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Prince Nyx may be the Master of the Guard of the Queen of Ciraea, but Theia is female. Were he to insist that they seclude themselves in a room of the Inn for this private discussion, alone, she would have the right to decline. Nyx doesn’t bother to ask, however, and so Theia is forced to send a distaff-to-spear thread to her barman.
*Lawl.*
*Lady* is the immediate, gruff answer. She recognizes the hint of concern that Lawl is unable to hide.
Her request is simple. *I need you.*
*Yes, Lady.*
Lawl meets them at the end of the hallway, silent like a ghost but there nonetheless. If Prince Nyx is ill-pleased to see Prince Lawl, his face betrays none of that displeasure. The three enter what amounts to Theia’s personal office, a small backroom with a desk and two chairs where she does the Inn’s bookkeeping. The door is left ajar.
“The Warlord Prince named Jakob is to be arrested by order of the Queen. Where is he?”
Nyx is a blunt man. For once, Theia does not approve of bluntness.
“What is his crime?” She folds her arms, tucking cold hands against the rough fabric of her dress.
“He is guilty of participation in the unlawful acquisition of the Queen’s goods. He is a rogue, Lady,” the Master of the Guard tells her in a hard tone, “by his own admission. The Queen’s men, including your son, bear witness to this account.”
Oh Jak. What have you done?
Lawl remains blank-faced and quiet, an observer and a support for which Theia is silently grateful. She steels her spine. “You won’t find Prince Jakob here. He left Havenstry some weeks ago.”
Instead of asking where, the Warlord Prince wants to know, “Why?”
She struggles internally for an answer and decides on “The matter is personal.”
Nyx’s eyes are sharp. “If you intentionally withhold information, you will be guilty of conspiracy with a convicted criminal.”
“You won’t find your answer in my inn,” snaps Theia, suddenly too tired of playing word games. Her son—both of her sons—are at stake and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t show a little temper when it counts.
The Warlord Prince’s eyes glaze over and she sucks in a breath but does not back away. Lawl shifts, then, from his position against the wall and steps in front of Theia. When those glazed eyes focus on the male instead of her, she swallows hard and places a hand on Lawl’s arm.
“Gentlemen.” Surprised at the steadiness of her own voice, Theia speaks softly. “I won’t have blood shed in my home. Prince Nyx, you have asked your questions and I have answered as best I can. Unless you are going to shackle me this instant, I formally request that you vacate the Rose & Thorn Inn.”
The only evidence that Nyx works to step away from the killing edge is in the tick of his jaw. Lawl nods once with a grunt of acceptance but does not yield his protective stance. Theia could kiss him, except she knows that Lawl does not appreciate affection from anyone.
After a seemingly long stretch of time, what can only be mere seconds, Prince Nyx releases his tight grip on the handle of the knife situated in his belt and steps back to give them both a cursory bow. She doesn’t dare complain about his lack of courtesy.
“Wait.”
Nyx halts in his exit, back to them both. The lines of tension are clear even through the man’s layered uniform.
“My son,” Theia asks. “Please release him.”
“Your son,” says the uncaring Master of the Guard, “has not been cleared of suspicion.”
“He’s innocent!” She is almost ashamed of the emotion in her voice.
Nyx looks over his shoulder at her then. “Is he? It is the Queen’s right to decide his innocence.”
“Then I wish to have an audience with the Queen.”
“You will meet her soon enough,” the Warlord Prince replies. “If you are a smart woman, you won’t hasten that meeting.” He walks out.
Theia pushes past Lawl to the doorway. A short bark of an order from Nyx sends the men at the entrance into action. Lawl prevents her from following, from going to her son’s side, with a quiet “This isn’t the time, Theia” and the solid, iron hook of his arm.
No one, however, can keep her from seeing the hopelessness on her son’s face as they escort him from the Rose & Thorn Inn. Theia feels something painful rip through her. It is a cry of “Whit!“
Jak is not stupid. When he catches the glimpse of guards standing outside of the Inn, he doesn’t move from the shadows hiding him. It is a hard task, not to fly across the street, past all the people who have stopped to stare or speculate to one another in whispers; it is, quite simply, difficult to push down the instinct to meet the foe invading his home territory and obliterate them.
If the Queen’s guards are in Havenstry, then the Master of the Guard will not be far away. Jakob’s gut says that Prince Nyx is, in fact, already too close at hand.
