The suit was black silk, so smooth and glossy it looked like it had been spun by faeryland spiders. The sleeves and legs were puffy like cavalry breeches, but the fabric gathered tight at his wrists with black leather bracers and around his waist with a matching belt. Gold studs—real gold, not fake or plated steel—accented the bracers and belt. A long, black cape and knee-high boots completed the ensemble.

Horace held out his arms, feeling like a prince while a servant brushed his shoulders.

Or a man impersonating a prince.

“Tidru hisi kapparantu, belum?” the chief tailor asked as he held up a plate-sized mirror.

Horace nodded, still not believing what he saw in its wavy depths. “It's extraordinary, if that's what you're asking.”

The tailor snapped his fingers, and his assistants gathered up their implements and left. Horace stood alone in his apartment, afraid to sit down or brush against anything for fear of marring his suit. Tonight was the queen's party, which he would soon be attending. He had hoped Alyra would be here to attend to him. She had a talent for calming him, something he could really use right now, but she had been called away. Horace played with his collar, trying to get more air. This entire affair was surreal. His country was at war with Akeshia, yet in a few minutes he was going to a fancy gala on the arm of its queen.

He started to look for a drink—preferably something with a lot of alcohol—when the front door opened. He hurried to the foyer hoping it was Alyra, but instead a short, stooped man with a cane limped through the door.

“Lord Mulcibar,” Horace said. “It's good to see you again.”

“Good evening, Master Horace. I trust you are well?”

Horace held out his arms. “What do you think?”

Lord Mulcibar leaned on his cane as he examined Horace's attire. “I think you have a come a long way from being a slave. May we sit a moment?”

Horace ushered the nobleman into the parlor, and they reclined on the soft divans. “Can I offer you anything, my lord? A drink?”

“No, thank you. We don't have much time. The Queen's Guard will be here momentarily to escort you, but I wanted a chance to speak with you first.”

“Of course. I hoped I'd see you as well. Can you shed some light on what's happening? I feel like a carpenter's apprentice handling his first hammer.”

“Master Horace, I'm afraid you are in extreme danger.”

Horace's stomach flipped over. He had feared that something was wrong, that he was being set up for a big fall. “How so?”

“Erugash balances on the edge of a precipice. On one side there is the queen—may she live forever—and arrayed against her are a variety of forces. The royal court is a pit of vipers, all vying to be Her Majesty's favorite. It's a never-ending game of deception, shifting alliances, and betrayal. Then there is the temple of the Sun God, never satisfied no matter how deep its tentacles have sunk into this city's affairs. And you are caught in the middle of it.”

Horace rubbed his palms together. “I didn't ask to be.”

“Of course not. You were simply unaware, and it's no wonder. Zoanii who have played this game all their lives can fall prey to their competitors at any moment. What should concern you is a plot that, I believe, is aimed at supplanting the queen herself.”

Horace started to pace the floor. “How does this involve me? I don't know anyone at court, except for you and the queen.”

“I don't know. I have been chasing down this particular scheme for a long time, but I'm afraid I know little except that they want to use your arrival in Erugash to their advantage.”

“What do they want?”

“As far as I can tell, they want the queen dispatched.”

Horace stopped pacing and faced Mulcibar. “You mean they aim to kill her.”

“Assassination attempts are not uncommon. And oftentimes those caught in the line of fire are the first to die.”

Horace thought of Alyra and was suddenly worried about her prolonged absence. “So what should I do?”

“Conduct yourself as normal. However, if there is an attempt on Her Majesty's life, it will be sudden and lethal. I advise that you defend yourself with any and all means.”

Horace frowned as he walked around the divan. He knew where this was going. “I don't know how to control the power. Even if I did, this isn't my concern. No offense, Lord Mulcibar, but I was a captive yesterday, and a slave not long before that.”

A loud knock sounded from the foyer.

Lord Mulcibar stood up. “That is all true. I won't try to convince you that the queen is one of your saints, but we are involved in an internal war, Master Horace. You may not have asked to be set down in the middle of it, but that's where you find yourself. As I see it, you have two choices. You can run, and likely find yourself back in a dungeon cell, if not executed.”

