Beatrice had long ago stopped expecting peace.
Once, she had been a daughter of Cynidicea, a place of masks, secrets, and decay. But that life felt distant now—like a dream half-remembered. Her present was carved from harder things: survival, bargains, and love that demanded sacrifice.
She was a mother.
She had brought six children into the world—her five Animaji, fox-blooded and bright-eyed, now grown into fierce and clever young adults of eighteen. They had been raised within the stone walls of her castle, a place she had built with gold that came at a cost she rarely spoke of.
And then there was the sixth child.
A son.
Eleven years ago, Beatrice had been frozen—held between life and death, her body suspended like glass. It was the Emperor who had saved her… or claimed her. The terms of her release were never spoken plainly, but she remembered enough: warmth returning to her limbs, breath flooding her lungs, and the quiet, terrible understanding that followed.
The boy had been left behind.
She had not seen him since.
The Emperor Remembers a Promise
The day he came, he did not arrive as a ruler.
He came in disguise—quiet, observant, cloaked in humility that did not quite fit him. But Beatrice knew him
immediately. She would have known him in shadow, in silence, in death.
And he had not come alone.
Their son stood beside him. His name was Nayan.
Beautiful. Composed. Watching her with a gaze that was both curious and guarded. There was something imperial in him—something trained.
Something not hers.
The reunion was restrained, almost careful. The Emperor’s eyes lingered. His words carried weight beyond what was spoken. There was affection there. Regret, perhaps. And something else—something unfinished.
Unseen. Very literal in one way.
Ten years ago, when she was confined to his palace in Khanbaliq, the Emperor had sent his engineers to construct Beatrice's stronghold according to the plans she had devised.
With a few Imperial flourishes. Mainly ornamental. The fox motifs in unexpected corners.
"But look at this . . ."
A hidden bathing chamber next to her bedroom, that she had never discovered, and with ten years of dust to prove it.
The Emperor demonstrated how to fill it from a cistern on the roof, how to warm it with a wood fire . . .
The Attempt
It began with the forest. While Beatrice and the Emperor ("No, no, here I am just Black Dog.") traded questions and answers about what it meant for him to come to the Happy Valley and what other secrets he might still be keeping, Beatrice's fox sons had taken the boy out to play, to run beneath the trees and test the boundaries of brotherhood. It should have been a simple joy.
Instead, it became a warning.
A man tried to take him.
The would-be kidnapper failed—but not before revealing something far more troubling. The trail led to a campsite, almost definitely that of the man who had accosted Nayan. Beatrice thoroughly searched the area, and found a curious gold coin, an unusual token that tied the man to the Naran horde, and to its leader Bo-Jing, an ambitious young baghatur who Beatrice had counted as an ally.
She explained this to "Black Dog." He appreciated her candor, and fully credited her assessment of Bo-jing's character: "Ambitious, but honorable, and he would never want to harm a child."
The Man in the Walls
It was nonsense.
But he believed it with a zeal that made him dangerous.
When reason failed, Jumei acted. A quiet prayer, a flash of divine will—Hold Person. The man froze, and they locked him away upstairs.
Still, the accusation lingered.
Why did he believe it?
The Emperor could only speculate.
The Challenge
As Beatrice stood with her fox sons, and with the Emperor, Naron, and Jumei, the air twisted. A voice—disembodied, mocking—filled the space around them.
Then came the flames.
A wall of fire encircled them, sealing them in a ring of heat and judgment. The voice spoke again, issuing a challenge.
A duel.
Beatrice almost laughed.
This was not her life anymore. She was a mother, a builder, a survivor—not some wandering duelist chasing glory.
But something in the magic… something in the timing…
This was not optional.
Jumei turned to her faith and cast Augury. The answer was clear:
Weal.
Victory.
But with a warning—the challenger would not honor the rules.
Early the next morning, hours before dawn, Jumei layered Beatrice in blessings—wards, protections, subtle enchantments to strengthen body and spirit. Naron stood ready, blade in hand, while the Emperor watched with a calculating stillness.
Then Jumei and Naron became mist.
They drifted unseen to the site of the duel—and what they found confirmed the deception.
Henchmen.
Hidden. Waiting. Ready to intervene.
The duel was a lie.
A message was sent back—cleverly tied to a mouse, a whisper of warning delivered just in time.
The Monk
The battlefield was set.
Beatrice stepped forward.
