The sun was setting behind the city's skyline as Horace walked into his new home with four bodyguards in tow. Sweat covered his face and dampened his clothes. He had spent most of the day in a meeting of the queen's war council where he'd been forced to endure hostile stares from the other nobles while they droned on and on about some treaty, much of which he missed because they only spoke in Akeshian. It might have been more bearable if Alyra had been able to attend with him. Or even Lord Mulcibar. Anyone to help him make sense of this office he was supposed to be filling. When he'd received the summons, Horace assumed the queen would be attending—the invitation had certainly made it sound so—but he was informed soon after arriving by one of the lords that “Her Majesty seldom attends these meetings.”

The man had added, “My lord,” after such a long pause that no one could have failed to notice it. Judging by the glances exchanged around the table, no one had. Horace suffered the insult in silence and left the meeting feeling like a fraud and a pariah, not to mention a target. Now he was feeling the several cups of wine he'd drunk to while away the time and was starving for something to eat.

Yet he had learned some things. For instance, he found out that the city owed a great deal of money to the emperor, a debt that no one believed the queen meant to pay. After all, she would be married soon, and the problem would fall into the lap of her husband, the new king. Among the gossip about possible changes coming after the nuptials, Horace had also learned that the crusaders still held out in Omikur, which was almost too implausible to believe. Yet the council expected the town to fall within the next few days. Horace would have liked to help the defenders, but he wasn't in the position to help anyone.

He stopped on his way to the kitchen. A table in the vestibule was piled with flat scrolls bound in ribbon and sealed with wax. There were no servants in sight, so he inspected them himself. Each seal with impressed with a different signature roll, some of them quite ornate with animals and strange symbols. Horace picked up one at random and broke the seal. His injured arm was getting better.

He read the characters written on the papyrus. With Alyra's help, his reading comprehension was actually better than his spoken Akeshian. The greeting was addressed to him.

To the Queen's First Sword, Horace of Arnos,

In accordance with all the laws of Akeshia and the strictures of the Heavenly Spheres,

I do hereby challenge you to a duel of—honor?—on the fortieth day of…

Horace scanned the rest of the document, which just went on with flowery language to thrust home the point that he was duty-bound to answer this challenge or be “deemed unworthy in the eyes of Man and the Gods.”

He dropped the scroll in the pile and opened another. The words were a bit different, but they amounted to the same thing. Another challenge. He counted the scrolls and arrived at thirteen. Thirteen challenges to fight to the death. He gathered them up and went to the kitchen, which was empty. He fed the scrolls into the brick oven and lifted the lid of the firebox in the corner, but the coals inside had gone cold. With a scowl, he pointed at the oven and envisioned a tongue of yellow flame consuming the parchments. Nothing happened. He clenched his fists in frustration.

“God damn you all! You sons of whor—!”

He stopped in mid-curse as a rush of heat exploded in his chest, like a door to the hottest furnace imaginable had opened inside him. He flinched back as bright green flames erupted from the oven, rising almost to the ceiling.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Horace focused on closing the flow of energy. After a few heartbeats, the fire died down. Horace leaned against the nearest wall. He was bathed in sweat.

Control! I have to learn better control or Lord Mulcibar is right. I'm going to hurt someone.

With that thought in mind, he went to the armoire in his bedchamber and retrieved the ganzir mat. He unrolled it on the floor and sat down. As before, the intricate designs drew his eyes in several different directions. It was so chaotic he couldn't concentrate on any one part. Then, leaning closer, he noticed there was a specific distance at which the patterns on the mat coalesced into a harmonious pattern. Though he allowed his gaze to wander freely, he found himself always coming back to the platinum man sitting in the center of the ganzir. His breathing slowed and his shoulders relaxed as he felt the tension leaving his body. He attempted to open his qa.

A tickle fluttered in the pit of his stomach. He felt a pulling in the muscles of his midsection as his body seemed to get heavier, and a grounded sensation came over him. He had opened himself to the dominion of earth. Kishargal, Mulcibar had called it. It felt good, like he was more in control of the power. He looked beyond the mat to the slate tiles that made up the floor of his room. Wondering if he could break one free, he lifted his hand. A sense of strain gathered in the back of his head.

“Horace.”

