The Mythical Hero's Otherworld Chronicles: Volume 12 E-Book

Tatematsuri

• Herausgeber: J-Novel Club
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Mythical Hero's Otherworld Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 319

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Friedhof has fallen, and a horde of monsters bears down on the imperial capital. The Vanir Triumvirate sweeps in from the west under the command of a vengeful princess. The Demiurgos walks Soleil once more, wearing Emperor Artheus’s face. As the Grantzian Empire faces its darkest hour, Liz gathers her allies to weather the coming storm. Ancient oaths will be honored and ancient truths revealed as sides are drawn for the final battle. And as Hiro schemes to overthrow the heavens themselves, the Warmaiden prepares for her most audacious coup yet...

Leseprobe

Prologue

No more would the boy lament his lot. From that day forth, he would stand resolute, no matter what cruelties fate dealt him or what scorn fell upon him. Whether that made him stronger or weaker, even he did not know. He had no time to consider the answer. Every moment spent thinking about it was another miracle left unworked, one more grain of happiness that slipped through his fingers and scattered before him on the wind.

To that end, he abandoned hope.

If wishes and prayers would not avail him, he would cast aside his ideals and look reality in the eye. The heavens held no salvation. There was only one way: to cloak his heart in cruelty and bring about the miracles he sought with his own hands. To receive charity was indolence. To grow dependent was death. He would grasp what he needed and take it for himself by strength of arm. The defeated forfeited all they had. The victor took all. That, he now knew, was the way of the world.

And so he sought power. He crawled on his belly through the muck, enduring shame and disgrace, pursuing the realism that would grant his vision. He struggled through the mire of his own dream, sustained by thoughts of his companions’ shining ideals. And at long last, he found it: a blackness darker than midnight, a shadow more brilliant than dawn.

“At last... I’ll find what I’ve been looking for...”

Narrowing his eyes against the light, the boy walked an unseen road. Not long now, he knew. Soon, he would have everything he wanted.

“You will find nothing,” a voice replied.

Its words slid from the boy’s ears like water. “It’s there. I know it. The world I wished for...”

The voice sighed in disappointment. When it spoke next, it was to utter words the boy would remember until the day he died.

“Tell me,” it said. “What do you know of despair?”

And the world of his dreams ran pitch-black.

Chapter 1: Five High Generals

A charred stench filled the air. Crimson flames set the night ablaze as they spread unabated. Black smoke rose from the walls, and burning shapes tumbled from within, their bestial howls promptly swallowed by the noise of battle. Yet the melee in the burning fort was not fought between beasts, but soldiers—men and women who dealt in death. Once one foe lay still before them, they looked around for the next with blood-crazed eyes, brandishing their swords with wild abandon as they charged back into the fray.

On the battlefield, it was kill or be killed. The combatants thought only of living to see the sunrise. Survival instincts left no room for good conscience. What they deemed a foe, they pounced on like rabid dogs. No rationality stayed their blades. They killed without hesitation, surely and deliberately, loosing cries of elation as they snuffed out their foes’ last breaths.

“A sight to set the heart aflutter.”

A woman’s voice stirred the night—a remark at odds with the hellish bloodshed, cast into the chaos like a stone into a well.

“One order, and hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands bleed.” A shiver ran through her body as she hearkened to the shrieks of the battlefield. “Wondrous, is it not? The strong live to see another day, while the weak are left at their mercy. Was the world ever more equal?”

The question was addressed to the woman before her, one beside whom the world looked gray. To look at her was to be struck by her beauty. Her face had both the serenity of the álfar and the geniality of the beastfolk, and two white-furred canine ears protruded from the top of her head. Her name was Vias, and she was one of the five high generals of the Grantzian Empire.

“Your name is Verona?” Vias asked.

The first woman nodded meekly. “Indeed. I am honored you thought it worth remembering.”

“I’ll put it from my mind once you’re dead. I have to say, though, you look awfully unhurried for someone here to take our heads.”

