Agatha hated having to get changed twice in one day. But that said, it wouldn't do at all to stroll into the Highfather's Council wearing her tattered hunting crop and loose trousers. The ceremonial filigree green cloak and skirts she was supposed to wear to represent the woodlands of her mother's domain didn't exactly look terrible but it was itchy beyond compare. Resigning herself to a day of consistent bodily discomfort, she glided through the upper halls, the gilded passageways getting emptier the closer to the summit she reached. After the second elevator, the areas were devoid of all life save for the Elven royal guard, indistinguishable behind their heavy helmets and gold armour. Arriving at the audience chamber, she cocked her head to the right at the guard by the door who paused for a second before opening it for her. She gritted her teeth at that pause but chose to let it slide for now. 

"Fernbrook. You're late." Zaxus Lisalor was short by elven standards and round. He sat at the left hand of the Highfather, a number of scrolls laid out before him in a little pile.  He was probably the oldest member of the council and chief minister to the sire. He was also Agatha's grand uncle.

"Good to see you too, Uncle Zax." She pulled up a seat on the other end of the long table, avoiding the Highfather's gaze. Other than Zaxus, the seats were occupied by Indrani, her second cousin twice removed and long-time regent over the holy waters, Jermid, her nephew and steward over relations and Corwyn, commander of the royal ranks and her half brother. It seemed not to be a meeting important enough for all twelve members of the council to assemble. Either that or the others were too occupied with their little tasks. Agatha wondered why she was invited then, or what all this was about. The Highfather's face revealed little, his visage dark, brows wrinkled at the elevated head of the table. He was watching the little figurines of ships and troops move on their own accord across the surface of the brass table, mirroring the exact patterns of their real-life counterparts in Helathe and Desjards. So it was about the humans. It was about their centuries-old proxy war. 

"What do you think, Corwyn?" The Highfather asked finally, his voice thin and weary. 

Corwyn said nothing for a while, before slowly moving forward and toying with the piece that represented the imperial fort in the capital. "Helathe is as good as destroyed. It is just a question of when and from which quarter. They may have been able to hold things off at Emry Coast but the Desjards will come back. Probably with more magecraft from their puppetmasters to the East. There's not much they can do with the Ohrcraft that was outdated even when we gave it to them four hundred years ago. And that's not counting the threats from within." 

Corwyn stared for a few pregnant moments at Jermid. The elfling suddenly realised he was called on for something and jumped to life, rifling through his scrolls. "Yes... a new religious revival movement. It's a flame that's been slowly kindled as the conscripted peasant boys from the villages come back burned to a crisp in their coffins, if they come back at all." 

"A new religion? From the Helathians?" Agatha's voice betrayed the extent to which that idea sounded incredulous.

"The same old religion, the Father and Mother. But more fervent. Less forgiving of deviations from the sanctified norm when it comes to... er... carnal relations." 

"Of course..." Agatha muttered, rubbing at the space between her eyes. The idea of anyone stopping her from fucking whoever or whatever she wanted to fuck seemed absurd to her, and even the most conservative Elf would see it the same way but the Helathians had been at their ritualised worship of what they saw as pure relations between men and women for about as long as she could remember. "So a peasant revolt with a religious frenzy bubbling right underneath. They'll have the Vothar's head before the Desjards even get to the palace." 

"And he has no heirs? No little princling knight running about in any of the vassalages or colonies?" Indrani's voice was calm and measured, her dark skin gleaming with the shafts on sunlight piercing the room from the western vents. 

"No male heirs, no. Just the girl." Jermid tapped at the table. "A sorry state of affairs for her regardless of whether the Desjardese or the peasants breach first. But, for our sake, no loose ends. The pact ends when the Vothar goes down with his ship." Jermid snapped like he suddenly realised what he'd just said, turning to the Highfather and bowing obsequioisly. "Not to presume at all about Your Excellency's desires when it comes to this..." 

The Highfather chuckled. "And why not? Presume away. Because that's certainly what I assume must be happening when only five make their presence known for a council of twelve." He sat back, his grey eyes staring into the souls of each one of them in turn. "So I assume that the consensus is to close the gates. No more muskets. No more cannons. No more retrofitting their ships for combat. Vothar II, as young Jermid so eloquently put, goes down with his ship. But then what next?" 

"Even if the peasants win out, they won't be able to withstand the Desjardese. Which means the land ultimately goes to them." Zaxus said. 

"Which means it ultimately goes to Rahethe." Corwyn added. "And then they march upon the holy mountain. But I still hold that it would be easier to deal with them head on than to puppeteer a dying empire."

"No, not that." The Highfather shook his head. "I will not be the first Elvenking in a millennium to get his hands dirty and raise arms against the mortals. But there are other ways of dealing with that problem... were it to come up. My lord father's long game..." 

"How old is the girl?" Everyone turned to Agatha as she spoke.

"Why does that matter?" Zaxus asked. 

"Humour me, uncle. How old is she?" 

"Nineteen, I believe." Jermid said. "Never set one foot out of the palace." 

Agatha was silent for a while. "Do what you want with the Vothar. But give her to me." 

Corwyn snorted. "Just what do you mean give her to you? What do you want, to keep her as a pet or something?" 

"Your Excellency will forgive me if I am being impetuous." Agatha turned to the Highfather. "But there is an even longer game at play than the one you speak of." 

"Why is it..." Zaxus muttered. "That the fucking wood elves are always the first to forget that we're the ones who planted all those stories among the old human maids to begin with. There is no long game. There is no prophesy. We made them all up." 

"The fucking wood elves are the first to remember, uncle, not forget. You forget, you and your illk in the high castle and holy mountain. But we carry an older legacy, mother to daughter and things are undeniably in motion. Mountains move. The dryads spring up from deep under the earth." 

"When are you going to grow up, Agatha?" Zaxus' voice took on that weary tone it always did when the conversation drifted to this direction. "When are you going to put that woodland whore behind you and come into your true place in the high table." 

"What did you say about my mother?" Agatha's fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger at her waist as her eyes pierced into her uncle's. 

"Enough." The Highfather's voice bellowed through the room, cutting off Zaxus before he could retort. "Agatha, do what you want with her, she is not our concern. But do it quietly. Do it such that she's as good as dead to the rest of the world. The last thing we need is rumours about the elves harbouring the next generation of Votharian royalty." 

Agatha smiled and bowed her head. "As Your Excellency commands."