Inside his private telephone box, Gareth Ranulf spun idly on a stool, the phone’s receiver held to his ear. “I’ll see you soon, dear,” he said sweetly, pausing to listen to the tinny reply before adding, “Yes, preferably with Moira in tow, but you know how she can be. It’s dreadfully busy here today — people everywhere. I expect she’ll need to stay.”
Through the phone box’s glossy windows, Gareth watched strangers hurry past — more, by far, than he would’ve expected from Unity on a Saturday morning. There were harried secretaries and nosy reporters, gossipy socialites and wrung-out politicians. A large group made up of all of the above stopped in front of his phone box, the great blue dragon they had among them sitting and settling her scaled bulk right in front of Gareth’s door. Offended, Gareth frowned and rapped on the glass and missed his wife’s reply.
“What was that?” he asked, swiveling back around to face the transmitter. “Ah. Yes, I’ll relay the message. Listen, Isobel, I have to let you go. I’m almost out of minutes and I’m trapped in a box. No, no, it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll meet up with you and Ofelia on the hour, alright? I love you, Boop.”
Upon hanging up, Gareth turned to his dragon problem. It was, frankly, a bit absurd. He didn’t see how one could go about blocking public phone boxes without first checking whether anyone was inside, but he liked to give rude strangers the benefit of the doubt. He rapped again on the glass and, when that did nothing, pushed the door open as far as he could. It merely tapped the dragon’s flank, but that was enough to finally get her attention.
“Pardon me,” Gareth said as the dragon twisted her long neck to look back, to blink at him with wide, rectangular pupils. She moved — without so much as hissing an apology, mind — so Gareth reluctantly added, “Thank you.”
He still had to step over her feathered tail and slide past her bulk to reach the lobby doors, but then he was free, stepping outside onto a cobbled footpath shaded by tall trees. The path led from building to solemn old building, garden beds full of dahlias, taurel, and other late summer blooms sprawling between them. As much as Gareth hated this time of year, he had to admit there was beauty in it. It was the time of year where the world traded vitality for grace, where people looked back to appreciate what they had and forward to the promise of what they may yet get.
Gareth loved the way the grounds around his estate changed this time of year, loved playing in the fallen leaves with his daughter and walking the paths with his wife, the air cold but her arm warm where it rested in his own. He would love it far more if he could be there. Instead, he was stuck here, on Unity’s island, looking for a sister who would rather blow off their plans last minute than appreciate the salty breeze or the way reds and oranges had started to creep along the edges of green trees, changing and consuming.
To Gareth, fall was always a season for responsibilities, and Unity and Moira were always foremost among these. Every fall, Unity hosted a series of conferences, all the world’s important people flocking to the capital city of Gallontea to attend. Every fall, Moira made Gareth join them.
At least this year Isobel and Ofelia had come to meet him — that made it bearable.
He’d crossed the entire width of the island by the time he finally reached his destination, the courthouse that towered against a rocky coast. Its pointed arches and sharp spires reached high, toward the sky, and Unity’s iconic clock tower stood beside it. Gareth glanced at that glowing face, bright against the pale clouds that served as its backdrop: he had just under an hour to get inside, convince Moira to abandon her duties for the day, and meet up with Isobel across the bridge in Gallontea.
In his life, he’d passed through the courthouse’s looming doors hundreds of times. Each time, the same quiet reverence had settled over him, the same oppressive silence. Today, though, it wasn’t so quiet: clustered ghosts of a once-great crowd lingered all about, scattered and whispering animatedly amongst themselves. They stopped when Gareth entered, but started up again as soon as they’d determined he was no one important. Gareth self-consciously adjusted the strap of his writing bag and pushed past, straining to overhear the whispers as he went.
“—All the way from Illyon,” one man said to his friends.
At the next grouping, a nympherai whispered, “It’s the alfar king. I hear he’s sick.”
Passing a third group, Gareth caught only one word: “Orinians.”
By the time he reached the grand staircase, his curiosity blazed bright. He hurried up toward the representatives’ offices, eyes sliding over Unity’s decadence — the oil paintings and velvet hangings, the wooden carvings and gilded railings. It was all commonplace, after all this time. At the top of the stairs, the hallway split in three directions, one for each of Calaidia’s species. The ceilings down the center hall were high and vaulted, built that way to accommodate the dragons — though Gareth honestly doubted even the tallest of dragons came close to reaching them. Only the draconic Magistrate herself excluded, they tended not to grow much taller than draft horses.
