122. Southern Islands

Ravenna reached forward and pulled the next folders toward her. Their titles, written in bold ink, “Proposed New Defensive Measures for Jola Island” and “Public Executions and the Official News Press of Jola.”

Before she could open either, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Your Highness,” came the voice of a palace attendant from outside, “High Priest James is here, requesting an audience.”

Ravenna glanced at the stack of documents before her and allowed a small smile to touch her lips.

“Perfect timing,” she said, folding her hands. “Let him in.”

Few Minutes later,

“So, I hear you've been reinstated into the line of succession, Your Highness?” High Priest James said casually, taking a slow sip of his tea as he sat across from Ravenna in her sunlit office.

Ravenna offered a knowing smile. “Ah, so the news has already reached you, Your Holiness,” she said, reaching for a delicate cookie from the porcelain tray between them. She bit into it with practiced grace, brushing away a few crumbs from her lips.

James set down his teacup with a gentle clink. “I believe this is something the people of the Dukedom should be informed of as well. It's quite a joyous announcement, after all. Especially since travel to and from the mainland has been severely restricted under your rule. Many still don’t fully understand what’s been happening beyond the island’s shores.”

“Well, I'm glad you brought that up,” Ravenna said, her tone bright but laced with underlying intention. She took another bite of her cookie before continuing. “As it happens, I was just about to speak to you about something closely related.”

James raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

“You remember, of course, that the preparations for the public execution ceremony were to be finalized before my departure to the capital?” she asked, now leaning back slightly in her chair.

The priest gave a slight nod. “Yes, yes. Those preparations have been completed for some time now. The church staff are simply awaiting your order.”

“Then let’s proceed,” Ravenna said decisively, setting her teacup down with finality. “We’ll hold it tomorrow.”

James nodded solemnly. “Very well. I’ll ensure the appropriate announcements are made and the clergy are prepared.”

A pause followed, just long enough for the air to thicken with unspoken concerns. Then James cleared his throat, his voice quieter now but carrying the weight of diplomacy. “That said… the real reason for my visit today, Your Highness, is to speak about—”

“Spreading the faith?” Ravenna interrupted without missing a beat, her sharp gaze locking onto his. There was no malice in her voice, but the cool control she wielded made her position unmistakably clear.

James nodded slowly. “That… yes, that is why I’m here.”

“You seek assurances” Ravenna said, her voice lowering an octave as she laced her fingers together on the table. “You want to ensure I hold up my end of the arrangement.”

“The Church of Herptian provided support when you needed it most” James said carefully. “Your reinstatement in the line of succession was… is something making the priest a bit uncomfortable at our humble Church. As an Apostle of Herptian, You gave your word that you would assist in restoring and expanding the church’s influence across the Ancorna Empire and Eastern Continent.”

Ravenna’s expression sharpened as she sat up straighter, her dark black eyes flashing with resolve. “As you well know, Your Holiness, I keep my promises.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice calm yet edged with quiet fury. “Even now, I remain under exile status. But soon… very soon, that will change. And when it does, you’ll see that I’ve made good on every deal I’ve struck.”

James chuckled lightly, raising both hands in mock surrender. “No, no—please don’t misunderstand, Your Highness. I have no doubts about your integrity. I merely came to… remind you.”

Ravenna’s expression softened just enough to accept the gesture. “Consider me reminded.”

The room fell silent for a moment, broken only by the gentle tapping of newly grown tree branches against the window pane and the distant sounds of the sea winds brushing over the high towers of Jola’s castle.

Republic City of Otto, Southern Islands, in the Luminous Seas, off the Coast of Hilde Kingdom, Eastern Continent

Rain lashed mercilessly from the heavens, blanketing the sea in a silver haze and turning the world into a blur of gray and shadow. The only light came from the distant glow of the Republic City of Otto, its skyline a jagged silhouette of towers shimmering faintly across the churning waves.

A lone boat crested into view, cutting through the storm like a stubborn ghost. It pitched and rocked against the restless tide before finally reaching the stone docks of the harbor with a wooden groan. The vessel, small but solidly built, bore no identifying flags or symbols, just a reinforced hull and a single black lantern at the bow.

The boat’s lone passenger stood and stepped onto the dock, the slick planks glistening beneath his boots. He wore a raincoat tailored from the hide of a magical beast, its surface resistant to water, shimmering faintly with enchantment in the lightning’s glare. Beneath the coat, glimpses of silk sleeves, gold-threaded cuffs, and the hilt of a ceremonial dagger hinted at his noble pedigree.

Waiting for him beneath a rusted awning were two men, their own raincoats crudely woven from jute, dripping wet and clinging to their bodies. Their posture was deferential, but their eyes sharp, men used to doing unpleasant work in unpleasant weather.

One of them stepped forward and spoke in heavily accented Ancornan. “Lord Ethan Flask of Ancorna?”

The noble gave a quick nod, his irritation barely concealed. “Yes, yes, that’s me,” he replied with a grimace. “Now, unless you want to see me drown standing, can we speak somewhere dry? I’ve had quite enough of this bloody rain.”

The two men exchanged a look, then silently turned and gestured for him to follow. “This way, milord.”

Without another word, Ethan Flask pulled his coat tighter around him and followed his guides into the maze-like streets of Otto. The city loomed ahead—an independent republic known for trade, secrets, and those who trafficked in both. Its towers rose from the mist like jagged teeth, lanterns swaying from iron hooks, casting flickers of orange light against stone walls slick with moisture.

The nobleman's boots splashed through puddles as he moved deeper into the city, his presence cloaked by the storm—but not unnoticed.

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