Alyra's voice shattered his concentration. Letting out a deep breath, Horace closed his connection to the zoana. The heaviness left him as he climbed to his feet.

Alyra waited in the atrium. She had changed into a light-blue tunic and sandals with calf-high bindings. “Horace, I need to talk to you.”

He had things he wanted to say to her as well, about how his feelings for her were changing, becoming stronger, but her expression was so serious he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. “Of course.”

She took him by the arm and led him out to the garden courtyard. Once they were outside, she pulled him to a bench secluded among a cluster of tall frond bushes, and they sat.

“This is a bit clandestine,” he said, hoping a little teasing would ease the dire expression she wore.

“Horace, there's something I have to tell you.”

“I'm not going to accept them,” he said. “The challenges. They can rot for all I care.”

Alyra nodded but did not lose her earnest appearance. “That's good, but that's not it. I came to Akeshia for a reason.”

“Came? I thought you were captured and enslaved. That's what you told me.”

She glanced down at her hands, clasped together in her lap. “That's what everyone believes. I've been telling that story for so long that sometimes even I believe it, but the truth is that I chose to come here.”

He batted away a frond that was tickling the top of his head. “You're Arnossi, the same as me. Why would you choose to come here? Didn't you know what they would do to you?”

“I was counting on it.”

“I don't understand. You wanted to be a slave?”

“I know that must sound crazy to you.”

“Crazy isn't the word. More like baying-at-the-moon mad. Why would you do that?”

Alyra looked him in the eye. “Because I had a mission. I was sent here by the government of Nemedia to spy on the Akeshians and disrupt their plans—if they had any—for attack. So that's what I've been doing for the past few years, spying on the queen as her handmaiden.”

Horace opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His voice was paralyzed by her revelation. Finally, he croaked, “So all this…being a slave, it was just an act?”

“Yes and no. I was truly a slave, but few people knew my real purpose.”

Horace took a deep breath as he tried to make sense of this news. “And all this time I thought I was really getting to know you, to understand you. I thought…”

“You do know me, Horace.” She touched his hand, but gently, as if afraid to spook him. “What I told you about my family is true for the most part. My father was the governor at Marico. He died when the Akeshians attacked, but my mother and I escaped. We found safety in Nemedia, and that's where I found a way to strike back at our oppressors.”

“So you became a spy and a slave.”

“We were counting on the fact that slaves have a lot of freedom to move around and be places where free people would be questioned.”

“That's why you were angry when I freed you. I took away your invisible hat.”

She frowned. “My what?”

“It's from a children's story about a magic hat that made a little boy invisible so he could get past his enemies unseen. That's what slavery was to you, a way to move around the royal court undetected. I…I had no idea.”

“I know. I forgave you.”

“You did?”

“Yes, but not until afterward.”

He tried to smile, but he was still reeling. This changed everything.

Am I part of her scheme now, too? What if the queen finds out? She'll lock us both away forever or make us fall on our swords.

Alyra stared into his eyes. “Horace, I've never trusted anyone with this before. You could have me arrested if you wanted. No one could blame you for not knowing.”

“I'd never do that,” he said and realized the words were true as they left his mouth. He wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel that love from another person. It had been so long. He found himself babbling, trying to take his mind off his feelings. “I don't know much about Nemedia, but I've learned enough about Akeshia that I can see why someone would want a spy in their court. When we were flying over Omikur, Byleth unleashed a storm against the defenders. It was horrible. Entire buildings collapsed as the lightning—”

“Did you say she unleashed a storm?”

“Yes. Just like the storm that appeared over Erugash, but worse, if you can imagine that.”

He could see Alyra wasn't listening anymore. Her face was turned down, staring at the patio flagstones. “What is it?”

She didn't answer for several heartbeats, though her face scrunched up like she was arguing with herself. “While you were away, I went down into the tunnels under the palace and entered the abode of Lord Astaptah.”

A chill ran through Horace, driving away the heat of the day. “Alyra! That was a huge risk. I don't think I'd want to cross him.”

“And you don't know half the story about him. But I had to know what he does down there. I found tunnels filled with strange servants.”

“Strange how?” he asked.

“They wore thick robes even though it was hot as blazes down there, and there was something about their skin. Their complexion was too…gray, almost like corpses. Anyway, that's not the important part. I also saw a metal contraption down there. I don't know what to call it, but it was big. Bigger than the statue of King Daalak in Yeznudin Square.”