But then, Gareth mused, it was said that the red dragons had been monstrously large.
Compared to the dragons’ looming arches, the human and nympherai halls to the left and right were relatively nondescript. Gareth took the hallway to the left, following it down to the human representatives’ wing. In theory, the three species shared Unity’s power equally. Each had their places among the Congregation of Representatives, which created and enforced laws, and each had one Magistrate to oversee and govern.
Gareth could tell before even reaching his sister’s office that it sat empty. The door was shut and locked, and one of her clerks was stationed at the desk outside her door to redirect visitors.
“She’s in a meeting,” the clerk said apologetically when she spotted Gareth. “Would you like me to take a message for you, Mr. Ranulf?”
Gareth waved the girl off. “No, that’s quite alright. I’ll just catch up with her later.” Before he turned to leave, though, he hesitated. “I say, is there something happening downstairs. There was quite a crowd when I passed through earlier.”
The clerk shook her head, expression carefully neutral. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that, sir.”
“Right,” Gareth said, not believing her for a moment. “Very good. Well, don’t let my sister overwork you on what’s supposed to be your day off.”
“Yes, Mr. Ranulf,” the clerk said with an indulgent smile.
Gareth took the long way out, past the other representatives’ offices. Most of them were in today, and he suspected he’d find something similar if he performed the same inspection in the draconic and nympherai wings. It was odd. You rarely even saw this level of turnout on the actual conference days, let alone a weekend. The conferences were for seeing and being seen, not for any serious political decision-making. Gareth’s curiosity couldn’t stand the secrets. It had always been a weakness of his, one that had led to decades of burying himself deeper and deeper into academia. He knew, objectively, that odds were slim Moira would tell him anything even if he did find her, but he had to try. He decided to check one more place: he headed down to the main courtroom, then down the private hallway to the Magistrates’ Chambers.
Before he could knock at the door, raised voices stilled his hand.
Damn him, but he couldn’t resist a mystery. He inched closer, stood on the tips of his toes to peer through the door’s narrow window. Inside, he saw four people — two familiar and two new.
“This was your idea, Moira?” asked Malong, one of the three Magistrates of the Council of Unity. She stood with her back to the wide windows, the sunslight catching on her diamond-clear scales and sending rainbows cascading along the walls. Gareth shrunk down, trying to hide as much of himself as possible. Between her prismatic hide, her low voice, and her size — she stood an unprecedented thirty-two hands tall — Malong was a fearsome sight, and knowing her all his life had only made Gareth fear her more. Fortunately, though, her gaze was fixed on Moira, who lounged comfortably on a leather sofa.
“Does it matter? Our esteemed guests vetoed this one, too,” Moira said. Gareth could only see the back of her head, but he’d grown up with that exasperated tone. He could imagine the matching expression perfectly.
“It’ll take too long,” said one of the two strangers, an alfar woman with long hair like spun gold. Her catlike pupils had narrowed to slits in the sunslight. “We don’t have time.”
The woman paced forward as she spoke, revealing more of the man beside her. Something about the pair struck Gareth as familiar. They were all angles, wiry and sharp and easily identifiable as alfar, an increasingly rare subset of the human species. That was further reinforced by their clothing: instead of Unity robes, they wore rich suits with tapered silhouettes, the likes of which Gareth had only seen on research trips to Alfheim. Who were they, that a Magistrate of Unity would call them esteemed? Were they the cause of the island’s commotion?
Gareth couldn’t help but remember whispers of orinians and alfar kings.
The thought was enough to trigger his memory: it was Amos Nochdvor, the King of Alfheim — the woman looked just like him. Both strangers did, really, with their golden hair, sharp features, and catlike grace. The Alfheim royal family was famous, known for their secrets and stoicism, which meant that Gareth knew exactly who this was: Princess Rheamaren Nochdvor. Had she not been an only child, Gareth would’ve assumed the man dressed in mourning blacks beside her was her brother. They looked similar enough for it. But no, this must be the cousin. Leandros, Gareth thought his name was.
