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J UBAYR WOKE AT the knocking on his bedchamber’s door. With a groan, he shifted to an elbow, rolled his legs to the floor, and sat up. He didn’t need to toss aside any blanket, as he had dropped fully clothed into bed. He held his head in his hands, trying to summon focus after only two bells’ worth of sleep.

He and the inner council had worked long into the night, discussing strategies, both defensive and offensive. Afterward, his fretful dreams had swum with images of tiny golden ships and tinier silver knights shifting across a map of the Southern Klashe. They had moved on their own, marching relentlessly onward until they toppled off the table, hitting the floor in splatters of blood and piles of crushed wooden hulls.

Even my dreams taunt me with my incompetence.

Or maybe his restless visions had been stirred by the defeat of the Hawk’s Talon. For most of the night, as the Hálendiian forces engaged the Klashean warship, flocks of skrycrows had swept into the nest atop the Blood’d Tower. The birds had been dispatched by Paktan’s forces during the battle. In a stuttering account—not always in correct order—the battle had been relayed to them. Here, all they could do was wait it out, impotent to do more than unroll small scrolls as they arrived—until the streams of crows stopped.

Once his brother’s defeat was assured, Jubayr had retreated to his bed to seek some somber rest, his thoughts plagued with worries.

The destruction of the Talon struck especially hard following the day’s crowning success in routing the Shayn’ra. The Fist of God had been ambushed and burned. And while their leader, Tazar hy Maar, had not yet been captured, a canvass continued throughout the city. Tongues wagged, exposing more of the rebel network. It was being torn down piece by piece.

The only other consolation of the day was that the empire’s second warship, the Falcon’s Wing, had slipped the noose in the Breath and continued northward.

Jubayr shook his head, still resting his face in his palms, struggling to accept the tides of fate.

The gods give, and they take away.

The knuckles rapped again, too hard to be the soft hands of one of his sixteen chaaen-bound. There was steel in that knock.

He lifted his head from his hands. “What is it?”

A voice called through. “My prince! I must speak with you.”

Jubayr closed his eyes, biting back another groan. “Enter!”

He stood to meet Wing Draer. The master of the empire’s airborne forces swept in like a thundercloud. On his heels came Shield Angelon.

Jubayr prepared for the worst.

They wouldn’t have woken me with glad tidings.

Both men approached and dropped to a knee, fists to forehead, still maintaining the pretense that he was emperor. When Jubayr waved them up, they wore matching expressions of fury.

“What’s happened?” Jubayr asked.

The Wing lifted a curled scrap of oilskin in his fist. “Another skrycrow arrived. Sent forth by a spy ensconced within the Hálendiian forces. He confirms the Talon was destroyed, and your brother captured.”

Jubayr now understood the ferocity in Draer’s face. They had all hoped that Paktan might have slipped away at the battle’s end. Still, Jubayr knew his younger brother would never forsake the Talon, even if it was doomed.

“What do we do?” Jubayr asked. “How do we petition and barter for his—”

Shield Angelon cut him off, something the man would never have done with Emperor Makar. Fire danced in the warrior’s eye. “They beheaded him. On the deck of the warship. Your brother in chains. A blade wielded by Prince Mikaen in unprovoked malice.”

Jubayr stumbled backward. Each statement landed like blows to his chest, leaving him too stunned to breathe.

The Shield and Wing gave him a moment to absorb the tragedy, to let it settle like a stone in his gut. But he knew they awaited instructions from him.

Jubayr covered his brow with a palm and struggled to find his breath again. It took several deep inhalations to regain his voice. When he did, fire burst from his lips.

“We will make them suffer,” he gritted out. “For each drop of my brother’s blood, so dishonorably spilled, I will lay waste to a hundred of their people.”

Both Shield and Wing bowed before his anger.

“We will not wait,” Jubayr warned. “Our vengeance starts now.”

Draer dropped again to his knee, only this time his deference felt genuine. “What is your bidding?”

“Dispatch orders to the Falcon’s Wing. Let its captain—my brother Mareesh—know what has transpired. His assault will no longer be tempered or mitigated as instructed. He will unload the full fury of the empire upon the shores of Hálendii. To lay a swath of fire that will burn for ages, a memorial pyre to Paktan.”

Draer rose and nodded crisply.

“And that will only be the beginning of their suffering,” Jubayr promised.

Shield Angelon dropped next to a knee. “And what of the emperor? He will need to be informed.”

Jubayr took another deep breath. He knew how such a grim dispatch would break his father’s heart, but it must be done. “Initiate a relay of crows, the swiftest of wing. Let the emperor know what has befallen his son.”

Angelon stood briskly. “It will be done.”

Jubayr dismissed them both to their respective duties. “I will join you both atop the Blood’d Tower shortly.”

He crossed and gathered up the emperor’s embroidered white cloak and draped it over his shoulders. It felt heavier than before, but he knew he could carry it.

For Paktan.

He snapped the cloak’s clasp at his throat, making another silent promise.

If I ever find that bastard Kanthe—who set this tragedy in motion—his head will fall next.