Horace had never heard of King Daalak and had no idea how big his statue was, but he got the point. “Go on. What was it?”

“I don't know. It looked like a combination of metal and sorcery, and I think I saw…this is going to sound insane, but I think I saw a tiny storm brewing inside it.”

Horace sat back in the bench. From what little he knew about the chaos storms, they were wild, unpredictable aspects of nature. Yet if Astaptah had the ability to create them…

Was that what I witnessed over Omikur? A man-made storm?

“So what are you going to do?” he asked. “Tell your people about it?”

“I already did.”

Alyra told him about a meeting with her superior—a fellow named Night. “He didn't seem very interested in the device,” she said. “But I don't know. I feel like there was a lot he wasn't telling me, which isn't surprising. He has a mysterious reputation.”

Horace didn't like him already. “Did he give you any advice on how to proceed?”

“Yes, unfortunately. He told me to focus on my mission.”

“That's it? That's all he said.”

Alyra bit her lower lip. “He's not a man of many words. But no matter what he said, I know what I have to do. I have to destroy that thing. If there's even a chance that Lord Astaptah and the queen can control the chaos storms, I have to make sure they can't use that power. It would change everything. No army would be able to stand against them.”

Horace thought of the crusaders inside the town. Power over the storms would change the entire nature of warfare. On the other hand, he understood why the queen would pursue such a weapon. She was trapped by her enemies, soon to be locked into a marriage she didn't want and possibly killed as soon as her new husband took control of her city. Didn't she have a right to defend herself by any means possible? “You're right. A weapon like that is too powerful for anyone to control. What I can do to help?”

She stared at him for a long moment and then launched herself at him. He sat rigid as her arms tightened around his neck, feeling the softness of her bosom against his chest, and then he returned the embrace.

She murmured into his shoulder, “Thank you, Horace. That means a lot to me.”

He inhaled the scent of her hair and tried not to think about the past, about anything except this moment, which felt like it could last forever. Too soon for him, Alyra backed away and composed herself. Then he heard the footsteps approaching.

Captain Pomuthus arrived with a narrow wooden case about four feet long. He stopped at military attention and presented the case. “This just arrived. From the palace.”

At a look from Alyra, Horace flipped open the lid. Inside was a long, curved sword. The weapon was a gorgeous piece of art with intricate gold inlay along the scabbard and hilt, all polished to a high shine. Horace was running his fingers over the cross guard when he realized where he'd seen the blade before. It was Lord Hunzuu's sword.

He yanked his hand back as an image of the former First Sword lying in a pool of his own blood burst in his brain. “Get this out of here.”

Alyra placed a hand on his arm. “This is tradition.”

“I don't care what it—” Horace bit off his words as Pomuthus produced a scroll tied with a scarlet ribbon. He thought it was another challenge until he noticed the seal stamped into the blood-red wax. A crown over a full moon flanked by two men with dogs’ heads. The royal seal.

Horace took the scroll and broke it open. He read the message feeling this wasn't going to be good news—a summons to another war council or a late-night meeting with the queen—but it was worse than he imagined.

“What is it?” Alyra asked.

“It's Lord Mulcibar.” Horace lowered the scroll to his lap. “He's missing.”

Horace slowed his pace as he tried to make out the lettering written on the side of the building. He sounded out the words under his breath.

Vashidom. No, that's the gymnasium.

Motioning to the others, he kept walking. The sword—the First Sword's weapon of office—felt strange on his hip. He would have left it at home except Alyra insisted he wear it in public. “You have to look the part,” she said as he dressed to go out, “if you want others to see you as the First Sword.”

Not exactly feeling like a First anything, he walked the streets of Erugash in search of Lord Mulcibar. He had already been to the vizier's home where he discovered from the chief steward that Mulcibar had gone to visit the city archives yesterday afternoon but never returned. Now Horace was heading to the archives to see what he could find out. He had brought four of his bodyguards along, leaving the rest home with Alyra, although she protested long and loud that he needed the protection more than she did. She had a point, but he insisted anyway. He worried about her safety, even when she didn't.

