Alohima was one of the many languages Alve had mastered. From the parallel strokes on parchment, up to the accented formal speech she was deemed to practice. Entherah had many other languages. Etharini was the oldest and the common tongue, but few were disciplined to learn Fanda or that of Heglaradin. Unless of course you were a Trade Master. Or a princess of the Chrav Alliance.

But was she truly a princess? Alve had asked herself daily since the eternal silence of her domed library. The dwelling had light-stone, capping over bookshelves. Arranged in a circle, the shelves belt around a table at the middle where already the rising binders of her translations coolly dry on the summer’s wind. The task wasn’t stressful to Alve’s standards—had Alohima weren't her mastered and favorite language.

Should a princess be biased? It was another addition to the many questions Alve’s lonesome life allowed her to have. The sound of a parchment flipping to the next page was the one noise the room permitted. On her high lectern perch, Master Beramontin, with her own work had not poked an eye out towards her, undistracted but despite of it asked, “Are we bored, Apprentice?” 

Black liquid dripped from her fountain pen. The Thravbon snake-like scripts lay abandoned as Alve barely registered her teacher’s inquiry. For the princess who was supposed to be schooling in her own private tower had her eyes out to the vast outreach of Skalah City. Just right outside her balcony.

Since the arrival of the delegates, Alve had waited days. Praying to any of the great goddesses’ faces that word about anything occurring in the Summit will be relayed to her. A princess of the Chrav Alliance. A royal and descendant to the noble house Chonerin. Was hidden from all accounts of the public and probably from the entire realm of Entherah. And of the legendary meeting happening just under her cushioned chair. 

But alas, here she was now. Dredging inside the older palace walls. Slowly expiring within the protection of the Gasulin guards. Served by only one stoic maid, and taught only two branches of knowledge all her life, civics and lore.

Perhaps her inner lament was heard by the also bored Master Beramontin, for the Lady-Mistress eventually closed her thick civics book with a thud and announced, “Prepare to cite the laws according to the Chrav Alliance…”

Alve gave out a lurch from inner turmoil, but was initially glad of the task. Until the Master added, “in Gahades.”

Alve barely held her quiet groan.

~*~

“You sound like a dying mouse rather than a growling dragon,” Master Monterpelagious commented at Alve’s squealing throat as he entered the study. Alve was but ending a section regarding an executive order done simultaneously by the Chrav Lords when the Master of Lore ironically pulled out from his sleeves a dead mouse and fed it to Walkre. The barn owl had quietly roosted on his perch for the entire morning and had greedily accepted the gore.

Upset by his tease rather than be affronted by the implication of the now swallowed rodent, Alve tried to defend her loath for the lost tongue. “I understand that it is important to learn the dialect of one’s region, as so vehemently the two of you had imposed on me for years.” Alve dragged her eyes between the scowling Master of Civics, and the flat lipped Master of Lore. “But, Krugan has had no statecraft since after the Faharian War. Unless of course Trade Masters barter with their locals, Etharini or Faerian are options.”

Alve realized she had this debate within her head for a long time. Had the Master Beramontin requested Bai-hani, the tongue used in Cander–which was largely harder than Gahades apparently. She would have not brought out the thought of the now broken region. 

Master Beramontin’s brows smoothen before she sighed, and Master Monterpelagious looked down at his feet, his shoulders following not long after.

The defeat expressed by both teachers made Alve wince.

The Master of Civics had always been stern, but she was passionate when it came to her discipline. Lady-Mistress Clanadrin was not a mage, hence her blue cloak, unlike the common purple the Regional Mage Monterpelagious wore. But she was academic. More academic than those Blessed of the Pillar-State School of Eth. And the Master of Lore was a story reader rather than arcane crafter. His soft metallic eyes when he gathered himself and faced Alve was enough to make her argument less credible. Brought from ignorance and frustration.

“Language is not an instrument to keep the balance of court politics. It is an art to bring the unconscious thoughts of the heart and mind.” Master Monterpelagious waved a hand to dismiss the awkward air. When he picked up a smirk on his face, Alve knew he had forgiven her.

“Isn’t that right, my Lady?” Master Monterpelagious turned to Master Beromontin, took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “It’s a chore and a bore to keep up with the drama. With all the lies and illusions they spit at their own faces.”

Master Beramontin had not withdrawn her hand but her dark eyes were steel. And when she ignored the Master of Lore’s question and glanced at their student, Alve’s spine stiffened.

“And something a Summit avoids entirely.” Master Beramontin’s words cut Alve’s breath short. “Krugan fell because of politics.”

“The Tarmorein.” Alve nodded at the lesson.

“Now, wasn’t I supposed to be the one lecturing on History?” Master Monterpelagious dropped the Lady-Mistress’ hand and restored his attention to their student. The hidden laugh in his cheeks was visible. “Apprentice Chonerin. If you wish to know more about the agenda the Summit is having, you may ask. You can dawdle on conspiracies and murder machinations when you will know all the players of the game—”

“—When you are older,” Master Beramontin tried to correct.

“Yes, yes,” Master Monterpelagious blundered on. “How old are you now exactly? The past years in this rock had been a blur,” he waywardly walked off to his own lectern.

“I turned thirteen last winter, Master.” Alve supplied[1] , herself moving the Hailaga book on laws she was transcribing and prepared her table for the Master of Lore’s upcoming lesson. 

It was a moment for Alve to notice, herself within the mundane task of flipping notes until she arrived at the last history they had discussed. Something about Fibi Enderi’s democratic yet dynastical nature when it comes to Acolyte heritage, when she glimpsed at the hollow faces of her Masters.