From the Highguard of the Amo to the far reach of Smokey Brook; the words were spoken clear and true, and why not? There were no truer to be spoken elsewhere. If a juc could properly stand proud to announce oneself as juc, then one must first comprehend the spirit inherited in the lines of lore; that the greatest of empire’s bare birth not to the whims of powerful juc, but to the fertilities of soil. The Cressen in the most fundamental of forms owed to it the very nature of this truth. 

   So why, oh why, the Lord General of all the wooden plains of Greydeep had to question unto himself, why could his daughter not see?

  With a reluctant sigh, he conceded the obvious: it was his own damned fault expecting anything more of her.

  Of any of them.

  Offer your neck to the ki’fur, an officer had once told him. The blade will spare you half the trauma. Baelin had laughed then. Now, five years later, he wasn’t so sure the juc had been wrong.

  They had been sweet once. Little things who wanted nothing more than a hug or a stroke of the mane. Now? Now the moon gods alone might hazard a guess at what they wanted, and even they would be lucky to get it half right.

  “Send her in.” Came the announcement of Baelin through the crossover of interlaced fingers. The flames flickering on their wicks with each sigh his words were to drag out. 

“And so help her if she brings that thing in with her.”

  “At once, my lord.” Replied the captain of his guard. The relief of the juc palpable as he slipped from the office. Under regular circumstances, Naellic would have most likely left with a bow, but not this day, and regular had nothing at all to do with it. Estara bore the blame for that… such a pity it was too. 

  When she entered, she could have been any other girl; plain of face, dark of fur, eyes wide as the gods themselves. If the gods had any mercy, she would have been any regular pup. Life would have been simpler for them both.

  “My lord,” she kept her head up; that was good. Poise came naturally to this one, well, that or arrogance; the line between either being so easily blurred. “You called for me?”

  “Sit,”

  She did not. Her tail flicked once. Be it irritation or nerves. It was hard to tell with her.

  “And would it not be so unruly of you to address me as father, if only for the one time?”

  She refused again, jaw tightening. “You summoned me. Say what you mean to say.”

  Baelin studied her for a moment. She was braced for something. Braced hard. As though she already suspected the shape of the conversation. As though she feared it.

  “Have you spoken to your sisters today?”

  Estara scoffed. “They’re busy preparing for their lessons. Or their grooming. Or whatever it is jucess pups are meant to do.”

 “You should speak with them; they worry of you. I worry about you too, for that matter. I would hate to see any adverse reactions from these nuisances of yours; you know how slippery the slopes you face can be.”

  Her ears twitched. “My lord, is that a threat?”

  “No,” he said, softening his tone. “Only concern. There comes a time, Estara, when a young jucess must look beyond her games. Beyond mischief. Toward her future. Toward alliances. Toward… marriage.”

  Her eyes, wide a moment ago, narrowed to slits. “You’re a cruel father. You know that, right?”

  Baelin only smiled, warm and maddeningly patient. “If that is the price I must pay, so be it. I will stop at nothing to see my dears safe. And it warms my heart to see my words already taking effect. Thank you, sweet Estara, for that.”

  She didn’t realise her slip—too busy huffing as she spun on her heel, muttering under her breath, “I won’t do it. You bet your arse I won’t do it.”

  He ignored that.

  It felt nice to be called father.

  He sat back. Brief as it was, he could hardly remember a longer conversation with his middle child. The other two at least frequented his sight, and at times may even go as far as a hug. Estara though, well he’d have better luck embracing a santaman.

  Still, there was work to be done.

  The entire world was soon set to change.  

  The train chugged down the tracks with its steady clickity clack through the forests of Greydeep, south from the station of Shy Springs, onward to Waterstone and Verilia’s Crown beyond. An entire day already had passed with still another before the mountains would loom, and each passing hour only grew colder as the winds picked up in their bite. The Crown was never a destination to be travelled lightly; those sharp, almost impenetrable mountain fangs guilty to the imprisonment of many a juc soul. Baelin, in silence, cared not for travelling southbound at all. Shy Springs offered that which a juc required, Jyckson’s Slit the far opposite. It was, though, key to everything he had planned.  

  Captain Naellic returned shortly thereafter, frown lines deepening his snout. “My lord…”

  Baelin gave the air a flick to dismiss the words he knew were coming. The officer’s grim expression voiced already a thousand words too many. “You… you keep that big sour trap of yours shut! I don’t want to hear it! You have a son, born of your own blood too. That’s how I handle my daughters; if they don’t like it… well; they know the consequences plain enough!”

  The grim faced juc strode in to take his seat, “You speak truthfully, my lord general. I’ve fathered no daughters. Never been much in company with anyone else’s than yours either, if truth be told. Though with all due respect, blackmail would probably not be my first choice with her.”

  Ale would not be a strong enough drink here, Baelin was to know at once. From the bottom drawer of his desk emerged the dull brown visage of Indil’s finest. The bottle to his dismay already hovering at near half of empty. 

  The frown that had creased Naellic’s snout just moments ago vanished with the pop of the cork. “Now you’re talking, my lord.” It took half an hour and three taper glasses each before the same cursed conversation continued. “Perhaps it would have been wiser to leave the girls at the Springs. Sandstone is hardly the place for the jucess pups, not with the news you bear.”

  Baelin Toro shook his mane hard. “No. The girl’s places are at their father’s side. Sandstone will be too important in the coming years to be left in the hands of the Count’s charity. Marriage will seal the pact. Marriage to one of my daughters. Besides, I will not grant Wilfur any further reason to doubt our coming. The old codger’s been lobbying against this visit since the moment he caught wind of it.”

  “You do keep fine friends.”

  The lord general’s glass slammed down with a resounding thud. “Isn’t that the sorry truth of it! Aye, Count Farlief may be a friend true and dear; fought side by side we did when Darkwood pushed to take the Great Wyk. Even saw the juc take a blast of a short-charge to save my hide. But this isn’t war, this is politics, and the counts wary.”

  Captain Naellic no longer wasted the time awaiting his superior to fill his glass, much to Baelin’s dismay, who was forced to watch the last of the dom dribble away. “All the more reason you should have left your daughters at home. You don’t think Estara will make a scene? Tatem and Nadi I’m less concerned about, but Estara?”

  A statement that near brought the candles to flicker out, “I will hear no more of it, not today. On the morrow, it will be dealt with. You will have all three of my daughters brought to the audience chamber; there I will ensure there are no doubts left what is expected of them at Sandstone.”

  “I assume you will attempt a more diplomatic approach than your last?”

  Lord General Baelin Toro took to his feet and showed his captain the door.