Character Scenario — Zenaida & Sophia [Episode 2]

The door to the audience chamber closes behind her with the sound of a thousand drums beating a single beat. 

Zenaida’s breath catches in her throat. Her heart pounds in her chest—thump thump thump—in time to her footfalls against the marble floors. Though she has treaded here many times in her life, it was always as the daughter of the archon and heir to House Anaxas. Now she returns not as the heir, but a savant of the Guild of Mages, who took what she wanted and made flagrant use of house resources without permission. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. It has been years since she has asked for permission. 

She steps further into the vast room, head high, back straight, each step bringing her closer to her due punishment. Light streams in through the tall stained glass windows, illuminating the massive round table in the centre and the seven chairs drawn around it. The surface is stripped clean and the rich, deep wood polished to a pristine sheen, indicating that whatever meeting the council had planned must have been postponed for now. 

Despite its size, the table is dwarfed by its surroundings—the pillars, the vaulted ceiling, the high steps up to the dais at the back of the hall. This chamber was once a throne room in the time of the Velantian royals. Their throne still stands untouched upon the dais, draped in Arathian red. Zenaida knows what is concealed beneath the fabric: a wide seat of red stone carved with ornamental wyrms, their wingspans brought together to support the large golden disk that upholds the back. Though the city has long since replaced the Velantian dragon with the Arathian phoenix, there are some places in which it respectfully remains. 

Velantian kings and queens held court here for centuries, ruling from their mighty position atop the dais. The corrupt lavishness of their rule was next to none, this chamber bearing witness to everything from the masked orgies of the aristocracy to the public humiliation treasonous citizens to vivid executions that made the very marble beneath the archon’s round table run red with blood. Her historical texts have much to say about the mesmerizing barbarism of the Velantian royals before House Nesarian brought it to heel. Though it is far in the past now there are some among their number, like Councillor Amestris, who have lived long enough to remember it. She has often considered asking her whether it is true, but the councillor is not keen to speak of her experience with past regimes. 

And so now the place that was once the beating red heart of an ancient kingdom is now the seat of Imperial bureaucracy and administration. 

But it is no more lacking in power. 

She raises her head, her gaze drawn across the chamber to the dais and up the stairs to the woman sitting on the top step before the throne. Who waits for her there? Her mother? Or the Archon of Velantis? 

Sophia Anaxas rises to her feet, her white and gold serithan flowing about her. “And so you’ve returned, wayward daughter that you are,” she says. “I hope your journey was fruitful. It would break your father’s heart to know you’ve been gone two months and for it to have not been worth the effort.” 

Ah. So it is the mother for now. 

Zenaida passes the table and comes to a halt in front of the dais, folding her hands together in front of her. The perfect image of a respectable Arathian noble. The perfect image of the perfect daughter. “Father has ever been supportive of my ventures, regardless how far it takes me,” she says. “My happiness is his happiness.” 

“And are you?” 

“What?” 

“Happy.” Sophia’s brows draw together, the stern angles of her face sharp and imposing in the stark morning light. Despite her short stature—shorter than Zenaida herself—she radiates power and command. “Because your father is not.” 

Guilt twists in her stomach, sharp as a knife. “How is he?” 

“Not well.” A pause—the kind she does when she is considering her options. “There is a gala tonight. He will be at the Lyranaeum. I bid you attend.” 

She nods. “I will.” 

“Good. He will be glad.” Another pause. “He has six months left. Or that is what his medics say.” 

The guilt stabs deeper. “Is that so?” Zenaida looks away, eyes downcast. A hollow ache pounds in her chest where her heart should be. “I’m sure you are relieved. Tell me, mother, when he is gone, will you seek out a new consort? Raise that bodyguard of yours to an acceptable social standing, perhaps? Or would that be a touch too far, considering she is Faran after all?” 

Sophia does not flinch at the jab. “Calla Tormond is no longer of any concern,” she says calmly. “But I see you are in a surly mood. I know you do not mean such words. I did not call you here to punish you, Zenaida, but to talk. I care—” 

“For what? My happiness?” 

“Yes. What must I do to prove it?” 

