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F ROM THE ROYAL balcony overlooking the castle’s tourney yard, Wryth studied the thousands gathered below, mustered by their king for this grand fête. Few looked happy. Most huddled near large bonfires under a low sky of dark clouds.

Lightning flashed with rumbles of thunder. Winds pounded over the towering ramparts. Beyond the wall’s parapets, the twin pyres of Kepenhill thrashed in the gusts, marking the ninth tier of the school.

Wryth wished he could retreat below there, to return to the Shrivenkeep. But he dared not forsake this post. His position remained precarious, even after the revelation of a bronze god buried deep under the school.

A chain of lightning crashed across the black belly of the clouds. Deafening thunder followed, shaking the balcony, thumping deep into his chest. He huddled into his gray robe with its hood pulled low.

He was not the only one discomfited. To each side, either seated or standing, were the king’s advisers: the provost marshal, the grand treasurer, the city’s mayor, and the liege general, along with other lickspittles and toadies. They also grumbled about the weather, about the delay.

The second bell of Eventoll rang out across the castle and city, echoing into the distance, trying to compete with the thunder. The king had been expected to appear with the first Eventoll bell.

“What is taking His Majesty so long?” Treasurer Hesst whispered.

His wife shushed him—and rightfully so.

Hesst was the only adviser to have survived the king’s purge following Mikaen’s ascension to the throne last winter. This crow of a man had likely only managed to keep his life because he knew where all the gold was hidden. And in times of war, such men were worth their weight in the same coinage.

Still, it was not wise to disparage Mikaen even casually.

Hesst slunk lower, casting his gaze around nervously, especially at the pair of Silvergard. The Vyrllian knights stood like statues on either side of the balcony, ever the eyes and ears of the king.

The grand treasurer was not alone with his complaints. The same rose from the gathering below, a quiet rumble of discontent—no doubt stoked by a growing superstitious fear. Mikaen had intended this festival to be a joyous occasion, a martial celebration of his reign. Staked out across the yard were numerous large banners, several of which the winds had already blown down or carried off. Pyramidal stacks of ale barrels had barely been touched.

The storm continued to stifle any merriment.

In fact, many took the foul weather as yet another sour omen. Wryth had already heard of the growing sentiment out in Azantiia, about the birth of a deformed son, of a curse upon the Massif family. Wryth suspected such a reaction had less to do with the child and more to do with a festering discontent that had been brewing since Mikaen had been crowned.

Whatever sympathy and good graces the king had gained following the queen’s poisoning had faded with the tale of a deformed child. Many had come to believe such misfortunes, piled one atop the other, could only be the judgement of the gods.

Wryth shook his head.

Maybe Mikaen should have sunk his dagger into that babe’s thin chest, blamed the death on the poisoning, and pointed fingers at the Southern Klashe and at his brother.

Then again, the death of the king’s son might have been equally blamed upon those same gods. When it came to stemming such a tide of sentiment, one might as well try to reverse the flow of a storm-swollen river.

Still, it had to be attempted.

The goal of this grand fête had been to quash those fears, to instill faith in the king’s reign, and to rally the people. But even a king as blustery as Mikaen could not dictate the way the wind blew.

Like now.

Lightning shattered across the sky. A bolt struck a parapet’s flagpole. Its length shattered in a fiery spectacle, turning the banner into a torch.

The gusts quickened into a howl, carrying spatters of rain.

Cries rose from below.

The shadowy masses started to surge toward the gates.

Then, as the thunder rumbled away, the blare of trumpets took its place. The bright, sharp notes defied the storm’s gloom. It rose from all around the yard.

Trapped within that cacophony, the crowds slowed their flight. Faces turned toward the balcony. After they had waited for so long, curiosity now rooted them in place.

Below the balcony, flanking either side, massive pyres flared with a whoosh of flames, some licking as high as the railings. A smattering of cheers met this display.

Behind Wryth, the double doors swung wide.

A fierce gust struck the balcony as Highking Mikaen ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, rightful ruler of all the kingdom and its territories, stepped into view. He wore light armor, silver to match his engraved mask. The wind parted his velvet cape, trimmed in shining fox fur, and formed sweeping wings. It looked as if Mikaen were about to take flight off the balcony, as if this storm heralded him, not cursed him.

Even Wryth had to stifle a gasp at the sight.

The masses below were not as restrained.