When the double doors to the Rose & Thorn Inn bang open, Jak clenches his fist at the sight of Whit being shoved down the front steps of the boardwalk into the street. The scent of another dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince hits him a moment before the Master of the Guard appears. Only the sharp pain of his nails breaking the skin of his palm steadies Jakob enough that he doesn’t walk out into the open and issue a challenge.
No others leave the Inn—not Theia, Ali, or anyone Jakob considers family.
Nor is his mother is present, a small blessing in itself. He is terrified by the thought of Theia facing his mother.
Jakob slides back into the tight alleyway, letting the rough scrap of the boards against his flesh keep him grounded. Retreat, he stubbornly tells himself.
Retreat, Jakob, and find another way.
He risks too much by barging into the Inn now. Nyx will post a detail guard around the building to keep watch, and then more surreptitiously positioned men in adjacent buildings. It is a risk, even Sapphire sight-shielded.
But he needs to know if Theia and Ali are unharmed—has to—before he seeks confrontation with the enemy.
Jakob goes back the way he came and then heads south. There is one person who might be willing to help. That, too, is a risk; not simply because the man might refuse, but more so if the man does not.
Jakob easily jimmies open the side door of an old one-story building, noting the activation of light-Jeweled alarm spells as he does so. Once Jak is inside the hallway, a man’s voice calls out, “Hello?”
He waits patiently, unmoving against a backdrop of peeling wallpaper might have been a lively shade of yellow a century ago. Boards creak and a ball of witchlight floats from down the opposite end. Jakob sees the dark shape of a man shadowed in the entrance that separates the public store from a private workshop.
The Prince draws in a quick breath. “You shouldn’t have come back.”
He answers honestly. “I had to.”
Silence. Then Jak’s oldest friend closes the distance between them in long strides. The man takes ahold of Jakob’s arm, steering him into a tool room that hasn’t seen a dust mop in some years.
“Jak,” Eyan whispers lowly. “Guards are searching the town.”
“I know.”
“The men are scared shitless. And they can’t pack up and run for fear of sticking out.”
“I know.“
Eyan makes a sound of frustration. “Then tell me what to do!”
Jakob closes his eyes. “I can take care of it, but first I need you do something for me.” He opens his eyes and looks at the Prince steadily. “I need you to go to the Inn.”
“Jak, Nyx isn’t just passing through. He’s looking for you. The Inn—”
“Is the primary target. Damn it, Eyan, I understand that! My family is in there!”
“And what about mine? If I’m caught, Nyx won’t give a shit what happens to my wife or kids. He’ll—” The man breathes shakily, and Jakob can almost taste the man’s fear. “—he might use them against me.”
A man like Nyx would do just that. They both know it.
“Eyan, please. I swear to you, if you do this for me, I won’t let anyone in Havenstry suffer. Just shield Theia and Ali for me. That’s all I’m asking.”
The Prince moves a pace back, an uncertainty still clear in his eyes. “How?” he wants to know. “How are you going to stop them?”
Jakob sighs. “I’ll give the Queen what she wants. Me.”
“That’s madness.”
“Is it?” His smile is bitter. “Phaedra will live to regret getting what she asked for.” He turns away. “That I can promise you.”
“Shit” mutters the witch using Rainier as a prop.
*Tell me again why we can’t simply pass through the wood.*
*Shut up and push. I can almost reach the ledge.*
Rainier grunts, uses Craft to steady his bad leg and fairly heaves Surreal bodily through the small window. He hears her sharp curse as her boot catches on the edge of the frame. A fierce kick of a leg, an unpleasant crack of wood combined with a quick stab of the witch’s stiletto, and Surreal finally makes it inside.
*All clear?*
*Except for these damn cobwebs* comes the grumpy reply.
Rainer plants his foot as if standing on an invisible box, secures a hold on the wooden sill and easily lifts himself through the pried-open window. Surreal stops smacking the dust from her trousers to turn and glare at him.
It’s not his fault. She had said “Give me a lift to the window and I’ll break in” so he’d only been doing what she asked. Rainier will never understand how the female brain works.