That woman thinks she's immortal, but I'm not going to let happen to her what happened to—

Horace bit down on his tongue and renewed his focus on the buildings around him. Alyra was fine.

Until what? Until you run back to Arnos and leave her here to face the queen and the court alone?

He considered Pomuthus, who walked beside him. The veteran with the jagged scar down his face rarely said anything outside his official duties, and Horace realized he knew next to nothing about this man who was sworn to defend his life. “How long were you with the Queen's Guard, Captain?”

“Seven years, my lord. The last two as watch commander.”

“And before that?”

“I served in the Sixth Royal Legion.”

Horace nodded as he scanned the nearest buildings. “See any action?”

“We were part of an excursion into Etonia about ten years ago. After that I was offered a post at the palace.”

“And now you're here with me. Tell me, Pomuthus. Does the idea of protecting a foreigner bother you?”

“From my experience, outlanders are the same as anyone else. They eat, shit, fuck, and die. My lord.” The captain pointed to a broad building at the end of the street. “I think that's it.”

They strode to the structure. Flambeaux flickered on either side of a tall bronze door, its surface tarnished with verdigris. Pomuthus rapped with a heavy fist. The sound of his knocking echoed down the street. Horace looked over his shoulder. He could see the palace above the rooftops. He and Alyra had talked about the message as he dressed to go out. It was his impression that the queen wanted him to turn out her personal guard and scour the city, but Alyra had argued for a subtler approach. “If he was killed, his body is likely floating down the Typhon,” she'd said.

“We shouldn't think that way,” he had responded as he belted on a crimson surcoat emblazoned with the golden sigil of his rank.

“No, we have to think that way, Horace. After the attack on you, and now Lord Mulcibar's disappearance, it's clear that someone is trying to eliminate the queen's allies.”

So he'd begun the search without involving the Queen's Guard. Alyra's suggestion that he begin at Mulcibar's home had been a good one. Now he hoped to pin down the time of the nobleman's disappearance. The door opened, and a slight man in a loose tunic and woolen skirt looked out. His face was wrinkled like old leather, his eyebrows and the halo of hair around the edge of his scalp just the merest puffs of white. “The archives are closed,” he said in a wispy voice.

Horace made a small bow. “I am Horace, First Sword of the Queen.”

The old man glanced at the guards surrounding Horace before he bent his head a few inches. “What do you want, my lord?”

When Horace asked if Lord Mulcibar had been there, the old man frowned. “These are the royal archives, not a social club.”

The archivist actually looked as if he was going to close the door. Horace put out his hand, just wanting to ask another question, but Pomuthus shoved his shoulder against the bronze valve. The door yawned wider, and the old man staggered back as if he'd been kicked by a mule. Horace grimaced. “I'm sorry, sir!”

The archivist retreated another step, but there was no fear in his gaze, only anger. Horace held out both hands. “Forgive me. The queen sent us to determine the whereabouts of Lord Mulcibar. He has gone missing, and this is the last place his servants knew him to be. Please, did you see the vizier yesterday?”

He got all that out in broken Akeshian while the old man glared, but when he finished, the archivist gave a terse nod. His reply was long and detailed, and more than once Horace had to ask him to repeat himself. Finally, Horace bowed his head and gestured for his guards to follow him out. Once back on the street, Horace took a minute to consider what he'd learned. Lord Mulcibar had indeed been to the archives yesterday. In fact, he was a regular visitor. The archivist estimated that Mulcibar arrived an hour after midday and stayed until evening vespers. He himself had seen the nobleman and his manservant to the door.

Standing on the cooling pavestones, Horace eyed the homes lining the avenue, all of them elegant manses of stone and brick with their own walled enclosures. Had anyone seen anything out of the ordinary?

Horace pointed to a pair of his guardsmen. “You two go door to door and ask if anyone saw something strange last night around sunset.”

The two guards saluted before jogging to the nearest gate. Horace took Pomuthus and the remaining guard on a slow walk down the center of the street in the direction of Mulcibar's home. He felt like he should be looking for something, like a shepherd tracking a lost sheep, but he was no tracker and he had nothing to go on.

If he left in the evening, the sun would be going down. The light would be dim and the street almost empty, like it is now. Where would he have gone?