Clapping and cheering met this entry as Mikaen stalked to the rail, his arms raised high. Behind him, the mountainous form of Captain Thoryn followed and drew abreast of Wryth.

Mikaen bellowed to the crowd as a light rain began to fall. “Welcome to Highmount!” He kept one arm lifted. “See how even the storm gods greet the birth of my new son, Odyn, a child born out of poison and strife, but loved by the queen, a mother who fought to give him life until her very last breath—a breath that she passed on to her son as she expired.”

Voices below called out Myella’s name, honoring her sacrifice.

Mikaen continued, “Lo, I’ve heard stories of maladies and curses. Of a son born with great afflictions, marked by the gods themselves.”

The crowd quieted, waiting to hear what came next.

Even Wryth stood straighter, wondering if Mikaen would deny his own son.

“And yes, it is true!” Mikaen called out. “Odyn does suffer!”

Gasps rose from below.

Wryth found himself taken aback by this admission, too.

The king forged on. “But he fights! His will is that of his mother, that of his father. It is no curse! It is a testament to the queen’s own struggle, brought to life in flesh and bone.”

Lightning burst across the sky, as if the gods themselves agreed.

As the thunder shook the world, then faded, Mikaen clutched the rail and leaned far over it. His words followed the clouds’ rumble out into the fiery gloom of the yard.

“Would you have me abandon Myella when the queen was so foully poisoned? Would you have me turn my back on her struggle, her suffering? Is that the king who was crowned upon these hallowed grounds?”

Cries of denial echoed up to the balcony.

Mikaen’s voice rose with pained certainty, each syllable a stab at fate. “Then how can I shun my son, who is not god-cursed, but blessed —marked as a sacred spirit—a rare child granted life and breath when there was no hope?”

Cheers rose again but remained somewhat subdued. It seemed words alone could not shatter through the stony heart of superstition. Already those smattering accolades were dying away.

But Mikaen refused to relent. “For those who doubt me! Who question the gods! Let me show you how blessed my son is.” He swept his arms toward the balcony doors. “The gods themselves have descended to Azantiia, to shine their glory upon my son, upon all of Hálendii.”

Across the threshold, a towering figure strode forth, wrapped in a white robe and cowl. Marble tiles cracked under the weight of his passage. Those atop the balcony retreated in fear. Below, a hush spread over the crowd, silencing the last of the applause.

Wryth simply scowled. He had known Kryst Eligor was coming, but he had not known how intimately the king would tie this revelation to his own son, to his own lineage.

Frustration burned through Wryth. Not only had he been left out of this discourse, but he had also been shunned from the ministration of Eligor.

Instead, another had taken his place.

As punishment from a vengeful king.

Wryth watched Bkarrin trail behind Eligor, like a dog after its master.

Still, Wryth could not deny the result of his colleague’s care. With the flood of raw minerals flowing down to the gestating god, Eligor had grown far sturdier. He was now hale enough for the long climb up from the bowels of the Shrivenkeep to this lofty perch. Yet Wryth knew there remained limits to that potency. He suspected the delayed arrival of Mikaen had nothing to do with the king and all to do with this bronze Kryst slouching out of the depths, conserving his strength.

But for what?

Eligor crossed and came to a stop at Mikaen’s shoulder.

Mikaen called out to the hushed masses, “After being crowned, I stood on this exact spot last winter. I promised you a New Dawn was coming! That I would herald in a New Sun! One to shine Hálendii to its greatest glory!”

Mikaen stepped to the side and motioned to Eligor. “Witness the New Sun that rose to bless the birth of my child! That will herald a New Dawn for Hálendii!”

Upon this signal, the robe fell from Eligor’s magnificence, leaving him naked to the storm. He stood in shining bronze. Energy shimmered and crackled over his form.

The gathering on the balcony fell away with gasps and cries of shock. Several fled in panic, fighting to get inside.

Then Wryth felt it, a rising of pressure, felt in the ears, in the chest, in the hollow socket behind his eye patch. He braced himself, knowing what was coming, having experienced it before.

Suddenly that pressure popped, ripping a gasp from his lungs.

Before him, before them all, Eligor’s form burst forth with a blinding brilliance, a burning sun born out of bronze. Wryth thrust an arm against the flare, swearing he could see his bones through his flesh.

In the center of that sun, a dark god loomed.

A Silvergard grabbed Mikaen and shielded the king with his body.