Her opponent was… underwhelming at first glance. A short, thin monk with sharp eyes and a stillness that felt wrong. There was something coiled inside him—something cruel.
The duel began.
Beatrice struck first.
A perfect blow—clean, powerful. The kind that should have ended things quickly.
But it didn’t.
The monk did not fall.
Instead, somewhere in the shadows, one of his hidden followers screamed.
The damage had… transferred.
Every strike against him was redirected to another.
A coward’s magic.
A dishonorable trick.
The fight turned chaotic as the hidden henchmen revealed themselves. One by one, they were cut down—each death weakening the monk, but not enough. Not fast enough.
The Quiet That Follows
That night, Beatrice allowed herself something rare.
Stillness.
In the privacy of her castle, in a bath drawn with warmth and magic, she sat beside the Emperor—not as enemies, not as rulers, but as two people bound by a past neither could undo.
There was tension there.
And something softer beneath it.
Outside, her children slept.
Inside, the world shifted.
Because now it was clear:
This was not just an attack. Not just a problem solved or a question answered.
The day he came, he did not arrive as a ruler.He came in disguise—quiet, observant, cloaked in humility that did not quite fit him. But Beatrice knew him
immediately. She would have known him in shadow, in silence, in death.
And he had not come alone.
Their son stood beside him. His name was Nayan.
Beautiful. Composed. Watching her with a gaze that was both curious and guarded. There was something imperial in him—something trained.
Something not hers.
The reunion was restrained, almost careful. The Emperor’s eyes lingered. His words carried weight beyond what was spoken. There was affection there. Regret, perhaps. And something else—something unfinished.
Unseen. Very literal in one way.
Ten years ago, when she was confined to his palace in Khanbaliq, the Emperor had sent his engineers to construct Beatrice's stronghold according to the plans she had devised.
With a few Imperial flourishes. Mainly ornamental. The fox motifs in unexpected corners.
"But look at this . . ."
A hidden bathing chamber next to her bedroom, that she had never discovered, and with ten years of dust to prove it.
The Emperor demonstrated how to fill it from a cistern on the roof, how to warm it with a wood fire . . .
The Attempt
It began with the forest. While Beatrice and the Emperor ("No, no, here I am just Black Dog.") traded questions and answers about what it meant for him to come to the Happy Valley and what other secrets he might still be keeping, Beatrice's fox sons had taken the boy out to play, to run beneath the trees and test the boundaries of brotherhood. It should have been a simple joy.
Instead, it became a warning.
A man tried to take him.
The would-be kidnapper failed—but not before revealing something far more troubling. The trail led to a campsite, almost definitely that of the man who had accosted Nayan. Beatrice thoroughly searched the area, and found a curious gold coin, an unusual token that tied the man to the Naran horde, and to its leader Bo-Jing, an ambitious young baghatur who Beatrice had counted as an ally.
She explained this to "Black Dog." He appreciated her candor, and fully credited her assessment of Bo-jing's character: "Ambitious, but honorable, and he would never want to harm a child."
The Man in the Walls
When they returned to the castle, the threat deepened.
A stranger had been found in the basement, clawing at the pantry wall as though something—or someone—was hidden behind it.
Beatrice spoke to him.
Saran was not mad, not entirely. He was certain—utterly convinced—that she had imprisoned the Empress… and the Emperor’s heir, the true successor to the throne.
A stranger had been found in the basement, clawing at the pantry wall as though something—or someone—was hidden behind it.
Beatrice spoke to him.
Saran was not mad, not entirely. He was certain—utterly convinced—that she had imprisoned the Empress… and the Emperor’s heir, the true successor to the throne.
It was nonsense.
But he believed it with a zeal that made him dangerous.
When reason failed, Jumei acted. A quiet prayer, a flash of divine will—Hold Person. The man froze, and they locked him away upstairs.
Still, the accusation lingered.
Why did he believe it?
The Emperor could only speculate.
The ChallengeLater that night, outside in the forest, still finding clues regarding the man who had accosted Nayan, they found some answers in the form of a challenge.
As Beatrice stood with her fox sons, and with the Emperor, Naron, and Jumei, the air twisted. A voice—disembodied, mocking—filled the space around them.
Then came the flames.
A wall of fire encircled them, sealing them in a ring of heat and judgment. The voice spoke again, issuing a challenge.
A duel.
Beatrice almost laughed.
This was not her life anymore. She was a mother, a builder, a survivor—not some wandering duelist chasing glory.
