Chapter 172: Dipping Into Diplomacy

While the rest of the team deals with their personal problems in the aftermath of the day’s events, Zora and a small army of dwarves have already begun raising makeshift tents across the farmland, working with quick, diligent efficiency.

"Great work, team!" the lich says proudly as a group of dwarves and beast-kin finish up erecting another line of tents. "Just... one hundred and ninety or so left to go. Keep it up!"

He turns to a ledger that swirls into being, dropping into his waiting hand, and taps at it before swirling his other hand to open a portal. A group of Vexena’s soldiers slowly emerge carrying their own wounded, armor scorched black and bandages already soaked through, boots dragging furrows through the churned mud.

"This is you," Zora informs them, pointing to the row of tents ahead of them. "Food and provisions will arrive shortly. Thank you for your patience," he says with a welcoming smile plastered across his face.

A small tent city springs up across the farming fields within a matter of hours, canvas and rope and quietly humming lanterns stretching further with every passing minute as dwarven craftsmen and healers move between rows of tents and cots without complaint, tending to broken demon-kin and building what will be their new home for the foreseeable future.

They’d technically been at odds, often violently, for decades up until a few hours ago, and now they walk side-by-side like it is the most natural thing in the world.

Zora drifts between the rows, conjuring extra blankets and the occasional pillow, humming cheerfully to himself, entirely in his element as he mutters well wishes and promises of assistance to the faces he passes.

The farmland smells of trampled hay, lantern oil, and the last lingering traces of smoke drifting over from the ruined battlefield beyond, a strange, uneasy calm settling over what was a killing field only hours ago.

Kathoril arrives at the team’s carriages at a dead run, breathless, clipboard clutched to her chest, Sha’Rona jogging easily alongside her, looking thoroughly unbothered by the pace.

"We’ve sent for supplies and food," she pants. "The rest of your soldiers will be properly housed by nightfall, Your Grace."

Vexena rises with a visible wince, pressing a hand briefly to her ribs, and bows deeply to the princess, mud and dried blood shifting on her gown as she holds the bow a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Veena bites her lip, watching intently, clearly unable to remember the last time she’d seen her mother bow to anyone, or if she’d ever actually seen it happen at all.

"You have my sincere thanks, Your Majesty," Vexena says, voice smooth and level. "I speak for every demon-kin here when I say we thank you for your hospitality, and for taking the time to care for us. I know that can’t have been an easy decision, given what most of this continent thinks of me and my people."

Kathoril swallows hard, glancing past her toward Vuvi and the rest of the battered team. "Any friend of the Prince is a friend of the dwarves," she says finally. "I hope our kingdoms can work together in the future, the way we did here today. You’re... you’re not nearly as bad as some rumours would suggest," she adds, more softly.

"I would like to think so." Vexena smiles, her face warm, genuine, and entirely unguarded.

Kathoril’s cheeks flush red slightly under the warmth of that smile, clearly not expecting genuine gratitude from the Demon Queen of infamous legend, and she quickly excuses herself with a hurried, flustered bow before rushing off to oversee the rest of the tent city.

Veena lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Impressive."

"Don’t start," Vexena groans.

"No, no, seriously, that was almost diplomatic. Real words, real eye contact, no threats. I didn’t know you had it in you, Mother."

"I contain multitudes, Veena," Vexena says. "You’d know that if you spent more than three days at home in a decade."

"Fair." Veena shrugs. "I didn’t know my own mother was capable of being more than just immensely terrifying."

"Terrible," Vexena replies, fighting back a chuckle. "Maribelle suggested it. I’m not a fan of the approach, generally." She sighs, deep and filled with longing. "Though I suppose I could get used to it." She turns, taking both of Veena’s hands in hers, something soft and hopeful crossing her face. "I’ll keep trying, and more, if it means leaving the world a little better for when you’re ready to rule in my stead."

Veena rolls her eyes. "That’s not happening, Mother."

Vexena sighs, squeezing her hands once before letting go, a small, wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite the exhaustion still written across her face. "Can’t blame a mother for trying."

"I suppose I really can’t," Veena admits, softer now, "but I’m still saying no."

Sha’Rona hops up onto the edge of a nearby cart, long ears twitching thoughtfully as she watches Kathoril disappear back into the bustle of the tent city.

"Kathoril and I had ourselves a bit of a chat," she says to Veena, without much preamble. "Came to an agreement, the two of us."

Veena raises a brow. "An agreement?"

"Mm." Sha’Rona nods, tail flicking once. "I wanted to wish you all well. With the journey, and with the Flame Mother, whenever you finally track her down. Come visit the Hidden Village again sometime, would you? Everyone would love to see you all again. Especially him." She adds the last part with a knowing little smirk.

Veena’s shoulders droop, pouting openly. "Wait, you’re not coming with us? Not even until we’ve dealt with the Flame Mother? But you said—"

Sha’Rona shakes her head, ears swaying with the motion. "No, I don’t think so. Your team is... a lot. Even for me, and I wrestle dire-boars for fun." Her eyes flick, almost involuntarily, toward Vexena.

Vexena, still nursing her ribs, arches a single unimpressed brow and offers nothing more than a faint, knowing smirk in return.

Sha’Rona’s ears snap straight up, and she clears her throat quickly. "I’ll, uh, I’ll stick to protecting the forest. Someone has to keep an eye on it while you lot are off starting wars and saving demi-gods."

Vuvi bursts out of a nearby carriage, bandaged head to toe, waving her arms. "We are wasting time! We need to move, we need to make sure Pip’s safe!"

Maribelle catches her by the shoulder and hauls her firmly back inside. "Relax, you little gremlin. You’re not fully patched up yet. Come on."

Vuvi groans, sagging against the carriage doorframe, bandages pulling uncomfortably at half-healed skin.

"I can’t stand being this far from him. I have no idea what those Saint Sisters are doing to him right now. What if they’re... I don’t know... testing him wrong? Or too hard!"

"He’ll be fine," Maribelle offers. "He can take care of himself."

"No, he can’t," Vuvi replies. "Have you seen the bodies on those Saint Sisters?" She gestures to her own hips. "He’s defenceless against power like that. They probably have him wrapped around their perfect little pinkies already."

"He’s fiiiine," Sera calls over lazily, tin cup in one hand, Lula’s head sleeping soundly in her lap, one finger idly stroking the dragon-girl’s hair without looking away from the sky. "Pip’s always fine. He’s divinely blessed and protected. And he’s currently with the three most powerful women I’ve ever seen in my life, one of whom got talked out of murdering the Demon Queen by a toddler’s cheek pinch. I’m sure they’re taking very good care of him." She takes a slow sip. "And I’m sure he’s taking care of them in more ways than one," she finishes, with a wink.

"That is not remotely reassuring." Vuvi snaps back, mouth open to argue further, but Maribelle simply pulls the carriage door shut between them, silencing whatever comes next into an undignified, muffled yell from inside.