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The woman's face was framed by a cascade of dark curls. Red plaits and ribbons ran through them. Two rows of pearls encircled her hairline and neck. She paused on the threshold of the door she had just thrown open and stared at them with eyes reduced to thin lines.

"Who are you?" Her expression was weighed down by heavy wrinkles on her forehead, perhaps making her look older than she was. "No. Let me guess." She raised a hand. "You're a juggler, on the run from the tribe of jesters who have enslaved you all your life." She ran her tongue over her upper lip. "And you are the brave warrior who, overwhelmed by her beauty, decided to deny his own army and follow her to the ends of the earth to protect her," she continued, turning to Laamar. "How wrong am I?"

Darjin shook her head. She had imagined an infinite number of scenarios in which Narden of the Eyes might have resisted. But no, she had not expected such a reception. "Quite a bit, but not embarrassingly so."

"Ah! I am getting better. Will you tell me what you are doing on my terrace, or are you thieves as well as jugglers and warriors?"

"I am neither the one nor the other. But he is definitely a warrior."

"I'd say those arms and shoulders leave little to the imagination," Narden winked.

"We need your help," Darjin explained. She pulled out the leather pouch and untied it, freeing the Key Ring that Lugalen Jan Hura had entrusted to her. She held it up to the woman's face. "We have been commissioned to speak with you by a very important person who has infinite confidence in your abilities. The rightful owner of this holy object."

Narden widened her eyes. "Come in."

The woman closed the doors behind her after letting them in. With quick, abrupt movements, she drew the curtains over all the other openings. "Who knows of your presence here?"

"Only Lugalen Jan Hura."

"Are you sure?"

Darjin nodded.

"Good. How is Leoben?" Narden asked, pointing to a low sofa woven from thin branches.

Darjin sat down and motioned to Laamar, "Stand guard at the entrance, please."

The warrior stayed close to the doors they had just passed and kept his eyes on the narrow gaps between the wooden planks.

"Lugalen Jan Hura embraces maturity with grace."

"I'm guessing he didn't force you to come all this way to inquire about my health."

"You are right."

"This is very unfortunate. Because I know very well what he wants from me, and I regret to inform you that I have not been involved in certain activities for a very long time."

As she listened, Darjin scanned the room; it was crammed with knick-knacks: fabrics arranged with no apparent criteria, paintings placed side by side with no space between them, statues made of wood and terracotta. Sitting in an armchair that had fought and lost its battle with the roughness of time, Narden looked like one of the furnishings that adorned this apartment. Or perhaps she thought she could blend in with them. The woman's gaze and the way she held her hands in her lap suggested calm, perhaps even resignation.

"This is an urgent matter..."

"That doesn't change the situation. I haven't manipulated the ether for years, my girl."

Darjin hesitated. She had no reason to doubt the woman's words, but Shadi and her parents desperately needed her help. "You must believe me, my lady. The Lugalen would not question you unless he felt it was absolutely necessary. He fears for his daughter's safety."

Narden sighed. "It has always been like that with Leoben. He has an innate ability to get himself into impossible situations. What is the child's name?"

"Shadi."

"How old is she?"

"Seventeen."

"Ah, so not a child anymore. I bet it all has to do with a certain invitation to a celebration that takes place exactly every thirty-three years."

Darjin nodded.

"So Leoben has succeeded. He managed to get the attention of the right people and now he wants to use his daughter to cement his political rise. Shrewd. Shady, but shrewd. Now he is in trouble, though," Narden said, and left it to Darjin to describe the extent of the danger.

"Lugalen Jan Hura has been warned. There are those who fear that the clash between the three Household Champions has already begun and will not be confined to the borders of Larsa."

"So Leoben fears that his daughter will become involved in this hypothetical conflict."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And I am not given to know who warned Leoben or how. Am I wrong?"

"You are not wrong."

The woman rested her shoulders on the back of the chair and exhaled deeply. She ran bony hands over her face, pressing them to her eyes.

"Who? Who should I call?"

Darjin felt a pang of guilt. Narden's reasons for abandoning the etheric arts were serious, almost palpable. Had she accepted their request, she would have had to forsake them. The deep lines around the old woman's eyes revealed her inner conflict.

