《Cogs of Faith》


 Prologue (Chapter 1)

    ¡°Vitus:


    What use have we for gods above,


    When here on earth they roam and love?


    Lysandra:


    Their stories, once our guiding light,


    Now seem to fade in modern sight.


    Vitus:


    Our world has changed, the old ways lost,


    And with them, gone the gods we once accost.


    Lysandra:


    But in their place, new idols rise,


    And we worship them with blinded eyes.¡±


    ¨C The Divine Tragedy, a Limrodian play


    ¡°They said a single truth could shatter worlds. They didn¡¯t know how right they were.¡±


    ¨C Anonymous


    Year 301 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    The morning breeze kissed their weathered cheeks, as if beckoning them forward, out into the unknown. Sunlight danced on the sea¡¯s surface as the Uninvited Guest cut through the cerulean expanse, no land in sight. Sails billowing proudly, timbers singing under the strain.


    No more than a handful of Trifelt sailors manned the caravel, like they were born to it. From a distance, it almost looked effortless. Up close, it was different. Eyes lingering on the horizon¡ªjust a moment too long¡ªhands restlessly tugging on rigging and cutlasses. The occasional look over their shoulders. As if fearing the sea could sense their excitement, their trepidation. Bear in mind, these were no landlubbers¡ªoh no¡ªthey knew the perils of a blue-water voyage. Had braced them, time and time again. Had survived. No. It was the unknown that troubled them on this voyage. You did not venture north and come back to tell your tale.


    Delam did not fault them. At the stern, broad frame squared against the wind, he tightened his grip on the rough teak wheel. Squinting eyes that had glimpsed countless foreign shores on the horizon, in his years during the pirate wars. He would love to see one now, in fact. But all his eyes registered was an endless desert of uncharted waters. The final frontier, some called it. He preferred to view it as his final push, whatever that might mean in the end.


    No wonder everyone was on edge. He noticed it every day, saw it grow, like a surging wave preparing to crest. No open discussions, not yet. But crew members exchanged glances when Delam passed them on his rounds, faces taut with anticipation, with uncertainty.


    ¡°Life on the waves, a gamble with fate, eh?¡± he heard one sailor mutter to another, thinking himself unobserved, as they adjusted the rigging. ¡°Adventure and untold riches, they say. Haven¡¯t seen too much of that so far.¡±


    ¡°Or a watery grave with all the space you could wish for, coming for free,¡± a young deckhand chimed in from the side, only half-joking, casting a wary eye toward the roiling sea.


    Riches. Whenever you needed a lure, that was a ready option. Maybe the option. You did not need to convince anyone of its worth. Anyone but Delam, these days. Freedom from the chokehold of the Belt, he thought, that¡¯s the real treasure here, isn¡¯t it? Delam glanced at the navigational charts. The lure of the northern seas was not just adventure. It never was, once you had left that vibrant country of youth.


    No, it was that devastatingly sweet promise of freedom and true wealth that tugged at a man¡¯s heartstrings. No more bowing to Tetrarchy tariffs or monopolies. No more bureaucracy looming over them like a towering cloud. Perhaps those would even be their own tools for profit then, for a change.


    Sure, nobody had actually found something north of Lycar. Yet. But Delam remained undeterred, if he considered the competence of an average sailor these days. Most of them had a hard time navigating from Taris to Limrod. Bloody amateurs. He paused to scrutinize the navigational charts one more time, fingers tracing potential courses. He was well-prepared. He would not fail.


    Days had turned into weeks as they had journeyed north from Olban. Sailing under the endless tapestry of moon and stars, a deceptive calm that had lulled them into complacency. Delam did not like that. If this was all the challenge there was, he thought, why did nobody come here before? They even had ample time for rest and recreation so far. It just did not feel right. Of course, provisions needed to be managed but they could keep going for weeks at this pace. Far longer than he expected this to take. There simply had to be land somewhere ahead. He allowed himself a glimmer of seductive hope. Delam was certain, however daunting the journey, there was no crew north of the Belt better suited for this. He had made sure of that.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    They had encountered choppy waters at first, venturing into those northern seas, well past Taris. But Delam had the Uninvited well-equipped to navigate these waves. He was proud of his beautiful ship, one of the few remaining teak vessels from Reldan¡¯s shipyard. Cost him a fortune though. Delam saw it as an investment. Still, the seas here proved a challenge, even for the most experienced sailors among them. Then came the storms. Torrents of water from above¡ªlike flights of arrows¡ªjoining those from below, rising higher than the towers guarding Taris¡¯ harbor.


    When the waters finally calmed again, latitude readings confirmed it: they had made it past the outermost reaches of Lycar. True open ocean. Unknown lands and untold riches, he thought. Delam gazed upwards, tracking the movements of a flock of black birds high above. He idly wondered whether they were following them.


    Harrold joined him at the helm. Delam glanced over to his first mate. His friend. He went way back with that craggy face. Fitting that they would be here now, together, in their greatest dare.


    ¡°We¡¯re making pace, Cap¡¯n,¡± the huge man said, unable to contain his excitement. ¡°Won¡¯t be long now ¡®til we find what we¡¯re lookin¡¯ for. Riches or ruin, eh?¡±


    Like most of the crew¡ªlike Delam himself¡ªHarrold had a somewhat shady past, involving the odd bit of pirating here and there. That was simply the Trifelt in their time. It was during one such ¡®expedition¡¯ that Harrold had overheard drunken talk of an island beyond the north. Just a four-week sail from Olban, supposedly. That was what they had built their entire journey on. That, and the common sense that the world could not just end in water. Everyone knew you needed a large wall or something, to keep it all together.


    Of course, the grizzled sailor had also mentioned monstrous creatures and cursed waters to Harrold, but they had chosen to ignore that part. The man was a drunk, after all.


    ¡°Aye,¡± Delam answered, eyes never leaving the compass and navigational charts that lay before him on the helm. More than enough uncertainties lurked in their path, and caution had kept Delam alive this far. He meant to make it a habit. ¡°We¡¯re on schedule according to my calculations, but you know as well as I do, the sea has a mind of her own.¡± He finally looked up to meet Harrold¡¯s eyes. ¡°So, let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves; I don¡¯t know these waters ahead of us. Nobody does.¡±


    ¡°But imagine, Cap¡¯n,¡± Harrold¡¯s gaze followed the sun as it sunk below the horizon, his face basked in a soft orange glow, ¡°if we¡¯re the first from Olban to step foot on this undiscovered land.¡±


    ¡°Oh no, old friend,¡± Delam smirked, turning his eyes back to the horizon too. ¡°Imagine if we¡¯re the first in the entire world,¡± he corrected.


    Then he suddenly caught the reflection of his ship in the darkening waters¡ªhis brow furrowed at the huge shadow, the spark of adventure dimming a fraction in his eyes. What if we¡¯re chasing a mirage? What if there is no land beyond Lycar, or if it¡¯s just too far out of reach? He shook his head, refusing to voice his uncertainties. Too many unknowns. Delam had not exactly stressed these questions when he recruited the men for this voyage.


    ¡°So, Cap¡¯n, about the crew...¡± Harrold started, pulling him from his thoughts. Delam could see where this was headed and was already preparing to roll his eyes. ¡°They were hoping to crack open a few wine barrels tonight, maybe get a bit of music going, and...¡± His friend never finished his sentence. Because with this, Harrold Ironhorn, first mate of the Uninvited Guest, vanished. Or, more precisely, he was suddenly replaced by a gargantuan black mass, in a fine mist of blood and seawater.


    No scream, just the snapping of timber.


    Delam¡¯s eyes widened, mouth agape, as interlocking scales blurred past him in a whirlwind of motion, tearing up the planks of his ship. He stumbled backward. Two more of the terrifying masses erupted from the bow of the Uninvited, shattering and scattering more of his crew. There. A sailor spiraled through the air, screams cut short as he was impaled on a splintered mast. There. Another man crushed against the aftcastle, with a sickening sound that miraculously penetrated the clamor.


    Delam¡¯s mind whirred. Seeing¡ªoh by the Belt did he see¡ªbut not understanding. Stunned, his thoughts raced through explanations. Slugs, ropes, whips, snakes, tentacles. Tentacles! Some kind of sea monster? Moving impossibly fast, impossibly strong. More and more of the intrusions surfaced from the ocean¡ªor the bowels of his ship¡ªannihilating everything in their path.


    All around him now, the tentacles squirmed in a cacophony of clanks and screeches, writhing masses blotting out the emerging stars. Sailors stared in paralyzed horror at the display before them. Delam shouted desperately, trying to rouse them for a battle they could not possibly hope to win. But what were they to do, lie down and die? His voice barely cut through the pandemonium.


    Some readied harpoons and nets, perhaps in the vain hope of entangling their aggressors into submission. Too late. Just as he had finished issuing his command, an enormous wave came crashing down on them, washing most of his sailors off the deck. Delam heard cries from the decks below, as the resting sailors there were thrown about like ragdolls. Death, death everywhere. He called out more orders but to no avail; this massacre was beyond his control.


    Delam swallowed. ¡°Abandon ship!¡± The few remaining men and women¡ªthose who could still hear and understand¡ªobeyed without hesitation. Leaping into the violently foaming waters below, leaving behind everything but the clothes on their backs. As they struggled against the surging waves below, Delam stayed behind at the helm, until he too was forced off by another wave, hitting the roiling waters with a splash. Biting water soaking him to the bones in an instant. Struggling against the tug of the current, he frantically surveyed his surroundings.


    Before him, the Uninvited¡ªhis ship, his beautiful ship¡ªslowly disappeared beneath the waves in a black web of tentacles, amongst a crescendo of snapping timber. All around him, Delam¡¯s sailors tried to keep afloat, watching in dismay as their vessel sank into oblivion. Their home, their belongings, their dreams of discovery, all vanishing into the depths. Slowly, the sounds of destruction faded, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves.


    Then, one by one, heads disappeared below the churning surface.


    Screams tore through the air anew, harmonizing with the eerie, resounding screeches of the monstrous tentacles, which re-emerged, as if taunting their human prey. Delam could only watch helplessly as his crew was dragged, pushed, shattered, and drowned.


    All around him expanded an endless field of flotsam, body parts, and terrified Trifeltians. And there, where the Uninvited had floated just moments ago, something dark. Something huge. But then Delam felt something tug at his ankle, and his mind¡ªblank with terror¡ªnever had to process what it saw before he was yanked into the dark depths of the northern sea.

 Irthal 1 (Chapter 2)

    ¡°The Elevated, as they came to be known, commanded the devotion of thousands, yet what became apparent to even casual observers was that the trappings of near-absolute power kindled no divine spark in them. Indeed, many scholars now suspect that this was a crucial selection criterion for the Tetrarchy. It is, after all, curious that accounts of the Elevated reveal little beyond the common frailties of human nature: pride, spite, and petty grudges, merely amplified by immense power. To quote Avila, ¡®Who, after all, would be fool enough to elevate their own executioner?¡¯¡±


    ¨C Orhan Malenk, On Faith and Power, Year 311 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    Year 307 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    Irthal Kedan longed for the sea¡ªthat undulating dance of the waves, the infinite horizon promising both danger and discovery. But, more than anything, he yearned for adventure.


    From his makeshift perch atop a weathered beam in Olban Harbor, Irthal¡¯s eyes drank in the sprawling blue canvas before him. Every ripple in the water seemed to whisper to him. Soon. He released a longing sigh as he finished his modest meal. Lunch break was over. Back to the warehouse. He briefly touched his pendant to his lips, cool stone meeting soft skin. One last wistful look at the ocean, and Irthal jumped down, making his way toward the warehouse district.


    Yet a part of him, deep inside, would always remain back on that wooden beam, forever staring out at the cobalt promise. Whatever happened.


    Navigating creaky, salt-marred planks, Irthal passed forests of masts gently swaying on the water. His eyes firmly on the seemingly infinite line of trade ships, a sudden impact almost sent him down to the rough timber. A swirl of black scales momentarily obscured his vision as a cloak whirled around. Irthal raised his hands in apology, eyes still disoriented. The figure hesitated a moment before turning, continuing to walk down the docks. Should really pay more attention, he thought, if I want to survive until we set sail.


    Flocks of birds circled high above as he set out again. Irthal noticed a group of angry-sounding seagulls, fighting over food scraps a few paces in front of him. Smiling wryly, he rubbed his shoulder, the stranger already forgotten. The scene reminded him of a time, not so long ago, before the Concordate, when the Trifelt was still embroiled in piracy. When fear and hunger had ruled these streets. This very harbor. When the people here had not been very different from these scavenging birds. Not very different at all.


    Irthal could still feel the rough texture of the fishing rod in his hands, hear the alarmed whisper of his father¡ª ¡°Pirate ships, off starboard!¡±¡ªand the distant flutter of black sails flying the colors of the duchess of Taris. Sky blue, olive green¡ªseparated by a river of silver. It would always haunt his dreams. The sheer size and number of ships had been awe-inspiring, even from afar. Yet his father had not been afraid, not really. Above their little boat fluttered the black anchor and silver swords of Olban, the most formidable pirate faction in the whole Trifelt.


    ¡°See the predator,¡± his father had said when Irthal started to cry, ¡°hunting for easier prey.¡± Though they were poor, they at least were safe from pirates¡ªother pirates, that was.


    The former duke of Olban, Embrez, saw his people as nothing more than yet another treasure to plunder. To ravage. Irthal¡¯s gaze darkened as he passed by the spot where his mother¡¯s store once stood, now nothing but a boarded-up husk. The black sears on its walls were like an old scar, faded but still aching. His father had never recovered, not really, finding refuge in drink instead.


    But now, with the Concordate, piracy was a thing of the past, and so were pirates. Or so it seemed. As if a fresh coat of paint could restore a rotten wall.


    After passing the fifth stall selling cooked crab and roasted lizard along the waterfront, Irthal finally reached Bal¡¯s warehouse. Stacks of familiar crates towered overhead, obscuring his view from the yard. But the sound of Bal¡¯s voice, berating poor Merryn, was unmistakable. ¡°You think I pay you to ogle crates?¡± Bal¡¯s voice thundered through the air, filling the cavernous space. ¡°Maybe you¡¯d like to see one from the inside¡ªsealed shut! We¡¯ve got a mountain of cinnamon that¡¯s just sailed in from beyond the Belt, and it¡¯s not going to unload itself, fool!¡±


    Irthal had never cared for Bal¡¯s abrasive manners, though he had gotten used to it over the years. And when shipments went missing or thugs threatened the docks, it was Bal who restored order. Respect was hard to deny, on those occasions. On some days, Irthal even downright feared the man. Today was not such a day. Today was the last day he would ever have to work for Bal. Heaving crates from here to there, from there to here. Cinnamon, silk, brass, mahogany furniture, grain. For nine long years, he had worked at Bal¡¯s warehouse¡ªas specified in his contract. All with one purpose: getting off the Trifelt. Leaving everything behind. Fulfilling the dreams of his mother. The one thing he could still do for her.


    It had all begun with Sam Dulaz, his childhood friend, so very long ago. On a late-summer afternoon, as the first leaves began to surrender their greens to shades of gold, a boy and a girl had dreamt of adventure. But dreams are ephemeral and goals are not. So they had toiled, day in and day out, to make that shared dream a reality. They had calculated (and recalculated) how much gold they would need to buy a ship and hire a crew. Maybe even engage a lesser Elevated to ward off storms or pirates. Okay, Irthal conceded, that last part was probably more of a fantasy. As if the governor would ever let them borrow one of his creatures.


    Finally, they had enough. Unbidden images of clinking sacks of coins hidden under a floorboard flashed through Irthal¡¯s mind. They were ready. He wondered whether it would feel strange to actually sail off into the unknown, after talking about it for so long with Sam.


    ¡°Irthal, you slack-jawed laggard!¡± Bal¡¯s voice erupted, pulling him back to reality. ¡°Do you call that ¡®work,¡¯ standing there gaping like a fool? Get over here before I have a fit with Merryn!¡± Casting a sympathetic glance toward Merryn¡ªwho looked like she would rather be anywhere else right now¡ªIrthal sauntered over to Bal.


    ¡°Problems, Bal?¡± Irthal quipped, a smirk playing on his lips. ¡°Are we making too much money again?¡±


    Bal let out a guttural growl, clearly unamused. ¡°I swear by all the seas, if you don¡¯t lose that humor of yours, you won¡¯t last a day outside of this warehouse. In my time, you¡¯d get thrown overboard for less!¡± He paused, eyes closed, appearing to shudder at a memory before regaining composure. ¡°Besides, you should be thankful that we get so many shipments from the south. Otherwise, I couldn¡¯t afford to pay incompetent laborers like yourself.¡±


    ¡°Bless the Tetrarchy,¡± Irthal responded, bowing mockingly.


    Bal shook his head with an exasperated sigh. ¡°Hopeless, just hopeless,¡± he murmured, more to himself than to Irthal.


    ¡°Speaking of the Tetrarchy,¡± Irthal eyed a crate stamped with a vaguely familiar emblem, ¡°those wouldn¡¯t happen to be Kelian bananas, would they? I thought the Tetrarchy cities hardly export goods themselves.¡±


    Bal looked at the shipment, brows furrowed at the radiant sun of the city-state of Kel. ¡°Courtesy of the Kelian Agricultural Society, or so I¡¯ve heard,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s a new breed and they want people to develop a taste for it.¡± His gaze abruptly shifted back to Irthal, eyes narrowing. ¡°Oh no, you¡¯ve got that adventure look again.¡± Sighing loudly, Bal turned back toward the depths of the warehouse. ¡°Remember,¡± he shouted over his shoulder, ¡°I¡¯m still paying you till the end of the day!¡±


    ¡°Never would forget!¡± Irthal called after him, whistling a cheerful tune as he approached a crate.


    As Irthal¡¯s hands navigated all too familiar tasks, his thoughts drifted to faraway lands. To the tales he had absorbed like a sponge over the years. The Principality of Demis, enormous forges smoldering day and night, billowing out towering stacks of smoke. Ustil, seat of the Grand Admiral and the Concordate navy, where hundreds of masts formed a forest across the ocean. Maybe even distant Maht, that most remote of the Gordean tetrarchs, amongst exotic jungles and mysterious ruins.


    But in the labyrinth of his imagination, one name beckoned like a siren¡ªSevastha.


    A place best uttered in hushed voices, if at all, its mere name compelling furtive glances. A myth more than an actual location, the Alabaster City was rumored to lie beyond the impassable Tailfin Mountains, on the northern shores of Lycar. Hard to reach and no legends of treasures. Not the best place to talk people into seeking it out. He managed to convince Sam, in the end, that he had overheard some sailors talking about the Glimmering Shores being near Sevastha. Sparkling with gemstones instead of sand. Said to be the remains of a shattered star that fell from the heavens. That seemed to have done the trick. The glitter in Sam¡¯s eyes rivaled that of the purported sapphires and emeralds, scattered where waves met the shore. He smiled. He felt sorry (a little bit) but, thinking back to his mother, Irthal had his own reasons to seek out Sevastha.


    Alongside Sam, this childish fantasy¡ªsailing off to a mythical city, surrounded by priceless gems¡ªhad quickly evolved into a solid plan. It was not even too outlandish. Many of Olban¡¯s youth set out for adventure across the seas¡ªyou could call it a rite of passage. Over the years, they had recruited most of their friends into their scheme. Or Irthal did, with Sam not exactly being the most outgoing. Every person was another person that could be trusted on their ship, after all. And, even more important, every person more meant more gold to fund their adventure. Sevastian, Lurgon, and Mythas. They all were drawn by the promise of adventure, of scoring their weight in gemstones. Together, they would write history. He was sure of it.


    But first, they would have dinner. Stretching, Irthal watched the sun slowly dip into the horizon, painting the sky a fiery carmine. ¡°Hey Bal,¡± Irthal shouted, ¡°I¡¯m off.¡±


    ¡°Good riddance to you then,¡± a snort echoed from behind a jumble of crates. ¡°I doubt I¡¯ll even notice that you¡¯re gone. Maybe now I can find someone who can actually move cargo.¡± Bal emerged behind a tower of boxes taller than himself. ¡°So, what¡¯s your plan now? Join the navy? You¡¯re too old, kid. And you¡¯d need to pay for passage to Ustil first, if you¡¯ve got any sense in you.¡±


    Irthal shrugged. ¡°I was thinking I¡¯d try my hand at being a sailor.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Bal¡¯s laughter echoed in the near-empty warehouse as he doubled over. ¡°Crazy as usual. Let me guess. You¡¯ve never set foot outside Olban,¡± he choked out between laughs.


    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re right,¡± Irthal conceded, holding Bal¡¯s gaze, ¡°but I think it¡¯s worth the risk.¡± The older man¡¯s eyes met his, a cocktail of grudging respect and lingering disbelief, as if he could not quite decide whether Irthal was brave or simply foolhardy. Eventually he shrugged, as if to mark that it wasn¡¯t any of his business. With a healthy dash of shallow fondness, the two men clasped forearms and parted ways, never to see each other again.


    As twilight draped the sky in deepening shades of purple, Irthal sat down with his friends. A hearty round of sighs and stretches followed, nobody wanting to be the first to break the silence with the first words of celebration. Soon their table was laden with sumptuous dishes¡ªspiced dorado, succulent crabs, and fried plantains. And then they talked.


    ¡°Another round of ale, for good luck!¡± Lurgon bellowed, flagging down the tavern¡¯s serving girl. The tankard he received looked laughably small in his hands.


    Sevastian, following Lurgon¡¯s example, raised his cup. ¡°To new horizons and pockets full of coin!¡± The burly man drank, and then so did Sevastian.


    ¡°Here¡¯s to hoping those horizons¡ªand gems¡ªare closer than they appear,¡± Mythas chimed in, eyes twinkling. ¡°I could get used to this life. Doubt we¡¯ll have food like this on the ship.¡±


    The Anchor & Ale overlooked the wharf where their dreams of fortune awaited them. Over the years, they had an arrangement with the tavern owner¡ªwork on the fishing boats, get meals and a few coins in return. The night air filled with their joyous laughter, each burst of giggles and clinks of cups weaving dreams of life at sea¡ªmaybe not better, but certainly more meaningful than what they had here in Olban.


    The food rapidly disappeared from their plates and was washed down with overflowing cups of ale and wine. Around them, the din of conversation steadily increased as the evening waxed. Talking of when Loratha and Demis¡¯ fragile stand-off would finally erupt, of the price of steel in Sariz, of the drowning of the Elevated Meng a few days before.


    Before long, the moon cast a silver sheen onto the rippling ocean. Their plates clean, cups still filled, a discussion about harbors erupted at the table when Irthal¡¯s gaze strayed from his friends.


    ¡°Just look at that one, this cove near Taris¡ªbest anchorage in the north, hands down!¡± Sevastian was saying, stabbing a finger at an imaginary map on the table.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding me,¡± Mythas threw her hands in the air. ¡°Everyone knows Taris is full of crooks. Salden is where we should go, I once met a sailor from there. Honest fellow.¡±


    Irthal¡¯s eyes drifted to the harbor, over the ships, wandering far away in thoughts. Only half-listening to his friends. Instead, he noticed a group standing on one side of the docks, finishing up loading a vessel. So late in the night?


    ¡°Met a sailor, Mythas, really?¡± Lurgon drained his cup and slammed it on the table, a broad smile creasing his weathered face. ¡°Irthal, you¡¯re dreaming with your eyes open again.¡± Apparently, the big man had also spotted the group loading their cargo now. ¡°Think they¡¯re hiding treasure on that ship?¡±


    Mythas shot a lethal glance in Lurgon¡¯s direction and leaned back in her chair, dropping the topic as she swirled the last of her wine. ¡°Knowing him, he probably thinks it¡¯s a pirate ship, ready to whisk him away on some adventure.¡±


    ¡°Still, it¡¯s a bit mysterious, isn¡¯t it?¡± Sam took a moment from savoring her ale to glance toward the ship Irthal was eyeing. ¡°Loading their cargo at night, I mean. Must be in a hurry. You think they¡¯re up to no good?¡±


    ¡°No idea,¡± Irthal finally pulled his eyes away from the distant figures by the ship. ¡°But I was just thinking, we can¡¯t be the only ones dreaming of something more. What if there are people out there, right now, making our dreams happen?¡±


    ¡°Dreams are for boys,¡± Lurgon chuckled, eyes twinkling, ¡°action is for men.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d drink to that,¡± Sevastian said, lifting his empty cup for a refill. Mythas rolled her eyes at Lurgon, accompanied by a groan.


    Irthal could not help it. His gaze was drawn back to the ship. A man¡¯s eyes fleetingly met his before darting away again, like a startled cat. But the woman there. Her gaze latched onto his, electric, turning the back of his neck into a cobweb of prickling nerves.


    Suddenly, his brain caught up on what his eyes had seen before and realization hit him. ¡°Hey,¡± Irthal said, eyes still glued to the figures by the docks, ¡°remember Sam¡¯s uncle? Vann, right?¡±


    Belatedly, he noticed that his companions all stared at him in amused and inebriated puzzlement. It took Irthal spreading his hands in impatience to break the spell. Sam frowned but nodded slowly. ¡°What¡¯s he been up to lately?¡± Irthal continued.


    Sam paused, lips lingering on the rim of her cup. Setting it down, she finally broke the silence. ¡°He¡¯s been hiding. We haven¡¯t heard from him in years. No idea where or why.¡±


    Pointing toward the group, Irthal spoke, ¡°Seems like he¡¯s done hiding.¡±


    The man¡ªVann¡ªwas lean. Silver hair, sun-burnt face, and strikingly blue eyes. The woman by his side¡ªthat one with the electrifying gaze¡ªwith her dark, wavy hair, seemed to be more at ease than Irthal thought possible. Leaning against the bumpy wood of a warehouse, she oversaw the fastening of the last crates. As Irthal looked on, Sam¡¯s confusion deepened. ¡°But who are these people with him?¡± she said finally.


    And that was when all hell broke loose.


    Out of the corner of his eyes, Irthal caught a sudden shift in the shadows. Across the square, four figures emerged. Identical scaly black cloaks¡ªawfully familiar cloaks¡ªmasked their forms, their eyes gleaming from slits. No telling whether man or woman, especially in the concealing dark of the night. They moved fluidly, almost serpentine, as they glid over the cobblestones.


    Without a word spoken throughout the harbor, they had encircled Vann and his companions, palms facing toward their targets. Symbols, like mirrored half-moons, burned bright on their hands. Mesmerized, Irthal watched the glow intensify until it seemed to distort the very air around the figures. An abrupt hush fell over the tavern as more people noticed, conversations dying down to a whisper. A static tension hung in the air, as if life itself had stuttered to a standstill.


    Surprise flared in Vann¡¯s eyes, but he did not back down. Instead, he squared up to the attackers and gestured with his own hands. As if in response, ship fittings, winches, hammers¡ªall scattered around the dock¡ªflew toward him, compressing and encircling him like a shield of steel. Vann¡¯s carapace subtly reconfigured its shape to meld together, moving fluently and with a precision as if it were an extension of his arm.


    Then, just as his metal barricade solidified, almost imperceptible flashes of actinic light erupted from the hooded figures. Vann¡¯s shield screeched in protest as chunks of metal were violently ripped away, as if it were made from soft clay, leaving behind deep furrows. All around Vann, stray attacks and shrapnel shattered nearby crates, scattering papayas and brass jugs on the cobblestones. Irthal¡¯s nostrils were assaulted by the acrid smell of ozone, so intense that it was almost a taste¡ªa sharp, electric tang.


    Vann¡¯s eyes darted over the dockside detritus, locking onto shards of iron and twisted steel. With an almost palpable force of will, he knit the fragments back around him, forcing them into his shield. Yet he did not seem satisfied with defense. In the scarce breaths between onslaughts, he clenched his fists. Like responding to a magnetic push, a fishing net with metal weights, suddenly fused into serrated edges, soared like a cloud of arrows through the air toward his attackers.


    With an almost annoyed wave, one of the figures dismissed them. The shards ricocheted in all directions¡ªtearing the net¡ªslicing through wood and flesh without pause. The air, so thick with unnatural stillness, suddenly shattered under the wails of agony, like the first crack of thunder cleaving a heavy sky.


    Weathering renewed attacks, with metal slabs flying in all directions, Vann reached out to the scattered scraps behind his attackers, maneuvering them toward their backs. Irthal was holding his breath. This was good, it could really work. But before Vann could launch his assault, one of the strangers shifted slightly and, in one impossible moment, was next to Vann, vaporizing half his metal shield in an explosion of incandescent steam.


    Vann seemed to be frozen in shock as Irthal noticed a hand darting through the evaporated metal and grabbing the man¡¯s arm. He saw, almost felt, a sickening yank¡ªIrthal knocked over his mug in his backward stumble at the sight¡ªas one of Vann¡¯s arms was ripped clean from its socket, hot blood spraying through the air and spreading across the ground in a grisly trail. It looked like a tableau from a horror story. Then, before Vann could do anything else¡ªeven before the mutilated man could cry out¡ªtime froze on the docks.


    Just for a moment.


    Then it picked back up again, yet now in slow motion. Each passing second stretching out into eternity.


    Out of some deep instinct, Irthal¡¯s attention swerved back to the woman¡ªVann¡¯s companion¡ªwho now moved toward the entangled figures. She seemed to be the only one in the entire square who could move faster than a crawl. Curiously, time flowed normally for Irthal and his friends, as far as he could see. Only the area around the strangers was affected, turning their movements into slow, almost comedic caricatures. The black-clad attackers struggled to break free of the magical molasses but were too slow¡ªthey simply could not move fast enough while they were inside this bubble of slowed time.


    The raven-haired woman, utterly unaffected herself, nonchalantly picked up a discarded wagon wheel and hurled it like a discus. No, that was not quite right. The object left her hand. Then it was simply gone. The next time Irthal saw the wagon wheel, it was impacting the three huddled assailants, hitting them dead-center and throwing them against the side of a warehouse.


    The woman dashed to the remaining stranger and, the movement a mere blur, hit the man with her fist. The sound of shattering bones reverberated through the harbor, strangely distorted by the slowed time. The figure exploded backward, a gruesome arc of blood marking its passage until it finally hit the ground. With bated breath, Irthal waited for more. But the chaos seemed to have ceased, for the moment, leaving only wreckage in its wake.


    The unnerving time distortion finally vanished too, leaving behind four toppled black mounds. Throughout the entire spectacle, Sam had stood frozen, the surreal sight of her uncle commanding metal, and a stranger manipulating time, just too much to take in. Now she ran. Cursing under his breath, Irthal followed as she rushed over to a pale-faced Vann, who had sunk to his knees, clutching his mutilated shoulder.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t over yet,¡± Vann¡¯s companion drawled, glancing toward Irthal and his friends. ¡°Next time, don¡¯t mess with a quad. Or at least do it properly.¡±


    Vann managed a reply through clenched teeth, ¡°Point taken, Lavelle.¡±


    ¡°Well, you remember the rule, don¡¯t you?¡± Lavelle looked down at him with her cool green eyes, a silent current flowing between them. ¡°Hit hard¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­and hit first,¡± Vann finished, a flicker of a grin crossing his bone-white face. A fleeting curve touched the corners of Lavelle¡¯s lips¡ªso brief one might question its existence.


    Vann rose, with evident difficulty. Immediately, fragments of steel began to merge and mold¡ªto flow¡ªaround the stump of Vann¡¯s arm. Irthal could not believe what he was witnessing. Like liquid droplets, they coalesced into a mass, elongating and further intersecting into smaller masses where a hand was forming. In mere moments, Vann had completed his new arm, swirls of steel running up from fingertip to shoulder. As if struck by a thought, he turned, scanning his surroundings. From the sorry remains of a trade ship, a thin sheet of silver levitated over to them and quickly wrapped itself around his arm. ¡°Well, this should work better than before,¡± he mused, rotating his arm and flexing his fingers experimentally.


    ¡°Show-off,¡± Lavelle muttered, ¡°Well, at least it saves me the embarrassment of having to explain to Burn what happened to his newest toy.¡±


    Suddenly, her focus shifted back to the other side of the square. Irthal followed her eyes. A rustle, a twitch¡ªthe fallen figures stirred, pulling their gaze like a hook through water. Irthal saw Lavelle tense and expected to see her charge into the next round of battle. Frantically, he looked for a place to hide. Yet, before anyone could react, the quad regrouped, briefly seeming to consider their foes. And then, as if swept away by an unseen gust, they simply dissolved into nothingness. Lavelle studied the ground where they had been just moments ago, a contemplative expression on her face.


    ¡°Sam?!¡± Suddenly, Vann¡¯s face broke into a broad smile. ¡°Girl, have you grown!¡± He rested his silvery hand on Sam¡¯s shoulder. Instinctively shirking away, Sam¡¯s face was a canvas of disbelief, her complexion a ghostly shade, as if she had peered through the veil of reality and found it wanting.


    Irthal¡¯s eyes darted from the gore-splattered ground to the still airborne fragments of metal, each moment stacking upon the last in this surreal tapestry of awe and horror. His mind, so occupied with cataloguing extreme violence, finally caught up to the situation. Irthal¡¯s voice broke free, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind.


    ¡°You¡ªyou¡¯re Elevated!¡±

 Lithas 1 (Chapter 3)

    ¡°In Loratha¡¯s shadow, armors weep,


    A tapestry of night woven in dread¡¯s deep.


    Blackened steel, crimson¡¯s weave,


    A silent oath with each breath they heave.


    Demis stands, a titan¡¯s glare,


    Over isles of whispering despair.


    An eternal chess game, power¡¯s play,


    Where dawn¡¯s light fears to stray.


    In the heart of Dust, silence reigns,


    A cold war¡¯s echo, in timeless chains.


    Two empires, poised in silent defiance,


    Awaiting fate¡¯s bitter compliance.¡±


    ¨C Fintale, Our World in Words


    Smoldering heat. That¡¯s the only thing that ever comes from the north, Lithas thought. And sand. Oh, don¡¯t forget the sand. She sighed, brushing off stubborn grains of sand that clung to her indigo silk tunic. ¡°What good are wealth and divine powers,¡± she muttered to herself, ¡°if they can¡¯t even protect you from the smallest of life¡¯s annoyances?¡±


    And, if the rumors she had recently heard about Dethos and this sect of theirs were true, heat and sand were not the only disturbances born of the north. A shiver ran down her spine, despite the heat. Disquieting thoughts.


    Lithas ak¡¯Var leaned against a recess in the coarse sandstone wall, seeking respite in its meager shade. The sun overhead seemed to mock the dark tunic and silk pants she had chosen for this day. As she shifted her weight, her braided honey-colored hair brushed against her sunburned neck. A soft whisper of movement. Glancing around the deserted courtyard, Lithas narrowed her amber eyes. If that merchant snake keeps me waiting much longer, she thought, he¡¯s a dead man.


    As if summoned by her thoughts, Councilman Imran Delos entered the courtyard, followed by two guards. Like twin shadows, heavy armor painted in black and red. Imran himself wore a lighter set of similar armor and, by the look on his face, regretted even that in the sweltering afternoon heat.


    ¡°A warm welcome to Sariz, Councilman,¡± Lithas said and pushed herself from the wall, her tone as dry as the land around them. ¡°I trust our local weather has not soured your arrival?¡±


    Imran¡¯s scowl quickly melted into a polished politician¡¯s grin. ¡°Why, my Lady ak¡¯Var¡ªElevated Lithas, if I may,¡± he said, voice smooth as silk, ¡°Your city¡¯s radiance more than compensates for its... climate.¡± While sweat gleamed on every brow in that dusty corner of the world, Imran¡¯s smile cut through the heat, icy and unwavering. ¡°Though, I must confess, the wait for this meeting has somewhat tarnished the charm of Sariz for me.¡± The smile grew even colder. ¡°But I¡¯m sure you had your reasons.¡±


    Lithas¡¯ brows arched in an unspoken challenge, lips curling into a smirk as she stepped forward for the customary embrace. Releasing him, she locked eyes with Imran Delos, her smile widening just a fraction. ¡°Time slips through our fingers, Councilman, like grains of this desert sand. Best to clench our fists wisely.¡±


    She did not give him a chance to respond. Retreating, she gestured to a table beside her, prepared by her servants earlier and already covered with documents. ¡°Let¡¯s not delay further, then,¡± Lithas said. ¡°The sun won¡¯t spare us for our dallying.¡±


    He passed her and sat, all business. Imran Delos of Loratha always was, if her reports were true. Imran¡¯s forehead sheened with sweat, but his hand rested steadily on the table as he scanned each document. Not as if anything of their content should be news to him. Still. He must have been keenly aware of Lithas¡¯ hawk-like gaze, scrutinizing his every move, as he read through them again. Finally¡ªsweat trickling down Lithas¡¯ tense face¡ªImran signed them.


    Once done, he rose and took one copy of the documents with him, leaving the rest behind on the table. Lithas smiled. ¡°A deal well struck, Councilman Delos,¡± she said softly, as the councilman sauntered back to his guards. Satisfied, she nodded, then stepped back and gestured to her hidden guards.


    Immediately, they streamed into the courtyard and presented four bulky wooden crates to Imran. The containers were oblong and stout, their weight evident to anyone sparing them even a brief glance. They were identical, each having a reinforced opening and solid wood panels that were secured with iron pegs. Lithas had chosen them because they were simple and efficient, these chests, nothing too ostentatious. Until they were flipped open, that was. Then it became clear, quickly, that they were filled to the brim with weapons and armor. Pikes, shields, swords, helmets. The finest gear you could find in Lycar. That was what her suppliers said, anyway. Steel glinting in the afternoon sun, imbued with subtle crystalline lines.


    Imran strode closer for inspection, his touch gingerly tracing the intricate lines etched into the metal, each the color of a pale morning sky. He picked up a sword, slashing the heavy air. Once, twice. The subtle ring filled the courtyard for a few heartbeats. Satisfied, he gave Lithas a single curt nod. ¡°Loratha will find these acceptable, Lady ak¡¯Var.¡±


    Lithas responded with a graceful incline of her head. ¡°I¡¯m glad they meet your requirements. The remaining crates will follow soon.¡± Imran nodded once more, peering deep into her eyes. Then he turned on his heels and strode out of the courtyard without a further word, while their guards joined forces to carry away the hefty crates, bearing the weight of their newfound agreement.


    This day was starting well. Lithas watched Imran depart, the faint ghost of a smile on her face, before walking across the courtyard herself, her remaining guards trailing at a respectful distance.


    As she passed into a shaded alley, she noticed an old beggar sitting nearby. That was the first odd thing. She never really noticed them, sitting there huddled on the edge of the road. Then the man saw her approach and turned to her, worn-out rags barely covering his mud-spattered skin. Eyes hollow and deep set, as if they had seen too much suffering in their time.


    There was an uncanny gleam in those eyes, as if she caught a transient spark, hinting at something more.


    Lithas paused mid-step for a moment, hanging in the balance. What was that? Shaking her head, she forced herself to continue toward the bazaar. Probably that meeting with this Lorathan just now had simply rattled her. She managed to take another step. Hesitation caught her again. She could not even say what it was but something felt off. Finally bowing to her instincts, Lithas turned and studied the man more closely. He was still staring at her. Usually, this light feeling in her belly could only mean one thing. Elevated. But Elevated were no beggars.


    Intrigued despite her better judgment, Lithas cautiously approached the old man, waving off her guards as they wanted to intervene. ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid,¡± the beggar said. A surprisingly soft, gentle voice. ¡°Think of me merely as a chaperone¡ªa guardian¡ªmaking sure your arrangement with Councilman Delos here proceeds undisturbed.¡±


    A flicker of derision creeped into Lithas¡¯ response. ¡°And why would I require the assistance of a beggar for this?¡±


    Yet the man seemed unperturbed and simply smiled. ¡°In this vast game of power, Lithas ak¡¯Var, it¡¯s you who appears as the beggar in my eyes. Hungry for the crumbs of dominion. And don¡¯t we beggars aid each other in our shared plight?¡±


    Lithas narrowed her eyes. How did this wretched creature know her name? And what was he playing at? She straightened. ¡°What could you possibly know about power?¡± she asked, voice cold and hard.


    ¡°Power, my lady, is a relentless dance,¡± the smile of the man broadened, ¡°one you¡¯ve willingly joined. Your success now hinges on your choice of partners. I¡¯m merely here to make sure you choose wisely. Not everyone is so kind, mind you.¡±


    ¡°That supposed to be a threat?¡± she spat.


    Too eloquent by far for a beggar. Lithas saw her earlier suspicions reaffirmed. Elevated¡­ But how could this be possible? She mulled over his cryptic words, her mind aflame with possibilities. Could she even consider¡­ no, surely not. She was independent¡ªas best as she could¡ªand she liked it that way. But. What if this strange man could provide her with an edge, in this renewed wrangling over the Isles of Dust, that ever-capricious plaything between Demis and Loratha?


    No. She had survived, even thrived, until now precisely because she had stayed in control. Giving in to mysterious strangers promising power in dark alleys did not seem to fit that pattern. Not at all. ¡°You reek of Dethos,¡± she said dismissively, ¡°And nothing good ever came from the north.¡±


    Slightly unnerved by the whole exchange, Lithas started to turn away from the beggar, a tad too fast to seem calm, right as the man began to speak again. ¡°Just remember this. When your part is played, our doors remain open. If you want to discover the truth of the north and escape your shackles, join us then.¡±


    The beggar, or whoever he truly was, melted back into the shadowy recesses. Lithas¡¯ scowling guards flanked her, shielding their charge from the strange man, leaving her with a sense of disquiet. I don¡¯t like this, Lithas thought. Don¡¯t like this at all. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she set out again toward the grand bazaar. Yet, as she walked through the dusty streets of Sariz, she found herself contemplating his words, over and over, and wondered what was really happening, up there in Dethos.


    Or, come to think of it, the whole continent.


    Her sources told her that there had been some... disappearances that could not be accounted for in their frequency. Deaths under mysterious circumstances, long journeys undertaken without convincing reason, things like that. The missing were of significant enough rank to give her pause. Something was going on there. Perhaps worth an investigation in the future. For now, her deal with Imran Delos complete, Lithas had to focus on more pressing matters. Like that brewing conflict between Loratha and Demis. She was not the only one.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    As Lithas entered the bazaar, the first thing she noticed¡ªeven before the cumin, before the roasted coffee beans¡ªwere the murmurs of war rippling through the market stalls, like an avalanche in the desert. Conversations were hushed, tales of the impending conflict exchanged in urgent whispers, in between a wad of frankincense or a grilled red snapper changing hands.


    Lithas sighed, half resigned, half excited. War was coming. Fast. She knew the stakes. Everyone did. But she also knew the profits. Both Demis and Loratha, wary of the potential escalation, were willing to pay exorbitant amounts for dust-steel armor. For her dust-steel armor. The gears of war were turning, and someone needed to lubricate them. Might as well be her.


    Technically, Demis had a monopoly on dust, with their current dominion over the Isles of Dust. But, everyone knew, dust alone was of little use. It was the crafting of dust-steel that held true value, a process that only a few skilled blacksmiths could master. So, over several years, she had built a network of smugglers from the Isles and blacksmiths across the continent, stretching from Limrod to Tibara. The bet had paid off lavishly. Now, her network was more than capable of meeting that emerging demand for dust-steel.