Horace tried to imagine he was in danger. What would he do? Approach one of these fine houses for help? Not likely. Calling for the watch also wasn't an option. The idea of a militia that patrolled the streets, keeping the peace, wasn't embraced in Erugash. Instead, those who could afford it hired their own guards. Everyone else remained behind locked doors until morning or took their chances.

Horace paused at an intersection of two avenues. The old bookkeeper also told him what Lord Mulcibar had been reading yesterday. The reply had surprised him. The tomes dealt with the Annunciation, the era of ancient history when—according to Akeshian legend—the gods came down from the stars to rule directly over the world. Zoanii meant, literally, “children of the stars,” and zoana, their term for sorcery, could be translated as “starlight.” Yet, though the terms “star child” and “starlight” had a poetic ring, what little Horace knew suggested that this mythical time had been marked with strife and terror. It seemed that the people of this land had not enjoyed the reign of their pagan deities. What had possessed Mulcibar to take up studying those old myths?

After a few minutes, his guardsmen returned with a negative report. No one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Horace cursed under his breath. This was getting him nowhere. He ordered the two guards to walk the route back to Mulcibar's home, look for anything amiss, and then report back to his manor to check on Alyra.

“Where are we going, my lord?” Pomuthus asked.

Horace was about to say back to the archives to see if they could discover anything else that might help the search, but then a gleam of pale light flashed from the gutter. He went over to the deep stone trench and bent down. Something was stuck in the channel, half-submerged in the dirty water and night soil. Holding his breath against the odors rising to meet him, he fished it out.

The silver square hung on a chain. By the moonlight Horace could make out the design of an eight-sided star surrounded by squiggly lines engraved on the obverse side. He didn't know what it meant, but he recognized the medallion at once. Mulcibar had worn it on the day of the flying ship crash.

Horace wiped the medallion on the hem of his robe and stuck it in a pocket. Then he turned to his guard captain. “To the palace. Right now.”

They walked quickly through the vacant streets as the shadows lengthened and the cover of night fell over the city. Horace glanced over his shoulder every few strides as a feeling came over him, the feeling that he was being watched. He needed to converse with the queen about how she wanted to proceed.

God be good. Let her dismiss me from this whole affair.

As the thought crossed his mind, Horace was stabbed with guilt. Lord Mulcibar had been kind while all the other nobles shunned him. The old man deserved his best effort. Gritting his teeth, Horace hurried his steps.

They ran into a patrol of temple soldiers as they crossed an empty plaza. Horace's stomach dropped at the sight of twenty yellow uniforms, but he straightened his shoulders and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword as he walked forward with purpose. The officer at the head of the platoon raised a hand. “A moment, my lord.”

Horace was made to show his papers indicating his rank and authority to be in this part of the city. As the temple man examined his documents by torchlight, Horace became more and more exasperated. “Is everything in order?” he asked after several minutes of waiting.

The officer handed back the papers. “It seems to be. My lord. I wasn't aware that Byleth had promoted a new First Sword.”

Horace blinked at the soldier's casual use of the queen's name. The zoanii, especially royalty, were treated as living deities by the people of this land. “Yes. Now if you have no further questions, I'll be about my business.”

He tried to use the imperious inflection he'd often heard from other zoanii, but it sounded bizarre coming from his own mouth. The officer's lips bent downward in a stern frown, but he waved them along. Horace strode away before he said something he would regret.

The palace gates were a welcome sight. Horace and his guards were questioned briefly and their persons searched before being admitted, and then were stopped again at an inner gate for a repeat of the procedure. The palace grounds swarmed with soldiers. Horace looked around, wondering if there had been a problem, but Pomuthus bent close and said, “They've been on alert since the night you and Lady Alyra were attacked. All who come in or come out are handled like this. Even the lords.”

At last, they were admitted into the palace proper. Horace ordered his guards to wait outside as he entered the atrium alone. He hadn't gotten farther than a few steps into the huge chamber when a servant in a long, white robe approached him. Horace asked to see the queen, adding that it was very important. The servant bowed and bid him to wait, and then disappeared through a side door. Several other people stood around in small groups. By their clothing and bearing, they were clearly of the upper class, possibly minor zoanii or persons with political connections. He was still uncertain about the strata of Akeshian society and how it all fit together.

