Author: Jessy Halvorsen

I did not think it possible for a storm to settle inside a person, but here I am. My heart and stomach raging and howling inside of me, untempered and out of control.

The feast is long over. The candles have burned low. The plates were cleared, all but Tomaso’s. Nephele barked that it remained until he showed up. The other glasses were polished and returned to their place amongst our luggage. The tavern felt quiet though it was filled with the joy of new and old people from Runeheim alike.

Tomaso did not come.

Nephele arranged everything precisely. Ten settings, my good silver, the goblets I forged myself. I selected the wine carefully, one I had been saving, the bottle that deserved an occasion worthy of it, one such as my birthday of course. I had dusted it twice and realigned the label before packing it in our luggage to bring to town. I even rehearsed the moment I would hand it to him, some remark about his atrocious timing and my unparalleled generosity.

Still, he did not come.

At first, I told myself it was maybe the cold winter. The roads are treacherous and the winds are unkind. Perhaps he was delayed at his last crossing before coming to town. Maybe he would arrive late, breathless and apologetic, with some extravagant explanation and a gift too heavy to be practical.

I kept glancing at the door, but it remained closed. All I could see was Graham lingering in the window, sulking, as we awaited our food to be served. Good.

Nephele noticed, of course. She notices everything. She tried to distract me with conversation, with praise for the feastware, with gentle commentary about how beautiful the table looked adorned in my feastware, the meal I prepared “so delicious and satisfying”, I did not acknowledge it. She even tried to have everyone sing happy birthday to me, but my ears were too preoccupied trying to listen for the sound of my brother to hear everyone celebrate me.

Our crew tried to fill up the space that was missing, but all I could bear to feel was my blood boiling progressively hotter with each passing moment that Tomaso did not walk through the door.

They were nice.

They were not my brother.

I took a brief moment of pride shortly after our food was served and I heard that Graham was curled in a ball under a tree sobbing. I hope it was because he realized he is a traitorous little shit and felt bad after I revoked his invitation to my birthday feast. He deserves to cry. Maybe if he cries, I won’t need to.

I had saved Tomaso a seat on my right hand side. It remained empty.

I have always told myself that I am above sentimentality. That I am composed of finer materials than simple longing. I am Aurelia. I host, I dazzle, I command rooms, I craft masterful things at my forge, I am the embodiment of luxury and refinement.

And yet tonight, when I finally returned the unopened bottle to its shelf, I felt like something dangerously close to insignificant. Horrific. A nightmare that became true.

He has never missed my birthday. Ever.

Not when we were children and the cakes were uneven and the ribbons cheap. Not when we were older and the celebrations grew more elaborate. He has always appeared; sometimes late, sometimes smug, sometimes with an excuse already prepared, but he was always there no matter the distance it took him to travel to find me.

I do not know whether to be angry or afraid.

Anger is easier, it has edges, I can mold it, bend it like the steel at my forge. I can decide it was an insult, a lapse in judgment, a failure to prioritize the most important day of the year.

Fear is softer. It slips through my fingertips. What if he takes more after our mother than I had thought? What if, deep down, I’m not his favorite after all? What if he doesn’t love me?

I despise that my mind goes there. I reassure myself that he has no reason to have missed my day but that, when he arrives, it will be something stupid. It feels less impossible and painful to swallow.

Nephele tried to reassure me without saying too much. She placed a steady hand at my back as the guests departed. She did not offer false certainty, she simply said she would look into it.

That is how she loves; quietly, efficiently, without spectacle. Today I hate her for it. I am left here as a spectacle regardless and full of silent rage. I want her to scream and storm the room, publically shame Tomaso for insulting me on my birthday, I want her to make a scene because I have been so deeply and personally wronged. I want to feel justified in my anger. I want her to share my anger.

The feast was flawless. The wine, obviously exquisite – though the bottle intended specifically for Tomaso and myself sat untouched. The table was radiant and the laughter sincere. Yet the seat at my right hand felt like a sore in my mouth that I could not stop tonguing, each time I made contact with it only encouraged it to grow and sting more.

I tell myself he will appear tomorrow with apologies and some absurd story about a washed-out bridge or a stubborn horse. I tell myself I will scold him dramatically and then forgive him magnanimously. But tonight, the tavern feels too large. It feels empty, even while I’m surrounded by new friends.