Horace's hands, which had been dry only a minute ago, were now damp with sweat. He fought the urge to wipe them on his fine pants. “What's my other option?”

“Pick a side, Master Horace, and hold on tight.”

The door opened, and the two officers of the Queen's Guard entered. Lord Mulcibar paused on his way out and leaned close to the elder soldier. Some words were exchanged, and the soldier nodded. Horace followed them out.

The soldiers remained at a respectful distance as they escorted him down the broad corridor toward a flight of stairs. In his few forays through the palace, Horace had come to glimpse how mammoth it was and could only imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to build.

They arrived at a chamber that was every bit as large as the audience hall, if not larger. Hundreds of tiny lights illuminated the high walls and the graceful curves of the vaulted ceiling. At first Horace thought the lights were candles, but he passed by a cluster at the doorway and saw that the lights were wavering tongues of energy without wick or taper, just hovering against the stonework like a cloud of fireflies. He was whisked into the grand chamber before he could study them, and then the new sights inside drew his attention.

Lit by the spectral lights, the entire room had a magical atmosphere. Gold accents glittered on every decoration. The walls were painted with frescos in bright tones of purple, salmon, and yellow. The sounds of harps and lyres floated in the air to the soft beat of a drum.

Lord Mulcibar excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. The hall was filled with people draped in silk and jewelry. The men walked with their backs stiff and their shoulders thrown back, strutting like gamecocks, while the women glided past as serene as swans on a still lake.

I don't belong here. I'm nothing but a prisoner in borrowed clothing.

The soldiers watched but otherwise left him alone as he made a casual circuit around the chamber. He was looking at a wall painting when a sultry voice called his name.

“Master Horace!”

He almost swallowed his tongue as the crowd parted. Queen Byleth sauntered toward him in an outfit he couldn't quite believe. The smoky silk gown left her arms and the upper slopes of her breasts bare, but she might as well have been nude since the material was virtually transparent. Gold baubles hung around her neck, from her ears and around both wrists, and a layer of gold powder sparkled on her face and arms, but he was mesmerized by the lush flesh moving under the veil of silk. Somehow it was more erotic than seeing her naked. In Arnos, such a dress would have been too scandalous for even a dockside whore, but the queen appeared perfectly at ease.

Her twin bodyguards stood behind her. They wore black robes again but tailored in different styles. Xantu wore a tight, straight robe of rough cloth with a crimson sash belt as his only accessory. Gilgar's robe was shimmering silk, cut to expose his muscular arms. A bracelet of gold links flashed on his right wrist.

“There you are,” the queen said as she closed in on him. “We've been waiting for you.”

Horace mustered his best courtly bow. When he straightened, the queen was by his side. “I hope I'm not late,” he said. “You look, well, amazing, Your Excellence.”

He nodded to the twin sorcerers, but they stared through him, not deigning to acknowledge his presence.

The queen latched onto his arm, seeming not to care as she smeared gold dust on his sleeve. “And you look good enough to devour. Come, there are people I want you to meet.”

Horace forced himself to smile as she pulled him through the crowd. He felt like he was caught in the jaws of a shark and was being dragged out to deep waters. He tried not to think about the hard-eyed sorcerers walking behind them. Everyone inclined their heads, not for him, of course, but it was a heady experience to be in the queen's company while surrounded by such aristocracy. Every time she introduced him, Horace gave a firm nod and said hello. He tried to relax, reminding himself that he could still be rotting in a prison cell instead of here among the cream of society. As Queen Byleth guided him through the crowd, he asked, “What is this party for?”

She nodded across the hall to a group of men in white and gold military uniforms with colorful badges on their chests. “We're welcoming the new emissary of Thuum. Each city of the empire sends a representative to Erugash to sit on the governing council for a term of seven years.”

“I confess, Excellence. Your country's system of government confuses me.”

She leaned closer and whispered, “You're not alone. Sometimes I think the bureaucrats create new laws and protocols just to keep the rest of us ignorant of what they're up to. But it's a product of the armistice.”

Horace looked down at her and felt his pulse beating faster. She was beyond beautiful, and here she was on his arm, talking to him while a hundred lords strolled by. “Uh, I'm not familiar with that.”