    Of course, not even dust-steel could protect you from the full onslaught of an Elevated¡¯s power. But it might be enough to soften, or even deflect, attacks from a less powerful one, if you were lucky. In war, even the faintest advantage was invaluable.


    Lithas traversed the busy bazaar, the crowd parting in reverence before her. She hardly noticed these things anymore. Instead, speaking with some of the merchants, she breathed in the rumors and stories circulating around her. Sariz was good for these things, and the great bazaar was best of all. A new play in Limrod, a flood in Kel, higher taxes in Loratha. This was what she excelled at, perhaps a greater gift than her powers, even. Assimilating information, to then act on it when it was most profitable.


    Despite her meandering route through the market, she had a goal in mind. Hakon, her old friend and business partner. Something of a father, even. A master blacksmith in dust-steel¡ªthe only one in Sariz as far as she knew¡ªHakon¡¯s stall was nestled in a corner of the marketplace, just next to his smithy. Even from a mile away, the burly man was easily recognizable by his dense beard, near doubling the size of his head. But Lithas knew from experience that within that wild growth lay a constant smile, well-hidden but genuine.


    First, she heard the rhythmic cadence of a hammer pounding hot metal. Then, she heard Hakon, instructing his apprentices. Two sounds as familiar as breathing to her. ¡°Remember, each strike must be like a note in a symphony¡ªintentional, harmonious, and perfectly timed.¡± His hammer met the glowing steel in a finale of sparks before he plunged it into the quenching barrel with a satisfying hiss. ¡°Class dismissed.¡±


    Lithas had approached Hakon as unobtrusively as possible, so as not to interrupt, but as soon as the big man turned¡ªa surprised expression spreading across his rough features¡ªshe was greeted with a warm embrace, ¡°Lithas ak¡¯Var,¡± his voice held a gravelly timbre, but his eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, ¡°it¡¯s been too long since I last saw you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s always too long, Hakon,¡± she replied with a smile, trying to find her breath after being released from the crushing embrace, ¡°I¡¯ve just returned from Limrod. You should¡¯ve seen the quality of goods I found there. Pure art, I¡¯m telling you. Almost a pity they¡¯ll be used for warfare.¡±


    ¡°Without war, who would buy dust-steel goods?¡± Hakon let out a hearty laugh. ¡°They aren¡¯t exactly fit to serve as good soup ladles or horseshoes, are they?¡±


    ¡°Quite so,¡± she conceded with her own smile. Her eyes wandered over the pieces arranged in the smithy. ¡°What are you working on? Is that a new dust-steel blade?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes. And not just any, mind you. The best damn dust-steel you can find on the continent. I¡¯m just having a bit of trouble getting the temperature high enough to melt the dust. My apprentices are good lads, but their control over the furnace is still too inconsistent. You know how difficult it is to weld the dust onto steel, without melting the whole bloody thing. A few degrees too hot, and you¡¯ve got molten slag instead of quality steel. A few degrees too cold, and the dust won¡¯t adhere properly. It¡¯s like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands; it keeps slipping away just when you think you¡¯ve got it.¡±


    He sighed heavily, brows furrowed in frustration as he looked toward his apprentices, who immediately stopped eavesdropping and returned to cleaning the workshop. ¡°It¡¯s just so hard to find someone with enough skill to heat it that high without messing it all up.¡± Hakon eyed her suggestively. He had never been a very subtle man.


    Smiling, Lithas reached out and gently tugged on invisible strands of energy. A soft wave of warmth radiated from her fingertips, heating everything in her path as she slowly bundled the strands and directed them toward the blade. Methodically, Lithas increased the temperature just around the inlays, where the dust was arranged in lines of powder. Delicate work, that. She registered the familiar but uncomfortable feeling of resistance when directing heat to the dust itself, like stirring honey with a feather. Lithas refused to yield. Eventually, she breached the resistance. Around the channels in the blade, the steel burned bright yellow but, within, the dust was slowly melting, forming pale blue rivulets. It was a thing of beauty.


    Hakon seemed to agree. His expression bordered on reverence as Lithas¡¯ powers worked their way into the metal, subtly melting enough steel just below the lines to ensure a thorough weld, without reducing the weapon¡¯s strength one bit. It felt almost natural by now, like an extension of herself. She controlled the heat. She was the heat.


    Releasing her control, Lithas pulled out the heat and let the blade cool and harden. They both waited with bated breath, for as long as they could endure. Which was not very long at all. With a flourish, Hakon swept the weapon off the anvil before offering her a hearty handshake. ¡°Lithas ak¡¯Var. You truly work magic with dust-steel. Are you sure you I can¡¯t offer you a job?¡±


    He gestured her to take the weapon for inspection. It was a beautiful khopesh; elegant, deadly dust-steel without any flaw or blemish. Unbroken lines of aquamarine snaked across the flat side of the blade, glistening in the sunlight. The sight brought a wave of nostalgia, reminding Lithas of other days of relentless sun, other anvils, other weapons. They had done this so often.


    Oh yes, the early days¡­ Coming back to her hometown from Lhasa¡ªfinally leaving the Belt behind¡ªshe had the rare privilege of returning to familiar faces, like Hakon. The man had practically raised her, with Lithas¡¯ own parents being ambushed and killed on a caravan to Tibara when she hardly could remember them. The Tetrarchy, preferring to avoid any concentration of power, rarely assigned new Elevated to their city of origin. Too easy to build an independent power base, too tempting for newly minted gods. So Lithas had cherished this chance to reconnect with Hakon. Not everyone had that chance.


    Reconnecting in ways she could never have imagined. After she scampered through his forge as a child¡ªHakon in panicked tow¡ªthey now forged the most impossible weapons and pieces of armor together, combining his exceptional blacksmithing skills with her control over heat. Lhasa had given her power, yes, but Hakon gave her precision. The wealth that eventually came with her status and business acumen were gratifying, but so was this act of pure creation.


    ¡°Thank you, Hakon. For this,¡± Lithas remarked as she carefully set the blade on the workbench, bowing her head slightly. ¡°I appreciate it more than you know. But I cannot stay. Duty calls.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± he responded with a knowing wink. ¡°Come back anytime though, we should have dinner. It really has been too long. And be careful!¡±


    ¡°As they say,¡± she winked back, ¡°ask no questions and hear no lies.¡±


    And so Lithas turned and was immediately swallowed by the bazaar again, furtive glances washing over her¡ªeven the occasional genuflection, when there was no prayer guard in sight. You could outlaw personal worship as much as you wanted, but there was always this urge in people, to touch the divine, to have it brush their lives.


    Just as she was about to head to her next appointment, her gaze was drawn to a familiar figure at the edge of the market. That beggar. The old man seemed to be looking directly at her, brazenly. Several long moments into their staring contest, he just gave her a slight nod and disappeared into the bustling crowd. Who was that man and what did he want?


    Reluctantly, Lithas shook off a nagging frown, her mind returning to her agenda. She was a woman on a mission. Or, rather, she sensed an opportunity for profit. Are the two not practically the same sometimes? Many things about Lithas ak¡¯Var might be true, but what she was not¡ªwhat she would never be again¡ªwas powerless. Being Elevated meant power in its rawest form, of course, and Lithas loved it. But so did gold.


    Passing the earthy cloud of a stall selling leather belts, she weaved her way through the throng of merchants and shoppers, her eyes fixed firmly on her destination, making it hard for her guards to tag along. The docks of Sariz were teeming with activity, nearly as badly as the bazaar. Sailors, traders, and adventurers alike jostled for space on the weathered planks. The setting sun bathed the waves in the bay that lapped lazily against the docks in a warm orange hue. Lithas made her way to a large warehouse at the far end of the docks, her guards trailing her like distant shadows.


    In front of the building, flanked by her own set of guards, stood a woman swathed in long robes and a hooded cloak. She must be dying inside, Lithas thought. Though it would have been hard to say anything about the figure, including that it even was a woman, had Lithas not known whom she was supposed to meet here. As she approached, she noticed an emblem on the woman¡¯s chest, discreetly tucked into the folds of her robe¡ªan eagle with its wings spread wide across a cerulean sky. Demis.


    The woman looked up at Lithas as she came closer, carefully observing her before finally nodding in recognition. In Sariz, Lithas was a hard figure to overlook. ¡°You must be Lithas ak¡¯Var. It¡¯s a pleasure to finally meet you,¡± she remarked formally. ¡°I¡¯m Vexaria Corvus, here on behalf of His Majesty, Prince Cerax.¡±


    Of course, Lithas had heard of Vexaria. Diplomat. Negotiator. Vexaria was one of the prince¡¯s most trusted advisors. If some could be believed that woman even was a good deal more than just trusted by her prince. Useful to know these things. But Lithas also realized that this was not just a negotiation; it was a business transaction, and she intended to make the most of it. With a nod, she gestured toward the interior of the warehouse. ¡°The pleasure is all mine. Come inside and have a look. Then we can discuss the weapons you want to buy.¡±


    Vexaria flinched ever so slightly at the public mention of weapons. This was what you did, challenge and observe. It told her much about people. Vexaria quickly masked her reaction with an empty smile and followed Lithas into the warehouse. Inside, Vexaria threw back her cowl and looked up, a small gasp escaping her lips.


    The open space bristled with sparkling weaponry; row after row stacked with dust-steel equipment, ranging from swords and spears to knives and khopeshs. Lithas had prepared a long time for this. It did not take a genius to realize that the decades of simmering conflict between Loratha and Demis would eventually lead to something. She liked to boast that an entire army¡¯s worth of weaponry was stockpiled here. Probably even true. A small army, at least. As Vexaria fully absorbed the sight, her eyes widened in a mix of surprise and reluctant appreciation.


    ¡°So, what did you have in mind?¡± Lithas asked, voice professionally cheerful, as she observed Vexaria gauging the extent of her armory. She really was beautiful, despite that short-cropped hair, despite the severe lines in her face.


    After a thorough inspection, Vexaria turned to Lithas, a contemplative look on her face now. There was calm there, as if she had simply discarded this disturbing revelation of Lithas¡¯ armory from her mind. ¡°We¡¯ll take them all,¡± she said. Only that, nothing more.


    ¡°Forgive me,¡± Lithas paused. This had not been part of her calculations. ¡°But if my sources are correct,¡± she started, gesturing around the vast warehouse, ¡°Demis doesn¡¯t need all of this.¡±


    Vexaria smiled curtly and Lithas felt herself tense. ¡°Indeed, we don¡¯t. But Loratha does. If we cannot enforce our monopoly on dust,¡± Vexaria glanced reproachfully at Lithas, ¡°then we will enforce our monopoly on dust-steel.¡±


    Slowly, Lithas nodded. She could understand this logic. It did carry a certain efficiency with it. ¡°Very well. The customer is always right. I¡¯ll arrange to have all of it transported to Demis as soon as possible. I expect payment won¡¯t be an issue.¡±


    ¡°One more thing,¡± Vexaria interjected. ¡°Prince Cerax wanted to have something else.¡± She gave Lithas another long, scrutinizing look. ¡°You. His Majesty wishes to meet with you. Insists on it, in fact. In Demis. He¡¯d like to explore a more...permanent solution to our needs.¡±


    Could Cerax know about her recent dealings with Loratha? Lithas very much doubted a reigning prince would risk assassinating an Elevated from a practically neighboring state. Not when their other neighbor threatened to invade them on an almost daily basis. So, what was this? Only one way to find out. ¡°I¡¯d need compensation for lost business during my absence. But, of course,¡± she responded smoothly, ¡°I look forward to meeting my best customer.¡±


    Without another word, Vexaria extended her hand for a shake, then walked out, followed by her entourage of guards. Lithas watched them go, her head tilted thoughtfully, as the delegation from Demis disappeared into the golden light of the late afternoon sun. She puffed her cheeks. What a day.

 Omvar 1 (Chapter 4)

    ¡°Four ministries, four Tetrarchic cities. Remember: Balance and stability are key in everything we do. The Ministry of Faith in Kel, matching believers with Elevated, orchestrating our pantheon. The Ministry of Innovation in Imra, directing trade, finance, and labor. The Ministry of Orthodoxy in Lhasa, coordinating the doctrine auditors and supplying the armies of prayer guards. The Ministry of Wisdom in Maht, researching the past, present, and future as well as directing the trackers responsible for feeding new Elevated to our training camps.¡±


    ¨C Primer for entering ministerial public service, Kel University


    Sunlight flooded the arena, blanketing Kel in a golden glow. The amphitheater buzzed with chatter and an air of expectancy, a sea of eager spectators filling each of the cascading rows to the brim, eyes trained on the center stage. The crowd¡¯s collective breath seemed to hang in the air. Whispers darting like shadows, eyes meeting only to quickly look back to the arena floor. There was true reverence in those eyes. Omvar, from his lofty position on the dais, watched the spectacle with a dismissive smirk.


    ¡°They¡¯re restless today,¡± Omvar commented, idly fiddling with the hem of his robe. ¡°Eager to catch a glimpse of these new Elevated.¡±


    Beside him, Norgus chuckled, the corners of his sunken eyes crinkling with amusement. ¡°Well, they¡¯re hoping to spot their own, no doubt.¡±


    ¡°Fools,¡± Omvar snorted at his colleague¡¯s remark, ¡°as if we¡¯d waste Kelian citizens on foreign Elevated. Hats off to the Catechism Division. They really still can make them believe that this is somehow fated. That any one of them could be next.¡±


    Years of attending these ceremonies had dulled their luster for him; his eyes no longer held the glint of youthful excitement, that gleam of awe he now spotted in the audience. Omvar remembered his first induction, many years ago. Equally sunny, equally crowded. He had still been full of enthusiasm then, just a young graduate from Kel University. So young. But now, after too many cycles¡ªso many years near the ugly truth of the system¡ªthe spectacle had lost its sheen under the harsh light of reality. With increasing frequency, he now found himself wondering what the point of it all was.


    His gaze wandered to Norgus at his side. Now, Omvar thought, what¡¯s this old man actually doing for a living? He only ever saw him at these events. Strange.


    ¡°I wonder. When did this all just become a show?¡± Norgus sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. ¡°A parade of peacocks.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it always has been,¡± Omvar murmured, his gaze now locking onto the figures standing rigid in the arena center. ¡°They dress them up in colors and masks, expecting them to play the part.¡±


    A chuckle from his side. ¡°You¡¯d think they were crowning kings, not just Elevated,¡± scoffed Norgus.


    Quite the opposite, in fact, Omvar mused. Ministry regulations explicitly forbid assigning Elevated to any ruling position. Can¡¯t have another god-king, can we now?


    Around them, the arena was lined with balconies on three sides, overlooking the stands of the common people. And there, in the center of the dusty ground, five Elevated stood, hands clasped behind their backs. Long, colorful robes swaying gently. Each assigned city a different color. So much protocol, and for whom? The men and women also wore silver masks of differing designs. Some unadorned, some encrusted with precious metals and stones, as an indication of their respective power.


    ¡°You know,¡± Omvar grumbled, his gaze hardening, ¡°take these masks for example. They¡¯re nothing more than a pretense nowadays. An illusion of authority.¡±


    ¡°An illusion, you say.¡± Norgus shot him a quizzical look. ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°Well, you see,¡± Omvar crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze not leaving the Elevated, ¡°once they leave Kel, they¡¯ll discard their masks like they¡¯re yesterday¡¯s fashion. This whole performance ends as soon as they cross the city gates. Not even our own people keep up the charade.¡±


    Norgus chuckled, shaking his head slightly. ¡°So, you¡¯re saying not even the Tetrarchy Delegates have the decency to don their masks outside the city-states?¡±


    ¡°Precisely,¡± Omvar nodded emphatically, resisting the urge to slap his thigh. ¡°They know it¡¯s a sham. Everyone does. And yet, we continue this circus, year after year. It¡¯s all just a power play. Keeping up appearances.¡± His whispers hung heavily in the air, causing several of the heads around them to turn in their direction, a frown on their faces. Well, someone had to speak about the bitter truth behind this ¡®grand¡¯ spectacle.


    In front of the line of Elevated, flanked by two attendants, stood a gaunt, dark-skinned, and white-haired man in a strikingly blue velvet robe. Feldar, Kel¡¯s Tetrarch, held a gleaming mahogany staff in his hands as he began the ceremony. ¡°We are gathered here today,¡± he spoke in a loud, clear voice, momentarily silencing the crowd, ¡°to welcome new members into the ranks of the Elevated. It is our solemn duty to join these individuals into our sacred order and bestow upon them the powers that have been freely given by the faith of the people.¡± Cheers started to erupt. Feldar clanged his staff on the podium until order resumed. ¡°But we must also remember that with power comes responsibility. To abuse it is to invite destruction and chaos into our midst.¡±


    ¡°Responsibility indeed,¡± Omvar snorted. ¡°By the Belt, Feldar does love his theatrics.¡±


    ¡°Tell me, Omvar,¡± Norgus grinned, leaning back in his seat, ¡°how many years have these ¡®newly¡¯ Elevated been training under us? Just to be paraded around like the newest toy of the Tetrarchy.¡±


    ¡°Oh, a good few years for sure,¡± Omvar agreed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. ¡°I¡¯ve actually worked on the purple one, the one with that rash on his neck. No surprise there. You can¡¯t just bestow god-like powers on people and hope they don¡¯t incinerate a city or two. No, these ones have been molded, pruned to the Tetrarchy¡¯s whims, long before this farce. Of course, we charge the assigned cities for all that. Brilliant scheme, really. But the crowd doesn¡¯t see that. They just see the spectacle. As it should be.¡±


    Feldar paused in his speech and looked around the arena, doing a full circle, his piercing gaze meeting Omvar¡¯s briefly before continuing. ¡°The powers of the Elevated are not to be taken lightly. We must be sure of those whom we grant this honor. Absolutely sure. We must be sure that they will use their powers for the benefit of all. That is the responsibility and privilege of the Gordean Tetrarchy. We preserve and we protect.¡± Omvar¡¯s eyes followed the Tetrarch, who, with a final flourish of words, ceded the stage, as if surrendering to the inevitable. He had to admit, that man had a great voice, if nothing else.


    ¡°We sure seem to train a lot of these people recently,¡± Norgus mused aloud. ¡°You¡¯d think there¡¯s a leak somewhere.¡±


    Omvar ignored the old man when the line of Elevated began to chant in a low, solemn tone. He knew the words by heart, having heard them countless times. They apparently belonged to the original ritual of induction and had been used since the days of the first Elevated, more than 300 years ago now.


    The chants quickly grew louder and more powerful, and the line of Elevated began to emanate an ethereal glow. Omvar watched unimpressed as the circle of dirt on which the five men and women stood glowed brighter and brighter, until it seemed as if the entire arena floor was filled with roiling light. Then, suddenly, the light faded away, and the chanting stopped.


    The Tetrarch stepped forward and rammed his staff on the pedestal, creating a ringing sound that washed over the arena. All eyes turned to him. He looked out over the crowd with his solemn expression. He¡¯s also good at those, Omvar thought, must be part of the job description. ¡°It is done,¡± Feldar said, voice resounding through the square.


    ¡°And so it is,¡± Omvar echoed, not a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. ¡°Another year, another batch of puppets for the Tetrarchy. Rinse and repeat.¡±


    As the ceremony drew to its predictable close, the applause fizzled out, like a passing storm, and the human sea began its slow ebb out of the arena. The people seemed suitably impressed by the ceremony. Omvar likely would have been too. If he did not know about Leftos.


    Somewhere, on one of the protruding balconies no doubt, an elegantly clothed man would be standing discretely, subtly directing the light show for the onlookers. A puppeteer unseen by his captive audience. The focus of that vain Tetrarchy Delegate was light, so it was one of his duties to illuminate the induction ceremony. Omvar idly wondered whether Leftos traveled from city to city on the Belt, or whether Lhasa or Maht had their own delegates for such special effects.


    He looked around. Norgus had already disappeared, running off to Belt knew where. A weary sigh. Slowly getting to his feet, Omvar made his way through the crowd, heading to the Lower Mervian district. Duty called.


    The shrine there, like most shrines in Kel (and really anywhere), was quite nondescript. He liked it. The walls were rough-hewn, the columns supporting the pediment left unadorned, and the effigies decorating the front were simple and made from unrefined materials. Really, the only notable feature was the sheer number of people that flocked to the shrine, either coming from the arena or the countless food stalls in the district.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Omvar had read the handbook on shrines. Had, in part, written it, in fact. Designed as blank slates, they were meant to be dedicated to an Elevated on an extremely impromptu basis. How else to accommodate a constantly changing pantheon? And, while maybe some of the Delegates could have had a large enough followership to justify a dedicated shrine, it was not good policy to advertise who worshipped whom.


    As he entered the shrine, the bustling of the busy street behind Omvar died down. The inside was only faintly lit by oil lamps, draping a warm orange layer over the walls. Prayer guards stood by the entrance to ensure order. And ensure that prayer went as it should. Tetrarch Firenza in Lhasa took her duty seriously.


    Omvar found a quiet corner and knelt on the soft cushion before it. The room smelled of incense and other scents he could not identify, a calming aroma that permeated the entire building. Other citizens sat on marble benches or gathered in front of large candles, offering their devotion. Whatever works for them, he thought.


    Then he bowed his head and closed his eyes, focusing all his thoughts and energy on a single prayer. Omvar had a small drawing with him, depicting a beautiful woman with dark hair and emerald eyes. ¡°May providence protect and may you succeed in all your endeavors. I convey my strength to you, Lavelle, and remain your faithful servant.¡±


    All those years of research from Maht and there still was no official guidance for how prayer should be performed. Mainly because it did not seem necessary. The mere act of devotion seemed to be enough. People thought it was a simple equation¡ªmore believers meant more power. Head-bursting calculations and conflicting policy orders begged to differ, if anyone cared to ask him. They rarely did.


    After some peaceful contemplation, Omvar opened his eyes and rose again. One of the prayer guards eyed him but, after spotting his Ministry insignia, the woman quickly looked away again. He had never met Lavelle and would likely never do so. He was just some bureaucrat after all. Omvar knew that the woman was a Kelian Delegate¡ªperhaps the greatest of them all¡ªand he had to remind himself that that was already more than most people knew about their Elevated in this world that they had built.


    Maybe I should feel honored to be assigned to a Delegate, he mused. Well, me and half the city. Omvar took a prayer chip from the smooth bowl at the center of the shrine and left. That¡¯s the part that religions had always missed. You don¡¯t force people to believe, you strongly incentivize them. You don¡¯t have to pay taxes, but if you don¡¯t and get caught, you¡¯re in big trouble. You don¡¯t have to pray, but if you get caught without prayer chips, you¡¯re in big trouble. Great system, no need for a priesthood. Or, rather, requiring a very different kind of priesthood.


    The thought made him smile wryly as he made his way through the winding streets of Kel toward Ebonshade Borough. The main avenues in the Tetrarchy city were wide and lined with tall, well-manicured trees, offering some respite from the sun as Omvar sauntered along. Ahead, an imposing building rose into the air, its fa?ade topped with crenellations and towers that resembled nothing more than a castle. It was a fitting appearance for the Ministry of Faith, an institution tasked with protecting the very heart of Kel, after all.


    He walked through the main entrance, massive ornate doors that were guarded by two imposing figures with stern expressions, wearing black armor chased with fractal silver patterns. These ones being Suns of Kel, not prayer guard. The elite soldiers offered respectful nods of recognition when they saw Omvar. He briefly nodded back and entered the building. Beyond the oversized doors, the interior of the ministry unfolded¡ªa grand foyer with high ceilings and intricate designs carved into the walls, protruding from each corner. On either side, long hallways stretched into darkness, lined with tall doors leading to various chambers within the building.


    At the center stood a large fountain, water bubbling up and cascading into a pool surrounded by marble benches. Here and there, Omvar spotted small clusters of people, their conversations carried in whispered tones across the room, underlined by the soft murmuring of the fountain. In one corner stood a desk for supplicants, usually crowded by people wanting to find out more about ¡®their¡¯ god.


    Face turned downwards, Omvar strode through the foyer, toward the corridor that led to his office. Just a few steps now¡­


    ¡°Omvar!¡± called a booming voice, followed by the appearance of its voluminous owner in Omvar¡¯s field of view. Orhan Malenk was a picture of Kelian tradition, wearing a black and silver doublet accompanied by black calfskin gloves and framed by a long gray beard that reached all the way down to his chest. Before Omvar could think of an excuse, Orhan had already pulled him into a warm embrace, steering him down a different corridor.


    ¡°Hasn¡¯t it been too long, my friend? Come, come.¡± A last yearning look from Omvar toward his corridor and the two of them strolled down the hallway, Omvar surrendering himself to his fate.


    ¡°Did you hear?¡± Orhan began, ¡°Ilgast of Limrod was killed by a sandwyrm a few weeks ago. Can you imagine? A sandwyrm? He was one of my finest correspondents. We had the most fascinating discussions about the societal role of theater as a collective means of processing events.¡± Orhan had started his monologue in a near-whisper, turned to Omvar, yet ended in his usual booming manner.


    ¡°Yes, I did hear,¡± Omvar responded dourly. Ilgast had been one of his. When Ilgast was selected, he remembered someone from the Catechism Division complaining about the impossibility of making people believe in a shriveled little man whose gift was the control over aggression. Eventually, they went with a take on the ¡®peace bringer¡¯. People liked that. Now Ilgast¡ªor rather his abrupt demise¡ªjust meant more work for Omvar. Temporarily rerouting hundreds of believers, only to reroute them again once his replacement had been prepared. Some people were just inconsiderate to pass away on his watch so suddenly.


    Orhan led him to a small caf¨¦, tucked away within the ministry, leading out to an inner courtyard with a domineering rosewood tree. The warm scent of coffee, mixed with exotic Dormani spices, filled the air, creating an aroma that was both calming and invigorating at once. Orhan ordered two coffees and they left again. They continued their conversation as they returned to the main hallway, drinks in hand.


    As they proceeded farther down the corridor, Orhan excitedly talked about a Skarresh skull that was found in a recent excavation, until they reached a large open space. Omvar liked this spot. It was a mixture of pleasure garden and atrium, filled with tall columns stretching up to the ceiling high above. Around them, many other people walked around or sat on benches talking amongst themselves. Some wore robes embroidered with geometric silver symbols, similar to those on the soldier¡¯s armor. Doctrine auditors. Lhasa¡¯s reach¡ªand that of the Ministry of Orthodoxy¡ªwas everywhere these days.


    Orhan, strolling through colonnades made of white marble, suddenly turned fully to Omvar. ¡°You¡¯re always like this after new inductions, you know?¡±


    Omvar thoughtfully sipped from his coffee, swirling the bitter liquid in his mouth, savoring the taste. ¡°What can I say? I guess it¡¯s hard to fathom why people are so easily swayed by it all. We literally tell them what to believe in and they just do.¡±


    Orhan watched him with kind but sad gray eyes. An almost constant expression when he saw the man, Omvar noted. ¡°And which world religion, my dear friend, didn¡¯t tell their faithful what to believe in? Faith is a powerful force that has been guiding people for centuries. Millennia, even. Doesn¡¯t it give people hope and the strength to face even the most difficult of times?¡±


    Omvar was familiar with these arguments. He did not like them one bit. ¡°But it¡¯s not real! I¡¯m sitting in these meetings, Orhan. We just make it all up. Based on policy.¡±


    They proceeded in silence for another few steps, passing Ministry bureaucrats deep in conversation. ¡°Ah but who, Omvar, decides what¡¯s real? Isn¡¯t it real if it helps them? If it helps their nation? If it, quite literally, makes their god powerful?¡±


    Omvar considered this while he emptied his cup. With a soft clinking sound, he placed it back on its saucer. ¡°Do you believe then, Orhan?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± Orhan replied enthusiastically, ¡°fervently, if that is what¡¯s required. I also believe in our state and in the Tetrarchy, among other things. In the end, we believe in what we want to be true, what we need to be true, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    Placing his cup on a nearby table, Omvar replied, ¡°I believe, that I do have to get back to my desk. After all, how should the poor deprived populace cope with the lack of an object of worship, if I don¡¯t provide them with one in time?¡±


    Orhan¡¯s expression softened into another one of those sad smiles. ¡°Cynicism is the wellspring of sadness; passion the twilight of emptiness.¡±


    Amused, Omvar shook his head and chuckled. ¡°Avila, Orhan, really?¡±


    Orhan only smiled back in response. ¡°May you have an interesting day, Omvar.¡± And with a slight bow, still bearing his melancholic smile, he turned and strode back toward the foyer.


    Feeling a touch of guilt and uncertainty, Omvar finally forced himself to turn around and find his way to his office. He passed more bureaucrats and clerks on the way, too busy with their own tasks to take much notice of him. He was just another cog in the machine, after all. Albeit a not so insignificant one, he liked to think. As he hurried along the corridor, Omvar tried to focus on the tasks ahead of him. But his thoughts kept returning to that damn earlier conversation with Orhan.


    Managing the faithful was a challenge, especially with all the stringent measures in place to ensure the system¡¯s stability. Much harder to get people on the continent to pray for Tetrarchy delegates, for example. Also, he thought, much riskier, if we cannot directly control our power base. What Orhan did not understand was that Omvar was convinced that he was well-suited for the job precisely because of his disillusionment. The only things that mattered in his view were efficiency and stability, not personal faith or choice. So why then return to thoughts of hope and belief? Damn Orhan.


    Arriving at his office, Omvar pushed open his heavy wooden door, closed it after him, and locked it tight. He then sat down at his desk, ready to continue his work. Almost by accident, he noticed the frayed envelope he had received this morning, before the ceremony. He briefly glanced at the closed door. Then he carefully unfolded the parchment and read it again.


    ¡°O.,


    let us thank you for your invaluable service so far. We trust that our faith in you will never be misplaced. As always, be discreet.


    F.¡±


    Cursing under his breath for his carelessness to leave this lying around, Omvar lit a candle and quickly burned the letter. He had understood the encoded message instantly, of course: It worked; re-route more believers and do it dispersedly.


    He could not deny the genius in the idea. His idea. While a hundred Elevated might not miss a single follower, a single Elevated would certainly appreciate a surplus of one hundred. Even better if you cannot find them because they are scattered all over the world. And conveniently absent from any record. Who was really hurt by this after all? Whatever Orhan said, the people did not care whom they worshipped.


    So Omvar went back to work. This was what he did, what he lived for. Subtly altering records, preparing faith assignments, tipping the scales of distribution. Efficiency, robustness¡­ and maybe a little profit.

 Interlude 1 (Chapter 5)

    ¡°Sharp blades, good trades.¡± ¨C Ethaf ak¡¯Ladir, Proverbs & Poems


    Year 304 of the Age of the Tetrarchy, somewhere south of the Belt.


    Kethra jumped, narrowly escaping the swipe of the magul¡¯s long mandibles that churned up a dust cloud where she had stood mere moments ago. The frustrated screech of the creature filled the air¡ªmaking leaves tremble next to her feet¡ªfollowed by a renewed frenzy of motion as it lunged at her again.


    Every step, a heartbeat; every heartbeat, a moment stretched on the edge of her blade. As the magul moved closer, she felt that knot of tension tighten. This would be her chance. The scaled arachnid advanced with quick, calculated steps, head bobbing and weaving as it sought her out.


    Pulling a thin blade from her belt, Kethra ran her fingers along the length of the metal. The amber afternoon sun glinted off its surface. She would have to act swiftly if she did not want to make a mistake and die. That would be an ironic end to her campaign. With a burst, she lunged forward, blade slicing through the air and connecting with the magul¡¯s body. Or, rather, it would have. If, at this very moment, the enormous creature had not raised one of its eight legs to effortlessly throw Kethra to one side.


    She crashed to the ground, blade skittering away into the underbrush. Cursing her misfortune, she scanned the forest floor in a vain attempt to spot her weapon. A rustle caught her attention. The magul was on the move again. In one fluid movement, Kethra¡¯s muscles coiled like a spring. Then she charged. Her boot connected with the emerging magul¡¯s mandibles. More surprised than hurt, the force of her attack sent it flying back. Immediately, its eight legs worked furiously as it tried to regain its footing and resume its ferocious attack.


    It was relentless.


    Dodging by pure instinct, Kethra evaded the magul¡¯s sharp claws once again, but the beast had her cornered. If she could only get close. She felt her energy being drained with every passing second. Now, cornered and weaponless, she had to rely on her body alone. Well, time to stop playing.


    Beset by a creature more than twice her weight, Kethra closed her eyes. Around her, sounds of the forest rushed in. The wind rustling through dry leaves. The frog-like calls of a toucan somewhere behind her. There. The magul came at her, thick legs thumping on the forest floor. Thump, thump, thump, eight legs drumming a deathly rhythm.


    But this time she was prepared. She let it reach her. In the last possible second, eluding its venomous fangs, Kethra pirouetted and her hand sliced through the air, cutting through the leathery hide of the magul with ease. There was a sickening crack and a wet sensation, as the edge of her hand tore through the skull and the brain of the creature.


    Its hissing abruptly ceased, legs still trying to move, the rest of its body catching up to the fate of its head. Pulling back her hand¡ªnow covered in green ichor and black scales¡ªKethra watched as the magul collapsed, its death throes sending tremors through the ground.


    She had won.


    She turned and walked away, her slender frame bathed in the dying sunlight. From the underbrush, part of her war-band emerged, clanging axes on steel-rimmed shields. The sounds filled the ancient forest. The tallest of them approached her, bowing deeply in respect. ¡°Well-fought, Mystal,¡± Li¡¯ar intoned.


    Considering her out of eyes the color of moss, Kethra brushed the dust off her gear and addressed her people, voice ringing through the forest. ¡°Let this be an omen. Everyone who stands before Kulvar, no matter how savage or tall, will fall. Everyone who stands before us will fall.¡± Cheers erupted, accompanied by more clanging of metal on metal. Her eyes met Li¡¯ar¡¯s. A silent understanding passed between them. They were far from finished with these wild lands. This was not even the beginning yet.


    She paced back to the magul carcass and bent down to retrieve the long sharp fangs from her prey. Someone else might have struggled. Hacking and pulling for long minutes, to tear the deeply anchored fangs from the beast. Not Kethra. With a quick thought, she sliced off the long dagger-like protrusions in a smooth circular hand motion, terminated by grabbing the fangs like hilts. After a cursory attempt to wipe the gore off her new weapons, she stashed them in her belt and gestured her troops to march onward.


    They set up camp in a nearby clearing, surrounded by a sparse forest of towering Etheroak trees, their gnarled branches sagging under the weight of history and past armies crossing this territory. Say what you want about it, but the archipelago knew war. From the floating cities in the north¡ªcontinuously raiding each other¡ªto the demon-worshipping south, sending captured sacrifices out into the chaotic sea beyond. As her warriors began their routine¡ªpitching tents and stoking fires¡ªKethra noticed Li¡¯ar and Gahm in a hushed conversation, glancing her way. What are they not telling me, she mused.


    Trying to shake the thought, Kethra carefully whittled down her new fangs into shapes closer to weapons. As twilight descended, the flicker of their campfire lit up the area like a blanket of honey, glinting off the sharpened weapons all over the war-band.


    Satisfied with her whittling and sitting by the soft glow of their campfire, Kethra wrapped the blunt ends of her new daggers in leather straps, fashioning a primitive handle. The slightly curved chitinous fang-blades were the length of her forearm now, serrated on one edge and culminating in a vicious-looking tip. A tip that Kethra found herself admiring against the star-strewn sky, just as Li¡¯ar and Gahm approached her, offering respectful bows.


    ¡°Our scouts have returned,¡± Li¡¯ar reported, the tone of Kethra¡¯s second-in-command betraying her concern. This would not be good news. ¡°The Remzen fortifications are formidable. More than we expected. They say we might only be able to overcome them with a well-coordinated assault.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Kethra responded with a slight smile, shaking her head. ¡°They won¡¯t hide behind their walls. The Remzen are too arrogant for that. We¡¯ll meet them in the field, crush them, and then seize their outpost.¡± She paused briefly, thinking. ¡°Any word from Lo¡¯var and Imsem? What does the front line say?¡±


    Li¡¯ar remained silent, gaze firmly on Kethra. ¡°Yes, Mystal, there is,¡± Gahm¡¯s baritone rumbled through the encampment. ¡°The pincer groups are making good progress. They should reach the first Remzen towns in a few days.¡±


    As usual, Kethra¡¯s eyes searched Li¡¯ar¡¯s face, until the other woman nodded almost imperceptibly. Kethra nodded in turn, now openly to both, and dismissed them with a wave of her hand. Absent-mindedly, she returned to polishing her fang-blades. Kulvar¡¯s war-leader held one up, admiring the way it caught the firelight, turning it into a gleaming streak of liquid flame. She tilted the blade, watching as the flickering inferno transformed into the faint glow of¡­


    ¡­dawn. Hundreds of furtive shadows flitting across the forest floor. Gentle rustling, the occasional glint of metal. On the horizon, a large hill emerged between the trees, its surface bristling with wooden spikes and tiered walls. The Remzen outpost stood like a scar on the land, rising between Serpentine and Rivulet¡ªtwin veins of life that sustained these ancestral Verenthia Woods.


    Kethra led the way, her eyes constantly alert for any signs of hidden guards or torchlight. Despite Li¡¯ar¡¯s outward reassurances, she sensed the woman¡¯s concern. A worry that they could not take the outpost without considerable losses. Or maybe not at all. The success of their whole campaign rested on them disabling the outpost. The council trusted them. Trusted her. They had received the most difficult mission of the entire battle-plan. But they were the best. And she would see it through.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Kethra remained convinced. The Remzen would not hide behind their walls. They had too much pride, too much to prove to Kulvar. Yet, as she navigated the twisted roots of the forest floor, intrusive thoughts began to worm their way into her mind. What, she dared to think, if Remzen bravado was just that: pure posturing? Could they really have kept a cool strategic head in this war?


    She almost stumbled over a particularly warped root on the forest floor and forced herself to focus, taking in her surroundings. And heard¡ªno felt¡ªa whirring sound slice through the air next to her ear, just about where her head had been mere seconds ago. Kethra froze, her senses suddenly on high alert.


    She had barely raised her eyes when a whole barrage of steel-tipped arrows whistled through the leafy canopy above, their trajectory clearly aimed at her war-band. These archers knew where they were. But her warriors were quick to react, hoisting their shields and taking cover behind sturdy trunks as the forest transformed into a battlefield in a heartbeat. ¡°Move in formations!¡± Kethra¡¯s voice rang out, echoing over the tumult. ¡°Return fire at visible targets!¡±


    The quiet of the forest was shattered as arrows rained down, punctuated by the clang of steel and the roar of battle cries. Kethra and her soldiers suddenly found themselves in the midst of an ambush as Remzen troops appeared from all directions, launching their assault with unnerving precision, right after that first salvo of arrows had hit them. She instinctively threw herself to the ground to not present a target, eyes flitting across the battlefield.


    It was then that Kethra realized with a primal thrill that they had clashed with a full-fledged Remzen battalion. The outpost marched, she knew it! And it seemed the Remzen had brought their best¡ªarmored behemoths wielding war hammers, mounted warriors hefting colossal axes. Not cowardly at all, it seemed. A wicked smile unfurled across her lips.


    Amongst a nearby stand of trees, she saw Li¡¯ar gather part of the war-band, her voice a beacon of steadiness in the chaotic storm of battle that had gripped the Verenthia Woods so suddenly. ¡°To me, Kulvar! Show them who owns this forest now!¡± Li¡¯ar¡¯s words echoed through the battlefield like a rallying call, galvanizing her warriors. Kethra watched how they charged forward with renewed vigor.


    Her pulse hammered in sync with the thunderous stomps of hoofs, veins pulsing with the clash of weapons. Hit by hit, hack by hack, the viridian battlefield around her slowly turned crimson. It was a familiar sight by now.


    A squadron of Remzen, their maroon uniforms almost glowing in the subdued light, advanced on her position. Kethra drew her fang-blades with a hiss and watched them eagerly. The soldiers wore leery grins as they saw her, seemingly cut off from the rest of her troops. Little did they know that her warriors would have loved, would have literally died, to protect her. If she would just let them.


    But where was the fun in that?


    In one fluid, lethal motion, she surged forward from the dusty ground. The first soldier fell, cleanly decapitated by her fang-blade. Riding the momentum of her assault, she swiveled to the left and rammed her second fang-blade into the guts of another soldier. Before his comrades could so much as process his fall, Kethra whirled around and effortlessly sliced through the mailed knee of a nearby man. She preferred maiming over killing¡ªenemies screaming their lungs out in terror were more effective than corpses.


    Just as the remaining Remzen collected their senses, a scarred woman grabbed her. With a brief thought, Kethra¡¯s fanned shoulder-pads became razor-sharp, slicing the woman¡¯s hand into shredded ribbons. Exploiting the soldier¡¯s shriek at the sight of her ruined hand, the edge of Kethra¡¯s boot crashed into the woman¡¯s shin, easily tearing through flesh and bone, toppling her. Kethra¡¯s fang-blades flickered out left and right, carving through the heaviest armor like a hot knife through butter. Around her, the mood had shifted from predatory to defensive, the stink of desperation beginning to spread.


    Seeing their comrades fall, a handful of the soldiers stayed back, spears cautiously extended. Nice idea, but it would not help them. With a grin, Kethra caught one blade with her palm, leeching away its cutting edge but vastly increasing the sharpness of its hilt in turn. The soldier screamed and dropped his weapon from bloodied hands. She stepped into the opening and dispatched two more of his comrades with quick slices.


    The last few soldiers, their courage evaporating, turned and fled. She let them¡ªthere were still more than enough targets around. She looked down, seeing the leery grin of that first soldier, forever frozen on his severed head. Kethra smiled.


    To her right, Li¡¯ar and her squad were holding their ground against a flood of maroon. Watching out for arrows, Kethra started to make her way to them, only to be intercepted by a charging rider. The mailed soldier lifted his battle-axe and prepared to strike her in passing. She dodged his swing with the grace of a seasoned dancer, leaving him open to her counter. Momentarily distracted by the momentum of his strike, he never saw the flung fang-blade that pierced his lungs from behind. Convulsing in shock, the man toppled from his mount and hit the morning dew-strewn forest floor with a thump. His disconcerted horse circled around him and finally started to wander off. Kethra swiftly caught up to the soldier, cutting tendons with her remaining blade, and retrieved her thrown weapon from his back.


    Wiping her fang-blades on the coat of the fallen rider, she turned toward Li¡¯ar. Only to watch in helpless horror as a Remzen sword pierced her second-in-command in that very instant. In a way that left no room for doubt, no room for survival. Too late. Too late, she picked up a stone, hurled it at the attacking soldier, watched it tear through shield and armor into his guts, and out the other side. Too late, she sprinted toward the scene, cutting down maroon Remzen soldiers with a flurry of lethally sharp strikes. Slicing, tearing, stabbing. Too late.


    Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once as Kethra found herself standing amongst her warriors, surrounded by a sea of fallen, mutilated enemies. Screaming, moaning, still. And then there was Li¡¯ar. Lying in a pool of her own blood, gasping for air. Kethra knelt next to her, the experienced warrior inside her whispering that there was no hope. A small voice in her head insisting otherwise. Demanding otherwise.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to have died for you, Mystal,¡± Li¡¯ar rasped.


