My heart hammered as I fell through the void, and I abruptly realised the stupidity of my plan.

  There was no light down here, since I’d leapt off the side of the pyramid that was not currently being explored. I had intended to use Break-Step to survive the fall and lose myself within the ruins, distracting the duke and others long enough for my companions to disable the wards and sneak out.

  Obviously, the duke was far above me in terms of a straight fight, but perhaps I could lose him among the ruins, considering my ability to read its traps ahead of time. The issue that I hadn’t taken into account, however, was the fall to begin with.

  Break-Step was situationally an incredibly powerful skill...but it was not true flight. With the seemingly infinite blackness all around, I had no way of seeing where the ground truly was, and so my timing for Break-Step was likely to be significantly off.

  It was too late to back out now though as I tumbled through the void, seeing the light above from the small mage lights and the remains of Varice’s earlier spell grow ever more distant with each meter I fell.

  I was saved from a swift death by something far worse, though. The world around me warped, which was interesting to say the least considering it was nothing but uncompromising blackness. But still, I felt the air twist upon itself, and once more it was sucked from my lungs.

  I hovered in place, and then, nearly twenty meters above, I saw the calm face of Duke Ryonic peering over the lip, a disdainful twist to his mouth.

  “Did you really think it would be so easy?” he asked, and he gestured, the air moving once more to his command. I felt something pulling me up by my stomach, and suddenly I was rising through the air towards him once more.

  I tried to kick and struggle, and even withdrew the fang-dagger from my storage ring and tried to slice through whatever invisible string bound me, but it was no use. Perhaps if I had spent longer studying that skill that Sadrianna frequently used, but I had put it off – too many competing priorities.

  Instead, I thrashed about uselessly until I reached Duke Ryonic’s level, and he reached out to grip me by the collar of my robe. I knew when I was beaten, and thought it better to play for time than to try and kill a man who could move faster than I could think in close quarters like this. In what I hoped to be a surprising move, I ceased my struggle, letting the dagger clatter to the floor.

  I spread my hands to either side in a shrug. “Sorry, I slipped,” I tried with my best charming smile, and to my surprise, the duke actually smiled with me.

  And not the cold, dangerous smile I had expected, filled with the promise of pain and blood. No, this was a genuine expression, and I found myself almost a little hopeful that I could talk my way out of anything too catastrophic. I was needed alive and able to read and talk, after all. Eyes and tongue at least would need to remain, so no chance of me spending the rest of my days wandering Tsanderos blind and mute.

  Silver linings needed snatching wherever they presented themselves.

  “I have to say, boy, I have found you quite entertaining,” the duke said lazily. “Unfortunately, you've caught us at a very busy time. Were we in no rush, I could perhaps have even convinced you that you would have no chance of reclaiming any sort of inheritance from this ruin and that working with me rather than against me could result in a far better future for yourself…

  “Unfortunately, as I said, you're out of time, and I must do this quickly.”

  He looked at me then, cocking his head to one side, so much like Varice’s familiar.

  “I am not evil. I don't do this for personal gain. I am the only thing that keeps the Western Marchlands independent, and I am a relatively generous ruler in the Sunsets.”

  I scoffed. “Please, I've seen the Misted Marshes – I know what people go through. While I've not seen the half-silver mines myself, I can well imagine the conditions you keep them in. I passed through Barrow-Under-Tine; I know what you are, and I know what you’ve done.”

  I hadn't meant to antagonise him, but hearing him attempt to moralise his position? Well, to be frank; it pissed me off.

  He cocked his head to the other side, glacial eyes examining me like a rodent in the corner of a house. A puzzle to be solved and then swept away.

  “Well, God-Touched. There's much you don't know about the world, and I can assure you that however bad you think I am, the Sultanate would be far worse. But I do not have time to convince you, so I shall not waste what little we have left…I will simply force you to tell me what I want to know.

  “That is the truth of this world,” he said, eyes sliding away from my own to stare at his son to one side, before pinning me in place once more. “I have power and you do not – I do not need your assent.”

  He was interrupted from whatever ghastly proclamation he was about to make then by a messenger that came streaking out of the gloom. It was only when he arrived, and the thudding footsteps came to a halt, that I realised that this man was what I had been hearing before I attempted my desperate escape.