Though the storm has passed outside, it festers and lingers within me. I am inconsolable.

A storm has rolled in, melodramatic and ill-timed, preventing safe travel for those who intended to attend market weekend. It is, I suspect, a jealous display. Not everyone handles my approaching birthday with maturity.

So I remain at my forge, shaping steel into submission while thunder grumbles overhead. Unlike the sky, I possess patience. Inside the house, however, discipline is a suggestion at best.

It was Nephele’s idea, and mine, brilliantly co-signed, that her wards; Dong Quixote, Damascus Steel, and Cass a’Nueva, might coexist harmoniously with my own formidable trio. A merging of households. The finest Hestralian exchange. A masterpiece of domestic ambition. What we have achieved instead is operatic.

Dong Quixote has appointed himself defender of righteousness in all forms, which currently includes guarding cooling bread from “tyranny.” His bravery is disproportionate to his size and I adore him for it. When he squared off against Abuela Pan Duro’s stern baking regime, I very nearly intervened; out of pride, of course. He recovered admirably after being corrected by a loaf. There is resilience in him. A slightly flour-dusted formidability.

Damascus Steel, ever earnest and methodical, attempted to bring order to Abuela del Ron’s generous distribution of “fortification.” He approached the matter like a scholar of liquids, which she interpreted as a challenge to her authority. The debate that followed was philosophical, emotional, and mildly intoxicating. I watched with great fondness. His seriousness against her exuberance is a thing of beauty.

Last, but not least, Cass a’Nueva; a radiant, poetic man, has become the focal point of Tía Besitos’ unstoppable belief in destiny. She circles him as if he were a tragic prince awaiting discovery. He attempts dignity. He tries to charm. He bravely takes a shot at out-flirting a woman who weaponizes affection. It is adorable. He does not stand a chance.

Nephele is in the center of it all, attempting to maintain peace with the expression of someone who regrets agreeing to this alliance. I can hear her issuing firm instructions, negotiating boundaries, perhaps reconsidering her life choices. It fills me with warmth because I’m so fond of her wards. Truly. They are chaotic in the most sincere ways; brave, earnest, dramatic, and sometimes clever. They bring life into every room they occupy. They clash and tumble, argue and aspire, and it makes this house feel less like stone and timber and more like something alive. Even when Dong Quixote declares a pastry uprising, when Damascus Steel insists on measurable rum allocations, or when Cass accidentally encourages matchmaking sermons, they are splendid. Nephele, after all, deserves the chaos of it all with how much she owes me. Sometimes I catch her clenching her teeth, and this miniscule detail brings me no end of delight.

Between hammer strikes, I step inside to check on them under the guise of inspecting my wine collection. I count each bottle, dust them lovingly, ensure the labels face forward in immaculate alignment. My birthday approaches, and I will choose one bottle worthy of the occasion, one bottle of perfection to share with Tomaso and the rest of this beautiful, exhausting household.

I glance at the feastware I forged myself, polished to a reverent gleam. Ten settings. Balanced and prepared to travel with us to the market as soon as the storm permits.

The storm may howl, and the house may shake with laughter and flour and loud affection. Nephele may sigh in theatrical defeat while throwing her exasperated hands in the air. The truth is this: our home is fuller for their presence, and when the candles are lit and the table is set, and every chaotic, beloved soul gathers beneath this roof to celebrate me, as they absolutely should, it will not just be a feast in my honor.

It will be a feast for all of us.

I do not know why I continue to write in this infernal book. Outside these pages, no one listens. Perhaps that is a blessing; here at least, my voice is not interrupted by sneezes, groans, or the incessant chatter of idiots. I am overworked, underappreciated, and yet I receive not so much as a “Thank you, Aurelia, for trying to save me” from Nephele. After all my efforts — tending her bar, learning the delicate art of pouring drinks without spreading her pestilence, pleading with every fool in Runeheim who might know of a cure — the wretch looks at me as if I’ve merely spilled flour across the floor.

She lingered, snot oozing and breath pungent with illness, questioning every step I took as though I were some mortal threat to her delicate constitution. Nosey Nephele, indeed. That childhood nickname still fits her perfectly.

