Five leaders, all upholders of the monarchy and protectors of their realms but separated by distance and ideology, stood in the throne rooms of their respective palaces as they heard the same distressing piece of news.

"There has been a disturbance at the Tomas-Lucian border, but It's difficult to say exactly what happened," Fiske began, unravelling a piece of parchment as he wore a look which was only surpassed in graveness by the redheaded queen's, who tapped her purple quill on the gold armrest of her throne.

"The Tomas guard provoked one of our own men," Irina Spasky, the head of intelligence, informed Vikram. He heaved a sigh, fingers massaging his temples in blatant frustration as his queen stood by his side, a dainty hand on his shoulder in some semblance of reassurance as her features were arranged in what one might call graceful disinterest.

"So the Lucian guard challenged the Tomas guard to a duel? To the death? Over a petty nationalist quarrel? Is that correct?" Queen Denise her spectacles further up her nose, composed while the contrastingly nervous correspondent nodded in agreement.

"Well?" Cora barked, eyes blazing, "what happened next?"

"Our man killed the Lucian, easy, but the Lucian had been provoking him!" Paul Elder deviated from the report he had been reading to Eisenhower to explain his stance, to which Eisenhower responded with a nod. Naturally.

"But what does this mean for our kingdom?" Cora demanded, voicing exactly what five monarchs had on their mind.

A day later, Hope and Eisenhower sat across from each other at the Tomas King's desk, heads bent over the letter of apology Eisenhower had reluctantly drafted with Hope's insistence and assistance.

"This is a goddamn infringement of our sovereignty, those Lucian dogs were the ones who started this!" Eisenhower grumbled, dripping the blue wax over the closed envelope.

"Don't call them 'dogs', Eisenhower, and it was one person, a border guard," Hope diplomatically offered, watching the bulky man press the Tomas seal into the hot wax. "We will not have a war over a little argument between two men, I will not allow it!" Hope ran a finger over the hardened wax that sealed the fate of the rickety peace the Cahill peninsula had upheld thus far.

"I know, I know, but Vikram didn't even sign the treaty, I have half a mind to send my armies into their kingdom for not issuing me an apology, first," the Tomas king, handed the letter to a messenger, who bowed in respect before accepting the document that promised to repair the fragmented relations between the Lucian and Tomas kingdoms.

"The pen is mightier than the sword, you know," Hope smiled knowingly.

"Yes, a fat lot of good a pen would have done my guard as another man tried to cut him in half with a sword," Eisenhower snorted, "not all problems can be solved with words".

"I know, Eisenhower, but look at the fact that you are willing to use words as proof of the Tomas kingdom's development," Hope took a sip of the mulled wine in her goblet, "this might show the Lucian kingdom that they are still stuck very far in the past".

"I guess," Eisenhower groaned, fists clenched, a vein at his temple throbbing. "I really hope you're right about this, Hope," the Tomas King raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat.

"Me too, Eisenhower."


Ian Kabra liked a nightcap.

When he was a little boy, he and his sister would huddle underneath the covers with mugs of sweet drinking chocolate as their nanny told them exciting stories about princesses and goblins and dragons in a hushed voice, so that Isabel wouldn't hear and reprimand her.

Now, a young man, he would sit at his writing desk by himself and read less exciting stories about the creation of the modern banking system as he swirled imported whisky in a glass, the sensation of the burning liquid on the back of his throat becoming gradually less apparent as his thoughts swirled together and his mind clouded, making it impossible for him to focus on the fascinating history of loans. Impossible to hide from his own thoughts, but easier to unravel them, as questions and insecurities seemed to unfold behind his eyes, vivid like an oil painting.

He was a fucking idiot to think that Amy Cahill, the beautiful angel, would want anything to do with him. How foolish he had been to think that their correspondence was anything more than an extension of her kind, diplomatic nature, time-wasting Madrigal frivolity. He had stupidly sent her another letter after his last one was followed by a heartbreaking response, and she hadn't replied as he should've expected.

He pulled the stack of yellowing, crinkled parchment underneath a book on ancient legal codes, and almost growled as his eyes scanned the insultingly brief farewell.