Vias glanced at the main gate. Word of the fighting had spread to the camp outside, and now imperial soldiers were pouring in. It was only a matter of time before her forces filled the courtyard. By the same token, Verona’s Free Folk could no longer maneuver so nimbly with the exit blocked. One by one, they leaped from their mounts and transitioned to fighting on the ground. It was clear which side had the upper hand. Soon, the battle would be decided by sheer numbers. Now that the Free Folk had no escape, they would fight to their last breaths, but their resistance would mean little in the face of such overwhelming odds. Yet Verona seemed unconcerned by her worsening situation. She stood basking in the clamor of battle, smiling as if she were still in full control.

“Only a true champion may fell me,” she said, “and I see no worthy opponents here. Unless you are suggesting you have strength enough to satisfy me?”

“I don’t know about that, but I have strength enough to take your head.” Vias drew her sword from her belt. It was a curious weapon, composed of interlocking bladed segments of uniform size, and it emitted a soft, metallic keening.

Verona cocked her head. “Your blade hums like a living beast. Ah, now I see. Thus your confidence.”

Vias narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Its song is known to me.” Verona positively glowed with delight. She forgot herself enough to walk a few steps closer before returning to her senses. “Darkness hangs thick in the air. At this hour stirs the power of the Black-Winged Lord—so any babe would once have known. Yet Surtr fell centuries ago by a young boy’s hand, and now only echoes of his might remain. You hold one such relic in your hand: Fragarach of the Dragon Lord’s Drakeblades.”

“You know a lot about the Black-Winged Lord, I see,” Vias said, her eyes as wary as ever. “But I have one question.”

Verona was correct—Vias did indeed wield the Drakeblade Fragarach—but the Noble Blades were hard to come by, and the Drakeblades even more so. No one in the modern world had ever seen Fragarach in person. It had been far more widely known in the past, during the closing days of the great war, but anyone who remembered those days was surely long dead.

“Its song was known to you, you said, but how did you recognize it?”

“I have faced a Drakeblade before. Tyrfing, the Claws of Madness, wielded by a warrior named Skadi.”

“That was not what I meant.” Vias shook her head and raised her guard. Behind her, Rosa frowned, struggling to follow their exchange. “How did you recognize it as Fragarach?”

Fragarach had only ever had one wielder in all of history: the woman who held it now. Only someone who had seen it a thousand years ago, when Vias still called herself Meteia, could have identified it. In that sense, Verona’s identity was clear.

“I knew the álfar were long-lived,” Vias said, “but surely you cannot have fought in the great war?”

Verona laid a hand on the hilt of her own sword. “You are half correct and half mistaken.”

Vias’s eyes slid to the weapon on the woman’s hip. The blade issued a strange aura, and the air seemed to grow weightier as she looked upon it, as if it were trying to intimidate her.

“So that’s why you’re looking for worthy opponents. You think that if you end up surrounded, you can just cut your way out with your Dharmic Blade.”

“Again, you are half correct and half mistaken.” A smile flitted across Verona’s lips as she tapped the hilt of her sword. “Allow me to rectify your misconception. While often taken for one, this is not a Dharmic Blade.”

She leaped high, sailing weightlessly through the air. With her left hand holding her scabbard and her right poised on the hilt, she bore down on Vias.

“And although my appearance may be misleading, I am not an álf.”

Long before Verona came into range, Vias swung her sword. The blade moved to point at her foe. From where she stood, the motion did not even serve as a threat, let alone an effective strike—no sword could cover such a distance. Yet her blade gleamed in the night, and with a dull clang, Verona spun away as though she’d been struck. The woman quickly recovered, pirouetting into a graceful landing as though she had found a foothold in thin air. A small gust of wind rolled out from her feet. Silence fell between the combatants as dust danced around them, carried upward on the breeze.

Verona was the first to speak. “I am pleased to see that your skills have not dulled.”

Rosa raised her spirit weapon, ready to fight. Vias shot her a meaningful look. She nodded and fell back a few paces, understanding that she would only get in the way. As she moved out of harm’s way, Vias flicked Fragarach. Wind whistled around the blade.

“Whoever you are, no distance will save your heart from my sword.”

