《Witch of Ambition》 Content Warning! For those familiar with my work, you''ll know that I''m not afraid to delve into some interesting concepts. For new readers, well, I''m not afraid to write things that many may find offensive. The story is in the 3rd person, predominantly following the thoughts and actions of the MC. There will be changes in perspective when necessary. And now the reason for this chapter: CONTENT WARNINGS That is all I can think of at the moment but there''s bound to be more. This series is meant to go to dark places. Again, I don''t care for graphic depictions of truly terrible things but as for the concept themselves, nothing is off the table. Consider yourselves, dear readers, warned. And I hope you enjoy! Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Prologue 0.1 The Dune Sea. The Blood Country. Savath, the land of war, prosperity, and prosperity through war. An intense land whose beauty was as sharp and deadly as blade. A land of passion and magic, where the stars were close enough to taunt the ambitious but only gave their favor to their chosen. Akeem, son of Aman, wasn¡¯t loved by the stars. He was born to the Red Cobras, a small warband that roamed the Aysun Dunes, named for the pitifully small oasis between them. Wandering the northeastern boundary of the desert, they were far from official authority but also far from any resources. The life of a small band was harsh. They were poor and what little they did have, they had to defend from dozens of other bands in their same dire circumstances. He had the luck of being born of the chief¡¯s blood, the fifth son born of the Cobra¡¯s favorite wife. His position meant he got more than most, including proper instruction from experienced raiders, warriors accustomed to battle on the burning sands. On his fifteenth birthday, the Cobra gifted him a sword. The metal was rusted, and the leather grip needed rewrapping, but it could hold an edge. When most young men went to war with knives of sharpened bone and leather slings, the simple weapon was a treasure. He was determined to prove himself worthy of it. In his first battle, a surprise raid on a band even smaller than their own, he claimed two lives. There was no reason for the attack, no instigating event anyone could point to as the start of the conflict. Proximity and opportunity brought together could spark a tragedy. Such was the way of life for raiders. One less beating heart meant one less mouth consuming the scarce resources of the desert. From the time the first people of Savath dared to venture into the endless dunes, they survived by spilling blood, both of beasts and men. When Akeem was seventeen, rather than compete for leadership of the Red Cobras, he packed his meagre belongings and ventured deeper into the Dune Sea, hungering for a greater destiny. The closer one got to the heart of the desert, the more prolific oases became, some of them large enough to support settlements. The warbands that moved between them were larger and richer, but no less savage. The chiefs were less nomadic and more territorial, collecting tribute from those within the borders they claimed rather than slaughtering anything that crossed their paths. He joined a band with a sizable territory and were known to treat their raiders well, the Scorched. They gave him a better weapon, decent leather armor, and taught him to ride a gekaby, the large lizards the favored mounts for crossing the desert. Surviving several border skirmishes earned his chief¡¯s recognition. Leading a successful raid against one of the ¡°feast with teeth¡±, what the Scorched called the settlements by the oases, earned him the chief¡¯s favor. By the time he was twenty-three, he commanded a team of five men and had married his first wife, a sensible if not the most attractive girl, one of the chief¡¯s nieces. He was proud, strong, and in the prime of his life. It seemed the stars had great things planned for him. A delusion. He wasn¡¯t special and one day, his lifetime of good fortune came to an end. In what should have been another routine border skirmish, he lost an eye when a dying man attacked him with a last burst of desperate strength. He could have retired his blade then. Turned his experience to teaching or taken up a profession. Akeem abhorred the idea. Couldn¡¯t stand the idea of being a simple laborer. A band needed men from all walks of life to flourish but the Scorched, like many other bands, admired those of the martial path. He was an accomplished warrior, not a legendary one. Without enough glory to carry him to his deathbed, he would be overlooked until he was eventually ignored. Dismissed, like another grain of sand, his only purpose to ease the menial burdens of men chasing glory and power. At the time, Akeem couldn¡¯t imagine a worse fate. He trained hard, convinced strength and speed could make up for his weakness. It worked. For a while. The next time he was injured, he lost his hand. Without his sword hand, fighting was out of the question. Simple tasks became trials as he had to rethink how to do them. It was a struggle to even care for himself and the harder he tried, the more others sneered at his efforts. Soon, he was regarded worse than the slaves, people made to serve the band to pay off debts, incurred through either gold or blood. It took eight short months for his wife to leave him. Normally, such a shameful act would see the woman stoned and exiled, but he was a man that could not provide. They had no children and the chief supported her, in part responsible for her dissatisfaction as he¡¯d matched them. Soon after, the chief brokered a large trade with another band. In the agreement, the Scorched signed over several slaves for weapons and food. As a free man, Akeem could not be sold with them, but it was made clear that he wouldn¡¯t survive long if he stayed where he wasn¡¯t wanted. His freedom also didn¡¯t protect him in his new home. They worked him hard, hard as any slave, in the most odious jobs. It was a cruel fate, and only crueler ones awaited him once he left in hopes of escaping their indifference. In scant years, his face was starting to wrinkle, his bronze-skin was riddled with sunkisses, and his once full, dark hair became thin, a small bald patch appearing in the middle of his head. His large, powerful muscles became wiry eating poor meals on an infrequent schedule. Pain and weakness settled into his bones, becoming a part of him. They used him until they could use him no more, leaving Akeem a shadow of himself. His spirit shriveled as much as the rest of him but a trace of hope, a grain of the tenacious soldier of the past, stubbornly held on. A part that refused to be buried by the sand, as the drunken raiders that carried him into the desert intended. His tongue that hadn¡¯t had a bite of a proper meal in years still remembered the taste of victory. The sweet nectar of power. Its memory lent him the strength to climb to his feet and walk. His direction, the heart of the desert. He needed a miracle, so he traveled to the most miraculous place he could think of. All who lived within the Dune Sea knew the story of the Falling Star. That there was one place in Savath where life was abundant, and scarcity was a scary story told to children. A place that overflowed with so much wealth and prosperity, there might be enough for a tired cripple. The Celestial City. A small piece of the infinite heavens on the mortal plane, a gleaming city of white stone built on an oasis so large it was offensive to compare it to any other, surrounded by fertile soil instead of lifeless sand. The hope of every soul led astray by the desert¡¯s mirages. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. It was a harrowing journey, one that took years as Akeem struggled to ride the whims of fate. The day he spotted the walls of the city in the distance, he cried. The stories he¡¯d heard weren¡¯t exaggerated. They didn¡¯t do it justice. It was everything he could have hoped for¡­except welcoming. Overflowing abundance did not equate to overflowing compassion. The grand city and its khan, the ruler of all Savath, had no more time for him than any other chief. The walls of the Celestial City could house a million souls but his kind, outsiders and refugees, weren¡¯t welcome. He wasn¡¯t even allowed to set foot on the life-giving earth his father had called ¡°brown gold¡±. His epic journey culminated in a cramped tent in the slums outside the city that couldn¡¯t keep out the wind and had to be shared with three other souls just as sorry as himself. He still did hard, demeaning work for just enough to survive but his environment made it so much worse. Imagining his ¡°betters¡± feasting and living in comfort every time he caught a glimpse of the city while he subsisted off scraps was maddening, made all the worse by his undying hope he would join them one day. His dream was like Ayley, the moon. She was entrancing and enthralling, her gentle light like the attentions of a beautiful woman. And, like many a cold beauty, no gesture could sway her heart, just as Akeem couldn¡¯t cross the gleaming white walls that had captivated his imagination. Yet, he continued to dream. Year after year, he sought a way forward only for his advances to be scorned. But tonight would be different. It was his ninth year in the slums and the Night of Falling Stars. Every year, a grand festival was held to celebrate the first khan who united the desert. Normally, the closest someone like Akeem could get to the festivities was watching the brilliant displays of light above the palace but, tonight, his perseverance would finally be rewarded. A rumor had been circling for months that an official of the Celestial Court, the administrative body of Savath, would be visiting. And not just any official but a minister, the highest office, second only in power to the khan. It was a mystery why someone of such stature would dirty his boots mingling amongst the unfortunate. To improve his reputation by doing good work for the ¡°pitiable¡± or for an unsavory desire, the reason didn¡¯t matter. All that mattered to Akeem was access. The word of an official was one of the few ways through the walls of the Celestial City. The minister was organizing a ceremony to honor the royal family. One where numbers mattered, creating an opportunity for the residents of the slum. Most were drawn by their stomachs, as the rumors spoke of a free meal. Some came out of loyalty to the blessed family, foolishly believing that those who had everything would care about their pitiful worship. Akeem wanted the certainty the city offered. He didn¡¯t have a lot to offer but he also didn¡¯t want much. There had to be at least one unsavory burden the residents needed taken off their delicate hands. Surely, he deserved that much. That single thought propelled him through his day, fueling him with uncommon energy. He completed his work with efficiency and enthusiasm that defied the nature of his duties, the old warrior humming marching songs as he shoveled shit and sorted trash. When night fell, he felt even more alive. As the faintest notes of the music in the city spread through the slums, the oppressive desperation in the air that made it hard to breathe most days was diluted by excitement. He had to step between people dancing along the dirt paths they jokingly called roads and playing children. By the time he reached his tent, there was a rare smile on his face. It was a hassle getting ready, as his work crew prepared for the ceremony alongside him. They couldn¡¯t afford to bathe properly and there wasn¡¯t one proper set of clothes between the four of them, but they did what they could. Akeem wiped himself down with hot water, leaving him refreshed. His hair was concentrated along the sides of his head and there was nothing he could do make it look flattering, but he still borrowed a comb missing a third of its teeth to put what remained in order. He also borrowed a knife to do the same with his beard. When everyone was ready, they left together, joining a sizable procession outside that continued to grow. Even without the thousands of congregating souls, it would have been easy to find the site of the ceremony. Outside the eastern boundary of the slums, a large circle of sand was marked by a dozen gleaming white stone pillars and thick braids of rope with no signs of fraying. In the center was a stage constructed of precious wood, tall enough that a man standing at its base would remember being a boy. All of it was brightly illuminated by numerous standing torches, most ringing the outside of the circle with four more at the stage¡¯s corners. Standing in a loose crescent before the stage were the reasons the wood hadn¡¯t been stolen during the stage¡¯s construction throughout the week before. Real warriors, leagues beyond the savage raiders that rode the dunes wielding makeshift weapons. Those who made shedding blood an art. Akeem felt an intense envy as he observed the men¡¯s powerful physiques and their weapons, spears with metal shafts and ornate heads, tools as beautiful as they were deadly. Their confidence in their ability to hold back the riffraff of the slums was visible as they didn¡¯t bother with armor, wearing only loose pants. Their bare chests were decorated with golden chains and their faces were covered by white cloths, uniting them in anonymity. They reminded him of his glory days and it sparked a bitter longing. But Akeem was accustomed to such feelings. Years suppressing them meant his face barely twitched as he ducked beneath the rope, finding a place in the outermost ring of the crowd surrounding the stage. His bad mood didn¡¯t have a chance to take root. The crowd was excited as the reward most came for could be smelled, the mixture of fresh bread, roasting meat, and spices making Akeem¡¯s mouth water. He was thankful the organizers kept the food out of sight. Otherwise, he¡¯d worry the crowd would forget themselves in the thrall of hunger and ruin his chances. As the night aged, the crowd expanded until it contracted, the people forced uncomfortably close together to afford space for one more soul. Warriors patrolled the outside of the ring, shooing away those that lingered beyond the rope barrier. Akeem didn¡¯t begrudge them. He simply wished he was surrounded by beautiful, fragrant women instead of sweaty men. His nose was too accustomed to filth to be overly bothered by the smell but that didn¡¯t make the experience close to enjoyable. Just as his legs were beginning to resent carrying him, there was movement on the stage. Four guards stepped onto it before taking places at its four corners. They banged the butts of their spears on the stage hard enough that Akeem wondered if they might have broken the wood, despite its thickness. The noise drew the attention of the crowd. When all were watching, a man stepped between them. Everything about him separated him from the motley crowd shuffling about beneath his feet, from his lofty height to the fine fabric of his blue robes, down to his polished leather boots. His arms didn¡¯t have the defined muscles of the warriors but neither did they carry the weight of privilege, a sign that he wasn¡¯t a man who used his power to indulge. Dark eyes stared out of a handsome face, sharp as a vulture¡¯s and cruel in their ambivalence. Combined with the dagger on his hip, long as a man¡¯s forearm with a large red gem on the ornate pommel that glittered when it caught the firelight, it gave the man an air of danger. Akeem looked up at the man with reverence and fear. It was scary, being in the presence of someone that could erase him with little more than a thought. Especially when he thought of asking a favor of said man. Yet, Akeem couldn¡¯t help admiring him. The proud figure taking command of countless lives was what he imagined for his future. Now, all he could aspire to was a shred of someone else¡¯s attention. The man who Akeem assumed was the minister behind the ceremony raised his hand and, like trained dogs, the crowd quickly settled, the only sounds to disturb the night the crackle of the torches and the fainter music. A fifth guard seemingly stepped out of the minister¡¯s shadow and handed him the large horn of some animal. Akeem swore he saw it glint as moonlight struck it. He knew of no beast that naturally had that quality. The horn had an unnatural addition. Given that it was being handled by a minister of the Celestial Court, it suggested it was an icon, a tool that gave mere men dominion over the capricious forces of the world and could create miracles. If it was, it was worth more than all the money Akeem had ever earned. By far. The minister raised a horn to his lips and blew. A deep, resonant hum filled the air, growing in volume until it drowned out Akeem¡¯s racing heart. ¡°Brothers.¡± When the hum ended, the minister spoke into the horn and his voice was loud enough that it traveled well beyond the crowd. ¡°Sisters. Children of the stars. Let us give thanks.