  The messenger, dressed as one of the Ryonic guards, took a moment to compose himself before saluting the duke with a raised fist against his helm.

  “My Lord, Decker sent me. There are enemies at the gates, an army!” he exclaimed between heavy breaths. “It’s the Sultan. He requests your parley.”

  The duke's eyes flashed then, not in a metaphorical sense. They literally flashed, pale blue light sparking from his pupils into his irises before receding again. His frown was carved from granite.

  “What exactly did he say? The duke asked.

  “Apologies, my Lord, I might not be remembering perfectly but I believe he said he was sent by the Sunset Court and that the Crimson Lions would be here soon. They will attack at nightfall if they've not heard from you by then.”

  The duke cursed quietly to himself in a new language I’d not heard before. It did not bear repeating.

  “How long?” he asked, and the soldier shrugged.

  “No more than a bell. Do you want me to bring a message to him in return, my Lord?”

  A weary sigh escaped the duke’s lips before he relaxed his frown. “A moment, please,” he said, and then walked over to Varice, motioning for her to walk with him. They stopped some 20 metres away and had a quiet conversation that I could not overhear. When they returned, the duke had clearly come to a decision.

  “You will accompany Varice and Estan as they escort this man further into the ruins,” he said to the soldier, pointing at me where I still hung in the air above the open abyss.

  He then ruined to me. “God-Touched. We will speak again within the next few days. I pray you have answers for me then, boy, because I will not be so forgiving.”

  He then turned to Estan. “Do not disappoint me again, son. You listen to Varice in all the things; she speaks with my voice, understood?”

  The man bowed his head, thoroughly cowed if I had to guess. I wondered what he had done to be so contrite. I could not square the image of this somewhat slovenly man with his disciplined father, and decided this contrition must be a relatively recent feature.

  Duke Ryonic clapped Varice on the shoulder once more, simply saying, “put him with the others,” and then he was off.

  The speed with which he ascended the wooden scaffold into the tunnel high above only put into perspective how outmatched I was, and how my hastily put together plan of losing myself among the ruins was simply not fit for purpose with him present.

  Now that he was gone though…

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  *Nathlan*

  The duke emerged from the keep and strode confidently along the battlements, ignoring the men as they turned to watch him. He didn’t share Sadrianna’s approach of acknowledging the guards, calpping backs and sharing the odd word of encouragement and introduction. Instead, he moved through them as if they weren’t even there, and they parted to let him through.

  It seemed to have profound effect though. Backs straightened, and Nathlan watched looks of despondence and fear transform into masks of stoicism. Interestingly, it didn’t seem to be an act to appease the commander as he walked through their midst either, since they persisted long after he passed the men.

  The duke let his aura leak out, blanketing those on the walls, and even Nathlan had to admit it was an impressive display. Very different from the blood-soaked, burning rage of Vera’s, but just as powerful, just as potent.

  Words were exchanged between the duke from atop the barbican, and the man representing the Sultan – Yander, as Nathlan heard. He didn't care about the details, though. Where was Lamb? Nathlan looked about anxiously, and then he felt Sadrianna’s cool hand on his shoulder.

  “Calm yourself, Nathlan. We will have our answers soon. See,” she said with a gesture, as Nathlan looked up to see the duke striding towards them across the wall.

  He stopped in front of them for a moment, eyeing them all up, and Nathlan had the uneasy feeling that he was examining them to determine if he could kill them all here and now, should he need to. That unease increased further when it seemed that the duke had decided he could.

  He looked Sadrianna dead in the eye and said, “the boy who you delivered to me…he is a liar.”

  Sadrianna frowned. “He is God-Touched,” she said. “Spoke our language like he was born to it, and some of the more obscure ones that only our elders remember, besides.”

  The duke nodded. “Yes, he didn't lie about that. Tell me, when you entered the Marchlands, which direction did you come from?

  Sadrianna looked to either side, taking in her Jacyntha and him, and then turned back to the duke. She shrugged. “The Riverlands. Came through a small settlement. I didn't see it on any maps, but it looked like it had been through a hell of a siege.”