Zenaida raises her head. “If you truly do care, then why interfere? For what reason did Sabien Quirinus become the bearer of your message? Or was it your intention to humiliate me on all fronts in the hope that I would learn a lesson?” 

“I intended to ensure your swift return to Mahanin.” Sophia’s gaze hardens. “Without delay and without distraction. You have shown, daughter mine, that my wishes are not held in high regard and are easily circumvented. I had hope that if you would not listen to me, you will at least listen to the superior of your order. If he reprimanded you for your behaviour, that is not my business. That is the choice you made when you chose to join the Guild of Mages.” 

“So the Archon of Velantis sends the Grand Archsage to play messenger. I never imagined the day would come when you would get into bed with him, but I suppose unpredictability has come to define your term.” 

Another barb that goes ignored. “Lord Quirinus and I share a certain understanding, this is true, but I would not say it is unpredictable. Diradan Tower did explode, after all. I would say that is reason enough to greatly concern both the Guild’s official overseer and my government.” 

“And what is this understanding exactly?” 

“Something that only concerns myself and the Velantian High Council. Perhaps it would concern you, too, if you had not forfeited your position within my administration by undertaking a journey across Rhesainia to an embargoed city-state with whom the Empire has an untenable relationship.” 

“I would hardly call Rona a city-state when it is composed of petty thieves and pirates—” 

“Then consider it. Are you aware that since your departure, all Imperial citizens within the city limits have been rounded up and executed by the local authorities?” 

What? “I did not think—” 

“No, you did not. Rona is bathed in Imperial blood and that, daughter, are the consequences of interfering with local politics in the pursuit of your own personal gain. You are fortunate such matters are of no import to the emperor now, but your movements have not escaped the notice of the Great Houses.” 

Zenaida inhales a shaky breath, panic bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She should have expected this, considering the disaster that was their exit from Rona. What should have been a situation handled with subtlety turned into anything but that thanks to Kellis and his fellow Wayfarer. The month at sea now truly feels like a sanctuary, stretches of weeks upon the waves where time stood still. But the world moved on and she has not returned with a triumphant homecoming, but to a deadly reckoning. 

It takes her a moment to speak. “Then let them notice,” she says. “Let them think what they wish. I am a savant of the Guild of Mages as much as I am a scion of House Anaxas. There is an active chapter in Rona; I had every reason and every right to visit—” 

“Zennia, enough.” 

The childhood name—the one her father still calls her by, the one her mother has not spoken in years—silences her. Sophia gazes down upon her from above, as rigid and still as a statue, no softness in her voice. “There is a time and a place to be a firebrand,” she says, descending the dais one step at a time. The train of her serithan rustles across the marble behind her. “Whatever your intentions were, you have thrown nothing but suspicion upon our house at a time when we need to marshal trust, not doubt. Velantis sits in a perilous position now that Arathia’s attentions have turned north. Emperor Ariston seeks a unified Rhesainia to stand against an uncertain future. Conflict with Aos is all but assured. The very reason we were granted our jurisdiction may be the reason it is taken away. Do not forget from where we come, ma’thaia.” 

The word hangs heavily in the air. A word that for anyone else would be spoken with affection and warmth, but her mother wields it like cold steel. A threat. A reminder that Aosian blood runs in her veins, just as it does Zenaida’s. The remnants of a tenable alliance between House Anaxas and the great aeda megapolis that ousted the Velantian royals and secured the peninsula for the Empire’s glory. 

An alliance that has faded over the passing decades. 

Sophia descends the final step and comes to a halt at Zenaida’s side. “If Arathia is to go to war with its northern neighbours, then House Anaxas’ loyalty must not seed any doubt,” she says grimly, resting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We must be steadfast. United. Devoted to the emperor to the very last. And devoted heirs do not wander off to the far corners of the continent to make underhanded dealings with unknown factors whenever they please.” 

Zenaida stiffens. When she left to undertake this mission, Velantis was at peace—relatively, so to speak. It was the perfect opportunity to slip away quietly, make the journey to Rona and return with a Wayfarer. But in the past two months since she’s been gone, Diradan Tower has gone up in flames, border disputes have broken out, and House Anaxas’ standing has fallen in the Imperial court. “I am ever the loyal servant to both my house and my emperor,” she says. 