She twisted at the waist and whipped her arm out to the side. The blade segments decoupled, extending along a central thread, and bore down on Verona faster than the eye could see. Yet just before they made contact, Vias flicked her wrist, and the blade coiled away like a snake. It was a technique to catch an expectant opponent flat-footed. Their mind would lurch when the blow they anticipated never came, leaving them open—just in time for the whiplike blade to lash out mockingly from the most unexpected angle, impossible for any ordinary combatant to predict.

Verona, however, was no ordinary combatant. She smiled defiantly. “Blind I may be, but I can still sense you.”

Sparks burst in midair, and Vias’s sword bounced away.

Vias frowned. Her attack had been repelled, that much was clear, but how? She had detected no motion from Verona at the moment the sparks appeared. Even now, the woman’s hand rested idly on the hilt of her sword.

“That’s a curious trick.”

Vias kept her distance, lashing at Verona again and again as if probing for answers, but to no avail. All her blows skittered away. It was clear the woman wielded one of the Noble Blades—common steel would have long since shattered beneath Fragarach’s assault—but she denied that it was one of the Dharmic Blades prized by the álfar. Nor was it one of the Dragon Lord’s Drakeblades; Vias knew them all, and none of them matched the sword in Verona’s hands. That left only the human Spiritblade Sovereigns, the zlosta Archfiend’s Fellblades, and the dwarven Supreme Dawnblades.

At that moment, she recalled Verona’s earlier words. “You’re not an álf, you said?”

“Indeed. Although I am often taken for one, an álf I am not.”

“And you sound too clear about that to be a half blood.”

Verona nodded. “There are many among the Free Folk, so it is easy to assume as much, but again, you would be mistaken.”

“Then there’s only one thing you could be.”

“I would have told you, had you asked.” Verona sighed, giving the slightest of shrugs. “You might have saved yourself all these theatrics.”

Vias’s voice hardened. “You’re an auf. A zlosta changeling.”

“Marvelous. And so you reach the truth.” Verona cocked her head. “Ought I give you a round of applause?”

All at once, she surged forward, kicking up a plume of dust behind her. Her every movement radiated impatience. It was odd that she would suddenly let her emotions show, Vias thought. Was she running out of time, or had she simply grown tired of talking? Then again, she supposed, it didn’t really matter either way.

“Now that I know who you really are, I have no reason to hold back.” She snapped her sword back to its original form and reversed her grip. “If only you weren’t a member of Orcus, I would have made your death quick.”

“Truly, I have no secrets from you. Would it please you, then, if I said I was one of the twelve primozlosta?”

A shiver ran through Vias’s body. It was not the trepidation of knowing she faced a mighty warrior, nor was she quaking in terror. She felt only icy fury—a surge of animosity at absolute zero that sliced the air to ribbons.

“Whether or not your words are true, now that you have spoken them, I can’t leave you alive.” She thrust Fragarach into the earth and regarded Verona with cold fire. “You will pay in blood for breaking my lord’s heart.”

* * * * *

Night hung over the world. It was a time for distant howls, for roving brigands, for paranoias born from the worst excesses of the mind. Yet scattered across Soleil were points of light—towns and cities, lit by the warmth of those who dwelled within. Candlelight spilled from thousands of windows to illuminate the dark. High walls engendered security, and a handful of late sleepers scorned the night altogether, stumbling drunk from taverns to collapse in nearby alleyways without regard for their work the next day. Perhaps a few would meet unfortunate fates at the hands of miscreants before the night was through. Yet they were far safer within civilization than without. Even perhaps the most orderly city of all, the imperial capital, afforded little protection beyond the reaches of its walls. Those who set foot outside its gates risked being stripped of their belongings by ne’er-do-wells or being attacked by monsters. It was all too clear which side was heaven and which was hell.

Tonight, however, even the most malign of creatures would not dare walk under the moon.