"Lugalen Jan Hura would be infinitely grateful if you question Ensin Andik Thawill from the Red Army."

Narden's eyes widened. "By all the gods and their children! Leoben must be really scared. I certainly didn't think he would dare bother such a man."

"Will you accept? Will you help the Lugalen?"

Narden sighed again. "Leoben is just a power-hungry little politician like all the rest. But he knows the value of gratitude and has retained some honor under all the furs and gems he wears. If the warning that has reached him is true, he is in danger of losing his daughter. And if life has taught me anything, it is that children should not pay for the mistakes of their parents. What is she like?"

"Shadi?"

Narden motioned for her to continue.

"Smart. Kind. Wiser than her years would suggest. Stronger than she imagines. But she is troubled."

"There is so much in the words you have used to describe her. Do you see that?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Tell me the truth. Is Shadi better than her parents?"

Darjin did not hesitate. "Without a shadow of a doubt."

A hoarse, mischievous laugh escaped Narden's lips. "I appreciate your candor. And I suppose I wouldn't mind meeting the girl. But that cannot happen if she dies. Am I right?"

"Pure wisdom."

"Then let's not waste any more time."

Not hearing Kerina's voice, her cry, horrified Shadi. Soon after the wagon had left, a mournful wave of cries and pleas for mercy had risen from the prisoners, ignored by those who had taken them from their families.

She hoped her friend was unharmed. She could not lose her now that she had found her.

Gritting her teeth, she struggled to find a stable position and fought to keep her soul from giving in to fear and despair. Not even in her worst nightmares had she thought that the journey to the capital would take such a bloody turn.

She knew nothing of violence. She had begged her mother and father to allow Darjin to teach her how to punch and kick, or how to wield bladed weapons.

There had been no way.

She wondered how things might have unfolded if she had fought for her life. Would she have attacked the man who hooded her? How would he have responded? Perhaps he would have killed her instantly.

The only voices in the carriage were those of young girls. And there seemed to be no lack of space. There must have been five or six of them. But others might have been unconscious.

Images of her parents and Darjin plagued her mind.

Had the kidnappers eliminated them? A shiver ran through her body. Her father was a fighter; he could have defended himself and his wife. A certainty that did not lift her spirits. She wondered if they were looking for her, if they were shedding tears for her. And she wondered how Darjin would react when she returned from her secret mission. Assuming she ever returned safely.

Time lost its meaning. This journey could have lasted minutes, hours, or weeks—she wouldn't have known the difference.

When the carriage stopped, Shadi gasped with her lips closed. The moaning of her fellow prisoners had begun to fade. Perhaps the girls had succumbed to desperate apathy. Maybe they were just too tired and scared to cry. But when the creaking of the doors resumed, the wave of excitement was even, followed by a shudder that threatened to turn into panic.

They grabbed her again. The stifling humidity of the car was replaced by a cold wind. The rustling of leaves on high branches pinched her ears along with the harsh voices of her captors. They seemed to find the fragility of young women like her extremely amusing. Every moan elicited a loud, boisterous laugh.

This thicket of perceptions was suddenly muted. Sounds became muffled, began to reverberate, weighed down by rock-hard tones.

A cave.

They made her walk a little, but every step was painful, as if someone had deliberately placed the sharpest, slipperiest stones in her path. They pushed her forward, and she was almost grateful. Either way, this cruel game was approaching a turning point.

She managed to keep her balance and stay standing despite the force of their pulling. Someone released her wrists. Soon the moans of her fellow prisoners grew louder. Bodies trembling with fear and cold surrounded her.

Instinct told her she should have said something, perhaps words of encouragement or stoicism. But the truth was too simple. She was as frightened and terrified as they were.

She could not dwell on these considerations. The hood was ripped from her head. She closed her eyes, afraid of what she might see, or the pain the light might bring. But she took courage and slowly opened them.

She was in a cell. Small, dimly lit. Around her were eight other girls: standing, leaning against the rock walls, sitting and shivering on the bench to her left, or lying unconscious on the floor.

Kerina.

Her friend lay on the floor in a corner, her eyes closed and her face on the damp floor that covered the dungeon.

Shadi approached her as she heard the door close and the lights dim even further. She kept the corner of her eye on the opening, trying to make out the features of her captors.

