It took a full day of riding in a carriage to make their way to the royal court of Quilland. The capitol city was positioned far to the North of the nation rather than near the center, close to the Fae forest. As Tarran lived on the edge of the Fae forest, it meant that it was easy to make his way to the royal court in the case of an emergency. Despite the relatively close proximity compared to other visiting Enchanters, though, they nearly arrived late for the entrance ceremonies.

"Put on your cloak," Tarran said, gesturing to the unruly pile of red fabric on the carriage seat beside her.

Heart in her throat, Aoife shook out the fabric and slung the cloak around her shoulders. It was the same cloak that she'd taken with her all those years ago, blood red and a little too long, but well-loved and a small comfort to the mass of anxiety growing in her gut. Tarran's cloak, she remembered. It was Tarran's old cloak, and somehow that gave her strength.

Aoife carefully slipped out of the carriage, cloak billowing behind her in the brisk evening breeze. She stared up at the imposing outline of the palace in front of her. The building was brightly lit against the darkening sky, but it did not seem cheerful. On the contrary, the lights looked like an ominous warning to her instead of a friendly beacon.

Tarran, on the other hand, did not seem bothered as he, too, donned his cloak and stepped from the carriage. Unlike Aoife, he pulled the hood over his head and let it dangle over his eyes, obscuring half his face in the same way he'd looked when they first met. His appearance only added to the tension of the situation.

"Enchanter Beryl is the Master of Ceremonies this year. It likely won't work in our favor, so be on your toes," Tarran instructed softly as they walked towards the castle doors.

"Why aren't you the Master of Ceremonies?" Aoife asked, wrinkling her nose. "You're the highest-ranking Enchanter there."

"I, personally, detest the job. It puts me on far too much display, and in a position that brings more animosity than favor when the highest-ranking person also has quite a terrible reputation for doing very little among the Enchanters of the kingdom. However, outright declining would look like I lacked the initiative to take responsibility, so I set up a rotation among the senior Enchanters. It's his turn this year."

"Why do they think you don't do anything? Didn't you bargain your way into getting me by pulling strings with favors the King owes you?" Aoife asked, clutching the cloak around her shoulders a little more tightly.

"The work I do for the King is incredibly... discreet," Tarran gave her a pointed glance, hoping she understood, "and my personal work in the lab is nothing shy of a total secret to anyone but the two of us. Even the King has only a vague idea what I do there. Understood?"

Aoife raised her hands as if in surrender. "I know nothing about any work for the king and I have never seen your secret tower lab, which does not look like a tornado running through the room might actually improve the mess."

Tarran glared, but Aoife didn't flinch. "Good. Don't forget that."

Once at the door, Aoife reluctantly handed off her red cloak to a maid, but Tarran kept his. They no longer even asked for it when he arrived at the palace.

"We're nearly late," Aoife clenched and unclenched her fists, nervously peeking down the hallway ahead of them. Tarran didn't acknowledge it, keeping his moderate pace as they walked towards the throne room.

"And nearly everyone will be here already to see us enter." The corner of his mouth twitched up in a sideways smile, and Aoife cut him an exasperated glance.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a sneaky, conniving old man?" she said, but there was little real malice in her voice.

"More than once, yes," he said without hesitation.

They approached the doors to the great hall with two nervous-looking castle staff members trailing behind them, ready to open the doors for them. Tarran simply nodded to the staff members, indicating that they were ready to enter the room.

Inside, there would be a colloquy of carefully chosen Enchanters from all over Quilland. Every single person who became a court Enchanter had been through training, had honed their gifts to precision, and knew exactly who all the other Enchanters in the room were. They were also quite aware of Tarran's reputation as the Grand Enchanter, and no doubt the rumor that he'd taken an apprentice had spread. Tensions would be high... exactly as he'd intended them to be.

"I feel like a pirate," Aoife hissed, but not without some measure of joy. He could tell she was biting back a smile under her carefully constructed stony expression.

"You look like a weapon," he said, and stepped through the doors.

The whole room went silent when they entered.

Tarran thought he had surely outdone himself this time.

His personal court appearance was a calculated effort to make himself seem mysterious and ancient, ethereal and untouchable by time. Flowing robes, long hair, and exposing his forearms to let the true scale of his Marks be seen did enough to portray that without too much of a calculated effort on his part. Not to mention that living alone in an abandoned house would make you somewhat cold and aloof after so many years, whether you wanted it to or not, so his exile worked oddly in his favor.

