It was day two of the celebrations, and Dev was about ready to get started on their journey to the silly tree without further ado. Yara had been swept off to be dressed in traditional clothes for the upcoming ceremony, so he was stuck alone once more. He found himself not doing much more than twiddling his thumbs in the old archive room, again. It was, after all, the only place he could find some peace and quiet without anyone else bothering him. He had reached his capacity for socializing several hours ago, so it was nice to be able to hang out with his favorite people—his eerily life-like conjured illusions. Most people found them off-putting or weird, so he avoided bringing them out in public. They were more of a method of personal entertainment—and to keep him from going insane with some of the kinds of people he had to deal with on a daily basis. 

For now, the illusion of his, Scholar Dev—best known to be extremely analytical with a penchant for long-winded rants—was flipping through a decrepit book. 

“Illusion magic seems to run on some sort of ‘frequency,’ which leads me to believe it could be a subset of light magic—one of the rarest types of elemental magic, stemming from the Elder Dragons themselves. Are fae folk related to dragons, or perhaps it stems from our shared extraterrestrial origins?” 

“No idea,” Dev said. He flicked a small golden ball between his fingers. “A question for you—do you think that all illusion magic runs on the same frequency?” 

A spark flashed in Scholar Dev’s eyes. “Nay. I believe there are commonly practiced frequencies, as taught in fae combat schools, but the properties of illusionary magic should be mutable.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ve been working on something that could put that principle to good use,” Dev said, not elaborating further. 

“A visitor approaches,” his illusion remarked, before disappearing. 

A rush of chill wind hit him as gold-flecked wings fluttered in from outside. A woman with hair of navy blue and eyes of cold steel came to a soft landing, sitting down on the window sill. She wore a light, summery dress that flowed around her. A lot more elegant than the practical uniforms he usually saw her in. 

“Ah, Cyrilla. Didn’t expect to feel your breeze around here,” Dev said, buttoning up the top button of his shirt. “Bit brisk, don’tcha think?  

“You’re getting married to some elven wench, so I wanted to see what was going on,” Cyrilla said, looking around his room. 

“Since when did you care?” 

“I don’t,” she replied. “But regardless of our disagreements, I’d always imagined you to get with a high-class fae. Not…whatever it is. “ 

“Now, now. Her name is Yara,” Dev corrected. “She’s an elven princess.”

“Elven princess. Elven pauper. It makes no real difference.”

“You’re wealthy too. Shouldn’t you relate?”

“Yes, but…my ears aren’t nearly half as long as hers.”  Cyrilla touched the tips of her ears apprehensively. “They’re strange creatures.” 

“Strange doesn’t mean bad, does it?” Dev asked. “We’re all a little strange.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said. “I’m perfectly normal.”

“Sure,” Dev said. “Besides, their ears might be ‘normal’ for them, and ours might be the strange ones.”

“Hmph,” she said, turning away. “Do you…like her?”

“I like everyone,” Dev said, grinning. “Even you!”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Are you ever serious?”

“No, not really,” Dev said. “But I do think you should give her a chance.” 

“What is this…feeling?” Cyrilla mused, clutching her chest. “Whenever you talk about her, my chest gets warm.”

“Jealousy, perhaps? Or love,” he said. “Not sure. Maybe you should marry her instead.”

“I would never,” she said, her face flushing. “As a representative of House Aster, the glorious house of—”

“Blood and death. Yes yes.”

“Of proud warriors.” 

“Indeed,” Dev said. 

“Do you really think the war is over?” she asked, as if testing him. He could never tell if she was playing a game with him or not. 

“Everyone says as much,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Do you not believe it?”

“Of course not. Not after—” she paused. “Ah, confidential.”

“Right. Right,” he said. “How’s, uh, your love life going?”

“Well enough,” she responded while she wiped the dust off one of the fallen books with her finger, scoffing at the amount that came up. “My services are needed elsewhere. I’ve no time for love, or the sort.”

“Mm,  yes. Your services,” he said. “Whatever would we do without them?”

“Get our arses handed to us, probably.”

“Y’know what. You’re right,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “No one has nearly as high of a kill count as you do.”

“I can add one more notch if you’d like,” she said, a devilish smile on her face. 

“W-what do you mean?” Dev could feel his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. Surely a little water under the bridge never killed anyone, right? Their relations may have ended on sour terms, but that wasn’t cause for murder, he hoped. 