She could not.

Whatever the cloth their robes were made of, it was so dark that it absorbed the light. The being that disappeared behind the narrow crack in the door seemed to be made of opaque ink.

She shook her head to clear it of the inexplicable horror that the vision instilled in her heart. As she knelt beside Kerina, the questions began to creep back in, now that the pace of events seemed to have slowed a little.

Who could have wanted to kidnap the daughters of the Lugalens? Who could count on the necessary resources to pull off such a risky endevor so quickly? Who could have been so brazen?

For despite the fear, uncertainty and pain, one thing was clear in Shadi's eyes: whoever had orchestrated this kidnapping was not just acting against the Lugalens and their families. Whoever was behind this affront was openly challenging the Masters and their power over Kenjir.

Someone was waging war against the children of the gods.

A madman, no doubt.

Or a monster, driven by desires Shadi could not understand, made impertinent by powers she refused to imagine.

Uncertain, she passed a hand over Kerina's forehead. The girl was motionless, trapped in a forced sleep without nightmares.

She told herself that her friend was lucky. At least this sleep would spare her from the real nightmare.

The one she saw with her own eyes.

Narden led the way to a door covered in cobwebs so thick that Darjin at first thought they were dark, dusty curtains.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I hadn't practised in years." The woman made room with a broom and pushed the door once, twice, three times until it gave way. She stepped into the darkness and Darjin could hear her fumbling for something until the uncertain light of a row of candles illuminated the small room. As the last lamp came on, the woman turned to Darjin and pointed to the object at the end of the room. Covered in a heavy black veil, it stretched across the entire wall on which it rested.

"I need your help, girl."

Darjin followed Narden's movements and went to the opposite side of the cloth. Together they pulled it away, raising a thick cloud of dust.

It was not easy to contain one's astonishment. The object seemed to be as much silver as water. It reflected the dancing light that illuminated the room, but not like a mirror. The shapes it gave back were soft, tarnished and vibrant at the same time. Moreover, Darjin had never seen this kind of fabrication before. The edges of this thing were sharp, immaculate, as if cut by a blade capable of dominating any metal and redefining light itself.

A drawer opened in her mind, containing a truth as simple as it was unexpected: "This object is the result of the Masters' art."

"Of course. Is anyone really still convinced that poor ordinary people can rule the ether?"

Darjin did not answer. Instinct urged her to ask far more questions. "How did you get it? This Artifact is sacred. The very fact that you have handled it, our very presence in this room, is wrong."

"No, my girl, no. You don't want to ask me these questions and you don't want to know the answers. Believe me, we don't have the time to get into such stories. Besides, we have some rather urgent work to do, according to what you said.

Darjin shook her head. It was true, she had very little time. But the thought of performing an act that so many would consider blasphemous troubled her. She gritted her teeth and tried to focus on what was at stake. "Do as I ask, please."

The woman stared at her intently. "The Eyes of the Ether are rare, precious and often difficult to please."

"Difficult to please?"

"I don't know how else to explain what happens when I awaken this beauty," Narden chuckled. But there was an uneasiness in her voice. "Just watch."

Darjin stiffened and instinctively put her hands on the handles of the blades. She saw the woman lower her gaze as she positioned herself in front of the object, less than two palms away. Her breath was quick as she raised her right hand and brought it to that impossible to define surface.

It moved.

A series of ripples animated it, mimicking the shapes of Narden's fingers, following the path she had drawn. A jagged line stretched across the Eye. Soon after, a low hum filled the room. Darjin felt it under her feet, in her ankles and up to her stomach. In an instant, it was in her chest.

The Eye seemed to be breathing.

"Savvaehl Heyer," Narden said. It was more like a sigh, accompanied by a step back.

The humming stopped, the room went quiet again, and Narden was not happy about it. She muttered something again that Darjin did not understand, but it sounded like an insult.

"He is angry."

Darjin had heard of objects that could interact with their owners, fulfilling their wishes as well as manifesting their own, but she had never wanted to believe those stories. Now she felt caught between amazement and fear. Still, she could not help but ask Narden: "Why?"

