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A TOP A STALLION draped in chain mail, Kanthe rode through the flooded ruins of lower Kysalimri. Two rows of armed horsemen, a cadre of the royal guard, followed behind. Drapes of silver mail veiled their lower faces, allowing only their hard eyes to show.

In addition, a pair of Paladins on armored warhorses flanked Kanthe. Ahead, a lone standard-bearer carried aloft a black flag bearing the crossed gold swords of the Klashean Arms.

Rami also trotted beside Kanthe. The Klashean prince’s usual mirth had been smothered by the surrounding devastation.

“What a ridiculous spectacle we must look,” Kanthe muttered, casting a glance at his companion.

Rami wore a rich gerygoud habiliment, threaded in gold and silver, which sparkled in the few beams of sunlight piercing the froth of high clouds. Kanthe was similarly decked out, only his head was crowned by a silver circlet. He wanted to throw a cloak over them both, finding their richness loathsome in these grim surroundings.

“Such are our roles,” Rami stated with a tired sigh. “To be a shining promise during bleak times.”

Bleak hardly described this circumstance.

As their entourage continued, their mounts’ hooves splashed through the pools of water left behind by a sea surge that had swept into the lower city two days prior. Their passage stirred up a miasma of salt, algal rot, and the bloated reek of the dead. While spectacularly high tides had already challenged this region, another huge quake two days ago had sent a massive wave pummeling deep into the dockyards, ripping away pylons, shredding piers, and slamming through homes and parks.

Hundreds had died, and many times more were injured.

Throughout the wreckage, people moved sullenly, sifting amidst the piles of debris that had washed into tangled heaps. Most wore the byor-ga robes of the baseborn castes, keeping their features hidden, as if to dull the view of the destruction. Still, there were many barefaced imri among them, their distress and grief visible to all.

When passing an alley, Kanthe spotted a row of covered bodies, with mourners kneeling nearby, their candles flickering in the shadows. His jaw muscles ached with despair, knowing this was but a small harbinger of worse yet to come as moonfall approached.

He searched the skies and scowled at the source of all this destruction.

Around him, voices called out in various Klashean dialects. Most of the patois was too thick-tongued for him to understand. But the meaning was clear enough, especially when accompanied by the kissing of thumbs that were then cast skyward. The sufferers were pleading for a blessing from the gods, which many of the baseborn believed flowed through those who sat atop the imperial thrones.

Rami lifted an arm in acknowledgment. Kanthe could not bring himself to do so, even when Rami cast him a hard look.

If only I had such power, I would grant all their blessings.

Instead, Kanthe intended to do what he could.

This journey outside the imperial palace was meant to serve many purposes: to inspect the damage, to bolster morale, to let those afflicted know they were not forgotten. Behind their group, wagons followed, laden with supplies, with food, with balms and alchymies for the hurt and wounded.

Kanthe also hoped, time permitting, to visit Tykhan’s project at the edge of the bay. Huge sea gates fronting the worksite’s canals had protected the area.

If only the same were true for the rest of Kysalimri.

Still, he accepted that perhaps the gods had blessed them in this regard. They dared not lose ground on Tykhan’s labors.

As they continued, Kanthe noted the wash of dried petals and wilted blossoms floating in the pools and gutters. They were left over from the midsummer celebrations ten days prior, when all of the Eternal City had been adorned with bright bouquets and strewn with blooming garlands. Giant icons of the Klasheans’ thirty-three gods, sculpted entirely of flowers, had been paraded throughout the city.

Now those petals only served to consecrate the dead.

Those floating blossoms, wilted and dried, also reminded Kanthe of the relentless march of time. A month had already passed since the decision was made to strike at Hálendii, to attempt to secure Eligor and unlock the secret held by the Kryst.

And we still have so much work left to do.

Across the expanse of the massive city, Sail, Wing, and Shield all readied their forces, while striving to hide their true intent, to make such efforts appear to be routine exercises. They dared not alert Hálendii, though no doubt suspicions were already being raised in the northern kingdom.

“We’re here,” Rami stated, sitting taller in his saddle.

Kanthe searched past the flapping banner.

A large cobblestone square opened ahead, one of the largest in this drowned corner of Kysalimri, big enough to hold thousands. Kanthe girded himself against what was to come. He had counseled against it but was ignored.

He glanced behind to the train of horsemen and wagons. He focused on an enclosed carriage near the front, drawn by two draft horses. It looked like many of the others. Only that particular carriage hid a surprise, one watched over by Frell, Pratik, and the hulking Paladin Regar, whose injuries from the attempted assassination last month had mended.

The carriage marked the other reason behind this sojourn into the flood’s aftermath, one meant as a secret. Still, word must have filtered out.

As Kanthe headed toward the square, he overheard reverent whispers of “E Y’llan Ras” —naming the one person onlookers hoped would appear and shine her blessings upon them all.

The Illuminated Rose.

Rami hissed, “Quit staring, my brother. Lest you ruin it all.”

Kanthe swung forward as the entourage swept into the square. The train of horses, men, and carts rode out and around the open space with a loud stamp of hooves and a rattle of wheels over cobbles. The parade circled, eventually surrounding the lead wagons, especially a certain carriage. It stopped before a raised stone platform, an ancient stand that had survived the flood, anchoring the square.

