Candlekeep’s winter came late, and thick. Snow coated the rooftops in brittle white, the skies heavy with clouds that hadn’t yet decided whether to release more. Still, the town was far from quiet — taverns were full of muttered theories and raised mugs, and the air inside the Academy buzzed with the season’s usual end-of-term madness.

  But lately, amid the usual chaos, a different name had begun to surface.

  “The Duchess of Foher used to study at the clinic, didn’t she?”

  “No, no — she was a librarian’s aide. Or something close.”

  “I heard she turned down five royal suitors. Including a prince.”

  “She never even said goodbye.”

  “Well, of course she didn’t. She’s nobility now.”

  But high above it all — above the gossip, the foot traffic, and the city’s slow heartbeat — Gale Dekarios, Headmaster of the Academy, had no time for rumor.

  Ink, Fire, and Distraction

  He’d spent the morning dissecting term essays — mostly bad ones. One student had proposed merging illusion magic with necromantic tethering to “cheer up” spirits of the dead. That paper was now curling into ash in the fireplace, alongside a mug of cold tea and his patience.

  More importantly, his desk was buried in source texts and planar charts for a paper he’d long postponed. He was finally ready to begin.

  “Infernal convergence theory…” he murmured, flipping pages. “And intent-bound resonance fields. Yes. Let’s cause some concern.”

  He was elbow-deep in Twelve Failures of the Warlock Courts when someone knocked.

  “Go away.”

  A pause. Then: “Apologies, Headmaster. There’s a letter… from Vartis. The seal is ducal.”

  That made him pause.

  He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Come in.”

  The aide entered with a red nose and a too-eager bow. Gale snatched the letter before the boy could finish his explanation and waved him off with two fingers.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He sat for a long moment, studying the wax.

  The Duchy of Foher.

  Not Fran’s handwriting.

  Of course not.

  He opened it with a practiced flick of a claw-handled knife.

  The Letter

  To Master Gale Dekarios,

  By order of Her Grace, Frances Serenna Elarion, Duchess of Foher,

  and under advisement from senior parties within the royal and ducal administrations,

  Your presence is respectfully requested at the Ducal Palace of Vartis.

  Her Grace’s recent elevation, while unprecedented, has brought considerable attention to the governance of Foher, particularly regarding arcane oversight, court composition, and external advisement. In light of your academic renown, civic neutrality, and familiarity with Her Grace’s prior residence, it has been suggested that your insight may prove useful in current deliberations.

  You are invited to attend at your earliest winter convenience. Accommodations will be provided. Should you be indisposed, a formal notice of declination is expected within ten days.

  It should be noted that the continued interest of His Majesty’s court in the Duchess’s affairs makes the presence of stabilizing influences — particularly those with no entrenched stake in Foher’s recent politics — both prudent and welcome.

  Respectfully,

  Steward Aldren Veylen

  On behalf of Her Grace, Duchess of Foher

  Gale blinked.

  Then barked out a short, sharp laugh.

  “Oh, now I see.”

  He read it again, slower this time.

  Arcane oversight.

  Familiarity with Her Grace’s prior residence.

  Stabilizing influences.

  “This isn’t a summons,” he muttered. “This is an invitation with teeth.”

  Not that she had written it. But her shape was behind it. Her silence, her sharpness.

  He hadn’t forgotten her — not at all.

  The woman who came to the library on the quietest days. Who chose books on ruins, justice, forgotten laws. Who never asked a single question aloud, but always watched him over the edge of her pages. As if she were solving a puzzle she couldn’t name.

  She’d been fascinating.

  He had let himself be fascinated.

  And now, she was a Duchess. And she had not forgotten him.

  “Neutral, disposable, dangerous, and far too clever.” He sighed. “Yes. I suppose I do fit the bill.”

  He wrote a brief, elegant reply — charming, vague, and entirely on time.

  “To the Steward of House Elarion — Your invitation is received with equal measures of suspicion and amusement. I accept.”

  He added a note in smaller script:

  P.S. I do not thrive in winter. Prepare accordingly.

  The letter was folded, sealed, and set on the mantel to be delivered first thing in the morning.

  As he began to pack, his floating candle followed him anxiously, dipping every time he snapped a trunk closed too loudly.

  “Vartis, then,” he muttered. “City of whispers and lovely mistakes.”

  He fastened his cloak. Then paused, looked at the snow falling beyond the tower window, and added: “Why in winter, though? I move slower with the cold.”

  The candle flickered in agreement.