¡± Prologue 0.2 Akeem thought the minister possessed a proper voice for speaking. He spoke the language without a ¡°dune dialect¡±, the broken tongue that garbled their beautiful language until it sounded like, as an old healer had once described it, the barking of dogs masquerading as a civilized language. The minister had learned Sava properly, rolling the long vowels and brushing over consonants with a delicate touch that gave the language its musical flair, conjuring visions of golden sand flowing in an unstoppable river, giving an old tale new life. ¡°Generations ago, on the true Night of Falling Stars, a great turmoil sundered the heavens. Stars rained upon the mortal realm and devastated the land. Whole forests burned. Mountains crumbled. Coasts disappeared beneath towering waves. The world was brought to the brink of ruin. All except Savath, a land forged by the harsh love of Gunnez, the sun father. ¡°When the Star of Prosperity fell, a great dune swallowed it, the old sands containing its power. For years, it was carried by the waves of the Dune Sea. A myth. A curse. A well of potential, for good or ill. ¡°It was the first khan, the man who united our great country under one banner, Basil Al-Khazar, who discovered the star. A fierce warrior who was betrayed by his brothers who thought to deny him his birthright as the next chief of their band and exiled him, the fools too cowardly to strike him down themselves. ¡°But none can deny the will of the heavens. Basil could find no shelter in the homes of the lessers that feared him, so he forged a new home on the sands. It is said that Gunnez granted him the strength of a hundred men under the light of the sun and Aylen¡¯s light healed his wounds when he rested upon cool sands. Wielding the power of destiny, he became a legend as he walked the Dune Sea, learning the language of the land. He uncovered her mysteries and found her greatest treasure, the fallen star. ¡°He could have taken the star for himself. The Heavenly Library has records of foreign legends that stole fragments of the divine to become more than men, gaining enough power to walk the world unchallenged. But Basil was a man as generous as he was strong. Rather than confine his glory to one life, he shared the Star of Prosperity with Savath, forming a covenant that would create the foundation of our great country. ¡°Water, usually more scarce than spilled blood, became abundant as oases sprang forth between the dunes, the greatest of them the Celestial Tear of our capital. All residents of Savath received her blessing, even the lowliest pests, but none received more than men, giving them all the strength to replicate Basil¡¯s feat of facing the worst the desert had to offer with only their bare hands. Lastly, swaths of succulent spines grew throughout the desert, their sweet fruits and the water contained within their pods allowing men and beast alike to travel the Sea. ¡°These three blessings have made Savath the greatest in the land, nay, the world. No foreign country dares cross our borders, and their kings compete with one another for the khan¡¯s favor. We are those blessed by the heavens. And so long as an Al-Khazar sits on the Celestial Throne, the people of the Dune Sea will continue to thrive.¡± The minister paused and scanned the crowd, finding his audience captive and compliant. Akeem was the same and found no shame in his obedience. In Savath, especially in the Celestial City, an official was no mere man. He was power, an extension of the divine authority wielded by the khan. After countless generations, the instinct to venerate that authority was in their blood, as much a part of them as the sands they walked on. ¡°The khan serves Savath and we, in turn, serve the khan. But, I ask of you who have survived the trials of life, is this right? Physical and mental labors can be trying but they are but a grain of sand to the labors of the soul. The khans of Savath wield great power, but none have sat on the Celestial Throne for more than two decades since the reign of Basil. We lavish them with the riches of the land but that land saps the richness of their spirits. Everything has a price.¡± Akeem shivered. The minister¡¯s words seemed to echo the will of the world, resonating with something deep within the old raider. It was a cruel truth but one as evident as the brilliant moon above. ¡°Tonight, I ask of you to take on some of that great burden. None may intrude upon the sacred covenant, but our prayers will bolster the khan, gladdening his spirit as we celebrate the first anniversary of his ascension.¡± Movement throughout the crowd drew the old raider¡¯s attention but there were so many bodies that it took a while for the event to make its way to him. The man of ahead of him passed back a glass bowl small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, half-filled with sand with a tooth resting atop the grains. Before he could study the objects more, another was passed to him. When he received the third, Akeem realized that he was being given a task and began to pass the bowls backward. It didn¡¯t take long before the bowls stopped coming. Many at the back of the crowd complained that they had not received one. Their concerns were answered by warriors escorting them outside the rope circle, at spear point when necessary. Akeem wasn¡¯t surprised. His many years in the slums had taught him that the abundance of the Celestial City was not shared with those outside her walls easily. Whatever point the minister meant to make, he wouldn¡¯t throw infinite resources at it. It was the nature of the world that some would always go without. When the ruckus outside the circle died down, reassuring Akeem that the rowdiness wouldn¡¯t escalate into a riot, he turned his attention to the items he¡¯d been given. There was nothing special about any of it. The glass bowl was smooth but cloudy, the work of a new apprentice or a charlatan. The sand it held could have been collected from anywhere and the tooth was the fang of a predator with no special characteristics. It was disappointing. Akeem had hoped that he would wield proper magic but from the mundanity of the items, it seemed the ceremony would be nothing more than a performance. The negative feeling was fleeting, quickly replaced by excitement when he noticed one of the warriors handing the minister a bowl identical to the ones held by the crowd. However pointless the ceremony was, it was clearly important to the official if the man was participating. It would bind them, give Akeem a foundation to build upon. ¡°Each grain of sand is connected to the spirit of Savath,¡± the minister continued. ¡°Water carries the will of the world and blood is the most sacred water. Through our blood, we offer our will. Our spirits will become those blessings that sustain us and our children. Follow me, brothers and sisters.¡± This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. The minister held out his horn and it was taken by a discrete guard. Akeem couldn¡¯t make out details from the distance, but he saw enough for his mind to supplement the scene with imagination. The minister reached inside the bowl and seemed to be holding something, which could only be the tooth. From the speed with which one hand impacted the other, Akeem assumed the tooth had pierced the man¡¯s skin, as he could imagine no other use for a fang. Then the minister¡¯s motions suggested he dropped the tooth back into the bowl. ¡°Blood magic.¡± Beside Akeem, a man spit at the ground, earning a curse from the man whose feet he¡¯d dirtied. ¡°Come on,¡± another man said, leaning into the first. ¡°Ain¡¯t real magic, ey? Think fancy pants up there is gonna be doing something dangerous?¡± ¡°Nuh! The work of witches, this is.¡± ¡°The crones of the Celestial City ain¡¯t no sand hags, shit for brains. Anybody slinging hexes will find their heads removed before a moon cycle can pass. Quit whimpering about the scary tooth like a git and get it done so we can eat. Can¡¯t you smell the feast waiting for us?¡± ¡°Forget it!