In a place far from the capital, a battle was joined in darkness. Animals trembled in the undergrowth at its violence. In nearby villages without the luxury of walls, commonfolk abandoned their homes and fled to safety. None dared come to watch, no matter how great their curiosity. This battle was a glimpse of hell, where monsters and men fought with all their might to slay before they were slain. Hopelessness, anger, fear, and confusion swirled over the field, rising into the night in a great, air-shaking maelstrom.

In the eye of the battle was a lull that none of the combatants dared enter. They fought like blood-crazed beasts, but even beasts could sense danger. Every instinct warned them not to approach, and so they kept their distance, creating a dead zone in the heart of the storm. There, two figures faced each other beneath the night sky. Their sheer hatred for one another hung like a weight in the air, further ensuring they were left alone.

One of the figures, a black-haired boy, held a sword that lit the field with its brilliance. Yet while his weapon shone bright and reassuring, his eyes housed a darkness deeper and blacker than the night. His mantle billowed wildly as if to reflect his heart—far wilder than the wind, like it had a mind of its own.

“Such obsession. A lingering curse that yet persists even now, long after the body is gone.”

Opposite Hiro stood a young man with golden hair and golden eyes. He wore the face of Artheus, the first emperor of the Grantzian Empire, but something far more dreadful lurked within. He was the Demiurgos, one of the Five Lords of Heaven—beings who had existed since Aletia’s creation and were worshipped by its people as gods. Once, a thousand years ago, he had led the zlosta to war against the humans in a bid to rule the world. Hiro had thwarted his plans at Artheus’s side, a feat that had earned him a place in the imperial pantheon as Mars, the War God. Yet the Demiurgos’s ambitions had lived on. For a thousand years, he had awaited his chance, steadily undermining imperial rule, until the time was ripe to make his return.

“The Black Camellia,” he said, narrowing his eyes fondly. “Does your hatred still burn so strong, after all these years?”

Hiro only stared back with a lightless gaze.

“To entrust your wishes to another,” the Demiurgos continued, “leaving only the shadow you once cast... How absurd. What vindication is there in that? What satisfaction, when your soul is dust? What curse remains will only burden those you leave behind.”

“Surtr was tired. Of the fighting, of all of it. So he left his mantle to me.”

Hiro patted his chest to reassure the Black Camellia. As if reading his mind, the garment fell still, little different from any other black cape. Yet there was no mistaking the hostility with which it regarded the Demiurgos.

“Tired, you say? Ridiculous. The words of one who failed to understand why we were made at all.”

The Demiurgos spread his arms wide and looked to the sky, like a player on a stage. Though he stood on a battlefield of his own making, he wore the face of a saint who wept to see bloodshed.

“Kings on the earth, yet no god in the heavens.”

Ruefully, bitterly, he closed his fist, lowering his eyes to regard Hiro with a piercing gaze.

“The Lord who claims the Empty Throne will rule this world. They will become the god it has so long lacked, and they will learn why the Great Creator made and abandoned us.”

“And what will you do once you know?” Hiro asked. “What if there isn’t some big, important reason they left? What if they just got bored one day and found something else they cared about more?”

No one had ever met, let alone spoken to, the god who had created Aletia. Its people had turned them into an object of reverence, but as far as Hiro was concerned, their absence had inflated them to greatness they had perhaps never possessed. He was not even sure they had existed at all.

“We don’t even know if there was a Great Creator.” His dismissive snort fell on the Demiurgos’s impassioned speech like cold water. “You’re chasing a ghost, trying to understand something you don’t even know exists. And even if it does, the truth would only disappoint you. What would all this effort be worth then? A thousand years of planning, all for nothing.”

“Then for what do you seek godhood? To what end do you seek power?”

“To prove you wrong. To shatter the dream you and your minions cling to.” Hiro walked softly forward—one step, two steps, three. “To prove the godhood you’re chasing is an illusion. Something any ordinary person could achieve.”

Five steps, and he broke into a sprint. Straight and true he ran, eyes on his foe, swords spread out behind him like a pair of wings.

“To show the Lords are nothing special...”

The air tore asunder, and black bled through the cracks. Space rent apart, and darkness surged forth.

“No different from any other human.”

The sky transformed, growing blacker and heavier. The spreading darkness drowned out any light. And then... And then...