    ¡°Don¡¯t die for me,¡± Kethra tightened her grip, whispering, ¡°live for me.¡± A futile plea. How could you be a god and lack the power to save those you care about? Within her, fury raged with confusion. Confusion over what was happening. Confusion over what she was feeling. But Li¡¯ar could only offer a weak smile before her consciousness faded. Kethra closed her eyes. A kaleidoscope of colors swirled before her inner eyes.


    This was a battlefield. She could not afford this. People were dying around her¡ªher people. She could not afford any emotional turmoil¡ªshe was a war-leader, a Mystal, a god.


    For a moment¡ªjust one precious moment¡ªKethra collected her thoughts. Her feelings. Then she let Li¡¯ar go, let her flee this wretched earth, which suddenly seemed leached of any color. She rose and waved over one of her warriors. ¡°If Gahm is still alive, he¡¯s second now. Spread the word. We collect everyone and push hard. I¡¯ll take center.¡±


    Her face had become a mask of steely determination as she commanded. She forced her eyes to stay on the hill of the output, not to look back at that giant Etheroak tree with Li¡¯ar at its base. ¡°Let¡¯s break them.¡± Her voice was a cold thing then, with the cutting edge of wind and that particular brittleness you found in ill-tempered steel. Without looking back, Kethra turned and strode toward the opening in the trees, leaving behind many corpses but only one that mattered.


    As she moved forward, she took stock of the battlefield. Her soldiers were holding their own, fighting off the enemy forces in small groups. But the whistle signals she had issued just now rallied them together into a coherent force, advancing. This would end now.


    From above, many drops coalesced into the dark wave flooding forward. And there, at the front, stood a lone, slender figure, one blade in each hand, stony expression on her face. In front of her, a line of hastily assembled Remzen heavy infantry, shields raised. Then, chaos. Pure and blessedly simple. Blood, limbs, death, all blurred together. Screams of valor morphing into cries of rage, fear, and finally despair, as the enemy lines broke.


    It happened slowly. First, individual soldiers with missing limbs or grave injuries. But then, occasionally, they were accompanied by unhurt soldiers throwing down their weapons and starting to flee toward the outpost. Remzen archers tried to provide cover for their retreating companions. Kethra did not care. She had all the cover she needed¡ªan entire army of bodies that surrounded her, shield and slaughterhouse in one.


    The Remzen retreat rapidly devolved into a rout, even the archers abandoning their posts. Kulvari soldiers advanced swiftly, intercepting the fleeing enemy, preventing the closure of the outpost gate.


    It was over.


    From there, everything went quickly. Kethra and her troops entered the outpost, took the walls with almost no further resistance, the defenders now in an almost dream-like daze of stunned disbelief. And then, because she could¡ªbecause she thought she should¡ªKethra ordered the execution of most of the remaining Remzen soldiers in the compound.


    Kulvar had won.


    No. Kethra had won. Or had she?

 Irthal 2 (Chapter 6)

    ¡°Dust. The word itself carries weight, and still. Not only do we not know how it works, we also do not even understand what it is. The only thing we do know is that the sole, known, places of extractions cluster exclusively around the region commonly known as the ¡®Isles of Dust¡¯¡ªthough whether the substance derives its name from the location or vice versa is lost to history. To summarize, we know that dust is partly resistant to Elevated power, standing as perhaps the sole check against their dominion, but not how or why. Yet I have a theory¡­¡±


    ¨C Ixval Celost, Unexplained mysteries and their explanations


    ¡°You¡¯re doing what?!¡±


    They were back in the tavern, lively chatter filling the air with conversations that only partly concerned mysterious assassins or men manipulating metal. A waitress bustled past them, heavy tankards balanced precariously. Irthal marveled at the tavern¡¯s patrons, already returned to their old conversations and ale, as if the dockside had not just been obliterated before their very eyes. Yet there was a cautious hole in the tavern around Vann, the occasional hidden glance or hushed whisper. Still, people had this remarkable knack for simply dismissing any situation if it did not directly involve them.


    ¡°Ustil,¡± Vann shouted over the din of the tavern. ¡°I¡¯m heading to Ustil.¡± His words were barely audible to Irthal, even though he was seated just on the opposite side of the round table. Vann¡¯s shimmering silver arm, still an uncanny sight, grabbed his tankard and guided it upwards until he took a deep gulp.


    ¡°Ustil,¡± Irthal echoed, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. ¡°But why? What¡¯s in Ustil?¡±


    Vann set his drink back onto the table and turned to him. ¡°Well, the Grand Admiral, for one,¡± he replied nonchalantly and wiped his mouth with the back of his new hand, leaving a trail of foam on its smooth surface.


    Irthal noticed that Vann himself cast occasional curious glances toward his new limb, when he thought nobody was looking. The point where metal met flesh was seamless, the grievous wounds already healed by some handy time manipulation from his companion. ¡°Lavelle here is supposed to escort me to Grand Admiral Burn and make sure that I start my new assignment,¡± Vann continued. ¡°Seems like those guys from earlier didn¡¯t like that idea very much.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, who were they?¡± Irthal leaned forward, eager to learn more about the world outside of Olban. They would need every bit of information on their journey.


    ¡°Assassins,¡± Vann grunted. ¡°Keep it quiet but we¡¯ve been seeing more of them lately. They seem to target Elevated, but no one knows who they are or where they¡¯re from. At least not that they¡¯d tell me. These guys are good at what they do, too. Maybe they figured a newly Elevated would be an easy mark, huh?¡± Vann shot a glance at Lavelle, who swirled her wine casually before taking a measured sip. ¡°And damn it, they would¡¯ve been right, if it weren¡¯t for Lavelle here. Seems like they can¡¯t handle a Delegate.¡±


    Lavelle smirked and offered a sarcastic bow. Irthal watched her furtively. A flesh-and-blood Tetrarchy Delegate. A figure worshipped by tens of thousands. The closest their world could come to a god. Yet she looked so human. Irthal¡¯s own assigned Elevated, a man named Grave, seemed much more divine than that, more awe-inspiring, in his imagination.


    ¡°And what will you do in Ustil, uncle?¡± asked Sam, still visibly uncomfortable, caught between the familiarity of the man she knew from childhood and the alien being who had transformed himself into living metal before their very eyes. The god-like entity who was now revered by people he would never meet. Theirs was a strange world, sometimes.


    ¡°Serving the Concordate, as we all must,¡± Vann began, looking at Sam with a blend of fondness and sorrow. ¡°I¡¯ll join Burn¡¯s Elevated corps and be dispatched as he sees fit. There are rumors of unrest near Dregal, I might be sent there. Besides, I¡¯m not a slave. I might visit Olban again soon!¡±


    An uneasy silence followed. How could you casually converse with a god?


    ¡°But enough about me, what are you lot up to these days?¡± Vann asked, playfully nudging Sam, who instinctively recoiled from the cold touch of the metal. Irthal noticed a flicker of pain behind Vann¡¯s eyes, despite his cheerful fa?ade.


    ¡°We¡¯re off on an adventure!¡± he announced, partly to break the tension.


    ¡°Ah yes, of course,¡± Vann nodded, a twinkle in his eye, visibly relieved by the change of subject. ¡°That¡¯s what you do when you¡¯re young, after all. And where might this adventure be taking you?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re sailing to Sevastha,¡± Irthal replied, eyes shimmering with anticipation. ¡°And the Glimmering Shore,¡± he added belatedly.


    For the first time in their conversation Lavelle seemed mildly interested. ¡°Sevastha?¡± she asked and tilted her head, evaluating Irthal. ¡°That¡¯s an unusual choice.¡± Lurgon and Sevastian exchanged glances, evidently unnerved by the Kelian woman¡¯s scrutiny. She could probably obliterate them and the entire inn without breaking a sweat. They had seen it for themselves, out there on the docks.


    Still. Nobody in Olban found the notion odd. For the young, it was common to set forth into the world with ambitious goals¡ªmaking their mark¡ªand Sevastha was a typical destination pursued by many. A classic, one might say.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re heading for Sevastha, eh?¡± Vann noted, reclining in his chair and folding his arms. The metallic limb creaked slightly, the sound slicing through the ambient chatter. ¡°You¡¯ll be needing a ship for that journey. A good one.¡±


    ¡°Yes, we¡¯re thinking of buying one,¡± Irthal replied, nodding excitedly. ¡°We¡¯ve got gold.¡±


    ¡°Well, as it happens,¡± Vann mentioned, ¡°I know a man with a small fleet. He might be willing to let go of one.¡± His expression clouded momentarily, lines of thought creasing his forehead. ¡°Or, he might not. It all depends on his mood. And on whether he¡¯s still alive. Look for an old man named Gelman at the docks tomorrow, near the fishing boats. Tell him Vann sent you. And don¡¯t be discouraged by what he says.¡±


    Before Irthal could ask any more questions, Lavelle intervened. ¡°Alright, we should really get moving,¡± she announced, emptying her glass. ¡°We have an early start tomorrow and have wasted enough time already.¡± With a curt wave of her hand, she summoned a pair of Kelian soldiers from a nearby table. ¡°We¡¯ll be departing shortly,¡± she commanded.


    The soldiers saluted crisply and made a half-turn, patiently awaiting their superiors¡¯ departure. Irthal¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, then softened, as he watched Lavelle dominate the room. He had never witnessed someone wield such authority so effortlessly. So that was what it meant to be a Delegate.


    With an inviting glance at Vann, Lavelle rose, quickly followed by the older man. Vann looked at them and was just about to speak when Sam interjected. ¡°I¡¯ll miss you,¡± she declared, finally shedding her hesitation and hugging Vann tightly.


    ¡°Take care, everyone!¡± With a bittersweet smile, Vann patted Sam¡¯s head, his gaze resting fondly on the group before him. ¡°I hope you succeed with your adventure. But, if not, you¡¯re still always welcome in Ustil. I¡¯m sure the Concordate could use a bunch of young sailors.¡±


    Lavelle seemed content to leave the farewells to Vann and had already walked toward the tavern exit, trailed by her soldiers. Extricating himself from Sam¡¯s embrace, Vann hurried to catch up, his parting gesture a grin over his shoulder and a hearty wave.


    Irthal watched them leave, feeling a strange mix of awe and apprehension rush through him. The man they had known as children had been profoundly changed by the Belt, and they could only guess at what he would become, there in lofty Ustil. And, somewhere deep inside, maybe they recognized Vann¡¯s transformation as a reflection of their own worries about the changes they would undergo, the people they would become, in the years to come.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    <hr>


    The next morning, nursing vicious, ale-fueled headaches, Irthal and Mythas made their way to the docks to find this mysterious Gelman. They had agreed the night before to split up for the day, with the others securing provisions and recruiting a crew for their ship at the taverns. There were always sailors lounging about the harborside places.


    The morning breeze was brisk, thoroughly ruffling Irthal¡¯s hair. Despite the strange events of the previous night, Mythas¡¯ excitement was palpable next to him. Or perhaps it was because of last night? Mythas was special in that way.


    At the docks, it did not take them long to notice an old man sitting alone at the edge of a pier, busily scribbling in a leather ledger on his lap. ¡°Gelman?¡± Mythas called out hesitantly.


    The scribbling slowed momentarily as the man glanced up. His wrinkled face deepened into a frown, ¡°What¡¯s yer business?¡± And down his gaze returned, his writing picking up its angry pace again.


    Gelman sported a long, bushy beard over a faded blue shirt. Skin sun-kissed and wind-roughened. The embodiment of a seafarer¡¯s life. Stepping up, Irthal cleared his throat and offered up their names, ¡°We¡¯re after a sturdy ship. Vann said you¡¯re the man to see.¡±


    Finally laying down his quill, Gelman squinted at them, sizing them up. ¡°Vann sent ya, did he now?¡± he asked gruffly.


    ¡°Aye sir, that he did,¡± Irthal confirmed hesitantly, not sure whether that was a good thing or not.


    ¡°Thought that old salt might be sleepin¡¯ with the fishes by now. We was shipmates in the navy back when people knew port from starboard,¡± he said, glaring as if Irthal and Mythas were the sum total of a lost generation.


    ¡°Actually, he¡¯s very much alive,¡± Mythas interjected, standing her ground. ¡°We saw him just yesterday. He¡¯s heading to Ustil.¡±


    Gelman seemed to consider this for a moment before cracking a grin, revealing a shining gold tooth. ¡°Well, that¡¯s fine by me,¡± he nodded gruffly, ¡°Can¡¯t say I ever took a likin¡¯ to him.¡± With an impatient gesture, he motioned for them to follow. He led them through a nearby warehouse stacked high with crates and barrels. Irthal recognized some of the crests on them. The striking blue of Demis, Ustil¡¯s three masts, Limrod¡¯s thorny vines, and even some from beyond the Belt.


    As they walked, Gelman began talking¡ªit was hard to tell whether it was directed at them or himself. ¡°Don¡¯t get what you young¡¯uns are after with a ship though. Likely too wet behind the ears to steer ¡®er right. But once yer coin¡¯s in me pocket, she¡¯s yer headache, not mine.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re actually quite skilled,¡± Mythas retorted with a faked cheerfulness. ¡°Crewed ships on every off-season to learn the ropes.¡±


    Gelman might not have noticed it but Irthal could feel the seething anger in Mythas, only thinly veiled by her forced delivery. Mythas hated being underestimated. Seemingly innocuous, Irthal quickly inserted himself between her and the old man. Fearing a potential clash, he intervened, diverting Gelman¡¯s attention with questions about his own sailing days¡ªa topic the old sailor clearly enjoyed.


    Eventually, they reached their destination. Moored to one of Olban¡¯s countless wharfs was a wooden ship, visibly past its prime. Square-rigged, three-masted, the ship would have blended into any port, if not for its apparent state of neglect. ¡°There she be,¡± Gelman nodded toward the vessel with an unreadable expression. ¡°She ain¡¯t the Queen of the Seas, but she¡¯ll do for yer little jaunt.¡±


    Before they could say so much as a word, the old man grunted, turned on his heel, and hobbled away. Attention torn between the receding man and, what might become their vessel, Irthal and Mythas exchanged a glance and proceeded to inspect the ship. While its dilapidated state was evident, flaking paint and rusty fittings everywhere, the thrill in Irthal¡¯s chest was undeniable. He just knew it. This ship would carry them to Sevastha¡ªnothing else mattered.


    As he surveyed the deck, he mentally jotted down more details: ragged sails, worn ropes. Yet the ship itself appeared sturdy enough. Mythas was already busy inspecting the rigging, her fingers tracing the ropes, checking for any weaknesses. Observing her, Irthal remarked, ¡°We¡¯ve got our work cut out for us,¡± grinning broadly. ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll need to make some repairs and get this ship cleaned up before we set sail. A few weeks at most, if everyone pitches in.¡±


    Mythas nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. ¡°Then let¡¯s get to it,¡± she said, grabbing a coil of rope and securing some loose lines. Irthal joined her. They spent the remainder of the day inspecting the ship and starting their repairs. It felt so natural that buying it had almost become an afterthought by then.


    As the sun embarked on its westward journey, Lurgon and Sevastian joined them, having successfully enlisted a crew they deemed trustworthy. Fortunately, labor was cheap in Olban (a situation they themselves had bemoaned constantly these past years) and the standard fare for expeditions like theirs was a simple share of the profits of all spoils. After a brief discussion, they all agreed on the ship. It would do. As the crew came along, more and more people swarmed across the deck: scrubbing, repairing, and loading their new vessel with the supplies Sam bought earlier in the day.


    While the crew hammered the last nails and tightened the final ropes before nightfall, Irthal made his way back to Gelman¡¯s office to complete their purchase. Gelman sat behind his desk, engrossed in yet another massive ledger. On noticing Irthal, he wore a cunning smile, ¡°Ah, like what ye see, do ye?¡± He retrieved a sheet of parchment and a quill.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡± Irthal nodded, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore Gelman¡¯s gruff demeanor. This was it. The culmination of years of work, years of practice, selling almost all their belongings. All for this.


    After a brief pause, Gelman scribbled a few lines on the parchment. ¡°Ye lookin¡¯ at 500 gold doubloons for her, not a coin less,¡± he proposed, eyeing Irthal. Irthal¡¯s heart sank¡ªthey did not have 500 gold pieces. Not even close. The jingling pouch at his belt suddenly felt a lot lighter. Had it all been for nothing?


    His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Gelman gave him a knowing nod, eyes flicking over some columns in his ledger. ¡°Got somethin¡¯ else in mind for barter, eh?¡± he trailed off, his eyes coming to rest on Irthal¡¯s pendant.


    A cold shiver ran down his back. He always wore it around his neck. An inheritance from his family, handed down since generations. A gift from his mother. Essentially the last piece of her that he still possessed. ¡°What do you want with that?¡± Irthal whispered, protectively.


    Gelman shrugged, ¡°It be worth its weight in doubloons, that much I can tell ye.¡±


    Irthal hesitated, staring at the pendant. ¡°That old thing? It¡¯s just a pretty stone my mother gave me.¡±


    An uncanny twinkle spread through the eyes of the old man. ¡°Aye, I¡¯ve sailed all the seas, been to every rickety tavern a sailor can stumble into. Ye, me, and scarce few others truly see what hangs ¡®round yer neck. Know well what it¡¯d fetch from the right collector, we do.¡±


    Irthal looked down again. His purpose for going to Sevastha lay nestled against his chest. But they needed this ship and he suspected¡ªknew¡ªthat his group of friends might not survive the dashing of their dreams at this stage. It would be at least another year until they could come up with that amount of gold. He could not wait this long. What to do then?


    Suddenly, like a brief, vivid flash of sunlight on a mackerel¡¯s silver scale, an idea struck him. It was a gamble, sure. But it offered a path, and that was all he asked for. He composed himself, keeping his expression carefully neutral.


    With a heavy heart, Irthal unfastened the pendant and handed it to Gelman. ¡°Agreed,¡± he said in a deadpan voice. ¡°We¡¯ll take the ship.¡±


    Gleefully, Gelman snatched the pendant. ¡°Fair trade, then. Good dealin¡¯ with ye,¡± he gloated, smug satisfaction written across his face. Irthal¡¯s eyes lingered on the pendant, its familiar glint now captured within the grasp of Gelman¡¯s coarse hands.


    ¡°Sign yer name where the X marks the spot,¡± Gelman instructed. Irthal took the quill and signed his name. Despite the disorienting loss of his heirloom, he felt a sense of excitement and release wash over him. He had to focus on that, to not lose himself. As he handed the parchment back, Gelman leaned in, ¡°Listen up lad, ye ought to know somethin¡¯ ¡®fore ye weigh anchor,¡± he warned, his breath reeking of onions.


    Intrigued, Irthal leaned forward, missing the familiar weight of the pendant around his neck as he did so. ¡°Yeah? What might that be?¡±


    Gelman looked around furtively, making sure no one else was in the room. ¡°Yer lass told me where yer goin¡¯. Sevastha ain¡¯t yer run-o¡¯-the-mill port,¡± he said, barely above a whisper. ¡°Dark magics, ancient secrets, that sort o¡¯ thing. Ain¡¯t no soul comes back from there.¡±


    A chill coursed through Irthal. ¡°What do you mean?¡± he asked breathlessly.


    Gelman leaned back in his chair, a sly grin on his face. ¡°Ye heard me right. Sevastha¡¯s a cursed place, messes with powers most don¡¯t dare whisper. Watch yerself.¡± His gaze bore into Irthal¡¯s, until Gelman shifted expression as if he suddenly recalled something. ¡°Oh, and one more tidbit¡ªpirate waters, those be. So, keep a keen eye, lad.¡± With that, he rose and gestured toward the door. ¡°Now shove off, got me own fish to fry. Ye¡¯ll need all the luck ye can muster.¡±


    Anyone watching as Irthal left Gelman¡¯s office that day would have sworn the boy shuffled along, head sunk and eyes downcast. But, with every step further from that old man¡¯s gruff disdain, a renewed vitality sprang into his steps. His frustration slowly gave way to eager anticipation. And, if a keen observer had paid attention, they would have seen a spark ignite in Irthal¡¯s rising brown eyes¡ªa smile budding on his face¡ªas he exited the warehouse into the setting sun of this late Olban afternoon.

 Lithas 2 (Chapter 7)

    ¡°And so, I wonder: what happens when a god meets their believers? One of the great scholarly debates of our time centers not on whether Elevated and their worshippers should remain apart, but whether they were ever meant to be separated at all. Should we view them as useful tools or as gods? Could the tragedy of Dethos have been prevented by creating communities of belief? Yet this leads us to an even darker question: in such a world, who would remain in control?¡±


    ¨C Orhan Malenk, On Faith and Power, Year 311 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    Tap, tap, tap.


    Step, after step, after step, each movement echoing off the rough sandstone.


    Lithas ascended the steep stairs of Sariz palace. Every few dozen steps, she passed another pair of guards, their linen armor soaked in a native resin, shimmering under the sun¡¯s harsh gaze. Sweating, she cursed the Seeress for living on a mountain of pompousness. Her palace was perched on the sandstone pyramid like an eagle¡¯s nest, its grueling ascent a test of endurance that felt more like a deliberate deterrent for the faint-hearted. Or for pesky audience-seekers, arriving with petitions from far and wide.


    Gasping slightly from exertion, Lithas finally reached the palace¡¯s uppermost terrace. She took a moment to regain her breath. It would not do to rush into her audience like a maniac, heaving and wheezing. So, she turned and the city sprawled beneath her, forming a rough carpet of shades of beige that reached all the way to the distant sparkling ocean. Despite all the inconvenience to get here, she had to admit that she rather liked the view.


    As an Elevated, she did have living quarters here, at the top of the sandstone pyramid. Some did live here. Licentious Terben, with his famed orgies, or mercurial Mellarda, with her vast art collections. Lithas preferred her city mansion. She thrived on the energy and flow of daily life in Sariz, not isolated from it like a bird in a gilded cage. No, she preferred to be among the common people. Okay, maybe above them, but visibly so, not detached, so near to the clouds.


    Taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned away from the panoramic view over Sariz and entered the Seeress¡¯ grand chamber. The room was as imposing as the palace itself, with high ceilings and walls adorned with murals tracing the Seeresses of Sariz. The leader of her city sat at a massive round table, rising from the center of the room, facing the entrance. Despite the heat, the room was lit by torches, and the flickering light made the woman look even more otherworldly than she usually did. As Lithas approached, the Seeress traced an elaborate symbol in the air, her eyes never leaving Lithas.


    ¡°Welcome, Lithas ak¡¯Var,¡± the Seeress intoned, her voice melodic and low, almost husky. The common story was that she had no name, that her parents simply had never given her one, the title itself serving as her singular identity. Lithas found that plausible. She nodded in response, the words she had so carefully prepared for this conversation now seemingly caught in her throat.


    It had all seemed so simple when she had made the plan, on her way back from the docks. Go to her employer, ask for a leave of absence to travel to Demis, on request of Prince Cerax. Simple, she thought. People do that all the time. Only that ¡®employment¡¯ was a very generous term for their relationship. Only that her employer was the absolute ruler of the city-state of Sariz. Only that this woman was strange.


    But before Lithas could utter a single word, the Seeress spoke again, ¡°I¡¯ve glimpsed your thoughts, but I wish to hear your words now. Why have you come?¡± her voice a low and soothing presence amid the intimidating setting. She folded her hands on the table¡¯s smooth surface.


    Taken aback, Lithas was at a loss for words when the Seeress only smiled and continued. ¡°Let¡¯s make this easier. You wish to travel to Demis and meet with Prince Cerax,¡± she stated matter-of-factly, as if Lithas had asked for permission for an afternoon stroll. Lithas could never figure out whether the woman simply had an extensive spy network or genuine abilities.


    Barely managing to conceal her surprise, she finally nodded, ¡°That is correct, my lady,¡± she croaked and immediately cursed herself for her breaking voice. Damn the sands, she thought, next time clear your throat before an audience, instead of sounding like you¡¯d just crossed the desert.


    The Seeress¡¯ inscrutable half-shadowed face beneath her cowl made it difficult for Lithas to guess her thoughts. The woman leaned back in her high-backed chair and studied Lithas for a few moments, as if trying to read her thoughts in turn. Which she probably could, come to think about it. Finally, after what felt like an eternity to Lithas, she spoke again. ¡°You ask much, Lithas ak¡¯Var. Remember, even as you tip the scales, fate may be tipping you. You¡¯re needed in a great many places.¡± Her words echoed in the chamber, her eyes seeming to bore into Lithas¡¯, searching for something.


    Lithas clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she absorbed the Seeress¡¯ words. Difficulties, she had braced for; she could handle those. But to be outright rejected? This time she did think to clear her throat before speaking. ¡°What do you mean, my lady? What kind of scales?¡± she asked, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.


    ¡°Mercantile, political, cosmic,¡± the Seeress said, eyes narrowing. ¡°Every ripple causes a wave, Lithas ak¡¯Var. Even the most insignificant action can trigger a catastrophic chain of events, like a lone grain of sand provoking an avalanche. Would you endanger this city of yours on a whim?¡±


    The realization tasted bitter. Despite all the time that had passed¡ªall the power she now wielded¡ªshe was still that same child, inadequate in the presence of that woman. Lithas noticed that her hands were still balled into fists at her side. ¡°I understand,¡± she said, trying to keep her voice even. ¡°But I¡¯ve been summoned by the prince. I cannot refuse.¡±


    The Seeress tilted her head, a silent challenge blazing in her eyes. ¡°Cannot or will not? Know that I¡¯ve often indulged your requests. Who of the other Elevated has left Sariz so frequently or has grown so rich so quickly? What I cannot indulge, however, is dishonesty.¡±


    Lithas hesitated, knowing full well the delicate nature of the situation. Lhasa had sold her to that woman, had made her subject to Sariz¡¯ every command. Yet the ruler of Sariz had never given her the impression that she saw Lithas as a slave. The Seeress¡¯ words could be sharp, even stern, but never unkind.


    ¡°I will not,¡± Lithas admitted, voice resolute, ¡°But I¡¯m aware of the stakes. I¡¯ll return to Sariz as soon as possible.¡±


    The Seeress rose, purple robes flowing around her like a river at dusk. Lithas swore she could sense a swirl around her figure as she did so. ¡°Go then.¡± The woman nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on Lithas. ¡°But remember, Lithas ak¡¯Var, every step you take echoes. Despite your stature, you¡¯re still young. And this world of ours¡­ this world is an ancient beast that devours its young.¡± Her words echoed in the chamber as she retreated, leaving Lithas alone amidst her thoughts.


    Alone in the expansive chamber, an undercurrent of unease washed over her. Chills crawled up her spine, as if the Seeress¡¯ words were alive, whispering caution into the dark corners of her mind. Lithas somehow knew that whatever decision she now made, it would reverberate beyond her own life.


    The thought felt heavy. Yet, ironically, it was also an undeniable testament of the Seeress¡¯ trust in her. Lithas was no stranger to risk¡ªit was a familiar companion in her line of work. So, she took a deep breath, clearing her mind, and focused on the task at hand.


    Descending the palace¡¯s sandstone steps, she felt a liberating cool breeze replace the pitiless sun. She hoped her choice would be the right one, though only time would hold that answer. For now, she at least had a path carved out in front of her. She was determined to make the most of this opportunity and squeeze profit out of Prince Cerax, no matter what the Seeress had warned her about.


    Immersed in the vibrant streets of Sariz, she was greeted by a city buzzing with life. The air thrummed with a cocktail of scents¡ªcloying spices battling the savory aroma of roasted meat. On the ground, street dogs chased each other and the occasional discarded morsel, while high above white and black birds circled the city, their paths leading toward the harbor. Lithas had loved the energy of Sariz since she was a child and felt herself recharge amongst the bustle as she made her way to the grand bazaar.


    She had already made up her mind about what she would bring with her to Demis. She was quick in these things. Vexaria may have emptied her warehouse, but Lithas still had some private reserves of valuable items she could present to the prince. Like an exquisite dust-steel helmet, its blue tint contrasting with intricate feather patterns etched in silver. Worth a fortune. Worthy of a prince.


    Navigating the swarming crowds in the bazaar, Lithas noticed a woman, clad in garments that clearly marked her as a foreigner, observing her from a distance. She had an eye for this sort of thing. The woman nonchalantly leaned against a fig vendor¡¯s stall, laden with fruits from the coast. Amidst the multitude of faces, this one drew her gaze like a lodestone for some reason. There was a moment of eye contact, lingering perhaps a fraction longer than it should, before the woman dissolved into the masses.


    A shudder passed through Lithas as she made her way toward the market¡¯s animal section. If I¡¯m going to do this right, she thought, I¡¯ll need the fastest transport to Demis. The Seeress may have granted her blessing, but Lithas had no intention of overtaxing her goodwill.


    A ship would be fastest, of course. But, with the mounting tension between Loratha and Demis, the last thing she wanted was to be trapped in the bay, subjected to the whims of the Lorathan navy. No, the old caravan route by the sea was the only viable choice here. Though most of her horses and wagons were already tied-up in various mercantile endeavors. An unfortunate, but unavoidable, side effect of profit maximization. A new purchase seemed to be the most logical course here.


    As she neared Div, the stablemaster, Lithas spotted horses, donkeys, and even camels for sale¡ªmore shades of brown than she could possibly name. But what drew her attention, nestled into a corner, was a gigantic cage. Curious, she approached, the crunching of her boots on the sandy ground echoing too loudly in her ears.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The cage bottom was layered with sand and atop lay a creature unlike any she had ever seen¡ªtall and serpentine, adorned with scales in shades of midnight blue and deep crimson. The creature bared its teeth, snarling at passersby, barely contained by its gargantuan prison, its scales glistening in the harsh sunlight.


    ¡°Easy, big fella,¡± Lithas cooed gently. ¡°Seems like somebody missed breakfast today.¡± Unexpectedly, the creature turned its attention to her, rows of formidable fangs bared behind an iron muzzle. Yet its eyes¡ªit was the eyes that mesmerized Lithas. They burned with a strange mix of anger, intelligence, and curiosity.


    Unable to resist, she found herself taking a cautious step forward. Now just inches away from the creature¡¯s snout, she saw it extending toward her with an inquisitive gaze, the bars proving too tight for any closer contact.


    ¡°Hey, you!¡± An irate voice suddenly shattered their intense moment. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡±


    Startled, Lithas jumped back as a burly man emerged from a nearby stall. Behind her, the creature growled. Marching toward her with a furious expression, the man barked, ¡°This sandwyrm is my property, destined for the arena. If you want to touch it, you¡¯ll have to pay!¡±


    ¡°Easy, calm down,¡± Lithas began, recollecting her composure, when recognition flashed in the man¡¯s eyes. His tirade halted abruptly, as if his tongue had met hot iron. His fists remained clenched, yet he paled, eyes darting between her and the sandwyrm. Evidently afraid that he would be incinerated on the spot by either of them, he slowly backed away, leaving her alone with the wyrm.


    Although Lithas wore no official insignia or uniform, the local populace invariably recognized their Elevated. As invariably as their typical response was either adulation or terror. She sighed, her mood slightly soured, and turned away from the sandwyrm.


    She sauntered past the cage and started to appraise the rest of the merchant¡¯s wares. Rumor had it that Div recently received a consignment of horses from the plains of Tibara. There they were. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a group of stunning stallions, their coats shimmering in the sunlight, corralled at the paddock¡¯s edge.


    Turning back to the stall, Lithas haggled fiercely with Div, debating the worth of each horse as if her life depended on it, inspecting wagons, and even scrutinizing the smaller livestock before finally sealing the deal for three stallions, two wagons, and some additional provisions. Satisfied and seeing to her new assets, she dispatched a messenger to her estate to arrange for their collection and prepare for her expedition.


    Lithas stretched. Another task completed. Idly, she spotted a loose strap on one of her new wagons and set out to tighten it. Approaching the wagon, she suddenly heard a strange rustling sound from behind, like metal scraping against metal. She glanced around cautiously, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her khopesh.


    That was when a shiver ran down her spine. She noticed a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. Lithas spun around to find that same foreign woman from earlier, silently observing her again. This time, she managed to get a better look at her. The woman was tall and slender, with piercing gray eyes, her cropped blonde hair contrasting with a jagged scar that cut across her forehead. Clad in black leather garments and a matching cloak, despite the heat, she exuded an aura that immediately set Lithas on edge. She noticed a big rusty key in one of her hands.


    ¡°What¡¯s your game?¡± Lithas questioned, voice laced with suspicion.


    The woman¡¯s lips curled into a sly grin. ¡°Merely appreciating your choices,¡± she replied.


    ¡°Impressive creatures, don¡¯t you think?¡± Lithas said, gesturing vaguely to her newly purchased stallions, trying to keep the conversation light. She subtly sought out a more stable foothold, in case the stranger attacked her.


    The woman drew nearer, her intense gaze locked onto Lithas. ¡°Your wares aren¡¯t what I¡¯m interested in,¡± she said in a low voice, a cutting edge just below that smooth surface.


    Lithas frowned. ¡°So, what exactly is your interest then? A friendly cup of tea, perhaps?¡± she retorted, her feigned nonchalance thinly veiling her close monitoring of the woman¡¯s every move.


    ¡°No, you¡¯ve had your chance.¡± The stranger remained expressionless, halting a few paces from Lithas, considering her. ¡°In fact, some of us think you¡¯ve been given more chances than you deserve. Our patience has worn thin. Mine certainly has.¡±


    Lithas¡¯ brows knitted in bewilderment. ¡°What...¡± Lithas ak¡¯Var¡¯s next words were swallowed by chaos. For, at that precise moment, a deep, throbbing sound filled the air.


    Risking a quick glance behind her, she spotted the towering sandwyrm, no longer caged, no longer behind an iron muzzle, but very much free, casting a shadow over the stalls as it rose high above its former confinement. Its massive bulk even rivaled nearby buildings in height. The beast reveled in its newfound freedom, its rumbling intensifying as it lashed its scaly tail across market stalls, splintering wood and bone alike.


    High-pitched animal shrieks joined the throbbing sounds of the sandwyrm. Before Lithas could so much as react, the wyrm darted forward and snapped its jaws shut on Div. Their earlier haggling and laughter, still so fresh in Lithas¡¯ ears, was replaced by the horrific sound of crunching bones, followed by a gory spray of blood. Then, the sandwyrm shifted its gaze to Lithas.


    With a swift, fluid motion, she unsheathed her khopesh, adopting a defensive stance. Pure chaos around her, as people frantically scrambled to flee the area. The freed sandwyrm left a trail of devastation in its slithering path toward her. Amongst the turmoil, Lithas risked a glance at the blonde woman, standing unscathed, a malevolent grin playing on her lips.


    In her single moment of inattention, Lithas almost missed the great burst of flames that extruded from the sandwyrm, barreling toward her.


    Simultaneously, Lithas dove toward her wagon and thrust out a hand to siphon the heat. She immediately felt the surrounding temperature plummet and a dent formed in the fire wall. A split second later, her other arm suddenly went numb, khopesh clattering to the ground, as she collided with the wagon¡¯s edge. The wyrm shook the earth beneath her with a frustrated roar, flicking the wagon aside with a powerful swipe of its tail. With Lithas exposed, it fixed her in its menacing gaze, growling.


    As the sandwyrm slithered toward her, its scales shimmered like a mirage wavering on the horizon. Heat radiated from its gaze, washing over Lithas like the desert wind. Instinctively, she grabbed a pitchfork from a nearby haystack, gripping it tightly in her off-hand as a makeshift weapon against the approaching beast.


    The sandwyrm paused momentarily, sizing up its rather miniscule opponent with an almost amused expression, before resuming its unhurried advance toward Lithas. It opened its maw, showing its dense rows of fangs, as it hissed. With her free hand, Lithas made a gathering motion, causing the pitchfork¡¯s tines to glow in a bright yellow light. The air flickered around the glowing weapon as she held it steadfastly before her. Her grip firm, her breaths measured. Undeterred by the pitchfork, the sandwyrm continued its inexorable advance, seemingly savoring the end of its hunt.


    Suddenly, the creature lunged, its snarling maw tearing through the air mere inches from Lithas. She sidestepped the attack and, with a swift spin, thrust the glowing pitchfork toward the beast, plunging it deep into its chest. Slicing through scales and piercing its heart. As it emerged on the other side, her makeshift weapon landed on the ground with a sizzling thud, quivering from the impact.


    The smell of charred scales was almost overpowering. Black smoke erupted from the wyrm, accompanied by a violent outburst of sound and motion. Yet it did not fall. Lithas scrambled to her feet, narrowly evading the creature¡¯s wildly flailing tail, but not before its tip lacerated her clothing and skin. Blood flowed, making her tunic stick to her torn skin. Right, she thought, two hearts, I forgot.


    In a frenzied rage, the creature thrashed about, toppling nearby stalls and sending debris flying. Then it spotted Lithas again, its glowing eyes focusing on her as it began to gather heat within its maw. There would be fire. But this time Lithas was prepared. She strained her thoughts, drawing the growing heat. Preventing the conflagration. If the sandwyrm had been capable of frowning, a no more appropriate reaction could have been imagined.


    Amidst the scorched remains of the bazaar, amidst the bodies and wreckage, they¡ªgod and beast¡ªwere locked in an eerily silent contest of will.


    She never had to handle this much. So much heat to dissipate. So bloody much. Just a little bit more, she pleaded with herself. Make it try a little bit harder. The sandwyrm¡¯s thick neck muscles bulged, as the creature tried to break through her grip.


    Now.


    With complete focus, Lithas mentally turned. Instead of drawing heat, she pushed.


    Like a pierced dam, the pent-up heat from the sandwyrm melded with her efforts. A spectrum of colors, from red to orange to blinding white, flashed before her eyes. Then, with a deafening roar, the head of the sandwyrm erupted. Flames billowed forth like a blooming flower, and a searing heatwave washed over Lithas, tingling her skin as if it had been lightly grazed by fire.


    Momentarily blinded, she blinked furiously until her vision cleared enough to make out a massive, wavering form collapsing to the ground with a resounding thud.


    Burning flesh rained down around her. She staggered back, gasping for air and drenched in sweat. Her eyes swept over the ruin¡ªa tapestry of mangled flesh and twisted market stalls, Div¡¯s lifeless eyes meeting hers as if accusing her from beyond. Lithas¡¯ eyes darted around, searching for the enigmatic woman who had unleashed this chaos, but she had vanished like a desert mirage. Of course.


    With a cry of disgust and a muttered curse, she slumped down against the overturned wagon. There was a reason why caravans kept to the edge of the desert. This was the reason. What an absolute lunacy, she thought, to keep one of these giants for the arena. How did they even catch it?


    As the screams of terror died down, Lithas watched as the first horrified onlookers ventured near the carnage. That was no accidental escape. This had been her. But who would do such a thing, and why?


    Around her, cries of agony gradually succumbed to sobs of grief. Friends, relatives, lovers¡ªcountless lives were shattered, seemingly as an afterthought, by the woman who had freed the sandwyrm. One life aimed for, too many destroyed. It always was like that. Leaning back, Lithas ak¡¯Var, Elevated of Sariz, watched in silence as ash particles descended onto the devastated bazaar of her city.


    A few hours later, a few streets away, dawn graced the horizon. Lithas continued her preparations for departure. She had spent the night considering her options. In the end, she remained resolute: her plans to leave Sariz would proceed. At this point, nothing seemed more certain than that she needed to get out of town, and fast.


    Her eyes scanned her small caravan critically, examining each wagon and ensuring everything was packed securely and arranged properly. All while her thoughts were darkened by the knowledge that someone out there was determined to kill, in order to prevent her from reaching Demis.


    Finally satisfied with her arrangements, she turned. Only to be met by the gaze of the stablemaster¡¯s widow. Lithas knew her, had seen her often at Div¡¯s stall, bringing food or helping out with the horses. The woman, garbed in a modest gray robe, was still visibly reeling from the previous day¡¯s catastrophe, yet she nevertheless approached Lithas and bowed deeply.


    ¡°You ended its terror, Lady Elevated,¡± she began, pausing, ¡°...thank you.¡± Her bloodshot eyes, utterly blank except for a trace of sorrow, locked onto Lithas. ¡°I understand nothing can bring Div back, but at least he can rest peacefully now. He¡¯s avenged. I only wish I could¡¯ve been there in his final moments.¡±


    Lithas could feel the woman¡¯s pain and guilt, mirroring her own. She did not deserve this gratitude. If it had not been for her, that woman¡¯s husband would not have needed revenge in the first place. But she could see that now was not the time. All she could muster was a feeble smile and a nod, which just seemed so inadequate.


    Partially turning over her shoulder, Lithas raised her fist, signaling their departure. Surrounded by the noises of animals and people, she mounted her tall mahogany steed. Without another glance at the widow, she guided her horse forward. The caravan followed.


    They slowly moved out of the compound, carrying their unusual freight, which included a particularly priceless helmet, and headed out of the eastern city gate, toward the long, lonely road ahead. The sunlight was still weak as they switched from following a river tributary to the aged caravan trail. Already, the burgeoning heat of the day was palpable.


    Lithas took a deep breath, feeling the burning air enter her lungs, and savored the sensation. It felt like a cleansing. The day was no better or worse than any other¡ªbut those were the days she lived for. All the days. One day after another.

 Omvar 2 (Chapter 8)

    ¡°In Kel and Imra, ancient sisters twine,


    Where jungles wild, in fierce embrace, recline.


    Kel¡¯s boughs with macaws, proud and free,


    Imra¡¯s vines dance, where monkeys flee.


    Divided by fate, a river¡¯s scar,


    Two cities stand, yet not too far.


    Yet, their wilds grow, untamed, undimmed,


    Nature¡¯s splendor, through ages, brimmed.


    Let Kel and Imra¡¯s kin, at last, decree


    In unity lies strength, the lock and key.


    To mend the rift, to heal, to rise,


    And in renewed bond, touch sacred skies.¡±


    ¨C Fintale, Our World in Words


    A knock on his office door.


    ¡°Come in.¡± Torn from his daydreams, Omvar straightened his tie. The heavy door creaked open, revealing a young woman with fiery red hair and bright green eyes. A tight-fitting black dress emphasized her curves, revealing a tantalizing hint of cleavage. ¡°Ravena,¡± he sighed, a faint smile betraying his composure.


    ¡°A splendid day to you too, my dear Omvar,¡± the woman practically sang, offering a theatrical bow. He rolled his eyes in response.


    It was hard to imagine, looking at her, but as a Kelian Delegate, it would have been barely an inconvenience for Ravena to obliterate him in an instant. Likely none at all. By no means incidentally, she also belonged to that select group of Elevated whose believers were under Omvar¡¯s personal supervision. Ravena had an uncanny knack for manipulating others, effortlessly swaying people even when they were fully conscious of her influence. Omvar had to admit he found her more than a bit alluring, though he tried not to let that cloud his judgment too much. At least not today.


    ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure, Ravena?¡± he asked, striving to maintain a tone of professional neutrality.


    ¡°I just wanted to check if you maybe needed any assistance with your work, that¡¯s all,¡± she replied, sauntering over to his desk and leaning against it. The way the fabric of her dress tightened around her hips as she moved was not lost on Omvar. He quickly averted his gaze, forcing his attention on the shelves of binders behind her.


