2372 Iclis 19, Kindreth

Elred felt the corners of her mouth droop lower and lower with every minute Heran Zurie spent talking about the importance of using forsaga in lining the entryway of the celebration hall. With each meeting with the planners, Elred's patience grew thinner and thinner. Of course, she wanted to do well with planning the Feast. Of course, she wanted to care about strengthening her family's hold on the Abshire throne. But if she have to choose what type of linen or satin to use for the seat covering or what scent the invitations should be dyed in one more time, she would blow her top.

The morning came and went. Elred's stomach began begging for lunch but it looked like Heran wasn't still done with her presentation. All around her, the faces of the other planners were looking at her with expectant expressions. She had to be careful about letting her annoyance and boredom show.

That alone was tiring in itself.

"So, ah, we have reached out to the Iamari family to ask them about the production of Mirasatra," Heran was saying, pushing her spectacles up her nose. Behind her, an elaborate parchment resembling a map detailed the things she was spewing. "They said they would be able to produce thirteen vats by the first day of Rab."

Elred clicked her tongue. "We know that's not nearly enough," she said. "Do you have a back-up plan?"

Heran squeaked, turning back to her parchment with wide eyes. "Oh, we could ask the Heberos family for help with the remaining fifteen vats as originally planned," she said. "Or we could...order lesser wines?"

"Absolutely not," Elred slammed her hand on the glass table a little harder than necessary, making everyone around her flinch. "We don't want to create division and misunderstanding in the Feast. Some family might think they're being treated less because we gave them wine other than Mirasatra.

She shook her head. "No. We keep it even for all. No lesser wines."

"A-as you wish, Your Grace," Heran muttered. "Shall I contact the Heberos clan? Or the Visa clan?"

Elred raised an eyebrow. "What are you bringing Entobern for?" she said. "It's a politically-charged territory with no regard for Abshire. It's best if we don't cross them."

A few whispers spread among the planners as some of them hunkered down to their notes and began crossing out items in them. Elred suppressed a sigh.

Of course, they would think of approaching Entobern since their cities have certain alternatives and other things to offer. Still, as far as Elred was concerned and from what she learned from her tutors, Entobern was also a political hotseat where families are always warring with each other for dominance and most of them were only interested in Abshire if it was keeping peace with the borders and for state-sanctioned provisions when harvests was low.

They didn't care helping Abshire then; they wouldn't care now. Elred nodded at the flustered planner and did her best to encourage her to continue with a smile. "We'd have to get by without Entobern like we have been doing," she said. "Go on."

And so, the planning meeting bumbled forward. Soon, Elred had approved contacting several other families for various needs like parchment, flowers, textile, jewelry, cuisine, and helping hands. If Elred was honest, she was more excited dropping by the Sandoxa estate to commision the gown she's going to wear. Perhaps she'd go with her mother? Maybe.

"Your Grace, come quickly!" a voice tore past Elred's thoughts and the ongoing meeting she had tuned out. Her focus shifted to a huffing male servant by the hall's doors. A tinge of red colored his pale skin as he braced his knees to catch his breath. "Forgive the intrusion but Your Grace has to see this."

Elred knitted her eyebrows. "What is it now?"

The servant drew up to meet her eyes—a daring gesture. "A maid died," he said.

A whiff of shock passed through the room. Elred pushed her chair away from the table to face the servant fully. "What?"

"A corpse was found in the kitchens this morning, Your Grace," the servant relayed. "It belonged to a maid in the kitchens. It looked like she was preparing the cuisine for the Feast."

Elred clicked her tongue. The meeting's details had already fizzled out of her mind. "Lead the way," she stood up and was already at the door before she remembered the planners looking at her with lost gazes. She turned back to them. "Continue your presentations. Decide on your own what the best course to take. I'll be back to review."

She didn't wait for the nods and was already out of the room in a few seconds. The kitchens was a place she hadn't been in since she had grown out of stealing desert meant for state courtesies and fancy noble garden parties. Now, she saw it as a place of temptation, chatter, and a bustle that wouldn't ever subside.

Now, the chaos was more agitated than ever. Beige-clad servants flocked the entrance of the cooking area of the kitchens. The narrow corridor made the air a mix of sweat, burning oil, and rancid butter. It almost like the glass walls had fallen into the control of an evil shard fairy and was now closing in on them.

Elred pushed past the swarm, forgetting she was the Crown Princess and would probably cause a panic. Why were these people coming to her, anyway? Shouldn't they be coming to the Garde first? Or maybe the Queen? Rudik's breeches.

By the time word passed among the servants that Elred was there, she had reached the other side of the crowd. Her gaze traced the spacious cooking area filled with array upon array of storage shelves, lidded vats, glass counters, utensil racks, ovens, furnaces, and sacks of coal. Then, it came to rest on a pile of glass shards in the middle of the room. The dark puddle of liquid couldn't have been anything other than the word flashing in Elred's mind. Blood.

She strode in and looked at the immediate wall holding the doorway. Blood had splattered in a messy painting and had started dripping to the ground before it dried. A sickened feelings climbed up at the back of Elred's throat. Walls painted red.

Something shuffled beside her. She turned to find a different member of the Garde coming up to her. He stood a head taller than Elred. His eyes hardened at the sight before them. Without a form left, it was impossible to tell how the servant was killed. The only option was to look at the trail left by the killer. If they were smart, they wouldn't even have used magic.

Elred faced the Garde. "Can you take care of this and report to me?" she said. "Send some condolences to the family."

The Garde nodded. "Certainly, Your Grace," he said. His voice was deep and something Elred would remember if she came looking for him again.

"What about the pelgar case?" she asked.

"The trail went cold, Your Grace," the Garde shook his head. "Literally."

A snort flitted from her nose. "Continue looking into it," she said. "Does Savel know of this already?"

"Savel Athera?" Familiarity shone in the Garde's eyes. "Do you know him, Your Grace?"

Elred rolled her shoulders. "He and I go way back," she walked out of the room, the Garde at her heels. "If there's anyone who could get to the bottom of this, it's him."

The Garde chuckled. "Yeah," his tone dropped from rigid and formal to a more casual one. Elred liked it better. "Athera is known to be a beast even among our ranks."

She bobbed her head. "Well, anyway," she said. "Fill him in with this recent case and tell him to meet me when he has something."

The Garde gave her a quick salute. Elred dug her teeth on her lip as she turned away from the kitchens and began heading back to the planning room. Grim things were surely happening. It didn't take long for Elred to relate this incident to the coming Feast. It could only be one of those families looking to weaken the Valkalins' hold on Abshire. Striking the iron while it's molten.

Elred clenched her fists. How annoying that in this whole debacle, she was the molten iron. She cursed. No matter. The Feast held the most importance. As long as she succeeded in doing that, she'd have bought her clan more time to stay in power.

A bitter laugh shook her shoulders. Strike the iron while it's molten. Well, this time, the iron would strike back.