“The elf girl,” she said. “Two birds with one stone, as the humans say.” 

“What are the two birds here, hypothetically?” It likely wasn’t him she was talking about, but who could really tell what exactly was going through Cyrilla’s mind at any point in time—he sure had difficulty with that more often than not. 

“Mm, saving you from a loveless marriage,” Cyrilla said. “And taking out the last elven princess.” 

“Wow, didn’t know you were so…what’s the word?” Dev put a hand to his chin. “Altruistic?” 

“Listen, it’s what the council wants to do anyway,” she said. “I’d rather it be without any collateral damage.”

“I’d love to take you up on your offer,” he said, leaning down to pick up a fallen book. “I truly would.”

“Here comes the but,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“But, I’d like to keep the peace.” Dev flipped through the book without looking down, then placed it on the shelf. He never knew what to do with his hands during a long conversation. “Not disturb it by starting another war.”

“War is good for business,” she responded. “But I get it. We’ve lost many friends along the way.”

“And I’d rather not lose any more,” Dev said, looking down. “I can’t stand sitting back doing nothing while everyone else dies.” 

“Not like you have a choice, eh?” 

“Nope. Oberon wouldn’t let me on the field even if we had no other options.”

“Can’t have his precious son hurt himself, now could we?” Cyrilla smirked for a moment. 

“He doesn’t want to risk the possibility of me actually making a name for myself,” Dev said. “Never been very precious to him. Nothing’s more precious than his ego.”

“Keep your voice down. His little spies might hear you badmouthing him,” she said playfully. 

“They’re probably already on their way to tell him.” He laughed. “Another rumor for them to spread about me, I suppose.”

She floated toward him, then stopped a foot away from him. “You’re really going through with this marriage?”

“If it can guarantee peace between our lands, then yes.”

“If not?”

“I’d do it anyway. Even a small chance is better than none,” he said, sighing. 

“Mm.” She nodded. “That’s the Dev I know. Gambling against the odds.” 

“Heh, I’m sure this is the longest we’ve talked in years,” he said. “The thought of killing someone really gets your goat, doesn’t it?”

“Floats your boat, you mean?”

“Yes, that.” Dev nodded.. “I think. I’m not exactly sure how boats work. Those the things that fly in the air?”

“No, those are airships.”

“Airship. Of course. Of course. That makes plenty of sense, actually.”  

“And no, it doesn’t float my boat. It’s just a means to an end.” 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, m’lady.” 

“You’re such a simpleton sometimes. I don’t know what I even saw in you.”

“It’s more like what you saw in you.” 

Her face went completely red, and she floated a meter into the air. “Dev!” 

“I love it when you scream my name,” he said, leaning back. 

“DEV!” 

“SORRY,” he said, ducking as a pillow came flying at him. “Please don’t shoot me.” 

“Wish I could,” she said, lowering herself back down. “I would’ve done that years ago.”

“Good to know!” He grinned. “I’m glad I’m not a ‘notch,’ as you put it.” 

“I’m just a notch to you, though.”

“I would never count, my dear,” he said. “Whether it’s lovers or enemies. I’m not that type.”

“Not that type? The type of person that knows arithmetic?”

“No, the type of person that doesn’t reduce people into numbers.” 

“Exactly what someone that’s bad at arithmetic would say.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Someone to shoot?”

“Not right now, no. But let me know if you want to take me up on your offer.” 

“Will do,” he said. “Except, I won’t. Ever.”

“Figures,” she said, floating away from him. “I’ll be off to enjoy the festivities now. Be sure to kiss your shiny new wife for me.”

“I’ll tell her you said hi,” he responded. “Kiss your right hand for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just wanted to send your lover my regards.” 

“My lo—” She groaned, then flew out of the window without saying anything further.

“Too much?” he asked.

“Too much,” Dev said, walking in. “A little too confident there, Confident Dev.”

“Hey, I can’t help it. I’m like the more cocky version of you,” he said, smirking. “And you’re plenty cocky.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dev responded, waving his hand. His confident illusion fell apart into shards of broken glass, and Dev sat down, letting out a heavy sigh. 

This is going to be a mess, Dev thought, looking out the window at the festival processions beneath. One I might not be able to get out of.