    ¡°I appreciate your offer, Ravena,¡± he replied, intentionally curt, ¡°but I believe I can handle things on my own today.¡±


    ¡°As you wish.¡± Ravena smirked, eyes glinting mischievously. ¡°But remember, if you require anything, anything at all, you know where to find me,¡± she cooed, tracing her finger along his desk. As she retreated, hips swaying provocatively, Omvar¡¯s eyes lingered a moment too long before snapping back to his desk¡ªhis fingers tapping in restless desire.


    Another sigh, this time inaudible. Many women were drawn to men of power, but the cunning ones were attracted to those who could give them power. After all, who counted too closely whether Ravena gained a couple of new followers? And, if their professional relationship sometimes ventured into the personal realm, could anyone really blame him? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He was never going to get any work done like that.


    ¡°Oh, I nearly forgot,¡± came the purring voice from the doorway, ¡°Minister Tarene wishes to speak with you. Don¡¯t ask me why, I¡¯m just the messenger.¡± Ravena leaned against the doorframe, blowing him a playful air kiss.


    With a sigh, Omvar massaged his temples. Even on a good day, encountering Tarene was not a prospect he relished. He often wondered what the immense machinery that called itself the Ministry of Faith would do, if it were not for Tarene as the embodiment of ruthless efficiency. He certainly knew what he would do. Sleep easier. The woman often came dangerously close to uncovering some of Omvar¡¯s...irregularities.


    He gathered his documents, rose, and straightened his jacket, trying to appear presentable. ¡°Thanks for informing me, Ravena. Actually, I believe I¡¯ll go see her now.¡± Ravena offered a knowing smirk and left without another word, hips swaying as she retreated. He could swear that she liked to see him squirm.


    Shaking off his lingering thoughts about Ravena, Omvar navigated the corridors of the Ministry, heading toward Tarene¡¯s office. His mind was a whirlwind of speculation about why he was being summoned. Could she have found out about his schemes at last? That would be¡­ unfortunate, to say the least. Or was this maybe just a coincidence? Unlikely. Tarene never summoned him without reason; this was no trivial affair. Despite his efforts to remain composed, Omvar felt his level of anxiety rise steadily as he walked.


    He passed several government officials in the hallways, all of whom seemed engrossed in their daily tasks, upholding the Tetrarchy. Just as he was spiraling down another episode of paranoia, a young man donned in formal livery, rushing in the opposite direction, abruptly halted upon noticing Omvar, a frown blooming on his face.


    He waved to get Omvar¡¯s attention. ¡°Excuse me, are you Bureaucrat Second Class ¨C Devotional Allocation Omvar Dravan?¡± Omvar nodded curtly. ¡°Thank. The. Belt!¡± The man looked like his day had been turned from devastating into merely frustrating. ¡°There¡¯s a critical matter that requires your immediate attention. The Minister herself has requested you. Please, come with me.¡±


    Without further ado, he turned on his heel and strode toward the end of the hall, clearly expecting Omvar to follow. So, he thought, we¡¯re not going to her office. A knot of apprehension formed in Omvar¡¯s stomach as he fell in step behind the official. What could be so urgent that it demanded his attention right away?


    After a brief but brisk walk, the man led Omvar into a meeting chamber. A group of men and women stood huddled around a large map on an even larger table at which they agitatedly pointed, engrossed in intense discussion. They all wore robes emblazoned with silver symbols akin to those on the Ministry¡¯s armor. Although Omvar did not recognize all of them, a few faces looked vaguely familiar. Section heads, mostly. Not a good sign in any scenario.


    They seemed to instinctively form a semi-circle around a central figure: a stern-looking woman with short, neatly trimmed gray hair that framed her austere dark face. She wore a crisp black-and-silver ensemble, practical yet flattering. Tarene, the Kelian Minister of Faith. God of gods, as any first-year hire inevitably quips, to the groans of the rest of the office.


    As Omvar tentatively approached the table, Tarene turned her head toward him, prompting the others to follow suit. Omvar cringed inwardly. Every interaction with that woman felt like walking on eggshells.


    ¡°Ah, Omvar, you¡¯re here. Good,¡± Tarene said, voice clipped and all-business. Omvar could swear that this woman would burn down the entire Ministry without blinking an eye, if it was in the interest of the Tetrarchy.


    He swallowed. Now it comes, he thought. The arrest, the torture, the execution. He wondered what the official reason would be, Omvar retired to spend more time with his family? No one crossed the Ministry. No one. You have to have faith in something, after all. Inwardly shaking, Omvar met Tarene¡¯s gaze with what he hoped passed for a defiant look. That was the only thing he could do now, after all.


    ¡°We have a situation on Algis that requires your attention,¡± Tarene explained, gesturing toward the map. As she spoke, the others at the table shifted their attention away, as if already discarding him.


    What? Omvar almost blurted out loud. Not the words he had expected. Ignoring his stunned reaction, Tarene continued, her gaze unflinching. ¡°This morning, we received a report about the discovery of ruins on the island. We think they¡¯re linked to an ancient religious sect that once inhabited the area. Pre-Tetrarchy era.¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    A religious sect? This was certainly a departure from his usual assignments. Omvar risked a glance at the map and spotted the black markers on the small island beyond the Strait of Alghenon, to the south of the Belt. ¡°Okay,¡± he asked slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. ¡°What do you need me to do?¡± Don¡¯t slip up now, he thought, this could end well after all. Maybe just some believer reallocations toward the expedition team or something like that.


    ¡°You, along with a team of contracted Elevated, will travel to Algis to investigate these ruins,¡± Tarene explained briskly, as if Omvar was testing her patience with his questions. ¡°Let me emphasize that this is a simple research mission, nothing out of the ordinary.¡±


    Guess I celebrated too early. ¡°Why me?¡± Omvar asked, suspiciously going through hypotheses. It did not make any sense. He knew next to nothing about investigating old ruins. Omvar could not shake the feeling that he was being set up.


    ¡°You?¡± Tarene echoed, her brow furrowed in consternation. ¡°This has nothing to do with you. He insisted on having you on this mission, fanatically advocating for your expertise in religious matters.¡± She sighed. ¡°I merely indulged him to end the discussion.¡±


    Now it was Omvar¡¯s turn to frown. ¡°He?¡±


    ¡°Greetings, my friend!¡± A booming voice from the direction of the door.


    Omvar clenched his eyes shut, silently wishing for the world to disappear. Maybe, he mused, if I keep my eyes closed for long enough, they will all just go away. Start their silly expedition without me. But, after nothing seemed to happen for a while, he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder and, reluctantly, opened his eyes.


    ¡°Orhan,¡± Omvar pressed through clenched teeth. Despite the chilly reception, Orhan¡¯s grin remained undeterred.


    ¡°Minister Tarene here assigned me to lead the mission to Algis. Guess who I wanted most in the world to accompany me?¡± Omvar¡¯s heart sank at Orhan¡¯s words. ¡°My friend, we will write history together, will we not?¡± Orhan tilted his head to one side. ¡°Or, at least, we will write about history. All the same in the end, I suppose.¡±


    Omvar knew Orhan well enough to understand that when he wanted something, he usually got it. He had a feeling the same was true of Tarene. He groaned inwardly. What have I ever done to deserve being surrounded by these people? ¡°Of course, my friend,¡± he deadpanned. Resigned to his fate, Omvar sighed. ¡°History and adventure, my two favorite pastimes.¡±


    Tarene cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her. ¡°Gentlemen. It is crucial¡ªabsolutely essential¡ªthat we retain control over any potential religious artifacts or relics that you may find on Algis, is that clear? Our understanding of this period in history is murky at best. Orhan will be leading the scientific part of the expedition, but Leftos will command the Elevated.¡±


    ¡°Leftos?!¡± This caused Omvar to whirl around yet again. ¡°You¡¯re dispatching a Delegate on a ¡®simple research mission¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± Tarene¡¯s expression remained steely as she responded. ¡°He will accompany you. The safety of Ministry employees is always our highest priority.¡±


    Before Omvar could express his disbelief, Orhan intervened. ¡°Very well,¡± he said, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. ¡°When do we depart?¡±


    Tarene gestured toward the map table and the veiled figure standing next to it. ¡°You cast off tomorrow morning. I¡¯ll leave the mission details to our liaison from Akhantar, which provides the Elevated accompanying you. Gentlemen, meet Elevated Rashaad. He has been briefed on the situation.¡± With that, she turned and strode out of the room, followed closely by her entourage, who did not even spare them a further glance.


    Omvar and Orhan approached the table and nodded toward the Elevated from Akhantar. Rashaad was a muscular figure, mahogany face partly concealed by a black veil. ¡°Welcome, scholars,¡± he greeted them sternly, yet not without kindness. Official would be the right word for his voice, Omvar decided, muffled by the veil as it was.


    ¡°Thank you, Elevated Rashaad,¡± Orhan replied with a shallow bow. Omvar stayed silent, brooding.


    ¡°As the Minister has informed you, we suspect these ruins on Algis are tied to a long-dead religious sect. The Ministry thinks that there are some sort of artifacts or relics in these ruins. Tarene wants those. Briefly, that¡¯s our mission.¡± Omvar suspected there was a bit more to the mission than Rashaad was telling them, but he kept his suspicions to himself. For now. The last thing he wanted now was to fall further out of favor with Tarene. Maybe there was still a way that all this could end well.


    ¡°I¡¯ve arranged for a fast ship to take us to Algis tomorrow morning,¡± Rashaad continued. ¡°The journey should take a day or two at most. You and Delegate Leftos will be escorted by my team of Elevated and a few soldiers for security. As per our contract with Kel, Akhantar provides the Elevated for this mission. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡±


    As Rashaad outlined the journey, he traced their route on the map with a gauntleted finger, ending on the small brown dot off the Belt coast that represented Algis. The wrong side of the Belt, one might say. Omvar did not particularly like this. Discussions about logistical details continued for a while, but eventually Rashaad instructed them to be at the docks at dawn and dismissed them.


    As they left the room, Omvar pulled Orhan aside. ¡°Orhan, why do you hate me so much?¡± Omvar groaned. ¡°What have I ever done to you?¡±


    Orhan¡¯s bushy brows furrowed in confusion. ¡°In truth, my friend, it¡¯s the opposite. I¡¯m worried about you. Where has your enthusiasm gone, your joy of life? Isn¡¯t it a friend¡¯s duty to save his compatriot from himself?¡±


    ¡°What exactly did you tell Tarene to convince her to let me come on this mission with you?¡±


    ¡°I merely informed her that you were the city¡¯s leading expert on practiced religions. And that I wouldn¡¯t leave Kel without you.¡± Orhan¡¯s grin reappeared. ¡°You should¡¯ve seen her face.¡±


    Omvar groaned. ¡°Yes, on the currently practiced religion, Orhan. Not past beliefs.¡±


    ¡°Cheer up, my friend! This will be an adventure for the ages. We¡¯ll discover incredible treasures and uncover long-forgotten histories.¡±


    Omvar rolled his eyes at Orhan¡¯s enthusiasm. He was already beginning to regret his decision to accompany his friend on this mission. ¡°Just promise me that you won¡¯t get me killed on this mission,¡± Omvar pleaded, sighing deeply.


    ¡°Excellent!¡± Orhan¡¯s grin widened. ¡°You have my word, Omvar. We leave tomorrow at dawn. Into the unknown! I suggest you prepare your things and get some rest before we leave solid ground.¡± Patting Omvar on the back, Orhan vanished down the corridor.


    Omvar massaged his temples as his headache intensified. This was going to be a disaster. He just knew it. Not like he had a choice in the matter though.


    The following morning, Omvar and Orhan navigated the labyrinthine streets of the Lower Mervian district, finally emerging onto the bustling docks of Kel. Merchants peddled cinnamon and cloves from far-off Dorman and wine from Limrod, fishermen haggled over their morning catch, and seafarers roared bawdy tales. Amidst this cacophony lay their vessel to Algis, solemn and expectant.


    The sun had yet to fully rise, but the sailors were already busy loading crates and barrels onto their ship, shouting at each other in a version of his language that Omvar could barely comprehend.


    As they approached the ship, he felt his legs wobble slightly. It had only really occurred to him the previous evening, once the shock of this unexpected assignment had subsided, that he had never been on a ship before. The thought of spending days at sea¡ªeven if it was just the Strait¡ªmade him feel queasy.


    Orhan, on the other hand, was practically bouncing with excitement. ¡°Isn¡¯t this marvelous, my friend?¡± he inquired, grinning from ear to ear. ¡°Doesn¡¯t this rekindle your lust for knowledge?¡±


    ¡°My dear Orhan, I lust for a great many things. At this precise moment, however, my appetites are somewhat... doused.¡±


    ¡°Aha!¡± Orhan halted abruptly, one finger raised. ¡°It¡¯s because you¡¯ve never left Kel before, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Not true! I once attended a seminar in Akhantar. Nice little town.¡± At this, Rashaad, in the middle of a conversation with soldiers next to a stack of crates, shot Omvar a searing look. Omvar shrank into Orhan¡¯s shadow and spotted the two other Akhantari Elevated, Jahan and Zara, deep in their own conversation, beyond the crates. Maybe a bit too deep, for it to be entirely appropriate. Omvar managed a weak smirk. Normal men and women after all.


    As they boarded the ship, the captain, a burly man with a thick beard, greeted them in a deep voice. ¡°Ahoy, gents! Ye be the brainy lads from the Ministry, eh?¡± Without waiting for an answer, he added, ¡°Name¡¯s Cap¡¯n Jorn. We¡¯ll weigh anchor once the swabs are done loadin¡¯ the cargo. Find yerselves a cozy spot, but stay clear of me crew, ye hear?¡± Giving them no more of his attention, he turned and bellowed orders to his sailors. Great.


    Making his way to a corner of the ship, Omvar distinctly felt the vessel sway beneath him. Also great. He cursed Orhan again in his thoughts, for good measure.


    It did not take long until their cargo was stowed, and they could begin their voyage. Sails unfurled, loud commands echoed, and the ship slowly made her way out of Kel¡¯s harbor.


    ¡°Look, can you see the port of Imra on the horizon?¡± Orhan was scanning the horizon with his spyglass and simultaneously jotted down notes, a skill that was a source of both amusement and envy for Omvar. ¡°Did you know they recently developed an improved method for producing steel?¡±


    Omvar did his best to tune him out. Instead, he concentrated on the gentle waves and the not-so-gentle churning in his stomach. The early morning sun draped the horizon in a warm amber glow, and he could taste the salty sea spray. It was almost beautiful.


    Wave after undulating wave, cradling the ship. ¡°I think I¡¯ll go below deck for a while,¡± Omvar muttered, a hint of seasickness creeping in. Behind him, Orhan was alternating between peering through his spyglass and frantically mumbling to himself, fully absorbed. The man likely did not even notice Omvar¡¯s disappearance.


    The smell of saltwater and tar immediately filled Omvar¡¯s nostrils as he descended below deck. The ship was surprisingly spacious, boasting several cabins and a communal area that doubled as a dining hall.


    Omvar had chosen a cabin with a bunk bed and a small porthole, while Orhan opted for a hammock in the communal area. ¡°I want to be close to the action,¡± he had said, winking at Omvar. ¡°Besides, I¡¯ve arranged for a sailor to bring me fresh parchment and ink every day. I¡¯ll be able to continue my research even at sea!¡±


    Omvar shook his head in amused wonder at the thought. Despite his best efforts to resist, Orhan¡¯s child-like enthusiasm was infectious.


    Very well then, he thought, let¡¯s see what this little adventure of ours will bring.

 Interlude 2 (Chapter 9)

    ¡°When in Loratha, don black and red,


    for a warrior¡¯s heart beats within your head.¡±


    ¨C Ethaf ak¡¯Ladir, Proverbs & Poems


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you, the best time to strike is now!¡± Councilman Crove¡¯s face was a blotchy red, his eyes glinting. ¡°They¡¯ve usurped our birthright, they¡¯ve monopolized our resources. Let¡¯s take it back. Let¡¯s take it all back!¡± Crove punctuated his last exclamation with a vehement thump of his fist on the oaken podium before him.


    His fellow council members stared at the old man. At first glance everything looked right. Authentic. His words were bold and defiant¡ªas they so often had been in this chamber¡ªhis posture forward-leaning and aggressive. But most of the men and women in this room knew that this was more than a mere call for justice.


    Crove was motivated by personal gain. A desire to retake control of the Isles of Dust and their resources, redeeming himself and his house from past failures. Yet, the council of Loratha knew, he was not the only one with such motives and could count on the support of a sizable fraction of the council, if rumors were to be believed.


    ¡°Colleagues, we must consider this carefully.¡± Councilwoman Silva, presiding over this session and wearing a chainmail-trimmed black-and-red dress, spoke up. ¡°We¡¯ve invested heavily in this arms race. If we go to war with Demis now¡ªif we don¡¯t achieve a swift victory¡ªwe risk squandering the rest of our resources. And that¡¯s a risk we cannot afford.¡±


    Silva noticed some of the council members murmur in agreement or nod along as she spoke. Good, she thought, but not good enough. Sure, they saw the logic in her arguments, but none had the guts to admit it publicly. Councilman Crove was one of the few who openly advocated for any position. We¡¯re supposed to be martial, and this is how our leaders behave. Crove¡¯s forceful call to the council for a full-scale invasion of Demis, reclaiming the Isles of Dust, had found a lot of silent supporters recently.


    ¡°If we don¡¯t act now,¡± the loathsome man was glaring at her, ¡°we¡¯re just inviting those eagle bastards to strike first. Let¡¯s not pretend that their oh-so-noble prince doesn¡¯t desire Loratha¡¯s riches for his realm. There have been reports of scouts in the north!¡±


    The other council members exchanged wary glances. Few of them wanted to be responsible for the destruction that war would bring. On the other hand, their duty to safeguard Loratha¡¯s people and guarantee their prosperity was undeniable¡ªmainly the latter, for the cowards in this room. She had grown up with these people, she knew their type. Silva sniffed scornfully.


    Parry and riposte, she repeated to herself. Let¡¯s end this before it can really begin. ¡°Councilman Crove,¡± she began, ¡°do I need to remind you that it was your house that led the campaign resulting in our loss of the Isles in the first place?¡±


    Crove¡¯s face became even blotchier, if that was possible, and he opened his mouth. Only to be interrupted by another voice. Just about the last voice that Silva wanted to hear today.


    ¡°Now, now, Councilwoman Silva.¡± A lone figure emerged from the chamber¡¯s shadowed entrance, soft leather soles shuffling quietly on the dusty stone floor. As the council members turned to observe the newcomer, their eyes widened slightly. Silva sighed inwardly.


    ¡°Councilman Crove¡¯s proposal isn¡¯t entirely unreasonable. Our resources are limited after all. How long can we sustain this arms race? How long before they overtake us? Discuss our invasion in their council chamber? Especially with an opponent who monopolizes such a valuable resource as dust. No, we should seize this opportunity and capitalize on our investment.¡±


    With that, Imran Delos took a seat on the stone benches in the front row. Wearing his customary light black armor, interwoven with red bands, and a cold smile that never reached his blue eyes. Imran was fully aware of the attention he commanded. Always had been. Nonchalantly crossing his legs and resting his hands on the attached armrests, he regarded the other council members expectantly.


    ¡°Your timing is impeccable, Councilman Delos,¡± Silva said, voice tinged with sarcasm. ¡°I trust you have something substantial to add to our discussion, not just fearmongering?¡±


    ¡°I do indeed, Councilwoman,¡± Imran nodded thoughtfully. ¡°Thank you for the opportunity. I propose a preemptive strike against Demis.¡± He raised a manicured hand to quell the rising murmur among the council members. ¡°Colleagues. A moment, please. Not a full-scale invasion¡ªnot by any means¡ªjust a smaller operation that will weaken their forces and cripple their ability to launch an attack on us. It¡¯s really just defense, if you think about it. Ensuring Loratha¡¯s safety should be something we can all agree on, after all. We will deploy a portion of our army to launch a surprise attack on Demis itself as a diversion. Meanwhile, the rest of our army will sever their lines of communication, retake the Isles of Dust, and guard our borders. We can then use the Isles¡¯ resources to bolster our military and economy, ensuring our independence and prosperity in the future.¡±


    Imran¡¯s proposal was met with stunned silence. The council members had anticipated bold plans today, yet not ones that were made in earnest. That could even be realized, perhaps. Made it that much harder to say no without losing face.


    After a few tense moments, Crove spoke up. ¡°It¡¯s a bold suggestion, Councilman Delos, and it may even succeed. But I¡¯m worried by the potential casualties we may suffer in this diversion attack that you¡¯re proposing. There are Elevated in Demis.¡±


    You¡¯ve got to be bloody kidding me, Silva thought. Do these two really think the council will buy that? But to her dismay¡ªhorror, really¡ªthe eyes of her colleagues seemed glued to Imran Delos, waiting to hear his response.


    Imran nodded thoughtfully. He cast his gaze around the chamber. Aside from the council, assembled in concentric stone benches around the discussion circle, he spotted Grave, the surly representative of Loratha¡¯s Elevated, Lord Commander Draven of the army, and Fleet Admiral Vespera. Draven, his flat gray eyes in an unblinking stare, gave a nearly imperceptible nod to Imran as their gazes met.


    Imran stood and slowly paced around the room. ¡°My fellow council members. Councilman Crove¡¯s concern is valid and does him credit. I¡¯ve harbored it myself on many occasions. But we must remember, we command the best-trained and most well-equipped army and navy in the region. Our weapons are superior, and our forces more numerous. Don¡¯t fret about Elevated. I just came back from Sariz, loaded with a new shipment of the best dust-steel equipment gold can buy.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Abruptly, he turned to the other side of the circle of benches.


    ¡°I believe¡ªno, I¡¯m convinced¡ªwe can launch a successful attack with minimal casualties. The diversionary force will travel in small groups by land, while our fleet will transport another group of soldiers to the Isles, continuing onward to blockade Demis¡¯ harbor. Once the Isles are secured and the damage is done, the fleet will retrieve the land force and return them safely to Loratha. This operation will not only recover the Isles of Dust and their resources for us, but it¡¯ll also weaken Cerax¡¯ ability to counterattack without exposing his city. Colleagues, friends, I believe we can restore¡ªeven exceed¡ªour country¡¯s wealth and strengthen our borders, if you just give me your support today. Let me bring glory to Loratha.¡±


    More and more council members began to nod as Imran paced, showering them with arguments and counterarguments. His plan seemed risky, sure, but it also held potential for significant gain. And, cleverly if he may admit so himself, it appealed directly to Loratha¡¯s core values. Blood and profit, red and black.


    In hushed waves, the council members quietly weighed Imran¡¯s proposal, while he stood firmly at the center of the discussion circle, hands clasped behind his back. Silva rose, her eyes locked onto Imran¡¯s as if trying to impart a silent warning. He ignored it. Then she gave a curt nod, barely able to conceal the torrent of conflicting emotions beneath her stoic fa?ade.


    ¡°Thank you for sharing your opinion, Imran. Dear colleagues, as per our constitution, we¡¯ll now vote on Councilman Delos¡¯ proposal,¡± she announced coolly. ¡°Those in favor of launching a preemptive strike against Demis, please show your support.¡±


    Slowly, hands started their rise from within the crowd of councilors. With controlled composure, Imran watched the unfolding verdict. This is it, he thought. If this fails, everything will fail.


    Frustratingly slowly, one after another, council members raised their hands. Crove was among the first to raise his hand in support of Imran¡¯s plan. Others were more hesitant, casting sidelong glances at Silva, who did not raise her hand and stood stiffly at the podium, gaze fixed on the distant wall.


    Imran let his eyes wander across his yet undecided colleagues. There, a vote from Gordan Thelas, grown fat and rich by hiring out Lorathan mercenaries. Another hand rose. Aisha Va, a former rear admiral of dubious reputation, now in the business of insuring ships rather than captaining them. Veras Domon, Crove¡¯s business partner and owner of most Lorathan smithies.


    Mentally, Imran was tallying. They were close now. Just one more, one more vote and victory was theirs. Uneasily, he shifted his weight from one foot to another.


    There.


    In the back, Lord Commander Draven slowly raised his mailed fist. That was it. The majority had spoken; the decision was made. Loratha had chosen war. With Imran¡¯s plan in place, Demis would soon be visited by a surprise attack. He smiled.


    When the commotion finally died down, the council started to disperse, men and women streaming toward the wide, embossed doors. Imran rose, methodically smoothing his sleeves. Silva swung around to face him, her expression twisted with anger. ¡°I thought better of you, brother¡± she spat. ¡°You know full well what this decision could cost us.¡±


    Imran met her gaze calmly, saying nothing. He found this to be most effective with his older sister. He was quickly proven right. Disgusted, Silva shook her head and stormed out of the chamber, heavy robes billowing behind her.


    He watched her leave and, after a pause, followed suit. Outside, a harsh wind carried the acrid scent of burning coal and molten iron from the city¡¯s many forges, but Imran barely registered it. He now carried the weight of the council¡¯s decision in his heart, as his steps took him toward a future that he had helped shape.


    Two guards, armed with spears and scimitars, emerged from the shadows, their armor clinking softly. Acknowledging them with a nod, Imran began to walk the streets of Loratha, his guards trailing behind him. Outsiders coming here often described Loratha as ¡®war-like¡¯. A fitting label for the city, he thought, as his gaze swept over towering walls, fortified gates, and sharp spikes protruding from grimy stone walls. War was what they did best, after all.


    The gray sky above him was heavy with smoke, and a thin fog covered everything like a damp blanket. Yet, amidst all that bleakness, there were vibrant signs of life in Loratha.


    Sprawling markets were abuzz with activity, as merchants haggled loudly over their wares and grizzled veterans kept a watchful eye on the scene. Children darted about with wooden swords. Artisans showcased their intricate jewelry in open stalls.


    Yet, despite all that hustle and bustle, there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the air, as if everyone sensed that something was about to happen. Something big. Soldiers saluted Imran at each corner he passed. Everywhere he looked weapons were being brandished, even more than usual in Loratha. Murals depicted sky-blue eagles being torn apart by spears.


    There was no denying it, his city was ready for war.


    Back at his manor, Imran savored a sip of his wine, allowing the earthy notes of the robust Limrodian red to linger on his tongue. He had done it. He had persuaded the council to declare war on Demis. He hardly could believe it himself. His plan was in motion. A shiver raced down Imran¡¯s spine, his fingers involuntarily tightening around the stem of his wine glass.


    The door to his study creaked open, and Lord Commander Draven stepped in. Draven¡ªas always in his midnight-black heavy armor, laced with bright crimson accents along the edges¡ªhad a weathered face, marked by scars. A face more accustomed to the battlefield than the refined surroundings of a councilman¡¯s city manor.


    ¡°Crove played his part well,¡± Draven declared, forgoing formal greetings.


    Accustomed to the man¡¯s directness, Imran smiled. ¡°Indeed, he did. His ties with the merchants and bankers of Loratha were influential enough to sway their vote. Silva may grumble; her loyalties to the old ways run deep. But she knows as well as I do that times have changed. The council stands with us, and she won¡¯t risk fracturing it.¡±


    Draven nodded, his flat gaze never leaving Imran. The Lord Commander stepped closer, placing a heavy arm on Imran¡¯s shoulder. ¡°The Isles of Dust,¡± Draven murmured, eyes clouded as if reliving distant memories. ¡°I lost friends there, Delos. Good friends. We¡¯re not just taking islands; we¡¯re reclaiming lives.¡±


    Imran nodded in agreement. He never particularly liked this man¡ªas far as he knew, nobody ¡®liked¡¯ Lord Commander Draven¡ªbut, for now, he needed him. He, Imran Delos, had set the course for war, and he would see it through, to the end. No matter the cost. ¡°What of the preparations?¡± he asked.


    ¡°On their way,¡± came Draven¡¯s prompt reply, ¡°Ground troops already march toward the enemy since last week. In a few weeks, our fleet sails¡ªfor the Isles and Demis.¡±


    ¡°So, the original plan still stands?¡± Imran studied Draven with a guarded look.


    A fleeting expression of dismissal crossed the general¡¯s scarred face. ¡°It never wavered. We¡¯ll have all the support we need from the north, I made sure of that.¡±


    Imran shook his head slightly. He had his suspicions about Draven¡¯s contacts in that remote place, but he had respected the general¡¯s silence on the matter. They had a common goal, after all.


    ¡°So be it,¡± Imran finally responded. He looked out the window, to the star-studded night sky and its glittering reflection on the water in the bay below. On the horizon, he liked to think that he could see the faint outline of the islands, just waiting to be conquered. He drained his glass, the warmth of the Limrodian red spreading through his chest.


    Crimson into his body, crimson painted on bodies of soldiers like Draven, and soon, crimson spilled out of bodies, like a flood. There was no turning back now. Lycar would burn, before it could heal.

 Irthal 3 (Chapter 10)

    ¡°In the pirate wars, before the Concordate, the fall of Kyrta was a pivotal moment. Though the city¡¯s defenders fought bravely against the Duke of Ustil¡¯s forces, they were eventually overwhelmed by the emerging alliance of Feltis principalities. The once proud Kyrta was left in ruins. Its people scattered to distant shores, its wealth plundered, its very soul extinguished. The destruction of Olban¡¯s strongest ally thus marked a turning point, with the Duke of Ustil emerging as unopposed master of the Trifelt.¡±


    ¨C Sarai Valtair, From Tricorn to Trifelt: A comprehensive history


    Moonlight glistened on scattered puddles between cobblestones. Bored guards lazily patrolled the dark streets around the docks. Tucked away in a nearby alley, Irthal huddled next to his friends, the moon casting a pale light on their faces. They blended well into the night, the hoods over their heads making them almost indistinguishable from the dark alley, as they clutched small, sharp knives.


    Earlier, Lurgon had outlined their plan for infiltrating the warehouse. ¡°Alright, so here¡¯s what we¡¯re going to do. Sevastian and I will handle the guards. We¡¯ll make sure they don¡¯t see anything.¡± Sevastian had nodded at that, a determined look on his face. ¡°Meanwhile, Mythas and Irthal will keep their eyes peeled for any trouble and signal if things go south.¡±


    Everyone had agreed in the end as Irthal had urged them to get the pendant, albeit with a healthy mixture of resolution and nervousness. Sam was probably the only one genuinely pleased with the arrangement, tasked with remaining aboard their ship, keeping everything ready for a hasty exit, if needed. It had been several weeks now, since their purchase of the ship. Weeks spent mending and fine-tuning everything they could on their new vessel. They were ready.


    So here they were now. Though it was not exactly their maiden venture into such operations. They had realized long ago that honest work could only go so far to fund their ambitions¡ªcertainly not enough to equip and launch an open-ocean expedition. Occasionally, one needed to supplement income by unconventional means.


    ¡°Tell me again why we have to risk our necks for this little stone of yours?¡± Lurgon, opposite Irthal, growled.


    ¡°Some of us don¡¯t have their mothers around anymore, Lurgon,¡± Irthal hissed. ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll understand one day.¡± A soft snort from the big man.


    ¡°Quiet,¡± Mythas whispered. Hunched down next to Irthal, she kept scanning the street. ¡°They should be here any moment.¡±


    As if summoned by her words, two guards rounded the corner, their heavy boots thudding against the wet cobblestones. Seemingly without a care in the world, they chatted jovially and chuckled as they made their way toward the warehouse. With bated breath, Irthal waited until the guards were past their alley. He only dared to exhale once their backs came into view.


    Lurgon signaled Sevastian to get moving. Yet, before either of them could so much as exit the alleyway, Mythas rose. Restless, she looked at Lurgon and whispered, ¡°Let¡¯s spice this up a bit.¡± Dumbfounded, Lurgon could only watch as Mythas sprang into action, charging toward the guards.


    She darted with the grace of a dancer, movements swift and fluid. Hearing steps, the guards started to turn. But before they could so much as react, Mythas whacked one man on the temple with the butt of her knife. Hard. His body crumpled to the ground as if his bones had dissolved.


    While the unfortunate first guard made his rather quick journey toward the ground, Mythas kicked the other guard in the back of his knee, sending him sprawling. Even as he raised his hand in a delayed attempt at defense, she drew a cudgel with her free hand and hammered his helmet with all her might. The profound thud was echoed by a softer one as the guard tumbled onto the glistening cobblestones.


    Within moments, both guards lay unconscious on the ground. Sevastian and Lurgon emerged from the alley, staring at Mythas in surprise and no small amount of fury. ¡°What the hell was that for?¡± Sevastian asked, mouth open and brows locked in a furious knot.


    Mythas shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eyes. ¡°Just thought I¡¯d speed things up,¡± she responded, grinning. ¡°We¡¯ve got places to be, after all.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re mad. Utterly unhinged,¡± Lurgon interjected, his face flushed with rage. ¡°Irthal, do something. This madwoman could¡¯ve gotten us all killed!¡±


    ¡°But I didn¡¯t, did I, Lurgon?¡± Mythas was still cheerful, but her voice had taken on a sharper edge.


    ¡°Everyone, calm down,¡± Irthal hissed, ¡°The important thing is that it worked, and next time we¡¯ll coordinate better. Everyone happy? Now move on, before the next patrol comes along!¡±


    Despite murmurs of discontent, the group swiftly moved toward the warehouse, hearts pounding with adrenaline.


    Mere silhouettes in the night, they slipped inside, heading for Gelman¡¯s office. They spotted another guard at a corner. ¡°This time, you let us do the job!¡± Lurgon cautioned Mythas with a warning finger.


    ¡°Suit yourself,¡± she replied with a nonchalant shrug.


    Lurgon huffed indignantly but gestured for Sevastian to flank the guard from his left. Keeping to the shadowed walls of the warehouse corridor, the two men stealthily approached the drowsy guard from opposite directions.


    After exchanging a flurry of hand signs, Sevastian pounced on the guard¡¯s back, making sure to keep one cloth-covered hand firmly clamped down over the man¡¯s mouth. Just as the man began to emit muffled protests, Lurgon joined in, driving his fist into the unsuspecting guard¡¯s abdomen.


    With a choked gasp, the man fell to his knees, further inhaling the potent fumes from the cloth on Sevastian¡¯s hand. His eyes gradually rolled back into his head, and he toppled to the side. Lurgon smoothly caught him, guiding his body gently to the ground.


    With a self-satisfied, that¡¯s-how-it¡¯s-done glance at Mythas, Lurgon started to sneak onward. Mythas rolled her eyes as she rose from her corner. ¡°Sometimes, I really can¡¯t stand that guy,¡± she murmured to Irthal.


    ¡°The pair of you will be the death of me.¡± Irthal shook his head as a wry smile formed on his lips. Mythas gave him a wild grin and playfully shoved Irthal¡¯s shoulder. They joined the others in their covert approach. Ahead, Lurgon just finished picking the lock on Gelman¡¯s office door with practiced ease, and they slipped inside the dark office.


    As he scanned the room, Irthal felt his heart pound fiercely against his chest. There it was. His family¡¯s pendant sat on the desk, the thin amethyst lines weaving across the silver cylinder. He extended his hand as he rushed toward it.


    Suddenly, a sound from outside the door made Irthal freeze, his hand hovering just above the pendant. The others looked at him, faces filled with panic. Mythas rushed to the door, pressing her ear against it. ¡°There are voices,¡± she hissed. ¡°Someone¡¯s coming. We need to hurry.¡±


    Irthal¡¯s fingers closed around the pendant. For a moment, time seemed to slow. ¡°Got it,¡± he whispered, barely daring to breathe.


    Even before Irthal could turn around, the door burst open and four guards stormed into the room. Slipping the cold pendant into his pocket, dread raced down Irthal¡¯s spine as he pivoted to face the intruding men. He did not like the odds of them facing down armed guards in a confined space.


    ¡°Run!¡± he yelled, backing away from the desk.


    But the guards surged forward, shortswords and cudgels drawn and ready as they cut off their route of escape. Irthal made sure they all had their daggers and cudgels out in turn, but they were no match for the guards. Not in a fair fight. He took a deep breath.


    Sidestepping a blow aimed at his head, Irthal took a calculated step to his left, planning to position himself closer to the office door for a swift escape. He fervently hoped his comrades were doing the same.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The guard before him readied himself for his next assault when Lurgon appeared from Irthal¡¯s side. ¡°I¡¯ll take this one!¡± he bellowed, lunging forward with his cudgel targeted at the guard¡¯s head. The guard, however, leaned back just in time, causing Lurgon¡¯s cudgel to land on his chest instead.


    From the corners of his eyes, Irthal saw Sevastian capitalize on Lurgon¡¯s distraction, engaging another guard with frenzied slashes of his dagger. Whatever he was doing appeared to be effective, as an angry grunt erupted from the guard. But then, his companion, having recovered from Lurgon¡¯s assault, materialized beside Sevastian and landed a harsh blow on his side. With his focus scattered, Irthal lost track of Lurgon¡¯s whereabouts.


    Across the room, the remaining two guards, visibly furious by now, lunged forward ferociously. A spray of blood from Sevastian¡¯s direction caught Irthal¡¯s attention. He instinctively dodged an incoming attack, but not before feeling a sharp sting as a blade grazed his own cheek. Warm blood trickled down his face, pattering onto the wooden floor beneath him.


    Feeling a sudden jolt of panic, Irthal brought his hand to his face, fingers coming away slick with his own blood. He needed to act fast if they wanted to make it out of this alive.


    While he steeled himself for a desperate lunge, Mythas had already darted behind the guards, her dagger raised menacingly. Without another moment¡¯s worth of hesitation, she plunged it into the nearest guard¡¯s neck. The man collapsed with a gurgle. Shocked, the other guard turned to confront her but was met with a heavy blow to the head from Lurgon, rendering him unconscious.


    Stepping away from the growing pool of blood from the dying guard, Lurgon and Irthal exchanged a worried glance. Then the sound of groaning redirected their attention to the guard who had been assaulted earlier by Sevastian. Whatever had happened to the man, he was now writhing on the floor in pain, leaving only one remaining guard. Who was currently occupied with kicking a prostrate Sevastian, completely oblivious to the rest of the room.


    Bloody dagger in hand, Mythas began to purposefully stride toward the man. Oh no, Irthal thought, not again. He quickly bypassed her and, with Lurgon¡¯s assistance, tipped over a cabinet filled with ledgers, trapping the guard beneath it with a muffled thud.


    Irthal briefly took in the room, strewn with bodies and debris. ¡°We¡¯ve got to leave, now. To the door! Let¡¯s hope the other guards haven¡¯t heard the commotion,¡± he commanded, not entirely convinced by his own optimism. But the others nodded curtly.


    Mythas aided a groaning Sevastian to his feet, who thanked her with a pained expression. ¡°Anything broken?¡± Lurgon queried.


    ¡°Don¡¯t think so,¡± Sevastian gingerly probed his ribs. ¡°But I¡¯ll have a few interesting colors by tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Well, let¡¯s hope that¡¯s the case,¡± Mythas quipped cheerfully. ¡°Would mean we survived this, after all.¡±


    They cautiously navigated out of the office and through the shadowy corridors of the warehouse. Irthal could not believe their luck as the warehouse doors came into his view after a brief jog.


    And that was when they heard the cries of alarm from Gelman¡¯s office, behind them.


    Their momentary respite seemed to be over. Irthal led their renewed escape toward the doors, intent on using their head start over the newly alerted guards. But no matter how hard he pushed, the doors just would not budge. Glancing downward, his heart sank as he saw the cause.


    They had barred the doors. This was not good. The approaching footfalls of the guards left them with no time to remove the heavy oak bar. They needed to keep moving. A sense of panic began to grip Irthal as he frantically scanned the warehouse, searching for another way out.


    ¡°Over here, quick!¡± Lurgon beckoned urgently, pointing to a small window in the corner of a corridor. Not waiting for the others, he swiftly unlocked it, flung it open, and leapt out of the warehouse. Irthal hastily followed suit. A gust of cool night air greeted him as he hit the ground, rolling to soften the impact. Still, pain flared in his shoulder, numbing swiftly as he forced himself to his feet.


    ¡°Go, go, go!¡± Sevastian shouted next to him, slightly limping. The group burst into a sprint, their feet pounding on the cobblestones in a desperate rhythm, the clamor of their pursuers becoming a growing echo behind them. Irthal was sure that the only thing that saved them were years of operating in the shadows, the rush of adrenaline propelling them just a bit faster than their pursuers.


    Pain throbbed in his cheek. He had barely noticed the cut until now. Being in the lead, he risked a glance back at his companions, to take in the situation. Mythas flashed him a grin, her teeth a stark contrast against the darkness, while Lurgon impatiently waved him onward.


    He could hear the enraged shouts of the guards behind them, followed by a metallic clang right next to Irthal on the cobblestone street. His mind almost did not comprehend it. They¡¯re shooting at us!


    ¡°Everyone, zigzag!¡± he shouted. At the next intersection, they veered sharply to the right, seeking to disrupt the archers¡¯ line of sight. Their footsteps echoed on the dirty road as they¡ªgasping for breath¡ªsprinted around corners and through the maze of dockside alleys.


    Behind him, Irthal heard piercing howls.


    ¡°They¡¯ve unleashed the hounds!¡± Sevastian¡¯s voice wavered with anxiety. Irthal could see why. Outpacing humans was one thing. But they could not outrun dogs, not under the best circumstances. Still, they pushed themselves even harder, ships and warehouses flashing past them in a rapid blur.


    Irthal¡¯s heart pounded against his ribcage as he scanned the harbor for their ship. It had to come any moment now. Either that, or this whole thing would be over before it even began.


    Finally, he saw it¡ªa compact, sturdy vessel that promised a safe voyage ahead. That was all he wanted right now. They nearly collided with the ship in their haste, scrambling aboard, panting and dripping with sweat.


    ¡°Did you get it?¡± Sam asked anxiously, her eyes on Irthal.


    ¡°Cast off, Sam! Now!¡± Irthal managed to gasp out. His sides felt as if someone had skewered them with a thousand daggers and, despite the cool breeze, he was sweating profusely.


    ¡°But it¡¯s still dark. The sun¡¯s just starting to rise. You know how dangerous it can be to sail out of the harbor at this hour!¡±


    Lurgon was about to knock some sense into Sam, when she stiffened. ¡°Guards! All hands on deck, we¡¯re casting off!¡± Sam had turned a sickly pale but her voice remained firm.


    Irthal watched as, amid their exhausted, wheezing forms, the crew sprang into action. Sails unfurled and mooring ropes were severed. They had been ready.


    A group of silhouettes rushed out of an alley onto the dock, barking furiously. The hounds had caught up to them. Moments later, more shapes followed; guards, their shouts matching the dogs in intensity.


    The waning moonlight briefly glinted silver off the guards¡¯ arrows as they aimed them at the departing ship. Moments later, whistling filled the air. Most arrows splashed into the water, or embedded themselves as quivering decorations in their hull, but a few reached the deck. One of their hired sailors let out a yelp as an arrow punctured his calf.


    ¡°Give them a moment longer, and they¡¯ll rain fire upon us,¡± Irthal stressed. ¡°We have to get out of here. Quick!¡± The ship began to gain momentum as it danced over the waves, slinking its way through the dark, looming shapes in the harbor, barely visible in the shy dawn light.


