Location: Armathane, Capital of Midgard
Time: Day 49 – Arrival
First Impressions
Armathane was not what Alec had expected.
He had envisioned banners. Bazaars. The dramatic arrogance of a capital city built to impress from horseback. Instead, he found… mathematics.
The city was vast — far larger than any trading town Branhal's few merchants had whispered of. Spires of sandstone and copper rooftops rose like frozen bonfires above tiers of walls. Its ducal palace stood at the summit like a crown of discipline, flanked by bastions of iron and glass.
But it wasn't the scale that struck Alec.
It was the order.
Every archway was perfectly symmetrical. Every market row laid at uniform intervals. Carts moved on designated stones. Garden hedgerows were trimmed to geometry, not aesthetics. Even the chimney smoke rose in eerily vertical spirals — no drift, no lean, as if the winds themselves had been trained to follow the rules.
Midgard didn't breathe.
It ticked.
Through the Gates
Three tiers of checkpoint framed his entrance into the city proper — and each one said more about Midgard's hierarchy than any herald could.
Outerward Arch. A decorated sentry approached with a slate board and ink quill, asking his name, hour of arrival, and purpose. His fingers didn't tremble. His eyes didn't wander. He wrote precisely. Everything Alec said was transcribed word-for-word, even pauses.
Gilded Bastion. Soldiers flanked them at attention — taller, silent, armored in brigandine trimmed with gold thread. One carried a book of ritual inquiries. Another held a scale to weigh coinage. The three questions asked of Alec were simple:
Name.
Purpose.
Allegiance.
Alec answered flatly. "Alec. To answer an invitation. I serve no banner."
Their quills paused. The scale creaked.
No questions followed.
Iron Cord. The final gate — smaller than the rest, but far more heavily patrolled. Here, Sir Kaelyn Dros presented a scroll sealed with crimson wax. It bore the duchess's personal sigil — a sun wrapped in a wreath of flame and chain. No words were spoken.
The guards stepped aside.
That silence, Alec realized, was the most dangerous message of all.
Midgard's security didn't posture. It didn't warn.
It simply recorded.
The Holding Villa
Alec was not taken to the palace.
He had expected that.
Instead, they led him along a curved lane of white stone, past quiet fountains and trimmed cypress, to a guest villa nestled into the western garden boundary. Four floors, reinforced lattice windows, high balcony views, and servants who moved more like shadows than staff.
It wasn't a prison.
But it was certainly a perimeter.
Kaelyn passed the reins of command to a robed chamberlain, then bowed once — not out of loyalty, but out of completion — and departed without a word.
"You are Alec?" the chamberlain asked.
Alec studied him. Late fifties. Fingers ink-stained. Tunic sleeves crisp at the edge.
"I am."
"You are to rest. Her Grace's summons will be formalized within the next day. A bath has been drawn. Your meals will arrive on the quarter bell. And should you require quill or parchment, a scribe is available."
Alec narrowed his gaze slightly. "Why would I need a scribe?"
The man's smile was practiced. "In case you write anything meant to be read."
He left Alec with a single key.
Observation and Stillness
The view from Alec's second-story window was meticulously composed — like a miniature model of the city's priorities.
Below stretched the lower garden: radial symmetry in every hedge, fountain, and footpath. Servants moved in routine loops. Guards at fifteen-step intervals. A child's playground disguised as a military drill.
The perfection was deliberate. This wasn't a city of faith. It was a city of engineering.
Midgard had been designed. Iterated.
Optimized.
It wasn't a kingdom carved by chaos. It was a thesis.
And Alec hadn't even seen the author yet.
Which meant — for now — she held the advantage.
The Encounter
He met her daughter before he met her.
It wasn't planned.
Alec had risen well before breakfast and requested access to the gardens. The servants gave no protest, only subtle trailing glances — one followed at a distance, ostensibly for "courtesy."
He ignored them. He had no interest in being polite.
Instead, he studied irrigation slopes, gravel displacement, root conditioning. He followed aqueduct trails hidden beneath marble edging. The palace knew its water. That told him more than any meeting would.
Then he heard it.
Laughter.
Soft. Spiraling. Irregular.
Not court-polished. Not ceremonial. Human.
He turned the corner of a myrrh-lined grove and saw her.
Serina of Midgard
She sat alone beneath a copper-blossomed tree, pale petals scattered like stars around the hem of her dress. She wore no crown, no velvet. Just sky-blue silk, loose at the collar, and an open book in her lap.
She didn't rise when she saw him.
But she did smile.
"I know who you are," she said before he could speak.
Alec studied her. Golden blonde hair. Mid-teens. Relaxed posture. Eyes more blue than green, but keen. Too self-aware for innocence.
"Do you," he replied.
"Everyone says your name like it's a spell. But it's a boring name."
"Disappointed?"
"Not yet."
He stepped closer. "You don't speak like a servant."
"I'm not."
"I assumed."
She snapped her book closed. "Serina. Daughter of the duchess. Educated. Unmarried. Disobedient."
Alec tilted his head. "Dangerous combination."
"Exhausting, mostly." She patted the bench beside her. "Sit. You're more interesting than root grafting."
He hesitated, then sat.
She didn't move away.
That, he noted, was interesting.
Conversation in the Garden
For a long moment, neither spoke. Birds chirped. Water ran. A gardener at the edge of sight pretended to trim roses while watching them intently.
"You fixed Branhal," she said at last.
"I improved it."
"Same thing, here."
"There's a difference."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Fixing implies something was once right. Branhal never was. It was surviving. Not thriving."
Serina considered that. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you surviving or thriving?"
Alec glanced at the book in her lap. "You read herbal compendiums. Why?"
"To learn which plants kill slowly."
He laughed, once. Genuinely.
"Better than poison lessons from a court tutor."
She grinned. "I prefer practical applications."
"And this meeting?"
"I wanted to see what kind of man could make my mother summon a midnight council and seal six letters before dawn."
Alec didn't reply.
"She doesn't panic," Serina continued. "She calculates. If you're here, it's because she's still... evaluating."
"And you?"
Serina rose, brushing off her dress. "I think you're the first person to walk into her world without asking permission."
She turned to go, then paused.
"Don't disappoint us."
She vanished around the hedge.
Alec sat still for a long time.
Reflection
Not a coincidence.
Not a formal test.
And not a seduction.
Just curiosity — weaponized, polite, controlled.
Serina wasn't her mother. Not yet. But she carried the blueprint. She was watching him with the same patient curiosity Vaelora no doubt had already honed to art.
The duchess hadn't played her hand.
Not yet.
But she had placed her first piece on the board.
And Alec?
He wasn't a piece.
He was a second board entirely.