Then, as if my life were not already a gauntlet of frustration, my charming brother swooped in. He bullied the townsfolk into concocting some foul remedy – one I already had well underway – and of course she treated him like a god-sent hero. How infuriating that she lavishes gratitude on him while treating me as though I were an inconvenient shadow. The injustice! The gall!

Out of sheer spite, I agreed on her behalf to a Saltworks — a laughably pointless addition to the harbor — simply to see her flinch under the cost. Let her taste disappointment, the way she dishes it to me daily.

Saturday I spent slaving over her birthday cake, a masterpiece of Hestralian splendor: pineapple, cherries, sugar, exotic flavors she could not begin to understand in this frozen city. When I arrived with it, she barely glanced up, asking instead where I had been. The little wretch. Only after much coaxing did she mutter, “You’re my favorite cousin,” but I could feel the falseness slicing through me sharper than any blade. Why did my mother favor her so? Why did she squander my inheritance on Nephele rather than me, her own daughter? Truly remarkable.

After Nephele vanished to tend her bar, I sat with Steiner, learning that she had been paying him and the other crewmen three silver each forum — a betrayal of principle that demanded restitution. When I confronted her, she waved it off with her usual flippant grace, citing trinkets and gifts as if they could balance the scales of my suffering. Four silver coins later, safely in my pocket, I promised myself a drink — a private celebration of justice in a world that otherwise refuses it.

I kept Nephele company while she prepared for the feast later in the evening. A kindness she hardly deserved. The feast, however, was incredible. So many foods from so many townsfolk poured in to fill the tables. The options were so many that I found it difficult to decide where to begin with my indulgences.

Later on into the evening, I managed to procure a schematic that our family had been longing to obtain. Nephele seemed both relieved and distressed by the price of it, but it was a momentous occasion for us to finally be able to obtain the piece of paper. I’m sure she might consider showing more gratitude later.

We parted ways so that I could make it in time to greet my little old ladies that were set to arrive off the shores. She asked me to swear to behave, as if she were so innocent as to not be the one needing to swear.

And then… my ladies arrived, Sunday afternoon.

Abuela del Ron was first, descending upon our house like a tempest in a dress of rum and sweetness. She waved a shot glass in my face and stuffed a pastry in my hand simultaneously, while declaring that “if the world is ending, at least your mouth will be happy for the afterlife.” Her advice was harsh and sugary, her love administered in dangerous doses. I suspect my liver will never forgive me.

Next, Tía Besitos floated in, perfume and lipstick first, kissing me on both cheeks with the zeal of someone who believes affection can solve all problems — especially Nephele’s. She immediately began offering matchmaking advice for the entire household. “You see that man?” she whispered, pointing at a passing beggar. “He is destiny!” I nearly choked on my patience.

And finally, Abuela Pan Duro, goddess of flour and discipline, arrived with an oven at her back and judgment in her eyes. She began baking immediately — the smell of yeast and fire filled every corner of the house. When Dong Quixote tried to steal a morsel, she smacked him with a loaf so hard it could have felled a moose. He apologized on the spot and has since adopted a permanent posture of fear. I do not blame him.

Nephele’s wards — Dong Quixote, pacing and muttering about “honor and dough,” Damascus Steel, attempting to charm Abuela del Ron into granting him more shots, and Cass A’Nueva, sprawled like some tragic poet who believes sobriety is a performance art — added further chaos. I watched them all, trying to maintain the illusion of composure, and failing spectacularly.

And Nephele? She arrived shortly after. Pale, silent, detached. She glanced at the scene with a look that might have been fondness, or disdain — I cannot tell which. I reminded myself: I am Aurelia. I am magnificent. I am indispensable. If she cannot see it, that is her loss, not mine. Also, that would make her blind.

Finally, I could breathe. The madness of my Hestralian ladies brought a strange warmth, the familiar chaos of home amidst Runeheim’s frozen absurdity. Tía Besitos kissed my cheeks, Abuela Pan Duro handed me a loaf — more of a cudgel than bread, but a cudgel I could respect — and Abuela del Ron offered me a shot, harsh as life itself. For the first time today, I felt seen, in my own way.