"Because I neglected him, of course. He holds a few broken promises against me and complains like a beast forced out of hibernation." She approached the Eye again, repeated the broad gesture with her hand, and said "Savvaehl Heyer" in a louder, more determined voice. The vibration that followed was stronger. It came out of the object as an opposing snap and reached the very tip of Darjin's hair, so much so that she heard Laamar's alarmed voice at the door.

"Everything okay in here?"

Darjin nodded, but realized that her voice was far from convincing. "Yes. Go back and check the terrace."

He blinked, a question on his face, but remained silent and went back the way he had come.

When Darjin returned her gaze to the Eye, Narden was caressing its surface with both hands. The touches took on a luminosity of their own, holding the lines left by the woman's fingers.

Darjin understood. They were letters. Narden was writing something on the small sea of liquid silver.

A code? A secret sequence? Sweet words to soften a friend kept too long at a distance? She had no time to ponder these questions as the Eye began to glow, with increasing intensity until the light was blinding.

Darjin covered her eyes.

"Shukkavar, Heyer."

A thank you, Darjin was sure. There was deep respect, perhaps even a hint of worship in Narden's voice.

"Haleil Henerium Wariarum Rua's Andik Thawill, Heyer," the woman continued. A few moments later, Darjin heard a note of satisfaction in the way she repeated, "Shukkavar, Heyer. You may open your eyes now, girl."

Darjin followed the invitation cautiously. And she was breathless.

The reflective surface of the object had disappeared, giving way to something impossible, yet so real that she felt she could reach out and touch it. The Eye had turned into an opening. Beyond its razor-sharp edges stretched a dark environment.

The darkness that pervaded it was broken only by the erect silhouette of an elderly man, clad in elegant scarlet robes. His face, framed by a thick white beard, was stern, and his gaze was cold.

"I thanked the gods and their children every day," the man hissed, "when I began to forget your face, you old seamstress of lies. Their blessing must have departed from me if they have decided that I must endure the sight of you once more, Narden."

"Yalael, dear. You are always so gallant."

The man's eyebrows flew to a ceiling Darjin could not see, driven by indignation. "Spare me your chatter. Tell me at once what makes you think you have the right to summon my presence, manipulating a Sacred Eye to boot, or I swear by all that is sacred in Kenjir—"

"Oh, please! The years have not dulled your conceit, my friend, nor dulled your tongue. In times like these, it is a pleasure to find that some things have not changed," Narden shushed him. "I will be brief."

"It would be the first time."

"Now you are being unfair."

"Disgusted, Narden, I am disgusted by your endless insolence."

"Are you going to listen to me or not?"

The man seemed about to bite his tongue off. But he did not retort.

"Thank you. I always knew that beneath those rough manners was an elegant and magnanimous gentleman."

"Narden!"

"All right, all right. I assure you, I had no intention of bothering anyone. And as the gods are my witness, the idea of awakening an Eye had not crossed my mind for decades."

"Still."

"'Still, it was necessary, High Prelate Yalael Revenne. And I am sure that somehow you know exactly what prompted me to break my silence. Am I wrong?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, witch."

"If I were a witch, my life would be infinitely more interesting, but that's not the point. The fact that you're avoiding the crux of the matter, despite what you say, makes me think I'm right, old man."

"Don't play with me, Narden. Remember that you are handling a Sacred Artifact. Its immense value should make it the preserve of personalities far higher and more respectable than yourself. So say what you must, or rid me of your presence once and for all. Who knows, may prayer, devotion and the mercy of the gods help me to forget your existence forever."

Darjin was stunned by Narden's silence. Perhaps those last words had truly touched her. Perhaps the man had finally struck a blow that had carved a wound in the woman's ego.

A blow driven by rust as old as it was impossible for her to decipher.

"I need to speak to Ensin Andik Thawill," Narden declared. She seemed suddenly overcome with fatigue.

"That is out of the question. You don't have the right."

"I don't, but Lugalen Jan Hura does," she said, turning to Darjin.

Her eyes widened and she understood.

The Key Ring.

She quickly pulled it out of the pouch and brought it closer to the Eye.

The man approached, almost seeming to reach out to touch the small object.

"Closer, woman."

Darjin obeyed, watching the curious gaze as it examined the ring, as if it could weigh it without even touching it.

"Damn," the man sighed, "now I am forced to listen to you."