“About twenty years ago,” she said, “there was a war between the priestly factions. We called it the Godswar. It wasn't a war between armies, although there were occasional skirmishes in the streets. It was more of a political battle. The Sun Cult emerged victorious, with some assistance from the imperial family, and embarked on a campaign to spread its power throughout the empire as the preeminent priesthood.

“My father, King Rathammon, did not agree with this. Our family had long supported the faith of the Moon Goddess, who is our city's patroness. So we rose up in rebellion. My father did not seek conquest, but he knew that no city would be safe from the tightening leash of the Sun Cult unless something was done.”

“But things didn't go so well?”

“The other nine cities, coerced by the priests of the Sun Lord, banded together against Erugash. My father died within sight of the walls. I had just turned eleven.”

Horace started to murmur his condolences when a servant woman came forward with a tray of brown squares set on tiny pieces of paper. He blinked when he noticed the servant was Alyra, wearing a sheer topaz-blue tunic that came down to the tops of her thighs and nothing else. Her face had been made up with rouge and kohl, but Horace could still see the hints of a blush reddening her cheeks. Her eyes were downcast.

Byleth took two pieces from the tray and offered one to Horace. “Try this. You'll love it.”

He considered the brown substance as he watched Alyra out of the corner of his eye.

“I hope you don't mind that I borrowed my favorite handmaiden back,” the queen said as she inserted the strange food into Horace's mouth. “But there's no one else I would trust to attend me at an event like this. This one has such skillful hands, as perhaps you are already aware.”

“Of course not,” Horace mumbled around the stuff in his mouth, which was actually quite good. It was soft and melted into sweet goo on his tongue.

The queen led him away. Each time he turned his head as they walked, Horace couldn't help from glancing back at Alyra, following behind them. The makeup made her eyes seem larger and darker, like they could swallow him whole.

“So why am I—?” he started to ask the queen when a loud voice cut in.

“Il shari azratum!”

Horace turned to face a huge man. He was half a head taller than Horace and corpulent in the extreme. His pristine white uniform looked large enough to shelter an entire family. Byleth and the man, whom she called Lord Baphetor, spoke back and forth in rapid Akeshian. The heavyset nobleman winked several times as he laughed with gusto, which made Horace a little uncomfortable. While they exchanged banter, Horace watched Alyra. She was looking around as if studying the faces in the crowd.

“This is Master Horace Delrosa,” the queen said, placing a hand on Horace's chest. “A traveler from the land of Arnos.”

Horace bowed his head. But as he looked up, he saw a frown crease the envoy's plump lips. “Simtum'nu libriuti, sarratum,” the lord said with a low rumble.

The queen started to lead Horace away, but the envoy said something else. Horace caught the word Tammuris, but he had no idea what it meant. Byleth nodded and smiled but kept walking away. Horace caught the envoy's dark look in their direction before the crowd obscured him. “That didn't sound very friendly.”

The queen ignored the greetings from a pair of older ladies in floor-length gowns as she pulled Horace away. “Lord Baphetor never passes an opportunity to remind me of my fallen stature. He can barely light a candle with his zoana, but his family is wealthy and has powerful alliances, so I must pretend to enjoy his company.”

“What is Tammuris?”

She guided him to a corner of the hall and stopped before a large fresco. It showed a slender woman rising from the earth. She was quite beautiful and garbed only in a white cloth about her loins. “This is Tammuz,” the queen said. “She is the goddess of seasons and also the cycle of life and death that all things experience. Here she is shown by herself, but oftentimes she is shown as four women. The child, the mother, and the crone.”

“That's only three.”

“The fourth is Death.”

He tried to keep his voice neutral, though he felt foolish discussing heathen myths. “And the Tammuris has something to do with this goddess?”

“It is name of a high holy day when we celebrate the celestial marriage between Tammuz and the lord of the underworld.”

Horace peered into his empty glass. Somehow he had drunk it all without realizing it. He frowned as Alyra put another glass of wine in his hand. “Why did that lord—Baphetor?—bring it up?”