And then the heavens fell.

Even notions as simple as speed grew uncertain in the dark. Its arrival heralded confusion and, shortly thereafter, terror—or at least, it would for any mortal man.

“Hmph. Is that all?” The Demiurgos thrust an arm out into the blackness, closing his fist around some incoming object. “Did you truly believe this would give me pause?”

There was a grisly crunch as his fingers squeezed, and then something splattered the ground like drops of rain. All was dark. He could feel something in his grasp, but there was not enough light to tell what it was. Nonetheless, he felt no threat. If anything, his voice took on an edge of arrogance.

“You mock me, boy.”

A noise issued from between his fingers—a hideous wail echoing in the dark, like the howl of some flayed beast. Yet it was not a beast or a man, or any other living thing. The sky itself was crying, a sound dreadful enough to bring anyone’s hands to their ears.

Hiro, however, was undeterred. He took hold of the Black Camellia. “I’ve waited a long time for this day.”

An earthshaking rumble filled the dark. The Black Camellia burgeoned and swelled, propelled by some eruption from within, but Hiro was unharmed. He shrugged off the blast and flicked the mantle back.

“Now I’m going to take back everything you stole.”

Sparks sprayed as the two clashed. The sound of their battle was ugly and metallic, but the sight was a painting in motion. In a night deep enough to drown all life in nothingness, their passions blazed bright. Unblemished light and unending dark—this was a contest for the ages, a miraculous moment that ought to have shone on for aeons, holding all who saw or heard of it in thrall. If any contest had ever deserved to be committed to canvas, it was this. Yet with no master painter to capture their likeness, their battle would endure only in memory, and any who might have borne witness were fighting desperately for their own lives. This moment would never be celebrated by history. It belonged to them alone, a clash of ideals for ideals’ sake.

“Have you spent these thousand years asleep?”

The words left Hiro’s mouth unbidden. Neither of them had landed a single blow, but the Demiurgos felt too feeble for a Lord who had spent a thousand years building his strength.

“Indeed. A thousand long years I have slumbered. My time ceased to flow until you set it into motion once more.”

The Demiurgos knocked Hiro’s strike away and came to a stop. Rather than exploiting the opening, Hiro kept his distance. The Demiurgos gazed down at Ipetam’s glowing red blade, which looked disconcertingly like it was slick with blood. He raised it before him and narrowed his eyes.

“We are both of us Lords. Nothing more, nothing less. Now that you have usurped Surtr’s mantle, you, too, are counted among our number. One Lord may struggle for a thousand years while another lives a life of ease, and their battle will still end in stalemate. There can be no supremacy between us, as vexing as it may be.” He looked up at the night sky and sighed. “The weakest Lord is a Lord still. The mightiest Lord is a Lord still. One cannot be greater or lesser than another. And how I despised being spoken of in the same breath as my siblings.”

At last, he raised a finger and pointed at Hiro, a smile filling his face. His eyes sparkled with joy, like a child that had discovered some priceless treasure.

“But at last, I found my answer.”

“Your answer?”

“Indeed. It was given to me by a lowly human, worth less than dust if not for the role the Spirit King so thoughtlessly shackled them to. When I saw the ordinary become extraordinary, when I watched all my designs come to nothing...finally, finally, I found what I sought.”

Hiro paused. “I...”

“We both know the truth, boy. Mars the Hero King, mighty god of the Grantzian Empire and beloved of its people, is a falsehood. A fiction. There was never anything remarkable about you. You were weak. Fragile. Useless. A burden to your friends and allies. It was sheer chance that you even survived, and you stand where you stand by the grace of good fortune.”

Hiro clutched his chest and ground his teeth, pressing his lips together so hard they turned white. The Demiurgos continued, driving deeper into the chink in his armor.

“It was you, pretender, that set the gears out of joint. You snatched away the glory your comrades rightfully deserved.” He expelled a sigh, his voice almost mournful, and raised a hand. Ceryneia and Khimaira stepped forward. “But I cannot imagine you plan to settle our score on so small a stage. You are plotting something, I am certain.”