    ¡°Steer clear, steer clear!¡± Sam cried out in a mix of frustration and desperation as they neared a merchant cog blocking their way out of port. ¡°We¡¯ll capsize if we hit that.¡±


    With an ominous creaking sound, their ship slowly¡ªagonizingly slowly¡ªaltered its course, veering away from the moored merchant ship. Until the last moment, Irthal was convinced they were going to collide and sink. That would certainly have been an effective way to cut this adventure short. He closed his eyes, expecting to hear snapping timber and screams any moment now.


    Yet nothing happened. Miraculously, they glided past the hulking vessel with just a few handspans of clearance. Irthal allowed himself to exhale. Some of the sailors were attending to their injured companion, while others ensured they did not collide with any other docked ship, or the dock itself. Every passing second now seemed to nudge them further toward safety. Despite the guards dashing along the docks in pursuit, fewer and fewer arrows reached their ship.


    After a heart-stopping chase that felt like an eternity to Irthal, but likely spanned mere minutes (if at all), they finally navigated the mouth of the harbor into the open sea. Casting one final triumphant glance at their thwarted pursuers, Irthal joined his companions at the bow. Around him, the constraining harbor gradually receded, replaced by the boundless expanse of pale orange water in the first touches of dawn.


    ¡°That could¡¯ve gone better,¡± Sevastian commented with a faint half-smile, scrutinizing a sword-cut on his arm that had finally stopped bleeding.


    ¡°Well, it looks like we¡¯ve made it,¡± Mythas remarked cheerfully. The only of them who seemed to have escaped their heist unscathed. ¡°Off to riches and adventure, I¡¯d say.¡±


    ¡°Not so fast,¡± Lurgon interjected forcefully, ¡°you can bet your ass that the first thing these goons will do is rouse Gelman. And the second, right after that, will be to outfit a ship to hunt us down. Gelman simply can¡¯t afford a reputation of someone that can be stolen from. He¡¯s got no choice. And, let¡¯s not forget, we¡¯re now murderers too, on top of everything else.¡± His last remark was accompanied by a scathing look at Mythas, who seemed unruffled by Lurgon¡¯s glare.


    ¡°Better them than us, I reckon,¡± she shrugged nonchalantly.


    Leaving the two to their squabble, Irthal began to clean the cut on his cheek with a damp cloth. This will probably leave a mark, he thought. A reminder for the price we pay for the things we hold dear.


    Then, fingers still trembling, Irthal Kedan returned his family¡¯s amulet to its rightful place around his neck, its familiar silver weight nestling against his collarbone.


    The wind¡ªsailors called it the ¡®Breath of Olban¡¯¡ªpropelled them forward as they bid their home farewell, the ship slicing through the waves with ease. Irthal manned the helm, his gaze sweeping the horizon, already imagining distant lands. Sam had dispatched Sevastian and Lurgon below deck to make sure the crew was doing their job. Only Mythas remained by Irthal¡¯s side, eyes fixated on the water.


    Some of them would come to see Olban again, in time. But they would not recognize it. Little did they know, they were beginning a journey that would shape their lives and the world around them.


    If only they knew.


    If only.

 Lithas 3 (Chapter 11)

    ¡°During initial conditioning, subject X714 demonstrates exceptional control over the intensity and direction of the heat she produces. Her psychological resilience and capability to learn suggest significant potential for deployment as a powerful asset in the assigned designation¡¯s political and military landscape. Recommend increased intensity in personality reformation sessions.¡±


    ¨C Elevated training report #6B27, Lhasa, Year 303 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    With the sun already climbing toward its zenith, Lithas decided to call for a halt for the day.


    The first two days of her eastward journey had passed by quickly, the proximity of the Selvian desert forcing them to mostly travel between dawn and midday. Their progress would be faster once they reached the edges of Sariz Bay and veered south. For now, between the overwhelming heat of the desert and constant incursions of memories from Sariz¡¯ bazaar¡ªof blood and fire¡ªLithas yearned for a rest.


    She urged her horse forward, riding past the wagons to survey the surrounding terrain. The landscape here was smooth and flat, offering little cover for potential ambushers. That was good. Of course, it also meant that anyone who cared could spot them from miles away. Armed men and women had been spotted around these parts recently. They would need to be careful.


    Satisfied with what she saw, Lithas slowed her steed and made a sharp turn, circling back toward the convoy. She had to admit that she really liked her new Tibaran horse, despite the thoughts every look at her steed summoned. One hand raised, she signaled to the caravan and pulled up alongside the first wagon.


    The driver, an older man sporting a sparse crop of greying hair, turned to her expectantly. ¡°We¡¯ll halt here for the day,¡± declared Lithas offhandedly.


    Accepting her command silently, the man turned and shouted something unintelligible toward the back of the wagon, where people were emerging, preparing for a break. Other drivers quickly mirrored his actions, and soon the whole caravan was busy arranging itself into a protective semicircle.


    Satisfied, Lithas dismounted and walked around the wagons. A pat on a shoulder here, a nod there. It all carried unspoken words of assurance. She recognized the flicker of relief in the eyes of her people; leadership had its own, silent language. Soon, she reached her guard captain, Kellen, who was busily driving posts into the packed earth.


    ¡°Captain,¡± she greeted him. ¡°All goes well, I take it?¡±


    Kellen straightened, eyes squinting against the sun as he wiped the sweat from his weathered brow. ¡°All quiet here, my lady. The caravan¡¯s safe, for now.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± said Lithas. ¡°We¡¯ll need to be extra vigilant now that we¡¯re this far out into the desert. You know how it is, it¡¯s flat as glass out there. There may be raiders watching us, so stay sharp.¡± She cast a fleeting glance over the caravan before focusing on Kellen again.


    ¡°You¡¯ve done well, Kellen, I see that,¡± she said, leaning in closer, ¡°but I fear the real danger will not confront us during our journey. When we reach Demis, I¡¯ll need your assistance more than ever¡ªcan I rely on you?¡±


    Kellen locked eyes with her, his face a map of old scars and hard-won battles. ¡°I¡¯ve seen worse than desert raiders, my lady. They won¡¯t stop me. When the time comes, I¡¯ll stand my ground. Anything you need. You have my word.¡±


    Lithas studied his rough face intently. Satisfied with what she found there, she nodded. Not that she really needed any guards to begin with. But they did cut down on the robbery attempts. Those grew tiresome after a while. And, though she was reluctant to admit it, she did like to flaunt the open display of power that a battalion of armed guards tended to project. We all have our weaknesses.


    Shielding her eyes from the blinding sun, Lithas continued her inspection of the caravan. As she neared the final wagon, she noticed one of her guards, a young man named Kael, sitting by himself with his head downcast. He was new, probably his first expedition in her retinue. She remembered Kellen picking him from their latest round of applicants.


    Acting on an impulse, Lithas sat down next to him. ¡°What¡¯s troubling you, Kael?¡±


    Kael looked up, startled by her proximity. It would have been amusing, had it not been such a common reaction to her presence. Initially, guards in her entourage maintained a respectful distance¡ªlike the citizens of Sariz did in general¡ªbut, over time, a certain familiarity was inevitable. She sometimes idly wondered whether any of her guards was assigned to her in more ways than one. Would not be the first time that someone tried to be as close as possible to their god.


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s really nothing, my lady,¡± Kael stammered. ¡°Just thinking about my family back in Sariz. It¡¯s my first time outside the city. But I¡¯ll get used to it.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡± Lithas placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling the thick muscles tense further under her touch. ¡°It¡¯s not easy to be away from loved ones, especially on a dangerous journey. I¡¯ve had a very similar situation in my youth, in the south. But remember, we¡¯re all in this together. We¡¯ll watch each other¡¯s backs here and make sure we all make it to Demis safely. And back home of course.¡±


    Gradually Kael seemed to relax. She waited a while longer before she removed her hand again. Lithas considered him. The boy must be around my age, come to think of it.


    ¡°Thank you, my Lady.¡± Kael offered a grateful smile. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best to keep myself focused on the mission. It¡¯s an honor to serve you.¡±


    Returning his smile warmly, Lithas whispered, ¡°Sometimes leadership means carrying the weight of others¡¯ fears. Keep that in mind.¡± She rose and returned to her horse.


    Trotting around the camp, Lithas spotted a minor ridge, not far from their resting spot. While it was not exactly a commanding position, it would afford her a pretty good perspective to oversee the surrounding flatlands. She mounted her horse. Maybe she would be able to see something, or someone.


    Lithas directed her Tibaran steed up the rocky incline and dismounted. She discarded her cloak, spreading it over a boulder before settling down on it. From here, she could see the caravan below, crawling with figures as they prepared camp, and the lands stretching out beyond. Not a soul in sight, except for her party.


    Perhaps there was time for a bit of calm then. Seeking a moment of solace, she raised her hand, and the surrounding air shimmered as if touched by a mirage. A soothing coolness engulfed her¡ªa fleeting luxury. Maintaining this would drain her too swiftly to be sustainable, but occasionally, she liked to indulge herself.


    Eyes closed, Lithas drew in several deep breaths, savoring the distinct aroma of the desert. The smell of sand and sun-baked earth was almost all-encompassing by the time she felt another presence.


    What¡­


    ¡°May I join you?¡± A raspy voice, gentle as a desert zephyr. Somehow, she knew that she was in no danger.


    Lithas opened her eyes to find an old man with wispy hair before her, dressed in a worn-out yellow robe. ¡°Who are you?¡± she asked, her brows furrowed.


    Ignoring her question, the man interpreted her response as consent and gingerly lowered himself beside Lithas. ¡°Did you know,¡± the man began, his gaze fixed on the caravan, ¡°that Selvi himself built the road you¡¯re following? Planted the date palms down the road? The god-king¡¯s imprint is evident all around us.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Lithas replied sardonically, ¡°his marks truly are everywhere. Especially above places. Nisur, Qamir, Ubarah. Every grain of sand, a blessing from Selvi.¡± She lazily traced letters into the sand before her as she spoke. ¡°You still haven¡¯t told me your name, old man.¡±


    Turning his aged face toward her, a pained expression etched in his pale gray eyes, he sighed. ¡°You can call me Avila,¡± he half-whispered.


    ¡°The philosopher? He¡¯s been dead for a century.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve immersed myself in his studies so deeply throughout my life that the lines have blurred a bit, I must confess.¡± He seemed to contemplate his next words. ¡°¡®Desert¡¯s flower,¡¯ that¡¯s what he called Sariz, did you know? If you pour enough water into the desert, a splendid flower will blossom, if you allow the paraphrasing.¡± Avila fixed her with an odd look. ¡°I know your name, Lithas ak¡¯Var,¡± he stated. ¡°I know what you want to do.¡±


    Lithas arched an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I follow.¡±


    He shook his head. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter. Not yet, at least. Perhaps never.¡±


    Growing impatient, Lithas motioned for him to elaborate. Avila seemed to scrutinize her caravan, taking a moment before speaking. ¡°What is the purpose of all this? Tell me, Lithas. Why are you traveling down this road?¡±


    With an inscrutable expression, Lithas stared back at him. ¡°I¡¯m not even sure how I should get started on answering this. You seem to know quite a lot for a lonely wanderer, ¡®Avila¡¯. What is it that you want?¡±


    ¡°Countering questions with questions.¡± The old man chuckled, a dry grin forming on his lips. ¡°You would¡¯ve made an excellent scholar, Lithas ak¡¯Var.¡± He scooped up a handful of sand, allowing it to slip through his fingers. ¡°This isn¡¯t about me. It never was. I just wander and learn. Humor an old man¡¯s curiosity and let him wander with you. I would so very much like to see how this all unfolds.¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Lithas studied Avila for a moment (great, now she was really calling him like that in her thoughts), trying to gauge his intentions. He seemed harmless enough, but she knew better than to take anyone at face value in this area. She could not quite put her finger on it but something about him was off, something unsettling. What was that old saying again, she thought, keep your enemies closer than your friends? Lithas leaned back, her posture subtly shifting to a more relaxed stance¡ªthough her eyes remained vigilant. She would have to see what this new surprise would bring.


    ¡°Alright, old man,¡± she said finally. ¡°You may travel with us for a time, but don¡¯t interfere with my mission or my guards.¡±


    Avila nodded, a smile playing on his lips. ¡°Of course, I won¡¯t get in the way. I merely observe.¡±


    Shifting her attention back to the caravan, Lithas scanned the horizon. Still nothing. She could not shake the feeling of being watched, yet all she could do for now was stay alert. Rising from the dusty ground, she collected her cloak and took her horse by the reins. Behind her, Avila wordlessly followed along.


    Together, they walked back to the caravan, with Lithas¡¯ mind being fully occupied with imagining what kind of trouble they would encounter on their journey. Her caravans sometimes took this route, on their way to Tibara in the east. It was the same route her parents had been traveling on, when they were murdered¡ªso many years ago. She had heard rumors, recently, of desert tribes¡ªor soldiers, depending on the tale¡ªambushing unwary travelers on this route, but she hoped they would be able to avoid them. She had enough of fighting for a while, after that encounter with the sandwyrm. Now, with Avila¡¯s presence adding to this bag of mysteries, she was beginning to worry. Too many uncertainties. Something had to give, eventually.


    ¡°Kellen,¡± she called out, motioning for him to join her. ¡°We need to talk.¡±


    Kellen nodded and jogged over to her side, snapping to attention. ¡°Report, my lady. What¡¯s the situation?¡±


    ¡°New addition to the convoy. Avila here will be riding in one of the wagons.¡± She half-turned, shielding their conversation, before she continued in a low voice. ¡°I want eyes on him at all times.¡±


    Kellen¡¯s gaze flicked to Avila, sizing him up before locking eyes with Lithas again. ¡°Understood, my lady. I¡¯ll have someone detail him.¡±


    Lithas nodded. ¡°Good.¡± She turned to Avila. ¡°We break camp early tomorrow, shortly before dawn.¡± Sniffing the air, Lithas immediately made out the goat stew that was already being ladled out into bowls. ¡°You¡¯re in luck. You came just in time for dinner.¡±


    Throughout the meal, Lithas kept a watchful eye on Avila. He seemed at ease, engaging in polite conversation and enjoying the food. Then, one of her men, midway through his stew, turned toward Avila. ¡°Old man, where did you last stop? Any news from the world outside Sariz?¡±


    Avila took a sip of water before replying. ¡°Oh yes, I¡¯ve traveled far and wide, my friend. My last stop, many nights ago, was in Tibara. No happy news from there. Elevated Ifthal of Tibara drowned recently, with no word of replacement from Maht yet. The people there grow restless. It¡¯s hard, not having someone to worship, someone to talk to, in the dark hours between night and dawn. Beyond that, there¡¯s not much news to share, I¡¯m afraid. Just the usual squabbles between tribes and cities in the desert.¡±


    The soldier nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and returned to this stew. Lithas, however, had tensed at the mention of another Elevated, especially Ifthal. She¡¯d met him once during a caravan journey. He seemed like a decent man; you¡¯d almost forgotten that he was practically a god. She tried to maintain a calm fa?ade, playing innocent. ¡°Have you ever met an Elevated yourself, Avila?¡±


    ¡°Me? No, not personally,¡± Avila shook his head. ¡°Not until today, at any rate.¡± His eyes glinted mischievously, ¡°But their tales are woven into the fabric of our folklore all over this continent. Strange individuals, with powers beyond our imagination. All-powerful and yet they¡¯re servants. It¡¯s quite fascinating, really.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard they¡¯re the immortal children of Selvi,¡± Kael chimed in, eyes gleaming with excitement, as he shot a furtive glance in Lithas¡¯ direction, ¡°and they can move mountains with a mere thought.¡±


    Avila rewarded him a knowing smirk. ¡°Ah, but if that were so, young man, why would distant Ustil have Elevated, if they¡¯d never been touched by the god-king?¡±


    Kael continued without missing a beat, all the while nodding enthusiastically. ¡°My grandfather told me that it¡¯s the Tetrarchy who took Selvi¡¯s power and scattered it all across the world. He¡¯s saying that¡¯s not fair as it should be ours, right?¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s quite enough, Kael,¡± Lithas said quietly. Kael, as if suddenly realizing where he was, immediately blushed and raised his hands in apology.


    ¡°You can be sure that your grandfather isn¡¯t the only man with such thoughts.¡± Avila looked first at Kael and then at Lithas, his expression asking for understanding. ¡°Roots persist.¡± The young soldier continued his stew in silence, face flushed crimson.


    Another Avila quote, she thought, that man is either a reincarnation or really addicted. Lithas stared into her bowl, trying to tune out the conversation around her.


    Amongst the intensifying rays of sunlight, she finally retired to her tent, fleeing the bright heat. As she drifted off to sleep, Lithas made a mental note to keep a close watch on that old man during their journey to Demis. She just had this feeling, impossible to put her finger on it. Before sleep finally claimed her, the words of the Seeress found her. Something about steps and the echoes they caused.


    The next day; dawn not yet gracing the dark sky.


    Her body still felt exhausted from the previous day¡¯s journey. Lithas rose, ready to start their routine of organizing the caravan for the day¡¯s trek. Yet, as she emerged from her tent, she saw that the caravan was already bustling with activity. Grateful, she stretched her sore muscles and let her eyes catch Avila, sitting in a wagon, his eyes closed as if meditating.


    Lithas shook her head, forcing herself to discard the doubts that kept creeping up on her. No point right now. There was only the path. Until they reached Demis, at least. She navigated her way through the thrum of activity to Kellen, who was directing the loading of the wagons. ¡°Are the preparations complete?¡± she asked, taking in the state of the caravan.


    ¡°Yes, my lady,¡± Kellen replied, passing her a handful of dates and a chunk of bread. ¡°This wagon¡¯s about to roll out, just tying up the loose ends.¡±


    Chewing on a date, Lithas¡¯ eyes wandered toward the horizon, where the Bay of Sariz met the sky in a glittering display. Everyone in Sariz knew that its waters were notorious for the treacherous currents trade fleets faced. Yet today it was a tranquil contrast to the caravan¡¯s hustle. She enjoyed it for a moment longer, before reality¡ªand duty¡ªcalled her away.


    After getting ready, Lithas mounted her horse and the caravan lumbered onwards to Demis. They were faster now, having developed a routine of sort. The sun had yet to fully peek over the horizon, and so it graced them still with the lingering coolness of the night. In the vast openness above, dark shapes circled ominously. Through it all, Lithas kept a watchful eye on Avila, who seemed engrossed in the barren desert¡¯s spectacle.


    Intrigued despite herself, she guided her unwilling horse alongside his wagon. ¡°What is it you find so fascinating about the desert? It¡¯s just sand and rocks.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Avila glanced her way, eyes twinkling with something unreadable, ¡°but my dear Lithas, that¡¯s where the beauty of the desert lies. Each grain, each rock, is an unwritten chronicle, of struggle and triumph, of life and death. It¡¯s a story that has been told over and over for centuries, yet it never grows old.¡±


    Lithas found herself oddly amused by the old man¡¯s words as she absentmindedly soothed her restless horse. ¡°You have a gift for weaving words, Avila. Ever thought of writing them down?¡±


    A sad smile spread on the old man¡¯s face. ¡°In another life, perhaps. It¡¯s a tempting thought,¡± he chuckled, a sound touched with a wistfulness that Lithas sensed had deeper, perhaps darker, roots, ¡°but one that may stir up more controversy than enlightenment.¡±


    Lithas arched an eyebrow. ¡°So, you¡¯re like a rebel?¡± A gust of wind swept back her hair. Her horse was becoming unmanageable. What was wrong with the beast?


    His gaze affixed on the sprawling desert, Avila nodded. ¡°Let¡¯s just say my travels have granted me sights, some of which many would prefer remain veiled. Secrets and lies that have been buried for too long. But perhaps that¡¯s a discussion for another time.¡±


    As Lithas gathered her response, her attention was seized by a breeze, gathering unusual strength, moment by moment. Curious, she turned. She spotted it immediately.


    On the horizon, Lithas saw the first wisps of oncoming storm clouds above the hills. She carefully inhaled, confirming the faint tang of dust in the wind. There was a storm coming their way, and it would be bad.


    Snapping her horse¡¯s reins, Lithas pivoted toward Kellen, voice cutting through the noise, ¡°Everyone! Secure the wagons and establish barricades on the northern incline.¡± She spurred her horse onward, halting only to issue further commands, ¡°I want everyone inside those barricades the moment the storm hits.¡± Pausing to reassess the situation, she added, ¡°We¡¯re going to get some rough weather, so keep your heads low.¡±


    Satisfied with the flurry of action throughout the caravan that her words caused, Lithas nudged her horse into a canter, setting out to evaluate their surroundings. Her gaze traced the ominous, inky clouds on the horizon, which seemed to edge closer with each heartbeat. The wind was increasingly fierce now, whipping up the sand around her into miniature cyclones. Feeling the tension in the air, Lithas watched her soldiers move, frantically securing wagons and erecting barricades.


    She led her steed to the other horses reinforcing the barricades and swung herself down. Together with her soldiers, Lithas blanketed the horses as best she could. She caught sight of Avila, huddled against one of the wagons. A lone figure wrapped in yellow cloth. She lowered herself to the ground next to her guards, back propped against one of the wagons.


    The faces around her were a stark canvas of steely determination and naked fear. She did her best to project a confidence she did not feel.


    Waiting.


    Wondering.


    Hoping.


    Then it hit them.


    It was nothing like she ever experienced before. The storm¡¯s arrival was sudden, taking Lithas by surprise as she struggled to keep her balance. Everything rattled. The wind howled in her ears, the gritty sand gnawed at her face. Her guards were hollering over the cacophony of the storm, their voices rendered near inaudible.


    Lithas tried to maintain a squint, but the assaulting sand made it almost impossible. Vague outlines of the rocking wagons were all she could see. A flash of lightning cleaved through the sky, capturing the storm momentarily in a stark, eerie tableau. Lithas squinted as hard as she could, trying to see something¡ªanything¡ªthrough the storm.


    ¡°Kellen, status!¡± She could see that the grizzled soldier was shouting but did not hear a word, his voice lost to the storm. Cautiously maneuvering, Lithas made her way closer to Kellen.


    Finally, his flushed visage emerged from the veil of sand and he started again, ¡°We¡¯re holding the line, my lady. No one¡¯s down and the barricades are holding up.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good,¡± she shouted back. ¡°But I fear this storm is far from over. It¡¯s still picking up speed. We need to¡ª¡±


    A particularly violent gust of wind interrupted Lithas. One of the wagons under which they had been huddling as a makeshift shelter started to topple. With a sense of dread, Lithas looked up to see a mass of wood and canvas come rushing toward Kellen and a group of her soldiers.


    Time seemed to slow as she made her decision. Only it was no real decision at all. Everything seemed clear, like the shores of Sariz Bay on a sun-flooded day.


    Raising her hands, Lithas poured heat out of her as fast as she could, creating a powerful thermal updraft. The sudden gust of heated air met the falling wagon, pushing against it. Of course, it was not enough to push it away. Not even she could do that. But the wagon wavered in mid-air¡ªjust for the tiniest of moments¡ªbut long enough to alter its course, letting it fall somewhere else and bypass her soldiers.


    Yet not her. The chaotic wind had picked up the wagon, had flipped it partly and brought it up above her. Relieved but drained, Lithas even lacked the energy to move herself out of the path. The last thing she felt was the weight of the wagon as it descended upon her.


    And everything turned black.

 Omvar 3 (Chapter 12)

    ¡°Let it be known henceforth that blasphemy¡ªdefined as the worship of any Elevated not assigned by the Ministry of Faith¡ªshall be punishable by death. Upon formal conversion, each citizen is granted a single grace period of precisely 48 hours, after which absolute and unwavering devotion to one¡¯s assigned Elevated must be demonstrated. This edict shall be enforced without exception or consideration of rank, origin, or the particular nature of one¡¯s designated object of worship.¡±


    ¨C Edict 2.35, Ministry of Orthodoxy, Lhasa, Year 307 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    It was night. It was day. Hardly mattered.


    Asleep or awake. Now those were categories he could get behind.


    He often had idle thoughts when he wrote these letters. Could not be avoided. Something about the monotony of reports that seemed to serve as a catalyst for free-ranging thoughts. The scratching of pen on paper reduced to a distant drone beneath the whims of his mind.


    The wooden floor beneath him creaked subtly as he stamped the letter with his sigil. Stamps. He shook his head. Not everything that came out of the Ministry of Innovation was an improvement. It was not too long ago that he would press good old seals into molten wax. More gravitas, in his opinion. Not that anyone cared to ask. You cannot stop progress, they say. I say, he thought, they don¡¯t even try.


    Around him lay stacks of books, the occasional letter, and an assortment of tastefully arranged uniforms. A rainbow of textiles in an otherwise drab cabin. Conspicuously absent from his desk¡ªfrom his entire room in fact¡ªwere candles.


    Finishing the last of his letters, he rose from his chair and collected the whole bundle. He smoothed his vest absentmindedly and made his way out of his cabin.


    Outside, pungent saltiness filled the air. Above the ship swirled a cloud of black birds. Damned creatures seemed to follow him everywhere. Word was that the crew had sighted a pod of dolphins earlier. A rare spectacle in the Strait, or so he was told. Or had that already been the day before? So hard to tell sometimes.


    On his way to the messenger birds, his path crossed with a man of average height and dark skin. Though maybe looking a touch paler than usual. A great deal paler, now that he had a closer look. Ah yes, Ravena¡¯s little pet. He had known him as a name on an organizational chart before this expedition. Now he was more than just a name. Curious how these things go.


    ¡°Omvar, a pleasure,¡± he said with a flourish, ¡°How are you finding the sea air?¡±


    Omvar awoke. Not for the first time that night. Would not be the last time either, if the previous night was any indication. He rubbed his bleary eyes and cautiously sat up, the ship swaying deceptively gently beneath him. Bastard ship. Glancing through the small porthole, he saw that it was still light-dark outside, the moon and stars competing with the ambient glow shrouding the ship. Loud snores echoed from the adjacent room. I¡¯d bet my job that¡¯s Orhan, he thought.


    Time had blurred into a vague concept on this journey; his grumbling stomach was the only pressing reality that remained. And it had become an uncomfortably familiar feeling on this trip.


    Resigned, Omvar ran a hand through his disheveled hair, levered himself from his bunk, and, somewhat unsteadily, navigated his way to the deck. The crisp night air hit him like a wall as he stepped outside. He briefly had to collect himself. Blinking against the ambient light, he noticed the crew bustling around, propelling them all through the strait.


    Normal people¡ªsane people¡ªavoided the Strait of Alghenon at night. While it was more like a huge river than the open sea, they would not be the first ship to satisfy the hunger of the strait. Though Omvar had to admit¡ªgrudgingly¡ªthat normal people also could not manipulate light at will, which did tend to mitigate the greatest risk of night-time navigation: crashing into something. So, the sailors worked in shifts, though he pitied the poor souls who would have to re-adjust their day-night cycle after this voyage.


    His attention was suddenly pulled away from the crew. Somewhere in front of him, the sun was approaching, interrupting Omvar¡¯s forced stroll to the bow of the ship.


    No, wait.


    He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. No sun. Just an orb of warm, yellow light. And, in its middle, a silhouette. Oh no, he groaned inwardly.


    ¡°Omvar, a pleasure,¡± Leftos said, ¡°How are you finding the sea air?¡±


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Omvar replied eloquently.


    Leftos, ever the cursed picture of perfection, donned a pristine white uniform, with scarlet threads at the seams. As Omvar watched, the delegate¡¯s hands, encased in matching white gloves, were occupied with brushing back his shoulder-length brown hair.


    Leftos chuckled. ¡°Can¡¯t sleep either?¡±


    Shaking his head, Omvar responded, ¡°No, the sea isn¡¯t treating me kindly.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I see,¡± Leftos replied, nodding sympathetically. ¡°I¡¯ve got just the thing for that.¡± He raised his hand, causing the light orb to glow brighter, illuminating Omvar¡¯s face with a ghostly pallor. ¡°Light has always been a balm for my seasickness.¡±


    Omvar squinted, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. Well, the even greater brightness. ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯ll work for me, thanks,¡± he managed.


    ¡°I see.¡± Looking slightly deflated, Leftos dimmed the light again. ¡°Well, I need to dispatch these reports to Kel. You should try and get some rest, we¡¯ll reach Algis in a few hours.¡±


    With a graceful half-bow, Leftos took his leave and strode off. Omvar watched as a sailor scrambled to avoid colliding with the Kelian Delegate, nearly groveling in his haste to apologize.


    To most of their crew, meeting Leftos was being as close to a god as one could come without invoking the wrath of the Ministry, walking the fine line between reverence and heresy. A Tetrarchy Delegate. What was that saying again? ¡®The Tetrarchy did not need to send an army, it sent a Delegate.¡¯ Omvar had even caught the other Elevated with looks of wonder on their faces. Yet not too reverent of course, not with people from the Ministry (and potential accusations of blasphemy) aboard.


    To be fair, for all intents and purposes Leftos was a god. The only thing keeping Omvar from joining the ranks of the fawning masses was that he made people like Leftos. At some level of bureaucracy, assets such as Leftos were utterly dependent on his cooperation. So where does that leave me, he thought, in the grand scheme of things?


    A sudden lurch of the ship interrupted his musings and reminded Omvar what he had been originally doing, before his encounter with the Delegate. He continued his hourly pilgrimage to the bow.


    Time passed and the ethereal glow of Leftos¡¯ dome of light gradually succumbed to the encroaching sunlight from the east. After he dealt with his unsettled stomach, Omvar had chosen to remain on deck, not quite ready yet to dare his bunk again. Only now, with the arrival of dawn painting the sky in hues of molten brass, did he fully realize that they had already left the strait. Around him stretched wide, sparkling ocean. Only the coastline of the Belt on one side and the distant outline of Algis on the horizon gave Omvar some frame of reference.


    ¡°The south.¡± Rashaad materialized beside him, his somber demeanor in stark contrast to the glittering ocean. ¡°It¡¯s an ill-omened place. Nothing good ever comes from it.¡±


    Intrigued, Omvar turned to him, offering a light-hearted reply. ¡°Well, if you¡¯re not a fan of spiced food, I suppose you might be right.¡± Rashaad returned a flat look, clearly unamused and not bothering to engage further. Traveling on a ship did not exactly bring out Omvar¡¯s best side, as he learned rapidly.


    After a moment of silence to make his point, the Elevated beside him resumed. ¡°Leftos sent me. He says to prepare for a trek through the jungle. We¡¯ll camp at the ruins tonight. Tomorrow, you can begin your work.¡±


    ¡°I cannot wait,¡± Omvar retorted drily. Unfazed, or perhaps oblivious to Omvar¡¯s sarcasm, Rashaad nodded in agreement before vanishing once again. Omvar followed his departure a moment longer, before he turned back to the ocean.


    Not one of Omvar¡¯s charges, that one. Though of course he knew which of his colleagues administered Rashaad. Not that they were supposed¡ªor even permitted¡ªto discuss such matters. But, as Avila so aptly put it, Rumors are like grains of sand, annoying and impossible to avoid. Admittedly, he was somewhat eager to witness Rashaad¡¯s powers in action. Perhaps the opportunity would arise.


    Omvar¡¯s short hair whipped wildly in the sea breeze as he watched the ship cut through the ocean, steadily approaching the dark speck on the horizon. It was hard to make out at first, but as they got closer, a small island emerged, blanketed in dense jungle. Vines and trees growing so closely intertwined that they formed an almost solid canopy over the ground.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    They approached Algis from the north. The report had indicated that Fort Algis rose on the island¡¯s opposite side, a military bridgehead safeguarding the strait from southern attacks. It would have been easier to dock there, but Leftos had insisted that the beach here provided a more manageable route to the ruins. It certainly doesn¡¯t hurt, Omvar thought, that the soldiers at the fort stay ignorant of our mission. Plans within plans. What are we really doing here?


    They anchored the ship and switched to small rowboats. Omvar¡¯s hand involuntarily gripped the boat¡¯s edge, knuckles whitening, as the swaying intensified. He swore to himself that, after this whole trip, he would never set foot on a ship again. Omvar suddenly missed his office with a ferocious intensity.


    Orhan, ever the heavy sleeper, had dozed until the very last moment and was still yawning expansively as they disembarked, their boots grating on the bone-white sand. ¡°Hey, wake up, Orhan,¡± Omvar said, playfully nudging his friend. ¡°We¡¯re here.¡±


    ¡°Very funny. Tell me, friend, now that you mention it. I seem to recall that a certain someone had a hard time sleeping on the ship. And this same someone seemed to have had an urgent and frequent need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°All right, all right,¡± Omvar hastily whispered, gesturing for Orhan to quiet down. Despite the gentle ribbing, he could not deny the relief of solid ground under his feet. Whoever had invented ships had made a grave mistake.


    ¡°No need for secrecy, we¡¯re all friends here,¡± came Leftos sonorous voice from the front. That Delegate was decidedly too amused for his own sake. Shooting a dark glance at Orhan, Omvar fell in line with the rest of the group.


    They made their way through the lush jungle, guided by Leftos, who had confidently proclaimed this as the least strenuous path to the ruins. Omvar silently questioned that. Referring to their route as a path seemed exceedingly charitable to begin with; it was more of a marginally less dense thicket that the soldiers had to hack their way through.


    As they entered the verdant maze for good, the jungle came alive with sounds and movement. Omvar spotted toucans amongst the trees, beaks as colorful as the surrounding heliconias, specks of orange and red amongst the green depths. The sight invoked a sense of nervous excitement in him. This was very different from Kel and the Ministry. The deeper they ventured, the thicker the air became with oppressive humidity. Even the light itself grew dimmer, were it not for Leftos, who seemed to exude a soft glow, staving off the encroaching shadows.


    Dense vegetation draped over their path. Machetes in hand, the Suns of Kel accompanying them hacked at vines and palm fronds. As tireless as their movements seemed, sweat poured down their weary faces; their clothes clinging to them like a second skin. Beside him, Orhan was panting heavily, clearly not used to this type of physical exertion. Omvar was faring only slightly better, if he was honest with himself. Only buoyed by the energy of youth. Compared to Orhan, in any case. The man was practically ancient.


    Omvar, trailing directly behind Leftos, noticed the delegate had opted for a different outfit today¡ªa mint-green doublet adorned with a sprawling, stitched rose. The design trailed over his shoulder and down his back. Did he try to match his clothing to the jungle? Omvar rolled his eyes and wondered what Maht¡¯s spotters had seen in that man.


    Suddenly, the rose seemed to change color. Or, rather, intensified its already deeply carmine hue. Could that insufferable man now even change the colors on his clothing?


    But then he noticed that some of the surrounding foliage¡ªby the Belt, even his own tunic¡ªwas also flecked with crimson. It finally occurred to him to turn around.


    Three things happened in that moment.


    First, a soldier toward the rear collapsed onto the jungle floor, reduced to a barely recognizable lump of meat, with the occasional bit of black armor peeking out. Second, Omvar¡¯s gaze met a pair of amber eyes, as large as small pomegranates, with slit pupils. Third, another half-dozen mottled gray-brown shapes, feathered and somewhat taller than a man, sprang from the jungle with ear-splitting shrieks.


    Then, too many things happened at once.


    Belatedly, the remaining Suns raised their weapons in the face of the onslaught. In mere instants, razor-sharp talons tore through armor, teeth sunk into flesh. The piercing screeches of the creatures were soon joined by the terrified screams of their prey, echoing through the dense jungle.


    A wave of blinding light¡ªshimmering in the air¡ªrolled over a petrified Omvar. Leftos. The beasts immediately stalled their attack, dark shapes recoiling amongst ear drum-shattering roars of rage. The sliver of Omvar¡¯s mind that was still untouched by terror realized that, while useful, this white-hot incandescence was something of a double-edged sword¡ª if they could not see them, their soldiers also would not be able to target the reptilian creatures.


    Then he heard a surprised cry from Orhan, interrupting his thoughts. Immediately followed by a whipping sound. Something thick shot past Omvar, crashing into one of the monsters with a reverberating thump. If his squinted eyes interpreted the dark shapes right, Rashaad had conjured a thicket of brambles that ensnared the creature, its enraged screeches rising above the din of battle. As expected from the Thorn of Akhantar. Omvar grimaced.


    Another one of the reptiles coiled to strike, eyeing Rashaad. Only to discover that it was rooted to the spot by entangling vines protruding from the wet jungle floor. If its misshapen visage could have expressed surprise it likely would have, as it crashed face-first on the ground. In the same moment, Leftos dissipated his sea of light and, with a flourish, engulfed the farthest creature in an intense ball of luminance, too brilliant to directly look at.


    The soldiers took their cue and swiftly closed in on the ensnared reptiles, careful to stay out of the reach of their talons. Out of the corner of his eye, Omvar glimpsed one of the younger Akhantari Elevated land a crushing blow on the skull of a lizard, splitting it like an overripe melon. More crimson, trying to conquer the jungles of Algis.


    The remaining three creatures, their eyes glowing faintly with something eerily like intelligence, paused. Could it be? The reptiles seemed to be conferring, assessing their adversaries. A moment later, they launched themselves into a coordinated charge.


    One raced toward Leftos, the others veered toward Rashaad, bringing them alarmingly close to Omvar. Yet his legs still refused to obey his desperate commands to move, as if Rashaad¡¯s roots were entwined around his feet. He could only watch helplessly, as the two giant predators barreled toward him.


    ¡°Shield your eyes¡ªnow!¡± Leftos commanded, palpable urgency lining his voice. The soldiers did not hesitate; their trust in the Delegate seemed absolute. Omvar faltered. He wants us to turn our backs to these abominations?!


    ¡°Now!!¡±


    Omvar abandoned his, rather plentiful, doubts and not only averted his gaze but shut his eyes tightly for good measure. Immediately, his imagination ran rampant, envisioning the searing pain of sharp teeth sinking into his back, his calves, his neck.


    Snap, snap, snap.


    Each crisp sound came with a burst of bright light that penetrated even through Omvar¡¯s closed lids, like lightning flashing across a stormy sky.


    As he reached the limits of his endurance, he risked a glance, his eyes flickering open despite his dread. The beasts stumbled about aimlessly, eyes milky and vacant. One of them, in a burst of frustration, slashed wildly through the air, inadvertently slashing the throat of its comrade. With a triumphant snarl, it hurled itself onto the fallen creature, tearing into it with blind fervor.


    Omvar almost pitied them. Rashaad and the others moved in to dispatch the remaining creatures. Constricting roots strangled one, another was brought down by a crossbow bolt piercing one of its sightless eyes. Dead center. Omvar, impressed by the shot, searched for the marksman and spotted the last of the Akhantari Elevated, Jahan, a crossbow in each hand.


    Finally, the last of the screeching reptiles collapsed with a resonating thud, impaled by multiple standard-issue Kelian swords. The ensuing silence was pierced only by the groans of the wounded and the distant hum of the jungle. Even the toucans had fallen silent for a moment. Omvar felt his clenched muscles begin to relax, his grip on his own dagger¡ªstill tucked in his belt¡ªloosening, as if it too could exhale.


    Predictably, Orhan was the first to speak, pen and notes in hand. ¡°Now what was that? I¡¯ve never heard of such creatures before!¡±


    ¡°Some kind of monster from the south.¡± With a dismissive shake of his head, Leftos adjusted his gloves. ¡°What more is there to know?¡± As Orhan began to approach one of the fallen creatures, clearly curious to inspect them more closely, he continued sharply. ¡°Our mission¡ªhistorian¡ªis to explore the ruins ahead, not to dissect some freakish chicken lizard. We need to build litters for the wounded and bury the dead. I suggest you start your work there.¡±


    With a last longing look toward the beasts, Orhan sighed disappointedly and set about gathering wood for the litters. Omvar joined him, hands still trembling slightly. Healing would be a useful Elevated power now. Too bad that was a rare gift, often only achieved through creative reinterpretation of the actual power. His father, that old crook, had once told him of an Elevated who had accelerated the healing process, sealing gaping wounds before the eyes of astonished onlookers. Those powers can also be useful for things besides killing sometimes. Omvar let his gaze wander over the blood-spattered scene. Sometimes.


    ¡°Wait¡­¡± His brow furrowed as he looked at Rashaad, a thought slowly coalescing. ¡°If you could do that,¡± and he gestured toward the roots, which were even now receding into the ground, ¡°then why did you let these poor guys hack their way through the entire jungle?¡±


    Rashaad met his gaze, eyes revealing a calculated indifference as his veiled lips moved subtly¡ªit reminded Omvar of some kind of mantra. ¡°You could wash your own clothes, bureaucrat. You could cook your own food,¡± the tall man finally retorted, leaving the implication hanging in the air.


    Omvar grunted, unconvinced. Probably neither the time nor place, though, to argue about fairness and equality on the edge of the world, surrounded by carnage.


    As Rashaad turned away, Orhan leaned in and murmured, ¡°Quite the philosopher we have here, don¡¯t you think? Perhaps I should collaborate with him on my next article.¡± Omvar gave him a smirk and resumed his search for sticks.


    After what felt like endless hours of trudging through the dense jungle¡ªnow further slowed down by their wounded¡ªthe ruins finally came into view. Ancient stone structures, draped in vines and moss, grew from the forest floor. Omvar stood atop a small incline, overlooking the cluster of edifices nestled in the base of the gentle valley. Above them, the surrounding silk cotton trees nearly managed to swaddle the entire opening with a green blanket. The air was redolent with the sickly-sweet scent of decay, sending a shudder through him.


    Orhan¡¯s eyes sparkled as he sidled next to Omvar, drinking in the long-lost architecture as if it were a sacred text. ¡°This is incredible,¡± he whispered.


    Omvar turned to Leftos and asked. ¡°Remind me, how were these ruins originally discovered?¡±


    Leftos reluctantly pulled his gaze from the ruins to consider Omvar for a moment. ¡°We have our ways.¡± Leaving a frustrated Omvar in his wake, he strode toward Rashaad and started to deliver instructions. Undoubtedly, these orders would happily trickle down the chain of command in a second. Omvar slumped down next to a mossy boulder to rest his weary feet.


    As predicted, moments later the young Elevated approached. Jahan, if Omvar remembered correctly. ¡°Orders in,¡± he said, ¡°we¡¯re setting up camp. You¡¯re with the historian on cooking¡ªmight as well bond over burnt meat.¡±


    Snapping to attention, Omvar searched for Rashaad¡¯s face. Of course, his mouth was concealed behind the veil, but he could swear that the bastard was smirking. Perhaps something of a philosopher after all.

 Interlude 3 (Chapter 13)

    ¡°In Ustil¡¯s grasp, where sleeping ships do dream,


    Admiral¡¯s ghosts weave through the city¡¯s seam.


    From pirate¡¯s shadow to a federation¡¯s crown,


    Trifelt¡¯s whispers sail through the merchant town.


    Spires reach, not just to sky, but to memory¡¯s tide,


    Where blood and salt merged, old hatreds died.


    Beneath the sun, proud proof of victories won,


    Ustil stands, where ancient feuds at last lie spun.¡±


    ¨C Fintale, Our World in Words


    ¡°Utterly unacceptable. This is an insult to this very city and the entire Concordate!¡± Galen, Vice-Admiral of the Concordate, and like most of the assembled Admiralty a native of Ustil, was unassuming.


    Diminutive and stocky, his once straw-blonde hair long transformed into white-flecked ash. Had it not been for his standard-issue naval uniform¡ªdecorated with all the appropriate stripes and stars¡ªthe man would not have attracted any particular attention.