The queen sidestepped a trio of gentlemen who seemed like they wanted a word. There was a strange look in her eyes. “You are a rare man, Horace of Tines. There are few even in my inner court who would question me as you do. Are all your countrymen so familiar in the presence of royalty?”

“If I offended, Your Excellence, I apol—”

“There,” she said, looking away. “Now you sound like every other courtier. Tell me. What do you think of these murals? I find them quite amusing.”

Horace returned his gaze to the paintings. “Amusing?”

“Yes, when my father started construction on this palace, he couldn't find any artists willing to adorn the interior. The priesthoods, you see, had secured every painter in the city with long-term commissions in protest because they believed it was unholy for a king to build a palace taller than their temples.”

She stood back and cocked her head to the side as if trying to find deeper meaning in the artwork. For a moment, she seemed profoundly unhappy. “My father was forced to hire artists from elsewhere at great expense. It amuses me how the priests perceive everything in life as revolving around them. Even kings and queens must come to bow before their altars.”

“It's not much different in Arnos. The king rules, but the True Church guides him and everyone else as well. We're taught that service to the Almighty is the highest good a man can do.”

“Our priesthoods think much the same,” she said. “But my father taught me something quite different before he died.”

“What do you serve, Excellence?”

Horace realized his mistake with one look at her face. The alluring demeanor had been replaced with a stern visage that would have been at home on the walls of a cathedral. “Pardon me,” he stammered. “I'm not thinking straight tonight.”

“I will forgive you, Master Horace, if you tell me more about your country. Courtship customs, for instance. What does an Arnossi woman do when she admires a man?”

“Ah, well, it's been quite some time since I…uh, dabbled in such things, Your Excellence. But I believe the custom is for the man to approach her parents with his intentions.”

“And the woman has no say in the matter?”

Horace smiled, remembering his first encounter with his then-future wife. He had spotted her at a garden party, but had been too timid to approach her. One of her friends had introduced them, and they ended up talking all evening under the stars. They married less than a year later. “Well, perhaps not in the eyes of society, but I seem to recall that most of the women I knew had a great deal of say in the matter.”

The queen smiled back at him. “I see.”

A group of nobles greeted Byleth, and she stepped forward to meet them, all smiles and soft words. Horace looked back at Alyra. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but she hurried after the queen before he could say anything. An invisible band closed around his chest. Had he done something to make her angry? He couldn't think of anything, but he didn't know her that well. With so much going on, he didn't feel like himself either.

I have to talk to her after the party.

Gilgar smiled as if reading Horace's mind, but then his brother elbowed him and they strode after the queen. Horace caught up as Byleth left the nobles. He was about to ask her permission to leave, but she beat him to the punch.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “about comparing you to my other courtiers. You are nothing like them.”

“You don't need to apologize, Excellence.”

“I know.” She leaned closer. “That's what makes it so stimulating.”

Horace saw Alyra over the queen's shoulder, studiously looking away as if she wasn't paying them any mind.

“I'll be leaving the hall soon,” Byleth continued as she took his arm. Her touch burned through the thin sleeve of silk. “And I want to see you afterward in my chambers.”

Horace wasn't sure how to respond. How did one refuse a queen? She was incredibly beautiful, but her manner was too aggressive. It reminded him acutely of the precariousness of his position. He was saved from the need to respond by a polite cough. Three priests in cloth-of-gold robes waited a few steps away, their bald heads shining in the mystical light. The priest at the head of the small procession was old—very old—his scalp covered in faded tattoos and brown age spots. His robe hung on him like a sack, too big for his frame. The golden medallion suspended from a chain looked heavy enough to snap his skinny neck. “Sobhe'etu, sarratum,” he said in a gentle voice.

“I greet you, Holy Father of the Sun,” the queen replied, with more deference than Horace expected.

Horace studied the luminaries walk by while the old priest spoke at some length. The room buzzed with a hundred private conversations above the strains of music.

The queen tugged on his arm. “Horace, this is High Priest Kadamun of the Temple of Amur.”

Not sure if he should nod or bow, or even kneel, Horace put his hand over his chest and bent from the waist. “I am honored to meet Your, um,…Eminence.”

The high priest said something, and the queen translated, “He is curious about your impressions of our realm.”

