Prologue
The doors to the throne room opened, and the envoy stopped half a step too soon.
The hall lay in the twilight of the setting sun, a space that seemed less built than folded out of stone. Three vast window arches framed the walls on either side, opening onto a majestic view of Lunareth. The city below them glowed gold and purple, as though it were burning. A red carpet stretched from the doors to the steps of the marble throne.
But that was not what had cost him that half step.
Someone was sitting on the throne.
In all the reports he had studied—in all the stories told in Virelya—no one had ever mentioned the king being present in person when an envoy arrived. His presence today could mean nothing good.
He entered the room slowly. Cautiously, as though stepping into the den of a sleeping predator that might not be asleep after all.
Every step echoed too loudly. The silence between his steps lasted too long.
At the back of the hall he made out the king’s advisers, four figures bent over a table that looked like an oversized map. Lines pulsed across it, magically projected, shifting like living borders. As the envoy approached, they looked up. Their gazes were neither friendly nor hostile. Only waiting.
Appraising.
He swallowed. Every step an effort as he tried to maintain his composure, carrying one last remnant of pride inside him like a fragile artifact.
Then he saw them.
Half in shadow, motionless as statues of ancient stone: two gigantic bearer creatures on either side of the throne. Four limbs, massive bodies, muscles taut as steel cables beneath gray, cracked skin. Pointed ears jutting from angular heads far too large. Their eyes glowed blue in the dim light, giving off their own light rather than reflecting it.
They stared at him.
Watchful. And hungry.
A chill crept up his back. And yet—yet they were not the worst of it.
He forced himself to raise his eyes.
And met the king’s gaze.
For a moment he forgot why he was here. Gone were his orders, the arduous journey through the borderlands, the carefully worded warning he had learned by heart. Everything was gone except that gaze.
The king did not look like an old man. But his eyes were old. So old they should have been blind, and yet they saw everything. Knowing. Inescapable. As though they looked through the surface rather than at it, all the way down to where the lies lay.
You could lose yourself in them. Perhaps that would even have been a relief.
A sharp, deliberate clearing of the throat broke his stillness.
“The envoy from the Kingdom of Virelya, my king.”
The voice came from a guard to the right of the throne. The guard’s nod was no encouragement. It was an order: Speak. Now.
The envoy drew a breath so deep his ribs hurt, gathering all the courage the long journey had left him. Then he spoke, with as much dignity as he could manage:
“The Council of Elders and Queen Mirelle of Virelya send their respectful greetings, Your Majesty.” He bowed, neither too deeply nor too shallowly. “Unfortunately, I bring troubling news.”
He could not help wondering why he, of all people, had been chosen for this assignment. What enemies had he made in the halls of Virelya?
“My lady,” he continued, his voice steadier than he felt, “is concerned about certain movements along our borders. Groups of mercenaries from Lunareth have repeatedly been sighted on our territory. Without permission. Without warning.” He paused. “That is cause for concern.”
The silence stretched. One heartbeat, two, three.
Then the king raised a hand, a placating gesture.
“Mercenaries are free.” His voice was calm, almost gentle. “They serve whoever pays them. I cannot forbid anyone from taking work, even in Virelya.”
A polite smile. Thin as paper.
But his eyes remained still. Dead.
“I understand,” the envoy said. He lowered his eyes, a gesture of respect, but also of surrender. And he knew, with sudden, icy certainty, that this was no coincidence. His queen had been right. Something was happening.
Something old. Something dangerous.
“My queen,” he said slowly, weighing each word, “anticipated that response. She asks me to tell you that Virelya still seeks peace.” He raised his eyes, only for a moment. “But will not stand by forever.”
He bowed one last time, more deeply now, because he sensed that was what was expected of him. Then he turned to leave.
With each step away from the throne, breathing grew easier. Only at the far end of the hall, when the doors closed behind him, did the tension leave his shoulders.
He had survived.
That was more than he had expected.