Ceryneia held out a cloak. The Demiurgos took it and put it on.

“You have entertained me, and I acknowledge you as a fellow Lord. I will concede victory this day.” He gestured at the ground with amusement. “But when next we meet, I will see you crawl upon the earth.”

With that, he and his two followers melted into darkness. They left behind their horde of monsters, but the battle was almost done. Most of the creatures had fallen to the Crow Legion’s charge. Whoops and cheers filled the air as the troops sensed imminent victory.

Hiro alone had no thought for celebration. He simply stood, staring at where the Demiurgos had been standing.

“I know I’m a pretender. I always knew...”

* * * * *

The battle between Verona and High General Vias brooked no interference. Any mortal who stepped too close would be decapitated, torn limb from limb, cut down before they even knew they were dead. Their clash was formidable—and yet not quite what Rosa had anticipated. She had expected them to move faster than the eye could see, but that could not have been further from the truth.

Vias maintained her position, her back to Rosa, keeping her distance. Verona stared her down from a low-slung stance, her hand on the hilt of her sword. The auf had not moved a step since the battle began. Rosa still did not quite understand how they were fighting. A fierce battle was clearly taking place—sparks exploded in the space between them, and the air shuddered with the clashing of steel—but it was one she could not follow beyond staring in amazement. Only the combatants themselves, two individuals who had transcended the bounds of humanity, could understand their desperate duel to the death.

While it was impossible to tell which of the two had the upper hand, the wider battle was easier to read. The Free Folk were gradually being overwhelmed. With Verona preoccupied with Vias, the raiders found themselves in an unenviable dilemma, lacking orders to follow yet unwilling to abandon their commander. One by one, they fell to imperial swords.

“A fine pair we make,” Vias murmured. “It’s hard to tell who has whom at a disadvantage.”

She stood with her sword thrust into the ground and both hands on the hilt, her eyes on Verona a short distance away. Her onslaught had found no purchase in her opponent’s guard. She had not dealt so much as a scratch. They had traded easily over a thousand blows, and the storm showed no sign of abating. There was no strain on Vias’s brow, and Verona had not shed so much as a drop of sweat.

“Were you not intending to make me pay in blood?” Verona said. “If you thought this would suffice, I must say, you are mistaken.”

An impact struck Fragarach, knocking it askew. The shower of sparks illuminated Verona’s face. Vias saw that the auf was smiling, but she dismissed the provocation with a snort and redoubled her assault.

“I will not let anger cloud my eyes. Victory will require understanding your strengths and weaknesses alike. I am not so naive as to think I can best you with force alone.”

“Indeed.” Verona nodded. “You always were clear of mind.”

“There it is. That’s what so annoys me about you. Why will you not tell me how you know me? The name Verona means nothing to me. I have never seen your face before. Surely it would irk you too if someone you had never met addressed you with such familiarity.”

“As you say. But where would be the fun in giving the game away?”

“Very well, then. I’ll pry the truth from your dying lips.”

Vias raised a hand and snapped her fingers. A host of blades thrust upward from the earth around Verona, snapping together and contracting around her like a giant serpent coiling around its prey. The whirlwind closed over the auf’s head until it formed a dome. Eventually, she was visible only through the occasional gap in the forest of steel. Yet although she had no hope of escape, she continued to smile softly as if there was nothing to fear.

“Should you manage to deal me a mortal blow,” she said, “I will be happy to tell you on my deathbed.”

The blades contracted into tiny spheres like glass beads, so small a child could swallow one whole.

“Then I hope enough of you remains to answer,” Vias growled.

Her finishing stroke came in the span of a heartbeat. It afforded Verona no hope of evasion, no chance to escape—and yet, after it was done, a voice sounded from atop the battlements.

“My troops have fallen. That will do for tonight.”

Vias spun toward the voice and scowled. There was no moonlight to see by, but she could sense who was there well enough.

“Never fear. Our plans are proceeding apace.” With a tinkling laugh, Verona hopped down from the wall and into the night.