Gareth had met Amos once, as a child. He’d never forget. The alfar had been a vision, just what a young boy imagined a powerful King should be. The princess matched his airs. Where she and her father were cold like stone, the cousin was a sheet of ice frozen over a lake. He watched his cousin impassively, but Gareth glimpsed shadows churning beneath.
“I urge you to reconsider, Your Highness,” came a thin, rasping voice from a corner of the chambers Gareth couldn’t see. He recognized it, though: it belonged to Diomis, the third and final of Unity’s Magistrates.
That title confirmed it, then.
Diomis continued, “We understand the need for urgency, but this must be handled delicately. We need to investigate the situation and do so without escalating it.”
Leandros Nochdvor lifted his chin at Diomis’ words, the small gesture somehow dripping contempt, and Gareth noticed an old scar that stretched from his cheekbone to his jaw.
“With all due respect, Magistrate,” said the Princess, “Orean already escalated the situation when they kidnapped my father.”
Gareth gasped, then clapped a hand over his mouth. The sound was too loud in the quiet hallway. Hoping he’d misheard, he held his breath lest he miss the rest.
“Leandros and I didn’t come to be careful. We came to formally petition Unity’s assistance — barring that, your permission — to do whatever it takes to get our King back. I fear your plan, tiptoeing around and treading lightly, won’t be enough.”
“We understand your fears, Your Highness,” Moira said. “You’ve expressed them several times over. But Unity won’t sanction a war based on one girl’s fear.”
Gareth winced at his sister’s harsh words. Rheamaren, for her part, didn’t react. She said, “I never said anything about war. I only want to—”
“To ride to Orean with an army and demand Amos’ return?” Moira finished. “Where do you think that will lead? Do you think they’ll fall over themselves apologizing and return him to you, easy as that?”
The Princess only stared at Moira, expression artfully impassive. It had always unsettled Gareth, on his trips to Alfheim, how wholly the people there could sterilize their emotions. “Don’t sanction anything, then,” Rheamaren said. “Just don’t get in our way.”
“Princess, do try to understand,” Diomis said, still only a disembodied voice. “Allowing you to act would be seen by the world as a sanction, regardless of intent. We cannot allow this violence until we know more.”
“Allow?”
“Yes, allow. Alfheim will not engage with Orean if we say it cannot,” Malong said with utter surety, the way one might look out a window and express that it had begun to rain.
“We can come up with a different solution, then,” the Princess said, glancing at her cousin – for assistance, perhaps? A plea for support? Gareth closely watched Leandros’ face, catching another shadow flit across it. He couldn’t get a read on it, nor could he quite get a read on their relationship.
“No,” Moira said. “We have done nothing all day but try to compromise, but if you won’t see sense, then this discussion is over. We have people who are trained in handling situations like these; they will investigate your father’s disappearance and negotiate his return, and that is that. You will not engage with Orean until our team has finished.”
Rheamaren frowned, the thick mask of Alfheim restraint cracking. “We won’t just let you—”
“Rhea,” her cousin warned, quiet. It silenced the Princess instantly.
“Heed your cousin, Princess,” Malong said, one corner of her lip curling up to reveal sharp fangs. “You’ve been very quiet all this time, Lord Nochdvor. How do you feel about your cousin’s warmongering? You used to be quite against that sort of thing, I recall.”
“It’s never been his own family before,” Rheamaren said, answering for Leandros.
Malong’s sneer spread into a toothy grin. “Hasn’t it, though?”
The Princess’s eyes widened. “You dare—”
“We only want to help you, Your Highness,” Diomis interrupted, finally stepping into Gareth’s field of view. The two alfar were tall for humans, but the nympherai Magistrate stood heads taller than them both. Their legs tilted oddly as they stepped forward, enough to draw attention to their smooth gait and the hooves peeking out from beneath their skirts. Atop their head sat something like a crown made of kelp. “Think: whoever took your father took him for a reason — if not, why not kill him on the spot? If we can learn their reason, we will have a better chance of getting him back than if we charge in senselessly.”
“I already told you who took him. You just refuse to listen,” Rheamaren said while the Magistrates exchanged looks. “What of that woman? Will your team be prepared to handle her?”
Diomis laid a bony hand on Rhea’s shoulder. “You are distressed. It is understandable. You witnessed something terrible and your mind filled in a fantasy to make sense of it. Worry not over this orinian woman. If she exists, we will handle.”