Rami and Kanthe trotted their horses closer.

The standard-bearer passed up his banner to a pair of knights standing atop the platform. The taller of the two planted the pole into a drilled hole, then stepped back. The flag whipped in a breeze off the bay, which shone a shimmering blue through a row of shops and homes lining that side.

Finally, the carriage door opened. Regar exited first, bowing his large frame out. He then lifted a hand to the door. A slim figure stepped free. Her clothing outshone Rami’s and Kanthe’s habiliments. Though at the moment, the finery was clouded beneath a thin veil of grayish-silver cloth, the color of mourning, which draped her from head to toe. Still, glimmers of gold and silver twinkled in muted glints, holding the promise of joy to come.

Voices rose from those gathering in the square, growing in number and fervency: “E Y’llan Ras…” “E Y’llan Ras…” “E Y’llan Ras…”

Regar guided his charge up the steps to stand before the banner.

Kanthe remained mounted, not wanting to upstage the proceedings—not that he could have. He swept his gaze over the crowd as it swelled. People pushed in from side streets and alleys, coming from every direction as word spread. Hundreds soon grew into thousands. The call for Aalia grew louder, punctuated by sharper pleas, with much kissing of thumbs and outthrust arms. This only encouraged others to do the same—especially as, atop the stone platform, a draped arm lifted in acknowledgment.

The cries of expectation and hope spread.

Kissed thumbs were raised all around.

Then, from the fringes of the square, a flash of flames shot high.

Rami must have noted the same and swung his horse around to face the threat.

Kanthe stated the obvious, unsurprised and all the more miserable for it. “We’re under attack.”

F RELL CRINGED AS screams rose outside the carriage. He pushed to a small window and peered outside. A storm of fiery arrows swept high across the sky, rising from every side of the square.

Beyond the ring of imperial horses and guardsmen, the crowd fled in a panicked rout, trying to escape the square. Many others simply ducked low, staying in place, reading the trajectory enough to know they were not the target.

The barrage rained down upon the platform. Steel tips sparked off stone. Hafts shattered to fiery splinters.

Pratik shoved next to him. “Aalia?”

“Unharmed,” Frell reported. “At least for now.”

Shields had been raised at the first sign of threat. Paladin Regar held the largest, lifted high as he protected his charge under him. Arrows struck the steel and ricocheted away.

“I warned everyone this was a foolish venture,” Frell said. “We’ve put Aalia at needless risk.”

“The empress insisted. To instill hope, she believed the—”

Pratik ducked as the carriage caught the edge of the attack. Arrows pummeled the top, but none penetrated the steel that lined the interior of the carriage. The outer wood hid the armored surface beneath.

“We need Aalia back inside,” Frell hissed.

This became clearer as a ululating roar rose from every side. A huge mass of armed men, three hundred or more, surged into the square from the surrounding streets. They shoved through the cowering baseborn crowd, ignoring those who knelt low in submission, and drove for the platform. The attackers came cloaked, their faces wrapped. Some wore mail or armor, others simply leather or roughspun. All, though, wore armbands bearing a pair of black swords crossed over gold wings.

The sigil of the traitorous Prince Mareesh.

The raiders slammed into the circle of horses and guardsmen, attacking with swords, hammers, spears, and axes. The battle raged with the ring of steel, the clatter of hooves, the screams of fury, and the pained cries of the wounded. The din deafened but proved short-lived. Vastly outnumbered, the guardsmen were quickly subdued, either slain, wounded into submission, or driven to their knees. Riderless horses cantered through the carnage.

Around the platform, a sea of swords and pikes threatened those remaining atop the stone island. At the first volley of arrows, Rami and Kanthe had leaped with their Paladins to defend that bastion. Now all were trapped.

A thunderous command boomed to the side. “Hold!”

A tall figure rode into the square atop a black stallion. He came in full royal armor, polished to a mirrored sheen. With a sword in one hand and the reins of his warhorse in the other, he trotted through the throngs of those who cowered below. His path was cleared by a phalanx of armored knights, all wearing the same armband as their leader.

“Prince Mareesh,” Pratik muttered with clear disdain.

Frell clenched a fist. “The bastard finally shows his face.”

Mareesh drew his charger to a stop within a sword thrust of the platform. He tossed his reins to one of his escorts, then drew off his helm, revealing a savage smile. A black silk scarf wrapped the crown of his head, likely hiding what fire had burned away last winter. Still, several puckered wheals, scars from severe blistering, marred a complexion that matched his siblings’ countenances.

Mareesh’s eyes fixed upon those stuck atop the platform, his gaze focused on the draped figure, guarded full around. “Dearest sister, you’ve sat upon your stolen throne long enough. Perhaps you should not have abandoned it this day.”

Before she could respond, Kanthe stepped forward, holding his sword high. “It’s not just one throne you need to concern yourself with, Prince Mareesh. I challenge you, blade to blade, to prove your worth.”

Frell groaned.

The Klashean outweighed Kanthe by a third, stood a head taller, and had decades of training in the armed forces.

Frell cursed his former pupil.

What are you doing?