[b]Hohenstadt, Capital of the Empire
Cathedral of the Nine, Imperial Palace, 11:56am [/b]

“Monk’s Hood.” Erika gestured to one of the slowly-drying stems, plucked and laid neatly before her. Her billowing dress of silk and satin shifted almost-silently as her arm made its procession towards the green item, and made its presence known as she worked her way down the review of herbs. “Matron’s Pulpit. Basil, Dill, Horehound, Mint, Belladonna, Elecampane…” she tarried on the last stem, her mind whipping with thought, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth as the silence of the small antechamber soothed her. “Deaconwort.” She smiled as she found the word, and beamed when she caught the impressed eyes of Master Lorenz.

“Splendid, Princess, splendid!” His bushy eyebrows gestured his approval, his mouth hidden by a prodigious beard. “I see you’ve been studying, very dutifully indeed, simply splendid.” His rough tenor, carved by age, contrasted her ringing alto, both commanding different forms of attention, both fitting their roles. The old man was right, of course: Erika had tortured herself throughout her last night, buried in tomes of herbalist lore. She couldn’t see the use of it, but she had long since learned that she was not wise enough to understand everything that would make her better, especially in the Mysteries. Her fading smile was buoyed for another few moments as she remembered a petulant tantrum, one protesting wearing powerful spectacles atop her perfect vision. The cathedral’s bells rung, far above in the high tower. “You’re free to go, your Highness. Remember to study Gowen’s Treatises for next time…”

The aging scholar looked like he would continue for hours , so Erika cut him off with a quick stand and a shallow bow, all the unranked man was entitled from her. A muttering that led to silence followed her out of the room, right into intent, genteel eyes. Erika smiled again, and turned to walk through the cloister. Sir Alarik followed close by her. He was her father’s newest guard, hardly two years older than her. Clad in the black and gold of the Knights of the Body, in decorative plate and a jeweled saber, he carried in one hand a small wrapped package, a box of in clean white paper. “Good morning, your Highness.” The bells finished their chiming. “Or, afternoon.” He smiled a handsome, winning smile at Erika, too familiar by only a hair. Erika couldn’t help but smile back, ever so slightly.

“Is my father looking for me, Sir Alarik?” She knew he would have some excuse for meeting, though she was beginning to suspect there were ulterior motives. She’d find a way to make her disinterest clear, despite the lean musculature and regal jawline. Mastery of the sword did not a consort make, not alone, and there was little blood to be spoken of. His tan skin evidence that well enough, the mark of a provincial noble with a few mines and cattle.

“He’s not, your Highness.” He clearly enjoyed her surprise. “A package came for you, delivered this morning. A gift to your family, but it must be for you.” Erika narrowed her eyes at the package, suspicious. “It is the duty of the Body to check all packages bearing a noble seal.” She snatched the package, unwrapping it as the strong knight and the demure princess entered the Imperial gardens. Wind blew at her blonde locks, sending them dancing among the smells of spring. Alarik’s short cut stood resolute, though his woolen mantle gave small ripples in the breeze.

She pried the seal open with her nails, whose beauty were sacrificed for her practice of alchemy. “I’m well aware of your duties.” Her rebuke was soft. “They do not include assumptions about Family affairs.” She tore off the paper, handing it to the chagrined warrior, who took it gracefully. She opened the top of the card box, and saw a brilliant, pristine diamond sitting within. A sunbeam infiltrated the box and caught its facets, and a rainbow spread clear as day. Erika felt her breath catch in her throat at the beauty. “…but I think, in this case, I’ll forgive you. In whose name was it giv-“

Alarik was making to answer as her finger brushed the gem. It felt like her hand was on fire. She pulled it back with enough force to drop her to the ground, splaying herself on the mown grass. The flames did not die, and shot up her arm, rushing towards her mind. She called for her magic, but it did not come. Her last sight before being swallowed by darkness was Sir Alarik, crouching beside her, face white with fear.

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Her vision swam as she found herself somewhere new. She felt tired, confused, as though the world was spinning. Her body felt odd, surreal: too tall, clumsy, heavy. She assumed she was  in her bedroom, or in a pagoda in the gardens, but a quick look around found herself… somewhere. Strange men and women in strange armor. A metal room of bizarre metal instruments, centered around a scar-faced man. Fear knotted in her stomach. “W-where am I?” Her voice quavered, and the knot of terror only grew when she realized her voice was not her own.