¡± The second man tried to convince his friend for a while longer but soon grew tired of the wasted effort, turning his attention back to the stage as the first man stomped out of the circle. For the excited clamoring outside of the rope, he offered his place to those waiting on the sidelines and the guards waiting nearby made no move to quiet the chaos. Soon enough, a deal was struck and the fearful man was replaced by a younger man with greedy eyes and a sly smile. Akeem didn¡¯t fault either man for their views. As a raider, he knew very well the horrors a wild witch could inflict. A hexed blade that could curse a man to feel chills in the middle of the day, mixtures that dulled pain so men could fight through grievous wounds, conjured sandstorms to stop a charge, and worse. But of all the terrible magic waiting in the shadows of the dunes, blood magic was the worst. Hexes made with blood extracted from a man¡¯s heart could persist through his descendants for all of time, or so went one of the stories Akeem had been told by elders eager to frighten a little sense into young, brash raiders. If wild witches were capable of even a tenth of what they were rumored to do, the man had good reason for his caution. Akeem might have followed his direction if he were not entirely convinced this was his last chance to make something of his life. What did a hex mean to him? He was an old man with no progeny and no prospects. Beyond that, he agreed with the second man. Whatever the ceremony entailed, the minister had joined them and he couldn¡¯t imagine the man causing himself harm. Reassured, Akeem grabbed the tooth lying atop the sand in his bowl. The bone was nearly as smooth as the glass and quite pleasant to feel. Someone had worked on it, crafting and cleaning it for its purpose. A detail that soothed the old raiders¡¯ few lingering worries. The unneeded effort spoke of care, not the deranged attitude it would take to dabble in blood rituals. Completing the ritual was made a little more complicated by his lack of hand. He balanced the bowl on his false limb, a poor substitute molded from clay, and placed the tooth in his teeth before smacking the back of his hand against the point of the fang. He didn¡¯t utter a sound, the faint pain not even enough to furrow his brows. He dropped the tooth back into the bowl, licked at his wound, and transferred the bowl to his good hand, needing the security of fingers that could grip it properly. ¡°Children of the sand.¡± The minister gave the crowd plenty of time to complete the simple requirements of the ritual before continuing. ¡°Offer your hearts to Savath. Kalp kalbe, ruh ruha, beni irae senin guan olum.¡± The prayer was spoken in the Old Tongue, the dialect before Sava was polluted by the influence of too many chiefs wanting to leave their mark, even on something as insubstantial as words, and foreign traders with no respect for tradition. There was no use for the ancient way of speaking besides being a merit of the learned. It was a rare thing to even recognize it, Akeem only doing so because the orators of the Scorched still used the old names for the spirits in their stories. His fleeting familiarity with the dialect didn¡¯t grant him enough knowledge to know the meaning of the chant. Nor did it aid him in pronouncing it. Faint embarrassment heated his leathery cheeks as he stumbled over the words just as badly as the crowd. He¡¯d never had a talent for scholarly matters, but it was too simple a task to fail for long. With every utterance, his pronunciation became clearer and he gained confidence, soon shouting it with gusto. But the minister continued to chant, moments stretching into minutes. Akeem began to tire but he forced himself to continue. As the minister said, everything had a price. The price of a good meal, and if he was lucky, a moment of the man¡¯s time, was their dedication to the ceremony. He resolved to continue the chanting all night if he had to. Unfortunately, his will could only supersede the needs of his body for so long. Strain became pain, ghostly pinpricks of a bone needle across his body. Akeem tried to ignore it, but it refused, growing more intense with each attempt to keep it at bay. He cursed himself for working earlier. Hard labor beneath the unforgiving sun always sapped his strength but sometimes, he was struck with an agony that felt as if his body meant to tear itself apart to avoid one more moment of labor. He should have saved his strength but didn¡¯t dare take a day off, lest he be replaced by one of the endless poor souls eager to take his place. There were plenty of younger and stronger men. Akeem held on to what meagre work he could find through determination alone. His decision was taking its toll. As weakness pressed against his shoulders and the pain mounted, Akeem grudgingly admitted that his resolve wouldn¡¯t be enough to see him through the ceremony. His soured hopes turned his stomach as he stopped chanting. Disgust, for himself, his fate, and the crowd continuing without him, welled up, twisting his stern mien into a storm. A part of him knew his plan with all the substantiality of a heat mirage wouldn¡¯t hold against the weight of reality. He couldn¡¯t imagine how he would approach the minister without offending him. His best hope was throwing himself at the man¡¯s mercy, but no one would be impressed by an old cripple, especially one that couldn¡¯t properly venerate their khan. He was nothing but waste. Trash that would never be allowed to dirty the gleaming streets of the Celestial City. All Akeem wanted was to return home and wallow in his misery, perhaps for the rest of his life, but it wasn¡¯t to be. When he made to push through the crowd, a wave of intense weakness overcame him. The old raider dropped to his knees as he grit his teeth against the following wave of pain. It wasn¡¯t as bad as losing his hand, but it was accompanied by an abominable sensation. Something was reaching into him¡­and pulling. Another wave of pain sent him to the ground, Akeem instinctively curling up and shielding his head. For a moment. The next wave of pain brought with it muscle spasms, forcing his limbs to flap around uselessly. His stomach threw up what little was in it and he rolled in a puddle of his own filth as the convulsions stripped him of his control. Akeem had never been so afraid. Not even the morning he came out of his fever and realized his missing hand wasn¡¯t a nightmare could compare. Then, he still had a hint of his youthful arrogance and believed he could overcome anything. The years had beaten into him how mundane he was. How weak. Death was very real and, in those moments that he lost control of his body, closer than ever. He couldn¡¯t explain how he knew but with each tug on his being, Akeem became surer. He was dying. His first instinct was to fight, but there was no way to fend off the ghostly claws assaulting the inside of his body. He tried to scream for help, beg for it, but no sound could escape his tight throat. He was helpless. And so were those he hoped would come to his aid. He couldn¡¯t see much while thrashing around but he noticed that the crowd was collapsing around him, the men and women reduced to the same pitiful state. It spread like a vile sickness, claiming the whole crowd moments after Akeem fell. Beneath the deceivingly serene glow of Aylen, over three thousand souls were claimed by malevolent forces. Their lifeless forms were contorted in grotesque agony, each a testament to unspeakable horrors. Yet, amidst the macabre scene, a chilling uniformity prevailed: every cadaver bore an arm thrust skyward, fingers tightly holding glass bowls half-filled with crimson sand, sinister offerings to a dark presence that haunted the shadows. Prologue 0.3 How pitiful. Sarif felt nothing for the writhing crowd trapped in his ritual. As an important man, he knew the power of appearances and as a learned man, he knew the dangers of filth. Thousands of unwashed bodies rolling in the fluids forcefully ejected from their bodies in the throes of death was a nightmare. If he felt anything for them, it was resentment for forcing him to bear witness to something so disgusting. It was the way of the world that some rose while others supported them. Every creature had a natural responsibility. It was the duty of the great to seek greatness, guiding the lesser of their kind to new heights, and it was the duty of the weak to take upon themselves misfortunes that would otherwise hold the best of them back. Just as water flowed downward, so too did the muck of life. The widest burdens were placed on the narrowest shoulders and that was proper. As a boy, his tutors made him study the Book of Natural Laws extensively and Sarif made it a point to read passages often. When his work seemed endless and overwhelming, he recited them, taking strength from the knowledge that he was walking the same path as many great men. ¡°If one must suffer the disfavor of fate, let it be the least among men,¡± he muttered as his ritual reaped thousands of lives. ¡°Better a weight crush a lesser than bring low a man with the potential to soar above all others. The broken become the sands upon which great men tread.