But something in the magic… something in the timing…
This was not optional.
Jumei turned to her faith and cast Augury. The answer was clear:
Weal.
Victory.
But with a warning—the challenger would not honor the rules.
Early the next morning, hours before dawn, Jumei layered Beatrice in blessings—wards, protections, subtle enchantments to strengthen body and spirit. Naron stood ready, blade in hand, while the Emperor watched with a calculating stillness.
Then Jumei and Naron became mist.
They drifted unseen to the site of the duel—and what they found confirmed the deception.
Henchmen.
Hidden. Waiting. Ready to intervene.
The duel was a lie.
A message was sent back—cleverly tied to a mouse, a whisper of warning delivered just in time.
The Monk
The battlefield was set.
Beatrice stepped forward.
Her opponent was… underwhelming at first glance. A short, thin monk with sharp eyes and a stillness that felt wrong. There was something coiled inside him—something cruel.
The duel began.
Beatrice struck first.
A perfect blow—clean, powerful. The kind that should have ended things quickly.
But it didn’t.
The monk did not fall.
Instead, somewhere in the shadows, one of his hidden followers screamed.
The damage had… transferred.
Every strike against him was redirected to another.
A coward’s magic.
A dishonorable trick.
The fight turned chaotic as the hidden henchmen revealed themselves. One by one, they were cut down—each death weakening the monk, but not enough. Not fast enough.
They regrouped.
This was not about skill.
It was about speed.
If the damage could be redirected, then the only path to victory was overwhelming force—striking faster than the magic could compensate.
Jumei acted first. A prayer, sharp and precise—Hold Person again.
This time, it worked.
The monk froze.
And Beatrice did not hesitate.
She struck—again, and again, and again. No restraint. No ceremony. No illusion of honor.
Just survival.
The kind she had always known.
Aftermath
When it was over, the battlefield fell silent.
The monk was dead.
The magic unraveled.
Many of the monk's confederates lay dead, but two of his newest minions - Saran (the Empress's half-crazed bodyguard) and Chuluun (the spy in the forest from the Naran horde) - had seen the truth about the sinister path they'd begun walking. Chuluun still had some hard questions for the Emperor. And Saran still wanted to know what had happened to his Empress. But they had seen Beatrice's honor and valor, and begged her forgiveness for their poor behavior. They were taken back to the castle. There were still answers to be found.
Still questions to be asked.
This was not about skill.
It was about speed.
If the damage could be redirected, then the only path to victory was overwhelming force—striking faster than the magic could compensate.
Jumei acted first. A prayer, sharp and precise—Hold Person again.
This time, it worked.
The monk froze.
And Beatrice did not hesitate.
She struck—again, and again, and again. No restraint. No ceremony. No illusion of honor.
Just survival.
The kind she had always known.
Aftermath
When it was over, the battlefield fell silent.
The monk was dead.
The magic unraveled.
Many of the monk's confederates lay dead, but two of his newest minions - Saran (the Empress's half-crazed bodyguard) and Chuluun (the spy in the forest from the Naran horde) - had seen the truth about the sinister path they'd begun walking. Chuluun still had some hard questions for the Emperor. And Saran still wanted to know what had happened to his Empress. But they had seen Beatrice's honor and valor, and begged her forgiveness for their poor behavior. They were taken back to the castle. There were still answers to be found.
Still questions to be asked.
That night, Beatrice allowed herself something rare.
Stillness.
In the privacy of her castle, in a bath drawn with warmth and magic, she sat beside the Emperor—not as enemies, not as rulers, but as two people bound by a past neither could undo.
There was tension there.
And something softer beneath it.
Outside, her children slept.
Inside, the world shifted.
Because now it was clear:
This was not just an attack. Not just a problem solved or a question answered.
It was the beginning of something much larger.
Black Dog Responds
“You tell it well.
I will only correct one small thing. I did not stand aside while you were in danger. I stood where I could do the most good—and I did it.
Also, I thought you spelled your name 'Beatriss'.
But it is your story to tell, not mine. I am content to know I fought at your side when it mattered.”
—Black Dog
“You tell it well.
I will only correct one small thing. I did not stand aside while you were in danger. I stood where I could do the most good—and I did it.
Also, I thought you spelled your name 'Beatriss'.
But it is your story to tell, not mine. I am content to know I fought at your side when it mattered.”
—Black Dog
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