“Right neighborly o’ ya to invite us in like this, m’lady. Never dreamed I’d set foot on these grounds.”

The failing fisherman Ars stopped to offer his gratitude to the mysterious orphan that had apparently driven the highborn Lord out of his keep. He carried a box clearly too heavy for his scrawny arms to hold for long, but like all the other men, he was obliged to do much of the heavy lifting.

He was but one of many weaving their way in and out of the manor’s gates as they moved their belongings inside. Lacking more effective means of transport than their own hands and the odd beast of burden, they all had several trips to make to keep all of their most valued possessions with them.

“You all have too much,” replied the Ikoras, who stood vigil with crossed arms as the people moved to and fro. “I’ve lived on much less.”

“Aw, it’s not so,” said Ars through his struggling. Unable to bear it any longer, he set the box at his feet and heaved a sigh of relief. “Scant stores for the winter, I reckon. Few baubles ‘n knick-knacks besides. S’no tellin’ how long this’ll last, is there?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You think LeBaron will return?”

“Beggin’ ya’pardon, but he’s only been shortly gone. Still dunno how you got ‘im t’leave in the first place. S’why only the wiliest of us come to take a chance on you.”

‘Wily’ was not the word she would have used, but the orphan recognized in their hungry eyes and wicked grins the character of people intent on taking advantage. The good and the honest could not be convinced to leave Hovale behind. Those who had come would likely enjoy the superior shelter and the copious food until the latter ran out. Then, they would raid the manor for any gold, garments, and gems they could find before scampering back off to their rundown huts in Hovale. She and Hethys would be left to a wrecked and empty keep, and but for the freedom from oppressive taxation, the Hovaleans would carry on as ever before.

That was the natural course of events as she saw it. But the unnatural had become quite common in these early years of her womanhood. She was betting on quite a different outcome and had hastened to invite them into the manor to secure it.

“You had a stand in the market, Ars,” she said. “You must’ve been familiar with other standkeeps, yes?”

“Familiar as young men go, I reckon,” answered Ars.

“I should like to speak with the most cunning of them all. Think of the one among you whose stand always drew interest, but never emptied. Once you know where he is, come get me.”

“That’s awful specific, miss. Can I ask why for?”

“This manor must have a new representative. Other nobles will come to call on LeBaron before long, and if they find it leaderless, they’ll no doubt move to claim it. That’ll put us right back where we started.”

“Beggin’ pardon again, but if you’re the one who drove out Lord LeBaron, shouldn’t you get ‘is seat?”

She shook her head. “I’ll not be bogged down by duty to a Lord’s chair. I’ve a higher purpose in mind.”

Ars quirked a brow. “What purpose could that be?”

The Ikoras fell into pensive silence. Her thoughts turned to the Throne she’d been warned not to seek, as they often did. She’d imagined that her victory over Lord LeBaron might temper such inklings, but she was finding that they’d only intensified. A hunger she could not name yet lingered in the pit of her belly, inexorably calling her to the seat of Auberalean power.

Unwilling to discuss the matter with Ars, she instead gave him a gentle shove. “Just go,” she said sternly. “I’ll handle your box.”

It took her far less effort than he to lift it up and carry it toward the manor’s great doors, and she did so with haste to escape him. He watched her bewildered for several long moments. “Mountains alive,” he mused in awe. “I really gotta strengthen up.”

As she neared the building’s entrance, the orphan passed the aged hag who’d obediently worked Wonders to make the grounds as good as new. The elder flashed her a serpentine smirk.

“Friend of yours?” she cooed.

“No,” said the orphan flatly.