¡± The greatness of men. Laughable. As the last of the crowd lost their grip on the mortal coil, the abominable sensation of ghostly hands trying to pull away his very being ceased. Sarif¡¯s relief from the pain was short-lived. One agony quickly replaced the other, spiritual desecration substituted with the ache of the nails hammered into his back. It had taken months to prepare the horrid things, the iron needing to be work in a special fire before being frozen in ice for a season. Amazingly, they were the simplest, and least painful, foci meant to anchor one¡¯s spirit. They were also the least reliable. It was why he had eight driven into him, four on either side of his spine. He hoped to make up for quality with quantity. Thankfully, they had done their jobs but there was a price to be paid. If he stayed still and measured his breathing, all he felt was a terrible ache, something he could endure with grit teeth. If he dared move, no matter how slightly, a lancing pain shot through his whole body. Sarif was no stranger to hurt. He¡¯d been small as a child and suffered the brutality of boys at the age where they were indistinguishable from beasts. As soon as he was big enough to hold a sword properly, his mother hired a martial tutor, who taught him through pain. He liked to think he had a strong tolerance for it but he¡¯d nearly fainted ascending the steps of the shoddy stage. He should have but his partner wouldn¡¯t allow that. It fed off his suffering, its constant siphoning far gentler than the ritual but a constant reminder that he lived on borrowed time and very little of it. The snap of his fingers might as well have been as loud as a crack of thunder as it reached the ears of every servant he¡¯d brought with him, the men raising their heads like hounds hearing their whistle. They were the ayn, the hands of the Celestial Court. Boys with acceptable circumstances and attitude were taken in by their order and stripped of anything that made them individuals before being filled with duty. They were not men but living tools, masterworks in the right hands and utterly essential to the Court. Sarif appreciated them the way a smith loved a good hammer. To get anything done amongst supposedly intelligent men took a hundred explanations, hours of cajoling, and grimy backhanding. The ayn? They had no pride to be placated or ambition to be wary of. So long as he held the title of minister, they would remain completely loyal and would carry out his orders with strict efficiency. One of the ayn approached and bowed his head, the sign that he was awaiting orders. ¡°Reveal the focus. Carefully. And bring the barrel.¡± He waved a hand in dismissal and the men went to work. A dozen laid down their spears and began shifting bodies. Once the center of the circle was cleared, another ayn carrying a small broom began to sweep away the sand there, each swing of the tool moving away a disproportionate amount of sand than its size would suggest. An icon, as weak and far more common than the Cloudcrier Horn. That didn¡¯t stop it from being exorbitantly expensive. Magic wasn¡¯t a business anyone, even a court official, traded in easily. His plan had gutted his finances and accrued ridiculous debts that would leave him a beggar¡­if only he lived long enough for the bankers to collect their due. Stars shine brightest before they are snuffed out. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. The ayn didn¡¯t take long. In minutes, they had revealed the upper torso of a skeleton, a small bag stuffed into its mouth and its left hand extended over its head, held in place by silver rods and threads of finely braided hair. The bones of an enlightened man, bound by mortal attachments. A hard focus to acquire, as the Court valued its learned men almost as much as the officials that made use of them. Sarif¡¯s involvement in the murder of the scholar and his favorite woman was obvious and one of the many things he¡¯d done in the past months that could see him executed. It was amazing what he could accomplish when he didn¡¯t need to concern himself with popular opinion or long-term consequences. It was if he was a brand-new man, the reason he believed he hadn¡¯t been caught yet. No one knew what he had in store because they couldn¡¯t imagine the man he was enacting anything of such grand scale and consequence. Sarif was almost giddy as he turned away to descend the stage. Until he took his first step. The pain briefly whited out his vision and dampened his joy¡­but kernels remained. If his lips weren¡¯t reflexively pressed into a tight grimace, he would have smiled as he stopped in the center of the circle. In the time it took him to arrive, the skeleton had been removed from the ground, without a scratch marring it, and placed into a barrel of wood so dark it appeared black outside bright firelight, it¡¯s hand still reaching skyward. The ayn busied themselves collecting the glass bowls, tossing the fangs resting on top of the red sands away before dumping the contents into the barrel. Many hands made for quick work. Before long, every bowl was collected and the focus was buried again, except for its hand. Sareef took a deep breath to fortify himself against the pain to come. Then, with an economy of movement, he removed the large dagger from his hip, holding it high, the silvery metal gleaming under the light of Aylen. With more care than he used handling his mother¡¯s glass dishes as a boy, the minister placed the dagger in the skeletal hand, tightening the dead man¡¯s grip with the braid of hair wound around the arm. Speak the words. ¡°Kalp kalbe, ruh ruha, beni irae senin guan olum.¡± Heart to heart. Spirit to spirit. Will to power. His words weren¡¯t a spell. True spells required Words of Power, the language of the gods, their writing and meaning hidden away within the natural wonders of the world. Learning just one was an endeavor that could take a lifetime of dedication, each word encompassing an entire ideal. What Sarif spoke was plain Old Sava. The history of the language gave it some power, but the world would be a dark place if anyone could kill thousands after spending a week practicing a pretty speech. His words were a plea to something much stronger than himself, giving it permission to work through him. An aggravating circumstance but Sarif had no choice. No mere man could stand against the royal family. A wave of weakness made Sareef¡¯s knees buckle but he refused to let it topple him, gritting his teeth as he battled his trembling legs. Not only because such a display would be shameful but also because he doubted his ability to climb back to his feet should he fall. Thankfully, he didn¡¯t need to sustain himself for long. The weakness passed as the sands in the barrel shifted, flowing as if moved by a gentle wind. Sareef marveled at the sight, wishing he had paid more attention to the arcane arts. Such a subtle gesture was the only sign that a being was imposing its will on the world. As the scarlet sand reverted to gold, the silver blade gained a red tint, easily dismissed if one didn¡¯t look closely. Another subtle clue given the drastic change in the weapon. It''s ready. Sareef carefully removed the dagger, staring at it with critical eyes. He could feel the power it held, the hilt warm in the palm of his hand. The weapon had been transformed into something legendary, the magic of thousands of souls sacrificed willingly able to fell even the titans of the desert. It still wouldn¡¯t scratch the khan. Audacious little insect. Dreaming far above your station. ¡°Clean this mess up,¡± the minister snapped as he walked away. Two of the ayn fell in step on either side of him, their hard gazes and tightly held spears keeping back the fearful eyes watching the minister¡¯s retreat. Under the cover of darkness, Sareef traced a plain, golden ear cuff along the lobe of his left ear. As the pad of his finger rubbed the cool metal, a small shock made his skin tingle, the thing on the other side of the focus reaching out to him in turn. ¡°This better work as you say.