*We made it.*
The mental equivalent of a snort. *And we didn’t get caught by the guards.*
*I doubt we would have been noticed walking through the front door. You can sight shield with the Gray, Surreal.*
She isn’t paying attention to him now, absently reaches back and squeezes his arm. Rainier sighs forlornly at the new smudge of dust sullying his jacket sleeve. *Too easy. Besides, Sadi said to go around the back. Do you want to explain to him why we didn’t follow orders?*
He wisely doesn’t argue with that point.
Rainier lifts up the corner of a sheet to reveal a stack of chairs. *This must be a storage room.*
Surreal slides around covered furniture to the door. He stands behind her, both of them quiet and listening. When he feels the spell she wraps around herself, he sends a light psychic touch brushing against her mind.
*I’ll go first.*
Surreal looks at him sharply.
He does not wait for an answer. Rainier passes through the door, his sight shield in place. This room is at the end of the short side of an L-shaped hallway. He stands at the corner and surveys the long hall that leads to the front doors of the Inn. It is empty. A quick glance up the main staircase, and one would believe that this place never experiences much business.
He walks back to the storage room where Surreal waits but stops short at a light flicker of darker power against his shield. *Surreal?*
*Here. Drop your sight shield.*
He doesn’t hesitate. Surreal appears slightly to his left and behind him. Her eyes are smiling though her mouth is not. *I extended my shield to cover us both. It can’t be any fun if you can’t see me.*
*No,* he agrees. *It isn’t.*
Rainier confirms that the bartender and the Mistress of the Inn are in the open dining area; if there were any customers enjoying a brew in the early afternoon hours, they have departed for a safer haven than a building under watch by Queen’s guards. He cracks open his first inner barrier and senses several presences along the upper floor, mostly lighter Jeweled than his own power—probably the hired help.
They settle in a corner where the space beneath the staircase and a side closet meet. Rainier lets the tension tightening his shoulders keep him sharp and aware. Surreal is silent, as a state she always falls into when on a hunt. Now they only need to wait for the more dangerous predator to enter the game.
Lucivar vanishes the wooden box that Witch hands him. “What else?”
Her eyes are a deep midnight blue. “Everything Daemon will need is inside.”
The Eyrien waits. Jaenelle looks at him for a long moment. Then she huffs. “And tell my husband that I bought tickets to a play in Amdarh. I expect him home before then.”
With a grin, Lucivar rolls his shoulders. “Better him than me.” When Jaenelle smiles, his stomach drops. “Cat?”
“Marian bought tickets too.”
Shit. He grimaces.
His Queen laughs, says, “Poor Lucivar” and leaves him alone in one of the Keep’s sitting rooms. Lucivar decides prudently that he should return to Ciraea. At least it will offer a battlefield with rules he understands.
The Eyrien makes a sharp turn of a corridor towards the nearest courtyard and runs into his father instead.
Saetan raises an eyebrow. “I take it Jaenelle finished her web.”
Interesting. “Web?”
“For Daemon.”
“Guess she did. I’m headed back to Ciraea now.”
“You’ll be careful.”
His mouth pulls into a lazy, arrogant smile. “Worried?”
His father considers him from head to toe. Saetan’s reply is dry. “Perhaps not.”
With a bark of laughter, he marches out into the open air and takes flight.
Eyan is eyed with care as he strolls down the boardwalk whistling like an oblivious fool. He is, of course, halted before he can enter the Rose & Thorn Inn.
“State your name and business, Prince.”
“Prince Eyan.” He takes care to wobble a little. The smell of ale on his clothes is strong. “And as fer my business—that’s obvious,” he slurs.
The guards shift. One of them makes a face and mutters about local drunks.
Eyan explains with humor lacing his tone, “The Inn serves the best brew fer miles. You oughta try a drop.”
One of the guards tells him bluntly, “You might want to find another watering hole, Brother.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m an old man and habits are hard t’change. You’re welcome to come in with me. I can afford the company. Got paid yesterday.” He grins stupidly and pats his pockets with an absentminded air.
A young pup, barely old enough to serve in the guard by the looks of him, says with the bounce of youth, “He sauced! Looks just like my uncle after a hard night pulling on the bottle.”
“Hey, boyo,” Eyan offers, “have ye even tasted a real man’s drink? C’mon, the place’ll—”
“That’s enough.” A guard shoves him to the double doors. “We’ve got work to do.” A stern finger prods his chest. “You, stay out of trouble.”