Vias looked around the courtyard, still wary. Only once she was certain the threat had left did she let down her guard. “The primozlosta always did skulk in the shadows,” she murmured. “A thousand years evidently haven’t changed their habits.”

As Vias withdrew her sword from the earth, Rosa stepped forward. “Has she fled?”

“Had her fill, more like.” Vias glanced back. “But yes, she’s gone.”

Rosa’s brows pulled together. “All this, just to come and throw taunts... I don’t like it one bit.”

The bodies of the Free Folk littered the ground. Every last one had fought to the end rather than surrender, and the imperial troops had bled for the privilege. Tallying the losses would come after, but a glance at the battlefield was enough to tell that there would be many wounded.

“Perhaps we should find a new fort,” Vias said. “We won’t be holding this one in a hurry.”

The raid had reduced the gate to a burned-out ruin. Still, it appeared that the Free Folk’s objective had not been to destroy the fort but to slay Rosa and Vias. In that sense, they had failed.

“Fortunately, that won’t be much of a setback,” Rosa said. “We were never planning to dig in for a siege. It was our heads they wanted—and whatever deaths they could cause in the confusion.”

“We’ll need to restore order in the ranks. The encampment is large. The soldiers on the other side must be wondering what’s going on.”

“Indeed. And once that’s done, we can start asking why there were Free Folk behind our lines.”

Vias was silent for a moment. “Do you think they were in league with House Muzuk?”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I can’t deny it’s likely.” Rosa hung her head with a tired sigh, then set about flagging down officers. Her work this night was far from over.

Vias sat down and looked up at the sky. “No stars tonight,” she murmured. “Clouds tomorrow, perhaps, or rain. Would that we were lucky enough for clear skies...”

Obscurity brought fear. Anyone would hesitate to venture forward when they could not see the road ahead—a sentiment that applied to the present state of the empire just as well as a moonless night.

“Nobody likes the dark. It makes you think of things you’d rather not.”

Vias turned to face the southern sky, her thoughts flying to those she had left behind in Sunspear.

* * * * *

Sunspear, in the southern territories

The de facto capital of the southern territories was a nexus of continental trade, propelled to prosperity by its gold mines and the attention they attracted from the merchants of Soleil. It was ruled by House Muzuk, one of the five great houses of the empire. Thanks to its enormous reserves of capital, the house’s status was second only to that of House Kelheit, whose acting head currently served as chancellor. Its authority was embodied by the golden palace of Glitnir. The structure was without equal in the empire, a feat of architecture only House Muzuk’s vast fortune could produce. It formed a gleaming homage to their pride, their self-assurance, and the pretensions with which they masked their roots.

House Muzuk had not always been wealthy. The southern territories were a land of deserts, blessed only with a small swath of grasslands used to rear the horses that had originally formed the backbone of the region’s economy. For a long time, House Muzuk had been looked down upon in noble society until it had discovered a vast quantity of gold beneath its mountains. Its fortunes had changed overnight. By lavishing its newfound wealth on wooing merchants and investing in municipal development, it had successfully reinvented Sunspear as a center of commerce. Its story was one of a rise from ignominy, of a house gilding its ignoble origins in gold until it ruled one of the greatest cities in the empire. Nothing of House Muzuk’s former modesty could be seen in Glitnir now. The palace towered over the city like a glittering beacon even in the dark of night.

This evening, however, an air of unease hung over the palace. Perhaps it had been brought by the guards beginning to converge there, or perhaps it was lent by the night itself. In any case, the first to sense something amiss was Margrave Rugen Kiork von Gurinda, uncle to the sixth princess and protector of lands on the Lichtein border. He hastened through the palace corridors with a host of soldiers in tow.

“And you are certain you heard screams?” he asked with no small amount of urgency.

One of the soldiers nodded. “Yes, my lord. I checked the corridor, but I saw no sentries at the door. Perhaps I should have looked inside, but...”

“No, you did your duty. Exactly as General von Grax commanded.”

General Robert von Grax had instructed his men to report to Kiork outside the chamber if anything roused their suspicions—a precaution in case his meeting with the southern nobles went sour. His fears had borne out, and Kiork was now heading to the strategy meeting with von Grax’s soldiers.