¡± It will. I am far greater than any mortal, even one touched by the heavens. The end of Sarif¡¯s smile turned up at the ends in what could be taken as a charming smirk as he imagined the scene. First, there would be a discordant note as the jovial music stopped, strings screeching as the musicians dragged on them with harsh reflex. All the strained, lascivious, and drunken smiles would be replaced by grimaces and gaping horror as the crowd shied away at his approach, pressing themselves against the walls like prey making itself smaller before a predator. The khan¡¯s face frozen in a mask of shock as he was snatched off his gleaming throne, heart pulled from his chest and blood splattered on the floor of the great hall in the same vibrant patterns as the skyfire blooming above the palace. That was a sight worth giving it all for. A price he wasn¡¯t thrilled to pay but there was no sense in being bitter when he was poised to lose everything anyway. His glorious life, orchestrated from before he was born, brought to an abrupt and unfair end by a single man¡¯s disfavor. The scholars said that each man was born with a fate written in the stars. No one could escape their destiny, but great men could alter its path, just enough to make a difference. Sarif couldn¡¯t escape an early death, but he could choose to embellish it with accents of bitter betrayal and sweet revenge. He''d wanted to write himself into the history books but, seeing as someone else would have that honor, the next best thing was to make sure they had plenty to write about. If he couldn¡¯t be the greatest man in Savath, then he would be the worst. The man whose last breath swept aside a dynasty. He who broke the unbreakable. Tonight, he would become a legend. Tonight, a star will fall. Chapter 1.1 As expected, it was a beautiful day, one worthy of a painter¡¯s brush. The Night of Falling Stars was important to Savath. Not just the people, but the land itself. All celebrated it. By royal decree, no shop was allowed to stay open past noon, the Celestial Court couldn¡¯t be convened, and all homes were to be decorated. Even the lowest members of society were included. Slaves were to be given meat for their dinners and a minimum of five petty criminals who had demonstrated penance would have their crimes forgiven. Most believed that the holiday celebrated the day Ba¡¯sil, the first khan, planted the Star of Prosperity where the Celestial Tear would eventually form. A ridiculous idea. In his time, paper was a rare and luxurious item that had to be imported from the northern kingdoms. It was used for only the most extravagant purposes, nothing as boring and practical as record-keeping. There was no documentation from that time besides poems. In that time, they also didn¡¯t have any way to keep track of days. The Constellation Calendar was introduced during the reign of the 16th khan, Algor Ba¡¯le Al-Kazar, who had spent his time on the Celestial Throne pushing for more regimented procedures in the duties of officials and promoting the importance of scholars. There was no way to know the exact day the first khan made his contract with the land. There was a time when the true reason behind why the Night of Falling Stars fell on a particular day was a royal secret. Generations of loose lips, fighters sharing drunken secrets to their comrades, and officials trying to impress their favorite courtesans, made it common knowledge within the learned communities. Now, the explanation could be found in the Heavenly Library, available to anyone. The power of the Star of Prosperity was too much for Savath to absorb at once. It was a gradual process, like a dog gnawing a bone until the beast got at the marrow inside. Every year, the land absorbed a little more of its power. The Night of Falling Stars marked the completion of that cycle, a little more magic saturating the land. Some of that power bled into the air, charging it with energy that infected every creature, stimulating their moods and filling them with energy. It would grow more potent until it peaked as the full moon reached its zenith. Then it would flow into the members of the Al-Kazar family, most into the reigning khan but a non-insignificant amount would be divided between his children. To Zara, the charged air manifested as a faint prickling along her skin and a barely audible ring in her ear. The sensations would become uncomfortable as the day wore on, but for the moment, she enjoyed them both as she lounged in the rooftop garden of her spire, the sky blushing at the sight of an Al-Kazar lady smiling softly while dressed in a thin nightgown. The Al-Kazar palace was an expansive complex of buildings that included many courtyards, stables, several small homes for officials or guests that required privacy, and a menagerie of beasts from across the continent. The most noticeable of its features were the Gems, four spires that stood at the four corners of the main palace. Their golden domes could be seen from anywhere in the city and for days away if one stood atop a tall dune. They were the symbols of the Celestial City, guiding hopefuls from all over the country to its gleaming walls as sure as any star in the sky. They were residences, only one step lower in extravagance than the main palace and given as rewards to Al-Kazars that made great contributions. It wasn¡¯t unusual for a rinza, a royal daughter, to be gifted one but Zara was the youngest to do so, five years younger than the previous record holder. A privilege she earned, despite the rumors attributing it to her father¡¯s favor. She was undoubtedly beloved, but her success was not born of that favor. Her father¡¯s favor was born of her success. Should she fail him, he¡¯d be quick to retract his support. Such was the way of her family. Abandonment wasn¡¯t something she had to worry about, lest she went out of her way to earn her father¡¯s displeasure. She had paid her dues, so to speak. Succession of the Celestial Throne was decided by merit. The royal blood and all who had it were blessed. Even those whose blood was thin were more likely to have beautiful faces, strong bodies, and acute minds. The thicker the blood, the greater the chances and the manifestation of their advantages. But there was only one true blessing of a magical nature. One that gave al-Kazar fighters the strength to bring down sand drakes with a single blow and gave the women an ethereal beauty that dwarfed all others. It came from the magic crackling along her exposed limbs, reserved for the reigning khan and his direct descendants. Such power belonged in the hands of the worthy. Those who would receive it had to prove who amongst them deserved it most with a competition of accumulated achievements. The prospective khans were judged by their work in Court and their reputation amongst the people, their sons by their scholarly knowledge and their hunting trophies, and their daughters by the mastery of their chosen crafts and their charm. Their competition was fierce and the judging was subjective, based entirely on the whims of the reigning khan. Her father¡¯s father was a man who admired the magical arts, a rare passion. Rulers were practical creatures by necessity and witchery wasn¡¯t a practical art. While powerful in the right hands, it would never be something that benefited the city or its people in a major way. Many looked down on it, their views tainted by the dark legacies of sand hags and their blood magic. It wasn¡¯t approved of, but no one would dare deny a khan his passions. They said nothing as he poured resources into the Hedge, the only group of witches sponsored by the royal family, and those who wanted his favor thought to buy it with icons. He appreciated them all, regardless of purpose or power. Zara believed she single-handedly won her father his throne, a belief she thought to be only slightly colored by her ego as many members of the Court thought the same. As in everything else, the al-Kazars could excel in witchery, but few studied it. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it It wasn¡¯t something one could learn through rote, like most crafts. Spellwork required extensive knowledge in many fields, dynamic thinking, bravery, and good instincts all used in perfect conjunction. It was as dangerous as warfare. Maybe more so, as its threats were much more subtle than a sword and its consequences could be worse than death. One of the largest obstacles to studying it was the price. Learning it properly required expensive materials, esoteric texts, and proper tutors who thought far too much of themselves in most cases. The total of such an education, over several years, was exorbitant enough to give even royals pause. Zara¡¯s father wouldn¡¯t have funded her own education over more methods of accruing merit, such as sponsoring hunting parties, a venture that often recouped or exceeded its expenses when successful, if she were anything less than a prodigy. She had always been a sharp girl. She didn¡¯t have a gift for absorbing knowledge, but her above average intelligence was supplemented by an intense focus. Her true talent was perception. Not of people, that was something she had to learn. Her perception of the other. Her tutors gave her funny looks when she became distracted from their lectures, staring at blank walls or turning to where she heard a sound no one else had. Her father¡¯s enemies spread rumors that she was weak in the head and cursed. For a time, the Court believed it and her father had little time for her. It was a visiting witch that turned things around for her. They were frequent guests of the previous khan, sharing their discoveries with him or doing demonstrations for his amusement. She met Zara while a maid was escorting her through one of the many gardens. Finally, someone also saw the strange pictures with