What does he want me to say? You have very nice prison cells?

Horace looked to Byleth, and she nodded with a small smile. His gaze settled on the glass in his hand. “You make excellent wine.”

Byleth's smile became a trifle strained as she passed his answer along to the holy men. The high priest smirked as he replied. “He says you have a cultured palate,” the queen said. “And perhaps one day you will allow him the honor of showing you the temple's wine cellars.”

Horace smiled to mask his discomfort. “I would enjoy that.”

More pleasantries were exchanged, and then the delegation shuffled away through the crowd at the old priest's pace. Most of the nobles stood back as they passed as if the priests were leprous.

“The high priest seemed like a nice chap,” Horace said.

“Yes,” Byleth replied. “I especially enjoyed the way he threatened to imprison you.”

Horace turned to face her. “He did what?”

The queen pulled him onward. “That bit about inviting you to his wine cellars. That's what people call the dungeons beneath the temple where they keep the heretics awaiting execution.”

“In that case, I take back what I said.”

“Now you're learning, Master Horace.” She gestured around them. “The court is a jungle filled with carnivores. The strong prey upon the weak, and the weak plot to overthrow the strong.”

So which do you think I am? “I'll try to remember that.”

“I hope so. I'd like to see you survive a little longer. Oh, peshka.”

A man in an extravagant outfit of emerald-green silk strode toward them. Horace remembered him from his first audience with the queen. The man had been sitting beside her throne. His short, black hair was oiled and coiffed to perfection, yet his handsome features were marred by an angry scowl. Horace flinched at the touch of the queen's hand on his arm and thought back to the familiar way they'd been circling the hall together.

This must be her betrothed. And he thinks that she and I are…

The queen did nothing, but the twins strode forward to intercept the man. They did not touch him, but each held up an open hand, and the royal fiancé halted as if he'd run into a brick wall. Yet that didn't stop him from shouting and gesticulating wildly. Horace only caught a couple words. One was “savage.”

Byleth pulled Horace away from the ruckus. “What were we discussing?” she asked.

Horace looked over his shoulder and tensed when the man leveled a finger straight at him. “He seems quite upset.”

“Ignore him. It's nothing.”

“In that case I was wondering if there was any chance Your Excellence would consid—”

The queen's face blanched as she stopped mid-step. Before Horace could ask what was wrong, a dagger-sharp pain tore through his head. Glass shattered in the background as he reached up, expecting to feel a river of blood pouring from the back of his scalp, but there was only dry hair. Yet the intense pain persisted. Distant shouts reached his ears. The entire chamber was in disarray, with many nobles clutching their heads. Then the pain was gone, as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind a buzzing itch that traveled down his spine.

“What was that?” he said. His voice sounded harsh in his ears. Was this the attempt that Lord Mulcibar had warned him about?

The queen snapped her fingers at her bodyguards, who straightened up as if pulled by invisible strings. With narrowed eyes, the twins cleared a path through the hall. Byleth grabbed Horace's arm and dragged him after them. Alyra followed close behind, her wide eyes latched onto him. She was clearly terrified, and he wasn't far from it himself.

What's happened? he mouthed, but she only shook her head.

Then Lord Mulcibar was there. The queen stopped as he whispered in her ear. Horace tried to eavesdrop and watch for trouble at the same time. If someone was going to try to kill the queen, this was a spectacular opportunity. But he didn't see anyone making threatening gestures.

Although if they used sorcery, how would I know until they struck?

With that sobering thought, Horace found himself wanting to help the queen, perhaps because she was one of the few people in this land to show him kindness. He studied the faces around them, attempting to discern from which direction an attack might come. Yet everyone wore the same look of shock and fear. Before Horace could form a strategy, the ground bucked under him. He grabbed hold of Alyra, and they clung together as the palace quaked. Priests and nobles crashed into one another. The queen staggered toward Horace, but the twins both reached out and kept her upright.

The tremor only lasted a couple heartbeats, but it felt like minutes. When it was over, Horace remained still. Alyra's breathing was loud in his ear. It had been a long time since he'd held a woman. He'd forgotten how good it felt. The softness of her skin, the citrus fragrance in her hair.