Perhaps this is what it means to survive Nephele: not through gratitude, not through fairness, but through the loyal insanity of friends who remind me I am worth the effort.

Though I do have to admit… I rather like the crown she got me.

Friday Night
Forum began with myself being accosted by inquisitors, despite knowing nothing of the goings on within Runeheim, and Nephele drowning in an endless dirge about Santiago.

Honestly, I’m tired of hearing it, even though it’s only just begun. He is Santi-ah-gone, she needs to move on. Knut doesn’t deserve to be dragged through her misery—or tangled up with me. I don’t love Knut; I admire him. His steady calm, his quiet strength—they’re rare, and frankly, impressive. But love? That’s for fools. Knut deserves someone who isn’t me—someone who won’t inevitably break his heart. Someone who is a fool, like Nephele!

So I’m doing them both a favor. Admiring Knut from afar, sparing him the chaos I’d bring, and setting him up with Nephele—bitter and mournful, yes, but steady. Exactly what he needs. And she needs her focus redirected away from Santiago.

I keep slipping Knut drink coins for Nephele’s bar—free drinks on me—much to Nephele’s outrage. “Aurelia, how many more tokens will you steal before you bankrupt us? That one-handed oaf isn’t worth a coin!” she snapped, bitter as ever. She mocks Knut’s missing hand too. Just last night she joked loud enough for half the bar: “Maybe you should trade those coins for a second one.” Knut grinned through it all, patient as ever. I know the way to any man’s heart is through their stomach, Nephele will win him over quickly with her delicious beverages.

Knut attempted to collect his bill from Nephele, itemized list and all, to be met with her balking and handwaving frantically while near-yelling something about “I’ll figure out what to pay you” and me refitting his armor to him as part of whatever agreement she dredged up. She denies she has my mother’s riches. I know she is just lying.

Saturday Morning
I “accidentally” sent Knut to Nephele’s bar at opening, forcing an awkward moment between them. Nephele snapped, “Don’t get soft on me, Knut. And don’t expect free drinks every time—one hand or not.” Knut laughed it off, and I swear Nephele’s glare softened just a touch. Progress.

I am so generous that I fed the entire town by providing resources to the cook– who is also a mage! And contributed to the town’s stockpile. Yes, Aurelia—the benefactor of Runeheim. If anyone deserves to live well, it’s me.

I saw Nephele sneaking not just one, but two cupcakes to Knut while she thought I wasn’t looking. The embers of their shared love are slowly burning brighter.

Saturday Night
Runeheim burns; the Inquisition tightens its grip. Yet Nephele managed to coax a secret story from Knut—someone threatening someone she cares for. She actually paid him for it, like a savvy merchant. A fierce spark lit in her eyes—a flicker of life I haven’t seen since Santiago disappeared. It’s proof they belong together.

As we left the city late, flames painting the sky red behind us, I indulged in a sweeter fantasy: Nephele finally handing me the entire chest of my “inheritance”—that supposed fortune she’s been “holding” for me—while I live free from debts and worry.

I imagine a day when Nephele is married to Knut, finally quieting her endless mourning, while I sit back, knowing I masterminded it all—for their good and my own. A free guard and a silent cousin, what more could a girl ask for other than her inheritance?

Nephele pushes me to pack up my belongings, quipping about how long it’s taking and having the audacity to tell me to just leave my scarf. I give her a look, she shuts up, we leave the city before the smoke is thick enough to prevent us from being able to see at all. My cousin is in a desperate hurry to protect her wards and her belongings–my belongings she owes me.

Sunday Afternoon
Back home, surrounded by Nephele’s wards—Dong Quixote, Damascus Steele, and Cass a’Nueva—grown men softened under Nephele’s care. I indulged their antics with amused affection: Dong Quixote’s tales of misplaced chivalry, Damascus’s restless pacing, and Cass’s absurd poetry. Their laughter brightened the room and softened Nephele’s bitterness, if only briefly.

I’m doing them a favor. Knut deserves someone who isn’t me. Nephele needs to move on. And I deserve to live free of worry—and debt. If pairing them means Nephele foots my bills, hands me my inheritance chest, and marries Knut, then every stolen coin and sharp word was worth it.