  Nathlan interrupted then. “Darrow-Upon-Lyme, or something of the sort” he said, and the duke nodded.

  “Did you know that boy planned to steal the inheritance of the ruins from me?” the duke asked, and Nathlan's eyebrows rose, despite his best efforts to keep any such tells from his face.

  Sadrianna looked perplexed. “He made no mention of that to us. What ruins?” she asked, and the duke just shook his head, looking unconvinced by the lie.

  Jacyntha, though, was the one to save their rapidly crumbling story. She stepped forward confidently, a cruel smirk on her beautiful face.

  “That's the problem with you lowlanders; you treat everybody too politely. The runt wouldn't have dreamt trying to cross us while he travelled under our control,” she said casually. “Send us to look after the little man and we’ll sort him out. Just tell us what you need from him and we’ll see it done, easy as you could dream.”

  It was, once again, a brilliant gambit and Nathlan to admit to being impressed by the way she adapted under pressure. It was not particularly surprising when Sadrianna improvised successfully earlier with their mercenary identity, given her experience with command. But for Jacyntha to so easily don the guise of a cruel barbarian in order to both get them closer to Lamb, and assuage the duke’s suspicion…well, Nathlan hadn’t thought the woman capable of such guile.

  Then he hesitated, wondering if perhaps that was less of a guise than the one she wore around the campfire. He shook his head. While he didn't trust the woman as much as Lamb did, he knew that he was anxious. When he was anxious, he was prone to making rash judgments, spawned by paranoia more than rationality, and it would not do for him to begin to mistrust his companions just as they were on the verge of success.

  The duke declined Jacyntha’s offer though, saying, “no, I need you here on the walls. I want one of you at each corner tower, here, here, and here” he said, pointing out the defensive positions he wanted them to reinforce.

  Nathlan sighed to himself internally. Where was Lamb? How would Sadrianna, Jacyntha and him escape under the nose of the duke’s forces and the besieging army outside the walls? This whole plan was rapidly falling apart.

  He could only hope that Vera and Jorge were out there with some scheme to plot a course through the chaos. Thinking of his two companions brought a measure of calm to him as Nathlan walked along the wall to the north tower, facing the forest where he knew they and the rebels were lying in wait.

  They had not let him down yet, and if there were two people he could count on to formulate and execute a plan on the fly, it was Jorge and Vera, respectively.

  *Vera*

  “This is a complete clusterfuck!” Vera hissed angrily to Fandar. “How did we not hear of this?”

  She paced back and forth in the woodlands with short, sharp steps, fists clenching as if desperate to reach for a weapon. Fandar raised his hands in reproach.

  “I don’t know, Vera! We don’t have a great information network, especially outside of the Marchlands. This could be good for us, though, no?”

  Vera just shook her head. “Not at all. The Sultanate are just as bad as the duke and his people, and if they take the castle, then we just have another fucking noble with their hands on those ruins and what lies within.”

  She turned about on her heel, brushing hair from her face with a growl. “No. We need to either sneak inside under the watchful eyes of two armies, or we need them to kill each other completely. Fuck, how is this going to work?”

  Jorge rolled over from his position lying on the bed of leaves that made up the forest ground. He had been watching the castle in the distance, and the army assembled before it.

  “They’ll wait for nightfall to attack. Sieges are always more successful in the dark,” the old man said, his grey braid looking like a slash of small-cap mushrooms where it splayed about on the leaves next to his head. “It all depends on Nathlan down there. If he sticks to the plan, we have a problem. But we can improvise if he doesn't.”

  Vera grimaced. “I love the boy, but he’s deliberate, Jorge. If there’s anyone that would stick to a plan, even if he thought otherwise, it’s Nathlan.”

  Jorge grinned in response. “Look, all we need is to get into that castle. This could benefit us. You see Nathlan on the north tower?”

  He pointed, and Vera moved over, squinting next to him.

  “What's he doing up there?” she asked.