A loud boom exploded outside the chamber, followed by a flash of light through the tall chamber windows. Green lightning. Horace swallowed painfully as a strong wind laden with ozone blew in through the windows. What had Alyra called it? A chaos storm?

The queen extricated herself from her bodyguards. She glanced once at Horace and Alyra, raised an eyebrow, and began shouting at people around her. The soldiers who were converging on her position turned and ran for the door. Nobles squawked as they were pushed aside, but none tried to resist. The twins retook their positions behind the queen as she followed the soldiers.

Horace's legs were still a little shaky, but he released his grip on Alyra.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She headed toward the windows. Horace was about to join her when Lord Mulcibar emerged from the crowd, hobbling on his cane.

“Is everything all right?” Horace asked.

“We must go,” the nobleman said. “Now.”

“Where?”

“Follow the queen. I fear she will need every ally she can find.”

The nobleman gave Horace a penetrating glance and then started in the direction the queen had taken. Most of the other nobles were leaving as well, pressing through other doors and archways. They reminded Horace of rats fleeing a sinking ship. He started after Mulcibar when Alyra grabbed his arm. “Come with me,” she said under her breath.

“What? The queen—”

“I'm getting you out of here,” she whispered as she steered him toward a side door.

“Now? I don't think it's a good time to be outside with the storm—”

“Listen! I have friends in the city. They'll help you escape, if we can get outside the palace…what is it?”

Horace was looking up at the ceiling. He could feel the power of the storm overhead, churning with a dark hunger as it lashed out. With every lightning strike, a shudder raced through his body. He remembered how Lord Isiratu had collapsed trying to dispel the sandstorm. Then he thought about Byleth attempting to do the same.

“I have to go.”

Alyra pulled on his arm. “That's right. We can get you out a postern on the south side—”

“No. I have to go help the queen.”

“Horace! This is your chance to get away.”

“I'm sorry.” He extricated himself from her grasp. “Find a safe place until the storm passes.”

“But—!”

He turned away and hurried after Lord Mulcibar. He caught up with the nobleman in the grand hallway as another tremor shook the palace. Horace's legs almost collapsed as the pain returned, constricting his chest. He leaned against the archway for support, feeling like he was going to pass out. Then Alyra was there. With an exasperated glare, she propped her shoulder under his arm. She was saying something, but another barrage of thunder blocked his ears.

“—the stairs,” she shouted in his ear.

“What?” he asked. His voice sounded odd. Distant.

Lord Mulcibar was hunched against the other wall, bracing himself upright with his cane. Horace stumbled over to the nobleman. Together, he and Alyra half-walked, half-dragged Mulcibar down the corridor. The sound of tromping boots echoed behind them, but they faded away into the distance. Horace focused on staying on his feet. This new bout of pain had hurt worse than the first. It was subsiding now, but he had a sneaking suspicion it would return.

Next time I'm just going to pass out and save myself the trouble.

They followed Lord Mulcibar's directions, and after a few dozen steps the nobleman regained enough strength to walk under his own power. He took them up through the central stairways of the palace, making Horace uncomfortable.

“Do these storms occur here often?” he asked.

Alyra's eyes answered him. She was holding it together, but he could tell she was frightened. “No,” she whispered.

“There,” Lord Mulcibar said as he climbed onto a landing and pointed his cane at a sturdy teakwood door.

Horace opened it, and a howling wail filled the stairwell. The wind whipped Horace's clothes and filled his head with a horrible stench. Through the door was a short corridor where the queen and her retinue stood by another doorway, which was open to the outside. Bright green light illuminated the corridor, and thunder shook the walls. Fresh agony ripped through his chest. It was several seconds before he could even breathe again. By that time, Lord Mulcibar had joined the queen's gathering.

Horace pulled Alyra aside. “Listen. I don't think you should be here. If these people are set on confronting the Almighty, I don't know if I can—”

“Horace!” Byleth shouted.

The queen stood by the outer door, reaching out a hand toward him. With a grimace, he left Alyra's side. The people gathered in the passageway were, he noticed, all nobles.

All sorcerers, too, I'll wager.

