize what that means? You are either incredibly modest or severely naive. I feel for you either way."

Heron was at a loss for words again. Was he actually so inapt to be disarmed so easily?

"Besides, I'm quite fond of culture and history. Even when it belongs to rich nations that amassed money and influence through war and exploration of other lands."

"Oh," Heron uttered.

"I'm aware it's not your fault. Don't worry," she said. "Before our parents need us again, we have a moment to see the domain if you'd like to guide me."

"Of course," Heron said, relieved, and led the way right away. He marched in front of her to avoid to make conversation.

He discovered with amusement that Elana wanted to fit a detailed guided visit to the four palaces of the royal domain and the gardens from sundown to deepnight. Never mind if that meant missing dinner that night —their parents should be overjoyed they were already working into making the next Monarch, Elana said.

Embarrassed, Heron said, "that's not humanly possible." Seeing Elana's brows twisting, he added, "The visit, I mean. Although uhm—" No. she didn't need to know he wasn't thrilled to sleep with her. "There's too much to see," he huffed.

Elana reacted surprisingly well but didn't free him until he escorted her to the bed-chambers the servants had prepared for her, across the Regent's chambers and one floor below Heron's own.

"One floor of separation is far enough to avoid sexual misconduct before the marital walk. The Clergy decided on that?"

Heron flushed enough for the will to leave to overtake the good manners he was willing to show Elana. "It was a pleasure," he said. "The sun shine on you tomorrow, Lady." He even performed a bow, more out of a will to hide his face than to showcase good etiquette.

To his surprise, she said, "I rather like you." They had spent hours together and she seemed have perfectly understood where to touch to dismantle his words. "The sun shine on you, Lord."

She was failing to contain her laughter even when the door of her chambers shut.