“Aye, Sir.” He makes a sloppy salute and stumbles into the Inn.
As soon as the doors hide him from the guards’ view, Eyan straightens and strides to the tavern. Theia is seated at a table, a plate of untouched food set before her. Lawl, surprisingly, is seated across from the Mistress of the Inn and looks about as grim as Eyan has ever seen him—and Lawl supposedly forgot the meaning of fun a long, long time ago.
“Theia?” Eyan pulls up a chair. “You all right?”
“Eyan.” Her eyes are haunted.
He reaches across the table to take her hand, is worried that it is so cold. *Jakob sent me.* Intense worry strikes his senses hard. Lawl turns a mean look on Eyan. He ignores it.
*Jak’s here?* It is a quiet thought, like a whisper.
*Yes. Theia, the Master of the Guard—*
She laughs bitterly. *He’s come and gone, though I imagine not far.*
His reply is sharp. *Did Nyx threaten you?*
*He’s got Whit, Eyan. Whit didn’t even know.*
*I’m sorry, Lady.*
Eyan asks Lawl, “Could I have something strong?”
The bartender glances at Theia who nods. Lawl heads to the bar.
“Where’s Ali?”
The lines in Theia’s face make her look beyond her age. “I don’t know. One of the kitchen maids told her about Whit before I had a chance and no one has seen her since.”
*Try not to worry. Whit’s a strong man; he’ll be fine.* Eyan knows that his words are an empty comfort in the face of a mother’s fear. A steaming mug appears in front of the Prince. He holds it between two hands, smelling the heavily laced cider. A quick taste confirms that it has more bite than sweetness. Just what he needs. He offers the mug to Lady Theia.
She takes it with a sigh. “I suppose this is Lawl’s special hot cider.”
He smiles softly. “Just as good as the last time I warmed my bones with it.”
“It’s more likely to eat a hole through your stomach lining,” the witch tells him with a hint of tartness.
He is pleased when she sips at the cider; that pleasure grows when color comes back into her face.
“Are you staying?” she asks quietly.
“For a while.”
“We’ll need something solid too. I’ll check with the cook.” She picks up her plate and disappears through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen.
Lawl, cleaning rag in hand, says on a narrowly aimed spear thread as he wipes down the bar counter, *Jak willing to pay the price?*
Eyan shudders once. *Yeah. He is.*
*May the Darkness have mercy on him.*
*Do you know him?* asks Surreal, indicating the newcomer to the inn—a Prince that is obviously a good friend of Mistress Theia’s.
Rainier is grim-faced. *We’ve met. The wagons used for the latest theft were his family’s.*
Surreal shifts and narrows her eyes. *He’s a rogue, then.*
*I never confirmed my suspicion but I imagine so.*
*And now he’s here, settling in.*
How deeply involved is the staff of the Rose & Thorn Inn with the rogues? Surreal weighs what she knows so far against what is becoming evident. The Inn is the focal point for the conspiracy.
The Warlord Prince nudges her. *Feel that?*
The dark power tingling along her nerves is unmistakable. Sadi has arrived.
Daemon isn’t one for loud entrances like his brother. He simply need stand at the bottom of the front steps, drop his sight shield, and watch chaos ensue.
One of the guards pales like he might faint at the sight of the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Daemon greets them collectively with a feral smile, saying nothing, and enters the Rose & Thorn Inn. If a guard or two have dashed away to alert Prince Nyx that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan has arrived, well, Daemon won’t detain them. The sooner that Nyx learns who the real enemy is, the better. Sadi has no time for fools.
He immediately senses his second-in-command and secretary. He sends a thought along a Gray thread. *How many?*
Surreal answers. *The innkeeper and her bartender are in the tavern. There’s another Prince with them. May be a rogue. No sign of Jakob. Servants along the upper floors, in the kitchen.*
Daemon glides to the tavern, sparing a short glance over his left shoulder at the glimmer of the sight-shielded pair by the staircase. *Send those on the second floor and in the kitchen home, Surreal. Then come to the tavern.*
After a moment, which tells Daemon that Surreal is communicating his orders to Rainier, the sight shield drops and Surreal waves her stiletto at him before marching up the staircase, Rainier in close attendance.
Daemon pushes aside his momentary amusement. The Mistress of the Inn has already stepped out of the kitchen to greet him.