A few of the aristocrats frowned as Horace entered their circle, but they made room for him. The queen led them in some kind of chant, but Lord Mulcibar moved beside Horace.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm scared out of my wits. How about you?”

Mulcibar made a tight smile. “We shall find out very soon.”

Horace glanced out the open door. A portico extended into the night. Driving rain beat the gray pavestones. The tickling sensation along the back of his neck itched like an army of ants was marching up his spine. The queen took a step toward the doorway. Her voice floated above the thunder and the thrashing wind. A bolt of jagged green lightning crossed the sky, outlining her form in an emerald nimbus.

“It's time,” Mulcibar said.

Horace tensed as a loud boom echoed overhead. For a moment, he was back in the desert again, looking up at the violent storm as it threatened to carry him away. He couldn't suppress a shudder. He wanted to shout that he couldn't help them. Yet, watching the nobles march out through the door behind the queen, Horace couldn't let them face it alone because the truth was that he had come to admire these people. Some of them, at least. He looked over his shoulder. Alyra stood in the shadow of the hallway. She looked smaller in the dim lighting. Her hair flowed behind her in the wind, revealing her gold collar. He nodded to her and then walked out.

As he stepped over the threshold, his stomach turned upside down. The nobles stood in the center of a broad terrace, huddled close together in their soaked apparel. The sky was a sheet of black iron spitting blood-warm rain and bolts of eerie lightning. A sullen howl roared in his ears as the wind whipped past him. He looked up. “Holy Father in Heaven…”

The storm raged over the city, larger and more fearsome than any tempest he'd ever seen. Its sheer malevolence crashed over the city with every thunderous boom. Despite his misgivings, Horace was drawn to the play of light and shadow across the stormy heavens. Watching the sporadic barrage of levin bolts, he sensed a pattern in their movements, like a puzzle he might unlock if he stared long enough. He took a step toward the marble balustrade bordering the terrace.

“Horace!”

Tearing his gaze away from the sky, Horace saw Lord Mulcibar beckoning to him. The ache in his chest was fierce, but he hurried over to the nobles. He said nothing as he joined their circle, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The queen was giving instructions to the group. Horace tried to listen for words he might recognize, but half of what she said was lost in the clamor. With each cracking stroke of lightning, her face lit up, pale and green, her eyes open wide.

Lord Mulcibar turned to him. “We are going to try to deflect the storm in a southerly direction away from the city.”

“What do I do?” Horace shouted back.

“The ritual is in Akeshian, but you don't need to know the words. The queen will lead us. Just focus on your qa.”

“My what?”

The nobleman placed a hand over his stomach. “The seat of your energy. Feel it moving and try to lend it to the group. Don't worry. Once you feel your zoana rise, the ritual will take over.”

Byleth shouted, her face lifted to the ebon sky. The nobles repeated her words. They didn't hold hands or light candles, or do anything Horace attributed to a ritual. Yet, as their voices joined the queen's, he felt the stirring in his chest that he had come to think of as his zoana. He tried humming along with the Akeshian phrases, which had fallen into a rhythm that reminded him of a church hymn. The humming seemed to amplify the sensation moving inside him, but he had no idea what to do next. How could he “lend” his power to anyone?

Nothing seemed to be happening. The storm continued to lash at them. A harsh crackle split the night as more lightning struck near the palace. Down in the city, he saw fires glowing like embers beneath the rising smoke, and it brought back memories of his flight from Tines. The flames and smoke were etched in his mind, along with the cries of frightened people, and deep back in his memories echoed a mournful scream that never ended.

A burst of yellow-orange flame brought Horace back to the present. Streams of fire, flowing like liquid, rose from some of the zoanii in the circle. They were joined by sluices of splashing water and vertical rockslides, all flying up into the sky inside a funnel of spinning air. Horace felt a tugging in his chest like his heart was trying to escape from his rib cage.

Wounds appeared on the zoanii, deep gashes across their faces and bodies that widened with every passing heartbeat. Two nobles fell to the wet tiles and did not move. Their blood mixed with the rain to run in pink streams down their expensive clothing. Lord Mulcibar and the rest kept up the chant, their voices drifting away on the winds. Byleth looked up to the sky as if searching for answers. Horace felt useless, doubly so because he could sense the others watching him. Waiting, he knew, for some miracle, but nothing happened. He just stood there, pelted by the warm rain, and tried to imagine himself anywhere else. Another noble collapsed, her eyes closed in agony as she curled up at their feet. Then the queen staggered. The twin sorcerers grabbed her by the arms before she could fall. A long cut ran down the side of her neck.