Romance is for fools—I’m better than that. I’m simply the architect of a better future, one where everyone wins—especially me.

When news came that my dear mother Selena Leto had passed on to the splendid afterlife she deserved, I steeled myself to reclaim what was rightfully mine. My cousin Nephele and brother had already fled to Runeheim to seize my inheritance: chests brimming with gold, sapphires bright as stars, silks finer than whispered secrets, porcelain cups fit for kings, and above all, cellars of rare Etruvian wine awaiting my arrival.

The sea voyage was a trial of endurance. Gray skies stretched endlessly, icy winds tore through my golden Sha’ran silk brocade coat that shimmered like liquid sunlight even under the dullest clouds. Sailors whispered of sea serpents trailing our ship, and I fancied glimpsing their shadows beneath the waves. I was poised to faint elegantly should one surface—an exit worthy of a lady of my stature.

Upon landing, I joined a caravan bound for Frosthearth, where I met Knut—a battle-worn man still licking the figurative wounds of losing his army and right hand in a fierce campaign. His eyes bore the weight of countless hardships, yet when I unveiled my plans, he listened with a steady gaze and sighed often enough for a symphony.

“Just imagine, Knut,” I said one evening beneath a sky smeared with pale stars, “a marble bath the size of a ballroom, filled with rose petals imported fresh from Hestralia. Heated floors, so my slippers never meet cold stone.”

Knut sighed long and slow, then sank onto a log and facepalmed, murmuring, “A vision worthy of a queen.” His voice, thick with mock exasperation, I interpreted as the shy adoration of a man secretly enchanted by my grandeur.

As we trudged through biting wind and clinging mud, I declared, “Two servants will be required just to carry my hatboxes—and a personal sommelier, naturally, to taste my wines and ensure only the finest grace my lips.”

His eyes rolled with such theatrical flair I could barely suppress a smile. “A sommelier, my lady? Naturally. Shall I add ‘court jester’ to the list?”

I knew such teasing was the language of a devoted admirer, masking his affection beneath humor.

Meanwhile, Knut meticulously tracked every hardship in his mental ledger, to be presented as a bill to Nephele upon my safe arrival:

• Laborious escorting fee (1 copper coin per mile, doubled for extra whining)
• Hazard pay for bandit attacks (one silver coin per assailant subdued)
• Emotional fatigue surcharge (to compensate for my frequent speeches on opulence)
• Mud-stained coat cleaning compensation (especially for the golden Sha’ra silk brocade)
• Lost glove retrieval fee (twice, when I demanded we turn back)
• Extra luggage handling charge (for the two trunks, hatbox, and precious wine crate)
• Surprise goat chase surcharge (because apparently even goats plot against me)
• Late-night storytelling exhaustion tax (for the times I regaled him with my future soirées)

The road was no less dangerous than it was tedious. When bandits attacked on the second day, I leapt behind Knut, shouting tactical advice: “Aim for the arms! And please, try not to soil my coat!” He dispatched the scoundrel with swift efficiency, sighing so deeply it seemed musical—a lament and a love song all at once.

A few days later, a gang of cutthroats ambushed us. I dove into a snowdrift, offering muffled encouragement: “Don’t let them see you sweat!” Knut fought silently and skillfully, grunting and sighing between blows. When the last foe fled, he dusted snow off his battered cloak as if it were merely a nuisance rather than evidence of his loyalty.

On a lighter note, a suspiciously malevolent goat stalked me like a silent assassin. Knut chased it off with a sigh that plainly said, Why me?—but I knew it was a sigh of heartfelt devotion.

Through all this, Knut bore my burdens—and my endless fantasies—with exaggerated sighs and dry wit. I chose to interpret his sarcasm as rapt attention and secret admiration.

At last, as the ragged gates of Runeheim loomed, Knut let out a sigh so long I swore it stirred the icy wind itself. He looked at me and said, “Good luck, my lady. I’ll be here, polishing your throne—and keeping a detailed invoice for Nephele.”

I smiled serenely, certain that soon all of Runeheim would know: Aurelia Leto, rightful heiress, had come to claim her birthright—and perhaps, a reluctant admirer’s heart as well.