After a few minutes, Chancellor Unagon appeared. His bald pate shone in the light of the many oil lamps hanging from the ceiling as he hastened across the wide chamber. “Pardon me, my lord,” he said when he arrived before Horace and made a short bow. “I was not made aware of your arrival until just now. How may I be of service?”

“I need to speak with the queen.”

“I understand, my lord. Please pardon me.” The chancellor made another bow, a little lower this time. “But Her Majesty is not able to receive visitors at the moment. May I suggest that you make an appointment for tomorrow?”

Horace looked around to make sure no one else could overhear. The nearest person was fifty feet away, but still he lowered his voice. “Please, if you could inquire. This is very important.”

The chancellor had the good grace, or the proper training, to appear embarrassed as he shook his head. “I must beg your pardon, my lord, but I have explicit instructions. Her Majesty is not to be disturbed at this time.” He leaned a little closer. “She is in conference with an official from the Temple of the Sun. I should fear for my head if I were to interrupt.”

Horace rubbed his eyes. He wasn't getting anywhere. “All right. But I need to see her as early as possible.”

“Thank you, my lord. I will send a messenger in the morning with the arrangements.”

Horace turned back toward the front entrance. He was suddenly exhausted, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Mulcibar needed his help. He started toward the front entrance when a party of four men intercepted him. The men were as different as any he could imagine. Two of them had skin like beaten copper, one with a thick beard and the other sporting only a well-trimmed mustache that curled down at the ends. The third man was taller than the others, with broad shoulders and an ample belly. His skin was burnished ebony, even darker than Jirom's. The fourth man was so pale he might have passed for an Arnossi, except for his hair, which clung to his head in oily black curls. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood between him and the exit.

Horace's hands tightened into fists. He didn't see any weapons on them, but after the events of the last few days he wasn't taking any chances. He reached for his power. It awakened instantly, slipping through his veins like a shot of fine whiskey. He held onto it, ready for anything.

The light-skinned man spoke first. “Su shoma'akekalata hisu.”

The language of the phrase was so formalized, it made translation difficult. Yet the man's tone dripped with hostility.

“I don't understand,” Horace replied.

The large man with the round stomach responded in a deep baritone. “He makes you a challenge here in the queen's hall, under the eyes of the gods.”

Horace frowned as he looked at each of the men in turn. “All of you want to fight me?”

The light-skinned man stepped forward and jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “Only me. Do you accept?”

Horace studied the man more closely. His tunic was made of fine linen and cut to the current Akeshian style with wide sleeves and a narrow collar. “You seem to know who I am, but who are you?”

While the others looked on with hard stares, the big man responded if as by rote. “He is Puzummu of the House Arkhandun, lord of Ghirune, defender of—”

Horace threw up his hand to cut the man off and noticed that three of the four men—including this Lord Puzummu—drew back as if afraid he might lash out at them. Only the big man had not moved, though the hint of a smile creased his lips.

Horace took a deep breath. He was tired of being pushed around, tired of being afraid, and the disappearance of Mulcibar had grated on his already-frayed nerves. “Fine,” he said. “I accept. Name the time and place.”

“The day after tomorrow at sunrise,” the big man intoned. “In the Canathenaic.”

“Why wait?” Horace asked, his anger flaring even as a part of his mind urged him to reconsider. “Why not tomorrow?”

The three smaller men looked back and forth in confusion. The big man smiled at Horace with his teeth showing. “That is agreeable.”

“Tomorrow at dawn. Do I need a second?”

Their looks of bewilderment increased, and even the big man had difficulty with the concept at first. “No,” he answered finally. “Here in Akeshia, all duels are fought only by the challenger and the challenged. A duel between zoanii is a sacred thing, and to interfere means death.”

The more Horace heard, the less he liked it.

I've already accepted. There's no backing out now, not that I would give these bastards the satisfaction.

“I understand,” he said. “Now get out of my way.”

Horace started walking straight ahead, and the men hurried to step out of his way. By the time he reached his guards, he had made up his mind to go home. As much as he wanted to find Mulcibar tonight, he had no leads and no help from the palace, and now he had the specter of a duel hanging over his head.

As he exited the palace grounds, the haunting feeling of being watched returned. He glanced around, but there was no one there. Even the rising sickle of the horned moon seemed to mock him.