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Golden Aerie
Embassy District, City of Almas
Andoran
Kuthona 21
4734 AR
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"We found it a mile away from the Viscount Theater."
Knight-Marshall Aldrin Delacroix sets the heavy, unstoppered iron flask down on Calisaria's desk. A moment of silence hangs between them as she looks at the flask, slowly reaching across the desk for it. Her touch comes with trepidation and Delacroix recognizes her hesitance.
"I wanted to know if you thought we should keep it in evidence, or return it to the Millen family since it's, ostensibly, theirs." Delacroix continues, watching the cautious way Calisaria handles the flask.
"Did you find the stopper?" She asks without looking up from it.
"No." Delacroix says. "Which makes the flask functionally useless, so I'm not opposed to sending it back to its original owners. Though I feel like it would be irresponsible not to chastise them for having something this dangerous and letting it fall into the wrong hands."
Calisaria nods slowly, though it's unclear if she's truly listening to Delacroix. She sets the flask down on the corner of her desk, finally looking up at him. "The boy enlisted," Calisaria says as a change of subject.
"Jorge?"
She nods. "Apparently the Order of the Inheritor's Scabbard had been pushing him to for a while, but everything that happened over the last few weeks pushed him over the edge."
"But Cheliax wasn't even responsible for what happened here." Delacroix says, unable to understand the mental leap young Jorge made.
Calisaria gently raises her brows and nods, both acquiescing and challenging in the same expression. "It's a longer story than that."
"But not one you want to tell."
"Not particularly." Calisaria says softly, looking at the flask again.
Awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Delacroix is silent in momentary deliberation. Tact loses out to frustrated curiosity. "Normally I'd let this slide, but since you're about to inherit the big desk I feel like it's my responsibility to push back when you're being unreasonable."
"Unreasonable?" Delacroix has Calisaria's undivided attention now. Though her tone of voice is a knife's edge, one he has to navigate carefully.
"The Millens." Delacroix says, gesturing to the flask. "It's been an open secret for a long time that they're Chelish immigrants. Your name is all over their immigration paperwork, tucked away neatly. Forgotten. It didn't matter to me until I had no choice but for it to matter." He nods to the flask. "People died."
Sighing, Calisaria closes her eyes and slouches back into her chair. "A long time ago..." she begins, eyes unfocused but angled down at the flask. "I was a part of the Twilight Talons, when the organization was still a state secret. Before the war."
Delacroix sinks down into the seat across from her, rapt in attention to her story.
"I was stationed in Westcrown. This was... back in 4703." Calisaria says wistfully. "I can't talk about what I did there, but I met someone who changed my life. Auressa Millen was her mother." She picks up the flask. "We smuggled Auressa and her family over the border, gave her the identity you know now."
"And this someone?" Delacroix asks, leaning forward in his chair. "Was she a part of your mission?"
Calisaria stares at the flask and sets it down on the desk, not answering that question. "The Millens are here under my protection, no matter what title I have. And that's as much as I can say. Take the flask back to them, send my regards."
"You're not going yourself?"
Calisaria shakes her head. "No. I don't think I can right now. Consider it your first task as my replacement."
Delacroix stares vacantly at Calisaria. "What."
"If I'm inheriting the big desk," she says with a wry smile, "I'm going to need someone I trust to fill my shoes."
Delacroix settles back in his chair, deflating with a sigh against the weight of such sudden responsibility. "I... don't know what to say."
"Then say nothing." Calisaria says quietly. "Sometimes silence matters most."
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