“Prince Sadi,” The witch’s voice holds regret—and something more. “I am sorry for the inconvenience but the Rose & Thorn Inn is not available to accommodate visitors today.”
He walks to the bar, hands in trouser pockets, and sits. He smiles. “One drink, then?”
Lady Theia—he remembers correctly, never forgets those who catch his attention—gestures at her bartender. That doesn’t stop the male from plunking down a mug with a sour look. Daemon raises an eyebrow. He waits to see if the man will serve him ale or wine.
He receives a glass of red wine after the Mistress shoots the bartender a look that could flay skin from bones. Daemon takes a sip, places the glass to the side, plants his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers.
“Tell me why the Inn is closed today, Lady Theia.”
It isn’t a request.
“The matter is personal, I am afraid, Prince.”
“The Queen’s guards stationed outside do not undertake requests made by citizens,” he replies pleasantly. “That was your first try. I’ll give you two more—and then I’ll take what I want to know.”
The Prince seated at the table has frozen.
Then the witch speaks in a slow and heavy voice. “The Inn is under surveillance by the Master of the Guard.” He waits patiently for her to continue. The next words are almost a whisper. “A member of my staff has been accused as a rogue.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
Daemon leans back, picks up the wineglass again and savors the taste of a decent red wine. “Where is Jakob?” he asks mildly.
The toppling of a chair is hardly surprising. The Warlord Prince watches languidly as the un-introduced male takes Lady Theia’s arm, panicked words slipping out in rapid-fire succession. “Theia, don’t say anything!”
She jerks her arm from him. Her words are hot. “What good has silence brought us, Eyan? My son has been tortured by a cold-blooded bastard!”
“And what about Jak? Do you know what will happen to him? Do you even care? Is he not family enough?”
The slap resounds loudly in the large room.
Daemon puts a bit of thunder into his voice. “Enough.“
The woman steps back, hand to her mouth. The Prince says nothing of the abuse she just dealt him, only comments in a low tone, “No amount of hurt you inflict on me will compare to the pain I’ve condemned my family to.” Then he meets Daemon’s gold eyes. “If you came to win, then you won’t be disappointed. None of us can stand against you. Not you.“
Daemon watches as the Prince floats his hastily abandoned chair into an upright position and re-seats himself, head falling forward into hands. Surreal and Rainier enter the tavern through the kitchen area. The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan stands, then, and tells them all in a smooth, chilling voice, “I have no mercy for liars. I won’t ask again: where is Jakob?”
Lucivar bypasses the family estate outside of Ciraea and sends out a call when he crosses the province border.
*Daemon?*
*Prick.* The response is delayed long enough that the Eyrien increases his speed.
He rarely flies through this part of Dhemlan. *Give me something to track.*
A moment later, Lucivar feels a dark pulse—darker than the Ebon-gray—beckoning him through the Darkness.
*On my way, Bastard.*
It worries him that Daemon doesn’t take the time to answer.
Jak is saved from doing something reckless like jumping in front of Prince Nyx to declare war by an out-of-breath guard that skids to a stop not ten feet from where Jakob is hidden behind an abandoned cart of wares.
“Sir!”
The Master of the Guard has a blade unsheathed and ready before the young man can stammer out the next words.
Then Jakob hears what the pup is telling Nyx and feels weak.
“Prince Sadi is here!”
Nyx slowly lowers his weapon and glances around. Jakob, in that moment, cannot blame the man for that display of caution. “Where?” is the short snap of a reply.
“At the inn, Sir. The one you told us to guard. He just—” The guard swallows noisily. “—appeared and went right in.”
Nyx’s response could almost be considered hesitant. “Pass the word. Hold positions. Do you understand?”
Quick nods and hasty agreements from the circle of men around the Master of the Guard.
The Warlord Prince sheathes his blade as he speaks to an older guard in roughly. “I want a group of men waiting in the back and side alleys of the Inn. Then pull those that can be spared from the central landing web and have them meet me in the street.”
A searing glance sends all the guards scrambling to obey. From Jak’s crouch, he can see Nyx breath deeply and flex those gloved fists as if the air smells of a call to battle. The Master of the Guard calls in a short yellow ribbon, so strange a sight in the hands of a warrior, and strokes it once between calloused fingertips before handing the ribbon to a lingering guard.