Aoife, however, was an absolute work of art.

Her entire ensemble was a calculated effort on both their parts to make her look like a beautiful weapon. The heavy black liner around her eyes made her look more threatening and stoic than she actually was, and pinning up her hair made her look older: no longer a woman mistaken for a teenager due to her stature and rounded face, but a woman entirely. Silver chains and burgundy ribbons wound around her hair, invisible pins holding them in place. Her shirt was nearly hidden under a long, scarlet waistcoat, both high-collared and sleeveless, just like the training outfits she preferred. The heavy, embroidered fabric and wide belt at her waist gave off a military air. She wore a black glove so tall that it almost reached the shoulder of her jacket on her right hand, and a shorter, wrist-length glove on her left hand, exposing her Mark for all to see.

The silver embroidery on her jacket seemed to flow seamlessly into the imprint of the Mark on her skin, making it look like the thorns had encompassed her entire body, not just her arm. Even the slashing pattern of scars served to make her look threatening. Where the vest stopped at mid-thigh, loose black pants began, tucked into tall, burgundy boots with the same silver embroidery down the sides. The pants were loose enough to still preserve the Court's "delicate" sensitivities, but practical enough to send a message: She was ready to fight at any moment, and she did not need to be armed to be dangerous.

The first to recover was a woman who appeared only a little older than Tarran, her snow-white hair curled and piled on top of her head, red robes draping to the floor and encrusted with a ghastly amount of gems. He wondered how it was possible to walk with so many stones weighing down your clothing, but neglected to comment. Camilla could take care of herself, regardless of how many gems she chose to wear.

Tarran guided Aoife to their place at a ridiculously long, golden table that sat all of the Enchanters in Quilland, plus a few of their apprentices. Some of the apprentices stood behind their teachers at the table, but the king himself no doubt knew that Tarran would not have his apprentice standing while he sat. There was a clearly labelled place card for Aoife at the chair next to his, and he motioned that she should sit.

The next part of the ceremony would be trickier.

Each new apprentice demonstrated their abilities before the king in a show of fealty to the crown and to simply demonstrate their powers in front of the established Enchanters.

As usual, there was an absolute deluge of new apprentices from the Academy that the Green and White Enchanters ran out on the Eastern border. It was a school, so the point was to gather new pupils, but Tarran couldn't help but think that most of them would never make it through their training. Not because the training was brutal, but because the Enchanters lacked any real discrepancy when choosing pupils to take on. A few of them showed real talent and promise, others could possibly be brought up to standard with training, and others wouldn't make it through the first year before deciding they were better off using their drop or two of Fae blood as a party trick, and headed back to their normal lives. One or two out of every two or three hundred that passed through would go on to attain the level of proficiency and status as the Court Enchanters.

Some of the other Enchanters brought apprentices with more life in them.

There was a fire elemental that seemed to show quite a bit of promise, though they also showed issues with control. Some of the plants surrounding the room had to be saved by water-wielding Enchanters when the fireballs flew wide.

Finally, it came time for Aoife to approach the dais. She was one of the last apprentices, and a slight shiver of whispering went through the room as she approached.

"I don't believe in demonstrating my powers," Aoife said firmly. A wave of murmurs ran through the room. It was a good thing they'd talked through this plan beforehand, Tarran thought, because otherwise Aoife might have cracked under the pressure. "If possessing life is a heavy responsibility, then imagine the feeling of possessing death. If anyone would like to make certain, I'm sure they could visit the gardens... or have those bushes been replanted?"

"A demonstration is traditional of apprentices," Enchanter Beryl said, obviously annoyed. Aoife turned slightly to face him.

"Would you rather I turn everything within a hundred miles to ash, and have that as your demonstration?" She quirked an eyebrow, waiting. Her body did not betray an ounce of the tension she was likely feeling. There was no way that Aoife could or would turn everything within a hundred miles to ash, but there were only two people in the room who knew that.

Tarran's eyes slid briefly towards Camilla, who was watching from the corner with a look of amusement. Possibly three people who knew, then.

"N- n- no!" Enchanter Beryl stammered frantically. "No, thank you! You may be seated."

Tarran didn't know who was responsible for Aoife's acting ability, but he threw out a prayer of thanks anyways. He personally didn't see the problem in sacrificing a flower or two to give her magic something to feed on, but he grudgingly admired that she would go this far to stick to her personal principles. Aoife held a firm belief that her magic was not for show or amusement, and standing by that was something to be respected.