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It was a horrifying spectacle, grotesque in its simplicity. Andik saw what had caught Nalia's attention, just as the knives wielded by the young women pierced the throats of their fathers.

Chaos ensued with the violence of a predator attacking a basket of helpless cubs. The mothers sprang to their feet, the red warriors of Zayr pointing their staffs at the round table. Their Lord himself stood and looked at the bloodshed with indignation.

But it was his son Reev who spoke: "Your blessed gaze should not rest on such devastation, my Lord. Please let me deal with it. Give me your blessing and remove your holy presence from this massacre."

Zayr was hesitant, but disgust seemed to overcome contempt. With a quick nod of his head, he called the warriors and the Lethenium Dart to him.

Then he ascended to his flying machine much faster than he had landed.

"We have to get down," Nalia told him. She pulled at Andik's elbow. "Except for Reev, we are the highest ranking representatives of the government right now. They need us."

Andik knew she was right. He watched as the servants immobilized the daughters of the dead Lugalens. Smeared with blood, unmoving as statues, the young women were the most horrible harbingers of death he had ever seen. What had driven them to such a heinous act? Had they been plotting among the shadows? And why? What did they hope to gain?

He was on the verge of entering the staircase that Shadi Jan Hura had just walked down when something caught his attention. A single movement, an off-key note in a melody of death.

A servant.

Unlike all the others, he moved away from the first level instead of coming closer to see, to understand, to act.

Andik watched him closely until the man slipped into one of the many arches that led to the inner quarters of the second level. The natural way he hunched his shoulders to quicken his pace set off a silent alarm in Andik's mind. "I'll catch up with you soon," he said to Nalia. "I have a bad feeling."

She looked at him sideways. "It's a little late, don't you think? Couldn't you have been swept away by a bad omen before those damsels slaughtered their fathers?"

She wasn't wrong.

"Make it quick, because I saw something that will drive you crazy," Nalia continued. She had a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

She paused between steps. "Your girl. Jan Hura's daughter. She's the only one who didn't stab her father. Isn't that strange?"

More than strange. It was a bloody nightmare with no end and no sense.

Andik quickened his pace and entered the maze of corridors, stairs and walkways that marked the second level.

If his hunch was right, if the man he had seen leaving the massacre was somehow connected to it, there was little chance he would seek refuge in a dark corner or a dead end. He was certainly heading for an extraction point to meet someone who would help him disappear.

So Andik did not care about searching the most confined spaces or breaking through the locked doors of the most anonymous rooms. It was a dangerous strategy, of course. A gamble, in a way. But he was still following a hunch. Why not take a chance?

He walked briskly, aware that the exchange of banter with Nalia had worked in his target's favor, perhaps already giving him an advantage that could not be reversed.

A short time later, he found himself in the large hallway he had passed through earlier in the evening. Once again, it was sadly deserted.

A lone guard stood by the moving platform, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot as if he'd seen a ghost. Word of the first round's events had undoubtedly reached him, making it a terrible night to cover the shift. Had he run into the mystery man?

Andik was about to ask out loud when he was struck by his own stupidity. It had been a foolish mistake.

Foolish and deadly.

The guard raised the crossbow he carried at his side and aimed it at Andik's chest. For he was no guard. This was his man. The real guard was slumped on the ground just around the corner.

Andik raised his hands. "Tell me who you are. I don't want to die without knowing the name of my murderer," he said.

The man smiled. He was as pale as a corpse, had the clearest eyes and a determined expression.

"My name doesn't matter. Just like yours doesn't."

"I am Ensin Andik Thawill from the Red Army. My family has served in this office for ten generations," he replied. He sensed how hollow those words rang in the man's consciousness.

"Impressive. An Ensin of high lineage. Killed by a simple rebel."

"No rebel is simple. Not in the eyes of our Master, King Zayr. He will not tolerate blasphemy."

The man nodded. "What the Masters can tolerate is about to change. So will the amount of pain they can survive," he said, gripping the handle of the crossbow tighter. "You, however, will not be here to witness the revolution."

Andik started to answer, but the words died in his mouth. Years of service gave him the certainty of what was about to happen.

He dropped to the ground just as the man pulled the trigger.

Andik felt the arrow brush his left shoulder. He ignored the pain and let the satisfaction of having dodged a damned dangerous blow take over. He jumped to his feet and drew his sword.

His opponent did not bother to reload his weapon. He dropped it to the ground and brandished the curved blade at his side, smiling.

He wanted this fight.

He longed for it.

So he took the first step, a quick lunge aimed at Andik's side.

He slipped to the side, deflected the blow, and countered with a series of short, precise slashes.

The rebel caught the sword as the clang of metal against metal filled the air and mingled with their heavy breathing.

Andik retreated half a step, holding his blade high as the enemy advanced in silence, his weapon sharpened and ready to snap like a snake.

The fight had been quick and cautious, with no real advantage for either of them. But Andik was aware that time was not on his side. Any misstep could open a fatal breach, and he felt sweat trickle down his back, his breathing slowed by the instinctive anticipation of reinforcements.

But none would come.

Not now that the first level was in total chaos.

The enemy launched another attack, a sudden feint to the flank, and Andik responded with a sharp parry, deflecting the blow and immediately returning to his guard. Then he slipped to the side, using the proximity of a dark glass column as cover.