Ian,

I have been rethinking our communication for a while now, and I am writing to say that I don't want to hear from you ever again. At first it was exciting, but the more I've gotten to know you, the more I've realized that we are completely different people. And I've gleaned this from nothing more than mere letter writing! Other than my appearance and the insubstantial information I have given you about myself, what do you even really know about me? I apologize if I gave you the impression that I was acting on anything more than mere curiosity, but the truth is that speaking to you has become stressful and burdensome. Please do not write to me anymore. I hope we can maintain a professional relationship and I wish you luck as the future leader of the Lucian Kingdom.

Regards,

Amy

Ian could recite the seven sentences seamlessly from memory with the ease of an actor performing an emotionally charged scene of Shakespeare. He had pored through every distancing word, considered every premise of her argument, and he couldn't understand it at all. At first he had considered that perhaps this was a sick, uncharacteristic joke on her part, maybe she had gone mad? Or perhaps someone had forged the letter. He had even asked Bickerduff, but the man was stone-faced as he had sworn that the letter had come straight from the Madrigal courier he knew, and his trusted servant would not lie to him. And it was her handwriting, the sloping h's, the curved g's, the inky dots on every 'i'.

As much as he wanted to respect her decision, he couldn't agree with her reasoning. Maybe he didn't know her as well as he should have, considering his feelings for her, but he was getting to, and with every letter he grew more captivated. And they were definitely different and their families posed an impediment to a romantic relationship between them, but Ian had never learned more or been more fascinated by a person, he had never agreed to or even considered an opinion that coincided with his own to be valid until he had met her. And someday, they would be Queen and King, and they would make the rules, they would hold the reigns of their futures in their own hands. But bloody hell, was it all so complex to her? Was he alone in feeling the sparks, the pauses in time, the breathlessness, the wooziness when he looked at her, when he spoke to her, when he traced the beautiful lines of penmanship that she had written for him? He had written this in a letter, his longest yet, pages explaining his feelings with logic and humiliating sincerity for a Kabra. It had been weeks and the letter had gone unanswered.

Ian Kabra was a man of reason, a man of cost versus benefits, but all of that had melted away after she had invaded his carefully constructed fortress of cynicism with her goddamn smile like summer sunshine and those fucking green eyes that had pierced his heart and haunted his thoughts. Fucking Amy Cahill. She had ruined him with seven stupid sentences. She had proven him right, that acting contrary to self interest was foolish. When parliament was in session tomorrow and he sat at his father's side and the wrinkly old bastards decided to go to war with the Tomas over a goddamn pissing contest between two common men, he would suppress every concern for her safety, push away the want for peace that had began to bud after her letters had started to come. He was a pure blooded Lucian, a Kabra, and the King. He was the future of the kingdom, and the future would not be compromised because of a minor inconvenience.


HELLO and we are back I'm really sorry for the huge delay. I've been binging the office and napping at an alarming rate since exams have been over, but I hope everyone's having the happiest of holidays! I was feeling super uninspired for a few days but then lightning seemed to strike and I wrote this chapter quite fervently so I apologize if its kind of poorly written lmao. I know the letter excerpts have been really formal, but I think I'm just trying to reflect the refinery and and stiffness of speech at the time? (even though I definitely don't in the conversations its just fun to be all downton abbey for a bit hahaha.) Also I know Ian has been super ooc, but I always liked to think when reading the 39 clues that he was kind of like a confused, kind of sensitive teenage boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders but he had managed to develop this sly, charming, cynical exterior that sort of fooled everyone, even himself most of the time. Its less sexy to think of Ian this way, I know, and I think most stories in the fandom portray Ian as super sly and snakey and its really hot and I like writing stories like that too, but I personally find it so interesting to explore the grey zone between who he really is and who he's trying to be, and how Amy has played a role in his shifting values. I guess thats why this story is getting a little harder to write, because I don't focus on the narrative as much as I do on inner dialogue and character development, so now that the narrative is actually picking up with the threat of war and stuff its harder for me to do a good job explaining everything. Anyway, thank u as always for reading this word vomit-esque story it really does mean a lot, and it would brighten my day if you left me a review!