Horace started to cross the circle to her when a bolt of green lightning lanced out of the sky to strike the top of the palace. As the thunder exploded in his ears, a shock ran through Horace from head to heels. His insides contorted in every direction; he couldn't tell if he was going to be sick or pass out first. All his muscles went rigid as a wave of energy poured into him, filling him up. Terrible heat seared his lungs, but at the same time he felt like he was flying free, a sensation he'd only felt on the prow of a ship running before a gale. He could feel the storm's presence overhead, trying to batter him down. Then the heat inside him was too much. Horace opened his mouth to shout, and a torrent of energy burst out of him. His eyes were squeezed shut tight, but in his mind he imagined a jet of white-hot fire shooting into the sky.

He returned to his senses on the terrace floor, the pavestones pressing against the wet material of his jacket. The rain splattered into his eyes. He blinked it away. The queen and her nobles were also on the ground, several of them thrashing limply while a few remained still. Byleth was trying to lift her head. Blood trickled from her left nostril. That's when Horace noticed the silence.

The wind was gone, its sudden absence deafening in his ears. The rain was dying down, too, slowing to a fine mist. The sky, when he looked up, was still dark, but the violent thunderclouds had vanished to reveal a web of constellations. It was like the storm had never happened, except for the destruction it left behind. He crawled to the queen on his hands and knees, not trusting his legs to hold him. Her eyes were opened wide and unblinking. A stream of blood ran down her chest from the cut on her throat.

“Your Excellence?”

She put a hand to her head as if she expected to find something horrible. “I'm…I think I'm all right. What happened?”

Horace stifled a nervous laugh as he took off his jacket and pressed a sodden sleeve against her injury. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

She reached out to touch his face. “Not even a mark…”

Soldiers rushed over. Xantu and Gilgar were there as well, both of them bleeding around the eyes. Xantu pressed his hand to the queen's neck wound while his brother stood watch over them. A moment later, Xantu removed his hand, and the queen's injury was closed with only a long scab remaining. The twin sorcerers helped her to her feet.

Horace straightened up slowly, feeling like he'd been sewn up in a sack and beaten with a club. Then Alyra was there, holding him up again. He was too weak to resist as she steered him back toward the door. She was whispering something under her breath, but his ears were still ringing. “What?”

“I can't believe what just happened,” she said.

“I'm afraid I missed most of it. You'll have to give me the details later.”

As they filed back inside, several zoanii leaned against the walls of the corridor. Their eyes followed him and Alyra with flinty expressions. Then someone whispered a word.

“Belzama.”

Alyra halted, pulling Horace to a sudden stop that sent trickles of agony coursing through his body. “What?” he asked.

Others nobles whispered the word, too, looking back and forth at each other and at him.

“Storm lord,” she said under her breath. “That's what they're calling you.”

“Is that good?”

“I don't know.”

A soldier in the queen's livery rushed into the passage. He dropped to his knees before Byleth and began talking in quick bursts.

“Something's wrong,” Horace whispered.

“There's been an attack on the royal barracks,” Alyra said. “Many were killed.”

“An attack?”

But she shushed him. After another minute of listening, she said, “The granaries have also been set on fire.”

The queen swung her hand, and the messenger flew against the wall hard enough to break bones. Everyone else scrambled out of her way as she strode past, followed by Lord Mulcibar and those nobles who had recovered enough to walk. The twins brought up the rear of the rain-soaked procession, both scowling as they bent their heads together in private conversation.

Horace looked back out the doorway to the fiery glow along the skyline. He had so many questions about the storm and the ritual, but no one to ask.

“Are you ready to go?” Alyra asked. “It looks like you could use a bath and a long sleep.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Horace sighed as he turned away from the city. “I could sleep for a month.”

He tried not to look at the dead messenger lying against the wall as he walked past.