    But when Galen launched into one of his notorious tirades, the Admiralty listened. Whether out of interest or amusement came down to the individual.


    Vann sat amongst the gathered officers, metallic arm resting on the ancient oak table as he listened to Galen¡¯s impassioned speech. It was not the first time he had seen the man in action since he had arrived, yet the power Galen wielded through mere words never ceased to amaze him. Not that he liked the man any better for it.


    ¡°The Grand Admiral has the situation in hand, Galen,¡± Admiral Cassia interjected from Vann¡¯s left, her tone brooking no argument.


    ¡°Precisely my point. It¡¯s not just about handling the situation. It¡¯s about preventing it from happening again,¡± Galen shot back sharply. ¡°We need a more proactive approach. We¡¯re not some backwater port, groveling before the odd pirate ship and allowing ourselves to be plundered. We¡¯re the Concordate, depths be cursed. We rule these seas. We need to show strength.¡± He punctuated his final point by pounding on the podium and cast a fiery glance around the assembled naval officers, challenging anyone to question him.


    Yet the other Admirals remained silent, their expressions varying between boredom and mild assent. Vann knew they were waiting for Grand Admiral Burn to speak¡ªthe man who had summoned them all here. They had come to address the recent pirate assaults on Concordate ships, and, though Galen was in rare form, everyone knew the ultimate outcome hinged entirely on Burn. As it always did.


    ¡°I agree, Vice-Admiral,¡± Burn finally said in a measured tone. ¡°We must stop these attacks for good.¡± Even seated, the man was a towering figure. His wild black hair had resisted graying with age and now framed a sun-bronzed face etched with deep creases.


    Many years ago, Vann had read texts¡ªpamphlets really, circulating across Olban¡¯s harbor¡ªthat painted Burn as the ¡®scourge of the seas.¡¯ Now, any historian worth their salt conferred upon him the title of ¡®the light of his generation.¡¯ As was so often the case, the very characteristics that had once cast the man into ignominy with the reigning powers of the Trifelt now served to elevate him above his peers. Indomitably strong-minded, skillfully diplomatic, brilliantly strategic.


    Now, Burn stood at the helm of a nation¡ªhis nation. Burn had vision. His hazel eyes were roving about the Admiralty of the Concordate, the federation he had built with his own hands. On top of blood and fire on the ocean spray.


    ¡°Which is why,¡± he continued, ¡°we¡¯ve called on the services of our newest Elevated, Vann, to root out the source of these attacks.¡±


    Sneering, Galen whirled toward Vann, piercing him with his gaze. ¡°And what makes you so certain, Grand Admiral, that this man, of all people, can handle the task? That he¡¯ll succeed where Loren has so glaringly failed? I¡¯m told this Vann was a simple blacksmith for most of his life, that he¡¯s just freshly trained by Kel.¡± Galen smirked. ¡°What good can you possibly do against these pirates?¡± That last sentence, now pointedly directed to Vann. A challenge that was no longer unspoken.


    Vann felt a flicker of annoyance at the condescending tone in Galen¡¯s voice. With some effort, he managed to douse the spark again and keep his expression carefully neutral. The loss of an Elevated had put everyone on edge, he had to remind himself. If even gods could fall, Vann thought, who could truly be safe? Strange story that. Entire ship obliterated. Who could do that? Not simple pirates, that¡¯s for sure.


    He cleared his throat, rose to his feet, and levelly met the gaze of Galen and the gathered assembly.


    ¡°Since you seem so well-acquainted with my past, Vice-Admiral, you might also be aware of my life before that. Before the Concordate. Like yourself, I¡¯m old enough to be intimately familiar with pirates.¡± He paused briefly for effect. ¡°And I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, so to speak, should these pirates decide to make any trouble,¡± Vann replied coolly, the metallic sheen of his arm conspicuously reflecting the room¡¯s light as he wiggled his fingers.


    Sporadic laughter echoed from somewhere behind him. Galen¡¯s lips tightened in irritation, but he chose not to pursue the argument further. Instead, he directed his attention back to Burn.


    ¡°Very well, if this is your final decision, I request that one of my ships accompany the Elevated,¡± Galen asserted, sounding unperturbed and confident despite his sudden shift in tactics. ¡°My men are exceptionally well-trained and will surely eradicate these pirates in no time.¡±


    Vann smirked. Angling for glory while sidestepping the shadow of failure¡ªa dance as old as the Trifelt itself. This man truly was cleverer than he seemed at first glance.


    ¡°Done,¡± Burn responded, giving his armrest a confirming thump, ¡°I¡¯m sure Vann¡¯s abilities will prove invaluable on this mission. I don¡¯t think I need to remind anyone of the reports. There might be more to these pirate attacks than meets the eye. We need someone unconventional to deal with this.¡±


    ¡°I understand, Grand Admiral,¡± Vann offered Burn a half-bow. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best to put an end to these attacks and uncover their motives.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. You have my full backing, as well as that of the Admiralty, of course. You will liaison with Admiral Cassia for your mission, with an additional ship from Vice-Admiral Galen, as requested. We expect results. Soon.¡± With those final words hanging like a command, Burn rose from his seat, signaling the end of the meeting.


    Everyone took the cue. The room filled with lively chatter as men and women rose from their seats and continued their discussions in smaller groups around the light-filled hall. As the admirals slowly dispersed¡ªwith Cassia offering him an encouraging nod before departing¡ªVann descended the marble steps of the Admiralty, footsteps echoing in the expansive space.


    As he stepped out, the world exploded in a blaze of sunlight that stole his sight for a heartbeat. After his eyes adjusted, Vann found himself on Ustil¡¯s busiest market street. The market street, along with the Admiralty building itself, was situated on a promontory that offered a panoramic view of the palm-fringed harbor and the sparkling tapestry of the surrounding bay that gave Ustil its vaunted naval prominence.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Vann drew in a deep breath of salty air, releasing a sigh. He had always loved the sea, but now it felt different, somehow. He was here to serve and fight, not to sail or do anything else he wanted. That salty scent of freedom had somewhat changed for him.


    Vann could remember a different time¡ªthe last time he had been in Ustil, under different circumstances. Not fighting for the city, but against it. Navigating choppy waves, amidst a heavily armed fleet. Duke Embrez had not sent them out for a full-scale invasion. More of a don¡¯t-mess-with-me kind of message. From the Bloody Duke.


    Ocean spray mingling with scarlet. He remembered a face among those he had taken that day¡ªa young Ustilian sailor. Eyes wide open in disbelief, as the life ebbed away from him. Then Vann had watched his Olbanese friends be killed by Ustilian sailors. It was not a good day for anyone.


    Now he served the people of Ustil. Embrez was dead¡ªdrowned alongside his flagship¡ªand Burn was not. That seemed to have made all the difference. Vann could have felt resentment. There had been a time¡ªa long time¡ªwhen he had. But it had been too long now, the resulting peace under the Concordate too prosperous to hate its architects. Vann did not dare to even imagine what a ¡®Concordate¡¯ under Embrez, instead of Burn, would have looked like.


    He made his way down the cobblestone street, senses on high alert, eyes lazily scanning the merchant stalls lining both sides. Vann strolled past merchants selling all shapes and sizes of fish, sea urchins, and clams, alongside stalls laden with strips of cured leather, crates of papayas, or rows upon rows of hooked knives. It was at the same time different and yet the same as the market back in Olban. Maybe they really were one nation. He still was not sure.


    As he walked, Vann felt the weight of the metallic arm dragging on his shoulder, a constant reminder, as if he needed one. After all, he had to always maintain his hold over the metal to keep it intact. Sometimes he wondered that it still held its shape while he slept, that he did not wake up with a formless silver lump lying next to him.


    Only a few brief weeks had passed since Lavelle had handed him over to Burn and the Concordate. The moment was still etched in Vann¡¯s memory, as if it had occurred just the other day. They had said their goodbyes on the docks, down by the harbor.


    Though ¡®saying goodbye¡¯ was perhaps a too grand term for what had happened. They had known each other for years¡ªyears of almost daily contact within the confines of that secluded training compound near Kel. But Lavelle was a woman who did not care much for ceremony or tradition¡ªone of the first things he had learned about her.


    Vann still recalled his first lesson with her. He, thrown into a completely foreign world, both literally and figuratively. She, this composed, curt figure of legend, yet not without kindness. Not completely. In an open courtyard, bathed in a warm drizzle.


    ¡°Two things you need to understand,¡± Lavelle had begun, holding up her index and middle fingers for emphasis. ¡°Your usefulness as an Elevated will depend on the strength of your power and how you harness it. Trust me, everyone tries, but there¡¯s nothing you can do about the former. You need to accept that.¡±


    Her middle finger folded back, leaving only the index finger pointing upwards. Raindrops speckled Vann¡¯s head and shoulders, rolling down his body unheeded. ¡°The only thing I, and the others, can teach you is how to use your power. That¡¯s what we¡¯re going to focus on here.¡± Throughout this routine speech, doubtlessly delivered to countless new-born Elevated before him, Lavelle¡¯s verdant eyes never strayed from his, seemingly tracking his understanding.


    Creativity. That was her driving principle. If you could control rocks, you would never be able to manipulate larger rocks by sheer force of will, but you might be clever and move the ground beneath your enemy¡¯s feet.


    Vann had heeded Lavelle¡¯s advice closely. Over time, he had also come to understand that her first point was only technically correct. Sure, he could do nothing about his level of power. But others could. And they did, ramping up investment during his training.


    Vann had quickly transitioned from barely grasping his newfound power to wielding it with deadly precision. He had been transformed into a living weapon in those jungles. You only really grasp the cost of such power once you take it for yourself, he thought. Being a god in this world just makes you a slave. Vann realized this too late. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter, admittedly. When the spotters wanted you, you went to the Belt.


    And so, they had found themselves on the docks in Ustil, one drizzly morning. Ironic, really, that it should begin and end in rain, as if no time had passed at all. A handshake, a nod, a look. That was all that passed between them that day. All that was needed, apparently. He watched her board her ship¡ªstriding confidently, as usual¡ªand set sail, her thoughts likely already on her next assignment. Vann watched as his anchor these past few years gradually disappeared into the horizon. He did not expect to see Delegate Lavelle of Kel again. He would be wrong.


    Vann shook his head, pushing the memory to the back of his mind. He had a mission to focus on now, one that would easily demand his undivided attention. He took a left at the end of the winding market street and headed toward the harbor. The cries of seagulls filled the air as he passed the endless lines of ships moored at the docks, their masts jutting toward the sky.


    The smell of salt water was much stronger here than up on the hill, and he could hear the waves crash against the shore. Vann surveyed the docked ships, searching. Finally, he spotted his target: a large carrack flying Admiral Cassia¡¯s personal flag from its mast, fluttering just beneath the Concordate flag.


    As he approached the ship¡ªthe Silver Arrow, according to its hull¡ªVann noticed a uniformed figure lean against the sturdy wooden railing of the docks, gazing out to the sea. She was a slim woman, with long, almost completely gray hair. As he approached, she turned, her eyes meeting his. ¡°Admiral Cassia?¡± Vann asked as he drew closer, extending a silvery hand.


    Inevitably, her gaze flicked to his arm, an unreadable expression crossing her face. But it was fleeting, almost too quick to catch. Feodora Cassia was not a woman to be easily perturbed, that much he had heard about her. She shook his hand, her eyes appraising him. ¡°Elevated Vann,¡± she said, ¡°I¡¯ve heard much about your abilities. Looking forward to seeing them in action.¡±


    ¡°I can only return the compliment,¡± he returned a smile, ¡°I¡¯ll do my best to impress you, Admiral.¡±


    Cassia gave a small nod, ¡°I have no doubt about that.¡± They stood in silence for a while, watching the undulating waves. ¡°Well, you know why we¡¯re here,¡± Cassia finally spoke, breaking the silence, ¡°But do you know why we are here?¡±.


    ¡°I have a general idea,¡± Vann turned to regard her. ¡°Seems like the typical approach isn¡¯t working against these pirates and everyone¡¯s getting queasy when Elevated start dropping dead. As Loren¡¯s replacement, I¡¯m¡­ expendable.¡± He hesitated but did not add: Are you too, Admiral? He decided he still did not know enough about Concordate politics.


    Oblivious to his hesitation, Cassia nodded her agreement, ¡°The attacks have been increasing in frequency, and they seem to be targeting specific types of cargo. A specific type of cargo.¡± She shot a significant glance first at Vann and then at his arm. ¡°The Concordate¡ªthe Grand Admiral¡ªsuspects there¡¯s some kind of broader organization using these pirates as a front. Burn suspects there¡¯s a reason why they¡¯re able to kill Elevated in the first place. Our mission is to find out who¡¯s behind it all and put an end to them.¡±


    With a frown, Vann held her gaze. ¡°Do we know anything else about these pirates, other than that they attack ships passing through these waters?¡±


    ¡°Not much, unfortunately,¡± Cassia shook her head resignedly. ¡°Only that they don¡¯t leave survivors. These pirates do seem to be coordinated and well-armed though, which at least suggests they have a nearby base of operations.¡±


    ¡°So, where exactly do we start, then?¡± Vann asked.


    She responded with a wry smile. ¡°That¡¯s the thing with unconventional methods, Elevated Vann. We have to think outside the box.¡± Cassia crossed her arms, deep in thought. ¡°First, we need to gather as much information as possible. I know some ports with¡­ questionable activities that we can visit. Speak with locals, gather rumors and whispers. Sometimes, the best intelligence comes from the most unlikely sources. We just need a trail. Then we hunt.¡±


    Vann considered this. We¡¯re looking for a mysterious group of pirates, he thought, that devours Elevated on ships with¡­ an Elevated on a ship. And our strategy is to sail from remote place to place, hoping for a breakthrough. Sounds like fishing rather than hunting to me. And it sounds like I¡¯m the bait in this metaphor. Searching Cassia¡¯s blank face, he finally nodded. ¡°I¡¯m ready when you are, Admiral.¡±


    A faint smile crossed Cassia¡¯s face as she gestured toward the ship. ¡°Then let¡¯s not waste any more time. We¡¯ve got a mission to accomplish. Grand Admiral Burn isn¡¯t always the most patient man.¡±


    As they boarded the ship, the crew welcomed them. Battle-hardened Concordate veterans, crisply saluting their superior officers before resuming their tasks. Then Vann and Cassia stood on the deck of the Silver Arrow, surrounded by the frenzy of last preparations, readying the ship for departure.


    High above, three flags billowed in the breeze¡ªgreen and gold fletching for Cassia¡¯s house, three masts representing Ustil, and the banner of the Concordate, a set of interlocking circles. Above those, only clouds, seagulls, and flocks of black birds.


    Or not quite. High above¡ªin-between the Silver Arrow and the crystal-clear sky¡ªstood a man. Or perhaps it was a woman, impossible to tell. Standing at a parapet on the highest tower of the Admiralty, itself located atop a hill, the figure peered down at the docked ships, no bigger than a fingernail from this distance. Watching, as two ships ventured into the open sea. Watching, without being watched. Even if Vann would have had the urge or foresight to glance upwards, the figure would have been too far to clearly make out. Save perhaps for the outline of a dark cloak, flapping in the wind.

 Irthal 4 (Chapter 14)

    ¡°The intricate web of alliances that ensnared the Trifelt left smaller nations with impossible choices. None exemplifies this more than Taris, whose desperate grasp at neutrality slowly slipped as the tides of power shifted. When Duchess Thraina finally bent her knee to the ascendant Duke of Ustil, it was less a choice than a surrender to inevitability¡ªa political gambit that would prove both her salvation and her shackles in the years to come.¡±


    ¨C Sarai Valtair, From Tricorn to Trifelt: A comprehensive history


    A window overlooking the ocean. The sun bathing the waves in a golden glow, choreographing a mesmerizing display of twinkling lights. Soft string melodies harmonizing with the distant cries of seagulls and the soothing rhythm of the surf. At the center of it all a woman, wearing a billowing white dress, intricately patterned to weave a story of its own. Loose brown hair cascading onto her shoulders, swaying gently with her every movement. Her profile revealing warm gray eyes, directed toward the ocean as if seeking something, just out of sight.


    Irthal rushed toward her, chest filled with emotions he struggled to name. He sank into her comforting embrace, a sense of familiarity and belonging enveloping him like a warm blanket.


    They remained entwined for what felt like an eternity. The world around them receded into irrelevance. Time seemed suspended, each fleeting moment an invaluable treasure. A precious memory.


    Yet time is a fickle, and often cruel, mistress.


    Eventually, she gently pushed Irthal away, her smile remaining tender. The sort known only to those born of sea-faring folk, affectionate and as infinite as the horizon. Her touch was feather-light as she brought up her hand to caress his cheek. Her eyes, the color of the stormy sea, gazed deeply into his, as if attempting to communicate a message words would not¡ªcould not¡ªexpress. When she finally did speak, her voice was like the sweetest melody.


    And he could not comprehend a single syllable. Irthal¡¯s eyes traced her moving lips, mind aching to decipher the meaning of her words, to unlock the mystery of their connection. But he could not understand.


    His brows knitted, a silent growl emerging from his throat. Hands clenching into fists at the impalpable barrier between them. He stretched out his hand, desperate to hold onto her, but she slipped through his fingers like wisps of smoke, smile persisting even as she faded away, embraced by the licking flames.


    Irthal woke, heart pounding in his chest, the lingering emotions of the dream still clinging to him like his drenched shirt.


    But the night around him seemed still, the only sound being the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves caressing the ship, the only tangible connection to his dream.


    Through his porthole, Irthal saw the firmament. Stars twinkled in the sky, almost as if to reassure him that, no matter what happened, everything would be fine. Strangely, he felt content. Even more so when he touched the pendant around his neck, its smooth surface laying still in his palm.


    Irthal gazed outwards for a long time, thoughts soaring across the water. Beyond the horizon, to that distant city. To ruins and revelations. Eventually, without him fully realizing, the sea had lulled him into sleep¡ªand into his dreams¡ªonce again.


    To say the day was beautiful would have been an atrocious dishonesty. It was gorgeous. Not a single cloud marred the sky, its brilliant blue rivaling the deep hues of the ocean around them. High above, pristinely white birds shrieked loudly, as if to underscore the natural spectacle with an orchestra.


    Through it all, ocean waves lapped against the hull of the ship, with the occasional ambitious wave reaching up to spray the embossed name of their vessel. Gelman17. Irthal was unsure whether to laugh or be angry at the disgruntled old man for choosing such a ridiculous name for their ship.


    Mythas chuckled beside him, as if she could read his thoughts. ¡°You think he¡¯s trying to compensate for something?¡± she asked with a sly grin.


    Irthal arched an eyebrow but could not quite stifle his own amusement at the remark. ¡°Perhaps we should go back and take a ship with a better name,¡± he quipped.


    Mythas shrugged casually. ¡°As long as it gets us to where we¡¯re going, I don¡¯t care what it¡¯s called.¡±


    Eyes drawn to the horizon, Irthal nodded in vague agreement, only half-listening, his thoughts already turning toward their journey. He had it all mapped out. First Taris, then Limrod, then¡­ well, he had actually only planned as far as Limrod. The sailors in Olban had not been particularly forthcoming with information about the routes leading around the northern shore of Lycar. Stingy bastards. But how hard could it be to follow along coasts? Not like one could lose those in a pinch.


    Mythas broke the silence, ¡°So, what¡¯s our next move, captain?¡± she asked, eyes sparkling with mischief.


    Captain. The title would take some getting used to. Hard to believe that, a few short weeks ago, he had just been a dockhand. Not even a particularly good one at that. This new job was less strenuous for his back but, as he fingered the healing cut on his cheek, likely worse for everything else in his body.


    ¡°We need to lay low for a while,¡± Irthal released a sigh. ¡°We can¡¯t just sail into the next port with a ship like this and expect not to be noticed. If the tides are with us, we¡¯re likely running ahead of news, but I¡¯d still like to avoid giving our pursuers quite such an obvious trail to follow.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, the legendary exploits of the great Gelman17,¡± Mythas said with a chuckle, ¡°We¡¯ll have to change the name then.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Irthal said and then shook his head. ¡°But it¡¯s not just about the name. We¡¯ll need to switch sails, perhaps even paint the hull a different color. And we¡¯ll need new documents too, just in case, so we can avoid any awkward questions from the port authorities.¡±


    ¡°I can take care of that.¡± Lurgon called out from across the deck, joining their conversation. ¡°I have a cousin in Taris who can help with that sort of stuff. Should be just a day or so away by now at worst. If we need to, we could always lie low on one of the smaller islands until things cool down. The Red Lobsters managed an entire season like that without getting caught!¡±


    ¡°Are you comparing us to pirates, Lurgon?¡± Mythas asked, eyebrows raised in feigned shock. ¡°Surely, we¡¯re the heroes here.¡±


    Their new crew had not particularly liked the fact that they had been chased out of Olban by armed guards. Heated discussions had followed soon thereafter. In the end, they had managed to convince them of the corruptness and greed of Gelman and his thugs. Irthal was not sure how long they could keep that story up. Watching Sam instruct some of their youngest sailors on gathering sail, he slowly nodded. ¡°Yes, I agree. With both of you, actually. We¡¯re on course for Taris anyway. We¡¯ll need to replenish our supplies before we make the crossing to Limrod.¡±


    He turned to look at Mythas and Lurgon. ¡°So, anyone having a brilliant idea for naming our proud vessel?¡±


    Lurgon stroked his stubble-covered chin, thinking for a moment. ¡°What about ¡®The Wandering Spirit¡¯? I think that has a nice ring to it.¡±


    ¡°Nice ring for a children¡¯s tale, you mean,¡± Mythas snorted dismissively. ¡°I think we should go with something that represents our journey,¡± she proposed with a smug smile. ¡°How about ¡®The Escape¡¯?¡±


    After taking a swig from his flask, Lurgon cleared his throat loudly. ¡°Yeah, why not paint a bullseye on our sails while we¡¯re at it, screaming ¡®come after us¡¯ at the top of our lungs. Might get us some applause.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on, Lurgon.¡± Mythas grinned in return, her eyes gleaming with a good measure of playful defiance and a dash of irritation. ¡°You know as well as I do that we¡¯ve always thrived under pressure. A sprinkle of danger only sweetens the taste of triumph, afterwards. It¡¯s simply who we are. Besides, it¡¯ll make for a great tale, once we¡¯re done outrunning our pursuers.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Irthal saw Lurgon roll his eyes and sensed the burgeoning tension. He pretended to ponder the name. ¡°Hmm. I suppose it has a certain ring to it,¡± he finally conceded, ¡°but I also worry it might be a bit too flashy.¡±


    ¡°Who cares if it¡¯s flashy?¡± Mythas replied swiftly, seizing the opportunity. ¡°It¡¯s not as if we¡¯re trying to be subtle anymore.¡±


    Watching Lurgon mouth You bet, Irthal laughed, ¡°Point taken,¡± he declared with what he hoped sounded like a captain¡¯s finality. ¡°The Escape it is then.¡±


    ¡°The Escape, eh?¡± Sevastian said, emerging from behind one of the masts with a smirk. ¡°I like it; fits what we¡¯re about to do, I guess.¡±


    Mythas nodded in agreement. ¡°It does have a touch of style to it, doesn¡¯t it,¡± she added complacently, daring Lurgon to contradict her.


    Irthal crossed his arms and grinned. He had to admit to himself, he liked the name too. It sounded mysterious and exciting, and it did fit the kind of journey they had embarked on.


    Noticing their conversation, one of the younger sailors spoke up, her voice timid but enthusiastic. ¡°We could also make our own flag,¡± she suggested hesitantly.


    ¡°I think that¡¯s a great idea,¡± Irthal remarked, turning toward her with a supportive smile. ¡°Rickel was the name, wasn¡¯t it? What kind of design do you have in mind?¡±


    The young sailor, beaming with pride, paused for a moment before responding. ¡°Perhaps something with a ship on it, sailing toward the horizon. Or a phoenix rising from the ashes, you know, with escape and rebirth and all that.¡±


    Mythas clapped her hands in delight. ¡°A phoenix rising from its ashes, I like that!¡±


    As Rickel elaborated on her flag idea, growing increasingly animated, more and more of the crew gathered around her, each newcomer voicing their own suggestions and ideas. Irthal watched as they worked together, their eyes practically gleaming with excitement. His crew. It was moments like these that he now lived for. That, and Sevastha.


    As the wind guided them toward Taris, the crew did their best to ready their ship for its new identity. They had already masked the old name with a fresh coat of blue paint, yet the embossed letters continued to shine through, like a half-forgotten memory. They had even added a new emblem onto the sails¡ªa bird in mid-flight. That¡¯s the freedom we fought so hard for, Irthal thought. With a bit of imagination, a generous squint maybe, one could even mistake it for a phoenix.


    Finally, Taris came into sight. And not a day too soon. While the crew¡¯s morale was at an all-time high, Irthal could feel their eagerness for rest and resupply. He could hardly fault them for it. As the Escape neared the harbor, the easternmost city of the Trifelt gradually revealed itself, nestled between a rugged coastline and rolling green hills. Taris was an old city, steeped in history and molded by its strategic location at the crossroads of nautical trade routes, serving as the natural link between the Trifelt and Limrod on the continent.


    The harbor itself was a testament to the city¡¯s rich heritage, overflowing with colorful buildings, embellished with ornate wooden sculptures and mosaics. Where Olban had felt stocky and stifling to Irthal, Taris seemed storied and alluring. Along its waterfront, lofty watchtowers stood guard, overlooking the surrounding seas, while twin stone lighthouses¡ªbookending the port¡ªloomed over the harbor, casting their guiding light across the waters.


    As if to advertise its position between continents, Taris¡¯ architecture was a blend of various cultural influences that had left their mark on the city over the centuries. As if conjured by tales Irthal had heard, majestic domes and spires rose above the rooftops, mingling with traditional Trifeltian slanted wooden roofs decorated with clay tiles. Ornamental gardens dotted the urban landscape, providing lush havens of green amid the stone and timber structures. Irthal could hardly decide where to fix his gaze, discovering more and more details as they approached.


    Just as he could barely spot the faintest hints of figures walking on the docks¡ªnot more than black dots really¡ªLurgon¡¯s voice reverberated across the deck, tense and alarmed. ¡°Captain, we¡¯ve got company!¡±


    Alarmed, Irthal rushed to Lurgon¡¯s side and squinted into the distance. There, trailing their ship, another vessel swiftly cut through the waves. Irthal swallowed hard. He saw immediately why Lurgon was so alarmed. The ship flew Gelman¡¯s flag, crimson like spilled blood against the pale sky.


    Lurgon produced his spyglass and scrutinized the pursuing ship. ¡°It¡¯s a frigate. Looks like they¡¯ve got a few cannons on board, but their speed is similar to ours.¡±


    Cursing under his breath, Irthal drew a deep breath and started shouting orders toward the crew. ¡°Change course! We need to shake them off if we want to make port!¡±


    Mythas dashed to the wheel, her hands firmly gripping the wood. ¡°Are you even sure they¡¯ve spotted us? It could be a coincidence.¡±


    ¡°No chance,¡± Irthal vehemently shook his head. ¡°They¡¯re after us. And they won¡¯t stop until they¡¯ve got us.¡± He swung toward Lurgon. ¡°How far are we from Taris?¡±


    Lurgon surveyed the map. ¡°About an hour away. Maybe less, depending on the wind.¡±


    With a troubled look, Irthal considered the city ahead of them. ¡°We¡¯ll have to outmaneuver them,¡± he finally declared, spinning around to focus on the advancing ship. ¡°At least to give us some time to find a cove to hide near Taris or something.¡±


    Sam started to translate his decision into orders and the crew moved as one, silent save for the rustle of canvas and creak of rope, scrambling to catch every gust of wind available. As the Escape accelerated, a tense silence enveloped the ship, every now and then pierced by an anxious look cast back at the pursuing vessel. They still remained within sight.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t working, damn it, do something!¡± Irthal shouted to Mythas. She immediately steered the ship to the right, hands firmly gripping the wheel, veering away from their pursuers and into the wind. Sails billowing, the Escape surged forward.


    They tried everything to shake their pursuers¡ªsharp turns, even feints toward the rocky shoreline. Irthal had to admit to himself that he had underestimated Mythas. As she expertly navigated the Escape through a narrow chasm between two rocky outcrops¡ªthe hull barely grazing the jagged rocks on either side¡ªhe could not have wished for a better helmswoman. Yet to Irthal¡¯s dismay, their pursuers did not falter, charging right after them through the treacherous passage, mirroring their every move as they continued along the coastline.


    The winds, seemingly undecided in their allegiance, shifted capriciously. A sudden gust filled the sails of the frigate behind them, allowing it to almost close the gap between the two ships.


    Suddenly, Irthal could spot figures on the other vessel, armed and standing at the ready. Lurgon, wide-eyed and alert, scrambled up the rigging to unfurl the topsails, frantically adding the last bit of extra speed to outpace their pursuers. For now. Irthal watched sweat stream down Lurgon¡¯s face as he toiled relentlessly, the threat of falling secondary to the fear of being caught by Gelman¡¯s thugs. Of being made into an example.


    As the chase dragged on¡ªthe initial adrenaline rush long past and their pursuers showing no signs of relenting¡ªthe crew of the Escape grew increasingly weary. This was where things got truly dangerous. Each second was a sharp note in the symphony of their flight¡ªtheir freedom the elusive melody, danger the relentless beat. The outcome, on either side, now hinged on a single mistake, a gust of wind, or even a plain stroke of luck.


    Lurgon approached Irthal, a grim expression on his face. ¡°We need a plan, Irthal. We can¡¯t just keep running forever. They¡¯ll get us in Taris.¡±


    The Escape cut through the water with all the speed they could muster, a trail of white foam in their wake. Despite their fatigue, the crew remained steadfast, knowing that failure was not an option. Not here, not now.


    Irthal scanned the horizon, his mind racing as he weighed their options. He knew the frigate would eventually catch up¡ªsooner rather than later¡ªand there was no chance of victory in a fight. He had seen how many men they had on that other ship. So, he had to think of another way to get them safely away from here. His hands gripped the railing, like he could crush the thick slabs of pine if he just tried hard enough.


    At last, Irthal turned to Lurgon. ¡°You¡¯re right, we can¡¯t reach Taris like this. And they¡¯ll follow us to any other port,¡± he said. ¡°There is no choice. We¡¯ll have to abandon our course and head for the open sea.¡± He took one last breath before he set their fate. Then he continued. ¡°Take course for Limrod. Full speed ahead.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Sam, alternating between adjusting the sails and hoarsely barking commands, had glanced up at his decision, a horrified expression on her face. ¡°We don¡¯t have enough water, Irthal, probably not even enough food. We need to resupply!¡±


    ¡°Not now, Sam.¡± Irthal flicked his hand in dismissal, brows knitted with impatience. ¡°We need to get away from here.¡±


    Irthal began to instruct one of the sailors to aid Lurgon with the sails and was already turning toward Mythas at the helm when Sam spoke again. ¡°No, you don¡¯t understand, Irthal! Taris is just over there, I can see it. We can resupply. I¡¯m sure we can negotiate some kind of solution with Gelman¡¯s people.¡±


    Something within Irthal snapped.


    In one movement, he whirled around and began to stride toward his friend. ¡°We. Have. No. Time.¡± Every word punctuated by another step, until he was looming over Sam, his face a mask of rage and desperation. Sam visibly recoiled, hands trembling at her sides.


    ¡°You think I don¡¯t know that supplies run low? That there¡¯s a port right in front of us?¡± Irthal¡¯s voice became low and dangerous. ¡°We¡¯re in a tight spot, and we need to make tough decisions. But we cannot let them catch us, Sam. We cannot allow them to take us back to Gelman. This is no discussion.¡±


    Sam¡¯s eyes flickered around the deck, looking for support, her discomfort apparent. Nobody spoke up. ¡°They¡¯re exhausted,¡± she said, ¡°and we¡¯ve been on the run for days, Irthal. We need to stop and rest.¡± Now she sounded more plaintive than trying to convince him.


    Irthal¡¯s gaze softened slightly, knowing he had won. ¡°I know, Sam.¡± He placed a reassuring hand on Sam¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I know it¡¯s not easy. But we¡¯ll find a way. We always do.¡±


    Keeping his eyes on Sam, Irthal roared over his shoulder, ¡°Do it, Lurgon!¡± Lurgon grunted, seemingly agreeing with Irthal¡¯s decision for once. With a series of curt orders, the burly man set the crew into motion, steering them toward the open sea before their pursuers could catch up. Undeterred, the other ship followed.


    Turning her back on Taris, the Escape surged forward, leaping through the waves as they raced toward freedom, yet again.

 Lithas 4 (Chapter 15)

    ¡°What if you met a god and never knew it?¡± ¨C Ilgast of Limrod, Deliberations


    All she could recall was sand. Sand and pain and darkness. And then¡­ light. Blinding, excruciating light.


    Lithas woke, head throbbing. Her entire body seemed to have decided to join in on the pain. As her eyes adjusted to the frankly rather dim light, if she was honest with herself, she realized that she lay within one of her wagons, Avila sitting next to her. ¡°What happened?¡± she managed to croak out. She tried to sit up. Too soon. The world seemed to spin, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision.


    Sensing her struggle, Avila gently pushed her back down. ¡°We were hit by a desert storm and you were struck by a falling wagon,¡± he explained, his voice steady. He paused for a moment, before adding. ¡°You saved those soldiers, Lithas. They¡¯re alive because of you. It¡¯s a miracle that you¡¯re not dead, to be honest.¡±


    Lithas¡¯ grimace turned into a wince as she brought a hand up to her throbbing temples. To her surprise, she found them already occupied with a towel. ¡°Feels like it. How long have I been out?¡±


    ¡°Just a few hours, perhaps a bit more,¡± Avila replied, readjusting the damp cloth on her forehead.


    Lithas looked around, trying to piece together what had happened. As she saw the clear sky through a narrow opening in the wagon curtains, Lithas concluded that the storm must have passed. ¡°The others... are they okay?¡± She winced again, her body screaming in protest at the smallest movement. She did not even want to think about riding a horse yet.


    ¡°Mostly fine,¡± Avila replied, a reassuring nod accompanying his words. ¡°A few scrapes and bruises, nothing too serious. The wagons mostly held up well against the storm, thanks to the barricades. Kellen took charge and made sure everyone was safe. You¡¯ve got yourself a good captain, Lithas.¡±


    ¡°Thank the stars for that.¡± Lithas let out a sigh of relief. ¡°We were lucky to make it out alive. Or barely alive, in my case.¡± She paused, her gaze landing on Avila. ¡°And you? You weren¡¯t injured?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine, Lithas.¡± Shaking his head, Avila offered a light chuckle. ¡°It takes more than a storm to shake me up.¡± His gaze grew serious again. ¡°But how about you? Can I fetch you anything?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯ll manage. Just need to stay put for a second, then I¡¯ll be as good as new.¡± Her voice grew steadier as she attempted to sit up again. This time, the world stayed where it was. The darkness did not creep back. Good.


    Lithas managed to sit up straight and, if she ignored the excruciating pain, she was quite confident she could stay like this for a while. Maybe a short while. She scanned the wagon, noticing for the first time that they were alone. Her immediate second thought went to the fact that they were not moving. Furrowing her brows, she asked, ¡°Where is everyone else?¡±


    ¡°Outside, working to salvage what they can from the caravan,¡± Avila paused before continuing. ¡°I wanted to thank you for taking me in. I likely wouldn¡¯t have survived, if the storm had caught me alone in the desert.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± Lithas offered a frail smile, brushing aside the gratitude. ¡°Inviting a wanderer into one¡¯s home shouldn¡¯t be an extraordinary act, Avila,¡± she murmured. ¡°You¡¯re an intriguing man. I¡¯ve enjoyed our conversations.¡± She exhaled, readying herself. ¡°But now, I really need to get up and assess the damage. We¡¯ve got a long journey ahead of us, and we can¡¯t afford to lose any more supplies.¡±


    Ignoring her protesting body, Lithas stood, wincing at what she suspected to be at least a cracked rib. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s go see what¡¯s left of my caravan.¡±


    Lithas stepped out to a scene of upheaval. The storm had certainly left its mark. Wrecked wagons lay toppled, their contents scattered across the rocky desert. Dried fruit, bits of shining metal, even the occasional piece of clothing. Her guards sifted through the debris, salvaging scraps from the sand¡¯s greedy clutches, but it was clear they would be in for a rough journey the rest of the way to Demis. Almost involuntarily, Lithas started to calculate losses and expenses.


    Kellen strode over, noting Lithas¡¯ emergence from the wagon. His posture was rigid, the stance of a man who had weathered many storms in his life, perhaps too many. ¡°My lady,¡± his voice sounded strained, ¡°we¡¯ve managed to recover what¡¯s left, but the situation is bad. A good deal of our stock is gone to the winds, and some of the wagons won¡¯t be journeying with us again.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡± Lithas, having completed her mental assessment, inhaled deeply, steeling herself. ¡°We¡¯ll need a plan; mere scraps won¡¯t see us through to Demis. And we can¡¯t afford to stay here any longer. We need to abandon the broken wagons and keep moving. Ration our remaining supplies, Kellen. And find me a place to buy food.¡±


    Clearing his throat, Avila stepped forward, drawing their attention. He looked thoughtfully over the wreckage before speaking. ¡°Perhaps my travels can be of use in our time of need. On my way from Tibara, I passed a nearby town. It¡¯s a few days march east, but they have a marketplace where we could resupply.¡±


    ¡°Good enough,¡± Lithas said, rewarding Avila with an appreciative nod. She turned to Kellen, her tone becoming resolute. ¡°You heard the man. Get everyone together. We¡¯re departing as soon as possible. We have a town to reach and no time to waste.¡±


    Offering a sharp salute, Kellen barked orders to the guards. Abandoning their current efforts, they immediately sprang into action, recovering what they could and preparing their departure.


    Lithas watched them work, as she stretched her cramped limps carefully. She was quietly satisfied with their efficiency. Lithas knew they were a small group, but she had made damn sure her retinue worked together like the interlocked links of a chainmail hauberk. She felt pride swell in her chest at the sight.


    They reached the town Avila mentioned after a relentless march, each day blending into the next as they navigated the treacherous coastal desert on half-rations. Most of the journey saw Lithas confined to a wagon, recovering from her all too swift encounter with one of these very same wagons. Now, finally astride her horse once more¡ªdespite her protesting muscles¡ªshe watched Kellen expertly orchestrate equipment repairs and the replenishment of their supplies.


    They did not stay long, already delayed as they were. Lithas ordered them to leave the town and return to the caravan trail, which now wound its way south. Still following the smooth coastline of Sariz Bay but trading in rocky desert for arid grasslands, stretching on for miles and miles, interrupted only by the occasional rolling hill.


    One brisk morning on this seemingly never-ending coastal highway, Lithas noticed strange pillars jutting out from the sea on her right. They were massive, rising from the waters like silent sentinels. They were scattered around the shoreline, made from some kind of dark stone, some of them reaching up to pierce the heavens. The waves crashed against their foundations, providing an almost soothing background noise.


    Lithas faintly recalled hearsay from traders but had never ventured to this area before. ¡°What are those?¡± she asked, pointing toward the structures.


    Avila followed her gaze to the colossal pillars, a smile playing on his lips. ¡°Those? Those are the Halcynian Spears. Massive basalt pillars rooted in the ocean floor.¡± He tilted his head. ¡°Listen,¡± he explained, ¡°Listen to the wind as it whips around them, creating this strange low hum that resonates through the air. There¡¯s something enchanting about these pillars.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re incredible,¡± Lithas murmured, unable to take her eyes off them. ¡°I can see why they¡¯re called Spears. They look like poised weapons, ready to strike.¡±


    ¡°Yes, they do,¡± Avila nodded, gaze still fixed on the slanted monoliths. ¡°Legends say the Halcynian Spears were hurled from the heavens, guardians against the sea¡¯s wrath.¡±


    Lithas cast Avila a skeptical look. ¡°Is that so? And you believe in this?¡±The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Avila laughed softly. ¡°Certainty is a luxury, Lithas. Traditions carry the weight of generations; to dismiss them is to dismiss history itself.¡±


    A shadow crossed Lithas¡¯ face, her gaze sharpening as old wounds stirred within. ¡°In the Belt, beliefs like that could get you imprisoned or worse.¡± Lithas did not often think or talk about her time in Lhasa but something in that old man beside her drew out those old memories. She was not sure she liked that.


    ¡°Do you think that¡¯s just, Lithas ak¡¯Var?¡± Avila¡¯s features softened into a pained expression. ¡°Should we just abandon everything we¡¯ve ever believed in or built? Become mere slaves?¡±


    Uncomfortable under the weight of Avila¡¯s words, Lithas shifted in her saddle. ¡°No, of course it¡¯s not just¡±, she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°But the Tetrarchy is hardly a paragon of tolerance. I¡¯ve seen many suffer worse punishments for less.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± Avila nodded carefully, face guarded. ¡°I understand. But sometimes, we have to choose. Our path is marked by the truths we hold sacred. Do we renounce our beliefs¡ªliving in fear¡ªor do we uphold our truths?¡± He paused. ¡°And maybe, just maybe, we bring about change in the process.¡±


    Lithas¡¯ gaze returned to the towering columns as she pondered his words. Noticing a dark shadow on the distant horizon behind them, she felt a prickling unease. Probably just a caravan, she thought. She frowned. Quite late in the season though. And that dust cloud seemed to be too large for a simple caravan. Something was making her uncomfortable, so she decided to nudge the conversation in a different direction. ¡°I bet you¡¯ve got a fitting Avila quote for that too, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°¡®Cut the root, kill the tree.¡¯¡± He looked at her, sparkling determination in his eyes. ¡°Who are we without our roots, after all? Sometimes, we must place our faith in something greater than us. That¡¯s what these pillars embody to the people here, Lithas. Roots. Roots to what they were, to what they still are, no matter what happens on the Belt.¡±


    They continued their journey in silence, Lithas absorbed in her thoughts, eyes riveted on the ocean and the Halcynian Spears.


    The mesmerizing dance of a flock of birds diving into the waves finally snapped her out of her reverie. The lithe creatures seemed to be riding the currents that whipped through the maze of pillars, movements synchronized with a natural grace that fascinated Lithas. ¡°What kind of birds are they?¡± she asked Avila, her eyes fixed on the scene.


    Shielding his eyes from the sun, Avila observed the flock for a moment. ¡°Those are sea swallows. They¡¯re skilled hunters, often gathering in large groups to feed on schools of fish. They travel great distances, so they¡¯re a symbol of freedom and hope among many of the coastal communities around here.¡±


    As the birds danced in the wind, a tranquil hush fell over Lithas, and she imagined her worries seemingly lightened by their aerial symphony. She felt an unexpected connection to the sea swallows. Like them, she was a traveler, journeying through a vast, uncertain world. Their flight seemed to embody the very essence of what she had always sought: liberation from the shackles of her past, and the promise of a future ripe with opportunities.


    Yet, unlike the sea swallows, they had to continue their journey.


    As the caravan continued south, Lithas kept looking back. The Spears gradually disappeared from view, despite their enormity, supplanted once again by endless flat grasslands.