His opponent advanced with another quick feint. His curved blade hissed through the air in a flash, grazing the polished surface of the column.

Andik responded with a direct blow to the enemy's shoulder, but the blade hit nothing: the man jumped back without hesitation.

The clear eyes shone as if in the grip of a violent fever.

Andik had never witnessed anything like it. Was it madness, what he saw before his eyes? Or was it a devotion so deep that it erased all restraints of the simplest morality?

Andik projected himself against him. He seized the moment to strike and launched a slash at his opponent's exposed leg, but he reacted with a swift and deadly twist, his blade snapping at Andik's wrist. Only a backward leap saved Andik from a devastating wound.

The fight continued in the dark and deserted surroundings of the Amphitheater, their figures like swift shadows, accentuated by the thunder of their swords.

Andik tried to move the duel into a narrower niche between two columns, to avoid the wide and violent blows. He took a quick step, turned on his heel, and delivered a powerful kick.

His opponent blocked the attack with a forearm, then lunged at him again: the blades screeched in a tangle of forces that sent them both back a few steps. The rebel pressed Andik even harder, striking repeatedly as he pushed him toward another column.

Deflecting one blow, then another, Andik felt the accelerating pace of this confrontation like a storm preparing to unleash its fury. Who was this man really? Who had taught him to fight this way? The Red Army was the pride of the Tutors and all Kenjir. The warriors who bore this name and color surpassed those of the other two houses in strength and skill, much to the chagrin of the Larsani, who would never admit to being second.

The rebel who stood before him, who seemed hell-bent on destroying him, was a mystery. Was he from beyond the Peaks? How had he infiltrated the walls of such a place?

The enemy advanced quickly, moving his sword in a swift arc that came within a hair's breadth of Andik's throat, tearing him away from these questions.

Andik deflected the blow at the last moment, lashing out at his opponent's wrist and managing to hit him with a kick to the stomach, forcing him to stagger backward. Without hesitation, he struck again: the two blades crossed and squealed, singing as if they were alive.

With a violent movement and a painful twist, Andik managed to disarm his opponent, sending the curved blade flying.

The man spread his arms wide and smiled.

"You're wasting my time," he hissed, then looked impatiently up at the night sky.

Andik fought back the desire to follow his opponent's gaze, knowing that a single distraction would lead to certain defeat.

"Tell me who sent you," Andik demanded, pointing the sword at his throat. A part of him wished he could finish the blasphemer there and then, if only for speaking so contemptuously of the Masters.

The man shrugged. He moved his arms, almost imperceptibly, and smoke rose from the red cloth that hugged his biceps. In an instant, the sleeves of the tunic turned ashen, revealing pale skin and two bracelets that glowed as if they had just been forged. Yet the man's swollen muscles did not seem to suffer any damage or feel the heat in any way.

It all happened in the blink of an eye.

An incomprehensible force pushed the man back, causing him to slide across the smooth floor and away from Andik's sword.

With impossible speed, the man jumped and pirouetted through the air toward him.

Andik could not get away in time.

The enemy's left foot hit his wrist, causing him to lose his grip on his sword. The right one centered him between his stomach and breastbone.

The air flew out of Andik's lungs and he grunted in pain and surprise, for a few moments everything around him went dark and black spots blurred his vision.

Andik felt a crushing weight on his chest.

Then came the blows.

His opponent was sitting on his stomach and hitting him hard. Each blow created a deep pool of pain.

Andik raised his arms to defend himself, tried to move away from his grip, but the attack was driven by an animal fury. One blow, stronger than all the others, made him spit blood. The dizziness that followed brought a gasp to his throat.

There was silence.

A fleeting pause in which Andik propped himself up on one heel and one elbow and twisted his torso with all the strength he could muster.

The maneuver shifted the enemy's weight just enough for Andik to deliver a backhand to the man's chin, though the grip did not loosen completely. Andik rolled onto him, and they grappled on the ground, locked in a relentless struggle until they reached a new stalemate.

Andik felt himself crushed again by the man's weight and fury. He reached for his neck, struggled to grasp it, angry and disgusted, outraged at the audacity and contempt that drove this scumbag to dare so much.

He caught a familiar glow, the reflection of faint light on polished iron.

The man had taken the sword.

With a smooth, expert and unhesitating motion, he lowered it to Andik's chest.

The astonishment he felt was even stronger than the pain.

With his mouth agape, Andik's eyes remained fixed on the weapon sunk into his chest.

The rebel's grip vanished.

Standing just a step away, the man spread his arms wide. His burning biceps, bound in those strange bracelets, glowed like small rising suns.

Andik closed his eyes.

These were Sacred Artifacts, no doubt forged by the power of the gods.

Had he the strength, he might have wondered how they had ended up in the hands of a rebellious bastard.

Had he been lucid enough, he could have cursed himself for failing to defeat him.

Instead, he cried, his heart beating strangely, as if it wanted to stop running, and his lungs trembled.

He coughed again, painfully, and felt a very strong wind.

The enemy laughed at him, with a bright, wild smile. Then he lifted himself off the ground. An invisible hand carried him off into the stars.

Andik followed the figure as it became smaller and faster.

The last thing he saw before the darkness engulfed him was the imposing silhouette of the Lethenium Dart.

That was what had caught the rebel's eye.

His target.

A slit of light opened in Zayr's flying ship.

Andik could not keep his eyes open.