Whatever message passes between the two males, Jakob does not know. The guard says “Aye, Sir” and walks away. Then Jakob has no more time for contemplation over that bit of secrecy. Nyx is striding down the street to the Rose & Thorn Inn.
Jakob follows.
Whit.
You idiot.
Ali forbides herself to cry. The tears are present in her eyes anyway.
Finding the familiar backdoor, she gives it one mighty BOOM. Thinking of only how good that felt, and ignoring how desperate she really is, Ali raises her fist to pound on it again when the door swings open.
Moira’s face can only be described as severely displeased. Then the Black Widow recognizes who is so blatantly banging on her door and her expression changes to something much softer.
“Come in, girl.”
“Oh, Moira,” Alia cries. “Whit is in trouble! The whole Inn, we’re all in trouble.”
“I know” floats the word from around a corner. Then Moira comes back into her kitchen and points at a chair. “Sit. There is much to do.”
Ali sits, unable to think of anything better at the moment except giving into her tears. “We’ve been hand-fasted forever and we thought that once Whit made it into the Queen’s court there would be enough income to buy a small cottage and…” She is babbling through her tears and can’t seem to stop. A cup is pressed into her hand.
“Drink,” Moira tells her.
A hand strokes her hair as she obeys and downs a majority of its contents, barely tasting the tea. Somehow, the brew does soothe her nerves.
“I don’t know what to do,” whispers the young girl.
“What must happen now is not for you to choose, Alia,” the Black Widow tells her kindly. “Rest easy. Your Whit will survive.”
Ali’s voice is less shaky. “Are you sure?”
“I have seen it.”
She looks up, searches that face of indeterminate age. “The Queen is holding Havenstry hostage. How can any good come of that?”
“If the Queen takes an interest in us, then so shall he.”
“Who?” Ali has not met too many Black Widows in her short life, but Moira is the most puzzling of them all.
The older witch looks at the far wall with a tiny smile curving her lips. “Dhemlan’s appointed caretaker.”
Ali almost chokes on the rest of her tea. She gasps, “Prince Sadi? He’s here?“
The Black Widow Moira looks too pleased. “Yes. Ciraea needs him now.”
“This place is awful,” Phae complains as she pulls a shawl tightly around her shoulders. The look on her face is a mix of disgust and weary acceptance.
“No one expects to find the Queen of Ciraea in a rat’s nest,” Reed replies. “Any more luxurious and people would want a second look at the guests in town.”
The knock on the door interrupts the woman’s reply—a sharp one by the way her mouth has pinched at the edges.
Reed positions himself so that he is blocking the view into the room. Though the young Warlord at the door wears a large overcoat, there are evident flashes of a guard’s uniform beneath when the boy shifts on his feet. “Message, Sir” is the nervous greeting.
A yellow ribbon is called in and thrust under Reed’s nose. He takes it delicately. “Received, Warlord.” The door is shut in the man’s face.
“Was that the maid with extra blankets?”
Reed doesn’t bother to explain that requesting an extra anything in this seedy hotel is likely to be laughed at and subsequently ignored. “No.” He holds up the ribbbon. “From the Master of the Guard.”
Phaedra rises slowly from her perch on the edge of a chair and opens her hand. He gives it to her. There is an intense look in her eyes.
“Phae, we agreed that the message would be verbal. An alert when the rogue was caught.” Didn’t you trust me with a change of plans? He can’t ask that because he is afraid of the answer.
“Yes,” she says absently as she turns away. “I required another favor of Nyx.”
He waits. When she says nothing else, Reed sighs and touches her covered shoulder. “Please, don’t keep me in the dark. Not when your life is at stake.”
The Queen barely acknowledges his words. “Nyx has found what I’m looking for.”
Is that his heart pounding so loudly?
“I must go to Havenstry.”
Arguing with Phaedra is futile. He manages to say in a soft voice, “I will find us transport, Lady.” He bows, turns and exits their small room to do just that.
When Reed returns, arrangements made and a small meal in hand—the best he could find in this part of a tiny, backwater town—Phaedra is gone.
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Related Posts:
- [BJT Big Bang] The Rogue of Ciraea (masterpost) – from March 5, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Preface – from March 3, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Epilogue – from January 29, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (2/2) – from January 23, 2011
- The Rogue of Ciraea – Chapter Six (1/2) – from January 18, 2011