no color and heard the strange sounds. The witch explained what Zara experienced was her abnormally strong aura resonating with the many spirits attracted to the magical city. Suddenly, her father was very interested in his then youngest daughter. The same witch that discovered her talent was hired to oversee her education and steer it in the direction of the magical arts. Learning to sense her own aura, the bare minimum for any witch, was trivial. Manipulating it was as instinctual as walking. On top of her usual lessons of reading, math, history, dance, and etiquette, she was assigned tutors in the natural sciences. Later, animism, botany, and astrology. Like all disciplines, the best witches specialized. Some forewent spells and focused on alchemy. They could hex or they could heal. A select few used their magic in combat, the best able to rival fighters with royal blood. Zara¡¯s interest lay in Yuanmunzie, the Eight Realms. The work was mostly theoretical, as the other realms could only be investigated indirectly, through the ways they affected the mortal plane. The most impractical avenue of study in an already impractical art. That wouldn¡¯t do. Suffer now for prosperity later. The quote was a bit melodramatic in regard to her life, but the principle applied. If her father didn¡¯t rule, her budget for her studies would be severely hampered. There was a chance it could be rescinded altogether, as her uncles would prioritize their own children. To support her father, she set aside her own passions and pursued a field that would impress her grandfather. Rather, she invented one. Her goal was to create a discipline that focused on stripping away the mystical, ostentatious fa?ade of witchery and joining it with the other sciences. In other words, practical magic. A paradox, it was thought. Her critics, those intelligent enough to hold her to account for more than shallow ¡°failings¡± like an occasional verbal barb when a debate partner managed to irritate her or her disinterest in romantic dalliances, said she didn¡¯t deserve the title of prodigy when she had yet to make a new discovery. They were traditionalists, who thought that witches of any note made their mark discovering new reagents or crafting revolutionary spells. Zara thought it was a waste of time. The witches of Savath had practiced witchery for centuries. Between them, they had discovered all but the most elusive secrets in the Dune Sea. Uncovering anything they hadn¡¯t would take a lifetime and she had years before a new khan would be crowned. Instead, she focused on improving what was already known. Simplifying processes, making them faster and cheaper. Consolidating knowledge so it was easier for researchers to parse through. Fixing the common misconceptions regarding witchery. Implementing better certifications to limit instances of rogue witches, standardize the teaching of magic, and instill faith in the abilities of recognized witches. Small things that those hungry to change the world overlooked or couldn¡¯t be bothered with. It was common knowledge that too much exposure to the sun was harmful to the body, particularly to the skin. The most famous salve to ward off Gunnez¡¯s fiery temperament called for the glands of a creature that bathed in moonlight, many rare herbs, and water from the Celestial Tear. It not only protected against the sun, but it also nourished the skin and left one lathered in it feeling comfortably cool for a full day, even in the height of summer. Incredible¡­but not practical. A luxury that could only be afforded by the wealthiest of the wealthy, the price inflated by the limited amount available, its production hampered by a scarcity of materials and its complicated creation process. Zara took the blood of the same creatures, common herbs used to soothe burns, and the water from the Celestial Tear to create a similar salve. It wasn¡¯t nearly as effective, the cooling effect lasting for scant moments and needing to be reapplied if the user spent hours in the sun, but far more could be made for much less of a hassle. That naturally meant a lower price, affordable even for successful merchants and skilled artisans. More sales meant more money, of which Zara was due a fraction for crafting the recipe. That was the nature of her work. All of it was derivative but it improved lives, in turn improving her reputation, her father¡¯s, and all al-Kazars¡¯. Her grandfather doted on her fiercely, funding her research himself once she had a few successes to her name. By the age of sixteen, she was a household name and all who concerned themselves with such matters knew her father would be the next khan. Four months before her nineteenth birthday, her grandfather abdicated and the Court¡¯s prediction became reality. Her father gifted her a generous allowance and the Ruby, the spire named after the scarlet gemstones that decorated its arched entrance. Her obligation to her father was done. Seeing her success, others flocked to the field of practical magic, attracted by rumors of her inflated coin purse, so she need not worry about her field dying without her direct input. She had the money and the leeway to pursue her own interests. Her father was still in good health so she estimated he would reign at least fifteen years. She would be doused in Savath¡¯s blessing for each year he survived the burden of the throne and each dose of its power would strengthen her aura and her magical perception. For the first time since she was a girl, she no longer had to concern herself with her father¡¯s politics, maintaining her reputation, or surviving plots to sabotage her. She would be left alone with her research. If she was particularly lucky, she¡¯d be completely forgotten in the coming years. Today marked a new chapter of her life. The thought made her sigh with contentment as the pink of dawn was replaced with joyful gold. Chapter 1.2 She spent a turn in comfort, Gunnez warming her skin as she took long breaths of fragrant air. The silvertails, pretty birds imported by the Ruby¡¯s previous owner as additions to the garden, emerged from their manmade nests and sang to one another. Each one had a unique voice that trilled out long notes, creating a chorus. A perfect moment. But perfect is fleeting and no royal knew peace for long. A presence disrupted Zara¡¯s comfort. Not with words, but by tickling ancient instincts that associated a strong gaze with danger. The rinza didn¡¯t need to open her eyes to know who stood beside her. She didn¡¯t bother to acknowledge them either. As a royal daughter, none could make demands of her aside from the khan and her father, two identities that had merged. No doors were barred to her, no voice would dare interrupt her words. She could walk the streets of the city slitting the throats of whoever she fancied and the kopei, the peacekeepers of the lesser castes, could not raise a hand against her without paying for the crime with their lives. Despite that power, and her power over all that dwelled within her spire, she remained human and to be human was to be bound by karma. The weight of a relationship pushed against her until her tranquility couldn¡¯t stand the pressure. The perfect moment passed and Zara¡¯s eyes opened a fraction. A young woman stood beside her, head bowed in deference and her hands resting over the blue ribbon that kept her white robe closed. Her radiant skin was the same shade as Savath¡¯s sands, without blemish or callous. Her dark hair was cut short up top, but the lower half fell to her mid-back in a long braid, the end tied around a golden hoop. Zara eyed the ribbon with a critical eye, wondering if she should change it. Blue had been her preference for many years, but as the owner of the Ruby, red would define her and she had no intention of relinquishing her home for as long as she lived. A message that might get lost if her personal servant wore the wrong colors. A small detail but everything she did, or didn¡¯t do, would be noticed. The more she stared at the bright blue, the more she thought a change was necessary. She took her time with her examination and the woman bore her attention in silence. Zara soon got tired of it. ¡°You¡¯re quiet this morning, Sere.