    Around them, the scenery gradually morphed into a sparse forest. Towering, gnarled trees stretched skywards, their branches weaving a canopy that cast shadowy patterns on the ground. Soon, the twisted junipers and cacti of the barren desert were replaced by lush ferns and towering oaks.


    Riding deeper into the forest, the air seemed to thicken around Lithas, the temperature dropping to a tolerable heat. The silence around them was only sporadically broken by playful chattering of monkeys in the treetops. Or by a cracked branch, followed by the sight of a tapir¡¯s striped back disappearing into the undergrowth. Despite the difference to her native Sariz, Lithas found herself drawn to the forest¡¯s enigmatic beauty, to the way the silk cotton trees seemed to stand guard like ancient sentinels.


    The passing days saw the dense forest gradually thin out, yielding to rolling hills and lush meadows. Ever since they had exited the fringes of the Selvian desert, they could journey during the day again, vastly accelerating their progress. The caravan moved at a steady pace now, her guards keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings, as the landscape continued its morph into Demis¡¯ surroundings, offering new sights every day.


    Lithas found herself spending more and more time with Avila and Kellen on their journey¡ªsharing stories of their lives and discussing the world beyond¡ªsometimes joined by an invited Kael. Who was doubly intimidated by the presence of both his commander and his employer. Lithas found she had developed a liking for the young soldier, for his open earnestness.


    So, as the nights grew cooler and the campfire¡¯s glow ever enticingly warmer, their shared laughter slowly morphed into softer exchanges. Glances held a moment too long, and the quiet intimacy of shared silence.


    One such evening, as they gathered around the fire, Lithas noticed Kael¡¯s furtive, lingering glances, subtly tracing her curves. An unexpected flutter of excitement stirred within her, amplifying the heat of the fire.


    Usually so reserved, the young man had grown more comfortable in her company over time, youthful vigor now sometimes breaking through his soldier¡¯s discipline. Especially this night, with Kellen occupied with a special night training exercise. As if for the first time, Lithas suddenly noticed Kael¡¯s tall stature, his well-defined muscles and attractive face. As she shifted in her seat, aware of Kael¡¯s gaze on her, she felt the fabric of her dress brush against her skin.


    Avila, noticing the exchange, cleared his throat. ¡°Kael,¡± he began, ¡°a journey is more than the distance we travel. It¡¯s also about the paths we carve within ourselves. How has this voyage of ours shaped you so far?¡±


    Kael¡¯s attention shifted to Avila, but Lithas still felt the heat of his gaze linger on her skin. Like the sun on her back¡ªundeniable and increasingly impossible to ignore.


    ¡°It¡¯s been fascinating,¡± Kael said. ¡°The landscape is beautiful, and the people we¡¯ve met were so friendly. Even more so than in Sariz!¡±


    Not exactly a poet, but oh well. Lithas felt herself nod in agreement. Her mind, however, was elsewhere, consumed by a sudden urge to feel Kael¡¯s hands on her body. A small voice at the back of her mind reminded her that she was his employer. An even smaller voice recalled the lad having mentioned a family back in Sariz.


    Beneath the tapestry of stars, the unspoken, forbidden undercurrent between them wove into the night air, as heavy as the scent of the blooming night jasmine around them.


    Perhaps sensing her thoughts, Kael rose abruptly, stepping closer to her until their chests almost touched. His hands lingered on her waist, and Lithas felt herself melt into his embrace. He leaned in and she lifted her chin, allowing him to kiss away the last of her lingering reservations.


    As Kael caressed her curves, Lithas felt as if something inside her had been awakened, sending shivers of delight through her. His touch, gentle yet firm, ignited her skin to burn brighter than any campfire.


    Or that was what Lithas pictured before her eyes, in any case. Reality presented a somewhat less romantic scene, as it so often does.


    As Lithas let herself indulge in her fleeting fantasy of closeness with Kael, the young man¡¯s animated conversation with Avila ended with his bowl of hot stew ruining a perfectly good set of cushions and, under considerable whining, scalding his thighs.


    Certainly not the kind of heat she had imagined for either of them.


    After the stew debacle, the ensuing hilarity among the guards promptly dissipated any lingering tension around the campfire. Barely managing to suppress a sigh, Lithas excused herself and retired to bed¡ªalone¡ªleaving a sheepish Kael behind, amidst smirking guards.


    The next day, Kellen urged everyone to make haste. They were approaching their destination and, come night, he wanted them to sleep behind city walls. Despite sporadic grumbles, the men and women complied with her captain¡¯s instructions, and they practically flew across the countryside.


    Throughout the day¡¯s ride, Kael¡¯s usually jovial demeanor remained subdued, even his occasional attempts at humor falling flat. Lithas watched with a mixture of amusement and pity as he continued to squirm in his saddle, trying to find a comfortable position.


    But even disregarding Kael¡¯s misery, the day was marked by little conversation, all focus instead directed at their impending arrival in Demis. As the sun dipped into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold, Lithas noticed a faint glow to the south. Squinting against the dimming light, she tried to make out what it was. Under a darkening sky, they approached the intensifying glow that finally resolved itself into a sprawling cityscape.


    ¡°Demis,¡± Avila said in awe, with a hint of incredulity. ¡°We made it.¡±


    In contrast to the solitary landscapes they had crossed these last few weeks, the city buzzed with lights and lively activity. As she closed the distance, more and more details became clear to Lithas¡ªtowers extending toward the night sky, streets bustling with people and carts, and markets expanding beyond the city¡¯s immense gates.


    As they approached, Demis¡¯ towering walls seemed to grow even larger. The clatter of their caravan¡¯s wheels on the cobblestone streets eventually mingled with the urban cacophony, the city¡¯s heartbeat palpable in the air as Lithas entered the shadow of her gates. The smell of cardamom and sea brine welcomed her.


    She noted the wealth of markets and shops that lined every street, from outside the city¡¯s gates to as far as her eye¡¯s permitted¡ªa welcome sight after their long journey where they had to scrounge for provisions. Everywhere she looked, the scene echoed the bazaars of Sariz; merchants hawking exotic goods, performers in vibrant costumes entertaining gathered crowds, and vendors peddling their wares on busy streets, all bathed in the glow of lanterns swinging from multistoried buildings. The sights, sounds, and smells of this strange place filled Lithas with excitement and wonder.


    Before long they passed through an archway marking their entry into the city proper¡ªa towering stone structure adorned with intricate carvings and shaped figurines. Among them, Lithas recognized elaborate renditions of eagles in mid-flight, just above her, eyes inset with gleaming blue sapphires that seemed to track her every move. Turning her head, she spotted Prince Cerax¡¯ palace at the center of the city, rising like a gleaming bird of prey itself.


    Lithas passed the city gate¡­

 Omvar 4 (Chapter 16)

    ¡°Consider the word. Elevated. Not Chosen, not Privileged, not Blessed. They are raised up by the people, to serve at the pleasure of the people. There is power in a word.¡±


    ¨C Feldar, Tetrarch of Kel, Autobiography


    ¡­and they entered the ruins.


    Leftos had insisted that they stay together as much as possible. It was a small group, in the end. They had left Jahan and their remaining soldiers back at the camp, ostensibly tasked with guarding the injured and their supplies, in case more of the feathery lizards decided to show up.


    But Omvar suspected another reason. Leftos probably wanted as few people as possible to see the insides of these ruins, for whatever reason.


    So, it was only himself, Rashaad, Zara, and, of course, Orhan and Omvar, who walked through that archway and descended the broken stairs into the complex. The light quickly faded as they went deeper. Everyone held onto their lanterns for dear life, as darkness started to creep in. Everyone except luminous Leftos, of course.


    After far too many steps for Omvar¡¯s liking, they finally reached a dusty stone floor. ¡°What¡¯s all this stuff?¡± His voice echoed slightly in the cavernous space. ¡°Instruments? Weapons?¡± Omvar peered curiously at the objects scattered around.


    ¡°Stay focused,¡± Leftos called over his shoulder, not even bothering to look back. ¡°That¡¯s not what we¡¯re here for.¡±


    ¡°Well, then what did we come here for?¡± Omvar pressed. No answer to that.


    Next to him, Orhan had put down his lantern and started to scribble furiously in his notebook. ¡°You see that marking there Omvar, the one that looks a bit like an upside-down beetle?¡± He was agitatedly pointing to some kind of pedestal that exhibited etchings all over its surface. ¡°I swear I¡¯ve seen that exact symbol in recent work in the Journal for Historical Studies that described a stele in ruins near Imra.¡±


    ¡°So, what does it mean?¡± Omvar asked, mildly interested.


    ¡°No clue. It does look funny, though, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Orhan was now crouching to examine the pedestal from all angles, searching for more symbols.


    ¡°A key insight in translation is co-occurrence¡±, he continued, ¡°We may not know what a word means but its frequency, and the identity of neighboring words, can help a great deal, once some initial words have been deciphered.¡± While he spoke, Orhan continued to make notes, his black notebook resting against one hand.


    Omvar nodded along, only half-listening, as his attention was caught by something else. Almost without noticing, he had wandered a bit further down the corridor, until he stood before an opening into a side room. Entering, Omvar scanned the chamber. It seemed to be filled entirely with large metal eggs. As he ran his hand over one of them, feeling their smooth surface glide beneath his fingertips, he looked up and gasped. Standing in front of him was a huge figure made of metal and stone, arms outstretched, head tilted back as if gazing at the sky somewhere far above the ceiling.


    Omvar¡¯s gaze lingered on the strange objects. A part of him¡ªthe old, almost forgotten part that had always been drawn to the mysteries of the past¡ªfelt a pull toward the relics. But another part, the part hardened by years of discipline and the disappointing reality of their world, knew better than to let curiosity derail their mission. Or his life, for that matter.


    He turned to call the others but then he realized that he was alone. Where had they gone? He shrugged it off and approached the figure warily. It loomed over Omvar, about twice his size. Each hand could have crushed his skull with about the same ease as if he crushed an ant. Omvar raised his own hand, as if to reach out.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Orhan. Speaking up from somewhere behind him. Omvar turned and spotted his friend near the entrance to the room.


    ¡°I was just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Come on,¡± he said, waving down the corridor. ¡°We need to catch up with the others. You do realize that Leftos won¡¯t hesitate to leave us behind if we inconvenience him in any way?¡± Omvar could almost see his old friend tap his foot in impatience behind his usual jovial smile.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t the one decoding beetle codes,¡± Omvar complained but began to move toward the entrance to the room. With a last look at the metal giant, he followed Orhan into the corridor and, led by reverberating voices, they soon caught up to Zara and Rashaad. The two Elevated stood in another room, huddled around a strange obelisk.


    ¡°What do you make of this?¡± Zara asked Rashaad, pointing to the structure. The room was shaped like an amphitheater, a long set of stairs leading down to a dais. In the center of the platform, a dark-gray lance erupted from the floor, periodically wrapped in thick bands of silvery metal, until it concluded in a ball-like object of the same material. Omvar ran his hand over the cool surface of the obelisk, feeling the intricate carvings that seemed to whisper tales of an ancient world.


    Rashaad was silent for a moment, his veil hiding any expression he might have had. ¡°I don¡¯t know. And that frightens me,¡± he finally admitted, voice low and serious.


    Zara looked at the tall man nervously. Aren¡¯t those people supposed to protect us? Omvar thought. Finally, Orhan and his curiosity broke the awkward pause, as he wandered off to examine long parallel lines gouged into one of the walls. His steps, though muffled by what must have been centuries of dust, echoed through the wide hall.


    ¡°Where is Leftos?¡± Omvar asked the two Elevated, who had turned around to face them.


    ¡°Went scouting ahead,¡± Rashaad answered, his eyes never leaving the obelisk. ¡°Said he wanted us to inspect some of these rooms.¡±


    So, he knew where to go, Omvar mused. What have we gotten ourselves into here?


    But before he could even so much as open his mouth to press Rashaad for more details, a triumphant cry echoed through the chamber.


    ¡°What is it this time, Orhan? Do the lines in the wall remind you of Trifeltian tree rings?¡±


    But it was not Orhan. It was Leftos, standing atop the stairs that led down to their platform. Even from a distance, Omvar had to admit the Delegate struck an imposing figure, with his cream-colored suit and matching cape.


    ¡°There you are!¡± Leftos exclaimed. The triumphant tone only partly due to finding them, Omvar suspected. ¡°Care to join me? I¡¯ve found what we came here for.¡±


    ¡°I thought we were only here to expand Kel¡¯s knowledge and maybe a lucky artifact find,¡± Omvar hissed to Orhan.


    ¡°Apparently not so.¡± Orhan did not seem surprised. His body was still partly turned toward the etched wall, reluctant to let it go. Omvar clearly saw the gleam in the other man¡¯s eyes.


    He sighed. ¡°Well, playtime¡¯s over,¡± Omvar announced and started up the stairs, an evidently unhappy Orhan in tow, who kept glancing toward the receding wall.


    ¡°Finally,¡± Leftos greeted them with a clap, as they ascended the last of the amphitheater rows. With a curt nod, he led them back into the corridor.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    As they silently followed Leftos through the winding corridors of this underground maze, Omvar caught glimpses of the rooms they passed¡ªsome with visible doors on the opposite side, some leading into open hallways. In passing, Omvar tried to peek into these chambers and saw bizarre devices and contraptions he could not even begin to imagine the purpose of, surrounded by intricate carvings nestled amongst half-collapsed bookshelves.


    Omvar¡¯s eyes widened as each turn revealed yet another vast chamber. This place was a lot bigger than he had thought.


    Finally, they entered a massive circular room with a domed ceiling that seemed to disappear into the darkness above. Arrayed against the back wall stood a pedestal holding a round object¡ªa silver orb with a pale blue sheen, reflecting the light cast by their lanterns. Next to Omvar, Leftos practically radiated excitement. Goosebumps erupted on Omvar¡¯s arms. Seems like he was not immune himself to the sense of awe these ruins inspired.


    ¡°Blood and bones, what is this?¡± Zara asked, gaze fixed on the orb.


    ¡°The key,¡± Leftos said simply. ¡°This is why we¡¯re here. Now we just have to grab it and get out of this place,¡± he said, his voice hushed but intense.


    Zara frowned. ¡°Great plan. What if it fails?¡±


    Turning, Leftos met her gaze, unwavering. Omvar wondered whether the Delegate was being questioned often, in his usual life in Kel. Likely not. ¡°Trust me, it won¡¯t,¡± Leftos replied in a clipped tone.


    Orhan stepped forward, squinting at the cause of their long journey. He paused, his gaze turning introspective. Silently, he looked around the room. Then, a sudden realization spread across his face.


    ¡°This... it¡¯s part of a defense system,¡± he said slowly, scanning the chamber for confirmation. ¡°It looks different from the drawings in Rohnar¡¯s treatises, but I recognize some of these symbols and mechanisms.¡±


    Rashaad¡¯s eyes narrowed as he took in their surroundings. ¡°Seems like we¡¯ve stepped into the lion¡¯s den,¡± he muttered under his breath.


    Omvar followed Orhan¡¯s gaze and noticed the walls, seemingly hewn out of solid rock. Noticed the intricate symbols carved into them. Noticed suspiciously placed slits that evoked nothing more than images of traps, ready to spring at a moment¡¯s notice.


    Leftos sighed, nodding in acknowledgment to Rashaad before he addressed the group. ¡°We know from reports of other ruins that this orb is probably guarded by traps. Only someone familiar with the history of this place, this ancient civilization, could navigate them,¡± he said, his gaze settling on Orhan, offering a mock bow. ¡°Historian First Class Orhan Malenk, would you do us the honors?¡±


    Orhan nodded and moved forward, his black notebook open and pen ready. ¡°Of course,¡± he replied, turning his attention to the symbols etched on the walls of the chamber. Focusing, he started to make notes, studying the slits carefully and deciphering the ancient text surrounding them.


    While Orhan worked, the rest of the group watched. Leftos¡¯ pacing was the only sound in the expectant silence, his cape billowing in his wake. Zara and Rashaad exchanged a tense glance. Omvar felt the anticipation filling the room to the brim. He suddenly envied Jahan, sitting cozily at the campfire outside.


    Finally, after what felt like an eternity of concentrated examination, Orhan straightened with a triumphant grin. ¡°I¡¯ve got it,¡± he declared, holding up his notebook. ¡°I know how we can reach the orb.¡±


    Leftos let out a deep breath, visibly relaxing, and Omvar could feel a wave of relief wash over him. ¡°Excellent work,¡± Leftos said, clapping Orhan on the back and motioned for him to lead the way.


    With renewed confidence, Orhan stepped forward and the group tensely followed behind. To Omvar, each symbol they passed along the wall was like taking a step deeper into the realm of forgotten knowledge. Occasionally, Orhan stopped to carefully examine a symbol, tracing its lines with his finger while he murmured something under his breath. Eventually, he halted in front of a glyph that looked like a blend between shield and star to Omvar. ¡°This is the symbol for ¡®protection¡¯,¡± Orhan announced. ¡°The path around the traps starts here.¡± He pointed toward a narrow opening in the wall behind them that Omvar would have blithely walked past.


    Then, with a grace that belied his portly stature, Orhan squeezed into the gap, vanishing from sight. Leftos was first in taking a step into the opening. The others quickly followed Orhan¡¯s lead after that, walking down a narrow corridor within the wall that had been completely invisible from the entrance.


    As they approached their destination, the echoes of their footfall off the stone walls became a ghostly chorus, underscoring their urgency. How many people would have slyly attempted to find the right path through the maze of traps toward the pedestal? Instead, the solution to this puzzle was both simple and hard. The worst kind of solution.


    Passing another narrow slit like the one that had granted them entry into the passageway, they exited the wall again. At last, they emerged unscathed into the alcove with the pedestal that they had seen from the door on the opposite side of the room.


    And there it was¡ªthe silver orb, resting on the smooth basalt structure and pulsing with an almost otherworldly blueish light. Omvar released a tension he did not realize he had been holding, as he reflected on all the ways he could have died in the last few minutes, if it were not for Orhan. Judging by the looks on his companions¡¯ faces, he was not the only one. Only Leftos stood there, casual as ever, eyeing the pedestal with naked curiosity. Beside him, Orhan was drawing the orb, as it sat atop its velvet cushion. The man was unbelievable.


    ¡°We truly made it,¡± Rashaad muttered in disbelief, staring in awe at the strange object before him. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with, then.¡± He stepped forward, hands outstretched, to retrieve the orb from its perch. The tips of his fingers touched the smooth material.


    Suddenly, a resonating hum filled the room, seemingly coming from all directions at once. Beams of blinding light burst from the slits in the walls and ceiling, illuminating the chamber like a thousand suns. An instant later, the beams converged on Rashaad¡ªmissing Orhan¡¯s head by a hand¡¯s breadth¡ªand trapped the Akhantari Elevated in a shower of piercing beams.


    A guttural scream tore from Rashaad¡¯s throat, reverberating off the stone walls. His body convulsed under the assault of the concentrated energy, his skin blistering as the light incinerated him.


    Omvar could only watch in horror as the Elevated was reduced to a lump of charred meat in mere moments; no time to react or even think.


    Frozen in place, Omvar found his voice trapped in his throat. As if his mind had not caught up yet with the grisly scene that unfolded before his eyes. Too late¡ªutterly too late¡ªZara cried out for her lost companion, amid the wave of shock and grief that swept through the group. On his other side, Orhan stood motionless, notebook gripped in both hands, shock painting his face a ghostly white.


    Only Leftos seemed unaffected, a strangely pensive expression flitting across his face as he examined the openings in the wall, where the light had come from. Leaning against a nearby basalt column as if he had no care in the world. As if nothing at all had happened.


    Even after the horrifying spectacle had ended, returning the chamber to deathly stillness, nobody dared to move. Finally, Leftos stepped forward, stopped at Rashaad¡¯s charred corpse, and¡­ started to examine it. Nobody said a word. Omvar was still too horrified to process events.


    As if remembering something, Leftos suddenly glanced up, eyes flickering past the ancient, rune-covered walls to find a visibly shaking Zara. ¡°You¡¯re next,¡± stated matter-of-factly, before he returned his attention to Rashaad¡¯s smoking remains.


    Leftos¡¯ words echoed in Omvar¡¯s head. He just stood there in shock, not knowing how to react. This had been a man¡ªprobably a decent man. Rashaad had been their guide¡ªhad been an Elevated, for Belt¡¯s sake. And now he was dead. Just like that. It seemed impossible, yet it was horribly real. He felt sick.


    Beside Omvar, Zara staggered forward, swaying slightly. Her eyes flicked between the scorched thing that had been Rashaad and the orb that still sat there, indifferent and enigmatic.


    ¡°No,¡± Leftos¡¯ annoyed voice pierced her movements from below. ¡°Don¡¯t just try the same thing again! Experiment.¡± With horror, Omvar watched as the Delegate probed the deep pits in Rashaad¡¯s flesh, where the spears of light had pierced the man.


    Omvar glanced over at Zara, but she did not even seem to have registered Leftos¡¯ words. She still just stood before the pedestal, incandescent fury burning in her eyes.


    Then, with a jolt, she snapped out of her daze. Gritting her teeth, she took a step forward and, with all her strength, slammed her fist into the base of the pedestal. For a split second, nothing happened. The structure seemed indestructible. But then a small crack appeared at its base, spreading rapidly up the sides. With a resounding crash that echoed throughout the chamber, the pedestal split in two and crumbled away into chunks and dust.


    The silver orb fell from its perch with a bright clang, bouncing slightly as it rolled down the platform. Zara, in a movement that seemed almost casual, scooped up the orb. As she turned back to the group she shook like leaves in an earthquake, panting heavily from the effort.


    ¡°That¡¯s one way to do it,¡± Leftos commented dryly. He rose and took the orb from Zara¡¯s trembling hands. ¡°Splendid. Then I believe we are finished¡ª¡±


    A deep rumbling sound interrupted him.


    The ground beneath Omvar started to shake, dislodging dust and debris from the ceiling. He stumbled, falling to the ground. Omvar felt panic rising in his chest as he struggled to his feet again, heart pounding.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± he shouted, but his words were drowned out by the deafening roar.


    As the tremors subsided and the dust settled, they looked around in confusion. At least for a scant few moments, before the rumbling and shaking resumed. They exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between them.


    And then, then they ran.

 Interlude 4 (Chapter 17)

    ¡°The greatest means of control is not force, but the illusion of choice.¡± ¨C Avila


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand, why don¡¯t we just conquer it all? Continent, Concordate, whatever they call themselves. All of it! I¡¯ve discussed this with Omvar¡ªwe could just re-assign all their believers to Tetrarchy loyalists and roll over them. It would be a joke!¡±


    Ravena was impetuous. She could be like that. Like a storm, leaving everything in her wake disoriented. There were some who liked her for exactly that quality. Lavelle was not one of them.


    Instead, she fixed her gaze on Ravena, one leg draped over the other, her expression radiating confusion. ¡°What makes you think we haven¡¯t conquered them already?¡±


    Ravena regarded Lavelle with a puzzled look. They sat¡ªwell, laid in Ravena¡¯s case¡ªon expansive couches, surrounded by a maze of statues arranged like a crowd. Cast from Decoran marble, if Lavelle¡¯s eyes did not deceive her, each statue portraying a different pose. Their stony faces gave the decidedly weird impression of having an audience to their conversation.


    ¡°But they have their own armies,¡± Ravena protested, ¡°They have princes, councils, policies, none of which are supervised or directed by us. What if they unite? What if they revolt?¡± Ravena¡¯s face was etched with the same paranoid greed that Lavelle had seen, and loathed, on countless men and women in the Tetrarchy.


    With more than a hint of displeasure, Lavelle also noted the absence of a mask on Ravena¡¯s face. None of the young Elevated or Delegates were wearing them these days. Sometimes, she felt like fighting against a river, water rushing by as she struggled. Her own mask, a sleek silver wave adorned with undulating emerald lines, always rested on her face when she stayed in the city. A thought came to her mind, or rather a quote. ¡®Revolutions birth nations, traditions raise them.¡¯ Was that Avila? Or maybe Ilgast? She would need to read that up later.


    ¡°Let me answer you with a question.¡± Stifling her rising annoyance, Lavelle began to address Ravena¡¯s concerns. ¡°What would the Tetrarchy become, if we did set out to conquer the world? What would Kel become?¡± She paused briefly, sipping her Limrodian red. Giving the other woman a moment to think. Not that Ravena would do that. ¡°We¡¯d disappear, my dear Ravena. Like a drop of ink in the ocean, we¡¯d be consumed by Demis, Ustil, Sariz, Loratha, Limrod, all of them. We are the few, Ravena. And for what? What would we gain that we don¡¯t have already?¡±


    Her delicate forehead creased in frowns, Ravena was about to protest when Lavelle raised her hand, ticking off points on her fingers. ¡°We appoint their Elevated. We control trade through the straits. We are invulnerable to military and economic attacks. In fact, we gain economically from tariffs and fees for Elevated training. Quite exorbitant fees, I might add.¡±


    There was more to it, of course. More layers, more intricacies, more misdirection. The whole matter of the south, forever a thorn in her side. But discussing it all would serve no purpose here. Ravena did not need to know everything.


    Even lying down on a couch costing more than the average house in Kel, Ravena emanated an aura of never being satisfied with what she had. Here was a woman who did not care one bit about anything happening outside her lavish estate¡ªif it did not directly concern her or her plans.


    Briefly, Lavelle shifted her gaze toward the macabre statues around them. Their rigid, yet surprisingly expressive, faces seemed to mirror their conversation¡ªsome amused, some bored, a few appearing critical. Lavelle wondered whether the sculptors of these masterpieces ever imagined that their creations would bear witness to machinations of power-hungry gods. Quite likely though, given that they would have been bought by some rich person or another.


    ¡°But it¡¯s not just about what we have now.¡± Not used to being schooled, Ravena shifted uncomfortably on the couch, fingers tapping incessantly on the armrest. ¡°It¡¯s about what we could have. Imagine the stability we could ensure, the lasting peace, if we had absolute control,¡± she insisted.


    Lavelle sighed, her patience starting to wear thin at the obvious attempts at manipulation. Ravena sounded so petulant to her ears. Like a little girl, unable to understand why she could not have even more candy. This obsession with power was going to be the death of her. ¡°And what exactly would we do with all that power?¡± Lavelle asked. ¡°How would we maintain it? Acquiring power is easy. Keeping it, not so much.¡±


    ¡°I refuse to believe that.¡± Ravena¡¯s stubbornness would not yield as her eyes narrowed in defiance. ¡°There must be a way. We just need to be smarter, more strategic. Selvi controlled a whole continent, back in his day.¡±


    ¡°Which eventually led to his downfall, if I may remind you. No, it¡¯s not about intelligence or strategy, Ravena,¡± Lavelle responded, shaking her head. ¡°It¡¯s about understanding that, sometimes, true power comes from giving up control.¡±


    ¡°That sounds like it came from a book, my dear,¡± Ravena replied, a half-smile playing on her lips. Her demeanor softened slightly. She seemed to be more at ease with wordplay and quotes, akin to the courtly exchanges she was familiar with.


    ¡°Perhaps it did, things worth saying are often written down,¡± Lavelle chuckled softly, a hint of conciliation in her expression. ¡°But it¡¯s also the truth. Power may be what we want, but it¡¯s not what we need.¡±


    At this, Ravena¡¯s tapping fingers paused, and she started to pay careful attention to Lavelle. ¡°So, what do we need?¡± Like a tiger prowling in the underbrush, Lavelle thought.


    Drawing a deep breath, she steeled herself for the difficult conversation ahead. ¡°We need stability,¡± she said. ¡°Unity. We need to focus on strengthening the Tetrarchy from within, not on expanding our borders. We have bigger issues to deal with than the north.¡±


    To her surprise, Ravena let her last sentence go uncommented. Not that she was authorized to know anything about quads or the like anyway. Just being a delegate did not give you all the privileges that only trust could earn. Not under her watch.


    Instead, the other woman fell silent, considering Lavelle¡¯s words, her forehead creased in confusion. ¡°But if we don¡¯t seize power, won¡¯t our enemies consider weak? We¡¯re supposed to be these godlike beings, regulating and administering them. Won¡¯t they view our reluctance to act as fear?¡±


    ¡°Both our enemies and allies fear us already, Ravena.¡± Shaking her head, Lavelle¡¯s emerald gaze held a touch of melancholy. ¡°They know what we¡¯re capable of. And demonstrating restraint often is the strongest display of power.¡±


    Ravena seemed to ponder Lavelle¡¯s words for a long moment, her eyes wandering across the statues around them, as if seeking an answer in their faces. Lavelle noticed, not without surprise, Ravena¡¯s hand grip her wine glass with a force that betrayed her outward calm. This was it. The moment of truth, as trite as it may sound.


    Ravena exhaled heavily, breaking the silence. ¡°You¡¯re probably right, Lavelle. It¡¯s just... I feel we¡¯re not truly exploiting the power at our disposal, you know? We could do so much more for this world. But I¡¯m sure you know what¡¯s best for the Tetrarchy.¡±


    She had lost.


    Lavelle could see it clearly in Ravena¡¯s eyes. Whatever she would say now, none of it would penetrate the barriers that narcissism and greed had erected over the years. None of it would really reach Ravena. Yet her fellow Delegate was a sly woman and would expertly pretend to be persuaded by Lavelle¡¯s arguments. There was no point in confrontation.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Despite the lack of a clear hierarchy among the Elevated and Delegates, there usually was someone who was, informally, recognized as the leader of a corps. Another precaution against power concentration, as with so many things in her world. Despite the prominence of Leftos in official ceremonies and at Feldar¡¯s side, despite the position of Thavos as Feldar¡¯s de facto bodyguard, that person in Kel clearly¡ªwithout a shred of doubt¡ªwas Lavelle. So, if there was any way to avoid it, Ravena would not openly confront Lavelle. Not yet, at least.


    So it was at this exact moment that Lavelle Anara Valcorin¡ªthough nobody had called her that for a very, very long time¡ªdecided that the woman in front of her had to die.


    The thought had been germinating in Lavelle¡¯s mind for a while now, but she had always pushed it to the back of her mind, telling herself that it was not needed, that she could get through to Ravena, somehow.


    This trip to Kel had many reasons but one¡ªand not the least important by far¡ªwas to investigate some troubling rumors. Certain¡­ machinations in her city. Whispers of war, attempts to persuade Feldar and his council that going into the offensive would be the wise choice. Other¡­ allegations accompanying the war effort. Lavelle almost shuddered but managed to suppress it just in time.


    Some people really did believe there was opportunity in war. She knew better. She had seen it, many times. War destroyed. That was all it did. The only opportunities lay in peace. She took another sip of her wine, trying to keep her expression neutral.


    Ravena¡¯s voice broke the tense silence, a trace of innocence lacing her words, ¡°Is something wrong, Lavelle?¡±


    ¡°No, nothing,¡± Lavelle drew a deep breath and offered her a forced smile. ¡°I was just lost in thought, that¡¯s all.¡± Ravena seemed to accept this, but she could see the suspicion lingering in her eyes. That woman was not one to be easily fooled. Lavelle would have to be careful.


    Being wary in Kelian high society was more than justified. Throughout their conversation, Lavelle herself was keenly aware of the many servants passing by the room, likely eavesdropping on their conversation. Information was as valuable as gold in the Tetrarchy. She could swear that even the Belt-cursed statues were listening in, their lifeless eyes fixated on the two women.


    Clearing her throat to distract Ravena from her line of thought, Lavelle decided to change the subject. ¡°So, tell me about Omvar¡¯s return.¡±


    Yet again feigning innocence, Ravena¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Lavelle made a dismissive gesture, her eyes sparkling with faint amusement. ¡°Ravena. Dear. Surely, you didn¡¯t think for a moment your little affair with a high-ranking bureaucrat¡ªa man whose job it is to decide how powerful you are, I might add¡ªwould be anything less than public knowledge, did you? I¡¯m simply curious what¡¯s going on with him now. I heard he took part in some expedition to the south?¡±


    Looking slightly chagrined, Ravena sighed and sipped her wine before speaking. ¡°He has returned, yes. But he¡¯s not exactly in the best shape. The expedition was a disaster.¡±


    Lavelle leaned forward, her curiosity piqued, now only partly an act. ¡°What happened?¡± She had heard a few isolated fragments about the expedition on the docks but had come straight here from her ship. Did they find another one?


    Ravena hesitated a moment before a conspiratorial mood overtook her. ¡°They lost an Elevated, you know? Rashaad of Akhantar. Never really liked the man but he practically led the Akhantari corps! And Leftos. Leftos. The man still won¡¯t say a single word about the actual damn purpose of the whole exercise, can you believe it? He treats me like a child!¡±


    Lavelle did not bother to hide her smile. Ravena had taken the bait. ¡°That¡¯s very unfortunate about Rashaad,¡± she said, and meant it. ¡°I knew him quite well, he was solid. And don¡¯t get me started on Leftos, always a bit of a mystery, isn¡¯t he? But what about Omvar? Is he okay?¡± Mentally, Lavelle calculated. At least one Elevated and one Delegate. The Ministry would not have bothered if it was not important. She would have to speak to Tarene.


    ¡°Physically, he¡¯s fine. Mostly.¡± Ravena¡¯s features softened. ¡°But mentally... he¡¯s not doing too well. Traumatized, they say.¡±


    Curse the Belt. Beneath all her ambitions and lust for power, she actually cared for this man. Lavelle wondered whether Ravena herself realized this.


    Her thoughts circled around the various factions within Kel, a complex web of alliances and betrayals, each vying for power and influence. How would Ravena¡¯s power lust affect this fragile equilibrium? More pointedly, how would her downfall?


    Outwardly, however, Lavelle¡¯s eyes narrowed in concern. ¡°What do you mean? Trauma from what?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know all the details,¡± Ravena shrugged, gesticulating vaguely with a ring-studded hand, ¡°but from what I¡¯ve heard, a lot happened on that expedition. Creatures, devices, slaughter, all that. Omvar¡¯s not making a lot of sense when he talks about it. Oh, and he really doesn¡¯t like to travel by ship. I got that out of him pretty easily.¡±


    Lavelle reclined, the wine in her glass casting a ruby glow in the dim light as she mulled over Ravena¡¯s words. The surrounding statues seemed to ponder with her. How I hate them, she thought. Voiceless and powerless witnesses to the great Ravena, Delegate of Kel.


    It was no secret that Ravena had her fair share of enemies, both within the Tetrarchy and beyond. Her thirst for power and influence had drawn the ire of many powerful figures who considered her a threat to their own ambitions. Maybe something could be done there.


    It was a dangerous game Ravena was playing, after all, and Lavelle knew the price of failure all too well. It was not just their fellow Elevated and Delegates they needed to worry about; even servants and low-ranking bureaucrats could pose a threat if they felt intimidated or slighted. Or betrayed, perhaps.


    It almost sounded like she had a plan.


    ¡°Ravena, I think we¡¯ve covered enough ground for today,¡± she said, her mind a whirlpool of thoughts. ¡°Unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to.¡±


    Ravena nodded, apparently oblivious to Lavelle¡¯s inner turmoil. ¡°Of course, Lavelle. Always a pleasure. Until next time.¡±


    Seems like I¡¯m not the only one whose mind is elsewhere today, Lavelle thought. She stood, wine glass in hand, offering Ravena a final nod before she turned away and headed toward the door.


    The corridor of Ravena¡¯s mansion was a winding pathway lined with even more statues, each one an impressive, but probably unorthodox, representation of some mythical creature or another. As she navigated toward the building¡¯s entrance, Lavelle took in the silent, inanimate observers of this game of power she was entangled in.


    Her thoughts continued their tumultuous meandering, revolving around her conversation with Ravena. She needed to act, and fast, before Ravena¡¯s unpredictability would set off a maelstrom that Kel could not escape from. Reaching the entrance of the mansion, Lavelle stepped into the cool embrace of the night and descended the sweeping staircase onto the cobblestone path that led to the gate out to the Zelphar Quarter.


    Kel. A temple to flesh, intrigue, and a pantheon worth of gods, as the poets liked to say. She took in a deep breath. She had missed it.


    Lavelle had visited every major city in the north and the Belt, yet nothing even closely compared to Kel. She paused. Wait, she thought, I haven¡¯t been to Limrod yet. Curious, that. Maybe if someone dies soon. Lavelle idly recollected what she had heard about that city. Amusingly, most stories involved wine. Or theater. Often both.


    While people like Ravena preferred to remain in their carefully maintained and protected sphere, Lavelle had always been a ground agent. She could have easily presided over Kel out of some lofty office or palace in Ebonshade. Yet she felt more at ease amidst a crowd than confined to a mansion. Always had. It was a lot easier to blend in, in her experience, if the people that saw you changed all the time.


    And so, with every step, Lavelle aged. Not much, perhaps a few months, possibly a year. But, over time, her smooth skin wrinkled, her silken hair turned coarse and lost color. Even her gait grew unsteady, back becoming slightly hunched. No one noticed, because nobody witnessed the full transformation. Yet after a brief walk, the metamorphosis was complete. Gone was Lavelle, the mighty Kelian Delegate. Instead, an old woman shuffled down the street, forcing passersby to walk around her.


    She removed her emerald and silver mask, replacing it with a simple wooden pendant that she wore around her neck. With each step, the weight of her responsibilities seemed to lessen, her shoulders easing back, her stride more casual. The concerns of Lavelle, the Kelian Delegate, faded as she became just another face in the crowd.


    Eventually, she turned into a narrow alley, the neat cobblestones of the busy main street giving way to uneven flagstones. The engulfing darkness was oppressive, closing in on her like a blanket. The walls seemed to absorb all light and life, leaving nothing but a layer of dust on the stones. Yet she kept going and, soon enough, reached a small door. Lavelle knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice more before pushing it open. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.


    Inside the room, the darkness persisted. Yet, in the corner, she could roughly make out a seated figure, obscured by the shadows, only barely visible in the gloom. Lavelle could just about recognize a tall silhouette with broad shoulders, wearing what appeared to be a suit and... a cape? Knowing that nobody could see it, Lavelle rolled her eyes in exasperation.


    Standing there in the darkness of a run-down living room in the middle of Kel, Lavelle allowed a hint of amusement to touch her lips as she whispered, ¡°Hello Leftos.¡±

 Irthal 5 (Chapter 18)

    ¡°In the blood-stained annals of the pirate wars, the death of Duke Embrez marked the end of a tumultuous era. A master of both men and sea, the duke met his fate aboard his infamous flagship, the Golden Fist, during a decisive naval clash. Yet, amidst all the chaos and destruction, one puzzle remained unsolved. The duke¡¯s body, unlike those of his loyal crew, was never retrieved from the abyss. Though officially declared dead after the battle, the specter of Duke Embrez loomed large over the Trifelt for years to come. The truth of his fate eludes us to this day, consigned to the murky depths of the sea. Yet one cannot help but speculate; after all, in these troubled waters, truth has often proved more fantastical than any sailor¡¯s tale.¡±


    ¨C Sarai Valtair, From Tricorn to Trifelt: A comprehensive history


    With his feet spread wide for balance, Irthal stood on the deck of the ship. His ship. Would feel better if we weren¡¯t chased by bloodhungry thugs, he thought grimly. Squinting toward the horizon, he could just about make out the faint white sails of their pursuers, the sight knotting his stomach in fear. For days they had been fleeing now, yet their adversaries still trailed them like a relentless shadow. Gelman must be paying them a fortune¡ªor provide sufficient motivation of a different kind.


    He turned to Sam, standing beside him and Mythas at the helm. ¡°How much longer until we reach the storm?¡± Irthal asked, voice taut with tension.


    Sam scrutinized the sky, brow creased in concentration. ¡°Not much longer, I¡¯d reckon. If the wind holds.¡±


    ¡°That will have to do,¡± Irthal nodded, eyes firmly locked on the horizon. ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll shake them off for good this time,¡± he added, aiming for a decisive tone but ending up sounding quite a bit more uncertain than he would care for.


    As if in response, a sudden gust of wind swept over the deck, sending the crew scrambling to adjust the sails. Overhead, the sky had darkened ominously by now, clouds churning in a menacing frenzy.


    ¡°I get that that¡¯s kind of the plan but you know we¡¯re headed straight for that storm,¡± Mythas cautioned from his other side, eyes narrowed in concern. ¡°Generally not the best idea on the open sea.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve got no choice,¡± Irthal replied, making his tone as firm as he could manage. ¡°We¡¯ll just have to weather it and hope for the best.¡± Mythas cast him a doubtful look. Around them, the gusts intensified, the air growing heavy with moisture as the storm inevitably descended upon them, engulfing them in a fury of wind and rain. The crew worked like madmen now, pulling ropes, adjusting sails, doing everything in their power to keep the Escape afloat.


    At first, the storm seemed to work in their favor, just like he had planned. Tall waves and fierce winds making it challenging for their pursuers to keep up. But, soon enough, like a fickle mistress, the storm turned against them. Waves swelled larger and larger, until they threatened to swallow them whole. Clutching the railing until his knuckles turned white, Irthal watched as Mythas did her best to steer them through the churning waters. They were long since drenched to the bone.


    ¡°Captain!¡± Lurgon¡¯s gravelly voice broke through the din of the storm. ¡°They¡¯re still gaining on us!¡±


    How could that be? Overwhelmed, Irthal turned around, gazing over the chaotic sea. To his dismay, it was true. Their pursuers were drawing closer, the other ship looming larger and larger amidst the tumultuous waves.


    In the back of his mind, Irthal had known this moment would arrive. They had done everything they could to outrun them, had given all they had. Now all their efforts seemed futile. Drained and desperate, he could only watch helplessly as the enemy ship slowly closed the distance.


    Men stood at the railings on the other side. Mouths open in battlecries that were immediately swallowed by the tempest. Irthal saw some of their hands. One hand gripping the railing or a line, the other holding a weapon or something looking like an oversized hook. Ah. Grappling hooks. They were going to board them.


    Around him, the rest of the crew reached the same realization. Some of them frantically attempting to frustrate their pursuers by giving them just a bit more speed, others scrambling for their weapons. With gritted teeth, Irthal watched as the first men on the enemy ship took aim with their vicious-looking hooks.


    Just as Gelman¡¯s ship was on the brink of making contact, a colossal wave surged up, violently separating the two ships. Irthal clung on for dear life, with the men and women around him fighting to keep the Escape from capsizing. From the corner of his eye, Irthal spotted sailors on the other frigate tumble into the frothy, dark waves, as assuredly dead as if felled by a blade.


    But even this questionable respite was short-lived, as the next wave closed the gap between the two ships again. The eternal back and forth, the rhythm of the sea.


    And this time they came.


    Irthal inhaled deeply and unsheathed his sword, determined to fight to the death. He would not be taken back and tortured. ¡°Prepare to repel boarders!¡± he roared, his already hoarse voice barely rising above the chaos of the storm.


    Around him, the crew rushed into action, grabbing any available weapons and forming a ragged defensive line along the deck. Irthal saw Lurgon and Sevastian struggle to organize the men and women as best they could. As the other ship drew even closer, hooks bit greedily into the wood of the Escape¡¯s hull. Irthal¡¯s gaze locked onto the approaching enemy, noting the glint of weapons in the dim light, the fierce determination painted on the faces of the sailors they were set against.