  Jorge shook his head. “Doesn't matter, lass. If we wait until the battle starts, and then under cover of darkness Fandar and his men make a big show of attacking near the north tower, then we might have half a shot of sneaking inside without notice. While the duke is distracted by the sultan’s forces at the front, and the guards on the north tower are focused on Fandar and his lads and lasses, we’ll have an open shot over the walls.”

  “What about getting Nathlan to drop the wards? Would make it easier to force our way inside, I’d bet,” Vera suggested, but Jorge shook his head.

  “No. If he drops the wards, then the Sultan’s forces will stream inside, and it becomes a bloodbath. Granted, the chances of slaying the duke are pretty high in the resulting chaos, but that’s not the reason we’re here, is it lass?”

  He held her gaze then, and Vera felt herself squeezing the hilt of her broadsword. She grit her teeth before nodding. “No, we need to keep Castle Ryonic after we kill him. Keep the sultan out, keep the lions out, and the rest of the Sunset fucking court besides.”

  Fandar grinned at that from behind her shoulder, slapping her on the back with glee. “That’s the spirit. Fuck ‘em all!” he cheered quietly.

  “It's better if they wear each other out,” Jorge continued. “Let them sit in an uneasy stalemate.”

  “Then how do we get into the fucking castle?” Vera asked, wringing her hands.

  Jorge sighed again, “It’s a risk, but I think we’d best just go over the top. With any luck, Nathlan will understand what we are doing, and disable or warn us of any countermeasures at the time. And with the Duke distracted, and his senior officers minding the front, the backlash shouldn’t be that severe anyway.”

  “Once we're in, we need to stay low and bide our time until we can see a way through, though” Vera said. “No point in killing the duke and taking the castle while a fully rested army is squatting outside. We’ll let the duke and his guards do some damage to the sultan and then kill him once we’re sure we can defend the castle.”

  Fandar shook his head, saying; “and what of us? My men and women? You want us to sit out on the fucking sidelines again just like Sternsbridge?” he asked with heat in his tone.

  Vera rounded on him with such ferocity that he actually flinched. “Do not talk to me of Sternsbridge again, Fandar. Not today.”

  She held his gaze, eyes alight and dancing with an inner flame, teeth bared in an almost-snarl. “I have enough regrets already. You and your people can give us,” she said, pointing at Jorge and herself, “a chance to slip inside, and then hang back. No fucking heroics, you understand? I’ve fled this country in defeat once already, Fandar – I don’t intend to do so twice. Once we win this battle, we’ll need to hold the fort, and we will need your people for that more than we do for the battle itself.”

  The two veterans of the old rebellion glared at one another with equally intense expressions, until Fandar nodded. He grasped her by both soldiers and looked long into her eyes. She noticed something change in his expression, and he leaned forwards slightly, lips parted.

  She slapped him lightly in the face. “Don’t even fucking think about it, Fandar. I’m not in the mood for your shit right now.”

  Rather than be discouraged, he grinned. “Right now?” he asked with a sly smile, and Vera smiled in spite of herself.

  “Let’s see once I’ve had my vengeance,” she said softly, then louder with a smile she continued; “Never know what you might lose in a battle, hey?” she winked.

  Jorge looked at her, flabbergasted, and she just snorted. “I’m not dead, old man. I’ll have no judgement from you. I remember-”

  “Don’t say Dimitri, don’t say Dimitri-“ he begged.

  “…Storm’s harbour,” she finished instead with a wicked grin, and he chuckled in response.

  “Aye, guess I deserved that. Still, I’m happy for you.” He said earnestly, then turned to look at a very satisfied-looking Fandar.

  “Although,” he followed up, “perhaps you’d be better off losing some blood in the battle to come. Reckon you look a bit too alive next to the walking corpse here,” he said back to her with a gesture at the man, who only waved him off with a laugh.

  It was good to share a bit of banter before a fight. Nerves were always highly strung, and as much as they’d sworn to hold back, Vera knew some of them wouldn’t live to see the morning. Jorge doubtless understood that too, and she watched as he flicked his gaze to the younger fighters every now and then, a pinch around his eyes all that betrayed his inner thoughts.

  To her though, it was as clear an admission as possible that he suspected death on the horizon. She did too, but that was what war was, after all, and it was a beast Vera had spent the last decade running from.

  No longer.