¡± Sere raised her head, her hazel eyes stopping at Zara¡¯s chin. To gaze at a royal¡¯s face without permission was a sin. Zara had long ago given her permission to forget the extreme formality, but Sere was eshkel, born of a family that had served the al-Khazars for generations. Tradition wasn¡¯t something they practiced. It was something she lived, as much a part of her as the hands she used to serve or her beautiful gaze. Those eyes are what drew Zara to the girl when she accompanied her mother to choose her closest companion for the rest of her life from amongst a group of a dozen girls around her age. They were jewels in a mediocre shell. When the light struck them just right, they shone like polished gold. Sometimes, Zara swore she could see sand magic in them, the shifting illusions that plagued those that wandered the Dune Sea. When she was young, she thought Sere was blessed by Gunnez. She could spend hours staring into that gaze, watching them change with the light. Beautiful, magical, and a little strange. Zara had a weakness for all three. Thankfully, for her handmaiden, she learned restraint. ¡°Merely practicing for tonight, rinza. It nears the time of the serpent. If you do not begin soon, you will be late.¡± ¡°Tonight,¡± Zara muttered without bothering to hide her annoyance. It was a special day, the only true holiday in the Celestial Calendar. All who walked the sands celebrated the Night of Falling Stars, but no settlement could rival the festivities of the Celestial City. They began preparations a month in advance and the celebrations lasted a full week. The city overflowed with prosperity, but someone had to do the undesirable jobs. The vaklei were slaves, but they were slaves of the city and treated far better than the blood slaves of warbands. They lived in good homes and ate two hearty meals cooked with fresh vegetables. They worked for the city five days but were free to pursue other work on the sixth day and weren¡¯t taxed for any of their earnings. The largest difference between the vaklei and those of similar status throughout Savath was that their caste was not hereditary. The child of a vaklei pair had the opportunity to rise to a higher caste, either through schooling or an apprenticeship. Thousands flocked to the walls of the city every season for the opportunity, so many that the slums filled with the rejected had grown large enough to be a settlement of its own. They lacked wealth but they made up for it with their efforts. In the month leading up to the festival, they painted the wealthier districts of the city but there was always surplus. The extra was brought back and used to decorate their own homes, along with string and flags. The Celestial City was always resplendent but their efforts transformed its usual stately opulence into a warmer, brighter beauty. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Above them were the vakkiri, the artisans whose reputation had spread to every corner of the continent. They would stake the reputations of their families and their shops displaying their mastery. No simple work would do. Officials would walk the roads of the market with critical eyes. If they judged a piece to be unworthy, the creator could be banished from the city for insulting the royal family. The vakloo, the rich traders whose caravans took the treasures of the desert to the northern kingdoms, took a less direct role. Their gold sponsored the festival, to providing the paints used by the vaklei to commissioning projects from the vakkiri. The excessive displays of wealth were their only chance to increase their reputations, so they held nothing back. Their contest would culminate in presenting tributes to the khan. A royal endorsement was the ultimate prize, the key that opened doors barred to even their fortunes. Though they were the focus of the celebrations, none contributed more to the festival than the al-Khazars. Many lesser-known vakkiri would be sponsored by the Throne. Tables of fine cuisine would be set out in the open spaces of the wealthier districts and fresh meat would be given to every vaklei family. Musicians would stand on every corner, all playing the same scores, blending into a beautiful chorus whose song reached far beyond the walls of the city. Even the vaknul, the unfortunates within the slum, felt the khan¡¯s generosity. During the day, healing salves and tonics were given to the sick. At night, casks of wine were delivered, cups given to the adults so they could offer a toast to the Throne. The greatest party of the year would be held in the Throne Room. The most important personages in the country would gather to indulge in expensive delicacies as they competed for the khan¡¯s favor. Great tributes would be offered alongside vows of fealty. In turn, the khan would name three individuals and one house that had done the most for Savath that year, gifting them a royal favor. They would toast to the khan¡¯s health and enjoy the revelry until that magic moment when the air thrummed with the connection between the Star and the Throne. That connection would surge and then, for one glorious moment, all would feel it and the people, no matter their grudges or debates, would be united in their awe of the man above all others. Zara didn¡¯t care for the holiday. As a child, she was forced to spend the night in her rooms with Sere and a grown attendant, her small heart bitter as the faintest traces of the lively music seeped through her walls. As a young woman, the festival, especially the party, represented obligation. Every moment was spent networking, securing extra funding for her projects or gathering information on her cousins, who were supporting their own fathers. This year would be the first where she didn¡¯t have any ulterior motive in making an appearance. She was allowed to enjoy herself. Zara smirked at the thought, wondering if she remembered how. ¡°Rinza,¡± Sere called, her expression calm but her tone carrying an edge of reproach. Sighing, Zara rose from her chair, stealing a few more precious moments as she stretched. She exhaled a long breath, and the veneer of a lazy princess disappeared as her mind sharpened. She headed for the stairs and Sere easily fell in-step behind her. ¡°How many?¡± ¡°Three more invitations to spend the day together, another eight offering to escort you to the party. One second-grade official, six first-grades, two ministers, and one senior scholar from the College.¡± ¡°A mere second-grade dared?¡± she asked, her tone a mix of disdain and curiosity. ¡°He is the disciple of Wiseman Tamil and is a second-grade at the age of twenty-two.¡± Zara would never do something as juvenile and uncultured as rolling her eyes, but that didn¡¯t mean she didn¡¯t feel the urge. The biggest threat to the powerful was themselves. She couldn¡¯t count the number of times she¡¯d heard tales of a genius being blinded by his own ability. Or the number of times old men had tried to drag her into their delusions of grandeur. ¡°From whose residence did the invitation come?¡± ¡°Tamil¡¯s.¡± She clicked her tongue. Youthful ignorance was something she could forgive; spirits knew she bore the same burden. The young official¡¯s betters would chastise him without her paying it much mind. If he was smart, he¡¯d be bettered for it, some of the impatience dragging him down stripped away. The invitation coming from the wiseman told her that it wasn¡¯t the overzealousness of an ambitious young man, but a heavy-handed request of an old monster. Perhaps they thought she would be more open to romance now that her campaign had reached a successful conclusion. Perhaps they thought she was weak, vulnerable now that her father no longer needed her. Either way, she had no interest in the shrewd invitation. ¡°Prepare the appropriate rejections and send a letter to Ba¡¯kin. I expect him to be at the gates of my spire when the jackal runs.¡± ¡°The ministers won¡¯t be happy. Nor your escort.¡± ¡°I imagine they won¡¯t.¡± ¡°¡­may I speak?¡± ¡°Did something happen to your tongue in the last breath?¡± Zara waved off the humor, knowing Sere wouldn¡¯t laugh. ¡°You know you don¡¯t need my permission for something like this.¡± ¡°Your father¡¯s favor does not make you invulnerable. I suggest that you are in more danger than ever. You are a threat, having already proved your abilities. There are those within the Assembly that are waiting for an opportunity to target you.¡± ¡°They wait in vain.¡± ¡°My apologies, rinza. I forgot an al-Khazar daughter is above the notion of fallibility.¡± Zara huffed. The sarcasm was as close as Sere would dare come to outright rebuking her. It was too bad that Zara found the dry tone amusing. ¡°My sisters certainly would have no reason to be confident, but I am different. More than the Throne protects me. Worry not if I will make a mistake. Of course I will, only the khan is a divine being. Worry who amongst my enemies is both daring and capable enough to use such a mistake against me. None possess both qualities.¡± She¡¯d long ridden herself of the true nuisances. ¡°Relax. We¡¯ve won. I would enjoy the spoils of victory, at least for a time.¡± ¡°¡­your will be done, highness.¡±