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I t takes us another easy quarter hour to reach the gates of the Eighth House, which stand open to welcome us, flanked on either side with more guards.

Once we’re inside the gates, I blink to make sense of the place.

It’s bustling with as much activity as the village leading up to the First House, just in miniature.

“Everyone lives inside the walls?” Caleb asks, craning around to peer at the two-story shops. “Like, they just live above their storefronts and stables?”

The guard continues to prove a willing guide. “If they work here, they live here. Either above their shops or within the caverns below the castle, deep in the mountain.”

We all pin our gazes to the man. “Caverns?” Tennet prompts, and the man nods, gesturing to where the Eighth House rises up like a bulky fist from the stone of the mountain, thrusting out of a sheer rock base.

“It looks solid—and it is, solid enough. But there’s a reason the ancients chose to build here.

The rainy season is mild enough now, but long before we ever arrived on the doorstep of the Meridians, violent storms pounded this area, filling up every natural crevice with driving rivers.

Gouges became corridors, small depressions grew, shallow caves deepened.

What nature wouldn’t extend or connect, the settlers at the dawn of the Protectorate did—building on whatever they found.

There’s water below, and minerals to mine, and great open spaces lit from fissures high above.

It’s a protected space for those who live within the walls, and Merrivale isn’t so far away that anyone with an itch to leave can do so.

Lord Daggar’s rule extends to Merrivale officially, though its magistrate runs the village as he sees fit, for the most part. ”

I frown at the soldier. His explanation seems perfectly reasonable and provides far more information than I would expect from a house guard—which ordinarily should simply please me. Instead, it doesn’t feel quite right. I’d expect this level of detail from a councilor, not a fighting man.

Perhaps the soldiers of the Eighth receive more history training because they were stuck out here so far from anyone? Or maybe we just got lucky with a well-educated man at arms? Either way, I find myself growing uneasy as we stop before the steps leading up to the doors of the main manor building.

The primary structure of the Eighth is far less ornate than the First House.

It’s a building built for protection, not show, but it still displays fine stonework in its carved grand stairway and bannisters.

The bedrock is the same flat red I see everywhere, but the stairway is lined with sturdy, squat statues carved from every color of stone imaginable.

I peer closer and see that the statues are all manner of Divhs, some of them carved out of granite and quartz, some poured in ash-colored cement. They’re beautiful in their miniaturized form, and clearly old—maybe as old as the first few generations of the Protectorate? It wouldn’t surprise me.

Then I stiffen. One of the statues moves—then another.

Two of the hummerlets have lined up in the empty spaces between the stone statues, puffing out their downy chests, their beaks arching up in cocky salute as we ride by.

I clamp my mouth shut tight to keep from laughing and pray that Kreya’s other representatives are more discreet.

The ground level of the Eighth House boasts doors that extend the height of two men cut into its walls, and these stand open to reveal a large stable.

As we approach, several workers rush out to assist, once again stopping short of touching us.

They grab our horses’ bridles once we’re on the ground and lead them away, and within only a few moments the talkative guard directs us up the wide steps of the Eighth House.

With each new stair, I’m weighed down with a fatigue that nearly takes my breath away.

“You’ll want to rest after your journey,” the guard announces, and I peer at him again.

Maybe he is a seneschal of some sort, just one who’s…

very well armed. Or maybe every member of the Eighth House needs to be ready to protect the fortress at a moment’s notice.

This far out on the western border, there’d be no help coming in a hurry in the event of an unexpected attack.

“Dinner will be served in Lord Daggar’s inner chambers; you’ll be summoned.

For now, we’ve rooms for you as delegates to the Eighth. ”

He turns us down a long corridor, and I note the uncanny darkness inside the Eighth House.

The way is lit by occasional torches set into the walls, but not too many of them.

This is a people used to the shadows, I think, their fortress set into the mountain itself.

Similar to the First House, but more deeply entrenched.

That changes when we reach the delegates’ section, at least. The guard steers us into a wide, airy chamber that boasts a sitting area lined with doors leading to multiple sleeping rooms. It’s such a relief after the unrelenting gloom of the inner corridors of the Eighth House that it catches me up short.

What would it be like living in this fortress day in and day out?

I frown as I retrace our steps mentally through the Eighth House, trying to recall any of the household staff that we passed along the way, but I can’t.

No doubt, Lord Daggar ordered them to stay out of our way, but the guard is helpful enough, pointing out the rooms and inviting us to take our ease.

Within moments of his departure, Miriam retires into one of the sleeping rooms. Nazar and Caleb disappear into two others while Tennet eyes me critically.

“You should sleep,” he announces. “You’re more tired than you’re willing to let the others know.”

“Mm. And you know me so well you can make that assessment more easily?”

“I have eyes.”

He glances to the sleeping chambers, then back to me, but I ignore him as I move toward the large doors cut into the far wall, paned with heavy glass to let in the sunlight.

I expect them to be heavy, but they shift open at the slightest touch, and a moment later I’m out on a wide veranda, not unlike the overlook at the First House.

“Impressive, for delegates’ chambers,” I comment as I step out onto the stone plaza.

There’s a low wall and several carved chairs that gleam with fresh wood polish.

“I wouldn’t have thought the Eighth House entertained delegates that often.

I don’t think Rihad made it a habit to come this far. ”

“The edge of civilization,” Tennet agrees, looking up at the great mountain that rises around us.

“Undoubtedly, when the Protectorate was first formed, this would have been a place of great celebration and also great vigilance, holding fast against the dire enemy on the other side of the walls. That threat diminished as the years passed, but the house’s reputation likely only grew.

We’ve lost a lot of that history, it seems, all of us becoming more separated as the generations have gone on. ” He shrugs. “The privilege of peace.”

His words hit me oddly, and a chill slips along my skin, as light as feathers. “You fear that war is coming? Real war?”

“There’s an unrest I feel, but it’s not war, not exactly,” Tennet says, surprising me.

“There’s too much we don’t know, too much that Rihad planned.

He wasn’t looking for the Protectorate to fight back, if everything that Caleb has been telling me is true.

He was expecting his allies from beyond the western borders to sweep through the Protectorate on their way to the Imperium, barely slowing down to dispatch all of us and our Divhs.

What he planned for them to do after that, I can’t guess.

Did he expect to overthrow the Imperator himself?

To set himself up as the new Imperator? What was his end goal? ”

They’re good questions and echo the ones that Fortiss has been demanding without success of the councilors.

“Rihad operated according to his own counsel, from everything I can tell,” I say, dropping heavily into a chair.

It’s shaped oddly, angled into a position that forces me to half recline.

Comfortable, but not conducive to serious conversation.

Still, once I sink down into its embrace, I know immediately that I don’t plan on moving again anytime soon.

I lean back. “He didn’t bring anyone into his confidence. ”

“I didn’t know the man, but I have a hard time believing that.

He had to trust someone.” Tennet pulls a nearby stool into place and sits beside me, perching easily and seeming far more alert than I am.

His gaze searches the face of the building behind us, then shifts out over the broad vista of the open plains, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

“Rihad got as far as he did, did as much as he did, because people allowed him to. Anyone he came in contact with, from all accounts, simply bowed to the man, allowing him to take complete control. Even Fortiss bowed and scraped to him, by his own admission.”

I bristle at the characterization. “Rihad was the lord protector. He demanded and deserved that level of fealty from his people.”