“You don’t believe us,” Rhea guessed.
“We believe that Orean has shown it is ready and willing to use violence,” Moira said. “Think. Responding in kind could drive them to extremes. While they have your father, that’s the last thing we want to do.”
“They may be right, Rhea,” Leandros said, so quietly that Gareth almost missed it. Rhea turned to look at him; Gareth wished he could see her expression. What he did see was Leandros’ subtle nod and the way Rhea’s shoulders slumped, in answer. Leandros turned to the Magistrates. While his next words were deferential, the shadows behind his icy eyes thrashed. Gareth wondered if the Magistrates could see it from where they stood. “I hope you’ll forgive our uncertainty. It’s now been three days since my uncle’s disappearance — three days of high tensions and little sleep for us. We thank Unity for not only conceiving a plan that will keep the province peaceful, but for considering the King’s safety in making it.”
Moira narrowed her eyes. “But…?” she prompted.
In answer, Leandros gave a wry smile. “But if I may, I’d like to propose a compromise that I hope will satisfy us all.”
Diomis stared at Leandros, their ichthyic eyes unblinking. “By all means.”
“While we’re sure your team will do what it can to rescue our King, having a voice on the team that we trust, one that has a personal stake in seeing Amos safely home, would go a long way. And should you be amenable to granting that small request, I would like to volunteer for the position.”
Again, the Magistrates exchanged looks. “You want to join the team?” Moira clarified.
“No,” Leandros corrected. “I want to lead the team.”
While Rhea stiffened, Moira laughed. “Oh! You have quite the pair on you, boy,” Moira said.
“Respectfully, Magistrate, I am at least thirty years your senior,” Leandros said. “I also have extensive experience to recommend me for the position, including decades of work with the Oracle of Damael, direct personal experience with Orean, and a dual degree in psychology and law — and that’s not even touching on my other qualifications, which it appears at least Magistrate Malong is familiar with.”
“Absolutely not,” Malong hissed. “With your family history? With the outlandish story you both came here telling us? All that, and you expect us to believe you impartial?”
Leandros nodded as if he expected this. “Is impartiality in the face of difficult emotions not what Alfheim does best?” he asked. “I’m asking to work with you to get him back, not against. Alfheim can’t do this alone, but we need to be the ones to do it. I know that what Rhea and I saw that day may not be true, but that’s all the more reason we should be involved — we need to know who did this. We need to find it out for ourselves.”
Gareth didn’t understand the significance of the last assertion, but it seemed all the others did. Rhea frowned, Moira’s shoulders unknitted, even Malong’s wings relaxed incrementally. “But is protecting the people under our banner not what Unity does best?” Diomis asked. “You may feel you need to be involved, but that is not so. Let Unity solve this for you; you have enough troubles as it stands.”
Leandros smiled, and it was surprisingly smug — like a cat in the sun, Gareth thought. Or, perhaps more accurately, like a master chess player who’d just sprung a trap. “While my cousin and I are grateful to Unity for lending your resources, I’m afraid we must insist on having a hand in the resolution.” Here, he paused meaningfully. “And if you’re so worried about how the world perceives your actions, consider: should Unity insist on taking over this rescue despite Alfheim’s objection and resistance, what will people think? When Unity’s opinion on Orean is common knowledge? Some might think you have…ulterior motives.”
Silence fell over the room. From his place in the hall, Gareth’s eyebrows were in danger of flying right off his head if they climbed any higher. Then Malong drew herself up, wings fanning out like prey trying to appear larger. “Is that a threat, Mr. Nochdvor?”
“Not at all,” Leandros said with so much fake innocence Gareth heard it echo all the way out in the hall. “I only meant to warn you. I understand your intent, of course, but others may find it suspicious how hard you’re trying to cut Alfheim out. Is it really only concern for the King, or might you want to be in control for other reasons as well?”
Rheamaren’s mask had shattered entirely; she openly gaped at her cousin. She shook herself, though, and added her voice. “Is my cousin’s compromise not reasonable? If you appoint him to lead the team, you’ll hear no more objections from me. Leandros will report to you, and the team itself will still be of your choosing.”
Moira twitched, crossing and uncrossing her legs. It was Diomis who finally spoke, a rueful smile on their thin lips. “You both make reasonable points.”