“Are you?” 

“I am.” She pauses, twisting her hands together—a way to soothe away the panic while maintaining a noble’s composure. Her mother will see through it, no doubt. Rasmira does the same. “There is nothing more present in my mind.” 

“Then tell me truthfully: what were you doing in Rona and why did you return with Wayfarers in your midst?” 

And there it is. The question she knew would eventually be asked. The question which—no matter how carefully she prepared herself to answer—leaves her trembling. Well, you see, mother, the Guild of Mages has been housing an Astrial undetected for several centuries and some of us would like to spirit it out of your new friend the Grand Archsage’s clutches before he uses it to bring the whole of Rhesainia to its knees. 

That is what Nova would say, were she in her place. 

But Nova has ever been free to have a sharp tongue without consequence. 

“It is a Guild affair.” 

“And when you say Guild, do you mean the Guild as a whole or the operations of the ones known as the Order of Lethalis?” 

“It is a Guild affair,” Zenaida repeats, careful to keep her tone even. Neutral. Balanced. Unreadable. The way her mother taught her. “One of paramount importance. One that could very well benefit House Anaxas in the future. Did you think I would willingly allow the Guild of Mages to exploit my connections and status if the end result did not aid the house?” 

“That does not answer the question, Zennia.” 

“You should realize that I am of course not at liberty to discuss this subject now. Not until the plan I have set in motion reaches fruition.” She pauses, her next words restrained on the tip of her tongue. She should leave it be here. Sophia wants an explanation, to be sure, but she wants a truce more than anything else. It does not do House Anaxas good to have strife between the archon and her heir. But the desire to drop the façade and ram the metaphorical knife deep… It tempting. Too tempting. 

Wetting her lower lip, she raises her head and meets her mother’s eyes. “Unless I have your word.” 

Sophia’s expression softens. “You do. You always have.” 

The temptation wins. “Thank you,” Zenaida says, a little thrill rolling down as she savours the words. “Unfortunately, Sophia, your word alone means nothing to me. If you intend for me to be punished for my actions, then by all means. Do so.” 

The change that comes over her mother is immediate. Whatever inkling of softness she had retreats, vanishing into the hard edges of the archon. Governor. Ruler. Majesty. A woman who demands duty—and will not tolerate disobedience. She could very well be the empress of a nation. “I see you have learned nothing,” the archon says. “If you have chosen where your loyalties lie, then so be it. This meeting is adjourned. Return to your chambers.” 

The note of finality is cold. Unfeeling. Inevitable. She steps backs, hands at her sides, passing through light and shadow as she heads for the doors. 

“Is that what this has come to, then?” Zenaida calls after her. “Sending me to bed like an unruly child?” 

The archon draws to a halt. “No,” she replies, glancing over her shoulder. “I am placing you under house arrest. For your trespasses and the threat you have posed to your own family. You will find this a punishment befitting of any treasonous noble of your station.” 

“Treason? I have not—I would never—that is a gross exaggeration—I want what is best for our family and our nation—” 

Zenaida’s heart stops. 

“Mighty ideals, but actions, as they always do, speak louder than words. Marcius ard Nesarian wanted what was best for family and nation and the ghost of his actions haunt us still. Where you are concerned, an archon from another Great House would be quick to let you rot in the Themistrya for less.” 

Silence falls through the audience chambers, interrupted only by the sound of the archon’s footfalls. Zenaida stands still, frozen in place, torn between a childish desire to shout and yell and beat her fists against the wall and the overwhelming urge to soothe her rising panic by crumpling on the floor in tears. 

But she does neither.   

When at last the deep, resounding boom of the doors closing marks the archon’s exit, she simply turns her face upwards, to the line of arched windows and the brilliant sun gleaming through the stained glass. This is a set back, but she has experienced enough of those to know they can be overcome. No one—not even the archon, not even this house arrest—can stop what she has set in motion. 

And the day will come when the archon understands. 

They all will understand.