“Something’s wrong.”

He could sense it as soon as he turned the corner—an unnatural silence that sent a chill down his spine. It was almost enough to make him think better of pressing onward, but there was no turning back now. He drew a deep breath to center himself and turned to the soldiers behind him.

“No sentries and no patrols. How many men were supposed to be on guard?”

“Twenty-five of General von Grax’s finest, my lord.”

An ill premonition settled in Kiork’s chest, but he steeled himself and set off again. He came to the chamber to find the door ajar. A foul smell oozed from within. He winced, covering his mouth and nose. Nothing good awaited within, he could already tell, but hesitation would only prolong the inevitable.

“Stay on guard. There’s no telling what we’ll find.”

The soldiers replied with tense nods. As if on cue, one of them roared and kicked the door down. The rest poured in, drawing their swords, but they slowed to a halt and blanched as they saw what lay inside.

Kiork surveyed the carnage, mouth still covered. “By the Divines...”

The room had been painted red from wall to wall. It was quite literally a bloodbath, strewn with miscellaneous limbs and trailing viscera. The chairs were broken, the desk was shattered, the formerly white walls were coated with gore. Kiork grimaced at the squelch of blood underfoot. His eyes widened as he recognized the largest of the bodies submerged in the sea of blood.

“General!”

He ran to the man’s side and lifted him upright, but he was already dead. It was hard to make out his wounds through all the gore, but the sheer amount of blood left no doubt they had been mortal. A woman lay nearby, her skull crushed to pulp. Nausea surged up Kiork’s throat at the sight, and he rose to his feet, clapping a hand to his mouth again. With her head all but missing, it was hard to say for certain who she was, but judging by her clothes, he was likely looking at the corpse of Selvia von Muzuk.

“What happened here? Who could have done this?”

As he distantly watched the soldiers begin the search for survivors, the blood drained from his face. A realization had dawned, not about the slaughter in the room, but about what was likely to happen next.

“Ah,” he whispered. “We may be in grave trouble.”

The murderer was not among the bodies. They had left no obvious evidence of their presence, and extracting more subtle traces from the carnage would be next to impossible. More to the point, Kiork and his men did not have the time to search. Most of the palace was occupied by the Fifth Legion—eastern noble troops. The first witnesses on the scene had been eastern noble soldiers and himself, a known ally of the east. The room was littered with the corpses of southern nobles, eastern noble soldiers, and General Robert von Grax, all of whom appeared to have been locked in battle. To the casual observer, this would appear to have been an assassination plot.

“There must be someone... Someone from the south...”

He grimaced. Every southern noble of note had been present for the meeting. Who was left in Sunspear? Low-ranking nobles and their private troops? Would they be willing to listen to him after they learned of the death of their lord? It seemed unlikely.

“Assemble the officers from the south,” he commanded. “We must explain what has happened here.”

The situation was dangerously close to appearing like the eastern nobles had hatched a scheme to seize the south. One wrong move and Sunspear could burn, and if the empire’s neighbors sensed weakness... Well, as dreadful as it was to imagine, they would not hesitate to join the fray. He ran an anxious hand over his face and bit his thumb, trying to marshal all the intellect at his disposal.

“Curses... There must be a way out of this, but what?”

As he swept his gaze around the room, he caught sight of Beto’s corpse. The man had died in wide-eyed surprise. Beside him lay a blood-soaked letter. Kiork picked it up and squinted at it. The blood rendered large parts of it illegible, but he could just about make out a few snatches.

“Is this...?”

The furrow in his brow grew deeper and deeper as he read. Once he finished, he put a hand to his chin. A moment passed in silence, and then he set out for the door, still deliberating. As he passed through, he turned back to the soldiers.

“Post guards at the door and keep everyone out. The scene must not be disturbed. Once the southern officers arrive, would you be so kind as to send them to me?”

“Of course, my lord. But if I may, where are you going?”

“To Lord von Muzuk’s chambers. Could I trouble someone to escort me?”