“You’re not considering this?” Malong hissed at them.
Diomis shrugged.
“Do you use that law degree of yours, Lord Nochdvor?” Moira asked. She sounded tired.
“I don’t currently, no.”
Moira hummed. “You should.”
“We may need a minute to discuss. You’ve given us much to think about,” Diomis said. “Princess Nochdvor, Lord Nochdvor, I propose we break for now and meet again in half an hour. Does that sound amenable?”
Gareth scrambled back from the door before he could be caught, but not fast enough. Rheamaren Nochdvor threw it open with such force that it hit him as he scrambled, tripping him and throwing off his balance. He landed on his backside, the contents of his bag spilling out over the hallway. The Princess barely seemed to notice; she stormed off in a random direction, her expression still frighteningly neutral, and Gareth pushed himself up onto his elbows just in time for Leandros to storm out behind Rhea. Unlike his cousin, his expression when he thought no one was looking was far from neutral: it was fiery, furious, almost feral in its intensity. It seemed so out of place on his sharp alfar features that Gareth could only stare. Then Leandros met his eye and came up short, his anger slipping away to surprise.
As the door swung shut behind Leandros, Gareth caught a glimpse inside. For a small mercy, the Magistrates didn’t seem to have noticed him. Before he could feel too relieved, though, Leandros crouched and started to gather Gareth’s scattered papers.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Gareth said in a mortified whisper. “You needn’t help me, really.”
“Nonsense.” Leandros tapped a bundle of papers against the ground to straighten it. “That was my cousin that crashed into you just now; if she won’t take responsibility, I will. Forgive her, she’s had a difficult day.” He glanced up at Gareth, his catlike pupils blown wide in the dim hallway. “Were you on your way to see the Magistrates?”
“Ah, yes. Moira is…” Gareth said, trailing off when the alfar’s attention shifted to the small pamphlet he’d found among Gareth’s papers. Gareth made a grab for it. “Please, pay that no mind!”
Leandros held the pamphlet out of reach, however, and turned it so Gareth could see the scandalous illustration on the cover. The alfar raised a questioning eyebrow at him while Gareth struggled to formulate an excuse, his cheeks heating, but then surprised Gareth once again by asking: “Are you finished with this? I don’t suppose you’d let me borrow it?”
Gareth’s brain stuttered to a stop all at once. “Are you…a fan of the story?”
Leandros ran his thumb over the penny dreadful’s cover, almost fondly. “Something like that.”
“Please, have it. It’s my wife’s, but she’ll be more than happy to have someone make good use of it.”
Leandros almost smiled at Gareth. “You’re sure?” he asked. He climbed to his feet, then offered a hand to help Gareth up as well. He was stronger and broader than he’d seemed from a distance, and Gareth almost felt embarrassed at how easily he was pulled up.
“Quite,” Gareth said, a little breathlessly.
Leandros made a quiet, pleased sound and tucked the pamphlet into an inner coat pocket. “Thank you, sir. For what it’s worth, you’ve made one of the worst days of my life slightly more bearable.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Gareth said. Then, in the awkward silence that followed, he blurted, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
It was an admission of guilt, he knew, practically a confession that he’d been eavesdropping, but Leandros didn’t seem bothered by it — or if he was, it didn’t show. Instead, he simply said, “You’re one of the first people to say that that I believe actually meant it. Thank you.”
Awkwardly, Gareth held out his hand. “Gareth Ranulf,” he said. Seeing the recognition in Leandros’ eyes, he added, “And please forgive my sister, in turn; she cares more than she lets on.”
“Leandros Nochdvor,” Leandros said. “I should really go after my cousin, but thank you again for the chapter. I thought I’d missed my chance to read it.”
“Oh! No, of course,” Gareth said, moving out of his way. “The Princess went that way.”
Leandros bowed before following his cousin’s stormy path. Gareth watched him go, waiting for him to round the corner, then snuck quietly away before anyone else found him there. Perhaps it was best if he left Moira to her work after all.
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This email is a part of Fractured Magic, a gothic fantasy webserial. At emrowene.com, you can find a character guide and gallery, a full list of content warnings, and other works by the author. Supporting the story on Patreon will give you early access to chapters plus character art and exclusive content.
Yay, he got his chapter!!
I'm glad Leandros finally got his serial installment. I liked the politics at play here.