Under that risen sun, marble shattered from the heat. The balcony’s iron railing melted to ruin. Lightning lashed out of the clouds, striking at the abomination birthed below, as if trying to destroy it. Only each bolt died upon reaching that fiery sun, booming with thunder that quaked the balcony.

Wryth got knocked to his knees.

Still, he stared wide-eyed at the spectacle, letting it burn into his skull.

Then in another few breaths, it all collapsed in on itself, all that energy crashing down into the black well that was the Kryst’s dark body. The brilliance faded, until only a bronze god stood at the center of the blasted ruin of the balcony. Eligor remained a fiery ember, but slowly he dimmed back to a dull bronze.

Bkarrin picked himself up off the floor and rushed to retrieve a cloak abandoned by one of those who had fled. He tossed it over Eligor’s shoulders, as his original robe had burned to ash. Bkarrin guided Eligor away. The Kryst moved on legs gone leaden, but he still remained upright, a testament to his growing potency.

As Eligor departed, Mikaen returned to the rail. He kept clear of where Eligor had stood, which still radiated great heat. The iron railing glowed a molten red.

Mikaen lifted an arm out to the crowd, who had fallen back from the birth of this sun. As if upon this signal, the clouds opened, and rain poured heavily, steaming off the hot marble and iron.

Still, Mikaen called out to those below, “Bear witness, you chosen few! Spread the word of this New Dawn! Of a god’s blessing upon our kingdom!”

Shouts rose from below, a mix of awe and veneration.

As Mikaen rallied on, Wryth turned to where Eligor had vanished. Thoryn must have noted Wryth’s attention and shifted closer. The captain looked unmoored, his eyes haunted.

Thoryn clutched Wryth’s arm, not cruelly, only in desperation. “What manner of daemon have you tossed at the king’s feet?”

Wryth knew the stalwart captain deserved an honest answer. “You have it wrong, Silvergard. Exactly the opposite. I fear it was a king I tossed at this daemon’s feet.”

Before Thoryn could respond, a phalanx of five guardsmen burst through the doors. Their leader searched around, spotted the liege general among those who had remained, and rushed upon him.

“Sir!” The guardsman thrust out a fist that clutched several curled missives. “Word from our southern outposts. Carried by a storm of crows. More still sweep in.”

The liege general pushed the messenger out of the rain. “What word?”

The answer came in a breathless rush. “Ships! Hundreds. Maybe more. All headed north. Riding wind and wave. Masked by the storm.”

“The Klashe?”

“Yes, Liege General Syke. They’re flying the empire’s crossed swords.”

“How far off?”

“They’re already through the Breath. A day out from there. Maybe two.”

Wryth pictured the smoky haze of the Breath of the Urth, which marked the boundary between Hálendii and the Southern Klashe. The haze—made up of ash and fumes—rose from Shaar Ga, a massive volcanic peak that had been erupting for untold centuries, creating a natural smoky barrier between kingdom and empire.

By now, Thoryn had broken away to alert Mikaen. The king had finished his rally and basked in the rising adulation. The Silvergard captain leaned to his ear, informing him of the threat.

Mikaen nodded, shoved past Thoryn, and strode to the group. The king’s brow appeared as stormy as the sky. “The Klashe moves upon us? Is this true?”

“So it appears, Your Majesty,” Syke said, his face grim. “They’ll be upon our southern coasts in another three or four bells.”

“How long until they reach Azantiia?”

Syke looked dismayed. “Your Grace, you can’t think they’d strike here? Surely this assault is aimed at our southern outposts. Nothing else makes sense.”

Wryth understood the liege general’s consternation. By all accounts, the Southern Klashe was still a year or more away from any ability to wage a full campaign upon the kingdom. The same held true for Hálendii. Such an attempt by their enemy was madness, a certain path to doom.

“When?” Mikaen pressed the liege general. “When will they reach here?”

“Without stopping at the coast?” Syke looked to the south with a shake of his head. “By the first bell of the morning.”

“So by dawn…” Mikaen followed the liege general’s gaze, but instead of staring toward the horizon, the king focused on the cratered ruins of the balcony. “A New Dawn…”

As Mikaen turned back to them, a fiery gleam shone in his eyes, as if still reflecting the flames of his New Sun.

The king’s next words were spoken as a challenge.

Accompanied by a savage smile.

“Let them come.”