    As soon as the first boarding lines were in place, men came hurling down, launching themselves from the masts of the enemy ship. The punishing wind led some of them to end their journey not on wooden planks but in the roiling waves below. But others succeeded in reaching the Escape, drawing weapons from belts immediately after touching the ground, or even holding them clamped between their teeth.


    The lashing rain only added to the confusion. Men and women yelled curses, swords clashed in a metallic symphony, and blood flowed equally on both sides. Irthal fought with a desperate resolve, muscles screaming from the effort of merely holding his opponents at bay. They were anything but well rested.


    As if to echo the unfolding carnage, the storm raged with increasing ferocity. Lightning streaked across the sky, casting ghostly shadows on faces, while thunder roared above, almost drowning out the sounds of steel clashing against steel and the cries of the injured. The deck of the Escape¡ªslick with rain, seawater, and blood¡ªheaved and lurched underfoot, making balance a precarious affair. Sailors lost their footing more than once, toppling into opponents or the insatiable, churning sea below.


    Mythas, fighting at Irthal¡¯s side, cut through enemies with a dancer¡¯s grace, unfazed by the storm¡¯s fury. They fought back-to-back, breathing ragged, muscles burning with exhaustion. Their days¡ªyears, really¡ªof back-alley brawling more than paying off now. In a chaotic dance of survival, they spun and struck in unison, an unspoken language of battle flowing between them.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Parrying a strike from a boarding saber, Irthal lunged for the exposed stomach of his opponent, sword slick with rain and blood. The relentless storm showed no signs of abating as rain poured down in torrents, drowning any chance of visibility. With each blink, Irthal found it harder to clear his vision, stinging sweat and blood mixing with the rainwater. He licked his lips. Funny, he thought, how sea, sweat, and blood are all salty. The thought just came to him, unbidden and unexpected, while he slashed at a man¡¯s exposed upper arm. Was he going mad? No time for that now, he decided, dismissing the intrusive thoughts.


    In front of him, Irthal spotted Sam hacking at the boarding lines. Beside him, Lurgon let out a guttural cry as he barreled into a group of boarders, axe swinging in a wide arc, scattering them before him. For a fleeting moment¡ªexhaustion laced with hope¡ªit seemed as if the tide of battle might turn in their favor. Maybe they could make it. Irthal took stock of the fighting. Yet, just as quickly as hope had flared, it was doused again as another wave of attackers swung onto the deck, faces hardened with determination.


    As the storm waged war with nature, so the human conflict continued on deck¡ªa deadly dance of steel and blood. With no means to tell time, each moment stretched into an eternity of fear and agony. One by one, lives were extinguished around Irthal. And then, just when it seemed this battle would rage on forever, a booming sound echoed through the air, followed by another gargantuan wave, this time looming over the two ships.


    The wave crashed into the pursuing ship with incredible force, splintering its mast with a deafening crash and sending it veering off course. Boarding lines snapped with the sound of whips ripping through air. It was ironic, really. Would that ship not have been there, this wave would have surely crushed the Escape into kindling, ending their journey either way. Irthal could not entirely suppress a brief, hysterical chuckle.


    The few remaining sailors on the other deck, those who had not been swept overboard, desperately attempted to salvage their vessel, their attention torn from the fight. On the deck of the Escape, Irthal watched as their opponents turned¡ªactually turned their backs on them in the midst of a heated battle¡ªand looked back in desperation and sheer terror at their badly damaged, and decidedly receding, ship.


    Irthal did not waste a single moment. He charged. Beside him, he saw Sevastian drive a harpoon through the back of a distracted assailant. Mythas, a crimson-tinged grin spreading across her face, took advantage of the chaos as well and struck down several boarders in swift succession. Even Sam¡ªcalm and steady Sam¡ªrevealed a surprising pent-up ferocity as her axe sliced through the air with lethal precision, cleaving through flesh and bone alike as she defended her ship and crew.


    The entire sequence unfolded in mere moments. Even as some of the enemy crew eventually turned away from their equally doomed ship, it was over. Their feeble attempts to fend off the frenzied onslaught from the crew of the Escape only fueled the anger of the sailors around Irthal.


    They hacked, they slashed, they shattered.


    And so, a night of terror ended in blood and broken bodies, with the identity of these bodies being the only surprise to those present. What did not end, however, was the eternal storm around them. Raging, roiling, enveloping them in a brutal embrace of searing wind and pitiless rain.


    But alive.


    Alive.


    When the storm had finally passed, it left the Escape battered and in dire need of repairs. Irthal surveyed the havoc wreaked on the ship and their sails. It was bad. But the greatest damage was not found in snapped timber or torn sailcloth. It was to morale.


    He sighed heavily. They were short on food and water, with no clear destination in sight, and had just narrowly avoided violent death. Tensions amongst his crew were reaching a boiling point, after they had finished tossing enemy corpses overboard. Perhaps rightfully so. Still. Having heard enough finger-pointing about who was to blame for their current predicament, he had to intervene before things spiraled out of control.


    As he stepped forward, Irthal loudly cleared his throat, capturing everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°Listen up!¡± he commanded, ¡°Enough! We¡¯re wasting precious energy bickering. We need to figure out a way out of this mess!¡±


    Lurgon came forward, ¡°I¡¯m with you, captain,¡± he grumbled, ¡°but what¡¯s the plan? Our supplies are dwindling. No port in sight, and neither is a plan for that matter.¡±


    As he spoke, murmurs of agreement rippled through the crew. Mythas crossed her arms, glowering at Lurgon, ¡°Perhaps if someone hadn¡¯t been so reckless with our provisions, we wouldn¡¯t be in this mess in the first place!¡± she snapped.


    ¡°Are you accusing me of something, Mythas?¡± Lurgon¡¯s face darkened. ¡°I¡¯ve been doing my best to ration what little we have! Don¡¯t pin this on me!¡±


    Mythas leaned back, voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve been rationing everything just fine for yourself. No one¡¯s seen you skip a meal.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d do well to mind your tongue,¡± Lurgon retorted with a snarl.


    Sam intervened, raising her hands in an effort to defuse the situation. ¡°Enough!¡± she bellowed, silencing the bickering. ¡°We¡¯re all worn out, hungry, and on edge. This is not helping anyone. Let¡¯s face it, fighting amongst ourselves won¡¯t get us any closer to land or fill our stomachs. We need to work together if we¡¯re going to get through this.¡±


    A hush fell over the crew, their anger momentarily quelled. Say about her what you will, Irthal thought, but this little woman has their respect.


    ¡°The captain¡¯s right,¡± Sam continued. ¡°We need to ration what¡¯s left and find a way out of this situation, no way around it. Pointing fingers won¡¯t help us. Let¡¯s focus on survival and getting back to dry land.¡±


    Irthal nodded, trying to regain control. ¡°We¡¯ll make the best of what we have,¡± he said firmly.


    Sevastian groaned from the back of the group, but Irthal silenced him with a stern look. ¡°I know the situation is far from ideal,¡± he continued, ¡°but we¡¯ve faced tough times before and we¡¯ve come out on top. We just need to stay strong and work together. We can¡¯t afford to give up hope now, not when we¡¯ve come this far. We¡¯ve finally shaken our pursuers, if nothing else. Look at us now, at open sea and on our way to the continent!¡±


    Murmurs of reluctant agreement rippled through the crew, but Irthal could still feel the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. He was aware of their exhaustion and fear, but yielding to these emotions was no option. Not if they wanted to stay alive.


    There was a long moment of silence before Mythas stepped forward. ¡°I¡¯m with the captain on this one,¡± she declared in an unwavering voice. ¡°There are few alternatives here, when it comes down to it. Our best option is to trust each other and work as a team.¡± She shot a look at Lurgon that seemed to contradict her words.


    ¡°Good.¡± Relief flooded through Irthal, kindling hope to see some semblance of unity return to the crew. ¡°Now, our immediate concern is to reach Limrod, where we can mend our ship and replenish supplies. Limrod is due east, so we¡¯ll just chart a course straight east, hoping that the storm has blown us far enough north that we¡¯ll make landfall not too far from the port. We need to keep moving and stay focused, then nothing can stop us.¡±


    Despite their weariness, the crew set to work¡ªfor what else were they to do, Mythas was right on that¡ªmaking necessary repairs and steering the ship onto the new course. Yet with each passing day, they grew increasingly weary, increasingly hungry. Only their resolve remained unbroken. They could not afford to lose hope; it was a matter of naked survival now.


    Days of hard sailing¡ªof growling stomachs¡ªpassed, before the lookout in the crow¡¯s nest finally cried out. A wave of excitement and relief swept through the ship, as cheers erupted at the first glimpse of land on the horizon. And it was even better than that. Irthal could not believe his eyes. It was not just land that they had found, but a city. A port. A destination.


    As they drew closer, the white harbor walls radiated a warm amber hue, basking in the embrace of the rising sun. Stretching proudly toward the heavens, dozens of elegant spires adorned the skyline, their reflections dancing on the gentle waves. The city was a marvel of architectural beauty, with delicate bridges straddling shimmering canals and cobblestone paths weaving through vibrant markets. Limrod¡¯s famous terraced vineyards and lush gardens cascaded down the hillside, carpeting the landscape with a tapestry of vivid greens and purples.


    Irthal imagined standing on that pier, now a mere stone¡¯s throw away, where the scents of ripe grapes and freshly baked bread would mingle with the sea¡¯s salty tang. Laughter and music spilling from the city¡¯s many theaters, while its streets echoed with merchants hawking their wares, creating a symphony of life and commerce.


    Approached from the sea, Limrod appeared as a radiant jewel nestled between the azure sky and the glittering sea, a beacon of culture and prosperity welcoming weary seafarers with open arms. A beacon they hailed, and an embrace they, gladly, accepted. They had made it to the continent.

 Lithas 5 (Chapter 19)

    ¡°In the quiet corners of Demis, tension coiled like a serpent, patient as the stillness before a storm.¡±


    ¨C Master Gavril, Annals of the Two Cities


    She sat in a caf¨¦, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, a few side streets removed from the main avenue. Yet even here, the vibrant energy that seemed to pulse through Demis was palpable. She looked around. The caf¨¦¡¯s clientele was a motley mix of locals and visitors, all immersed in lively conversations.


    Lithas had found a spot toward the back, a piping hot cup of spiced tea before her, its scent a tantalizing blend of cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. A waiter brought her a plate with flaky pastry filled with chopped mushrooms, chicken, and aromatic herbs. The flavors melded together beautifully as she ate, each bite more delicious than the last.


    They had announced themselves to the palace after entering the city. Now, Lithas had a brief chance to recuperate from their journey, while she waited for the formal invitation from Demis¡¯ leader. Wandering through the city, she had let herself explore the sights, smells, and tastes of this new world with her retinue. Lithas had amused herself with the unguarded fascination of Kael and the, far better concealed, wonder in Kellen¡¯s eyes. Only Avila had remained composed. It was probably not his first visit to the city. There was a strange melancholy in the man, ever since they strode through the gates of Demis.


    Then there was the city itself. Elegant and aloof Demis. And yet, despite the apparent harmony and prosperity in the markets, the harbor, the entertainment district, Lithas sensed an undercurrent of tension in the air, a subtle strain simmering just beneath the surface of Demis¡¯ bustling fa?ade. Like tasting the petrichor of rain on your tongue, just before the first drops fell.


    At last, the official summons had arrived. Tonight, she was to join Prince Cerax for a banquet at the royal palace. Only ever ¡®Prince¡¯¡ªthe Belt would never allow a king, not after what happened after the last king ruled these lands.


    Pondering this, Lithas allowed her eyes to wander over the other patrons in the caf¨¦, her curiosity piqued by snippets of murmured conversations. Two men sitting nearby caught her attention. They spoke in hushed, urgent tones, their faces partially concealed by shadows.


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you, Arlon, there¡¯s something brewing,¡± the first man whispered, casting a wary glance around the room. ¡°There¡¯s been too much unrest among the nobility lately. Mark my words, it¡¯s only a matter of time before it all blows up.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re always so dramatic, Joran,¡± The second man, Arlon, quietly scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s just the usual power struggles and games. Nothing ever truly changes here.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong.¡± Joran leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper. ¡°There¡¯s supposed to be a new player in this game, someone who¡¯s been making maneuvers in the shadows. Not from here, an outsider faction. I¡¯ve heard rumors of secret meetings. Old alliances broken, new ones forged. It¡¯s only a matter of time before it all comes to light.¡±


    Arlon shook his head, still unconvinced. ¡°If something were genuinely happening, Prince Cerax would put a stop to it. The man¡¯s no fool. He¡¯s not one to let such matters go unchecked. Have you seen what he did to this ring of dust smugglers?¡±


    Lithas took another sip of her tea as her heart started to beat a bit faster, eyes furtively flicking back to the two men who seemed lost to their world of whispers and secrets. As much as she wanted to edge closer and listen in, she knew better. She had a job to do here, after all, and getting caught up in palace politics was the last thing she needed.


    Finishing her pastry, Lithas savored a last moment of solitude to steel herself for the negotiations awaiting her at the palace. Then she paid the waiter and exited the caf¨¦, heading back to the main avenue that led to her accommodations. Lithas drew a deep breath, the cooling evening air feeling refreshing after the stifling warmth inside the caf¨¦. Navigating the bustling crowds, Lithas soaked in the nocturnal energy of the city, its vibrant life pulsating around her. The colorful lanterns dangling overhead bathed the cobblestones in a warm light. Sounds of laughter and music filled the air.


    From a distance, glimpsed in-between streets, she could already spot the grand fa?ade of the palace, lofty spires and ornate designs extravagantly lit by what seemed like thousands of fires. Dark spots lazily circled the towers that caressed the sky.


    Back at her lodgings, Lithas retreated to her room. She chose an elegant gown, made of a deeply emerald fabric that fell gracefully over her frame. Detailed golden embroidery along the neckline and sleeves shimmering in the soft lamplight. Her honey-hued hair was twisted up into a sophisticated knot, a few loose strands framing her face, as she appraised her reflection in the mirror.


    A knock at the door.


    Kellen looked sharp, dressed in his formal uniform, his demeanor radiating military confidence. His gaze lingered for a moment on her dress. A moment too long. Quite the contrast to her usual dusty traveling clothes from the weeks before. He opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, and finally spoke. ¡°Forgive me, my lady. Shall we depart for the palace? It is time.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Kellen,¡± Lithas returned Kellen¡¯s unspoken compliment with an appreciative smile. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m ready.¡±


    With Kellen and an escort of her guards in tow, Lithas navigated the celebrated (and celebrating) streets of Demis, heading toward the palace. The grand edifice loomed ahead, its magnificence only amplified by the night¡¯s darkness. She approached its entryway, where palace guards scrutinized their invitations and identities before, almost reluctantly, granting them entrance. But only Kellen and herself, with the rest of her guard being instructed to wait outside. Cerax was a careful man.


    As they crossed the royal threshold, Lithas was immediately met with a whirlwind of activity, servants dashing to and fro, preparing the evening¡¯s festivities. The air was rich with the sweet scent of cedar, intertwined with hints of cardamom, while a traditional Demisian harpsichord gently flowed in the background.


    Already in the corridor¡ªpresumably leading to the banquet hall¡ªopulence drowned her. Intricate tapestries adorning the walls, sparkling chandeliers scattering rainbows of light across the ceiling. Lithas felt dwarfed, despite her sumptuous dress.


    Then came the banquet hall.


    Her eyes were immediately drawn to the glittering crystal chandelier, hanging suspended over the long table. Outshining its now modest-seeming counterparts from the corridor, its twinkling light reflected off the dozen or so gold plates and silverware meticulously arranged on the table. Light also reflected off the polished breastplates on the guards, stationed along each of the room¡¯s walls, in a dazzling display. Through it all, at the far end of the hall, Lithas saw it. A large, grand throne. Spread wings of pure gold. Empty.


    But before she could be appropriately confused, Lithas saw him. Mid-conversation with a tall, armored man on the opposite side of the hall. Noticing her arrival, Prince Cerax left the frantically gesticulating giant behind and stepped out from the shadows. Resplendent in a golden robe, dark hair neatly combed to one side, the prince strode across his banquet hall to welcome Lithas, his face lighting up with a warm smile as he performed an elaborate bow. White teeth flashing as if to rival his attire.


    ¡°Elevated Lithas, I¡¯m truly delighted by your presence. Forgive the short notice, the affairs of the court are often unpredictable, even to myself.¡± Cerax¡¯ voice was gentle and melodious, drawing in the attention of the already seated guests. Lithas felt herself being probed by eyes all along the banquet table. ¡°Regrettably,¡± the prince of Demis continued, ¡°it wasn¡¯t possible to make the banquet larger. I would have loved to introduce you to some friends of mine. Another time, perhaps.¡± His light blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he motioned for Lithas to take her seat.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Your apology is quite unnecessary, Your Highness,¡± Lithas replied with practiced grace, her eyes briefly assessing the portly man sitting beside her, mentally jotting down the subtle crest of a noble house on the man¡¯s vest. ¡°I¡¯m more than honored to be here.¡± Behind her, Kellen assumed a protective stance near the walls of the hall.


    The table was laden with an array of dishes that rivaled the splendor of the room itself. Quail stuffed with prickly pear and wild rice, mushrooms saut¨¦ed with garlic, thyme, and a splash of elderberry wine, and the most succulent sweet peaches Lithas had ever tasted. The harpsichord continued to play softly in the background, delicate melodies floating through the room, adding to the atmosphere of grandeur. Almost immediately, her tablemate started to involve her in a one-sided conversation about the intricacies of drydocks, failing to notice Lithas¡¯ wandering attention.


    The other guests¡ªa mix of nobles and dignitaries¡ªspoke in hushed tones, their conversations punctuated by nervous glances toward the throne at the far end of the hall. No other Elevated, it seemed. Cerax had different views on using them than most rulers. No flaunting of raw power in this court. Of course, Vexaria was here though, seated to the right of her prince. Lithas could sense tension in the air, which made her uneasy as well.


    Prince Cerax, now occupying his regal seat at the head of the table, was already engaged in polite conversation with a tall-necked woman beside him. But it was not long before he turned his attention toward Lithas. His lapis eyes studied her thoughtfully.


    ¡°Elevated Lithas,¡± Cerax began, voice carrying effortlessly across the table, smothering the hum of the crowd in a single instant. ¡°I must say, I¡¯ve heard a great deal about you and your travels these past days. Your reputation precedes you.¡±


    ¡°Your Highness is too kind,¡± Lithas inclined her head, lips curving into a polite smile toward those golden wings. ¡°I am simply doing my duty, much like yourself.¡±


    ¡°Very diplomatic, my lady,¡± With a gentle, knowing chuckle, Prince Cerax¡¯ demeanor softened, his royal poise momentarily giving way to a more personable, almost boyish charm. ¡°But surely, your journey hasn¡¯t been without its hardships. The whole court, myself included, would be intrigued to hear about your experiences.¡±


    Lithas glanced around the table, considering each guest in turn. Conversations had died down. The nobles and dignitaries were all listening intently now, eager to hear what she had to say. She had to remind herself that this was a court. There was a certain expectation of a dance of words here, and she could not afford to miss a step. Drawing a measured breath, Lithas gathered her thoughts, her gaze flitting across the array of expectant faces, back to Cerax and his devastatingly blue eyes.


    ¡°Certainly, Your Highness. My travels have had their fair share of trials and tribulations,¡± Lithas began, a touch of humor in her voice. ¡°We¡¯ve faced everything from dust storms to food shortages, but each challenge has been a lesson in its own way.¡±


    ¡°One time,¡± she reminisced, ¡°on the way to Tibara, long ago now, we found ourselves caught in the mother of all dust storms.¡± She glanced over at Kellen, a smirk playing on her lips. ¡°You couldn¡¯t even see your hand in front of your eyes. We¡¯d lost our way. Kellen here had the bright idea to follow a river, thinking it¡¯d lead us to civilization.¡± Lithas paused, letting them wonder what happened next. ¡°Turned out, he was right. After I fell in said river.¡± Isolated laughter, uncertain and brief. ¡°We found shelter in a small village, just in the nick of time. I never let him hear the end of it. But any later and we would have been shredded to pieces out in the open.¡±


    Her smile softened, touched by genuine warmth now, as she recalled the unwavering hospitality they had received. A rare kindness that still warmed her heart. ¡°In that settlement¡ªa small village in the north, called Helka¡ªwe met a family who, despite having very little themselves, welcomed us into their home. It was a humbling experience. And a stark reminder of the good that still exists in this world, even in the direst circumstances.¡±


    She paused, letting the memories sink in, her eyes slowly sweeping over the assembled guests, which hung on her every word now. Lithas smiled at another, more recent, memory, along the coastal highway. ¡°But there is goodness and then there is greatness,¡± she mused. ¡°One of the most captivating sights we¡¯ve encountered on our way here were the Halcynian Spears.¡± She noticed a flicker of recognition in Prince Cerax¡¯ eyes.


    ¡°Huge basalt pillars rising out of the ocean, like silent sentinels guarding the sea,¡± she said, her gaze traveling far away, reliving the awe of her encounter. ¡°You should have seen how the wind and waves crashed against their base, creating this hauntingly beautiful symphony. It was hypnotic, really.¡±


    A more serious expression crossed her face. ¡°We met an old man during our travels who told us the history of the Spears.¡± Remembering the conversation stirred something in Lithas, a somber note in the grandeur of the banquet. She kept her eyes on the prince, searching his dark pupils¡ªso much like flecks of lapis lazuli¡ªfor answers. ¡°He posed a thought-provoking question, that old man did. It resonates with me to this day: Should we surrender our beliefs and identity for an easier life, or do we stand up for our truths, even at great personal cost?¡±


    Throughout, Prince Cerax¡¯ attention was unwavering, his eyes turning into a mirror of the sea¡ªdeep and stormy, reflecting a world of thoughts beneath the surface. His responses were measured, his questions innocuous, but she could tell he was searching for more, probing for information he was not privy to.


    Eventually, the prince leaned back in his chair, seemingly satisfied. ¡°It seems you¡¯ve had quite the adventure, Elevated. I must say I admire your strength and courage.¡±


    He paused, swirling the wine in his goblet before he took a sip. His gaze remained steady, but there was an intensity in his eyes that put Lithas on edge. ¡°Our city hasn¡¯t been without its adventures, either,¡± Cerax said finally. ¡°Even a place as beautiful as Demis has its... challenges. I¡¯m sure you know what I¡¯m speaking of.¡±


    He paused a moment before continuing, as if he was gathering his thoughts. ¡°However, I believe we are strong.¡± He let his gaze sweep over the crowd, voice firmer now, more commanding. ¡°Demis is strong. And, with people like you on our side, I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll be able to handle whatever comes our way.¡±


    The shift in atmosphere was almost tangible, as if the room had drawn a collective breath. Cerax¡¯ implication hung in the air. From the corner of her eye, Lithas noticed Kellen tense behind her. From outside, she heard the swelling festivities in the streets, accompanied by shouts and muffled noises. She felt slightly queasy.


    An unspoken question lingered now, one she hesitated to answer outright. Instead, Lithas nodded once, a non-committal gesture that could be interpreted however necessary. She suddenly was hesitant to broach this topic here, in the throne room of Demis, surrounded by its wealth and power.


    ¡°Elevated Lithas,¡± Cerax¡¯ gaze narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, the joviality of earlier all but forgotten. ¡°Let me be frank. I hope to work closely with you. I hope to gain an ally in you. May I assume you¡¯ll lend your skills, your expertise, your enterprise to our cause, when the time comes? Do you stand with Demis?¡±


    It was phrased as a question, but the prince¡¯s words also carried an unmistakable challenge. Hanging in the air, shrouded in the vibrating notes of the harpsichord. ¡°Your Highness,¡± Lithas met his gaze evenly, ¡°my primary obligation lies with my people and my business. If your intentions align with mine, then you have my support.¡±


    The prince paused, absorbing her words. Vexaria sitting rigidly at his side, glaring at Lithas. Finally, Cerax nodded, a sense of urgency shadowing his handsome features. ¡°I understand that a monopoly relationship may be too much to ask for at this time, so let me ask for something lesser. Do not sell weapons to Loratha, do not sell armor to Loratha. We don¡¯t care if you sell to anyone else and we¡¯ll gladly buy everything you offer. That is the only thing we ask for. Would you consider this request?¡±


    Lithas glanced at Kellen, his expression stoic but alert. She understood the implications, the delicate balance of power here. She also understood desperation when she saw it. This was worse than she had imagined. ¡°Prince Cerax, I understand your concerns. I will need to discuss this with my associates. We¡¯ve maintained neutrality so far, supplying all who require our services. However, I hear your request and will consider it.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, my lady,¡± Prince Cerax said, inclining his head slightly. ¡°That¡¯s all I¡¯m asking for. I¡¯m grateful for your understanding.¡±


    But before Lithas could articulate her next thoughts, a deafening explosion shattered the refined atmosphere of the banquet hall, thrusting everything into chaos.


    Immediately, the sound of drawn blades and frantic shouts replaced the gentle harpsichord. Guests¡ªso composed and elegant but a moment ago¡ªnow scrambled in panic, their elaborate attire ill-suited for the sudden flight, as they knocked over ornate tables and chairs.


    Prince Cerax rose, his composure momentarily lost. He reached out a hand, steadying himself on the table. ¡°What is happening?¡± he demanded. Nobody seemed to have an answer for him. Then his eyes flickered to his guards, who started to move toward the source of the noise, swords drawn.


    Kellen was beside Lithas in an instant, sword drawn and eyes sharply scanning the room, every sense heightened to detect threats. ¡°Stay close to me, my lady,¡± he barked, his voice a beacon of certainty in the ensuing turmoil. Of course, in most scenarios it would be her saving him, rather than the other way around.


    Then, as if to mock any remaining semblance of control, a second explosion thundered through the hall and a guard rushed in, panting, armor splattered with blood. ¡°Intruders at the gates¡ªwe¡¯re under attack!¡± he gasped out. Behind him, noise that was previously held back by the thick banquet doors burst forth, revealing a tableau like from a kicked ant hill.


    Cerax seemed to freeze for a moment, taking in the scene before him. His eyes met Lithas¡¯, a look of disbelief etched on his face. Then, his shock gave way to resolve. ¡°It seems Loratha has made the decision for you, Elevated,¡± he said, voice grim over the chaos of the hall.


    Lithas met the prince¡¯s gaze, heart pounding against her chest. ¡°So it seems, Your Highness,¡± she responded, gripping the edge of the table. ¡°Looks like it¡¯s time to choose sides.¡±

 Omvar 5 (Chapter 20)

    ¡°The genesis of an Elevated¡¯s specific power has long been a topic of speculation and debate among scholars and practitioners alike. Does ability spring from chance, innate characteristics, or some unknown factor? Could there be some kind of cosmic balance at work, with each ability serving a specific purpose in some grand scheme? Or is it shaped by an individual¡¯s beliefs and values? It is frustrating to this author that, despite years of study and research, the answer to the origins of an Elevated¡¯s ability still elude us.¡±


    ¨C Orhan Malenk, On Faith and Power, Year 311 of the Age of the Tetrarchy


    Omvar woke with a jolt. He was in his bed¡ªthe one in his office¡ªthe soft sheets familiar and comforting. The warm light of the morning sun filtered through the window, filling the room with an amber glow.


    Kel.


    Home.


    He looked around the room, eyes wide with relief and disbelief. Always that same dream. The memories washed over him again. Bone-rattling tremors, dust, deafening roar as the ruins collapsed. Images of Zara¡¯s eyes flat with shock, of Orhan¡¯s eyes, wide open in confusion. He could still taste that raw urgency, that instinct to flee, to survive. He remembered running. Running, running, running. Running until his lungs ached, until he could not feel his legs anymore.


    And then... nothing. He remembered nothing else.


    He examined his hands, turning them over and over, reassuring himself of their solidity. Omvar rose from the bed, pacing the room slowly, steps quiet against the cold floor. This wasn¡¯t only a dream though, he thought grimly. But no matter¡ªhe was back in Kel, safe and sound.


    Still, his thoughts turned to Rashaad. Poor, dead Rashaad, his form reduced to a lifeless, charred husk amidst those Belt-blasted ruins. Omvar still could not shake the image from his mind, the spears of light that had snuffed out the life of the Elevated.


    Leftos. Leftos had known, somehow. All of it. Omvar¡¯s gut churned at the memory of the delegate¡¯s casual indifference to the horrific death of their companion. He wondered, not for the first time, what Leftos¡¯ true intentions were. Was all of this¡ªthat dangerous journey into the ruins, this silver orb¡ªworth the price of a human life?


    Questions swirled within Omvar¡¯s mind like a maelstrom. He felt an odd, lingering sense of dread, a shadow at the back of his mind he just could not shake. He was back in Kel, yes, but something was different. He was different.


    Omvar had always managed to compartmentalize, to distance himself from the painful realities of this world, to carry on with his duties, unaffected by the horrors he witnessed.


    Not this time.


    The image of Rashaad¡¯s death, that acrid scent of seared flesh amongst haunting screams that echoed within the chamber, were indelible. He simply could not forget the raw terror he had felt, the desperation, the all-encompassing urge to survive. Could not forget Leftos¡¯ chilling indifference, the sheer ease with which he disregarded Rashaad¡¯s life. Omvar clenched his fists in a familiar instinct to push through the surfacing pain. Yet, this time, resilience felt unreachable.


    He was not just physically exhausted, he felt utterly drained. A tumultuous sea churned within him, waves of guilt and wrath crashing against shores of helplessness and confusion. His faith in his choices, his loyalties¡ªhis entire purpose¡ªwas shaken.


    Sitting at his desk, Omvar massaged his temples, the weight of his thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes scanned the documents strewn before him, not even registering their contents.


    Instead, his traitorous mind kept replaying the gruesome images¡ªover and over again¡ªeach detail seared into his consciousness as if branded with a hot iron. His heartbeat drummed a painful rhythm, in sync with the throbbing headache that had taken residence behind his eyes.


    He needed sleep. He wanted sleep. He dreaded sleep.


    Rashaad¡¯s vacant eyes seemed to stare at him from the papers scattered across his desk, each inked letter a crude manifestation of the man¡¯s features. The sensation of fear, of being trapped in a nightmare he could not wake from, was drowning Omvar. His pulse raced, breaths turning shallow.


    Exhaling deeply, he pushed himself away from his desk. He did need sleep, but the prospect of nightmares¡ªof reliving that horror¡ªterrified him. He glanced at the window and noticed the sun ascending the sky. The distant, muted sounds of Kel¡¯s streets started to trickle into his office. He decided to take his chances.


    Omvar rose from his desk and went toward the large armchair by his window. He allowed himself to sink into its cushioned depths, pulling a blanket from the back of the chair to wrap around himself. He stared at the steadily brightening horizon, the creeping light a feeble barrier against his encroaching memories. Despite the insistent tug of exhaustion, his restless mind still refused to submit to the sweet oblivion of sleep.


    So he reached out, fingers brushing against the cool glass of the window. Omvar watched his city slowly begin to stir, faint sounds of life filtering into his quiet sanctuary. He felt strangely disconnected to it all, like a ghost lingering in a world where he no longer had a place.


    As his eyelids turned leaden, his breathing fell into a soothing rhythm. Omvar¡¯s consciousness began to waver, the hazy border between wakefulness and sleep beckoning him. He stared at the rising sun, the golden hues of dawn diffusing softly into the room.


    Thoughts began to blur, the haunting visage of Rashaad gently receding.


    Casting a final, lingering glance toward the sapphire sky, Omvar allowed himself to sink into his sumptuous chair, surrendering to the lure of sleep. As he drifted off, the city around him woke up, the sun¡¯s bright rays spilling into the room, banishing the last shadows of the night.


    The world, the Tetrarchy, marched on. Indifferent. Omvar¡¯s responsibilities, his work, his guilt¡ªall would lie waiting for his return. But, for now, in that still subdued light of dawn, he found a moment of peace, a temporary respite from his nightmares. Sleep, soothing as a balm, eased his troubled thoughts, allowing him to escape¡ªhowever briefly¡ªfrom the trials of his existence.


    Night. Or was it evening?


    Omvar let out a sigh, fingers combing through ruffled hair. He could not sleep anymore, his mind already too busy again with processing all that had happened. He sat up, staring blankly at the wall, his thoughts recommencing to consume him. Omvar rose and paced the room, the cool floorboards under his feet grounding him in the present again.


    Every one of them had handled this differently. Was handling it differently still.


    Orhan, for one, had thrown himself into work with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Constantly jotting down notes, he brooded over his findings from those ruins, formulating and discarding theories on an almost daily basis. His face was pale and harrowed these days, candlelight casting dramatic shadows across furrowed brows as he worked late into the night. Still, there remained a spark in his eyes, a flame that seemed to grow brighter each passing day. Threatening to consume him.


    Zara found herself nursing a particularly nasty cut on her arm from the debris¡ªand an equally bruised ego¡ªyet beyond that remained a picture of resilience until her and Jahan¡¯s departure for Akhantar. Rumor was that she would be taking Rashaad¡¯s place there, leading what was left of its Elevated corps.


    Leftos, true to form, remained an enigma wrapped in a riddle, seemingly oblivious to the physical¡ªor mental¡ªwellbeing of their former group. Of his tools. Outside of official functions, Omvar had not seen the man since. He briefly wondered what had happened to the silver orb they brought back from that cursed place.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door. Omvar did not have to ask who it was; he knew that knock. Light, yet assertive.


    ¡°Come in,¡± he called, and watched as the door to his office slowly opened. A figure stepped in, fiery red hair catching the last rays of sunlight. She paused at the doorway, her confident stride faltering for just a moment.


    ¡°Ravena,¡± Omvar greeted her with a weak smile.


    She sauntered wordlessly over to his armchair, black dress hugging her curves, revealing just enough to be considered indecent. Omvar watched her and a sense of familiarity washed over him. It felt like an eternity since he had last seen her, but here she was, as beautiful and dangerous as ever.


    ¡°I see that you¡¯ve been taking care of yourself,¡± Ravena remarked, a teasing smirk on her lips as she studied him. Swaddled in blankets, cushioned by an expansive armchair, and looking out the window. Quite likely won the prize for most seductive pose in the history of mankind.


    Omvar glanced down at his disheveled state and then back at her with a wry smile. ¡°Oh, absolutely. I call this look ¡®Despair, but make it fashion.¡¯ It¡¯s all the rage in the circles of overworked bureaucrats.¡±


    There was a pause, an unusual silence that hung between them. Ravena was usually all about business¡ªalways calculating, always plotting. Omvar knew how to handle that. Mostly. But today, she seemed different. Softer, less certain. He was not quite sure yet what to make of it.


    ¡°You¡¯re worried,¡± Omvar observed, probing the depths of her bright green eyes. He saw a flicker of vulnerability there, before she quickly masked it with her customary confidence. ¡°What have you heard?¡±


    ¡°Word travels fast, Omvar,¡± Ravena began, her usually firm voice wavering just the slightest bit. ¡°They say you barely made it out of that jungle alive.¡±


    Omvar looked at her, surprise flickering in his eyes. Accusations, threats, manipulations; these were approaches he expected from her. But this... this hint of genuine concern? ¡°I...¡± he began, but stopped, not knowing what to say.


    His thoughts involuntarily wandered back to the horrors from those ruins. The air around him seemed to chill as the memories clawed at the edge of Omvar¡¯s consciousness, threatening to pull him under again.


    With a shudder, he forced himself back to the present.


    ¡°Whispers can be exaggerated,¡± Omvar said, trying to sound dismissive. ¡°I survived, didn¡¯t I?¡±


    Ravena studied him, gaze softening. Then, in one decisive moment, she closed the distance between them, her hand reaching out to touch his. A simple gesture, something you could see on every street, on every day. For him, it roared.


    ¡°I¡¯m here, Omvar,¡± she said softly, a rare vulnerability stealing into her voice. ¡°I get it. After my first brush with death, I couldn¡¯t look at the stars without feeling lost. It changes you, doesn¡¯t it?¡± She swallowed. ¡°Whatever it is you¡¯re going through, you don¡¯t have to face it alone, is what I¡¯m saying, I guess.¡±


    Omvar looked at her as the warmth in her words sunk into him. He knew her. Knew her manipulative, power-hungry nature.


    Yet, in this moment, he allowed himself to believe her. To trust her.


    Perhaps, even in the harsh world of Kel¡ªwhere power and manipulation were the currency of survival¡ªthere was still room for something more... something genuine. His hand responded almost of its own accord, a gentle pressure against hers.


    The shared silence, their feeling of connection, hung for a moment longer. Then Ravena chuckled, her hand retreating, severing the link. ¡°Never took you for the sentimental type, Omvar.¡± Her usual air of confidence returned as she slid off his armchair. ¡°But we¡¯ve wasted enough time on this... concern. You¡¯ve got work to do, and I¡¯ve got places to be. I trust I¡¯ll see you soon, my dear.¡±


    With a kiss blown through air, Ravena slid back toward the door, vanishing from sight. If Omvar did not know better, he would have thought this looked suspiciously like a flight. Strange woman.


    He stared at the spot Ravena had just occupied, her warmth still lingering. He exhaled a long, weary breath and let his gaze shift to the window, seeking the strength to rise. The mere act of movement pulled him back into reality, forcing him to put aside this unexpected vulnerability he had just witnessed from Ravena.


    Finally, he sat down at this desk. Yet, just as he was beginning to settle into his work, his office door creaked open once more.


    ¡°Omvar!¡± The voice was familiar. And loud. In walked Orhan, dressed¡ªas always¡ªlike the Kelians of old, ever so appropriate for a historian. His long gray beard seemed to have grown since the last time Omvar had seen him, cascading all the way to his chest now.


    ¡°Hasn¡¯t it been too long, my friend?¡± Orhan greeted him warmly, not waiting for Omvar to invite him in. All Omvar could do was sigh in response, pushing aside his work to give his old friend his attention.


    Orhan glanced around the room as if to take stock, before he fixed his gaze on Omvar, a sad smile creeping on his face. ¡°You look worn out. Travel always takes its toll, doesn¡¯t it?¡±


    Omvar responded with a chuckle, massaging his temples. ¡°Trust you to state the obvious, Orhan.¡± Though, judging from his friend¡¯s sunken eyes and jittery hands, Omvar was not the only worn out one in this room.


    Orhan shrugged, eyes on the papers piled high before Omvar, easing himself into the armchair across Omvar¡¯s desk. ¡°Someone has to, my friend. It seems like, otherwise, you forget your mortal limitations.¡±


    For a moment, Omvar found himself at a loss for words. He did feel weary, more so than he would care to admit. But who could really blame him, when every meal evoked the scent of charred flesh, when every flash of light induced a convulsion.


    Smoothening the papers in front of him, Omvar blinked slowly and mustered a forced smile. ¡°Well, someone has to. Keep things running smoothly, I mean.¡±


    Orhan studied Omvar for a moment, eyes filled with concern. ¡°You¡¯re not just any bureaucrat, Omvar. You¡¯re now a man who¡¯s seen more than most. Don¡¯t let that weigh you down. You can¡¯t carry what happened in these ruins on your shoulders alone, my friend. It¡¯s not healthy. Nor is it necessary.¡±


    Omvar¡¯s smile waned. He turned to the window, watching the stars glitter in the dark canvas of the night sky. His voice barely rose above a whisper when he finally replied, ¡°I appreciate your concern, Orhan. I do. But this is the job I was given, the responsibility I chose. I can handle it.¡±


    There was a silence. This time Orhan did not attempt to break it. Instead, he simply watched Omvar, eyes filled with a mix of understanding and concern. The man could be infuriating. Omvar kept his eyes to the window, probing the distant night sky.


    Finally, Orhan rose from his armchair. ¡°Just a friendly warning, Omvar,¡± he said, voice serious yet not unkind. Omvar turned and watched as Orhan ambled toward the door. The old man paused, hand resting on the door handle, ¡°Don¡¯t isolate yourself in these turbulent times. Remember, my friend, even the mightiest rivers need tributaries.¡±


    Silence returned to the room as he heard the door close behind his old friend. Omvar took a moment to collect his thoughts. Finally, he sighed, running his hand through his hair and down his face. He returned his gaze to his desk, to the papers scattered across its surface. Of course, he knew Orhan was right. But there was work to be done, responsibilities to be fulfilled. He could occupy his mind.


    For now, that was all that mattered. For now.


    The Tetrarchy paid bureaucrats well. Exceedingly well, in fact. The one thing you did not want is someone bribing themselves to godhood, after all. Good thinking, that. Problem was, you could¡ªquite literally¡ªnever have ¡®too much¡¯ or even ¡®enough¡¯ gold, if you would ask him. Which is how his arrangement with these letters from the continent had come about in the first place. Quite a while since he had received one, come to think of it. Maybe his mysterious patron was finished with his grand rearrangement.


    But even beyond the gold, Omvar found a different kind of value in his work: order, stability, and the finesse of subtly wielding power. Not the ostentatious power wielded by a Delegate or a tetrarch. No. This was a quieter kind of power, less attention-seeking but just as potent. The power of knowledge and understanding, of control and manipulation.


    And he was oh so good at it.


    Omvar returned his attention to his work, meticulously reviewing the files and logs of assigned believers. This was the heart of his work¡ªthe heart of the whole Tetrarchy, really¡ªthe delicate task of allocating these precious assets to Elevated in a balanced and fair way. And in a policy-aligned way, of course. His latest directive had been to slightly diminish the Elevated of Limrod, a cautionary measure prompted by delayed tariff payments. Should¡¯ve stuck to their theaters for drama, Omvar thought.


    Yet, as he sifted through the documents to formulate a plan, his eyes caught on something in the change logs. An anomaly. Nothing obvious, just a slight imbalance in the believers assigned to Ravena in some of the new documents that should not be there. An irregularity that would go unnoticed by a casual observer, probably even by the complex calculations used to monitor these allocations. But he had pored over thousands of such documents by now. He could read them at a glance, use them to make great leaps of intuition that would baffle an initiate. Something here just did not feel right.


    Omvar frowned. He double-checked and then triple-checked the numbers. This had to be an error.


    But the more he studied the documents, the clearer the patterns became. They emerged like ghostly trails at first, until they coalesced into an inescapable conclusion. A minor shift of believers from Ravena to another Elevated here, a small group suddenly without any Elevated there.


    Far too convenient to be random, too subtle to be a mistake. This was something else.


    A dreadful realization started to take shape in Omvar¡¯s mind. Someone was doing this deliberately. Someone was systematically siphoning away Ravena¡¯s believers. But who? And for what purpose? It seemed to be a meticulously planned operation, as clever as it was insidious. In fact, he might have admired its audacity, if it were not so unsettling. He had done something not too different on the continent, after all, if he was being honest with himself. But this, this was personal. This was Ravena.


    Omvar¡¯s heart pounded against his chest as he continued to check and recheck his calculations. But the numbers did not lie. The pattern was there, a sinister undercurrent disrupting the carefully guarded balance of believers within the Tetrarchy. It was subtle, yes, almost imperceptible unless one knew what to look for. But there was no doubt about it.


    Slowly leaning back in his chair, Omvar¡¯s gaze was drawn to the window again. Stars winked back at him, their silent observance only serving to amplify the magnitude of his discovery. If he was right, this was just the beginning of a much larger, much more deadly game. A game among gods.